Sober Living Woes
ARC
AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com
SOBER LIVING AND CITY HARRASSMENT
ARC © 11/28/14
6972 words
The Los Angeles Times article - The State - AA4 Tuesday November 25, 2014 - Sober-Living homes sue O.C. city by Jeremiah Dobruck
jeremiah.dobruck2@latimes.com Twitter: @jeremiahdobruck
compels ARC to care/share.
I am now a disabled septuagenarian recovering from 42 stab wounds incurred December 2005 while opening up a new refuge with a specific focus for homeless veterans. After over fifteen years of helping the down and trodden, evil reared its ugly head. But God has graced me with a miracle renewed renaissance life and a Higher Plan.
In 2000 I had to sell my six bedroom/three bath home of 30 years in Southern California because of city harassment over the sober living home I had been volunteering and facilitating for ten years.
It was in 1968 that I informally started a nonprofit responding to: ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. I wanted to love God/neighbor and emulate a black postal couple that I had read about from Alabama who would covertly and anonymously help others. So ARC was conceived, Association Renaissance Creators, a giant name to match a big heart, that had one person, me (adopted professional name): no salary, no volunteers. There was no intention of seeking government money…instead self-labor efforts and Samaritan tax-deductible donations.
For two decades I ran an around-the-clock Schoolhouse board/care that was licensed by the City for twelve. It was popular…lots of local children. Behind the scenes ARC operated with micro covert help to others but also included educational seminars wherein I had my first run-in with the City. Although I hosted Scouts, PTA, and other similar functions in my large home, when I did the seminars, there was a hue and cry. I was told to file an application for events; it was denied. I appealed: neighbors came to validate there was never any disturbance and/or problems with parking. No empathy. Unbeknownst to me a reporter was there that night. The next day she visited me, curious to know more. A convicting article was published that vindicated me; but I ceased events. I got another call from a woman who wanted to meet me; we became friends and our lives became further entwined in a spiritual way several years later that is pertinent to what I am sharing in reference to sober living.
In the meantime I intermittently began attending some council meetings. It was quite revealing to witness the political dance in action of undermining citizens and their rights. All you had to do was send `code enforcement’ around who managed to always find `something wrong’.
My 30s/40s were overflowing with raising two, running a business, pursuing higher education. After ten years of part time at local colleges, A.A., then University of California, Irvine - Human Services Counseling.
Initially paperwork for a nonprofit was worse than taxes; but finally plodded through it and ARC became officially recognized as a 501 © (3).
The new friend called me up one day saying she needed a change from the real estate business she was in. Soon after I had a dream that she bought a home - there was a rainbow over it - which was ARC’s symbol. Soon after a group home for the disabled was listed for sale. It was called The Rainbow Home. She bought it; assumed an adjunct career. Sometime later she met someone who was in recovery and introduced to her the concept of sober living. At some point the home converted over to that somewhere in the late 1980s when I simultaneously became aware of the acute homeless problem primarily nearby. News articles carried pictures of them in cardboard boxes. I became poignantly affected empathetically visualizing what if that was my crippled mother and/or retarded sister. Mass and Communion is daily for me; many consider this religious, but I think an ultra liberal spiritual renaissance creator is more revealing.
I literally hit my knees praying for guidance. The very next day I read about a group congregating at a local church making sandwiches and assembling aid kits to distribute to them. I checked it out and volunteered. Soon after I asked the founder if I could ride along and see for myself…it was horrible! I asked him what else could be done. He said they needed information on who, what, where, when, how was helping them. Right up my alley! I got on the phones, called one church, agency after another: put together a one page resource sheet and brought it back. (An educator later took this info, expanded it greatly: became published resource book for any/all involved with helping). Eureka, he said…this now was distributed. But when I lamented that this didn‘t solve the problem he said, what was really needed were Samaritan Rooms. I asked: What’s that? He said. Parents with empty nests would be the best candidate. If one house in every neighborhood opened up their doors and housed three to six homeless acting as surrogate parents, the homeless problem would be eliminated. Epiphany: that was ME!
And then, like a comet suddenly appearing, my friend calls me and tells me that there is a free educational seminar in next county sponsored by the State of California explaining how nonprofits could receive no interest loan grants to help the homeless who needed recovery. She was going to learn more for her home that was being run by her friend.
We went and in a surreal environment, I felt as if the heavens were guiding me right at this exact time to this exact place; truly phenomenal.
The gist of it was that nonprofits could receive no interest loans and subsidy for helping juxtaposed with if several homeless opened joint checking account, they too would receive rent subsidy. They made it sound so easy!
It just wasn’t about the homeless; it was also about me being extremely run down with deteriorating eyesight. I had always been subject to chronic bronchitis; had severe sinus and allergy problems. Incontinence was juxtaposed with Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. As I approached my 50th, I was experiencing additional severe physical ailments.
I went and applied for SSI - denied. Years later learned that this is `normal’ policy…success goes to those who persist, and/or hire an attorney who specializes. Their fee is usually contingent on awarding and is retroactive to when client applied. I knew that I did not have the stamina to return to the business world or old standby of being a waitress. Once to make ends meet I had juggled Schoolhouse, school, and part-time nights working for popular chain restaurant, but it almost did me in.
I was finding it more and more difficult to lift, carry babies and fell once. I considered myself blessed that in twenty years, there were only three mishaps. Once a child got out the front door unnoticed - thank God a neighbor was on the alert. The irony here was regulations stipulation: no lock doors! I now had to transcend, so had my handyman brother come in to put a bolt lock on top for me. He had a lamp on the floor and while holding a baby, I walked by tripping over the cord. In my failing eyesight, didn‘t see it. Another time, a child got hit by a swing; minor bruise. But the most serious of all was in the large play remodeled add-on addition that had swing open toy chests. I was the one who opened/closed the chests. Alas, child went to help while another child putting toy away. Lid went down hard, catching tip of finger - bleeding. I called 911/parents. All came, finger o.k., parents took home; child back the next day.
I had increased licensing capacity to twelve with approved state and city inspections. This was a fait accompli to juggle for I loved helping parents who needed me part-time. This is another area of bureaucratic harassment that should be mentioned now. The rules stipulate that if there are over six children, an assistant needs to be on board: teenager is o.k. So, for the most part, my two teenage children backed me up. If not available, the mother of one of my charges who lived down the street came to my aid. Social Services were to be notified of all children enrolled; so this was done. I had a combination of all day and part-time students. So, for example, I might have a seven year old arrive at 6 a.m. only to walk to school with my two at 7:30 a.m. and not due back until 2:30 that afternoon. So, at 7:30, I might have another child come whose parent went to an 8 a.m. class at the nearby local college. Then, I might have parents who needed me one weekend a month to take a holiday excursion. This was extremely popular. So, instead of twelve listings, I believe once had as many as 25.
There is more to elaborate right now before going further. I grew up on welfare. My mother was crippled from polio as a young child, ended up with severe crippled feet. To walk from room to room was a hardship. I was her arm to cling to as she did this. I was her `go for’ child. Story of family history is quite interesting and dramatic: another place/another time. Our heritage was Sicilian with Catholic beliefs. There was no birth control. Daddy worked nights as a cab driver, moonlighted whenever possible at funerals and so on but feeding a brood of six was difficult to say the least. Occasionally Mom had to report to social services to explain `ourselves’. Taking two buses was no simple feat: it was arduous. I got used to the stares, but NEVER got used to the condescending superior obnoxious tone used by workers. Although I never knew those words then to describe patronizing rude insulting behavior, at a young tender age of seven I knew `divine wrath’!
The first social worker assigned to my Schoolhouse helped me to rise from negative image associated with my past. We not only had professional relationship, but became friends. But years later, she was transferred and once again experienced a social worker with `negativity’. Worse, even with my more sophisticated educational awareness and psychological training, I couldn’t get a `read’ on what the problem was. About three months later, learned the basis. She showed up one day unannounced and swooped through the home actually looking in closets and under beds. The gist of it was she didn’t believe that I was able to juggle full and part-time enrollees that did not go over the allotted number. I learned that she had a stake-out on the home, had contacted neighbors to please watch and report on me. It was quite a magnificent feat on my part not to go to the dark side; took awhile with ceaseless prayer but miracle of `better relations’ finally happened.
The seminar was mid August. Summer enrollment had been at old time low; knew that I had to hustle enrollment for fall and/or shift gears. Seminar was heaven sent. I notified parents that I was going to transform nonprofit focus to helping the homeless: goal was to be in operation two of my favorite Holy Days: November 1st and 2nd - All Saints/All Souls Days. And then I did what I did best…went to the yellow pages to find every listing I could on Homeless and Recovery. On a scale from 0 to 10 my knowledge of recovery was zero…to my chagrin it wasn’t until months later that I learned who Bill W. was - the founder of A.A. I truly was a naïve bumpkin…learned the following year that peers in the community had an ongoing bet that I wouldn’t last a year. They almost won.
