Part 2 in multipartite post, The ‘Madwoman’ v. the Madness of the State.
Ms. Dalrymple rang the doorbell of the suburban home in the two-house compound that provided a roof over my head, rather than first Google my name to come across my LinkedIn profile to review my work history, level of education with expertise that crosses disciplines with psychoanalytic theory, read my blog with design analyses of problems in education and inhibiting economic revitalization and community redevelopment six years deep into our jobless economic recovery from the Great Recession, or review my art, design, or multimedia portfolios, that include identity and rebranding for a sitting member of Seattle School Board as well as freelance work for the Graduate School of Business at your own institution, after she received a telephone call from my brother-in-law, wherein he refused to divulge his name, address of his house next door, or our telephone numbers, despite raging at me earlier that week that he would resume support for my basic hygiene only with the approval of a licensed professional mental health counselor.
Then why inhibit communications with the state’s licensed mental health professionals (?), an irrationality of thought not uncommon in my brother-in-law’s communications with me or other family members.
Arriving unprepared to secure what would have sounded to me like a domestic violence crime scene, Ms. Dalrymple’s telephone conversation with my brother-in-law left her so confused about the relationships in the family compound that she first conflated me with his elderly mother, with whom I’d shared the living quarters until the end of 2013 when her son carted her off to an assisted living facility as if she was a piece of furniture with no voice in the decision, and the cluttered, filthy house as my own. I made the mistake of sacrificing one hour away from my job and project application deadlines to meet with Ms. Dalrymple and her even less experienced male coworker-in-training, speaking rapidly to speed along their unscheduled interview while outlining the current situation and my personal biographical and educated professional job seeking experiences.
Because those experiences intertwine with names that Ms. Dalrymple may have only heard on the evening news or read about, briefly, while pursuing her degree in social work from Idaho State University, or maybe because Ms. Dalrymple is earlier the product of a publicly funded, privately managed “prep school” in the era of No Child Left Behind when students learn rote memorization to fill in the correct answers on bubble-sheet tests, or maybe because Ms. Dalrymple, by her own description, does not read The New York Times or even get to the big city of Boise much, and was thus unfamiliar with a then-current domestic violence awareness campaign funded by a local advocacy organization, and even after I showed her an image of one of their billboards and described their bullet-point list as my experiences in my brother-in-law’s household, Ms. Dalrymple took only a cursory glance around to ascertain my personal cleanliness, access to food, and ability to shower, refused to listen to the audio clip of my brother-in-law raging at me to control my menstrual flow to suit the whims or the budget of an electrical engineer at Micron who grew up in a household with parents who modeled passive aggressive communication with labor and access to capital rigidly divided by gender – if I used a $6 box of tampons per year that was acceptable, but a $6 box per month was too much – asked no questions of me to further clarify a situation clearly above and beyond her skills and experience other than to abruptly and passive aggressively deny the reality of both my personal biographical and professional development experiences, before asking for my brother-in-law’s contact information.
Ms. Dalrymple’s email response to my follow up repeats my brother-in-law’s uneducated “diagnosis” of me as “psychotic” after I tried to limit the number of hours he required me to perform labor benefitting his household, and expressed opinions that disagree with his own. Calling parental attention to my concerns that his teenaged son was speaking in ways that led to the doubling of our national adolescent suicide rate between 2007–12, jeering at his peers who had not been successful completing suicide, and, when the conversation came up at the dinner table, seeming to identify with the perpetrator of a local long-unsolved rape/homicide, as well as the parallels between my young adult, college-educated niece reduced to hysterical sobbing after my sister told her she looked like a prostitute on her way to a job interview, ordering her to first change her clothes, and, a generation earlier, my father telling his daughters we looked like whores if we wore fashions similar to our peers, resulted not in my sister’s and brother-in-law’s thoughtful self-reflection and family discussion to repair those behaviors, instead, they directed their passive aggressive rage at me.
Throughout our conversation, Ms. Dalrymple’s blank facial expression registered zero affect until I described my ex-father-in-law as ex-FBI whose most infamous assignment was sitting outside in a van watching the apartment where Patty Hearst was raped into submission, later described as suffering Stockholm Syndrome, which led to her assisting her captors with their armed robbery, trial, and imprisonment, not pardoned by President Clinton until 20 January 2001, whereupon Ms. Dalrymple’s face and whole body cringed, caved-in, visually communicating to me that Ms. Dalrymple herself is likely a victim of rape or early childhood sexual abuse. Unrecovered from that trauma, as Harvard-educated physician and nationally recognized expert Judith Herman, M.D., describes in her clinical survey Trauma and Recovery and again in her earlier work Father-Daughter Incest, behavior typical of family rape victims, Ms. Dalrymple likely transferred her repressed rage with her mother for not protecting her from those abuses onto a middle-aged woman made destitute by the Great Recession and thus vulnerable to human trafficking and our nation’s broken mental health services system.
My access to legal proceedings or representation was controlled by the department and their subcontracted facility that violated my civil liberties. As of this writing, over four months after release from nearly a month-long incarceration, I have yet to receive any court paperwork or written communications from the Ada County Public Defender’s office, thus I am still not entirely sure what happened to me, legally speaking, but maybe those are documents we could access in discovery?