Page 5
Las Vegas was the place I was most comfortable in, but I really had no resources there, which means my decision to go there was flawed. From a totally economic view, I would have been better off going to Arizona, where at least I still had family.
I rented a truck under false pretenses (not saying how, as it has no bearing on my life then or now) and put everything I owned, once again, into the back of it, along with a lot of stuff that belonged to my roommate. I had enough money for the trip and for the first month of storage, but from then on, I was at the mercy of the powers that be in charge of housing, jobs and finances.
I called an old friend of mine and told her I was going to a homeless shelter, since I had no money. She told me I could sleep in her den, and came to pick me up.
She had gotten married since last I saw her and had a very cute baby girl. I watched the baby to use up some of the debt, but I also filed for unemployment until I could find a job.
The bus system in Vegas at the time, was nothing at all like Los Angeles, and I found that if I worked, it had to be a job that was within the limited boundaries of the bus. It was loosely based on a "circular" system, meaning that no matter where you were, the bus you took would eventually end up at the Downtown Transportation Center, or DTC, and with a transfer, you would board another bus and hopefully, be taken to your destination. All the buses were scheduled to get into the DTC at a specific time, and then we could transfer to the buses we needed. If one bus was late getting in, ALL the buses were late going out. The exception to this rule was the Strip Bus. It operated solely on the Strip, and seldom did buses intersect this route, if at all. We all had to have transfers, which meant (for me) a 14-hour day just to put in an eight-hour day at work.
When I had begun receiving unemployment, I looked for a permanent place to live, and because of the pressure from the gal I was staying with, I took the first place I found. It was a "built-on" room in a mobile home park and I paid $238 a month for a room with a shower. Period. I paid for my phone and brought along my microwave, and that was "home."
Then I realized that in my eagerness to find a place, I had neglected to ask the right questions of my landlord. Come to find out, I was making the total of his mobile home mortgage for him. His income was all his. And all my income was supplementing him. What a burn. I began looking for another place and asked the clerk at the local Circle K if he knew of any cheap places to rent.
It just so happened, he had a 3-bedroom, 2-bath house, and he was the only occupant. So I agreed to rent from him for $200 a month, utilities and kitchen privileges included. This was in September of 1992. In the meantime, I had found a job at a music store, and though I didn't really like it, it kept me from going to a homeless shelter.
I was in that house about two months, though I can't say for sure how long exactly, and the owner said he wanted to help me with my rent. I was willing to listen, as he might have something good going for me. HAH! He asked me if I would "do" three of his friends for the rent! What the heck had I gotten myself into?
Not only no, but heckno. So I found another acquaintance who said his wife would be more than happy to have me, if I would agree to watch the kid when she needed it, remembering my work schedule. Since I had spent four weeks with the Clark County Fire Department in the payroll section, I knew that my supervisor there was a good person to contact.
I called her. No, her current roommate was unacceptable, but there was nothing to be done at the moment. *sheesh* I was three weeks at the "baby-sitting" place and found an ad for a roomie that seemed to be a little better, and was a little closer to the music store. So I took my bed and left. Horrors!
Two weeks after I moved in, the roomie tried to rape me saying it was his "due," for putting up with me. I called my friend at the firehouse again and she told me her roomie had just moved out and I could move in whenever I wanted.
(Bear in mind, when you read this, that I'm not deliberately trying to give you a glimpse into the seamier parts of my life. I am trying, instead, to tell you of the stresses that led to the worst of my symptoms.)
I tried to turn this guy in to Metro (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police) but they blew it off. I sat in the chair and tears fell down my cheeks. I didn't sob, I didn't go into hysterics, I didn't beat my chest and moan, I didn't dress in sackcloth and cover my face with ashes. I just quietly fell apart.
And called a friend with a truck who would help me move my things out of storage and into the garage of my roommate for the next three years.
