Crooks and Annies: She’s Baaack (or did she never go away?)
Updated: Mar 19, 2020
by Suzanne Hudson
First of all, if you’re reading this, I really do apologize. I know you must be tired of my venting; I find it tiresome as well, but I simply will not cave in to the bullying and harassment that keeps coming my way. And since the baseboards of my digital footprint are apparently infested with the cockroaches of cray-cray, since I know my “intimidator” has done this to many in the past and will victimize more in the future, I’m here to say to Miss Annie: No. Ain’t skeered. Back the hell off.
And so . . .
I’m inclined to say she never went away, only because it was fewer than six months ago that I discovered my phone was/is hacked (and therefore my personal emails, texts, Facebook messages, etc. are at her fingertips), when she deliberately (there are no “accidents,” according to others who have endured her wrath) inserted a comment about a texting string between a friend and me. And it was just a few weeks ago that I discovered the manipulation of my personal google (on laptop) and several phony “Suzanne Hudsons” with checkered criminal histories--everything from sex offender status to fraud. My goodness, I wonder who would do such dedicated work toward sabotaging a little old lady/author such as myself?
My grown-ass, allegedly adult, stalker/harasser, “Annie Wilkes,” that’s who.
After fifteen years or so of being a classroom teacher, I got a master’s degree in school counseling, after which I joined forces with the established counselor at the middle school in which I had put a decade’s worth of those teaching years. One of the perks of the job was that, in my partner, I had a confessor/confidante who, like me, was ethically bound by confidentiality. No worries whatsoever about the trust factor. And whenever I laid my personal crises, flawed foundering, or regrettable peccadilloes at her feet she never failed to remark, after each and every purging, “You know, this will all make you a better counselor.”
She was right.
Fast forward twenty-something years to my unfortunate dealings with one Annie Wilkes, to whom I confessed more than a few sins, though not all and none thoroughly. My delinquent gut did manage to hold onto a whisper of suspicion toward this ego-flattering “fan” who would become a verbally abusive “manager” dedicated to making me “known.” As a result of her shady, manipulative efforts, several business ties and personal relationships I valued were disrupted, a few decimated. Not to mention those with whom I have had not the first real conversation, who decidedly and adolescently hate me on her orders. Yes, it was paradoxical, and it took way too long for me to fully comprehend the swath of damage she cut through my professional life.
And she’s been at it ever since, handing out marching orders to her Kool-Aid drinkers to bash, bait, troll and “unfriend” me (repeat: “alleged adults”), post bogus online reviews, and report my local doings back to her, up yonder in the hall of the mountain queen. And now she’s messaging me, via hacked devices, that she knows ALL. Certainly seems like a threat to me . . .
“This will all make you a better counselor.” The words of my colleague have stuck with me, but, since retirement, especially post-Annie, I have revised that statement thusly: “This will all make you a better writer.”
And it has.
Not one to avoid the old “throat punch” via authoring, I have absolutely mined this crazy territory repeatedly over the last few years, presented it in fake nonfiction, in stories and essays for anthologies, and in a novel due out by this September. Given this latest and childishly obvious--and obviously calculating--invasion of my privacy, I sense that I’m supposed to be intimidated into subverting my unmitigated truth to fear. . . of . . . what, exactly? Public shaming? More bogus reviews? Personal exposure? Blackmail? Hmm. Why else would one dangle such hackery above my cute little upturned (albeit aging) nose?
It certainly gives one pause. Would Annie REALLY expose the deeply personal battles of mine and of those closest to me? The interior, sacrosanct complexities of lives and relationships? The struggles with mental and physical illness, the devastation of depression and loss, the petty arguments, the dances with death or addiction or indiscretion? Sure she would. It’s what she does, as I have heard from many a victim. Therefore, do I have to fear that my every nose-pickery, faux pas, belch, fart and f*ck-up might go viral or some such? Answer: If she’ll expose the big stuff, it stands to reason . . . well, duh.
But what she doesn’t understand, because the lack of self-reflection and insight is truly profound, is that she will only be exposing herself, revealing that dim dankness within her insecurity-soaked, self-delusional soul--that which compels her on this path of sabotage, brandishing false bravado and hypocritical hyperbole. She, who has already run roughshod and nekkid over my dealings, now intends to spread legs, lies, and butt-cheeks, just to point out the hemorrhoids and dingleberries upon my day-to-day revolution on this big blue marble.
And guess what? I’ll become a better writer for her trouble. Maybe I’ll write a for-real memoir.
Annie, I’m having a flash of compassion here, because it’s apparent to all but the most dedicated of your Kool-Aid drinkers, that you, at best, are a wounded, desperate, and supremely fearful spirit. If you still fancy yourself a writer, do yourself a favor and transform the darkness into literary works. Put your clothes back on and behave like a grownup. Cover up that long, long butt crack. Otherwise, let me make a prediction and say this: my memoir-in-progress--the REAL one, the nonfictional one--should do very well, what with your unwitting publicity and my willingness to go there, to the place that terrifies you into doing all the things common cockroachy crooks do: lying, bullying, con-jobs, slander, vandalism, theft, device-hacking, blackmail. It’s a place you know little of, although I lean toward hope, always. It’s a place called Truth. Honesty. Guts.
Put on your damn clothes!