Pixie Dust and Cowards


A friend of mine once said of me “Anne won’t stab you in the back.  She’ll stab you in the chest and you’ll see it coming.”  I thought of this the day I went to see Frank Kobliski, executive director of Centro bus company.  I handed him my complaint to the Federal Transit Administration’s Office of Civil Rights that was going to get him federally investigated.  He asked if he could make a copy of it.  I said, “No need—I brought this copy for you.”  I promise you, I will look you in the eye and tell you what hurt I’m bringing on you.

The manager of my apartment building has expressed profuse appreciation that when I find something really wrong with the way the building is being managed, I go tell her.  She says she usually doesn’t find out there’s a problem until a tenant has brought some outside agency in to hassle her.  I don’t understand that.  I don’t understand why you wouldn’t go face-to-face with a person if you’ve got a problem with him, her or it.  (I had been going face-to-face with Frank Kobliski for a year or two before I gave up and filed a federal complaint.) 

Of course, there are physicians.  If your friendly local physician gets pissed off at you and decides to kick you out of his practice then he sends you a certified letter saying that you’ve got to get a new physician.  He will handle emergency care for one month, then you’re through.  And s/he doesn’t have to give a reason.  Honest to God, in this world of grownups, your physician can terminate your treatment without telling you why.  I mean, are we seriously mature here, or what?

Anyway, the reason I bring all this up is that somebody is out to get me, and I don’t know who or why—but I can make a good guess.

On April 17 I was admitted to St. Joseph’s Hospital’s inpatient psychiatric unit with Dr. Roger Levine attending.  Levine is also the director of the unit, and was the director of CPEP (Community Psychiatric Emergency Program).  I’ve known Levine forty years and I think he’s a bad psychiatrist and a nasty human being.  While I was inpatient, I filed a grievance against him with the hospital’s medical director.  When I was being discharged, Levine asked me if I was going to hurt myself.  I replied, “No.  I’m going to hurt you—I’m going to file a complaint against your license.”

After I was discharged, I did file a complaint against Levine’s license with the NYS Office of Professional Medical Conduct and posted it on my blogs at http://behindthelockeddoors.wordpress.com/2013/04/30/roger-levine-m-d-part-i/ and https://annecwoodlen.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/complaint-against-roger-levine-m-d/ .  A few days later I got three big envelopes of advertising in the mail—two were from window blind companies, the third was a tourism thing.  The freaky thing was that they all had my address, and my name and Levine’s on them—“Anne Woodlen-Levine,” “Anne Levine,” etc.  I had a deep, negative visceral reaction to seeing our names linked.  I showed them to a friend and then threw them out, not wanting such a toxic reminder in my home.

A few days later, I got another big envelope, also from some tourism agency, also addressed to Woodlen/Levine.  I showed it to another friend and then threw it out.

Yesterday’s big envelope is from Kansas tourism and is addressed to “Anne F U Woodlen-Ashole.”

Harassment by tourism?  That’s weird.  Using the U.S. Postal Service to cuss me out?  That’s freaky.

I despise cowards.  People who hide in dark corners and take potshots at other people.  I get that from time to time on this blog—people writing anonymously or under assumed names to tell me what a terrible person I am, and how nobody believes me, and what their lawyers are going to do to me.

It hurts.  They score their points, even though I know that I’m living a pretty clean, righteous life, and anybody with any sense believes me, and no lawyer in her or his right mind would take a case against me.  In the first place, I am independently poor so nobody is going to win any money off me, and lawyers only and always sue for money (or property—my most valuable property being a five-year-old $8500 wheelchair).  In the second place, these dorkheads don’t know the difference between slander and libel:

“. . . Two torts that involve the communication of false information about a person, a group, or an entity such as a corporation. Libel is any Defamation that can be seen, such as a writing, printing, effigy, movie, or statue. Slander is any defamation that is spoken and heard.”

If I’m committing anything on this blog then it is libel, not slander, however the ultimate defense against libel is telling the truth.  I am exceedingly careful not to pass out false information.  A court recently ruled that it’s not libel if a normal person of average intelligence knows it’s not true, for example, it’s not libel if I say that Roger Levine dances in ballet shoes with pixie dust on his shoulders (pixie dust enables humans to fly)  because any sensible person would know that I don’t mean that as a concrete, proven truth.  I have never seen Roger Levine fly.

So some coward is out there, hunkered down over his computer keyboard, putting me on mailing lists and filing nasty words on the address label.  I reckon that the U.S. Postal Service isn’t going to take kindly to that.

But what is really scary is that there is someone so twisted and warped that they’d spend their time doing this.  Can you imagine?  I mean, seriously, can you imagine the sick-o who’s doing this?

Now let’s get back to the critical business of filing complaints against Roger Levine and St. Joseph’s Hospital for their failure to provide treatment that meets the standards set by the NYS Office of Mental Health and the NYS Department of Health.  I’ve got serious problems to take care of here.  I will leave the pixie dust to Levine.

About annecwoodlen

I am a tenth generation American, descended from a family that has been working a farm that was deeded to us by William Penn. The country has changed around us but we have held true. I stand in my grandmother’s kitchen, look down the valley to her brother’s farm and see my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Hannah standing on the porch. She is holding the baby, surrounded by four other children, and saying goodbye to her husband and oldest son who are going off to fight in the Revolutionary War. The war is twenty miles away and her husband will die fighting. We are not the Daughters of the American Revolution; we were its mothers. My father, Milton C. Woodlen, got his doctorate from Temple University in the 1940’s when—in his words—“a doctorate still meant something.” He became an education professor at West Chester State Teachers College, where my mother, Elizabeth Hope Copeland, had graduated. My mother raised four girls and one boy, of which I am the middle child. My parents are deceased and my siblings are estranged. My fiancé, Robert H. Dobrow, was a fighter pilot in the Marine Corps. In 1974, his plane crashed, his parachute did not open, and we buried him in a cemetery on Long Island. I could say a great deal about him, or nothing; there is no middle ground. I have loved other men; Bob was my soul mate. The single greatest determinate of who I am and what my life has been is that I inherited my father’s gene for bipolar disorder, type II. Associated with all bipolar disorders is executive dysfunction, a learning disability that interferes with the ability to sort and organize. Despite an I.Q. of 139, I failed twelve subjects and got expelled from high school and prep school. I attended Syracuse University and Onondaga Community College and got an associate’s degree after twenty-five years. I am nothing if not tenacious. Gifted with intelligence, constrained by disability, and compromised by depression, my employment was limited to entry level jobs. Being female in the 1960’s meant that I did office work—billing at the university library, calling out telegrams at Western Union, and filing papers at a law firm. During one decade, I worked at about a hundred different places as a temporary secretary. I worked for hospitals, banks, manufacturers and others, including the county government. I quit the District Attorney’s Office to manage a gas station; it was more honest work. After Bob’s death, I started taking antidepressants. Following doctor’s orders, I took them every day for twenty-six years. During that time, I attempted%2
This entry was posted in activism, advocacy, Government Services, Inpatient psychiatry, physician, Poverty, Values and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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