Of course I immediately notified the state of intention and what was required to set up loan process…for without that assurance, I had no way to pay two mortgages, overhead expenses. Trusting the state, I proceeded. The goal was to offer complimentary free week - board/food - and then guest rate would be $20.00 a day and/or $100.00 Friday through Thursday week. I notified all city officials: council/law enforcement of intent. I never hear a nay. I decided I would not call attention to myself. I knew the home was up to all codes for the children board/care had passed the highest inspections. The neighborhood was used to cars pulling up and dropping children off…I had always kept a strict professional respect for my lovely neighborhood; saw no advance problems, but intuition said stay low. If I hadn’t followed that inner voice, there is no doubt I would not have succeeded for the next ten years, which is exactly what happened.
My very first call came from a detox that offered free week to those with an alcohol problem. They were firm to say Alcohol, not Drugs: very important detail that I didn’t learn about until much later. He was a slim black man, very soft spoken and gentle. Two white young women followed; then a white middle aged man. I still hadn’t heard back from the state; I had no choice but to start using credit cards.
I’m not going to go into too much detail except to say, within three months I had to go to my friend in the real estate business who also worked as a free lance loan agent. She managed to get me a third mortgage - the second had been used to extend the large addition. The 3rd was an adjustable rate - high interest: I had no choice.
I then had families…I thought at least if I used the Schoolhouse and enrolled the children, I would be able to take advantage of the sponsored food program. Suddenly, I am being stonewalled with Social Services; am very confused. The gist of it was that even though I was not bringing in other children from the community they wanted `all adults’ in the home to be fingerprinted and TB tested…none of which, of course was free. It actually got acrimonious…I was getting desperate…they threatened to shut down my license. I remembered appealing by letter, but if there ever was a notice for anything else, I don’t remember now. As an aside, alas I did find not too long ago that there was a negative in my files. My not fighting them resulted in negative report and dismissal! By default, reputation fell!
So there I was: no money - broke…and I am not telling them to leave after a week for I by then learned that jobs were almost impossible for them.
By the grace of God I learned about General Relief and a food bank. Most importunately, my guests tell me that `we needed to implement program’ in the home…and therein lies my `in vivo’ hands on into the world of recovery where no sex, class, age, is immune addiction disease.
General Relief allocated about $100.00 a month in food stamps and $300 in money. So now I had monies coming in; they pooled food stamps and we started a shared meal plan wherein food was cooked each day. Living off charges was still the norm…I wasn’t making it; going into the 3rd year three things were happening…I was about to get foreclosure notice, I was getting it, and `program’ was working at the home.
The bottom line on the state was: since I too lived in the nonprofit home, no monies would be forthcoming. The concept of group checking account was laughable…you needed money to set up: they had no money. Technically they had no address as they were a guest. I learned that the post office had a system that allowed homeless to receive mail, but when I tried to investigate, was stonewalled. This was the `day before computers and Google’. I was limited in abilities to do research. It’s called: General Delivery, but I didn’t know about it then. So they were allowed to use my address which created all kinds of problems later.
By the end of the first year, no choice: had to file Chapter 7 bankruptcy…gold credit name ruined.
By the third year, I knew home was good; the neighborhood still didn’t know that home had transformed from `little ones’ to BIG ONES. But I saw no alternative. I had to reach out or I was going down. So first, I reached out to family. I got encouragement and loving support and some economic aid. Then, although nonprofit had started with the intent never to ask for government money, I thought it might be o.k. to ask some foundations. I sent out multi letters; one responded with a $1,000 donation. Expenses per month were over $3,000.00. Finally, I went to the newspapers. A reporter came out and showcased the home: it was a lovely article. Five who responded are in my daily prayers…every day for over twenty years now: David Johnson, Red, Mike, man from Hawaii, and a Doctor who ran a local recovery home. Mr. Johnson called, asked how much did I need for one month. I said: $3,000.00. I received a check within a few days. Red dropped by with $50.00. Mike stopped by thrusting $400.00 in my hands…saying he was studying to be a firefighter. An envelope from Hawaii came with a simple note, money enclosed. So, I had another month.
And then the notice came.
Right before transferring the home, my ill mother had celebrated her 80th. It was a gala event with my six siblings. Dad had passed some time before. The irony of our family was that the retarded sister who we had been told at birth would never walk or talk was the raison d’être for my mother. Her story coupled with my mother’s is very dramatic. I’m writing about it and hope to publish it soon. They were a phenomenal pair of support and love. We were also told that their lifespan wasn’t that long and if my mother went, she would soon follow.
Well when my mother heard about the foreclosure notice, she was as sick as I was. There was no stash in a hidden sock to cover this emergency. There was constant prayer! Bottom line I prayed, Your Will; Your Way.
Mom passed away; within the month my retarded sister followed; siblings and I received $20K each from sold home; it was immediately loaned to the nonprofit: home saved. There is no doubt in my mind that my mother prayed: call me and my daughter. HE answered.
So now without the dramatics, I carried on and lo and behold, I continued to make every mistake in the book. And it is with great shame that I admit my ego an acronym for Edging God Out took precedent too many a time. But juxtaposed were also highlights of learning that truly began to stand out. I learned to work with parole/probation departments. I learned `program’ concepts. By being in the `trenches’ with those recovering truly enriched my experiences of `what it was all about’ and `walking the talk’.
Some principles were illuminating…my adults were no different from my little ones for so many years…mutual respect, structure, group companionship, loving home, fairness, HIGHER POWER dominance were success ingredients. The Serenity Prayer coupled with the motto focus of ONE DAY AT A TIME truly is the linchpin of transforming from negative to positive well-being for self, family, society.
The home ran on strict rules with a minimum three month guest contract. There is a principle of co-dependency where loved ones are taught about. Help is needed, help should be given, but it’s analogous to teaching a child to read…if you just read to them without teaching, there is no learning, applying nor independence. Usually the best maturing help came from sponsors, group home counselors, and educational forums. Parents were most helpful when they were not `taking them in’ but helping them to start a sober living environment with three or more. There truly was a group dynamic that supported each other dramatically exemplified in meetings.
They had to be busy…boredom easily reached out and sucked positive behaviors dry. So, Monday through Friday, guests had to be out the door: either looking for work, attending meetings, pursuing education, or resource learning at local library. Homework assignments were given: a library card was a must so was attending religious group of their choice weekly. There were reading and thinking assignments i.e. list ten role models and explain why you admire them. Outside and once a week inside meetings were mandatory. Getting a sponsor was a top priority. Many of them were on parole and/or probation. What an education that was for me! There were weekday and weekend curfews. Most were on General Relief; some on SSI.
The goal was complete three months, leave for a week, seek out another sober living environment and or re-apply. It was vital that they did not live alone. Addicts are bored; and worse than boredom is loneliness.
Once they had a year sobriety, ARC would loan group of three seed money and sponsor them to initiate a sober living home for them.
By the fifth year, the home was gaining in stature. Of course by now the neighborhood knew, but its monastic lifestyle gave no cause for alarms to be raised. I started offshoots with some of my strong guests in charge. I soon found out, this was not the way to go and had disastrous results. Strong sobriety did not translate to administrative skills. I became a roaming `parent’. Process was doing me in. What would be better was to write about it and teach others to do better what I had so arduously learned: in other words: pay it forward.
Were there relapses? Absolutely! Most happened once they left the home. In fact, reported deaths of some have me aching to this day. One relapsed and died there. Agony! For the most part though, they adhered to respect of home…leave first if you are going to break program; don’t tempt your brother. In the later years, the home gravitated only to men. I learned mixed populations don’t work well: separate for families, men, women best.
One of the worse mistakes made was in the early years. When I started to get my bearings, began asking recovering mentors more on `tough love’ which is a very strong concept in recovery. One of the harshest measures were if a contract was signed for three months a guest, and they relapsed forcing a break in the agreement, the account went to collections. I was advised about the `bottom’ that addicts had to go through before they could go `up’. So, this was done. I am ashamed to admit that it wasn’t until years later, that I truly understood how unfair this was. I also should have had better empathy for hadn’t I just almost lost all and hadn’t I too been subjected to `ruthless’ collection agencies calling and even going so far as to call my neighbors! There are no buts to this and/or excuses. I did it and regret it. When the dawn finally hit, I immediately contacted the agency and forwarded monies to `buy back’ accounts.
One of the best things done was intuition that the individual as a guest in my home was not analogous to a landlord/renter concept. Their monetary contribution was a donation to the nonprofit not rent to a commercial business. So, the contract was carefully worded as a day-to-day basis. It was vital to be able to immediately terminate and tell an individual to go for any infraction or reason! This was challenged one time when a guest called the authorities. They came, read the agreement and told the person to pack their belongings. This is where the backup address came in, for no belongings were to be held in storage and/all mail needed to be forwarded or returned to sender.
