Living With Schizophrenia

After boot camp they sent me to the Naval Submarine Base in Groton, Connecticut. I worked in an office for the students of the Naval Submarine School. In February, 1988 I met my ex husband, Donald David Newsome. He was a dungeon master of Pallidium games. I though he was smart and creative like me. Shortly after we met, we exchanged poems and started dating. He pushed himself on me in a hotel room. I believed at the time, he had just gotten carried away with passion. He was delusional, he believed in a pantheon of Gods and told me my diety was Baal Gortha. He believed he was some sort of wizard. I believe he was talking about devil worship now, because he tried to summon a demon once when we were together. He got out on a mental health discharge.

I got out on April 17, 1989 after I told them about the pot I smoked in DEP. I did not tell them it was my father's pot. I had discovered his stash. This lead to my discharge, as I knew it would. I was frustrated with not being allowed to go to a school, the rules, and depression. I moved out to Ferndale, Washington to be with Don, who I believed loved me, because he said he did. We moved in with his father, who he had said raped little girls right in front of him. I allowed his sexual abuse to continue. He pushed anal sex on me many times. He also pushed LSD on me. He loved pornography, not me. We had a daughter in 1990, and I gave her up for adoption because I didn't trust him with a baby. He pushed me up against the stove once and threatened to punch me once. He obsessed about me, calling hospitals and police if I was a little late. He threatened to destroy my stuff. The only way I could figure to get out of it was to push marraige on him, so we got married on April 19, 1991. He raped me because I told him I didn't want to and he kept insisting we had to consummate the marraige. We moved shortly after the marraige and I forgot the top of the wedding cake in the freezer of the old house. He finally asked me for a divorce on July 9, 1991 (One year and a day after the birth of our daughter) and we separated. I did not get my divorce until 1995.

For a long time I suffered from major depression and the anxiety that comes with PTSD. I also felt a learned helplessness and a lack of self respect that took years to overcome. I drifted in and out of sexually abusive relationships, leaving when I felt I had killed whatever interest these men had in me to begin with. Depression and anxiety kept interfering with my work life and I had a history of absenteeism from calling in sick, except when I worked as an Assistant Head Housekeeper at Park Motel in Bellingham, Washington. I worked at that job until they dissolved the position. I didn't feel good at a job until college where I worked as a writing and math tutor. I started college in 1992, graduated community college in 1994 and attended the university in 1995.

College was good for my self esteem. So was Wicca. But I kept running into men who'd push anal sex on me. Although nobody really beat me up until I met David Gallacci, aka "Oak," who was a cross dresser, an artist and a pot head. He threw me on the ground, pushed me down and broke my things on purpose. Apparently he had bipolar too. I interfered with him and his ex-girlfriend Autumn. I was "the other woman." I'm still not sorry I broke up that relationship.

I finally dropped out of college in 1995 because of paranoia and a rape that happened in the computer lounge I always used. Shortly after this I went on a spiritual journey. Somewhere in California, I met some Native American men in a cafe. I went to their house because I wanted to tell them about the relocation of the Navajo in Arizona. Three of them raped me, and a fourth, a half breed (for lack of a better term) punched me six times in the head. I hit him with a kitchen chair and threatened to poke out his eyes. He stopped then. I said "I'm leaving your house now." I reported it, and because I wouldn't let them pull out my pubic hairs, nothing was done about it.

In 1995 some time I went back to Verona, Wisconsin where my biological father lived and paid him a visit at work. It was the first and last time I ever gave him a hug. He put his hand on my rear end.

In 1997, I was being stalked by John Michael Laing-Sparger, a convicted rapist. He had been a friend at the time of his date rape. He had sex with all my friends and then pushed sex on me. He kept calling even though I asked him to stop. He wrote me nasty letters. He fathered my youngest daughter after he pushed sex on me. I could not get a restraining order even though he was convicted of rape. In 1997, my schizophrenia became full-blown. I gave birth to my youngest daughter. I ran, on foot, away from John Michael, a crack addict karaoke singer, and hitchhiked. I was really paranoid and lost in delusions. I was out of my head when they took my daughter away from me in Missoula, Montana. I tried suicide that night because of depression and schizophrenia. I was institutionalized at St. Patricks hospital for several weeks. I had them send me back to Bellingham, Washington.

They put my daughter in foster care. I lost all hope of getting her back when CPS and the courts gave John Michael unsupervised visits, refused to drug test or treat him, believe me about him, and wrote nine paragraphs against me and one against him. I gave her up for adoption to the foster family to keep her away from John Michael and his father, Max Sparger, a child molestor who molested the daughter of two friends of mine. After this I lost my housing and ended up homeless until 2002 when I finally got treatment for both schizophrenia and PTSD.

Only one guy beat me up during my stint as a homeless woman. This was at the Greyhound bus station in Seattle, Washington. He worked behind the counter. He tried to lock the bathroom door and almost shut the door on my arm. My arm was in the way because there were older women there and I tried to prevent him locking the bathroom door. He shut the door anyway and I slapped him. He threw me outside. I got back up and went inside. This time when he threw me, I landed on my head. The police charged me with assault, and I spent a month in jail before the judge threw the case out of court. He was a mulatto, and I don't know his name. This was in 1998. Although I spent most of my time in California, where it was warm and dry, I travelled all over the country. I rarely stayed in one place long enough to be found by any person who'd prey on the homeless. I was scared of stalkers. Nobody in my family, except my older brother, Chris, offered me shelter or money.

For a long time I could not handle being in crowded places or sitting with my back to an open room. But I took example from Peggy, and stepped in wherever I saw abuse going on. That helped my self esteem a lot.

Now, I see a light at the end of that tunnel and I'm sure it's not a "freight train coming my way." (to quote Metallica). I'm sure now there is such a thing as love and God and that I will find justice. Jim, the man who raped me at seven, got away with raping my cousin, too. He only got probation for that. I pray that next time he gets caught raping a child, he will get sent to prison for life.

That is my story. Thank you for listening.