I just got played

How a free-range homeless woman gained access and would not go

“Coming of aging” isn’t a thing. I don’t have a road map. I have experiences which I hope to be brave enough to make honest sense of with you.

This is a story about being played by a woman who needed a place to stay and my guest room was empty. This is the story of a con artist who knows how to play the system… and a single women who needs a little help around the house.

The Conversation

Several weeks ago I had “the conversation” with the best friend who has - miracle of miracles - promised to stick with me if/when aging trips me up. It’s like the birds and the bees, but reversed. The children explain to the parents the facts of life. The fact that as you get older, you may get wiser but you also may get confused, forgetful, unsteady on your feet, and need help.

We were in my garden digging up dahlia tubers after a freeze. She forked them out of the wet earth, crouched to peel off the sodden upper part and separated the remaining clump into single tubers to be replanted. We examined each for “eyes” like potatoes that would sprout eventually the glorious pink blossoms. She was crouched. I was that splay leg bend you adopt when your knees don’t enjoy folding in half. We were chatting, feeling the winter sun, when she raised the question of care for me in older age.

As usual, I was quick with answers, deflecting anything grim, when she said, “You may not want later what you want now.”

That arrow of a sentence pierced the surface self.

As my body changes, my desires may change. Who is the “my” in that sentence?

Who is the “I”?

Our minds make up stories about the conditions of our lives, moment by moment. My “I am” - the persistent story of Vicki - seems to have continuity, but in fact, my story changes according to my mood, what I am doing, who i am with, what I now think is important, and signals from my organs, muscles and bones. In addition, a basic matrix of right and wrong and good and bad, comes from family, culture and history, plus my high minded values, plus my biological vulnerabilities, plus that glittering array of specific of experiences that my mind weaves in the way a bird weaves feathers and threads into the nest. Like a typesetter reaching accurately into his tray for each letter, my mind reaches into these shades and flavors and ideas of me, tricking all of us into thinking there’s a persistent Vicki when I say “I.”

Philosophers have sought the persistent “I”. This is not my task here. The task is to face that the Vicki in the garden of a house in a village in the Pacific Northwest - all of this chosen for good reasons - wants to stay here through to the end, but a future Vicki might not.

What if the persistent I, the story of Vicki, changes as my body changes?

I converted the ground floor of my house into two studio apartments that currently provide income and eventually will be traded for care. Next it’s work-trade - garden help for reduced rent. Eventually as more help is needed, the caregivers in the garden studios will be paid. A tidy country garden vision of aging in place.

Enter O, the acquaintance from one of my cherished groups on this island. She asked if I might have a studio free. Conditions had changed for her last rental, a comfortable cottage, and she had to leave. It sounded legit, and of course, one of my persistent identities is as a passionate advocate for providing housing for those members of our community who can’t find or afford rentals. It was a perfect yes for me. Community member. Pushed out of her home. An artist. And my guest room was empty, and I’d taken in young artists and adventurers before who’d helped with the garden and made me laugh.

For the ground floor studios, I have a process of background checks and references, but in this case, for a bit of time, in my guest room, I forgot to be prudent.

Red flags waved but I ignored them.

Why? I was going too fast in too many directions so didn’t heed the warnings. I needed help getting the garden prepared for spring, so maybe she can help. Plus, I was walking my talk about home sharing as a solution to affordable rentals. Part of me has been proving a point with my studios - that our NORC, naturally occurring retirement community, could scooch over a bit and make space for workers to live here. Whenever i get on a high horse, I’m in for a fall - but righteousness is sneaky. It comes in looking like humility or kindness.

She said all the right yeses when we sat down to discuss her moving in. When? Well, it seems she’d been squeezed out of her old place and had to live in motels… My goodness, no, come, move in now.

I know, I know. You are wagging your head, maybe smirking a bit at my naivete. We’ll set aside discussion of my lapses in prudence for now as this is a story of O, of a free range, borderline personality, homeless woman with charm, cunning, a veneer of sincerity and a well worn strategy for getting into people’s homes and not leaving.

