Justice Required


Anger is good; anger is healthy.  When you have been used and abused, it is anger that gives you the energy to fight back, to regain the self-sufficiency that has been taken from you.

Don’t ever turn that anger inward and hurt yourself.  Turn the anger outward toward the person who has hurt you.  If you have been mistreated, stand up for yourself and fight back.  You have the power–use it.

Depression is anger turned inward.  Do not ever get depressed; get even.  Identify the person who has damaged you, who has made you feel like you’re not nice or not good, and make very sure that he is held accountable for the damage he has done to you.  Nobody gets to tell you that you’re not worthy and valuable, and walk away unscathed.

File complaints, go over people’s heads, work your way up the heirarchy until you come to the person who has the intelligence to understand what was done wrong and the courage and authority to hold the person accountable.  If your cause is just then ask God for help.

A psychiatrist permanently damaged me with unmonitored medication.  Three times, I tried to talk to her about what she’d done.  She insisted she’d done nothing wrong.

She died suddenly one night when she was home alone—on my birthday.  I did not ask for this; God gave it.

Get angry and get active.  When somebody is hurting people, put a stop to it.  Illegitimi non carborundum.

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About annecwoodlen

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

  1. Don Crowley says:

    Dick taught me that line , loosely translated ” Don’t let the bastards get you down “

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