Monday, October 12, 2015

My Walk Through the Valley of Baka, Part II: Living With the Enemy

The following is the first part of a slightly edited report which I submitted to the authorities at the temporary housing facility. It is a documentation of the ongoing and very strange behavior of my first roommate, Elena Compton (not her real name). It may seem a bit dry, but I hope to give readers yet another idea of the spiritual warfare that went on at my former residence. And I did not document everything she did—for instance, I left out descriptions of the obvious markers of the occult which she left in the room.

 I’m certain that this woman was a plant from the Dark Powers and Principalities. Bright side: 1) if the Enemy felt the need to plant such a person so close to me, I must be one of God’s. 2) This document resulted in me getting what I wanted: a room change. My subsequent roommates were good ladies.

Nonetheless, I’m glad to be away from that place.

Oh yes and Language Alert!

At around 4AM on April 27, 2015, I was awakened from a sound sleep by a yelling, female voice. It was my roommate, Elena Compton:

“Stop knocking on the walls! Stop knocking!” Then she said: “God, why did you put me in a room with a crazy woman?” I was nonplussed, though this accusation and this type of behavior from her was not unprecedented.

“I was not knocking on the walls and I never have. I was asleep.”

“You’re lying!” she said. “You knock on the walls and your devices make noise and you slap your feet on the floor when you get out of bed!”

“None of that is true,” I said.

She had previously mentioned the alleged noises my devices were making. Since then,  I have put both of them on Airplane Mode after 10PM, then turned one off and plugged my headset in the other, which makes sound impossible. I have been diligent about this for a month and a half. And the only reason I know what she’s talking about when she referred to “slapping feet on the floor” is that I witnessed her do this: sitting up on the bed, raising her feet up high and slapping them on the floor. Not only have I never done something so ridiculous, I am too tall to do this without injuring my lower limbs. She is several inches shorter than I am and can do this pretty easily.

There was more.

“And stop point your hands toward my bed! I’ve seen the electricity bolts come out of your hands!” She said.

“You’re going to break your LCD screen you know, if you keep slapping it. You don’t think I see you when you do it.” She said. I have no idea what she was talking about.

“God is going to punish you!” She said.

“Elena, you’re losing it. Big time,” I said.

Then she said no more.

On April 29, I came in the room at about 8AM and she was cleaning the bathroom, something that she does compulsively every time she uses it. When she exited and I began to walk into the bathroom to move my bowels, she began screaming at me.

“I just cleaned the bathroom and you never do it! [False.] You’re not doing your part! You don’t clean off your shoes when you come into the room and you won’t buy a roller to take the lint and infestation off of your clothes when you come in the room!” Compulsively, she does all of these things several times a day. I tend to leave my shoes outside and wear a different pair of shoes in the room, but, sometimes I’ll take my shoes off when I sit down on my bed.

“Elena, you have a lot of anxiety. I’m going to pray that you be healed in the name of Jesus.”

“Jesus!” She scoffed, mimicking me. “Pray for yourself!”

“I do that, too, every day. But I’m going to continue to pray for you—in Jesus’ name--you can’t stop me.”

“God is going to pay you back! “YOU GET ON MY NERVES!!!”

“You don’t get on my nerves.”

“You’re going to Hell!”

“No, I’m not.”

She went into the bathroom and, as she began to close the bathroom, I thought it was over and began to leave the room. When she saw where I was heading, she began to scream.

“GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!!!!” At that, I turned from the door, went back and sat on my bed, looked at her and smiled. She slammed the bathroom door, and it was over for that day.


On the morning of May 1, 2015, at about 4AM, she began to hurl accusations yet again. She started the conversation calmly with this: “You’ve been at it again, haven’t you?” This time, it was that she “cleaned the room while I was asleep” and that I had “done nothing to get the room ready for an inspection” which was occurring later that morning. [False. I had swept and mopped the floor the previous day—something I do every day. I am considerate enough to do it while she is gone.]
“I can see why your family rejected you,” she said, continuing. Then, she alleged that I was going to “pay for what I did to my aunt.” These falsehoods and non sequiturs are a result of her twisting things that I had told her about myself and her coming to erroneous conclusions regarding my stay at the facility.

This time, I didn’t respond to her at all, but began to pray for her audibly—that she would accept Jesus the Christ and be healed. “Pray, pray, pray,” she said. “God is going to pay you back for what you’re doing.

