poison alway does

For so many years the headaches from my neighbors’ poison…I will tell the truth again: I did nothing wrong, my life and my character were perfect. I was continuously tortured since 1984 when I was 13. In my first years in this city, Bucharest, I was not poisoned. Since the years 2000 – poisoned exactly the way I already told. I could not finish the story of my imprisoned and tortured life and probably they won’t let me do this. After my father’s death it was worse and my mother too was worse towards me. I was always gentle and kind and I did nothing wrong and I don’t have sins. Since 2006, after moving in my own apartment, I noticed that my neighbors above let flowing some kind of gas – by the noise they do in my bathroom, a noise that isn’t water flow for certain sometimes – for hours at night or day, they have different kinds of such noises. I did not believe that it was poison just because I met once in the psychiatric hospital a woman who was imprisoned there and forced to tell the truth that she was poisoned with gas by her neighbors. But I did not question her sanity back then , I never made mistakes of any kind my whole life, like I told you. In my first years I did not believe that I was poisoned. Anyway, my smell was accommodated and I could not make the difference. I was not aloud to cover the hole towards the common bathroom “chimney”, though I asked for this and the neighbor below me, who tortures me with politics on TV, took care with another neighbor – a house painter – that my hole was left open in spite of me paying money and asking for letting it covered. Nevertheless my neighbor below has that opening closed in her apartment. I did not believe though it was a very strange noise. I went to my mother’s place where the air is ok and only in the past 2 years I recovered my smell and I observed that the air in my apartment is horrible! Indeed horrible. I could not have stayed with my mother because of her, not only because she harasses me. I repeat the air is horrible to breathe and it is for certain the cause of many nausea feelings and headaches and circulatory troubles. And peripheral neuropathy, etc. Of course I cannot blame the neighbors above for sure. Anyway in the past years they took my things and photos and tortured me with noises continuously and put dirt in my rooms and greasiness on my doors inside and false official acts in my drawers. Anyway none of them respects me and today a beggar, who apparently owns more money than me, mocked me with coarse appellation and said that I promised him 2 lei, which fact is not true. In all these years since 2006 my neighbors did not get older and their kids are not looking as if they were 16-17, but the same as in the beginning. And outdoors the neighborhood is wild each time I go out – thousands of cars and people staring and mocking me and below my apartments since March until November they come here and yell vulgar words every year, etc.

As for my suicide – forget it…months ago I realized that i won’t do this, my life was perfect, I cannot do this. My respect for goodness and beauty was immense all my life. Though you all deserted me and left me alone and totally isolated for so many years, without the slightest guilt or insanity from my part (I still can tell and I still remember everything). No one wants me and everyone pushed me to commit suicide. I am not Narcissus to commit suicide eventually and I am not Oedipus to destroy my sight (that is illusory like any other human sense) and I am not Socrates to commit ritual suicide (because that was not trial or condemnation of philosophy as a matter of fact) . I might have been all of them because others or the circumstances prearranged all of these….I was all of them but none. I deeply think that life is something very good and beautiful and necessary and my respect stayed the same through the years and whenever I was pushed to the limit I asked myself the same question — do I hurt life or existence of things by killing myself? I will not commit suicide — first of all in order to protect whatever may be connected with the link between my body and my spirit or with the dissolution of this link — if that will happen sometime because of the necessity of the whole. If I were someone else (it does not matter whom) I would not have killed a woman like I am and like I always was. Paradoxically, my too deep maternal instinct — the cause of my brightest happiness and of my deepest pain — demands me to avoid by all means committing suicide. (It is true that I disliked being poisoned — and that was true, or tortured by any means, and I disliked the stealing of my humble belongings (old or new)….but this will pass…someday).


For God’s sake, pray to God for my mother or help her, she feels increasingly worse and without her I shall remain without health insurance and if they fuck me like they did yesterday and so many times I die if I don’t have psychiatric drugs and only my mother can bring them to me and of course I care for her – and the doctors said that I was removed from the list of patients with free medical insurance and my mother promised me that she will fight for my rights and she will go somewhere for that. For God’s sake, they even put false documents in my house in my drawers, I discovered forgeries in my drawers, IT IS TRUE, they have changed even my personal code in some official papers, it’s true. If I remain uninsured they will kill me … I was good, not evil, and my mother the same, and some people come over me with the thought that they no longer need me, and my mother said she no longer spoke with her cousin who lives in a neighboring locality. He has not even called her brother yet. Mother is less than 69 years old, and I am less than 46. For God’s sake, I don’t even have someone for exchanging two words with him/her on the phone. I have no one and I was pure goodness, HELP ME! They say that my people swore revenge to me though i was pure goodness and calm and that they believe that I was or that I am insane, evil and stupid! IT IS NOT TRUE WHAT THEY SAY. ONLY WHAT i SAY IS THE TRUTH ABOUT ME. FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHY THERE IS NO HUMANITY IN THIS WORLD?? why don’t you understand? IT IS A MONSTROUS ABUSE AND MURDER, PLEASE HELP

