WHITE TRASH WITH CASH

Until 1999, we lived in a house overlooking the St.Lucie River. It was a mile wide behind our home. Our dock stretched to 150 ft.. In the back we were on a hill. The view was breathtaking from our Florida room which had sliding glass doors on all 3 sides.-- My mother's dream house! We moved there in 1960, when I was 9. The official end to my blissful childhood. I missed living out in the country. Shortly afterward, my grandfather died. His presence had protected me from my mother's abuse.

In 1997 our property taxes had become stratospheric! Ranch houses like ours were being flattened and mansions were springing up. We could no longer afford to stay. I was elated. I feared I'd die there. This was the house that broke me! Upon first hearing the phrase, Whore's Dream Of Paradise, I thought of my mother and that miserable house! I've always felt I would have been a happier, better adjusted person had I never known her. She died when I was 36.

Less than a year after my mother's passing, my father married his mistress of 18 years. I find it ironic that 2 women who resented each other so much were so similar, sisters under their scales. Both had the minds of Junior High School mean girls their entire lives, even through their different mental disorders. My mother (always unstable) became a full-blown paranoid schizophrenic when I was 14. My stepmother "Avis" was into the early stages of dementia when she moved into our house. Dad was in denial and made excuses.

I first met Avis when I was 20. We got along well on a casual basis for about 2 years. Then her true nature began to emerge. Avis was only 5 feet 2 inches in height. But short people can be the meanest. She reminded me of one of those yappy, vicious, little Pomeranian dogs.

I've heard that dementia patients change personalities as the disease advances. I saw little evidence of this with Avis.-- Remember, I knew her for almost 2 decades. If anything, she became more her true self. The only difference I noticed was her constant repetition of the same questions. She had a memory like a drain. And it drove me freak'n nuts! I kept telling Dad she must have Alzheimer's.

As with my mother, Avis was a completely different person in public, than private. Both were highly skilled at discerning what other people wanted to hear. Both were as sincere as a used car salesman running for office. They could spoon-feed fertilizer like fructose syrup. Fools adored them and cherished their acquaintance.

In Elementary School, other kids actually told me I was lucky to have such a sweetheart for a mother. They would have been horrified to see the snarling, swearing, harridan using my head for a punching bag. I was also kicked, pinched, slapped and threatened with worse on a regular basis. I had a fist rammed into the back of my head just for sneezing! I was accused of catching a cold, and my God, now the whole family would get sick! And it would be my fault! I just wasn't careful enough. ( Exactly how does one control a virus?) I tried to pull the blinders from other people and force their eyes open! However, I was regarded as just a negative person with an agenda. I had similar experiences as an adult with my stepmother.

Avis moved in like an invading army. Our drapes and carpet were changed and our walls repainted to accommodate her furniture. Soon, we couldn't make a move without consulting her first. It was as if we had moved into her home, not the other way around. The first month, she laid down the law to my father. He was informed that if he ever caused her leave, she'd take half of everything! Avis claimed he would never have owned his business had it not been for her. -- All she did was collect information for him, nothing else! Her evil words worked magic. Any time she wasn't getting her way, all Avis had to do was threaten to leave. My father would panic and give her anything , even throw me under a train!

Our home had a small guesthouse connected by the carport. The apt. consisted of 2 rooms and a bath. The closet was tiny. Also there was no kitchen. My brother, who is 11 years my senior lived there on and off when he wasn't in a mental facility or the psychiatric ward of federal prison.-- He was the reason my father didn't believe in therapy. He'd had all kinds of it (and medication) most of his adult life and never seemed to improve. Now he was in a half-way house in California. If he wanted to return, too bad! Against my father's wishes, I moved over there to get some distance from Avis.

Because the closet was so tiny, I had to keep most of my possessions in the main house which annoyed her. Avis didn't want me coming over for ANY reason! Unfortunately, I also had to come over to eat.

