: Anna Nasset
: Now I Speak From Stalked to Standing Up
: Ballast Books
: 9781955026888
: 1
: CHF 12.80
:
: Biographien, Autobiographien
: English
: 328
: kein Kopierschutz
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
On November 4th, 2011, in Port Townsend, Washington, Anna Nasset was creating a window display after hours at the art gallery she proudly called her own. When a man appeared before her with a painting under his arm, Anna experienced the briefest moment of hesitation before opening her door-and her world-to a man who would stop at nothing in his attempts to tear her life apart from that moment forward. That is, until Anna decided to stand up and fight back. Now a fierce public advocate for creating awareness around the crime of stalking that controlled her every move for the better part of a decade, Anna shares her experience as a survivor of stalking in a ruthless fight for justice in Now I Speak. Told through a series of flashbacks, first-person narration, and evidence from the landmark case that saw her stalker receive one of the longest sentences for the crime in U.S. history, Now I Speak delves even deeper into Anna's personal past to uncover a history of abuse and vulnerability, each experience adding fuel to the fire of Anna's determination. Anna's debut memoir provides a clear call to action: It's time to stand up to stalking.

CHAPTER TWO

November 5 – 10, 2011

Stalkers use many tactics, including:

  • Making unwanted phone calls.
  • Approaching the victim or showing up in places when the victim does not want them to.
  • Following and watching the victim.
  • Sending unwanted texts, photos, emails, and messages through social media.
  • Sending unwanted gifts.
  • Using technology to monitor, track, and/or spy on the victim.2

The following day felt like Christmas as I bounded down the small spiral staircase of my lofted bedroom. It was gallery walk day, my day to shine and give my gift to the community in the form of art. Much like parents on Christmas morning, I was already exhausted and driven by the joy of giving to others. I put on a soft, threadbare, black and white flannel shirt and another pair of hand-me-down designer jeans and selected white Ray-Bans from the collection. They were the only expensive pair of sunnies I owned, and gallery walk day required a little extra flair.

Rachel, my faithful gallery employee, greeted me at the shop’s door with camera in hand, snapping pictures of me and the works on the walls. A true child of the West Coast hippie movement, Rachel radiated quirk and delight. Her shock of red hair with its ever-present red rose pinned in matched my caffeinated buzz of enthusiasm.

Being a popular destination on the gallery walk required throwing a damn good party, and the list to accomplish before the opening was long. Help the DJ unload his speakers. Climb on top of the door frame to install a projection system, which I would later use to simulcast a gallery opening in Seattle. Pull together the cardboard dress I had abandoned in frustration the evening before. Set up the wine station. Get the wine.Do I have enough plastic cups? What am I wearing tonight? The list was never-ending. The previous owner, who’d entrusted me to take the helm, had turned the gallery into the hotspot it was. I worked my ass off to live up to this obligation, pressure, and standard and then make it more prominent than anyone could have ever imagined.

I was perched on the gallery’s door frame, completing the projector task. A reporter from thePeninsula Daily News popped in and asked me to come down from my perch. I wiggled my body off the ledge and down the ladder, back to the sacred earth of my gallery. He presented me with a piece of paper, and I beamed as I read the certificate. My eyes misted over the faintest bit. I had won Best Gallery on the Olympic Peninsula. I was crushing it!

The summer of 2009 found me hunched over a table in the guest bedroom riddled with Carson’s clutter as I went about the daunting task of writing the business plan for my gallery. Every time I tried to tidy and organize the room, he would bring in more outdoor gear, yard sale scores, and junk. I rode high on our engagement, only a few months old, and turned my back to the apparent lack of support as he packed his belongings around my tiny corner while I tried to write my future.