June 18th 2016

no one listens today to these songs — I was only a teenager when I first listened to my father’s collection of songs…this song was among them. Like many others maybe I say that the sky won’t fall even if I share this song on facebook…right now my cupboard crackles. But I am not afraid, I believe that the other pieces of furniture or the walls surrounding me won’t crack. I have too many objects in my rooms, but I assure you that it was not my fault, I asked once for a simple life as a nun and I was rejected as always. The world did not allow me to have money in order to have new and simple furniture, like I dreamed once in my youth, when I was 18. Only my carpets are what I dreamed in 1989. Willy-nilly I dreamed about home decorations and then, after many years….to my surprise, they were given to people that did not dream about those, but had money. I remembered some of those and I understood what is the thing that the psychiatrists call deja-vu. All my dreams — they ate everything, but I can still remember some of the visions planted in my brain or what I really dreamed of, they were good things… Only God knows why…A few days ago it happened again to me: I opened accidentally a book at random and it really opened at some thought that I had thought 3 days before opening the book….in my youth such phenomena were even more magical….you know what I mean.

A few more things about my family

Now that you understood the story of my life in brief, i want to add here a few more details about my family.

My mother is in this photo a few years ago, I don’t remember the precise date. Here in the house (where I own 75%) she moved the old furniture from the apartment where she lived with my father (and me) and a few cheap paintings. She bought a cheap carpet and sits on a chair received as a gift from her old workplace, the embassy that closed. These are minor details. A lawyer told me once that I and my mother, being the direct heirs and those who had the bigger share at the same time, we should have get the house as a whole. It was not so. There was another family who had a smaller share, the brother of my godmother and his wife. That aunt tortured me many years about this partition and my mother too complained very much about her. They even went so irritated once that they had a fight (that woman and mother’s neighbor who supported my mother) and got bruises really. Now this blue room has a common wall with a back room that isn’t ours. My mother sleeps in the other room. My aunt, who was friendly towards my mother when they were young, gave that part of the propriety, together with land (the land partition too caused troubles to me) to a young unmarried couple they protected, a couple that has a child and they are still unmarried. They lived among different odds and ends with the child that played with me once.

After many years my mother paid and constructed a transparent fence separating our yard from theirs. My mother never accepted legal separation between the two of us, which would eventually give me financial independence and a good share for her too (considering the other apartment where we have lodgers). Back then my physical health was still good. The real estate market crushed down in my country after my father’s death and all my properties lost their value. This happened after I bought my apartment and thus I was hit the most and left without any cash. The apartments and the rent lost then their value and I lost my money from grandma’s house and garden, because I had to buy at higher price. They did not raise since then.

Anyway, this house where my mother lives has some encumbrances, it is not too valuable and the partition is not advantageous. I think it would have been hard to sell it anyway.

My aunt (not related by blood) took care of my godfather together with my father before he died. I could’t, for different reasons. He even signed a will paper (that is useless of course, for those who don’t know this, only the legal shares count nowadays). Then my father left for a few days and my uncle died in the presence of this aunt, who showed him to me naked, dead, lounged on his belly in his bed when I came back for the funeral from my grandparents village where I was back then. He was completely yellow and rigid, in fact I don’t know how much time did they leave him like that, in the back room that is not ours now. Then the doctor could not embalm him (he had a horrible liver cancer) and his entrails were buried in our garden following the doctor’s advice.

I know this story seems morbid, but it is the truth, that’s life. In fact he was a good man. They bought for him a huge Italian coffin and he did not fit the hole dug for his own grave. Thus, he was buried close to the ground, hastily, and then my father was buried a little deeper in the same place. My father stood one day at the legal medical institute and was perfectly embalmed. He looked alive in the coffin, only a white small spider was on his chest after we entered the graveyard. Then rat holes appeared on their graves for a few years. My mother sold illegally my own legal grave places I inherited from my godparents and said that my place will be over my father and godfather. My godmother’s grave was taken by that aunt of course. Mother says that my aunt did not even care about the weeds there. My mother takes care of the graves from time to time. That aunt moved from the city there in the same suburban place, that was declared a city, where I spent my happy childhood days, Voluntari. But I don’t belong there….I was sad, very sad.

my mother in her home

In the next photo you can see my Christmas tree in 2007 and my mother smiling (she used to wear smoky glasses indoors.

My mother, my only guest and my first Christmas tree in my new apartment. In fact I forgot if I had one in 2006, but I can tell you that I brought this one myself home, in spite of snow, although I have only one leg and it was me who decorated all my Christmas trees, climbing on chairs, because back then I was healthier and I could wash my window panes and curtains too. For me Christmas meant so much…even though I did not have a real Christmas or birthday or Easter or New Year’s Eve since 1984. Once I had beautiful Christmases even in the village of my maternal grandparents.

That palm-like plant that you see there is now almost as tall as the bookcase. It was bought for me by my father before the death of my godfather. I have another one I bought myself before the death of my father, a small plant from the croton family. I did not know until recently that croton plants are poisonous, now I care for my plants, but I did not have money in the last three years to change their pots or soil.

