I love my long term boyfriend.
I have almost cheated on him twice in the past year (with the same person).
Each time I stopped it because I didn’t want to hurt him and not because I didn’t want it to happen.
Sometimes I resent him for being so lovely, so sweet, so caring.
Sometimes I wish he was a dick so I could just dump him and have no conscience about it.
He’s a great guy and if we broke up it would kill him.
I don’t know what I want. But how do you ever really know?
I had to do it. I had to look at the pictures again. I frustrate myself sometimes. I found out that you are here, in this country. And I am afraid. So afraid that we will meet each other. I promised myself I wouldn’t let it get to me, that I was happy for you and that was that. But I had to go and look at the pictures again. My god, I thought you were gone, that you would never be back. That the chances of us meeting ever again would be slim. But now I know that’s not true and everything is so much more real.
I don’t know what to do.
I am so scared.
And I still love you.
This never happens to me. He is very kind. He is very nice. He is friends with my friends. So how do I tell him I am just not that into him without making him feel how men have made me feel in the past!
and doesn’t wake up, will anyone miss him?
I don’t know if I can still do it. Keep being strong while all around me crumble.
The loss of a loved one started it all. They’d been unwell for a while but it all ended very quickly. Ever since then, we’ve been arguing about stupid stuff, but always managed to sort it out easily, even when I was hospitalised for a stress-related condition.
This time feels different though. It started as usual over something small – the colour of paint – there were tears, some shouting, which ended in me being told to “just go.” So I went, came back to check they were ok, they barely spoke, and we just got on with what we were doing. It was tense but ok.
Then this morning, I did something small – scratched the floor – and for the first time, burst into tears. So I called them to apologise for what I had done, and was shouted at for “walking around with a face like thunder” for weeks and for “calling in that state just as I am going to work”. And then was told “I don’t know if you are aware but I lost my *** a few months ago.” Um, yes, I am aware – I carried the coffin.
Obviously I know that grief affects people in different ways, and deep down I know that we can ride this tough time out, but how the hell am I supposed to keep it together?
Power does not corrupt men. Fools, however, if they get into a position of power, corrupt power (GB Shaw)
he said he was going to cruxify me and he said he would destroy my reputation and then I got this:-
“I was there watching. I love a good execution haha and yours will go down in history..”
and all because I made a complaint against someone in power.
The dog’s bark is not might, but fright.
Part 2 was here:
http://thelivesofothers.wordpress.com/2009/10/05/someones-watching-part-2/
At the time I was too confused and scared to understand what my grandmother meant when she said my mother was “stuck with him”. Did she mean me? One of my brothers? My father?
After a few months, our house sold and we could buy a new one. Looking back and being honest I reckon my parents took the first house that was available and that they could afford just to get out of my grandmothers. I can’t say I blame them really. At the time I think we were all relieved to get out of that house. I certainly was. The last night we spent in that house I didn’t sleep a wink. I’d try to but when I was just about to drift off I’d be interrupted by more visions of that dark figure.
We spent the whole day in moving vans back and forward from Howth to Blanchardstown where our new house was. I think I slept the whole day in my dad’s car without as much as lifting a single box. The feeling of safety and relief that it all might be over gave me the best sleep I could ever remember having. I woke up the next morning on a matress on the floor of my new bedroom as the beds were arriving later.
It felt strange having lost so much time to sleep, but waking up and not being afraid to be in a room on my own felt so, normal. I hadn’t felt that way in ages.
I was at the age now where I was left in charge whenever my parents went out for short periods of time. This usually meant visiting my younger brother in hospital. His asthma was pretty bad. He couldn’t run around or play normally without having to need an inhaler in his pocket. Being on steroids and different cocktails of antibiotics and drugs only delayed and reduced the severity of attacks.
On one particularly severe night, I looked across the bedroom to see what all the noise was about. He was sat on the edge of the bed and white as a sheet, eyes wide open. He couldn’t breath and he couldn’t call out for help. I scrambled for his inhaler, but it had no effect on him. I ran to my parent’s room and got them down. My father must have broken every rule of the road getting him to the hospital. Blanchardstown hospital transfered him to Temple Street and put him on a nebuliser. Doctor’s reckoned that another half hour of going untreated and he would have basically suffocated to death.
The moment I heard that I was more scared than I’d ever been.
