Honestly Crazy
A friend shared with me that Dotti and Ira found it rather displeasing that Ira had no money and was living with his parents. I believed my friend. I believed him not only because it seemed logical that Dotti and Ira would find their new situation inconvenient, but because things started happening, again. By things, I mean, a sudden, concentrated series of events that had a persistent unsettling effect upon me. It seemed my stalker was back.
Here’s something else about stalkers, in additional to their being crazy - they are evil! Not the parody kind of evil where you are stroking a Persian cat while plotting to destroy the world with a laser beam. The kind of evil where you are stroking something else while plotting another human’s demise and Sir Anthony Hopkins portrays you in the based-upon-a-true-story blockbuster, Stalked my Ear Off. I’m talking, full-on, momma brought her “dates” home and you used to skin cats alive, evil.
Stalkers are evil because what they do is nothing more than a game to them. They take pleasure in controlling their victims and watching them suffer. Some start out slowly and escalate their behavior over time. Some are so brazen they fuck with their victims openly, in public, and with a swift use of lies, threats, and manipulation influence this public: “You saw it, didn’t you? She’s completely overreacting. I’m worried about her. She’s taken this so hard. Stress can cause people to imagine all sorts of things.” Victims are left feeling insecure and appearing irrational or unstable - down right crazy!
Appearing irrational and unstable was exactly how I found myself during the months our divorce was being finalized. I should have known that when a deluded, greedy, guiltless criminal (Dotti) and a narcissistic, cruel-minded, overindulged control freak (Ira) perceived me as the speed bump on their road to bliss, I would pay the price. It didn’t take long for Dotti and Ira to put their fists together and say those magic words, “Wonder Twin powers activate” and form a highly-motivated, multi-faced, multi-vehicled, dim-witted super stalker. Dotra, I came to call this evil mutant, had a singular focus - fuck with Liz.
Dotra started off subtly and ramped up quickly. Dotra sent a hand-addressed letter with no return address to Ira at my house. Inside was a sticky note that read, “Ira, thought you mind find this useful. D” stuck to a newspaper article that advised on the proper amount of life insurance a husband should have on his wife. Dotra put multiple nails into my tires so that I would come back from vacation inconvenienced with two flats. Dotra waited until I replaced the flats before it broke off my side view mirror. Dotra changed all the user IDs and passwords to my online accounts. Dotra changed the addresses on all my and my children’s insurance and bank accounts. Dotra got into my running car parked in my driveway and removed my insurance card and driver’s license. Dotra called my son early one morning and convinced him to leave my house while everyone else slept so that we would awake to find him gone. Dotra tried to break into my house and left the screens in the flowerbed. Dotra stole my son’s bike out of the garage so that I would have to replace it. Dotra stole my daughter’s laptop from the mudroom so that I would have to replace it. One afternoon, Dotra parked up the street and watched me leave the house. While waiving to my neighbors, it took the children - knowing full well my friends would call me and I would be out of my mind and unable to do anything about it. Dotra made sure I knew it was watching me by providing exact details of my day: what time I got up; what time I took out the trash; what I was wearing; what time I left; what I fed the children; what time I returned; etc.; etc.; etc. Dotra would park in my driveway and refuse to leave because it was “public property”. Dotra drove up and down my street in different cars, wearing different hats, and covering its face (proving evil can also be amusing). Dotra here. Dotra there. Dotra was everywhere.
I knew I wasn’t imagining this stuff, or making it up, or even exaggerating. At least I thought I knew. There was just enough of an explanation for Dotra being somewhere or doing something for some of this to be just a coincidence. There was just enough plausible deniability that Dotra was responsible because anybody could have done some of this stuff. There was just enough doubt to dismiss the event altogether and chalk it up to an overactive imagination. It was crazy-making. I was on the precipice of sanity, looking down. I knew little more than a gentle draft would send me tumbling into the coo coo crevice. I refused to look down and hoped, hoped for the doldrums. Hah!
One afternoon I came home and dashed upstairs to throw in another load of laundry. Something kept brushing my hair. I reached up to grab it and found the pull cord for the attic door hanging in my way. Hum. That’s odd. The cord seemed lower than when I was in there doing laundry that morning. My eyes followed the cord to the attic door. The door was open!