So what happened? Going into the tenth year, I am hearing through the grape vine other homes are having problems. The `City’ was on the prowl.
In the seminar sponsored by the State, we learned about Public Law 100-430 which sanctions those with disabilities who want to live together. Under this Fair Housing paradigm those with addictions were safe from state and city `code’ harassment. Highly touted was the Oxford House Model - a community based organization.
Right next door was another sober living home; one ARC originally sponsored. One of ARC’s self-laboring projects to support the home was a hauling and moving service. I was trying to put guests to work who had the most trouble finding employment. A senior woman called once and after learning about ARC asked if I would mentor her to open and run one. The house right next door became available. She bought it. The sponsorship lasted just until she got it up and running; and then ARC had no connection except for advisement. This was one of ARC’s covert outreach programs: email mentoring as able for one of the educational skills achieved was a Human Services Counseling Certificate.
Suddenly three code enforcement representatives are at the door. I welcomed them in - knew that my home was not only up to code but went above and beyond. Sure enough, they can’t find anything. But next door wasn’t as receptive - refused entry. The City issued a warrant. A newspaper reporter wrote an article; research was not done well enough - ARC was named. I notified the paper; but to the best of my knowledge there was never a correction.
Then I’m told to `report’ to them. I have an AGAPE relationship: we call each other `our Kimosabe’ - he saved my life (more on this later). He volunteered to go meet with the city. I knew the City remembered me from before; I was concerned that I might become passionately vocal with divine wrath. They told him they found infractions…freezer in the garage (most neighbors had one); and an extension cord overloaded. With the aplomb of a common sense sage, he looked at their office and pointed out: oh, you mean like that one there in your office? He left. I knew though that not only was this not the end of it, it was going to get worse. The word came through, others were being harassed…it was inevitable…I had witnessed them in action before…they’ll do whatever it took to `drive someone out’ - it didn’t matter. They had enhanced their image of late…la de da with a new cultural center and they were right next door to one of the wealthiest cities of all. I’m not sure about this, but I think there is a mutual support of money back/forth. What is most ironic of all is although this can be a very lucrative business, my home was not an economic burden to city, state, or federal sources; and I was not even receiving grant funding. Many addicts who live on the streets will at some point or another be rounded up for vagrancy or worse; spend time in jail. One of the ploys is to not let the homeless `loiter’ – thereby forcing them to move around and of course, finding public bathrooms is very difficult. So law enforcement watches; inevitably one will have to urinate…now arrested for `indecent exposure. When they group in parks, they are driven out. If someone takes pity on them and attempts to feed them, they too are harassed. Estimates vary with a conservative estimate of $450.00 to house someone in jail to higher than $1,000.00. General Relief for a week is paltry when you consider that you are helping a fellow human rehabilitate.
I must admit that as I was becoming more and more sensitive to `my sins’, I was exponentially increasing in awareness to those of humanity: particularly the `ones rich and powerful’. What shame for us as a nation that so devalues the poor and suffering. Is it any wonder that `we are called’ Ugly Americans. Oh yes, I certainly admire the ones who `walk the talk’ - role models who so emulate the best of us. I have favorites like: Mimi Silbert of Delancey Street, The Forbarths from S.O.S., Mary Jo Copeland from Caring/Sharing…others who seem to imitate the greats like Mother Teresa, Saint Vincent de Paul.
I muse how money always seem to be necessary to rehabilitate government buildings, yet city to city lacks homeless shelters - Oy vey!
I consulted a lawyer. After he heard me out, said…well, if you sue, you will win. You are doing nothing wrong BUT in the process, you might lose your home. I realized on could not risk losing thirty years of hard work equity, ARC and children legacy. To reduce attention, I ceased `sober living’ concepts thinking that might alleviate the situation, give me time. It didn’t. Pressure was mounting. A licensed home shut down. I knew I had to sell quickly. I was mentally, physically exhausted - stress, state of mind would soon sabotage my body. I sold. Relative worked feverishly on handling covert sale…was awed at how immaculate and well built it was with three full, one quarter bath; four large and two small bedrooms. You see they all had weekly chores; once they saved up time to paint the home. My Kimosabe had phenomenal handyman services: had maintained roof and other. He had built a storage shed in back yard. Soon after code enforcement at the home insinuating people were being housed there. An RV parked in the side behind closed gate was used occasionally. I was not aware that this was a violation; told it was. At this point, nothing was going to surprise me. House sold. If I remember correctly, city insisted on stipulation that future owners would not use the home in that capacity again. I think they heard that peers were very interested. It went to a large minority family…but the latest I heard it is now a group home for seniors. You see: kids/seniors o.k. - adults in need: not so much.
I left the area entirely…worked very covertly behind the scenes still trying to help as able. To loop the reader back to where I began, five years later, realizing I so, so missed the direct in vivo contact of helping, an opportunity arose out of state to start a refuge for homeless veterans. I did my homework thoroughly…no license was required…I was going to `play it safe’ and not focus on recovery and/or sober living. My new home had been placed in trust for my children. I went to them and asked if I could borrow to begin again. They gave me their blessings.
Hi ho, Hi ho…it seemed idyllic but right from the gate one problem after another. I truly was surprised. My first guest was a homeless vet living in the nearby woods. But, the home should have filled easily. And it wasn’t. And then I was hearing rumors by reliable sources that the few offering housing had locked in referrals: one was a judge. I had networked extensively by phone, letter. Without a car, it was hard to get around.
Two other men showed up; one on General Relief/food stamps. The other had family help. It was the same time as now: Thanksgiving had three guests; I cooked a turkey and all the trimmings. I had learned from prior experience navigating the food stamp dilemma was quite a hurdle. Technically, I’m not supposed to `provide’ food nor am I supposed to get paid in rent via food stamps. Once the house literally was `stormed’ by investigators who had initiated a sting operation: they assumed falsely that I was `ripping off the government via food stamps’ - what a lark! In the beginning days, I too had gone down to apply for welfare and food stamps. I was a volunteer with the non-profit; took no salary. All self-labor efforts, monies coming in were reported annually under the nonprofit filing. Although I had no CPA, at one point at the early desperate states, I had 13 cents to my name and some stamps. That’s when the desperate SOS went out. A food bank fed us during that horrible distraught time. This is important to note, came up later…what does one do for toiletries, etc. The one that blessed us had a particular help for nonprofits who were allowed to `shop’ there at reduced rates. When you went in, there were bins of articles ranging from toiletries to office supplies to what not… miracle help!
And then my friend who had helped move me, visited. It was mid-December. He drove me to every place where I had networked previously with phone calls and mail outs. In phone calls, mail outs and computer networking, it was emphasized: please, no referrals with anyone who had a violent history and no moral turpitude. It literally was spelled out in black/white. They knew I was alone; had no network base of family or friends. I was a stranger in a strange land.
I went bearing holiday gifts. When I arrived, I had dropped off introductory notes to all nearby neighbors with symbolic gift of hello…it is a custom of mine: everyone who visits receives a little gift…my favorite is a photo magnetic frame encased in plastic…$1.00 from Walmart - usually order in bulk on line. There is no name on it - not advertising - simply `neighborly how to do’. But since it was the holidays, gift was doing dual nature.
One of the first stops was lady who had visited with friend who worked for Catholic Charities. She ran a group home for woman and their children. She was quite excellent with resource help when I first arrived. We stopped at various churches, a homeless outreach ministry, and a woman who I had heard about was a steady volunteer, knew lots of people. I had talked to her by phone and she alluded to `behind the scenes’ favoritism and political goings on that were not receptive to newcomers. We ended up at Social Services. I thought it awfully strange that we waited almost twenty minutes before being ushered up to an `empty office area’ where about six workers were. But the visit went really well; I left with high hopes that referrals would start coming in more.
Sure enough within a few days…two men were referred to the home.
Both times I first received calls giving me details. I talked to them personally. One was young, homeless, and eager for help, reaching out. The other a little older had a hearing problem, having trouble. They came down; very grateful to be in a home.
A few days later, coming back from another round of `getting acquainted calls’ was greeted by the young man saying a call had come in from a social worker sounding urgent. I immediately called. The social worker said they had another young man: could she bring him down. I said yes. Soon after she, the young man, and his grandfather arrived. She seemed hurried; I assumed office closing down for the holidays, eager to get on her way. But the three of them were given the grand tour - and then were given hello gifts. You could tell the social worker was impressed. It truly was a lovely, large home. Yes, I got a `funny feeling’ from the young man, but dismissed it. I had no reason to question it. The grandfather looked relieved and very pleased. The young man filled out his contract.