My grandmother came to visit him while I was there and I don’t remember much really apart from the argument. My grandmother wanted to visit our new house but my mother was having none of it. They both tried not to add to the stress my brother was going through by arguing in the corridoor, but we could hear everything:
“What do you mean, I’m not allowed near your house?”
“I don’t want you near me, my kids or my house. Everything you touch turns”
“Turns what?”
“I don’t know, evil”
“Have you any idea how ludicrous that sounds?”
“I couldn’t care less, I will disown you if you come near us uninvited. I swear”
And that was that. My grandmother was made to promise never to come to our house and my mother came back into the hospital room looking shaken, but like a weight had been lifted. On the way home we went to McDonalds and talked about how exciting it was to be in a new house. It was in the summer so talk of the new school year was also topic. I was oddly looking forward to starting a new school. New friends and all the rest. I saved the toy from my happy meal to take it to my brother the next day.
In the morning the hospital called to say that my brother could go home, so off my parents went to collect him. I stayed home to watch the youngest of my brothers.
About an hour after they had left the door bell rang. I went to answer it thinking it was my parents, but as I opened the door, it revealed my grandmother standing there.
“Can I come in?”
I remembered the conversation they’d had in the hospital, but in fairness, what was I going to do to stop her.
“Erm, ok”
She wasted no time in pushing past me, slamming the door shut and shouting at me to go to my room. I ran, grabbing my youngest brother and went to my room. She stood in the door way and burned into me with eyes of intensity I’d never known before.
“If you tell your mother abou this, I’ll make you sorry”
With that the door was shut and locked from the outside.
At first all I could hear was like a chanting. I couldn’t make out the words, but by the tone and the beats in her speech it sounded to me at the time like a prayer in church. Rehearsed and deliberate. She did this for a while, moving from room to room and after about 15 minutes, I heard her move to the kitchen which was next to my downstairs bedroom. The speech changed. Not so forced and panicked as it was before. This time it was like hearing only one side of a telephone conversation. She sounded worried though, like she was pleading. Again I couldn’t make out the words, but her voice was raised enough for me to wonder what was going on. This didn’t last long. It stopped pretty suddenly when I heard what was unmistakably a
“NO!”
A stony silence followed that was only broken by the sound of the lock turning in the door again. Instead of it flying open like I was expecting, it was slowly pushed aside and my grandmother stood there. With tears making her mascara run, she wasn’t the severe figure she had been when she had locked us in that room, she was a broken person.
Her voice was nearly inaudible:
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell your mother I was here. I’m sorry”
With that, she left.
I really hoped she’d call my mother to confess to her visit at some point, but she never did. I also hoped that my mother wouldn’t ask me or my brother if anything had happened while they were away. Partly because I was, and still am a terrible liar, and my brother was far too young to understand why he shouldn’t tell the truth. Thankfully though, she never asked. Why would she? She came home to see us playing the Atari without as much as a cushion out of place.
I felt uneasy for the rest of the day, despite the fact that my brother was safely at home again, this time with a shiny new nebuliser of his own. I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the evening on anything. I was getting sleepy later on the couch, so I was put to bed. I was sharing a room with my youngest brother, as his room was being converted in the attic. He was already out cold when I got there, so I climbed into bed.
The feeling of dread at bedtime was around me again, simply because of my grandmother’s visit. But much to my relief I just fell asleep. It was one of the best sleeps I’d had, out for the count, like a baby.
Until about 5am when I was woken by the sound of my brother squealing at the top of his lungs. Not a cry from a nightmare, but a cry that let you know he had gone through something that he just didn’t know how to deal with. The high pitch yowl was joined by a loud thumping on the bedroom door. My parent’s were literally trying to burst the door off it’s hinges to see what was going on. My senses were shot, I didn’t know where to start. Open the door? Comfort my brother? Turn on the lights?
I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder to comfort him but before I could get the words of “It’s ok” out, his screech went higher in pitch again, and louder too. It made me jump back in shock. He was freaking the shite out of me now.
I jumped across the room and flicked on the light. My brother was sat there in the fetal position, swaying back and forward. His face soaked from tears, but his eyes cried dry. The banging and demands to open up from my parents couldn’t even distract me from what I was seeing. My little 4 year old brother utterly inconsolable. But what got me were the markings on him. His face was red like he’d been slapped. A giant red hand marked wrapped itself around his pale calf and shin of his left leg.
My father eventually kicked in the door, saw my brother, looked at me and freaked out:
“What did you do?”
“Nothing, I was asleep”
“Why was the door locked?”