I instantly recalled a horrific story that has haunted me for years. Right after I first started practicing law and we had moved into our little 2-bedroom house, an attorney shared with me the gruesome details of a case he had worked on. His client had been stalking a woman, about my age, who lived in my neighborhood, in a little 2-bedroom house. After several months of patiently casing her house, he decided to make his move. He waited for her to leave one afternoon and slipped in through a window. He pulled down the attic door and climbed up into the attic where he laid in wait. After his victim went to bed, he crept out of the attic and into her bedroom. She awoke to his raping her. She screamed and struggled until she passed out. The last thing she remembered was the sound of her attacker’s knife going into her chest. He got up, drenched in her blood, and left. The only reason she didn’t bleed to death was because, the knife he callously left in her chest, clamped her pierced artery.
An image of Dotra standing over me with a butcher knife, laughing as it watched me gurgle my own blood flashed across the laundry room. I turned tail and ran (as fast as someone without a single strand of quick twitch muscle fiber can run) out of my house with my hands in the air screaming like a Little Rascals character. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” I reached my neighbor’s house still yelling. I jogged in place in his breakfast room, a la Flash Dance, yelling and spewing. “Aaaaaaaahhhhhh. In my attic. Aaaaaaahhhhhhh. He, she, they in my attic.” His face said it all, Liz has finally lost it. He tenderly redirected his crazy kitchen jogger and we trotted down to my house. Armed with either a bat, lacrosse stick, or an umbrella (I just can’t remember and asking him is out of the question), my kind neighbor did a sweep of my entire house, attic and all. He found nobody, no sign of anybody, absolutely nothing. He handed me his weapon and gave me a sympathetic look as he made sure I was “going to be okay”. I told him I was going to call the police because I was tired of this and it was driving me mad. He nodded his head in agreement, “Uh hum. It sure is.”
As I walked around dialing 911, I saw a bottle of wine on the bar I was just sure wasn’t there last night. Hummm. Not like the Pussy Posse to leave an undrunk bottle of wine. I picked it up and read the maroon label, The Other Woman. “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.”
In one breath I told the man at the police station all about it: the scary story about the man and his knife waiting in the attic; Dotti; Ira; Dotra; me; Ira and me; Dotti’s DUI; the emails; the phone calls; the text messages; the voice mails; the notes and letters; the threats; the My Space account; the personals ad; the fake e-mail accounts; the front door; the garage door; the missing stuff; the drive bys; the lawn; the honking; the screens; my old dog; the tacky wine; the life insurance letter; my flat tires; my side view mirror; my insurance card; my driver’s license; and all the online accounts…
“Okay, Ma’am. I’m just the operator. Now who were you trying to reach?”
“The Police! The burglary police! The make my soon-to-be ex-husband and his girlfriend stop bugging me police! What division is that? That’s who I’m calling for!”
“I’ll connect you to a detective in that division.”
“Thank you.” I answered out of breath, pacing my kitchen, glaring at the wine bottle.
Detective Nichols listened patiently and promised to come out and have a look. We recognized each other immediately.
“You’re the lady who asked me to help move your basketball goal. You had just moved in and your husband was always traveling.”
“Yes! Tis I. It is so heavy, I can’t move it by myself. Thanks for that - by the way.”
“Sure. That tea you gave me was delicious. What was it?”
“Hibiscus mint. It’s nice when it is hot outside.”
“The brownies were really good, too.”
“Thank you. They are good. You can’t go wrong with Katherine Hepburn brownies.” Hope he doesn’t ask for the recipe. ”Why don’t you come in?”
“The house looks good. You have made a lot of progress since I was last here.”
“Thank you.” I tried to imagine him issuing a speeding ticket. No good. “Well, it’s been a while and all the boxes are gone.”
“Wow. I love this…I guess you would call it a - cabinet.”
“Thank you. Oh yeah. Men love it. Dominates the entire room. Very masculine. Dildo picked it out.” He jerked his head back.
“What was that?”
I waived him off and changed the subject. “Nothing. I see you’ve gotten a promotion since you were here.”
“Yep. I’m a detective now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“So what division are you assigned to?”
“It’s a sub-subdivision of our larger property crimes division. I specialize in this area of crime.”
