MP of the week: Timothy Geren

I’ve finally changed the missing person of the week for the first time in over a month. (Flashback Friday and Select It Sunday will resume this weekend, barring any unexpected events.) It’s Timothy Soloman Geren, missing from Modesto, California since March 22, 2012. He was 32 years old at the time and would be 36 today if he’s still alive.

I did some searching to see if I could come up with more info and found an entry in the CDOJ database which has another photo of him, and this Crime Stoppers page that has a small tidbit of additional info. He had just been released from jail when he disappeared — on what charge, I don’t know. I found this document that says he was convicted of car theft and drunk driving in 2009 and sentenced to four years. I wonder if that’s the offense. A release in 2012 would be about right, time-wise, assuming he got out early on parole or whatever, but it says he was released from jail, not state prison.

Anyway, beyond that I have absolutely nothing on Geren and haven’t updated his case since it got posted almost three years ago. If he was on parole from early release from prison, you’d think they’d list him as a fugitive rather than a missing person. The fact that he’s listed as missing rather than a fugitive may indicate the cops think something bad happened to him — but I don’t even know if he was actually on parole when he disappeared, or if his prior criminal activities are at all related to his disappearance.

MP of the week cases like this one present a dilemma: I want to take the opportunity to publicize cases that haven’t had much or any press, but those same cases hardly make for gripping material for this blog.

Geren does have loads of distinctive tattoos worth noting, though.

Woo, social media

The Charley Project’s Facebook Page now has 5,840 “likes”; I average about 40 – 50 new ones every week. So it won’t be long till I’ve reached 6,000. The Twitter account — which I have reactivated (I had let it lapse during my recent crisis), which tweets about two Charley Project MPs every day with links to the entries, is now up to 946 “likes”. Woo. Not too long till it reaches 1,000.

You can see the stats for the actual Charley Project itself here. As you can see, it averages about eight to ten thousand unique visitors a day. And WordPress says I have made 2,892 posts since the blog’s inception (in late 2008), and had 20,304 comments. I almost never reject a comment, even if the commenter is criticizing me or generally being a jerk. Exceptions include spam (obviously) and posts with a lot of cuss words. There are a few of my blog posts though, (mainly ones about the rape) that I don’t allow comments on. And I will also delete comments after the fact if the commenter (or the person I’ve written about in that entry) asks me to.

The blog averages about 2,000 unique visitors every day. And you have no idea how much you guys mean to me, and how you’ve helped me get though bad times, such as the recent crisis. It’s so nice to get support and know people are rooting for me, even if they don’t even know me. And I’ve made a few actual friends that started out as them posting comments. I’ve never met any of them in person but we do talk on the phone.

Thank you all.

Make-a-List Monday: Angels

People with “Angel” somewhere in their name.

  1. Angela Abbrederis
  2. Angela Elaine Allen
  3. Angela Renae Ambrocio
  4. Ingrid Angela Anderson
  5. Joann Angel
  6. Angela Estella Burns
  7. Angela Lynn Chan
  8. Miguel Angel Cisneros
  9. Angelina J. Cocuzza
  10. Angela Joann DeLawder
  11. Angelina Joy Evans
  12. Angela Lee Freeman
  13. Jose Angel Fuentes Jr.
  14. Angela Marie Fullmer
  15. Mary Angela Gallegos
  16. Angel Gallegos-Guzman
  17. Angel Garcia
  18. Mario Angel Gastellum-Villa
  19. Angelo Nicola Gatti Jr.
  20. Angela Marie Gilbert
  21. Samantha Angel Gonzales
  22. Jose Angel Grimaldo
  23. Angela R. Gross
  24. Angela Gray Hamby
  25. Angela Marie Hammond
  26. Angela Hartmann
  27. Angela Kay Holsinger
  28. Angela Whalen Hudson
  29. Angelique Emily James
  30. Angela Rene Jaramillo
  31. Jose Angel Julian
  32. Angelica Cassandra Livingston
  33. Angelo Leo
  34. Angelica Maria Longoria
  35. Joe Angel Luiz
  36. Angela Colleen Luttrell
  37. Angela Kay Marshky
  38. Angela Nichole Martinez
  39. Alyssa Angelique McLemore
  40. DeAngelo Marquis McNeil
  41. Enrique Angel Medel
  42. Angela Mae Meeker
  43. Angel A. Garcia Montero
  44. Winter Angel Rose Parks
  45. Angel Marie Phelps
  46. Angelo Gene Puglisi
  47. Angela Mae Rader
  48. Angela Sigrid Ramsey
  49. Angela Y. Reeder
  50. Angela Arlene Robles
  51. Luis Angel Sanchez
  52. Angelica Esperanza Sandoval
  53. Angel Manuel Santiago
  54. Angel Rene Sexton
  55. Angela Pitz Smith
  56. Angela Cherice Gwinn Stephens
  57. Angel Antonio Torres
  58. Angel Torres-Irizarry
  59. Angela Trujillo
  60. Angie Denise Tucker
  61. Angelica Marie Uballe
  62. Angelica Valenzuela
  63. Angela Loraine Westberry
  64. Angela Lynn Williams
  65. Michelle Angela Yarnell