“I don’t know I was asleep”
He picked up my brother and took him trembling to the living room.
I was out of it. I didn’t know what was going on
I could hear my father trying to get sense out of my brother, but he was too far gone to string the words together for at least an hour.
My mother looked at me, and got down on her knees to meet my eye level.
“I’m going to ask you two questions, and if you don’t answer truthfully, I’ll know”
“Ok”
“Did you do this to your brother”
“Of course I didn’t. I was asleep, I swear. I woke up and he was screaming”
“Ok, sshssh. This next one is very important.”
“Ok”
“Did your gran ever visit here when we were out?”
I said nothing, I didn’t know what to be afraid of more. What had just happened, or my gran.
“I’ll ask you again. Was she here today when we were at the hospital? You can tell me, I’ll never let her hurt you”
“Yes she was here”
She held me for the longest time and whispered promises that she would never blame me for anything that happened.
When they eventually calmed my brother down they asked him who had hurt him. My dad played good cop:
“Did your brother do this?”
“n,no he was ’sleep”
“Who did this to you, you can tell me, I’ll keep you safe”
“The man”
“What man?”
“The man”
“What man? Who was in there?”
“The black man”
“The black man?”
“He was all black”
My mother looked at me and a shiver ran down my spine.
Part 4 coming soon….
Three weeks later and I’m still so excited….
We had our first date, lunch – it went really well.
We’ve had several dates since and he’s really great.
I think he thinks I’m pretty great too!
Thanks to all of you who encouraged me on the last post.
Sometimes I have to pinch myself, and, I’m smiling alot!
Hope is a lovely thing to have in life.
My boyfriend of four months told me this week that he’s never been in love, he doesn’t know what being in love should feel like and he doesn’t know if he’s in love with me. He says he feels closer to me than any other girl he’s ever been with before, that there are so many things about me he loves, but he can’t say he’s in love with me.
The real problem is, he had actually told me before he was in love with me so now he’s taken it back, but I’ve fallen madly in love with him. We haven’t broken up despite his revelations, he says he still wants to be with me and in a relationship with me, says he loves my company, the sex is amazing, he feels close to me and cares very deeply about me and I know I’m lucky that he feels that at least but I’m scared. I’m scared if he doesn’t feel he’s in love with me now, maybe he never will be. I know it’s only been four months and because of that I’m staying with him, to give our relationship a chance, to give it time, to give him time to see how he feels.
But as each day goes by I love him more and I let him in more but now I feel there’s this gap between us because I’m there, at the point where I know I’m in love, and he’s not.
I really thought this was it, that I had found the person I could one day maybe share a home and the rest of my life with but his uncertainty has completely thrown me. I feel disappointed, stupid for believing he was in love with me, and so helpless. I am who I am and if that’s not enough for him to fall in love with after four months, then will it ever be enough?
But I don’t want to walk away, he’s who I want, I can’t imagine him out of my life, I don’t want him out of my life. We have so much fun together, my heart jumps when I see him, he literally takes my breath away. I felt that way only once before in my life and I lost it because the guy didn’t feel the same. The idea of that happening to me again kills me.
Maybe I’m just not the kind of girl that men fall in love with.
I’m genuinely scared of someday losing my mind.
That said, i’m not sure what that’s meant to mean. Losing implies having one in the first place. I have a lot of very strange behaviour. I know this myself – so what does that say about me?
When i’m alone, I talk to myself, I have unintended outbursts from my thoughts, my mind races, my body tires but under the skin lights up like it’s being electrocuted.
I sing and shout randomly. Things I don’t mean. I talk to myself like I hate “me”. When I do this, I have to remind myself that it’s “me” saying this to me, and not “you”. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together…
When I go to sleep at night, I feel like i’m rising from the bed. I feel fear, and anxiety, and jealousy, and inadequacy. I don’t sleep easy.
I have strange fantasies. Nothing dubious. My mind will wander and invent scenarios that haven’t and won’t happen. I’m tempted to write these, as if I were some kind of fiction machine.
Am I going crazy, or am I just human? I’m not sure how to deal with this anymore.
The new guy i’m seeing since you sent me the text saying we should “cool things for a bit” is lovely. He is really handsome (much better looking than you) he makes a really big effort with me and my friends. He texts everyday and i dont even have to text him first, he gets me cute thoughtful gifts, he is everything i could want in a man. But everytime you pop into my head i’m reminded of the one thing he’s not, he’s not you.I miss you,do you ever miss me?