The first weeks there, I found myself with a low-grade fever, and aches in my joints. Although I didn't realize it at the time, my thoughts were disjointed, I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't spell, and I had some unusual headaches. The headaches felt like someone was sticking a hot ice pick into my brain.
I also found that the things I did to pass the time at the bus stops were difficult, at best. I would work crossword puzzles. But I couldn't recall even the easiest word substitions. What was happening?
Shortly after the New Year of 1993, I was told by the owner of the music store I worked at that I was being let go because of "a reduction in forces." Actually, he let me go because his wife didn't like the fact that I had my nails done every week, but she knew I could sue if she let me go any sooner. She didn't think I could type, and she had wanted someone "older." Now THERE'S a switch!
Stay tuned...the worst is yet to come
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Page 4
I think I spent the next few days crying for Reginald Denny and also for the circumstances that had me in Inglewood during the riots I had no control over. I was having a Pity Party, to be sure!
Every day, I was afraid to venture outside because I was at 109th and Crenshaw...almost in the heart of the riots. I was a white face in a sea of blackness. The good thing was that those in the little shopping square across the street (The M and M Cafe drew many people in Rolls Royces and big Mercedez-Benzes) had seen me and knew that I was "at risk."
My roomie came down to see if his car was OK. It was. He left it in my care. I was unemployed, with no car, no phone and nowhere to go. I smelled the smoke from burning businesses and ran outside periodically to make sure the garages were still safe.
I heard a rumbling coming up Crenshaw, and had no clue. So I unlocked the security door to see a bevy/throng/battallion of motorcycles going north up the boulevard. Believe it or not, Hell's Angels and other biker clubs came together to patrol the streets. I was still scared, but I was also relieved to know "SOMEONE" was there for ME! It was a night that seemed to last forever. And somewhere around midnight, I heard more big motors.
Since I was mostly sleepless, being unemployed and with no lifelines, I went back out onto the porch and saw, much to my surprise, an entire convoy of Humvees and other military vehicles, and I knew, as they passed in the next 30 minutes, that I was going to be okay. The US National Guard had been called out to patrol the streets and make sure folks like me were still alive and in no danger.
As the days went by, I realized I would survive this latest challenge, though I realized also that I was estranged from both of my children and most of my siblings. Both of my parents had passed on 20 and 40 years before, so there was no support available for me that I could see.
And it was very plain to me that in spite of scoring 100% on the DOS and Lotus 1-2-3 tests that Norell gave me, I knew there were to be no jobs for me in Southern California. My choice, for good or ill, was to move back to Las Vegas, and try to find work. At least I might be able to find enough temporary work to keep me from starving. But I also needed to find a place to live.
Some of my symptoms were becoming obvious again: fatigue, achy joints, short-term memory, confusion, inability to concentrate, math and spelling skill were compromised and I found that even simple decisions were excruciatingly difficult. My vision began to blur, and I had a hard time reading.
I think I spent the next few days crying for Reginald Denny and also for the circumstances that had me in Inglewood during the riots I had no control over. I was having a Pity Party, to be sure!
Every day, I was afraid to venture outside because I was at 109th and Crenshaw...almost in the heart of the riots. I was a white face in a sea of blackness. The good thing was that those in the little shopping square across the street (The M and M Cafe drew many people in Rolls Royces and big Mercedez-Benzes) had seen me and knew that I was "at risk."
My roomie came down to see if his car was OK. It was. He left it in my care. I was unemployed, with no car, no phone and nowhere to go. I smelled the smoke from burning businesses and ran outside periodically to make sure the garages were still safe.
I heard a rumbling coming up Crenshaw, and had no clue. So I unlocked the security door to see a bevy/throng/battallion of motorcycles going north up the boulevard. Believe it or not, Hell's Angels and other biker clubs came together to patrol the streets. I was still scared, but I was also relieved to know "SOMEONE" was there for ME! It was a night that seemed to last forever. And somewhere around midnight, I heard more big motors.