The next day all of them left by bus to report in to social services for economic allotment and food stamps. The bus stop was conveniently across the street. I had ridden it one day start to finish familiarizing myself with the surrounding area. It was quite pleasurable. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the downtown area, and then proceeded to outlying shopping. I remember how quaint it was watching the bus driver slow down even more as we reached a little hill and a small herd of deer were road crossing: so picturesque.
The men arrived home - although I `technically could not provide food’ - if I did it would interfere with their food stamp allotment - it was o.k. for me to `offer an open pantry’ - which I did. If I cooked something and said help yourself, it technically wasn’t providing: I was simply sharing. If you didn’t know the transcending semantics, the `system’ did you in.
It was the next day that I believed I offered to teach them how to read simple music…I had a small keyboard…the tree was up in the living room; decorations were hung - it’s one of the favorite time of the years for me. Ironically, I expected my daughter to visit soon. I had a dual gift for her/me. It was a pepper spray instrument: all wrapped up. She traveled alone a lot for work. I, in my late 30s and early 40s too had been alone going to school and teaching seminars. I had once taken a self-defense class from a policewoman. Frankly, I truly had a strong image of myself; knew I was very careful and cautious - alert to being safe at all times.
Two veterans who worked for the government visited the home soon after I arrived. Both were alert and concerned that I was alone. I told them with confidence that I had worked with the homeless for fifteen years, many had parole or probation officer, and never once had I felt in danger. Admittedly, my Kimosabe had been concerned too: immediately had put heavy duty lock on bedroom door. My Catholic upbringing has me rooted in the spiritual closeness of God and dominion…pictures, artifacts abound in my home.
It was December 16, 2005 twilight Friday. The men had gone outside to burn trash which was allowed in the rural area. I heard a noise that didn’t sound right? My large sitting room bedroom was off the kitchen that had the back stairway leading upstairs. I went in the kitchen; the latest young man, 23, white like his peers, was at the counter with head held down over open silverware drawer. I think I said something…can’t remember now, what…he lifted his head and unadulterated evil looked up with a diabolical sneer. The shock was palpable! He slithered around the counter slowly - his eyes never leaving mine. In both hands were knife shanks. I backed up rasping my friend’s name. But even now, to this day, I hear the muted agonized cry. I knew he couldn’t hear me. I just called over and over, backing up as he slashed and slashed. I could feel the knives hitting my arms held up in front of me…it was so painfully slow, agonizing, horrifying, terrifying, and shockingly surreal.
His eyes pierced me; voice taunting/mocking me; like a sleek panther stalking me inch by inch herding me backwards corralled by walls without an exit into my room. I don’t know how many agonizing minutes passed before cell phone screamed into my tension muted shock; it was beside the side of my bed where he herded me. I turned, grabbed it…looked down…punched …a number and then he was `on me’…I fell and cowered with arms still up…and closed my eyes unable to look at the monster anymore…like a little child hiding under the bed from the big bad boogey man. Then I felt the knife in my right eye…the pain was so unbelievable with the jolting unbelievable surprise voice that echoes in my brain daily: I’m going to die! I sunk unconscious.
The next sound I heard was my Kimosabe in anguish sobbing. I was in his arms…knew instantly he thought I was dead…managed to gasp: please get help; and then I was out again.
Next I heard hatchet sounds breaking down door followed by a voice: Look at all that blood. Then I was out again.
Next literally felt my body as a plane…
Things were happening to me…another essay later.
But primarily that’s it until two months later when I came out of the coma on Valentine’s Day 2006. I couldn’t talk. I had a tube in my throat. Once in the coma I know I had become alert, remembered my arms in splints. They were off now. But, I couldn’t decipher what was going on. I knew I was in a hospital but there was no memory. There were pictures on the wall that I knew but couldn’t name. It was like I knew `memory’ but it was like a slow wakening up from a deep slumber. There were some frightening days after…semi hallucinations…fear that I didn’t understand. I was stressed; couldn’t explain it. I didn’t understand what was going on; just knew that I belonged there – didn’t want to be there – but couldn’t put cognition to who, what, where, when, why.
Then they took the trake out never explaining why it was there in the first place. There were smiles around me, but mostly hustle and bustle. One nurse was soothing. She told me she was taking me down stairs for a scan. I became terribly frightened. She was soothing in her empathy. When I was back to the room, I thought I saw my daughter in the hallway. I began calling for her. She didn’t respond. I became more and more agitated. Finally a nurse came over and admonished me saying I was making a commotion. I said I wanted my daughter. She never explained that who I was calling for wasn’t her. Then I said I wanted to talk to my son. A doctor came, and implied I wasn’t supposed to disturb him or anyone. I was beyond myself!
There were other incidents; and then finally, my son. It was surreal. Finally, I asked him – was I in a car accident. His look of surprise said it all…Mom, you were attacked – stabbed! And then, in an instant, it all came flooding back in terrifying detail.
I learned what had transpired. They had all been outside. One of the men came in the house; the perpetrator followed him into their upstairs bedroom and attacked him with knives. The young man got away through another room through an upstairs window but heard the perpetrator start to attack me. He yelled for help screaming for my Kimosabe who threw his cell phone at the other young man and came running toward the house. The attacker saw him through the window, got off of me and attacked him at the front door. He is a big man and rushed past him into the room, locked the door, found me. The perpetrator ran outside with the knives after the other two: the one who had called police was there in the yard; the one attacked ran across the street to a neighbor banging on the door. When my friend realized I was alive, he didn’t want to go out the door - crashed through the window - just as the police arrived who thought he was the attacker and went to arrest him. The other one yelled no…attacker had gone back in the house.
Ambulance came rushed me to nearby hospital where they were not equipped to deal with the severity of the wounds; airlifted me by helicopter to major city hospital. The drama increases at emergency room…will write about that in another publication…simply: prognosis was no hope. By God’s miracle grace, I am here continuing as able community service juxtaposed with expanding prayer warrior talents.
The attacker was arrested. He was found guilty of two counts of attempted murder; serving maximum time. When asked why…he responded: my father is Satan, you know. Social Services knew he was violent. He had attacked his father and grandfather the day before. Police were called. No charges. Grandfather brought him to Social Services. They were told. Social Services broke fiduciary trust.
The details of what happened next are a `miracle story’ - most in a book I wrote: Recovery Help listed on Amazon Kindle.
The reason for this essay is in response to help sober living homes that I have just learned about who are being harassed by a city that brings back such horrible memories.
ARC lost two homes over what happened - is now $264,000.00 in debt; still has never directly applied for government and/or grant funding; continues to rely on Samaritan tax-deductible donations; and continues outreach through email mentoring; helping others covertly.
With the new self-publishing venues, ARC has published a book on Amazon Kindle for one dollar (minimum possible); but emails PDF complimentary via email. AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com
Recovery Help is for anyone wishing to help others; phenomenal caring and sharing information.
I have transformed thoughts regarding operating a sober living environment, recovery facility, and/or homeless refuge especially if seniors are going to harbor `Samaritan Rooms’.
Seek out two recovering men with at least two years sobriety who are willing to secure security officer training credentials and put them in charge. If a senior is doing it out of home, limit guests to four with two in security receiving free rent/board alternating their shifts between day and evening.
If it is a group home, do the same with ten and two. It is vital that you have a `day to day guest’ signed agreement. This assures that one and all understand that you are not a landlord and individual is not a tenant and that you have the say in who is allowed as a guest and for how long a period. You have the right to terminate agreement at a moment’s notice. Their economic help is a donation towards expenses. They should have reference contact information including phone and address. Stipulate on agreement that if leaving all personal possessions must be moved and mail forwarded. Make sure it is understood you are welcoming individual as a `guest’ not as a resident. Mail should be forwarded to post office care of general delivery.
There is a biblical reference to evil calling others to destroy what is good. It is `easy’ to say someone is mentally ill for doing wrong. I find that surprising for those who believe in a divine presence and not its counterpart. I believe evil attacked me. Not a day has gone by that all those I have trespassed against are beckoned to forgive me; the same is by me for all those who have trespassed against me.
My forgiveness for perpetrator was coupled with plea prayer that he redeem his soul…I learned recently that his name was on a prison ministry!
Hallelujah.
I am sending this for publication; written in haste for the sober living homes, their attorneys, and reporter who published. One and All are in prayers.
###
Emailed:
Los Angeles Times…Notables…Media
jeremiah.dobruck2@latimes.com
Twitter: @jeremiahdobruck
http://www.yellowstonerecovery.com/
http://www.yellowstonerecovery.com/contact-us.aspx
http://www.solidlandingsbehavioralhealth.com/#&panel1-1
adrienne@solidlandings.com
http://www.amazon.com/RECOVERY-HELP-Helping-Others-Your-ebook/dp/B00K03F6LU/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1414865060&sr=1-3&keywords=recovery+help
To receive a PDF Complimentary book RECOVERY HELP Email AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com - sent as attachment
AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com
SOBER LIVING AND CITY HARRASSMENT
ARC © 11/28/14
6972 words
The Los Angeles Times article - The State - AA4 Tuesday November 25, 2014 - Sober-Living homes sue O.C. city by Jeremiah Dobruck
jeremiah.dobruck2@latimes.com Twitter: @jeremiahdobruck
compels ARC to care/share.