I’m the head editor of a sociology journal. One of my best friends is on the editorial board with me, and her work is unreliable. Every time she reviews an article, I have to erase the vast majority her comments and start editing from scratch. Resentment is beginning to simmer and sizzle. Steam has started to issue in a caballine fashion from my usually placid nostrils. I want to be straight up, but history has shown that criticism and she don’t mesh. Instead, I spend half my life re-doing the work that she has done. The difficult thing is that she works really hard. Like, really hard. It would be one thing if she were a lazy so-and-so. Then I’d be all like ‘yo, you, lazy so-and-so, stay away from my journal be-atch.’ But it’s not so simple. She works harder than anyone else on the team. If only there were fruit to her labours; if only she turned tawdry sociological steel into solid sociological gold! Alas, alack, the editing she produces is just… it’s just… ah feck it, there’s no point pulling punches – it’s unbelievably useless, utterly misguided, incomparably ridiculous shite. Reading her comments and suggestions for our submitting authors is like reading instructions on how to land an airplane by someone who has only ever ridden a bicycle. Her syntactical advice to our would-be publishees might best be likened to the sex education I received from the presentation Nuns in the nineties. I am increasingly of the opinion that her notes on restructuring have been generated a magic eight ball. Oh magic eight ball, should I tell the writer to remove the methodological information from his introduction and insert it willy-nilly at random points into the body of the paper? LOOKS LIKELY. Okey dokey then, random methodological nuggets it is!
If someone were harping on like this at me, I would tell them that they needed to sit their esteemed friend and associate down for a chat. That would be sound advice. And I will. I will sit her down and talk to her about it. But right now she is feeling proud as punch that she has gotten all her reviews to me – happy that she’s put in so much genuine hard work and effort. I don’t want to have to tell her it’s not good enough. I know her, and there’s no way she wouldn’t take it personally. And anyways, right now there’s a deadline to make; it’s not going to make itself. Potentially friendship wrecking chats will just have to wait.
I am dreading the impending unpleasantness. She might be a crap editor, but she’s pretty awesome in just about every other way. Now pass the caffeine tablets, it’s going to be a long long night.
This is a bit… different.
I think I’m addicted to the internet. Seriously.
I’m on the laptop every single day for maybe 12 hours, few proper breaks, doing wide variety of things. Varying levels of attentiveness. Possibly addicted to new information/not being in the dark. An insecurity that I’m missing out on something?
Sure I might be more knowledgeable and up-to-date but at this point its starting to affect my social skills. Lame and embarassing I know. I’m almost laughing at myself. It doesn’t feel like a bad addiction, more like a realisation that I’ve been tricked by a scammer. I’m only really posting here because I’ve almost wanted an excuse to use this site since it went live and is probably a better forum. I don’t mind about anonymity. Can’t believe I’ve let myself get into this situation. And then confess it anonymously on a blog of all places! Lulz!
Either that(internet regresses social skills) or it has allowed me to pursue divergent interests to nearly all my friends to the point where I don’t really have much to talk to them about. My ability to trawl through my memories has turned to mush because with Google I can just search the answer instantly, then disregard it as quick. It feels like I don’t properly digest information anymore. Feels like it has sapped my charisma.
My conversational skills have gotten absolutely dire. I semi-joke that I might even be a bit agoraphobic at this stage. I’ve depression too so this isn’t helping things. I’ll spend all day on the laptop surfing reading up on things, msn. Its just so good. I have zero desire or intention to do my course work though. I have an essay due tomorrow for a course I’ve barely attended and its 4am I’m reading blogs, music and watching megavideo and I’m not as concerned as I should be.
When I heard stories like this in China I thought it was related to censorship, but maybe its the truth. And it’s more obvious in their culture.
Though, I’ve never been one for balance or self-discipline. In my mind its the cause of most depressions out there, chicken and the egg situation. Which came first the depression or the lack of self-discipline? Hence I require a one-time, quick. silver bullet solution please! I’m a shell of a man! I am the internet in human form. I gather and display information, but I cannot compose new information(charisma?) myself. I feel I’ve gotten boring and it’s the worst feeling in the world. To clarify I’m not a tech geek, but a knowledge junkie/aspiring journo. Regular chump. Broke arts student.