My bookcase — it was from the cheapest, one of the few things I could afford from my heritage. My books are some of them read, some unread. The Bible in the middle, I have 3 Bibles plus two New Testaments, plus Bible for kids. I hoped to have a child. I used to buy story books for my future children since I was in high school. I discovered and read “The Neverending Story” by Michael Ende after my father’s death. It is good for adults too. I still like books for children. I have books inside too and in the other cupboard too. The books I kept in my house are some of them received as gifts, others bought by me through the years and some from my father’s library who had even art books. He had not philosophy (or poetry of course), otherwise he had a good home collection. I had a very good memory and in only a few months or less in 1984, I knew by heart each book and its place in father’s collection, that was big enough. The other books my father had are, at least partly now, in my mother’s home but she threatened me she will throw them out because they are old and stink. I think some of them were valuable. My books here are memories for me, I read much more from public libraries.

It is me and only me who arranged every little detail in my apartment, every object in its place, finding what they stole from my belongings. It is me who chose the colors of the paint and all the other window or bathroom or kitchen necessary things and the lamps to be lower to allow me to climb and change the bulbs and the place for each piece of furniture, etc. I had little money, I did what I could, trying to be wise and prudent/far-seeing for the future. I only dreamed of a comfy armchair all my life and now my backbone gives me trouble.

My godparents too had their books collection and they used to read every day in my childhood. Those books are lost. I still have one from them “Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet” by Shakespeare, which of course I read, and in it, on its last pages I found an interesting detail: a paper heart pinned with a pin and having a number on it, that was given as a prize at a kind of dance contest named the “The little hearts waltz”. It happened in 1962. I modified my story on this photo, where I was uncertain, because I finally had the heart to look on my bookshelves. My father’s name was Victor-Ironim (Ironim was my paternal grandfather) and my godfather’s name was Liviu -Stefan. His wife was Maria but she was called on her nickname: Medy. Her mother called her Mady. Her name as Medy with her husband’s name Liviu appear on another book that I took from their heap of books, a book that is called “The Sea Wall”, by Marguerite Duras. The date is 1969, the year of their marriage. I read that book recently and I still have it. My godfather had another wife before, he divorced her, and was very reluctant to talk about her. I was only a child, that’s why I asked about her and why he divorced. They told me that she died in 1977 at that 4th of March earthquake, the last big earthquake in my country, on his birthday. Such a heap of books could also be found in the insalubrious apartment where I was once a lodger, where my father payed me the rent, after opposing my plan to move there. I never looked at those books, I never opened that wall closet again. In fact I was never a curious person, not even as a child. I asked only a few questions from time to time. My godmother was the wife of an Orthodox priest who was imprisoned after the war by the communist regime, then released, and who died in service in a car accident. The other priest in my family was mother’s uncle and he sexually molested me (my mouth and my nipples) when he came once to visit us before 1989, under the eyes of my mother and his wife, who both seemed to be amused. I was told that my middle name, Monica, was given to me because that priest’s wife wanted so, though the rest of my family wanted only the name Cristina for me and my father, who had no word among them, wanted to baptize me Teodora. When I moved in my new apartment after my father’s death, one neighbor (a woman who prayed to God every day and who went to the Orthodox church often) told me that the whole city or many of them knew what that priest, my uncle, used to do to women in his church. Then, after a few years, she died of cancer and her husband (who was a military man and a poet, and who made fun of me countless times), remarried at a short time after her death. Some people, mostly children, in my mother’s village called me Monica, because that’s what they were told when I was little. I always tried to correct them. My grandparents called me only Cristina, but my grand-grandmother who lived in the priest’s house (her son-in-law) each winter, in Bucharest, she called me Monica. Years after my birth, mother’s younger first cousin baptized his only daughter Monica. I did only one mistake about my name when I was at Cluj, in my first year as a Psychology student: I introduced myself as Monica because I hoped to start a “new” life, I will not explain. The tragicomic fact is that after 2010 when I entered the net in order to read and share my poems, many unknown people called me Monica, though I dislike this, though I introduced myself as Cristina, though I explained that Monica is only my middle name.

I said that my godfather was in fact a good man in my previous photo. He was, but maybe most of all he was a good teacher for me in my childhood. He was always calm and patient and taught me beautiful things about stars, trees and plants, drawings, music, poetry, geometry. Those things were good. But he also taught me to be always good and to never lie, to be true to myself and true to others too. He used to say that a teacher’s greatest happiness is when his pupil surpasses him. He used many Latin locutions from time to time, like “Festina lente” or others, hence my love for Latin expressions.

And after years I still don’t agree with what one of my psychiatrists told me: “Cristina, you don’t know how to lie, you have to learn how to lie”. I am not ashamed to be myself, like I was educated, that’s me, I never lied and I never will. I can tell looking back that lies could not help me at all (anyway I could not guess what others were thinking, I never perceived others’ thoughts) and I am grateful to my godfather who taught me to be earnest and honest all my life.

Almost all the books I ever bought in my life, until a few years ago, are signed by me with my name and usually the date when I bought them.

He also used to prepare beautiful Easter eggs and we all sang a religious traditional hymn standing around the Easter lunch table.

Christmas, 2007, my mother