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Trite and True: Mining a Criminal Mind, an Open “Note” to My Stalker

By Suzanne Hudson



Photo (above): A view of the front “poach” at Waterhole Branch, a magical place where the peace is temporarily rippled by a malevolent entity who has gone way too far. My stalker has invaded my privacy by accessing the data on my phone. Apparently for years. But this stops NOW.


“I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.” ---Howard Beale in Network


“Speaking my truth;” “sitting in my truth;” all this talk about one’s individual “truth”--has it gotten to the point of seeming, on the surface at least, to be a bit trite? A “well-meaning” know-nothing asked me a while back why I seemed so dedicated to purging my anger and pain--my own truth. As if there were something else to write about, some other road down which to go. “Don’t you feel like you’re simply fighting a one-sided battle?” the clueless know-nothing asked.


Short answer: no, not at all.


Long answer:


I’m doing what all writers do--those ones what’s worth a damn, anyway: working through issues, dealing with my inner kid, describing what I see and what I know, crawling inside the epidermises of others and looking at the world through new eyes, turning feces into fiction. It ain’t a battle; it’s simply expression, creating. It’s a process. It’s layered. It’s an intricate system of underground caves in my spirit, and I might be spelunking them there caves for years and years, discovering another stalagmite here, another passage there, and, oops--a dead end’s done tripped me up again. And I reckon that does, indeed, boil down to “truth-telling.” Can’t let the lexicon of the popular culture trump what I know. And that is this:


A while back someone pulled out a silver platter and served me up a veritable feast of material: an appetizer of con-job, a main course of crazy, a side dish of deceit, and a dessert of oh-no-you-didn’t. Consequently inspired, I just recently finished my first book in close to a decade, Shoe Burnin’ Season: A Womanifesto, in which I address that feast--or begin to address it, this deeply personal experience of being abused, robbed, and vandalized by an emotional arsonist with a criminal mind. I’ll be debuting that book at the Louisiana Book Festival in Baton Rouge this weekend. (Commercial: I hope you’ll buy it--just go to amazon.com; hard copies and kindle copies are available; coming soon: audio; many thanks).


It took a while--years--to realize just how criminal the individual was, how dedicated to controlling and disrupting my life and livelihood, and it’s still rather mind-bogglish. And, as I’ve said many, many times, when you mess around with a writer, you’re begging for comeuppance at the very least; in my case, behind what all was done, there is going to be a blood-letting worthy of The Shining. Symbolically, of course. With equal parts--or more--laughter, to balance it all out. And I’ll string out some pretty words, some hard-edged words, and some happy-laughy words to put my “take” on it all, which, of course, goes to point of view and is supremely subjective.


But here are the hard core, un-spinnable, undeniable, OBJECTIVE FACTS:


A criminal con “artist” came into my life, chipped away at my self-worth by tearing me down (verbal abuse, beginning in a subtly humorous way before its gradual, mean-spirited slide into an intimidating escalation); intentionally disrupted some of my relationships by embellishing and lying about things I might have said and done and by inventing phony circumstances through which to deceive a few folks into giving me a shunning; sought/failed to disrupt many more relationships (including, pathetically and stupidly, my bond with my husband); “borrowed” thousands of clams from said husband and never re-paid; stole personal belongings from me (illegal); vandalized my property (illegal); hacked my phone multiple times (big time illegal), eavesdropping on private conversations--across state lines, I might add, making it an even bigger deal-io (mega-illegal); I could go on, but will leave that for another day if necessary.


Upon investigation (yep--I went there and employed a professional), I discovered that this particular criminal has a checkered history of moving from place to place; of bilking mostly and multiple wealthy folks for money, property, vehicles, and financial/”payroll” support in general (in spite of a singularly unstable work history and a dearth of education/training/qualifications in any area); created an autobiography that was, in part, fiction, a “poor little me” self-portrait of a pitiful, mother-abandoned orphan child, who was no such thing whatsoever; thrives upon being the center of attention, braggadocio, victimization, and the adoration of a hard core group of toadies, who have drunk the Kool-Aid down like good little children and who faithfully take and follow marching orders to bait me, to lie about me, to do adolescent things like “unfriend” me on Facebook. Seriously--a grown-ass criminal, to whom I routinely refer as “an alleged adult.”


And I’m expected to NOT write about it? Gimme a break, and bless your poor li’l ol’ pea-pickin’ heart, you know-nothing dumbass.


