Back when I was leaving my job, I sought a meeting with a social worker, because I was trying to grasp what eventually being disabled would mean and to see what resources I might have to help me. I had no idea, at the time, that just a couple of months later, I would have such a dramatic downturn as my innards misery began. I thought I was planning for a far off future.
We were talking about the changes I was seeing in my brain and how it was affecting my job. I cannot remember how we got there, but suddenly the social worker interrupted me and very simply said, "You're afraid of your boss."
Her works shocked me into silence. And then the proverbial damn burst.
I started shaking and then burst into tears. I just sat there trembling and weeping and gasping for breath. The social worker waited for me to calm down and then asked me why.
My boss has a serious anger problem, and all at work knew that I was her whipping boy. I had seen a young woman come, be beaten up for months on end, and then leave. A young woman who then tried to kill herself. And I had heard stories of others who had come and gone. But it was more than that. My boss knew I was ill and reminded me of the need to keep my job so that I could keep my insurance all the time. Small reminders. Vague reminders. Blunt reminders. Reminders as I painted the walls of her house. Reminders as I helped her clean out her storage space. Reminders as I fetched her lunch and dinner. Reminders as I drove her to the speciality grocery store. Reminders as I did her work. A job given her was passed off to me and then presented back as her work.
Reminders as she directed what I should wear and eat and to whom I should and should not talk at work. Reminders as she told me what to write and say to others, setting me up to buffer herself from their ire by using me as a shield. Reminders as she called and texted all hours of the day. Reminders as she made me start recording what I did every ten minutes, all the while berating my work and telling me how useless I was.
Her anger would burst forth as if I were standing on the streets of Pompeii in 79 AD. Dead and frozen in the pyroclastic cloud of fear that enveloped me with her eruptions. Again, my response was to shut up, be still, and wait until it was over. But in between those frozen moments—moment I now understood from which I disassociated—I lived in constant fear.
I asked for help from the CEO twice. The second time, my boss found out and literally threatened me. I did not sleep for days. What would I do without a job? What would I do without health insurance? As horrid was my working environment, I saw no way out.
When I learned that I was losing my job, I threw my house on the market and went looking for a smaller life, a life where no matter what job I had, I would be free. Not enslaved to a mortgage. Not enslaved to a boss. I found a place. I just didn't know that I would get so ill so quickly after moving. I could never have guessed how much my life would change.
But that moment of the social worker speaking my secret has remained, despite all that I have lost.
I will admit that even a year after moving here, I was still afraid of my ex-boss. I was afraid of her power, though she had none anymore. And I was afraid of who I had become living in her world of anger and fear and blame and shame.
After much agonizing, I chose to use unexpected funds to add a dishwasher to the kitchen, to spend the funds all at once to make my life easier physically long-term, rather than to dole them out to make my life easier financially short-term. To add a dishwasher meant updating the kitchen. The plan was to make it so that nearly everything I needed was in the upper cabinets or drawers, to minimize bending. Even the oven is meant to minimize bending because I will mostly only use the upper ones.
My mother was immensely helpful in the decision-making process, since those are so difficult for me. I was surprised to discover that there were few choices to be made in the cabinets—really only one—because of the kitchen layout: did I want a 3 drawer stack or 4, which I thought was really no decision at all since I would only have a single drawer stack. Of course it would be 4. The cabinet style matches the original built-ins in the dining room and the cabinet color effectively matches the wood in the house. I wanted to do the work as economically as possible and so most of the changes are merely switching out things. Old for new.
Having greatly missed the hummingbird wall paper from my old house, I was glad to have it on the walls again, with the help of my mother. She also generously upgraded my counters. When the afternoon light breaks through the windows, they are GREEN! She insisted on increasing the under cabinet lighting from 2 lights to 5, another gift, knowing that once I saw them on I would understand how much I needed them. And she was convinced that there would be enough space for a bistro set so that I could stay in the kitchen whilst cooking, resting, and thus dramatically reducing the amount of meals I burned beyond edibility. She also paid to replace the large black chandelier, allowing me to choose a light from a reclamation store and have it re-wired so that the fixture fit the house. My mother made the kitchen update more beautiful and more useful than I could have afforded and was planning. Such a blessing.
But then there is the part that I did. All on my own. The mess. The disaster. The shame.