“Oooh.” I nodded slowly. What the fuck he was talking about, ‘this area of crime’? Divorcing couples crime? Stalking crime? Women who make up stuff for attention crime? Oh shit! He thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am…
“So. Let’s get started. Why don’t you take me to the attic door.”
An hour and a half, a full tour of the house, lots of stalking stories, two cups of Earl Grey, three slices of my banana bread, and one tacit request for my brownies later, Detective Nichols had all the information he needed to file an incident report. He was thorough, assuring, polite, professional, and not in any apparent hurry to leave. The experience was peculiar, yet comforting. I quickly dismissed my cynical notion that this was either the cushiest job on the force or that job reserved for perpetually out of work, part-retarded brothers-in-law. Before we parted, he gave me the report number so I could file the missing items with my insurance and promised to check on me. “One other thing” he said, “I strongly recommend getting surveillance cameras.”
The next day I went to Radio Shack and purchased a surveillance camera. That afternoon, on a ladder a full story above where I usually keep my feet, I began what was to be the first of my many blundered cracks at spy technology installation and usage. I flagged after nearly falling to my death tethered to an electric drill. Perhaps I would have more luck with my insurance company.
I redirected my energy to filing claims for the missing bike and laptop. The insurance company couldn’t take the claims because the policy was in Dildo’s name and he had changed the coverage address to elsewhere months prior. I wasn’t surprised.
A few days later Detective Nichols made good on his promise to check on me. He inquired after my mental health and the status of the surveillance cameras and the insurance claims. I blithely denied having any hallucinations, delusions, or recent alien abductions. I was taken aback by how sincerely relieved he appeared at hearing the news.
“That’s good to hear, Ms. Darcy.”
Fuuuuck. I was just kidding. That was funny! What does this man think of me? Does he really think I’m crazy?
There was no way I was going to tell him about my drilling debacle. He would surely take me in for suicide watch once I explained the real reason why the camera wasn’t installed. The mental picture of me dangling from a 12 foot construction ladder by a giant, orange extension cord would have sealed my fate. So I lied.
“I uhm, haven’t gotten the camera yet. And I haven’t filed the insurance claims yet, either.”
He shook his head understandingly, “That’s alright.” and left.
A couple of years later I was chatting with a police officer at some charity event. I wistfully shared my personal encounter with Detective Nichols and all that transpired. The officer gave me a kind of quizzical look.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“Did he suggest you get surveillance cameras and when he followed up, you still didn’t have them installed?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you to file the claims with the insurance company and when he followed up, you still hadn’t?”
“Yes. So?”
“Well.” He widened his eyes and bobbed his head. “He thought you were crazy or - making it up.”
“What?! I’m not crazy! I wasn’t making it up!”
“He thought you were.”
“Why? Why did he think that?”
“If you were really being stalked by your ex-husband, you would have gotten the cameras installed to catch him. But you didn’t. That tells us you were making it up.”
“No. No. I wasn’t making it up. I … I couldn’t get it. The ladder. Have you ever tried to drill into stucco?! And then it was upside down … and …Oh. Seriously! I’m not crazy.”
“Why didn’t you file the claims with the insurance?”
“I couldn’t because Dildo cancelled the policy or changed the address and my name …Oh. I can’t remember all the details. … It’s complicated. It’s a long story and it was a while ago.”
He craned his neck and squinted. “Who did all these things?”
“My ex-husband!”
“What did you call him?”
“Dildo!
Smirking he asked, “Why do you call him Dildo?”
“BECAUSE” I was giving my best exasperated expression and gestures. “He is a dildo! He … Never mind.”
“Okay.” He laughed at me. “But the fact that you never filed with the insurance tells us that the items were never missing and you didn’t want to commit insurance fraud.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“No. I’m not. We see it all the time. Nice ladies like yourself, under stress…”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not that nice. And I’m not really a lady. Seriously. I’m not. And I’m not crazy either. And I didn’t imagine all that crap. It really happened.” I got closer. “Think about it. What lady nicknames her ex-husband Dildo?”
He did think about it. “Who is your ex by the way?” I told him. He grimaced. “You were married to him?!”
“Yes. See. Do you believe me now?”
“Oh. I believe you didn’t make that stuff up. I also believe you were crazy. Anybody married to that man would have to be.”
I pondered my status. “Sooo. I’m honest and crazy.”
“Yep.”
“I can live with that.”