I absolutely own up to my flaws--and they are plenty--my poor choices, my vices, the instances in which “I cut my foot” (my grandmother’s euphemism for stepping in dog doody)--but I swear before God and Jesus and Buddha and anybody: aside from some underage drinking and your basic college experimentation with the typical cannabis (well, there might have been a handful of other forays into the ganja over the years, but I really didn’t care for it) and certain very sparsely consumed chemicals; aside from ONE instance of adolescent shoplifting at an air force base PX in Albany, Georgia; aside from merely two warning tickets for speeding over a nearly fifty-year driving life, warning tickets for speeding over a nearly fifty-year driving life, I have never broken the law. Oh, wait--my husband and I used to play a little game when we were on the road years ago, hawking books, in which we (meaning me/I) routinely stole soup spoons from restaurants. Sorry. So make a citizen’s arrest, Gomer.


Again: I might be an occasional screw-up, an occasional truth-shader, an occasional doo-doo stepper inner, but I am NOT a criminal or “a pathological liar” or even one to remark with snark about folks. BIG difference. (BTW, the quote is from various knowledgable sources, including some family of said criminal)


And I’ve certainly never tossed out orders for anyone, family members included, to “unfriend” anyone at all, criminals included, even this particular criminal, although I do own up to doing something similar (without the internet) back in the 1960s; I was probably in 8th grade. Being as I’m an adult (as opposed to an alleged one), it ain’t none of my business who anyone’s friends are. Jesus.


What a friend we have in Him.


I have certainly lied, but not maliciously, as an adult. One lies occasionally, to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, and the “little white lie” is also a go-to from time to time. But a ridiculously over-the-top lie, like pretending to purchase a house and later pretending that it is in foreclosure (reckon there was an expectation of pity, along with yet another “loan”?) when you never paid for it in the first place; you got some rich somebody to buy it for you and then they evicted you--and that’s only one of many over-the-top charades.


And yes, I’ve owned up to my part in it all, in the entire debacle--my enabling, my avoidance of conflict, my unchecked ego that allowed itself to be seduced. And that, Criminal Person, is called insight, which is the pure, honest, and healing Truth, something that you shall never, ever know because you do not possess the human gift of insight (just ask your young ‘un--the elder). Ergo, the criminal mind, the habitual lies, the narcissism, AND the lack of understanding about writers and writing. And yes, I’ve passed around your actual name enough that, should I fall upon tragic circumstances, should my brakes fail on a mountain road, should a giant limb from one of the massive, mossy oaks here on The Branch come crushing down upon me, should I die of a mysterious ailment, you shall be the accused--yes, YOU, my pretty---and your little toadies, too. And your “gravediggers.”


Yes, it is that serious/disturbing. All the more reason for me to put this out there, and I urge you to share this “Note” in the event of my potential demise and in the interest of the protection of others. You see, even though this criminal fled The Branch a few years ago, I was given yet another reason to do this--write with this level of strength and conviction--mere weeks ago. Let that sink in. A few weeks ago. Not that I haven’t written about this before, earlier remarking that I had merely scratched the surface. Well, I’ve gone a lot deeper this time, because of the “reason” I was given. And if I’m presented with more reasons, I’m prepared to go much, much further. I refuse to be intimidated or bullied or harassed or stalked.


Talk trash about me, if you like--and you do so love trash talk. So talk trash--if you dare. Just know that my husband is itching to take up the pen, tap the keyboard on my behalf and weigh in on this. And in spite of your know-nothing opinion, he is one hell of a writer, with a list of awards and accolades to prove it, so I have no doubt that his defense of me will be exquisitely eviscerating. So . . . if you dare, knock yourself out (pun intended).


Translation: Once and for all, leave me and mine alone. Call off your obsequious, obvious toadies, your feckless, grave-digging Kool-aid connoisseurs. Take the damn app off your phone that you use to spy on me and who knows how many others (and yes, I’m prepared to name who all they might be; I know of at least two, for certain). Do some research about exactly how many laws you are breaking. Save us all the trouble of plowing through the legal system, and back the hell off, COMPLETELY AND ETERNALLY. Let me not be a thought in your morally bankrupt brain, not be a whisper upon your lying lips. Or else. . .


There WILL be (much more, literary) blood . . .


Please don’t throw me in that briar patch!


Whew! Sometimes it does a world of good to throw some pent-up stress and frustration from off of your chest, don’t it?






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