“I wonder what [our case manager] would say if he knew how crazy you are?” she said. (She doesn’t know that I have already spoken to the case manager and told him that she is showing signs of severe stress.) Still no response from me.

More fantasy: this time, she imagined that I’m stealing things from her.

“I know you took my red, plastic knife, you thief!” I still did not answer her, but kept praying to God.
“They say he who laughs last, laughs best. And I will have the last laugh!” I still kept praying. I assume that she realized that her latest salvo was pointless, and she stopped for the day.


On May 2, 2015 at about 8:30AM, I went into the room to use the bathroom. I asked her if the bathroom was available. Her response: “Fuck off. Don’t address me.”

“I will do what I feel like doing, sweetheart,” I said. “And what are you going to do? Nothing.”

Then, I laughed and said, “I guess that means ‘yes,’” meaning that the bathroom was available. I went in and closed the door. She was still talking but only the word “bitch” was distinctive.

I came back out and, after a few more insults on her part, she claimed that I am picking the lock on her foot-locker and stealing her belongings. (Without her explicit permission, I don’t touch anything that belongs to her.) I told her that the demon spirits she listens to are lying to her about this.

Then, I said that the noises she hears at night are probably the Holy Spirit called her to Christ, and if she says ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ they will probably stop.

“I can’t believe that anyone in the 21st century believes in that peasant superstition.”

“I guess that means ‘no.’”

There was a bit more back and forth and more insults—including the word “cunt” on her part. Then, she commanded me to stop my male friends from knocking on the door. (Clarification Note: It turns out that one of my friends came looking for me at roughly 10:10PM—Friday night’s curfew and quiet time starts at 11:00PM. I was asleep. According to facility rules, we are not allowed to knock on doors other than that of our own living space, so persons must stand away from the door and shout our names and that’s what my friend consistently does.)

I looked at her and told her that she has no right to tell me anything about who may or may not come looking for me. She threatened to notify the authorities—not a first-time threat for her.

My response: “Do it now. Right now.”

Her: “It’s Saturday.”

Me: “Tell Security. They are here.” Then, I exited the room.

When I am present, she stomps around the room and slams her own belongings around. She seems extremely agitated. She picks fights and spews insults with anyone who doesn’t toe her mark. As I was typing this, she picked a fight with someone outside the door who took issue with her blocking the walkway outside. During the confrontation, she told him that it was “her” room. I guess that means she thinks that the walkway outside belongs to her as well.

I recall one of her first early morning monologues. It was in the first week. She threatened to push me out of the room or poison me. This monologue caused me to get up, get dressed and exit the room.


On the afternoon of May 2—after an incident earlier that day--I’m alone in the room and she comes in. There was no conversation between us. She brought in groceries and put them in the room’s refrigerator. Then, I noticed that she was putting some items on the outside of the refrigerator door. They are refrigerator stickers and one of them says: “I’m sorry I called you a bitch. You stupid bitch.”

In an earlier meeting with case workers, she admitted to calling me a bitch before, and we both were directed to not sling such epithets at each other. She has violated that direction three times just today. (She has called me a cunt today also.)


On the morning of May 5, at 6AM, I got up, put some clothes on, and went out to get water for my coffee. This time, instead of retiring to the outside smoking area with my coffee, I returned to the room just to see if she would react. I was not disappointed.

I hadn’t been sitting on my bed for 30 seconds, when she turned over and said, “You’re disturbing me.”

This time I wasn’t in the mood to give her Christian kindness.

“You were disturbed before you got here.”

“Quiet time is from 10 to 8. [False. 10 to 6.] You’re making noise.”

“And I suppose that being on the phone all night doesn’t qualify.” She had been on the cell phone for two hours the previous evening, with part of it past curfew/quiet hours.

“You keep your devices on at night, you keep knocking on the walls, and you have electricity coming from your hands and you point them at me!!!”

“Elena, none of that it true. You’re a paranoid schizophrenic. You need to have your doctor give you meds or up the dosage of meds you’re already taking.”

“You’re the one who needs to be on meds.”

“I’m not the one imagining things.”

“I guess that none of this is your fault.”

“Elena, I’m not the one starting fights with people. You start fights with me, you’ve started them three times with the man on the second floor [for the first fight, the man had accidentally dropped his sunglasses down to the first floor. Compton says the glasses hit the ground and, instead of retrieving them for the man, she kicked them into the flower bed] and you’ve had two fights with two other women in our doorway. I haven’t done that. So which one of us has the problem?”

She didn’t answer; she turned back over and covered her head.

(To be continued...)

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