I am now a disabled septuagenarian recovering from 42 stab wounds incurred December 2005 while opening up a new refuge with a specific focus for homeless veterans. After over fifteen years of helping the down and trodden, evil reared its ugly head. But God has graced me with a miracle renewed renaissance life and a Higher Plan.
In 2000 I had to sell my six bedroom/three bath home of 30 years in Southern California because of city harassment over the sober living home I had been volunteering and facilitating for ten years.
It was in 1968 that I informally started a nonprofit responding to: ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. I wanted to love God/neighbor and emulate a black postal couple that I had read about from Alabama who would covertly and anonymously help others. So ARC was conceived, Association Renaissance Creators, a giant name to match a big heart, that had one person, me (adopted professional name): no salary, no volunteers. There was no intention of seeking government money…instead self-labor efforts and Samaritan tax-deductible donations.
For two decades I ran an around-the-clock Schoolhouse board/care that was licensed by the City for twelve. It was popular…lots of local children. Behind the scenes ARC operated with micro covert help to others but also included educational seminars wherein I had my first run-in with the City. Although I hosted Scouts, PTA, and other similar functions in my large home, when I did the seminars, there was a hue and cry. I was told to file an application for events; it was denied. I appealed: neighbors came to validate there was never any disturbance and/or problems with parking. No empathy. Unbeknownst to me a reporter was there that night. The next day she visited me, curious to know more. A convicting article was published that vindicated me; but I ceased events. I got another call from a woman who wanted to meet me; we became friends and our lives became further entwined in a spiritual way several years later that is pertinent to what I am sharing in reference to sober living.
In the meantime I intermittently began attending some council meetings. It was quite revealing to witness the political dance in action of undermining citizens and their rights. All you had to do was send `code enforcement’ around who managed to always find `something wrong’.
My 30s/40s were overflowing with raising two, running a business, pursuing higher education. After ten years of part time at local colleges, A.A., then University of California, Irvine - Human Services Counseling.
Initially paperwork for a nonprofit was worse than taxes; but finally plodded through it and ARC became officially recognized as a 501 © (3).
The new friend called me up one day saying she needed a change from the real estate business she was in. Soon after I had a dream that she bought a home - there was a rainbow over it - which was ARC’s symbol. Soon after a group home for the disabled was listed for sale. It was called The Rainbow Home. She bought it; assumed an adjunct career. Sometime later she met someone who was in recovery and introduced to her the concept of sober living. At some point the home converted over to that somewhere in the late 1980s when I simultaneously became aware of the acute homeless problem primarily nearby. News articles carried pictures of them in cardboard boxes. I became poignantly affected empathetically visualizing what if that was my crippled mother and/or retarded sister. Mass and Communion is daily for me; many consider this religious, but I think an ultra liberal spiritual renaissance creator is more revealing.
I literally hit my knees praying for guidance. The very next day I read about a group congregating at a local church making sandwiches and assembling aid kits to distribute to them. I checked it out and volunteered. Soon after I asked the founder if I could ride along and see for myself…it was horrible! I asked him what else could be done. He said they needed information on who, what, where, when, how was helping them. Right up my alley! I got on the phones, called one church, agency after another: put together a one page resource sheet and brought it back. (An educator later took this info, expanded it greatly: became published resource book for any/all involved with helping). Eureka, he said…this now was distributed. But when I lamented that this didn‘t solve the problem he said, what was really needed were Samaritan Rooms. I asked: What’s that? He said. Parents with empty nests would be the best candidate. If one house in every neighborhood opened up their doors and housed three to six homeless acting as surrogate parents, the homeless problem would be eliminated. Epiphany: that was ME!
And then, like a comet suddenly appearing, my friend calls me and tells me that there is a free educational seminar in next county sponsored by the State of California explaining how nonprofits could receive no interest loan grants to help the homeless who needed recovery. She was going to learn more for her home that was being run by her friend.
We went and in a surreal environment, I felt as if the heavens were guiding me right at this exact time to this exact place; truly phenomenal.
The gist of it was that nonprofits could receive no interest loans and subsidy for helping juxtaposed with if several homeless opened joint checking account, they too would receive rent subsidy. They made it sound so easy!
It just wasn’t about the homeless; it was also about me being extremely run down with deteriorating eyesight. I had always been subject to chronic bronchitis; had severe sinus and allergy problems. Incontinence was juxtaposed with Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. As I approached my 50th, I was experiencing additional severe physical ailments.
I went and applied for SSI - denied. Years later learned that this is `normal’ policy…success goes to those who persist, and/or hire an attorney who specializes. Their fee is usually contingent on awarding and is retroactive to when client applied. I knew that I did not have the stamina to return to the business world or old standby of being a waitress. Once to make ends meet I had juggled Schoolhouse, school, and part-time nights working for popular chain restaurant, but it almost did me in.
I was finding it more and more difficult to lift, carry babies and fell once. I considered myself blessed that in twenty years, there were only three mishaps. Once a child got out the front door unnoticed - thank God a neighbor was on the alert. The irony here was regulations stipulation: no lock doors! I now had to transcend, so had my handyman brother come in to put a bolt lock on top for me. He had a lamp on the floor and while holding a baby, I walked by tripping over the cord. In my failing eyesight, didn‘t see it. Another time, a child got hit by a swing; minor bruise. But the most serious of all was in the large play remodeled add-on addition that had swing open toy chests. I was the one who opened/closed the chests. Alas, child went to help while another child putting toy away. Lid went down hard, catching tip of finger - bleeding. I called 911/parents. All came, finger o.k., parents took home; child back the next day.
I had increased licensing capacity to twelve with approved state and city inspections. This was a fait accompli to juggle for I loved helping parents who needed me part-time. This is another area of bureaucratic harassment that should be mentioned now. The rules stipulate that if there are over six children, an assistant needs to be on board: teenager is o.k. So, for the most part, my two teenage children backed me up. If not available, the mother of one of my charges who lived down the street came to my aid. Social Services were to be notified of all children enrolled; so this was done. I had a combination of all day and part-time students. So, for example, I might have a seven year old arrive at 6 a.m. only to walk to school with my two at 7:30 a.m. and not due back until 2:30 that afternoon. So, at 7:30, I might have another child come whose parent went to an 8 a.m. class at the nearby local college. Then, I might have parents who needed me one weekend a month to take a holiday excursion. This was extremely popular. So, instead of twelve listings, I believe once had as many as 25.
There is more to elaborate right now before going further. I grew up on welfare. My mother was crippled from polio as a young child, ended up with severe crippled feet. To walk from room to room was a hardship. I was her arm to cling to as she did this. I was her `go for’ child. Story of family history is quite interesting and dramatic: another place/another time. Our heritage was Sicilian with Catholic beliefs. There was no birth control. Daddy worked nights as a cab driver, moonlighted whenever possible at funerals and so on but feeding a brood of six was difficult to say the least. Occasionally Mom had to report to social services to explain `ourselves’. Taking two buses was no simple feat: it was arduous. I got used to the stares, but NEVER got used to the condescending superior obnoxious tone used by workers. Although I never knew those words then to describe patronizing rude insulting behavior, at a young tender age of seven I knew `divine wrath’!
The first social worker assigned to my Schoolhouse helped me to rise from negative image associated with my past. We not only had professional relationship, but became friends. But years later, she was transferred and once again experienced a social worker with `negativity’. Worse, even with my more sophisticated educational awareness and psychological training, I couldn’t get a `read’ on what the problem was. About three months later, learned the basis. She showed up one day unannounced and swooped through the home actually looking in closets and under beds. The gist of it was she didn’t believe that I was able to juggle full and part-time enrollees that did not go over the allotted number. I learned that she had a stake-out on the home, had contacted neighbors to please watch and report on me. It was quite a magnificent feat on my part not to go to the dark side; took awhile with ceaseless prayer but miracle of `better relations’ finally happened.
The seminar was mid August. Summer enrollment had been at old time low; knew that I had to hustle enrollment for fall and/or shift gears. Seminar was heaven sent. I notified parents that I was going to transform nonprofit focus to helping the homeless: goal was to be in operation two of my favorite Holy Days: November 1st and 2nd - All Saints/All Souls Days. And then I did what I did best…went to the yellow pages to find every listing I could on Homeless and Recovery. On a scale from 0 to 10 my knowledge of recovery was zero…to my chagrin it wasn’t until months later that I learned who Bill W. was - the founder of A.A. I truly was a naïve bumpkin…learned the following year that peers in the community had an ongoing bet that I wouldn’t last a year. They almost won.