Since I was mostly sleepless, being unemployed and with no lifelines, I went back out onto the porch and saw, much to my surprise, an entire convoy of Humvees and other military vehicles, and I knew, as they passed in the next 30 minutes, that I was going to be okay. The US National Guard had been called out to patrol the streets and make sure folks like me were still alive and in no danger.
As the days went by, I realized I would survive this latest challenge, though I realized also that I was estranged from both of my children and most of my siblings. Both of my parents had passed on 20 and 40 years before, so there was no support available for me that I could see.
And it was very plain to me that in spite of scoring 100% on the DOS and Lotus 1-2-3 tests that Norell gave me, I knew there were to be no jobs for me in Southern California. My choice, for good or ill, was to move back to Las Vegas, and try to find work. At least I might be able to find enough temporary work to keep me from starving. But I also needed to find a place to live.
Some of my symptoms were becoming obvious again: fatigue, achy joints, short-term memory, confusion, inability to concentrate, math and spelling skill were compromised and I found that even simple decisions were excruciatingly difficult. My vision began to blur, and I had a hard time reading.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Page 3
Because of the fact that the deportee also bought a bunch of hotel furniture, I was left to dispose of it, and as you might guess, it was also stressful. The person who sold the furniture to the deportee agreed to buy it back, but this is Las Vegas, and his offer was a rip-off. I had no idea how I was going to survive this, and it seems I developed a stutter, and became extremely embarrassed when confronted with any new situation.
There was a day when I looked forward to challenges, but challenges became my nemeses at this point. In addition to confusion, I noticed my math skills were failing quickly, and I seem to have lost my ability to spell even simple words. This, from the person who won numerous spelling bees all the way through school!
I would get side-tracked easily, and my decision-making skills were, at this time, almost non-existent. It was a chore just trying to decide what to buy as groceries. Forget anything that had to do with business.
Finally, the man who was the upholsterer said there was a house next to him that was vacant and asked me if I wanted to look at it. It was large, but it was $400 a month (in 1990) and this is where my life took an unexpected turn, and I told my son he could either work or me or live with me. What was I thinking? It was only a long time afterward that I realized that it was a cruel thing to say. My son was so hurt that he packed up his VW and headed for Tucson, where one of my brothers lived. It was quite a while before I heard from him.
A man came to the upholster to have his car interior done, and in another bad decision, I agreed to move to Los Angeles with him, as he was in the army and was being transferred there as a recruiter. Life there was not pleasant, as I had difficulty finding work because of my lack of skills. However, I did manage to find a job in a camera shop in Reseda, and as it was a neighboring community of Northridge, the commute wasn't too bad. And the hours were good. The pay was adequate, but, I noticed that my earlier symptoms would come and go, and there was another that I was unprepared for. I began losing my hair.
Stress. That's what I decided, though I would still have the fevers and aches and the loss of spelling ability, the confusion, the decisions...the stuttering, and my self-esteem went downhill as well. I felt as if my brain were falling apart a little bit at a time, and it only made things worse.
One day, I saw an ad for computer school, and decided to check into it. I did this on my own, with no discussion, and no input from my roommate. So I quit the job. By then, we had moved into Inglewood, because of changes in the recruiting station. As it turned out, it wasn't far from the school, and I was able to ride the bus if I couldn't take his truck, as he often used a government vehicle.
Somehow, I managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA, but I have no clue how. And that winter, I had another bout with rheumatic fever, which I had had as a child. This time, it was the trigger for the worst onset of all the symptoms. I never seemed able to rest, even though I did eventually fall asleep at night. I thought it was "just depression." I had dealt with depression to one degree or another most of my life, so this was nothing new, I thought. I just had achy joints, fever, confusion, and all the other symptoms, but now I added vivid dreams, nightmares, and short-term memory loss. What was happening to me?
In April of 1992, I graduated, and went looking for work. I went to several interviews, and one day, I had one down on Century Boulevard, close to LAX. My appointment was a 2:00 PM and as usual, I was a few minutes early. By 2:15, I hadn't been called in and I had begun to feel antsy. I couldn't explain that...just that I needed to get home.