I should mention that she sent me what seemed to be a channeled document signed:

O
The Higher Self
Daughter of the Goddess

Heck, plenty of us listen for the voice of God within. She can’t mean THE higher self, but just her higher self. This didn’t seem to be a deal-breaker.

The gaslighting begins

Within a week I could see she would not keep her word. Worse, every time I pointed out something she promised to do or not do, she sweetly made it my fault. She had no phone so I needed to email as I didn’t want to knock on her door if I had something to say. That’s another value - giving people privacy, as well as the benefit of the doubt.

By now, I had big stuff going on in my life. One of my closest friends died suddenly. Recovery from an out patient surgery was not going well. My emails to O became more demanding of answers and actions, but always with kind words beginning and ending as all conscious people do. Her answers spoke of harmony and inviting me to align with my higher self, and see my issues and the issue etc. She never said, “Oh! Sorry. I’ll get on that.”

By the end week two, I caught myself speechifying in my mind. I recognized I was in a power struggle with her, and there was no winning because I now saw she was not a fair fighter.

Thus began my “you have to leave” emails. These were steady and firm, and I was no longer swayed by, “But you said… but we agreed on harmony… but…” She wheedled. She promised whatever i needed to hear to get me to back off, but I saw what was happening.

The day she was supposed to leave I saw her toothbrush in the guest bathroom. I knocked on her door. WTF, you are still here.

She opened a bit, her doe eyes looking at me, her sweet voice… don’t you remember… you said… you agreed… we agreed to be loving and harmonious… Peeking behind her into the room, there was no evidence of leaving

“You don’t mean a f*cking word you’re saying.” I stared right into her eyes, which hardened.

“No,” she said, straight as can be. Silence between us.

A flash of truth… and then the Higher Self sing song was back and she was resisting.

That moment of direct honesty cut through her web of lies and liberated me.

The woman is getting out… and I am not Lady Bountiful, full of largess. I am not an aging hippie valiantly living the earlier ethic of “Y’all come and bring your dog.” I am not the social reformer, bucking the system of private property and trying to turn the world into a cohousing community. And I am not immune to bad outcomes. Perhaps very bad outcomes.

I got a whiff of elder abuse, and was wide awake.

“When will you be out.”

“Monday.”

“What time”

“10”

“Your stuff out Sunday night, you out by Monday at 10.” and I let her close the door.

Sunday at sunset, backed up by a friend who doesn’t tolerate BS, I knock on her door. Nothing. And locked. I find the key, open it and there she sits in the dark on the edge of the bed. We had quite a verbal tussle about her leaving. She came to the door and leaned on it against me, claiming her right to be there.

I let it shut. My friend suggested I cut the electricity to her room, which affected mine but I did.

Then I turned on all the lights in the rest of the house and sat up in the living room into the wee hours, vigilant. I would not blink. Nor budge. I felt like I needed this vigil to exert psychic pressure on her. Maybe I didn’t, but I felt like the night watchman when there were intruders prowling.

With back up from friends, I knock on her door at 9 in the morning on Monday. Nothing. I unlock it. The room is a mess. She is lying in bed, eyes closed. I see her lids flutter.

“It’s 9. Out in an hour.”

I repeat, “It’s 9, out in an hour.”

“B and I are coming in and going to start carrying your things out to the front stoop.”

Repeat. Repeat.

Suddenly, she flails her arms and legs wildly, keeping her eyes closed.

“B and I are coming in to carry your things out.”

Wild flailing.

This repeats several times.

By now I almost admire her rank determination to win by any means.

“You aren’t crazy. We’re coming in to start carrying your stuff to the stoop”

With each flail and each repeat, I see her cunning more clearly. She is not crazy. Not really. She is creatively pulling power moves from her last bastion: the bed.

We carry a few things out and then close the door, as if ending round 2 or is it 10, including all the face offs up to then.

