The fight for my wings and my freedom

Now … now I getta say it! … what I didn’t getta say in the months living with her … the roommate … the Queen Dictator:


Lemme say it once more, this time spelled out, it’s just that much fun!

F-U! Fuck you!

I am free!! Living with Judy — the name now safe to reveal from the veiled moniker of “Rudy with a J” — is done. Gjort. Geddan. Fatto. C’est fini.

Was less a bitter “parting” than a rude one. A risky one and potentially dangerous, for me. Highly potentially illegal, on her part. Irrational, unpredictable, a loose cannon in my midst. Yes, I feared for my safety every step in those final weeks toward the exit door.

A Medal Deserved

As far as undercover moves go, I did brilliantly. I truly did {well-deserved pat on the back}. Away from the enemy I advanced with stealth, strategy and silence. Smarts too. No reason to rehash the planning of the great escape, they’re on record in a prior post. Plus it’ll make a remarkable story for a domestic violence publication.

Even the best-laid plans and actions can meet their, what, demise, a demand for rerouting, when the enemy appears face to face. Judy really likes that, that face-to-face confrontation. Unabashed angry loud intimidating threatening confrontation. It’s who she is.

Trouble’s in Town

Uh oh. Trouble. I sense it Saturday. I lose a precious and irreplaceable hour to move a carload move when Judy doesn’t leave to feed her mother. Since she’s otherwise home essentially all the time, my only other opportunity is to pack a carload at midnight when she’s sleeping. Or not. She’s an insomniac. And her suddenly appearing in the dead of night at the front door while I’m hauling boxes … there’s just no clever explanation, only the obvious. And the obvious WILL light her blaze.

Trapped. Think she’s onto me. Wouldn’t be hard since items I’ve had here and there around the place have suddenly gone missing. Judy’s virtually planted herself in the living room right outside my bedroom, busying herself with cleaning and iPad use.

Trapped. I can’t leave my room without her noticing from her Central Watchpoint: her chair in the living room.

Uh oh. This isn’t good. I’m forced to abandon moving a carload this afternoon, leaving double the workload at midnight. Double the risk of noise. Double the risk of insomniac Judy appearing at the front door in the midst. Double the danger.

Enemy Lies in Wait

It’s 1.15 p.m. Trapped inside my room with Judy hovering, my heart races boombooombooombooom boom! I’ve got a 1:30 commitment and I’m outta here for the rest of the day. Standard modus operandi, I spend no time here except to sleep, bathe and pack. Been how long since I even had a meal here? I won’t be back ’til after midnight to pack a couple loads and make up for the hour lost by Judy’s presence.


It takes no time at all.

With my duo backpacks and sundries packed for the next 12 hours outta the house, I march the 15 feet to the front door, skilled soldier that I am.

“What are your intentions?” From the center of the living room, from the throne, the Queen Dictator has spoken. In a voice loud, threatening — not commanding, threatening, they’re not the same — and intimidating.

Those 15 feet become awfully long suddenly. Keep walking. Do not respond. Keep walking. It’s tense. It’s not that I’m traipsing into a minefield. Rather, the danger lies at the rear. The enemy could launch an attack. Toss a grenade after I’ve already covered that ground. To me, an attack from the rear from an enemy already encountered is scarier than one out front.

I’m out the door. “I gotta go,” I say, calmly, firmly. Fact. Simple.

“I know you’re moving.” She’s angry. She’s fishing for an argument. I do NOT take the bait.

Threat Turned-Up

I keep walking the distance to my car. Judy, risen from her throne, follows me. Uh-oh. She’s known to cross boundaries, get violent.

Keep walking. Keep walking. Do not engage. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why don’t you move out tomorrow?! Make it easier on everyone?!” She’s ramped up, following me, shouting across the driveways.

Same response. “I’ve got to go.” Calm, cool, unengaged.

“How about if I change the locks?!” she yells.

The threat alone is illegal. Changing the locks — fucking illegal. You’re guaranteeing police action and court case that I’ll absolutely win if you do.

It’ll be a damn inconvenient if you do. I’m out tonight after work. And plain stupid. Why change the locks on someone you want outta there? Makes no sense. But Judy and rationality, not partners.

I’m in my car. Whew! I bail, eyes riveted to the rear-view mirror. Just in case. No knowing how far she’ll go.

I bop into my new apartment for 15 seconds to retrieve something. I’m freaking out. Did Judy follow me? Was she a couple cars behind so I didn’t see her? My imagination kicks into overdrive, fueled by fear and experience, raw direct experience, of what people are capable of. Irrational controlling frightening females in particular.

