To The Woman Below Me In E11:

Two weeks ago, at the beginning of November 2016 (it’s taken me time to write this as well as get the previous dates of your harassment correct), you physically blocked me from entering the building my son and I live in to make one of your crazy claims: when we take a shower, you claim it drips down into your bathroom. Did you tell the Super? No. Did you tell the Landlord? No.You waited until you caught me and my son coming home from my son’s Dr to harass us — AGAIN.

This is not the first time that you have harassed my son and me banging on my door, trying to stop me from entering the building or the elevator — and, as I did not wish to physically touch you, I had to work my way around you. This, despite my being physically crippled, which you are aware of. I said my usual, “Call the landlord”, although I’m guessing they no longer listen to your insanity, as well as asking if you wished for my son (who was with me at the time) and me to, “stop taking showers”.

Since we moved into this Hellhole (song by Spinal Tap) in June 2006, the walls and floor of my bathroom have been knocked out, leaving large, unsafe holes for months at a time, at least three (3) times due to your paranoia and insanity.

1.) LESS THAN 24 HOURS AFTER WE MOVED IN YOU BROKE THE LAW BY ENTERING MY APARTMENT WITHOUT PERMISSION: My son, aged 1.5yrs at the time, and I saw the apartment above you for the first time on Monday or Tuesday 29/30 May 2006. We filled out the papers and signed the lease at the end of that week, and I picked up tbe keys Monday 5 June 2006. We were to move in that Wednesday and were looking forward to having a bathtub as my son was too big to be washed in the sink and the shelter we were in only had a stand-up shower stall. Due to a SNAFU, we were moved from tbe shelter to the apartment around noon Tuesday 6 June. We immediately went out to purchase a queen sized mattress to sleep on that night and, after a late afternoon delivery, bought sheets at the Atlantic Mall and had dinner at the pizza place on West 7th and Kings Highway. We picked up some essential food and liquids to get us through the night at the bodega across the street and came home between 7 or 8pm. My son was in diapers so the only water usage was when I brushed my teeth (I don’t leave the water running), and washing my hands after I peed, although I didn’t flush as my son was asleep. The next morning, just after 7am, my son and I were awoken to a banging on the door.

“Super!” yelled the Super. We jumped up and ran to open the door to find not only the Super, but you with your huge Russian-English Dictionary. I stepped aside so the Super could come in, and you pushed your way in even though I didn’t know who you were and didn’t invite you in. (Going uninvited into someone’s apartment is illegal in this country.)

“There is leak from this apartment from past two weeks,” the Super said. I reminded him that I had seen the apartment for the first time the week before and had only had the keys since Monday. You tried explaining the water was causing damage and, not realizing what a horrible person you were, I helped you piece together that your kitchen cabinets were coming loose. I would learn to regret that help, not just because you never thanked me in English or Russian, but because the Super proceeded to knock most of the bathroom wall* out on the right side of the toilet, as well as some of the floor, before realizing the leak was from the kitchen and he went in there to knock out some more walls. You gave yourself a tour of the bathroom while my son burrowed in my arms. Finally you and tbe Super left, telling me that the holes would be fixed “soon”.

For the next three months I had to pee and poop sideways on my toilet with my feet in the tub (facing the normal way meant my feet would hang in the floor hole). I had to keep my son out of the tub as I had no room to kneel beside it, and I had to keep him out when I went to the bathroom. Showers were quickly done when he was asleep. And he got washed in the too-small sink.

2.) The wall in my bathroom was knocked in (or out) due to a potential fire from your place. I never complained to you. You never apologized or came to see if  we were ok.

3.) Not sure if this happened before or after the fire, but, again, I was the subject of you and the Super shoving into my apartment. And a large hole that had garbage bags over it held by duct tape for months. No thank you, sorry or ANYTHING polite ftom you.

My son used to have nightmares of “La Bruja Russe”, which is technically “Red Old Lady / Witch”… My son had heard me praying*** for help from the red-headed bitch downstairs and that’s what he heard. You and your tacky red hair taunted his dreams and mine. Even before you saw us, your face was turned to a nasty look. And then you would see us, usually in the lobby, and you would light up and srart some tirade against us.**

4.) And so it begins again. Sorry, but no leaks here. I refuse go let anyone in to check your made up stories anymore. “Move kn. G ed t a lufe.” = “Move on. Get a life.” I’ve never had so many problems typing a post.

* Let me briefly describe the bathroom. It is very narrow. It is just under six feet across. Standing in the doorway, the sink is on your left, next to the bathtub going the long way. On your right is a towel rack and two steps bring you to the toilet. There is a window behind the toilet but people on the street can watch you pull down your pants to sit on the toilet. (Thank you to a sralker who let me know.)

** I’ve had typos in my Free Write blogs. But never this bad. I’ve corrected almost every word in this blog.

*** My biological mom is, minimum, 3rd generation New Orleans. (We’re Choctaw on her dad’s side so much more than 3rd generation). Normally I stay away from Dark Magick, but mess with my kid and I’ll take what comes back three times.

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