I ate separately. Usually, only twice a day. I changed my meal times frequently to accommodate her. Eventually, I was eating breakfast and my big meal only 4 hours a part. Still, she complained I interfered with her schedule. She wanted my father to buy me a hot plate and mini-fridge for Christmas so I would not have to come over to eat.  Fortunately, Dad thought about as much of that idea as I did.

Nor did she want me using the bathrooms in the main house. The only one I used was the little one off the kitchen. Usually, there was no soap. I kept bringing bars over from the apt. and they were always disappearing! Finally, I asked her what happened to all the soap. She hollered that if I wanted soap, I should stay next door! I told her I had the right to be there!!! My father rarely intervened in our fights, this time he did, and sided with me. She seethed. Angrily, she instructed me to get a paper towel and wipe the sink completely dry when I was done washing my hands. I told her she was being ridiculous. It was a bathroom, not a shrine. Avis threw one of her infamous tantrums! Had there been a bar of soap she would have thrown it at my head! Swearing to leave the next morning, she stormed off to the bedroom, where she pretended to be sick.-- Avis did this frequently! Unfortunately it was just for show.

My father often said she was very sensitive and little things upset her. I told him "sensitive" was the wrong word. Sensitive people have empathy. She was just touchy and dictatorial.

Naively, I confided to neighbors whom I thought were kind and believed to be my friends. ( I should have known better.) They seemed sympathetic, but went directly behind my back to Avis and repeated everything I'd said. Of course she denied everything, then told them not to believe me, because I was mental. -- I've never denied my anxiety attacks, obsessive compulsive disorder, or chronic depression; but I don't have hallucinations nor am I a liar! Naturally everyone believed her, and went over to the Avis side.

Dad banged on my door! Once inside, he gave me hell for confiding to my so-called friends. I told him he should be yelling at them for betraying my confidence! At the very least, let them know the reality of our situation. He said he couldn't do anything that would put Avis in a negative light.

The neighbors began acting downright ugly to me! I had so many knives in my back it was a miracle I could stand.

Soon after, I was in therapy. It was court-ordered! Mentally I snapped, I could only tolerate so much. I did despicable things to despicable people. All of it deserved! (I 'll discuss this much later in detail.) I am not proud of the things I did. But you cannot treat someone the way I was treated without repercussion. Sometimes good people do terrible things. Anyway I was punished. My lawyer called it a slap-on-the-wrist. It felt more like a punch in the gut! To this day, I remain unrepentant. It was the price I had to pay to get Avis out of our lives, as well as a particularly odious neighbor. Besides, when you deal with individuals of that ilk you're forced to sink to their level.

I learned quickly that if you live around people with money you'd better have it too. Otherwise, they don't view you as having the same rights. Their wants and needs will always take priority. I found these to be some of the most vile and contemptible people you could ever imagine. Obviously money can't buy class. I also learned that whenever you go up against anyone in court, the one with the most money has all the credibility.

I was required to phone the mental health center every A.M. for about two weeks to assure them I had not killed myself. Avis said right in front of me and Dad that she wished people who talked about suicide would shut up and just do it! My father remained silent. I told her if I ever did, I'd take her and that rich bitch next door with me! She and her friend could lead the way to Hell.

More than once, my natural mother said to me, " Why don't you go kill yourself." It actually makes me angrier now. Back then, I'd just think, I'd rather kill you! One summer afternoon when I was 10, I watched a TV program in which a little boy of similar age shot his mother to death for no apparent reason. I started cheering and applauding. I know it made my mother nervous.

The only reason I've never committed suicide, was because I knew it would make too many people happy. Better to live and be a negative force in their lives.

Avis moved into a condo only a few miles away. My social-climbing stepmother felt like an anathema in our neighborhood thanks to me. Geez, guess how I felt! Every time I walked 3 blocks to the library I imagined people pointing from their windows and exclaiming, "Look, there goes that crazy one!"

Avis still did not want a divorce, and my father was afraid to get one. I told him he should call her bluff. -- He had a pre-nup, for crying out loud! But he was scared to take the chance after seeing what I went through in court. He feared a liberal female judge might throw out the pre-nup. I think he should have risked it.