Are my points valid though? Is the internet something you can be “addicted” to? Is it a bad thing to be addicted to it? Can I maintain this addiction and just seek ways to improve my social skills elsewhere? Anyone else experience this? Anyone else notice a deterioration in social skills? Is this just how people are these days? I noticed Saturday night on Twitter during the Web Awards, it seems everyone there was mobile tweeting constantly. Was that at the expense of live conversation? Were the tweets composed to fill awkward silences caused by said deterioration? … I do recognize that suggestion sounds crazy.
Is there a steady way to wean onself off it? Has anyone found a balance/solution/discipline or succesful method to sustainably disconnect?
Part 1 was here: http://thelivesofothers.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/someones-watching-part-one/
Despite what some might think, this is not a fake “meme” being circulated through email.
______________________________________________________________________
The reason my mother wanted out of the house was because she was being bullied by the neighbours. Never one to stand and chat over the garden fence or gossip over tea and biscuits she was branded a snob. While the husbands were all out at work, the wives would scream at her from across the road and put notes through the letter box with insults so juvenile they’d make a nursery pupil cringe. The thing is that when it’s coming from all angles, it’s hard to look at it that way.
My mother was at the stage where she’d do anything to get out of that house. Looking back I don’t blame her, even if at the time I thought she was the worst in the world for taking me away from my friends. The usual 7 year old emotional stuff.
Within a fortnight we were completely moved out of that house and living in my nana’s front room. Not ideal, but temporary situations aren’t supposed to be. This was the nana who would visit us ocassionally with ornaments. Her house smelled like old people and incense and there were eyes everywhere. Not actual eyes, it’s not that kind of story.
The eyes of her little trinkets and ornaments that looked so familiar yet different at the same time. The eyes from paintings of crying children that would follow you around every room and chill you to the core. I hated being in that house alone, even if it was just for a few minutes, because you never felt like you were alone.
Anything from a shiver down the spine to a whisper that you weren’t quite sure you really heard would make you want to run screaming from this house.
The nightmares were back too, only this time they were so vivid I began to wet the bed. This is an embarrassing thing for any kid, but even more so when you’re crammed into a bed with your younger brother.
This time the figures in the dream were visible to me, and not just a dark figure. They were the little religious wotsits that my nana had almost strategically placed everywhere. Little ceramic figurines that would chase me about the place while I tried to sleep.
Each time I woke up in a puddle of my own fear and shame, a random ornament would be at the foot of the bed.
Even though the dark figure from before wasn’t the main player in the dreams anymore, his presence was still very much felt. It was as if he was in the background taking control but not actually taking part.
It wasn’t long before I was just terrified to sleep. Terrified of what I’d dream about and terrified at my body’s reaction to it. One night I fell asleep out of pure exhaustion and it was a night I’d remember over all others up to that point.
In my dream I was being chased by these figures of the different religious ornaments in the house. The dark figure was more promanent this time and I was fully aware that he was controlling them. The crying children from the paintings were sobbing and pleading for help. It’s a weird thing for a child to experience fear so extreme that he can feel himself screaming to the point that would make his lungs burst, but being unable to wake up.
They were chanting something that I couldn’t make out, but as they did their eyes would stare into the very depths of me and conjure up and even more irrational fear.
Dreams are sometimes fuzzy and cloudy, such are dreams. Not this one, it was as clear as a HDTV today complete with surround sound. I screamed and screamed and tried to wake myself up but it just wasn’t working. The dark figure emerged from the shadows of the background and loomed over me. The chanting got louder and drowned out the sobs of the children from the paintings. He stood there seemingly taking pleasure from my panic. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. Suddenly it went pitch black around me and I felt what I can only now describe as a swift and extremely powerful punch to the stomach that winded me instantly.
That woke me up for sure, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. I was still winded. Having never had the wind knocked out of me up until then I didn’t know what was happening or how to deal with it. Still frightened from the dream I was now frightened even more because things that happen in dreams are not supposed to happen really.
My brother as always, was still out cold oblivious to what I was going through. I hadn’t wet the bed this time, but that was the least of my worries. As I began to get my breath back and calm down a little I was snapped back into panic as at the foot of my bed were all of the ceramic and plastic figures that had terrorised me in my dream. About 20 or so of these little fuckers were lined up and facing me, motionless, looking at me.
I screamed. I screeched. I brought the house down, but nothing. My brother just turned over and kept snoring. My mother never came to see how I was. My nana never came, my father, no one. I had a choice to make, stay here with those things or do a runner and take my chances from there.