I was told the interviewer wouldn't be there until after 3:00 and I said, "Let me reschedule. I have to get home." I ran across the street to the bus stop, not bothering to walk to the nearest crosswalk, and took the bus home. I walked in the door and turned the TV on which I seldom ever did. The news was on, and the Talking Heads were discussing the verdicts in the trial of the policemen who beat Rodney King a year or two before. The trial was held in Simi Valley which is a white enclave that frowns on folks with any other skin color. Knowing the venue, the verdict was a given.
My roommate had gone to a town up north to visit a friend, and I was left alone in the apartment without even a phone. The nearest one was on the corner about 50 yards away. (Before cell phones became small enough and cheap enough for everyone to have one!)
As I watched the TV screen, waiting for "something," the camera cut away to an intersection at Florence and Normandy, the block my roommate worked on. Reginald Denny was being pulled from his big rig and being stoned by whoever was near enough to add a few blows to the already-downed man. I began to cry.
Stay tuned
Because of the fact that the deportee also bought a bunch of hotel furniture, I was left to dispose of it, and as you might guess, it was also stressful. The person who sold the furniture to the deportee agreed to buy it back, but this is Las Vegas, and his offer was a rip-off. I had no idea how I was going to survive this, and it seems I developed a stutter, and became extremely embarrassed when confronted with any new situation.
There was a day when I looked forward to challenges, but challenges became my nemeses at this point. In addition to confusion, I noticed my math skills were failing quickly, and I seem to have lost my ability to spell even simple words. This, from the person who won numerous spelling bees all the way through school!
I would get side-tracked easily, and my decision-making skills were, at this time, almost non-existent. It was a chore just trying to decide what to buy as groceries. Forget anything that had to do with business.
Finally, the man who was the upholsterer said there was a house next to him that was vacant and asked me if I wanted to look at it. It was large, but it was $400 a month (in 1990) and this is where my life took an unexpected turn, and I told my son he could either work or me or live with me. What was I thinking? It was only a long time afterward that I realized that it was a cruel thing to say. My son was so hurt that he packed up his VW and headed for Tucson, where one of my brothers lived. It was quite a while before I heard from him.
A man came to the upholster to have his car interior done, and in another bad decision, I agreed to move to Los Angeles with him, as he was in the army and was being transferred there as a recruiter. Life there was not pleasant, as I had difficulty finding work because of my lack of skills. However, I did manage to find a job in a camera shop in Reseda, and as it was a neighboring community of Northridge, the commute wasn't too bad. And the hours were good. The pay was adequate, but, I noticed that my earlier symptoms would come and go, and there was another that I was unprepared for. I began losing my hair.
Stress. That's what I decided, though I would still have the fevers and aches and the loss of spelling ability, the confusion, the decisions...the stuttering, and my self-esteem went downhill as well. I felt as if my brain were falling apart a little bit at a time, and it only made things worse.
One day, I saw an ad for computer school, and decided to check into it. I did this on my own, with no discussion, and no input from my roommate. So I quit the job. By then, we had moved into Inglewood, because of changes in the recruiting station. As it turned out, it wasn't far from the school, and I was able to ride the bus if I couldn't take his truck, as he often used a government vehicle.
Somehow, I managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA, but I have no clue how. And that winter, I had another bout with rheumatic fever, which I had had as a child. This time, it was the trigger for the worst onset of all the symptoms. I never seemed able to rest, even though I did eventually fall asleep at night. I thought it was "just depression." I had dealt with depression to one degree or another most of my life, so this was nothing new, I thought. I just had achy joints, fever, confusion, and all the other symptoms, but now I added vivid dreams, nightmares, and short-term memory loss. What was happening to me?
In April of 1992, I graduated, and went looking for work. I went to several interviews, and one day, I had one down on Century Boulevard, close to LAX. My appointment was a 2:00 PM and as usual, I was a few minutes early. By 2:15, I hadn't been called in and I had begun to feel antsy. I couldn't explain that...just that I needed to get home.