Of course I immediately notified the state of intention and what was required to set up loan process…for without that assurance, I had no way to pay two mortgages, overhead expenses. Trusting the state, I proceeded. The goal was to offer complimentary free week - board/food - and then guest rate would be $20.00 a day and/or $100.00 Friday through Thursday week. I notified all city officials: council/law enforcement of intent. I never hear a nay. I decided I would not call attention to myself. I knew the home was up to all codes for the children board/care had passed the highest inspections. The neighborhood was used to cars pulling up and dropping children off…I had always kept a strict professional respect for my lovely neighborhood; saw no advance problems, but intuition said stay low. If I hadn’t followed that inner voice, there is no doubt I would not have succeeded for the next ten years, which is exactly what happened.
My very first call came from a detox that offered free week to those with an alcohol problem. They were firm to say Alcohol, not Drugs: very important detail that I didn’t learn about until much later. He was a slim black man, very soft spoken and gentle. Two white young women followed; then a white middle aged man. I still hadn’t heard back from the state; I had no choice but to start using credit cards.
I’m not going to go into too much detail except to say, within three months I had to go to my friend in the real estate business who also worked as a free lance loan agent. She managed to get me a third mortgage - the second had been used to extend the large addition. The 3rd was an adjustable rate - high interest: I had no choice.
I then had families…I thought at least if I used the Schoolhouse and enrolled the children, I would be able to take advantage of the sponsored food program. Suddenly, I am being stonewalled with Social Services; am very confused. The gist of it was that even though I was not bringing in other children from the community they wanted `all adults’ in the home to be fingerprinted and TB tested…none of which, of course was free. It actually got acrimonious…I was getting desperate…they threatened to shut down my license. I remembered appealing by letter, but if there ever was a notice for anything else, I don’t remember now. As an aside, alas I did find not too long ago that there was a negative in my files. My not fighting them resulted in negative report and dismissal! By default, reputation fell!
So there I was: no money - broke…and I am not telling them to leave after a week for I by then learned that jobs were almost impossible for them.
By the grace of God I learned about General Relief and a food bank. Most importunately, my guests tell me that `we needed to implement program’ in the home…and therein lies my `in vivo’ hands on into the world of recovery where no sex, class, age, is immune addiction disease.
General Relief allocated about $100.00 a month in food stamps and $300 in money. So now I had monies coming in; they pooled food stamps and we started a shared meal plan wherein food was cooked each day. Living off charges was still the norm…I wasn’t making it; going into the 3rd year three things were happening…I was about to get foreclosure notice, I was getting it, and `program’ was working at the home.
The bottom line on the state was: since I too lived in the nonprofit home, no monies would be forthcoming. The concept of group checking account was laughable…you needed money to set up: they had no money. Technically they had no address as they were a guest. I learned that the post office had a system that allowed homeless to receive mail, but when I tried to investigate, was stonewalled. This was the `day before computers and Google’. I was limited in abilities to do research. It’s called: General Delivery, but I didn’t know about it then. So they were allowed to use my address which created all kinds of problems later.
By the end of the first year, no choice: had to file Chapter 7 bankruptcy…gold credit name ruined.
By the third year, I knew home was good; the neighborhood still didn’t know that home had transformed from `little ones’ to BIG ONES. But I saw no alternative. I had to reach out or I was going down. So first, I reached out to family. I got encouragement and loving support and some economic aid. Then, although nonprofit had started with the intent never to ask for government money, I thought it might be o.k. to ask some foundations. I sent out multi letters; one responded with a $1,000 donation. Expenses per month were over $3,000.00. Finally, I went to the newspapers. A reporter came out and showcased the home: it was a lovely article. Five who responded are in my daily prayers…every day for over twenty years now: David Johnson, Red, Mike, man from Hawaii, and a Doctor who ran a local recovery home. Mr. Johnson called, asked how much did I need for one month. I said: $3,000.00. I received a check within a few days. Red dropped by with $50.00. Mike stopped by thrusting $400.00 in my hands…saying he was studying to be a firefighter. An envelope from Hawaii came with a simple note, money enclosed. So, I had another month.
And then the notice came.
Right before transferring the home, my ill mother had celebrated her 80th. It was a gala event with my six siblings. Dad had passed some time before. The irony of our family was that the retarded sister who we had been told at birth would never walk or talk was the raison d’être for my mother. Her story coupled with my mother’s is very dramatic. I’m writing about it and hope to publish it soon. They were a phenomenal pair of support and love. We were also told that their lifespan wasn’t that long and if my mother went, she would soon follow.
Well when my mother heard about the foreclosure notice, she was as sick as I was. There was no stash in a hidden sock to cover this emergency. There was constant prayer! Bottom line I prayed, Your Will; Your Way.
Mom passed away; within the month my retarded sister followed; siblings and I received $20K each from sold home; it was immediately loaned to the nonprofit: home saved. There is no doubt in my mind that my mother prayed: call me and my daughter. HE answered.
So now without the dramatics, I carried on and lo and behold, I continued to make every mistake in the book. And it is with great shame that I admit my ego an acronym for Edging God Out took precedent too many a time. But juxtaposed were also highlights of learning that truly began to stand out. I learned to work with parole/probation departments. I learned `program’ concepts. By being in the `trenches’ with those recovering truly enriched my experiences of `what it was all about’ and `walking the talk’.
Some principles were illuminating…my adults were no different from my little ones for so many years…mutual respect, structure, group companionship, loving home, fairness, HIGHER POWER dominance were success ingredients. The Serenity Prayer coupled with the motto focus of ONE DAY AT A TIME truly is the linchpin of transforming from negative to positive well-being for self, family, society.
The home ran on strict rules with a minimum three month guest contract. There is a principle of co-dependency where loved ones are taught about. Help is needed, help should be given, but it’s analogous to teaching a child to read…if you just read to them without teaching, there is no learning, applying nor independence. Usually the best maturing help came from sponsors, group home counselors, and educational forums. Parents were most helpful when they were not `taking them in’ but helping them to start a sober living environment with three or more. There truly was a group dynamic that supported each other dramatically exemplified in meetings.
They had to be busy…boredom easily reached out and sucked positive behaviors dry. So, Monday through Friday, guests had to be out the door: either looking for work, attending meetings, pursuing education, or resource learning at local library. Homework assignments were given: a library card was a must so was attending religious group of their choice weekly. There were reading and thinking assignments i.e. list ten role models and explain why you admire them. Outside and once a week inside meetings were mandatory. Getting a sponsor was a top priority. Many of them were on parole and/or probation. What an education that was for me! There were weekday and weekend curfews. Most were on General Relief; some on SSI.
The goal was complete three months, leave for a week, seek out another sober living environment and or re-apply. It was vital that they did not live alone. Addicts are bored; and worse than boredom is loneliness.
Once they had a year sobriety, ARC would loan group of three seed money and sponsor them to initiate a sober living home for them.
By the fifth year, the home was gaining in stature. Of course by now the neighborhood knew, but its monastic lifestyle gave no cause for alarms to be raised. I started offshoots with some of my strong guests in charge. I soon found out, this was not the way to go and had disastrous results. Strong sobriety did not translate to administrative skills. I became a roaming `parent’. Process was doing me in. What would be better was to write about it and teach others to do better what I had so arduously learned: in other words: pay it forward.
Were there relapses? Absolutely! Most happened once they left the home. In fact, reported deaths of some have me aching to this day. One relapsed and died there. Agony! For the most part though, they adhered to respect of home…leave first if you are going to break program; don’t tempt your brother. In the later years, the home gravitated only to men. I learned mixed populations don’t work well: separate for families, men, women best.
One of the worse mistakes made was in the early years. When I started to get my bearings, began asking recovering mentors more on `tough love’ which is a very strong concept in recovery. One of the harshest measures were if a contract was signed for three months a guest, and they relapsed forcing a break in the agreement, the account went to collections. I was advised about the `bottom’ that addicts had to go through before they could go `up’. So, this was done. I am ashamed to admit that it wasn’t until years later, that I truly understood how unfair this was. I also should have had better empathy for hadn’t I just almost lost all and hadn’t I too been subjected to `ruthless’ collection agencies calling and even going so far as to call my neighbors! There are no buts to this and/or excuses. I did it and regret it. When the dawn finally hit, I immediately contacted the agency and forwarded monies to `buy back’ accounts.
One of the best things done was intuition that the individual as a guest in my home was not analogous to a landlord/renter concept. Their monetary contribution was a donation to the nonprofit not rent to a commercial business. So, the contract was carefully worded as a day-to-day basis. It was vital to be able to immediately terminate and tell an individual to go for any infraction or reason! This was challenged one time when a guest called the authorities. They came, read the agreement and told the person to pack their belongings. This is where the backup address came in, for no belongings were to be held in storage and/all mail needed to be forwarded or returned to sender.