I am afraid of the contractor. Each and every time Amos barks because someone is in front of the house, I find myself cowering in fear, trembling, tears welling in my eyes, looking for a place to hide. Even my mother has noticed, since she has called a few times whilst Amos was barking. Having heard me speak a bit of fear before, she could at least hear me, if not understand.
The contract is not complete. I do not know if it will be. The work included four parts: an automatic garage door, a wall to close off the parlor from the half bath, the kitchen update, and the kitchen floor. The contractor completed the garage door first and then started on the wall. The wall that was to be done in three days. The wall that dragged on for nearly two weeks. Day after day of not-showing up. Day after day of ignoring me, costing additional money, and leaving my house in chaos.
I was not prepared for the chaos.
Not at all.
It felled me from the start.
I knew I should not make the deposit for the kitchen and the kitchen floor. I knew it. I talked with the contractor about the delays and how hard it was on me. He assured me that what happened was unusual and the kitchen would be completed quickly. He assured me it would be his priority. He assured me there would be no other jobs save for the period between the counter measuring and the counter installation. I believe him.
He talked a lot about Jesus.
He interrupted my concerns with talk about Jesus.
He dismissed me with talk about Jesus.
Talk about Jesus and I believe you.
I trust you.
I lose all perspective and reason and judgment.
I never should have made the deposit. But I did. I did, once again, by giving him my credit card.
The work began and then the delays and the no-shows and the chaos and the stress of wondering if I would have a kitchen. I learned that the men working were not licensed in plumbing or electricity. For the electrical work, I researched all the codes to ensure it would be safe. As for the plumbing, my main water valve was damaged. SIGH.
The gaps between the tiles the contractor and his wife and his grandson—yes, I had a youth working in my house—were so large that grout wouldn't hold them down. A large part of the problem was that the contractor's wife started working in the opposite direction, planning to meet up at the edge that was already laid. All of their third of the floor should have been pulled up and re-set, but the contractor's wife was so ugly about doing the area that was the worst, I gave up. I did also eventually have to have a large section re-grouted because the contractor did not fill the grout to the edge of the tiles.
I had to order wallpaper in the middle of the hanging because the contractor did not know how to estimate wallpaper, but also because there was so much waste. Rather than the single additional double roll, the hanging required four! No matter how often I tried to point out the pattern repeat, the contractor's wife just insisted the repeat did not matter. Plus, the grandson kept dropping the rolls, tearing the sides of the paper in the process. The best matches are the ones I kept insisting be adjusted, but I was not welcome in my own kitchen. I would try to stay and then would cave and leave. So, all of the paper is mis-matched, some seams worse than others. And there is a large gap beneath one window that has a patch behind it, the patterned doubled for about 1.5 inches.
The plaster on the sink run wall was heavily damaged with the cabinet removal and it was not leveled when patched. So, there is a great concave area. Right above the dishwasher. More than a quarter inch in the center of the gap. Making the silent dishwasher rather noisy with the sound coming up the wall. And, of course, the counter backsplash is not flush against the wall.
The contractor put a 30 amp plug and a 30 amp outlet in for the stove. The 50 amp stove. Had I not caught that error, I could have lost my house to fire. I most certainly would have lost my new stove. One of the workmen started to join 12.2 wire to 14.2 wire, leading back to a 15 amp circuit breaker. Another fire hazard before I had it changed. The work in the kitchen is all to code, in what was done, but I missed two mistakes in the garage. My regular electrician is coming to render safe the garage. He already had to restore power to the shower because the workmen removed the power source to that junction box. I learned that the half-bath requires an outlet and the light switch to be moved inside. I also learned that there must be an outlet for every 2 feet of counter run. So, I will be adding an outlet in the kitchen and the switch and outlet in the bath.
The contractor, advertising and claiming that he is licensed, bonded, and insured, will provide no proof of his bond, no insurance certificate (his son told me that the workmen were not insured), and appears to have no license in my county. He also failed to pull permits for the work he was doing. Instead of providing the documentation and the release of lien, as per the contract, he instead sent a bill for almost the same amount as the original contract and said he was going to put a lien on my house unless I paid it.
The "extras" do not follow the contract. Any additions or alterations requiring additional costs are to be in writing, are to be written change orders, co-signed by both the contractor and myself. No such change orders exist. So, in court, I will will. That is no comfort. None.