I call a social worker friend. She asks for details and then suggests O’s having some kind of mental episode and I should call 911. Magnanimous Vicki balks for a second - you don’t call 911 on a guest - but I do. I’m asked about behavior. I’m asked about weapons. I’m asked her name and date of birth. I say her name and there she is, out, upright, sober, staring at me.

“O, what’s your birthday?” I ask, telling “911, what’s your emergency” that she is now facing me.

911 says, “Don’t engage. We’re sending an officer.”

B and I wait. Finally, an officer comes. He’s sitting in his car so B and I go out the door and down the stairs to greet him. He asks the kind of questions that tell me I’m suspect. I wake up further to the fact that I’ve gotten myself into a loop that could end with O convincing the officer that I’m abusing her. Holy sh*t! But I pass the sanity and presumed innocent muster and he offers to go up, talk to her and offer to help her get her things out. Clearly he wants to keep this calm, keep this moving and not trigger anyone.

Then J, my social worker friend, calls to say she could come over if needed. B needs to join a work call so J comes.

She has been looking up services for homeless and mentally ill. We discuss a Monday free lunch program in the church down the hill as a way for O to find services. I call around, verify there will be people there able to help. How helpful we are!

But O sniffs ensnarement, comes out of the guest room and announces that she now has a place to take her stuff, would J drive her there. Wisely, J agrees, as this is directional, as in out.

B is back. We agree that we are now free to put the rest of O’s things out on the lawn, tarped, for her to pick up. Except for bags of garbage and tubs of dirty dishes, her things are out. I lock the room.

J returns. It seems O directed her to a 20 acre property in the woods that used to be a music camp with lots of out building and a yurt that’s apparently the free range homeless squat.

Big breath out.

The saga continues, but I’ll draw a line here to share some of the truly frightening facts that emerged.

We learned of at least two others who’d been taken in. One is actually an acquaintance, showing up to many of the classes and events I attend. Clearly there is no system for tracking people like O to warn others to be on the lookout - so even in a small community, the O’s of the world can keep the game going and never be publicly revealed.

We learned that our services for homeless are very very thin. The safety net is largely run by beautiful people who learn of the issues and create programs - free lunches at churches, a 30 bed shelter that took years to make it through the nimby gauntlet, an 11 tiny homes village that had 200 applicants before they even opened.

We also learned that tenants have protected rights here, which, if they choose to exercise them, would allow them to stay in a home while the case moves through the courts. My understanding here is hazy, but I’ve now heard many horror stories through our local NextDoor of people of being stuck with such tenants in the home who refuse to leave.

While I consider whether and how I want to be involved in solving this issue at a community level, I see how an aging-in-place system, set up by one of the many “Vicki’s” who’ve managed my life, might not work for the one in the future who needs help, hires someone who moves in, turns into any shade of mean/ irresponsible/ manipulative, and refuses to leave.

That’s the whiff I got of elder abuse.

I would have said it can’t happen here. Look, I’ve had many adventures that could have killed me. That survivor version of Vicki has her full wits, strength, and enough resources to buy my way out of trouble if need be. But will the next Vicki, whose biology might affect psychology, have those in her?

The trauma of this experience is receding and lessons are starting to present themselves to be adopted or rejected or put in a “consider later” file. I hesitate to set any lesson in stone yet. I could tell myself, “keep risking in the direction of your values, girl, and if you die in the process it’s a death well earned, and if you don’t, a story to tell around a campfire.” I could tell myself to give up on the whole cockamamie idea of growing food and trading for care and get thee to a senior living facility, go!

Or anywhere along this spectrum.

But for now, I go back to digging dahlia bulbs with my close friend. I now accept that new desires and needs may arise authentically from my body as it ages. I may want different things. And that’s fine. It doesn’t negate the adventuresome self to have a new quiet self emerge who isn’t inclined to fling open her doors because who knows what adventure lies on the other side.

I can tell I’m still traumatized. I’m giving my self time, space, rest, good food and absolution from solving this problem for everyone everywhere.

Coming of aging… more more step.