My mother’s parents were rich, proper rich. They built a house in Howth when they married. A proper rich person’s house. Three stories and a basement because my nana always loved the old movies that showed people with basements in their houses.
I decided to run. I lept out of the bed and over the watchful eyes, out the door and down the four flights of stairs where I should have found my mother and nana either in the kitchen or living room.
I called out like a wounded puppy, but still no one came.
I heard something from the basement and when I got closer I could smell the familiar incense and see the flicker of candles. I wasted no time in bolting for the door to rush down to the safety of who ever was down there.
My blood ran cold.
The incense was familiar. The candles were familiar. The old person smell was familiar. The voices were familiar. What was also familiar however, was what I heard.
I heard my mother and my nana chant the very same incomprehensable chant that I had heard in my dream.
Now, some would say that I heard it in my dream and my mind incorporated that into my dream as something I didn’t understand and turned it into a nightmare. Last I checked I wasn’t Superman’s lovechild so I wasn’t born with supersonic hearing that could detect the exact thing I’d heard minutes earlier in my bed, 3 floors up, while I slept.
I was stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and suddenly I got that feeling of not being alone again. Yes I was in a room with two other people, but I felt a heavy presence of someone behind me. Just as I was about to run down the rest of the stairs to the safety of my mother’s arms and comforting words, my nana cried out:
“You leave my grandson alone. Do you hear me? LEAVE HIM BE!”
My mother panicked and asked:
“Who’s after him? What have you done?”
“We have to send him back”
“Send who back?”
“LEAVE HIM BE!”
At that moment I wished I’d trusted my instincts because that feeling of not being alone got stronger and instantly I remembered the time I was pushed down the stairs. It happened this time again. I felt the air around me chill and a hand between my shoulders threw me forward. I didn’t have far to go this time, just a few steps until I hit the bend in the stairs where I stopped like a rag doll.
My mother and nana looked on shocked as I brought myself to my feet only to be shoved the rest of the way down the stairs.
“Don’t leave the table, we have to send him back this time”, came my nana’s response.
“What are you doing to my son?”
“DO NOT leave the table, we have to SEND HIM BACK!”
At the time I could have kissed my mother for not listening to my nana and coming to pick my limp body from the cold concrete floor. She held me for the longest time and we cried each other to sleep.
I wasn’t entirely sure what my nana meant by “send him back”, but it may have had something to do with the same board and drinking glass that my mother had been talking to the last time.
Nana wasn’t happy and as she walked passed us she just sneered, void of all emotion:
“Stupid cow, now you’re stuck with him”
Part 3 coming soon…..
How much loyalty do I really owe my employer?
Lets face it, if they had to lay people off they’d do it. Hard luck chump here’s your P45.
So if I was offered a better, higher paid job that I didn’t go looking for in any way, do I need to consider my employer? Or is it dog eat dog?
Cure for the unhappy people clogging this site:
Long story short! I was so sad but after I took to talking about it, exercise (exert yourself more than 1/2 hour,) music, new things, hot baths, good deeds, and designated non-depression breaks I was a new man! 
Garda corruption is still alive and well and brewing….
I’m being harassed by the Gardai. Going on nine years now. Simply because I made a complaint against one of them, which inevitably led to a domino effect amongst their fellow colleagues.
I want to shout it and scream it and broadcast it on every gawd damn newspaper and media outlet in the country! but.. I bide my time, I’m waiting for the most opportune moment. What they have done is simply beyond comprehension. I couldn’t make it up even if I wanted to. I’ve gone through a series of complaints to the Garda Complaints Board and the Garda Ombusman.
They have tried to break me down, chipping away at me bit by bit, but I’m strong and every time they knock me down, I rise bigger and stronger. I’m a good person. I’m their easy target.
I’ve been threatened, physically threatened. Simply because I made a complaint against one of their colleagues. They threatened me in my place of work, tried to humiliate me in front of my work colleagues and neighbours and all because I made a complaint against one of their colleagues. Why, because I was being stalked and harassed and I reported a number of incidents to one the most corrupt Gardai in the country who tried to cover up for the person stalking/harassing me.
I often wonder am I the only person going through something like this.
This corruption is rampant from the top down.
This is what they do to innocent people, their easy targets.
But I’m not easy any more, they have made me tough as nails and now they have a fight on their hands and I’m damn well going to expose the lot of them for what they are! They will never see my tears..
 | Voodoolady on Alone |
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