I was told the interviewer wouldn't be there until after 3:00 and I said, "Let me reschedule. I have to get home." I ran across the street to the bus stop, not bothering to walk to the nearest crosswalk, and took the bus home. I walked in the door and turned the TV on which I seldom ever did. The news was on, and the Talking Heads were discussing the verdicts in the trial of the policemen who beat Rodney King a year or two before. The trial was held in Simi Valley which is a white enclave that frowns on folks with any other skin color. Knowing the venue, the verdict was a given.
My roommate had gone to a town up north to visit a friend, and I was left alone in the apartment without even a phone. The nearest one was on the corner about 50 yards away. (Before cell phones became small enough and cheap enough for everyone to have one!)
As I watched the TV screen, waiting for "something," the camera cut away to an intersection at Florence and Normandy, the block my roommate worked on. Reginald Denny was being pulled from his big rig and being stoned by whoever was near enough to add a few blows to the already-downed man. I began to cry.
Stay tuned
Friday, September 28, 2012
Page 2
Let's see...where was I? Oh yes. Soon after I finally divorced, I was looking for a job in earnest, but was hampered because by that time, I was a "displaced homemaker over 45," and I had no real professional background.
No typing skills, no computer skills, and the math skills were only available with a calculator. By this time, it seemed that most businesses wanted people with computer skills, and I knew I would have to do something or spend my life on my feet, trying to deal with customers who were unhappy.
With spinal arthritis from a fall I took as a tot, there was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life standing on my feet for eight to ten hours a day. Something had to be done.
My son had come to stay with me shortly after my divorce, but neither of us were employed, nor did we have transportation. We were living in St. George, Utah, at the time, and public transportation was non-existent.
I could have gotten alimony, but all I wanted was OUT and another six months was just too long to stay married. Stresses began piling up. After all the years of a stressful marriage, I was hoping the divorce would put an end to the stress. I just traded one kind for another.
My son and I decided that it may be better if we sold what we could and moved to Las Vegas, Nevada, where my daughter was at the time, and that is what we did. Adventure was my middle name: No job, no transportation, no skills, no income at all, and we dared to move! Of course, we both felt the job market would be better there, and we did have a little money to get an apartment.
My son had also found a VW bug that we had to push to get started, but that seemed to endear it to both of us. For the first couple of times, of course. It was semi-reliable, and he soon found work with day-labor/daily pay which helped. I tried, but with no skills, I was really at an impasse.
(Although I will try to make this chronological, I may be doing a lot of back-stepping. If I confuse you, please ask. As long as I'm airing my laundry, I may as well make sure it's mine and that it's clean!)
I would notice once in a while, that I would have achy pains in my elbows and knees, and would run a low-grade fever, but as nothing ever really developed, I blew it off as just being tired. Rest seemed to make it go away.
In July or August (maybe September) I found a job at a furniture repair store that had contracts with the major department stores, taking care of minor flaws in newly purchased furniture. Because of the circumstances, my son was also hired as the person to get the furniture and either fix it at the home or bring it into the shop.
At the time, neither of us realized this was going to be a real mess. The person who ran the shop was from England, and it seems that he had not renewed his visa, and the INS was hot on his trail. He was deported. The attorney who had provided the start-up money gave me the dubious honor of making sure that everything in the shop was finished and returned to the owners.
Easier said than done. The man who was deported was also restoring antiques in the shop, and also had an upholsterer who did side jobs for cash. What a can of worms!
I found myself becoming confused over small things, not sleeping, more aches in my knees and elbows, blurry vision, low-grade fever and balance problems.
This was the beginning of the onset...and all within eight months of my divorce.
To be continued....
Let's see...where was I? Oh yes. Soon after I finally divorced, I was looking for a job in earnest, but was hampered because by that time, I was a "displaced homemaker over 45," and I had no real professional background.