Avis's new neighbors phoned and told us she was easily confused, and they they were concerned. (I've always found it strange the old neighbors never noticed anything unusual.)-- Avis once placed a metal pan in our microwave. It was shooting sparks as I walked through the door.-- As usual, my father was clueless as to what to do. So he did nothing in this case as well.

Late one afternoon, I took a phone call from a policeman. Avis was under arrest for indecent exposure. She stood topless on her balcony flashing oncoming traffic as well as other condos. Immediately, my father left. He could no longer retreat to his dome of denial.

My stepmother was taken to the hospital for observation. She had to be strapped to a chair. Apparently she believed the hospital room was her new apt. and she kept looking for the living room. From there she was sent to a mental facility for further observation and diagnosis. She underwent tests for a month. The diagnosis was dementia. -- I had been telling my father this for 4 years! Now he heard it from a professional.

Our neighbors should have gotten down on their knees and apologized to me! Of course they didn't.

Avis needed to be placed in a Home with professional caregivers. My father found her a place in Port St. Lucie a half an hour away. He would visit every Sunday and take her out to dinner. After returning, Avis would refuse to get out of the car. She wanted to go home with him. Her caregivers had to physically remove her from the vehicle.

My father's health was waning and our now sky-high property taxes were presenting a hardship. I was told I could choose our next house. Because it would be my home after he was gone.

Stuart was filled with horrible memories. I was eager to leave. I wanted no neighbors within socializing distance. Also I wanted to be away from the coast because it got the brunt of hurricanes.

I had been fortunate enough to create friendships with two wonderful older women now living in other distant Florida cities. We kept in touch by phone and letters. I wanted to either live close to my friend Margaret in the central part of the state, or my friend Pat in north Florida. But my father complained that the 1st place got TOO HOT in summer and the 2nd TOO COLD in winter, and he just couldn't take it at his age! We ended up moving where he wanted, not where I wanted! He pulled this same stunt on me in other instances. I complained that I didn't want to live in hurricane alley.

"Vero Beach doesn't get hurricanes," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Excuse me? Every place in Florida gets hit!" I told him.
"Not Vero, it has to do with its location on the map," he replied.

I realized that was crazy, wishful thinking. Unfortunately, once he'd made up his mind, it was impossible to reason with him. And guess what! After only 9 months of moving here, we were struck by a hurricane!!! In the 12 years I've lived in Vero, I've been hit by 4 hurricanes! In the 48 years we lived in Stuart, we were struck by just 2! And the 3 worse ones I endured alone, after my father died.

Our Stuart house went up for sale by owner. We knew we had a valuable piece of property. The Realtors circled. They smelled blood and closed in. Nearly all of them wanted to buy our property, for their own families, they said. What liars! We learned the costly way that Realtors are in the same category as lawyers, used car salesmen, and politicians. Put them all in a bag and shake it and it's a toss up which one will emerge first. However at this point we were eager to sell and leave. We had 6 months to find a new home.

Vero Beach was an hour away. We wanted a country atmosphere. The 3rd house we viewed was a two-story in a 1950's style neighborhood with lots of beautiful greenery. The 50's were my favorite decade. People seemed more decent and respectable then. Family pride prevailed, and even poor people displayed class. Now, no one does!

As we approached the house, a big orange cat greeted us. We didn't know it then, but he came with the house. A delightful bonus! As Dad and I stepped inside, we were simultaneously struck by the proverbial thunderbolt. The ceiling was 30ft high. A huge stone fireplace warmed the living room. A spacious loft looked down from above. Large picture windows were throughout, including a high double one in the living room. The place had a rustic, European fairy tale look.

My life was hardly a fairy tale. Although fairy tales can be downright gruesome! -- Think children cooked alive in ovens. I've always felt if I'd been the same person a few hundred years ago, I would have been burned as a witch. I know that was true in my old neighborhood. I had forgotten how it felt to be happy. But now my life could begin fresh. But first, there were new ordeals ahead I was forced to face and overcome.