So what happened? Going into the tenth year, I am hearing through the grape vine other homes are having problems. The `City’ was on the prowl.
In the seminar sponsored by the State, we learned about Public Law 100-430 which sanctions those with disabilities who want to live together. Under this Fair Housing paradigm those with addictions were safe from state and city `code’ harassment. Highly touted was the Oxford House Model - a community based organization.
Right next door was another sober living home; one ARC originally sponsored. One of ARC’s self-laboring projects to support the home was a hauling and moving service. I was trying to put guests to work who had the most trouble finding employment. A senior woman called once and after learning about ARC asked if I would mentor her to open and run one. The house right next door became available. She bought it. The sponsorship lasted just until she got it up and running; and then ARC had no connection except for advisement. This was one of ARC’s covert outreach programs: email mentoring as able for one of the educational skills achieved was a Human Services Counseling Certificate.
Suddenly three code enforcement representatives are at the door. I welcomed them in - knew that my home was not only up to code but went above and beyond. Sure enough, they can’t find anything. But next door wasn’t as receptive - refused entry. The City issued a warrant. A newspaper reporter wrote an article; research was not done well enough - ARC was named. I notified the paper; but to the best of my knowledge there was never a correction.
Then I’m told to `report’ to them. I have an AGAPE relationship: we call each other `our Kimosabe’ - he saved my life (more on this later). He volunteered to go meet with the city. I knew the City remembered me from before; I was concerned that I might become passionately vocal with divine wrath. They told him they found infractions…freezer in the garage (most neighbors had one); and an extension cord overloaded. With the aplomb of a common sense sage, he looked at their office and pointed out: oh, you mean like that one there in your office? He left. I knew though that not only was this not the end of it, it was going to get worse. The word came through, others were being harassed…it was inevitable…I had witnessed them in action before…they’ll do whatever it took to `drive someone out’ - it didn’t matter. They had enhanced their image of late…la de da with a new cultural center and they were right next door to one of the wealthiest cities of all. I’m not sure about this, but I think there is a mutual support of money back/forth. What is most ironic of all is although this can be a very lucrative business, my home was not an economic burden to city, state, or federal sources; and I was not even receiving grant funding. Many addicts who live on the streets will at some point or another be rounded up for vagrancy or worse; spend time in jail. One of the ploys is to not let the homeless `loiter’ – thereby forcing them to move around and of course, finding public bathrooms is very difficult. So law enforcement watches; inevitably one will have to urinate…now arrested for `indecent exposure. When they group in parks, they are driven out. If someone takes pity on them and attempts to feed them, they too are harassed. Estimates vary with a conservative estimate of $450.00 to house someone in jail to higher than $1,000.00. General Relief for a week is paltry when you consider that you are helping a fellow human rehabilitate.
I must admit that as I was becoming more and more sensitive to `my sins’, I was exponentially increasing in awareness to those of humanity: particularly the `ones rich and powerful’. What shame for us as a nation that so devalues the poor and suffering. Is it any wonder that `we are called’ Ugly Americans. Oh yes, I certainly admire the ones who `walk the talk’ - role models who so emulate the best of us. I have favorites like: Mimi Silbert of Delancey Street, The Forbarths from S.O.S., Mary Jo Copeland from Caring/Sharing…others who seem to imitate the greats like Mother Teresa, Saint Vincent de Paul.
I muse how money always seem to be necessary to rehabilitate government buildings, yet city to city lacks homeless shelters - Oy vey!
I consulted a lawyer. After he heard me out, said…well, if you sue, you will win. You are doing nothing wrong BUT in the process, you might lose your home. I realized on could not risk losing thirty years of hard work equity, ARC and children legacy. To reduce attention, I ceased `sober living’ concepts thinking that might alleviate the situation, give me time. It didn’t. Pressure was mounting. A licensed home shut down. I knew I had to sell quickly. I was mentally, physically exhausted - stress, state of mind would soon sabotage my body. I sold. Relative worked feverishly on handling covert sale…was awed at how immaculate and well built it was with three full, one quarter bath; four large and two small bedrooms. You see they all had weekly chores; once they saved up time to paint the home. My Kimosabe had phenomenal handyman services: had maintained roof and other. He had built a storage shed in back yard. Soon after code enforcement at the home insinuating people were being housed there. An RV parked in the side behind closed gate was used occasionally. I was not aware that this was a violation; told it was. At this point, nothing was going to surprise me. House sold. If I remember correctly, city insisted on stipulation that future owners would not use the home in that capacity again. I think they heard that peers were very interested. It went to a large minority family…but the latest I heard it is now a group home for seniors. You see: kids/seniors o.k. - adults in need: not so much.
I left the area entirely…worked very covertly behind the scenes still trying to help as able. To loop the reader back to where I began, five years later, realizing I so, so missed the direct in vivo contact of helping, an opportunity arose out of state to start a refuge for homeless veterans. I did my homework thoroughly…no license was required…I was going to `play it safe’ and not focus on recovery and/or sober living. My new home had been placed in trust for my children. I went to them and asked if I could borrow to begin again. They gave me their blessings.
Hi ho, Hi ho…it seemed idyllic but right from the gate one problem after another. I truly was surprised. My first guest was a homeless vet living in the nearby woods. But, the home should have filled easily. And it wasn’t. And then I was hearing rumors by reliable sources that the few offering housing had locked in referrals: one was a judge. I had networked extensively by phone, letter. Without a car, it was hard to get around.
Two other men showed up; one on General Relief/food stamps. The other had family help. It was the same time as now: Thanksgiving had three guests; I cooked a turkey and all the trimmings. I had learned from prior experience navigating the food stamp dilemma was quite a hurdle. Technically, I’m not supposed to `provide’ food nor am I supposed to get paid in rent via food stamps. Once the house literally was `stormed’ by investigators who had initiated a sting operation: they assumed falsely that I was `ripping off the government via food stamps’ - what a lark! In the beginning days, I too had gone down to apply for welfare and food stamps. I was a volunteer with the non-profit; took no salary. All self-labor efforts, monies coming in were reported annually under the nonprofit filing. Although I had no CPA, at one point at the early desperate states, I had 13 cents to my name and some stamps. That’s when the desperate SOS went out. A food bank fed us during that horrible distraught time. This is important to note, came up later…what does one do for toiletries, etc. The one that blessed us had a particular help for nonprofits who were allowed to `shop’ there at reduced rates. When you went in, there were bins of articles ranging from toiletries to office supplies to what not… miracle help!
And then my friend who had helped move me, visited. It was mid-December. He drove me to every place where I had networked previously with phone calls and mail outs. In phone calls, mail outs and computer networking, it was emphasized: please, no referrals with anyone who had a violent history and no moral turpitude. It literally was spelled out in black/white. They knew I was alone; had no network base of family or friends. I was a stranger in a strange land.
I went bearing holiday gifts. When I arrived, I had dropped off introductory notes to all nearby neighbors with symbolic gift of hello…it is a custom of mine: everyone who visits receives a little gift…my favorite is a photo magnetic frame encased in plastic…$1.00 from Walmart - usually order in bulk on line. There is no name on it - not advertising - simply `neighborly how to do’. But since it was the holidays, gift was doing dual nature.
One of the first stops was lady who had visited with friend who worked for Catholic Charities. She ran a group home for woman and their children. She was quite excellent with resource help when I first arrived. We stopped at various churches, a homeless outreach ministry, and a woman who I had heard about was a steady volunteer, knew lots of people. I had talked to her by phone and she alluded to `behind the scenes’ favoritism and political goings on that were not receptive to newcomers. We ended up at Social Services. I thought it awfully strange that we waited almost twenty minutes before being ushered up to an `empty office area’ where about six workers were. But the visit went really well; I left with high hopes that referrals would start coming in more.
Sure enough within a few days…two men were referred to the home.
Both times I first received calls giving me details. I talked to them personally. One was young, homeless, and eager for help, reaching out. The other a little older had a hearing problem, having trouble. They came down; very grateful to be in a home.
A few days later, coming back from another round of `getting acquainted calls’ was greeted by the young man saying a call had come in from a social worker sounding urgent. I immediately called. The social worker said they had another young man: could she bring him down. I said yes. Soon after she, the young man, and his grandfather arrived. She seemed hurried; I assumed office closing down for the holidays, eager to get on her way. But the three of them were given the grand tour - and then were given hello gifts. You could tell the social worker was impressed. It truly was a lovely, large home. Yes, I got a `funny feeling’ from the young man, but dismissed it. I had no reason to question it. The grandfather looked relieved and very pleased. The young man filled out his contract.
The next day all of them left by bus to report in to social services for economic allotment and food stamps. The bus stop was conveniently across the street. I had ridden it one day start to finish familiarizing myself with the surrounding area. It was quite pleasurable. It took only fifteen minutes to get to the downtown area, and then proceeded to outlying shopping. I remember how quaint it was watching the bus driver slow down even more as we reached a little hill and a small herd of deer were road crossing: so picturesque.