No typing skills, no computer skills, and the math skills were only available with a calculator. By this time, it seemed that most businesses wanted people with computer skills, and I knew I would have to do something or spend my life on my feet, trying to deal with customers who were unhappy.
With spinal arthritis from a fall I took as a tot, there was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life standing on my feet for eight to ten hours a day. Something had to be done.
My son had come to stay with me shortly after my divorce, but neither of us were employed, nor did we have transportation. We were living in St. George, Utah, at the time, and public transportation was non-existent.
I could have gotten alimony, but all I wanted was OUT and another six months was just too long to stay married. Stresses began piling up. After all the years of a stressful marriage, I was hoping the divorce would put an end to the stress. I just traded one kind for another.
My son and I decided that it may be better if we sold what we could and moved to Las Vegas, Nevada, where my daughter was at the time, and that is what we did. Adventure was my middle name: No job, no transportation, no skills, no income at all, and we dared to move! Of course, we both felt the job market would be better there, and we did have a little money to get an apartment.
My son had also found a VW bug that we had to push to get started, but that seemed to endear it to both of us. For the first couple of times, of course. It was semi-reliable, and he soon found work with day-labor/daily pay which helped. I tried, but with no skills, I was really at an impasse.
(Although I will try to make this chronological, I may be doing a lot of back-stepping. If I confuse you, please ask. As long as I'm airing my laundry, I may as well make sure it's mine and that it's clean!)
I would notice once in a while, that I would have achy pains in my elbows and knees, and would run a low-grade fever, but as nothing ever really developed, I blew it off as just being tired. Rest seemed to make it go away.
In July or August (maybe September) I found a job at a furniture repair store that had contracts with the major department stores, taking care of minor flaws in newly purchased furniture. Because of the circumstances, my son was also hired as the person to get the furniture and either fix it at the home or bring it into the shop.
At the time, neither of us realized this was going to be a real mess. The person who ran the shop was from England, and it seems that he had not renewed his visa, and the INS was hot on his trail. He was deported. The attorney who had provided the start-up money gave me the dubious honor of making sure that everything in the shop was finished and returned to the owners.
Easier said than done. The man who was deported was also restoring antiques in the shop, and also had an upholsterer who did side jobs for cash. What a can of worms!
I found myself becoming confused over small things, not sleeping, more aches in my knees and elbows, blurry vision, low-grade fever and balance problems.
This was the beginning of the onset...and all within eight months of my divorce.
To be continued....
For years, I have suffered from an insidious disease called CFIDS, or Chronic Fatigue and Immune Dysfunction Syndrome, sometimes referred to as CFS, or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Neither moniker does justice to life-changing onset.
My earliest recollection of this insidious disease goes back to 1989, and if I worked hard enough, I might be able to find an earlier date when there were symptoms of what was coming. However, it it hard to think in terms of what was going on inside me where there was so much going on outside me.
Since this is the first blog, I will attempt to help you familiarize yourself with the symptoms, and as time and entries go by, you will see how it has affected me and my life, as well as those around me.
It is not a pretty story, and it is long in the telling, and once I get to "the end" it will become more of a weekly journal and an update on my so-called life.
I hope you will bear with me and try to hang in for the long haul, as some days, making a blog entry will be an exercise in the nearly-impossible.
I welcome your comments.
'Face
My earliest recollection of this insidious disease goes back to 1989, and if I worked hard enough, I might be able to find an earlier date when there were symptoms of what was coming. However, it it hard to think in terms of what was going on inside me where there was so much going on outside me.
Since this is the first blog, I will attempt to help you familiarize yourself with the symptoms, and as time and entries go by, you will see how it has affected me and my life, as well as those around me.
It is not a pretty story, and it is long in the telling, and once I get to "the end" it will become more of a weekly journal and an update on my so-called life.
I hope you will bear with me and try to hang in for the long haul, as some days, making a blog entry will be an exercise in the nearly-impossible.
I welcome your comments.
'Face
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