When desperation set it, I let go of some of the work, such as the glass tile backsplash, and started doing work myself to keep the project moving along. I would ask at the beginning of the day anyone showed up what the plan for the day was and at the end of the day the plan for the next day. Mostly, whatever was said would be changed or ignored, but I pushed and pushed and pushed for things to be done.
I found out that the contractor charged my credit card for the balance of the wall payment, before it was finished. Without my permission. Without telling me. When his son started telling me rather horrifying stories of things that were done at other jobs—such as repairing a roof by re-using tiles, but charging the customer for new materials and painting over mold, but presenting it as removed—and telling me how his father would request final payment before a job was finished and then not really finish it, I realized I should cancel my credit cards. All I could think about was all the automated payments I have set up since I struggle so much with bills. But ultimately I took the plunge. While hearsay, I was told that the contractor tried to charge my cards the day after I canceled them.
Suddenly, work progressed. A sort of conclusion was reached. And then the bombshells ... the new bill, the confirmation of no permits, the inability to find a license number for him, the lack of insurance....
When sent the bill, I repeated my request for his license number, insurance certificate, bond information, and release of lien. Because I realized there were no permits, I asked for them. I have heard nothing from the contractor in 9 days. But I hear him all day long.
I did ask the workmen for my keys back and for the extra remote for the garage back. So, I am fairly sure the contractor cannot come into my home. But for weeks I had folk in my home I did not want, especially his wife and grandson doing work that was to be done by ... well ... experts. For weeks I wondered if I would end up with a functional kitchen. And for weeks, since the son started speaking about "additional costs," I feared what bills might come, even though I was doing work myself and buying materials myself just to get to a finishing point I could swallow given the money the contractor had taken in down payment.
So, why am I afraid?
If I answered it, you would not understand.
If I could answer that in a way I can understand, I would not be.
The plan for the parlor wall was to create three glass transom windows, since I would be shutting off the parlor from the outside windows. A friend suggested I go to this reclamation store to find trim to match my house. I did. And there I found two French doors from a book case. Joined together and framed with reclaimed trim, they make a transom nearly the full length of the wall that looks as if it has been in the house from the beginning. But when I asked him to help me figure out how much trim I needed, the contractor wouldn't do it. He just said I would know what I needed. I explained how much I struggled cognitively and he ignored me. The owners of the shop tried to help and together we made a best guess. We were short because of how the contractor used the wood. I put a sticky note on each piece, specifying where it would go to maximize the available trim. He pulled them off and ignored them. And wasted wood.
I really didn't matter to him. My costs didn't matter to him. The project did not matter to him. I tried to pretend it did, but all you have to do is look closely at the mitered edges and you will know just how little he thought of his work, of my work.
From afar, the wall is beautiful. Since most folk do not look up, hardly anyone will notice all the stained wood filler and the uneven joints. Since most folk do not look down, hardly anyone will notice the height difference base piece of trim on both sides of the door. I, however, am not most folk. The dismissal and disregard bother me, though, more than the poor work.
Part of the shame is that I waxed poetically about the transom because I could not physically see the work, with my vision problems. Ashamed of the waste and of the crumpled sticky notes, I neglected to mention them. It was not until I started working on putting orange oil on all the old wood, standing on a ladder, could I see the gaps and the crookedness and the lack of care.
One day, the work team came back and saw the tiled floor and one of the men asked me why I would even accept such shoddy work. They had laid the first 2/3rds and had done a beautiful job. I didn't answer him. I used his scorn for my acceptance to at least get the worst bit redone. But he wouldn't understand how bullied I felt and how much fear I had of both the contractor and his wife. I couldn't explain how I was mostly just being quiet and still and waiting for it to all be over.
I did not know, then, that I had un-insured and un-licensed workers doing un-permited work. I would learn that later. But I did start listening to the stories the men told about other jobs. And I was really horrified and even more fearful.
My victory is that I know that all the wiring is safe. I suppose you could say that another victory is that I am back to a working kitchen, but I am not so sure about that. I look about the kitchen and see my failure. I look about the kitchen and turn my face from the reminder of the felling my mind and body took during the seven weeks the contractor was in my house. I look about the kitchen and I feel the fear rising within me.
What will he do next?
Will he show up at my door?
When will this be over?
So, Amos barks and I jump and tremble and weep and look for a place to hide.
All day.
Every day.
That is the truth about the kitchen.
I am Yours, Lord. Save me!
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