Deep down I feel Judy couldn’t be bothered to suddenly hop in her car to follow me. She’s smart but not all that bright. Aggressive and violent on her home turf; off it, I dunno …

Will She or Won’t She?

Nerves taut, I work my evening shift with one question eating away: “Will she or won’t she change the locks? Will I or won’t I be able to get in the house to get my stuff moved out. T-O-N-I-G-H-T” After work – after midnight.

The law’s on my side. I’m paid up through August 31. I’ve got both lease and signed rent receipt. If I get back and discover Judy’s changed the locks, I’ll call the police. {I enter number in cell phone.}

Every move I make is within the bounds of the law, which I studied thoroughly, even breaking in to retrieve my belongings. If a police officer is needed to protect me and deal with her illegal eviction, so be it.

And the Answer Is …

I arrive around 12:30 in the morning … first check my bedroom window — it’s as I left it. Insert the front-door key. The lock unlatches.


For the next 1-1/2 hours in the pitch-black of a dark moon, I move! move! move! move! I’ve already got the boxes — part of my advance planning and preparations for a piecemeal move. Piecemeal no longer. Now it’s O-N on.

No wait. No delay. No more quiet-as-a-mouse packing and moving in the dead of night while Judy doesn’t sleep. There’s no reason to be here. Not one. There’s no desire to spend another moment or night here. Go! Go! Go! Out out out! I’m free!

Last Words: Laughable

Then there’s … what’s this? A note taped to my door. Don’t even bother reading it. Just pack! pack! pack! Go! Go! Go!

Some 10 minutes later, I open up the paper. The typed message reads essentially: “It’s obvious your intention is to move without 30 days’ notice.”

{insert response: You’re damn right! Law allows immediate termination of lease without financial penalties or obligations in cases of domestic violence. Which includes your assault and battery! Which unbeknownst to you is on record at the police station.}

“You have until Sunday at 5 p.m. (read: 17 hours from now) to get your things out. After that you will no longer have access to my house.”

What a fucking bitch ignorant of the law! That’s an ILLEGAL eviction! Prosecutable in a court of law AND with hefty penalties too. I’ve read the state’s tenant-landlord laws. My landlord — also my roommate — clearly hasn’t.

If this went to court, she wouldn’t have the toenail of a pinky toe to stand on! I know the laws. Every document I’ve got backs me up. Every move I’m making, ditto. I’ve also got her assault on police record. Yet she’s barking like a fucking mean-ass pit bull. She thinks HER dictates are the end-all be-all. It’s laughable. Pathetic. She’s pathetic. And sad.

The Midnight Rambler Worker

While a part of me wants to toss her note into the deserved trashcan, I jam it into a back pocket — just in case I see her in court one day — and resume pack! pack! packing! Work! Work! Work!

It’s more stuff than, a heavier load than I’d thought … yet masterful and seasoned nomadic spirit and mover that I am, I get EVERYTHING into the Subaru — bless my Subaru! — and STILL retain a measure of window viewing for safety.

Though at this late hour the streets are emptying and my new place is an easy drive, my integrity as a driver forbids me from leaving no side and rear vision. I’m weird that way — especially amongst self-absorbed Americans — putting a premium on responsibility and safety for myself and others on the road.

O-U-T in Bold Neon Lights

After 1-1/2 hours of the fastest packing I’ve ever completed in a lifetime of moving — around 51 by now — at 2 in the a.m., I am home free!!

There’s NO chance that Judy, who’s assuredly overheard me packing and thankfully brokered no interference — is following me.

There’s no chance of her finding out where I live.

There’s no chance of ever returning to her house. Or with God as my witness seeing her again (save in a courtroom but odds are slim enough as to be no cause for worry.)

I am free!

My abuser is in my rear-view mirror and slated to fade into a memory … a bad and acidic taste in the mouth that time and my own healing shall cleanse.

Shouting from the Rooftops

I am free!

Of controls. Of her controlling nature. Her rage and abuses. Irrationality and unpredictability.

I am free of the treats and fears of what did happen and might happen and what COULD happen in her domain. Of how much she could escalate. I am free of HER terms under HER roof and in the space I paid for … to live in safety and modicum of peace. Ha!

I am free of Judy the Queen Dictator and her unabashed loud, controlling and violent rule.

I am free!

Safe in my new place. FREE OF ROOMMATES.

God bless me and god bless it all, everything that happened.

Let the healing flow.


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