The men arrived home - although I `technically could not provide food’ - if I did it would interfere with their food stamp allotment - it was o.k. for me to `offer an open pantry’ - which I did. If I cooked something and said help yourself, it technically wasn’t providing: I was simply sharing. If you didn’t know the transcending semantics, the `system’ did you in.
It was the next day that I believed I offered to teach them how to read simple music…I had a small keyboard…the tree was up in the living room; decorations were hung - it’s one of the favorite time of the years for me. Ironically, I expected my daughter to visit soon. I had a dual gift for her/me. It was a pepper spray instrument: all wrapped up. She traveled alone a lot for work. I, in my late 30s and early 40s too had been alone going to school and teaching seminars. I had once taken a self-defense class from a policewoman. Frankly, I truly had a strong image of myself; knew I was very careful and cautious - alert to being safe at all times.
Two veterans who worked for the government visited the home soon after I arrived. Both were alert and concerned that I was alone. I told them with confidence that I had worked with the homeless for fifteen years, many had parole or probation officer, and never once had I felt in danger. Admittedly, my Kimosabe had been concerned too: immediately had put heavy duty lock on bedroom door. My Catholic upbringing has me rooted in the spiritual closeness of God and dominion…pictures, artifacts abound in my home.
It was December 16, 2005 twilight Friday. The men had gone outside to burn trash which was allowed in the rural area. I heard a noise that didn’t sound right? My large sitting room bedroom was off the kitchen that had the back stairway leading upstairs. I went in the kitchen; the latest young man, 23, white like his peers, was at the counter with head held down over open silverware drawer. I think I said something…can’t remember now, what…he lifted his head and unadulterated evil looked up with a diabolical sneer. The shock was palpable! He slithered around the counter slowly - his eyes never leaving mine. In both hands were knife shanks. I backed up rasping my friend’s name. But even now, to this day, I hear the muted agonized cry. I knew he couldn’t hear me. I just called over and over, backing up as he slashed and slashed. I could feel the knives hitting my arms held up in front of me…it was so painfully slow, agonizing, horrifying, terrifying, and shockingly surreal.
His eyes pierced me; voice taunting/mocking me; like a sleek panther stalking me inch by inch herding me backwards corralled by walls without an exit into my room. I don’t know how many agonizing minutes passed before cell phone screamed into my tension muted shock; it was beside the side of my bed where he herded me. I turned, grabbed it…looked down…punched …a number and then he was `on me’…I fell and cowered with arms still up…and closed my eyes unable to look at the monster anymore…like a little child hiding under the bed from the big bad boogey man. Then I felt the knife in my right eye…the pain was so unbelievable with the jolting unbelievable surprise voice that echoes in my brain daily: I’m going to die! I sunk unconscious.
The next sound I heard was my Kimosabe in anguish sobbing. I was in his arms…knew instantly he thought I was dead…managed to gasp: please get help; and then I was out again.
Next I heard hatchet sounds breaking down door followed by a voice: Look at all that blood. Then I was out again.
Next literally felt my body as a plane…
Things were happening to me…another essay later.
But primarily that’s it until two months later when I came out of the coma on Valentine’s Day 2006. I couldn’t talk. I had a tube in my throat. Once in the coma I know I had become alert, remembered my arms in splints. They were off now. But, I couldn’t decipher what was going on. I knew I was in a hospital but there was no memory. There were pictures on the wall that I knew but couldn’t name. It was like I knew `memory’ but it was like a slow wakening up from a deep slumber. There were some frightening days after…semi hallucinations…fear that I didn’t understand. I was stressed; couldn’t explain it. I didn’t understand what was going on; just knew that I belonged there – didn’t want to be there – but couldn’t put cognition to who, what, where, when, why.
Then they took the trake out never explaining why it was there in the first place. There were smiles around me, but mostly hustle and bustle. One nurse was soothing. She told me she was taking me down stairs for a scan. I became terribly frightened. She was soothing in her empathy. When I was back to the room, I thought I saw my daughter in the hallway. I began calling for her. She didn’t respond. I became more and more agitated. Finally a nurse came over and admonished me saying I was making a commotion. I said I wanted my daughter. She never explained that who I was calling for wasn’t her. Then I said I wanted to talk to my son. A doctor came, and implied I wasn’t supposed to disturb him or anyone. I was beyond myself!
There were other incidents; and then finally, my son. It was surreal. Finally, I asked him – was I in a car accident. His look of surprise said it all…Mom, you were attacked – stabbed! And then, in an instant, it all came flooding back in terrifying detail.
I learned what had transpired. They had all been outside. One of the men came in the house; the perpetrator followed him into their upstairs bedroom and attacked him with knives. The young man got away through another room through an upstairs window but heard the perpetrator start to attack me. He yelled for help screaming for my Kimosabe who threw his cell phone at the other young man and came running toward the house. The attacker saw him through the window, got off of me and attacked him at the front door. He is a big man and rushed past him into the room, locked the door, found me. The perpetrator ran outside with the knives after the other two: the one who had called police was there in the yard; the one attacked ran across the street to a neighbor banging on the door. When my friend realized I was alive, he didn’t want to go out the door - crashed through the window - just as the police arrived who thought he was the attacker and went to arrest him. The other one yelled no…attacker had gone back in the house.
Ambulance came rushed me to nearby hospital where they were not equipped to deal with the severity of the wounds; airlifted me by helicopter to major city hospital. The drama increases at emergency room…will write about that in another publication…simply: prognosis was no hope. By God’s miracle grace, I am here continuing as able community service juxtaposed with expanding prayer warrior talents.
The attacker was arrested. He was found guilty of two counts of attempted murder; serving maximum time. When asked why…he responded: my father is Satan, you know. Social Services knew he was violent. He had attacked his father and grandfather the day before. Police were called. No charges. Grandfather brought him to Social Services. They were told. Social Services broke fiduciary trust.
The details of what happened next are a `miracle story’ - most in a book I wrote: Recovery Help listed on Amazon Kindle.
The reason for this essay is in response to help sober living homes that I have just learned about who are being harassed by a city that brings back such horrible memories.
ARC lost two homes over what happened - is now $264,000.00 in debt; still has never directly applied for government and/or grant funding; continues to rely on Samaritan tax-deductible donations; and continues outreach through email mentoring; helping others covertly.
With the new self-publishing venues, ARC has published a book on Amazon Kindle for one dollar (minimum possible); but emails PDF complimentary via email. AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com
Recovery Help is for anyone wishing to help others; phenomenal caring and sharing information.
I have transformed thoughts regarding operating a sober living environment, recovery facility, and/or homeless refuge especially if seniors are going to harbor `Samaritan Rooms’.
Seek out two recovering men with at least two years sobriety who are willing to secure security officer training credentials and put them in charge. If a senior is doing it out of home, limit guests to four with two in security receiving free rent/board alternating their shifts between day and evening.
If it is a group home, do the same with ten and two. It is vital that you have a `day to day guest’ signed agreement. This assures that one and all understand that you are not a landlord and individual is not a tenant and that you have the say in who is allowed as a guest and for how long a period. You have the right to terminate agreement at a moment’s notice. Their economic help is a donation towards expenses. They should have reference contact information including phone and address. Stipulate on agreement that if leaving all personal possessions must be moved and mail forwarded. Make sure it is understood you are welcoming individual as a `guest’ not as a resident. Mail should be forwarded to post office care of general delivery.
There is a biblical reference to evil calling others to destroy what is good. It is `easy’ to say someone is mentally ill for doing wrong. I find that surprising for those who believe in a divine presence and not its counterpart. I believe evil attacked me. Not a day has gone by that all those I have trespassed against are beckoned to forgive me; the same is by me for all those who have trespassed against me.
My forgiveness for perpetrator was coupled with plea prayer that he redeem his soul…I learned recently that his name was on a prison ministry!
Hallelujah.
I am sending this for publication; written in haste for the sober living homes, their attorneys, and reporter who published. One and All are in prayers.
###
Emailed:
Los Angeles Times…Notables…Media
jeremiah.dobruck2@latimes.com
Twitter: @jeremiahdobruck
http://www.yellowstonerecovery.com/
http://www.yellowstonerecovery.com/contact-us.aspx
http://www.solidlandingsbehavioralhealth.com/#&panel1-1
adrienne@solidlandings.com
http://www.amazon.com/RECOVERY-HELP-Helping-Others-Your-ebook/dp/B00K03F6LU/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1414865060&sr=1-3&keywords=recovery+help
To receive a PDF Complimentary book RECOVERY HELP Email AssociationRenaissanceCreators@yahoo.com - sent as attachment
posted by R. M. Namaste' at
March 26, 2015
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