Whaddaya know!

You might recall a bit of commentroversy last summer when I added a photo to Zulma Pabon’s casefile that looked nothing like all the other pictures. I had gotten the photo from the Virginia State Police and I called them and they swore it was legit, but I decided to remove it.

Well, I don’t know if it was my inquiry that set things in motion or what, but if you go to the Virginia State Police MP listings now and scroll down, you’ll find the old photo of Zulma replaced by two ones that are definitely her.

Ah, conflicting information, my old friend!

I had gotten more than one request to put up Anna Manning, who disappeared in 1992, since there’s been some recent press about her disappearance. So, okay, why not? I’ve begun writing up her case and right away spotted a problem:

Anna’s NamUs entry lists her height as 60 inches, or five feet even, and her weight as 108 pounds. However, this article about her case from the Advocate Messenger says she was 5’10 and 108 pounds.

I wonder if perhaps the newspaper meant to write 5’01 instead. In any case, unless I hear otherwise I’m going with the lower height. 108 pounds is about average height for a five-foot (or five-foot-one) woman. For someone five-foot-ten, at 108 pounds is quite underweight.

It would be just my luck, though, if my guess turns out to be wrong and I wind up listing this poor woman as nine inches shorter than she actually was. These sort of discrepancies are part of the reason we’ve got so many unidentified bodies in potter’s fields all over the country.

(Also, apropos of nothing: while I was at the doctor’s the other day, a third-year medical student was shadowing him and sat in on our appointment. Dr. Bruno said I should tell him about the Charley Project, so I did and it turned out he’d already heard of it! Not terribly surprising, since it was covered in local TV and print media a few years ago, but still a nice experience for me.

The young man looked up the Charley Project online and said, “You have your own subreddit. I want a subreddit.”)

A bit of explanation

I find it difficult to tell you guys what happened without violating other people’s privacy or seeming to bad-mouth them or anything. I’ll do the best I can.

This is kinda long and self-indulgent. Skip it if you like.

Anyway, this month everything hit me at once. Most of it had to do with either Nick’s death and/or a long-simmering turf war I’ve been having with Michael’s mother. In fact if Nick had not died chances are the blowup with Michael’s mom wouldn’t have happened — at least, not at this time.

A few days after the funeral I started throwing up everything. I couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. It went on for about two weeks. I’m not sure if it was anxiety or what. I know I was really, really hungry, and I never feel hungry when I’m having an actual stomach illness.

This lead to me having to stop taking the psychiatric medications I use to keep my brain from trying to kill me. I called up the nurse at the psych clinic I go to and she was like “just wait till you start puking, then start taking them again.”

Naturally the medicines ceased to be effective and I became extremely depressed. I couldn’t seem to do anything but lie around the house either sleeping or watching TV programs or YouTube vids or whatever. I didn’t go near my desktop, though I was on Facebook and web surfing a bit with my tablet. I couldn’t even read any books. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: Meaghan the Book Nut was so depressed she could not even read.

Eventually the vomiting stopped and I resumed taking my medication, but the stuff takes awhile to start working again. In fact, sometimes if you stop taking certain psych drugs and then start taking them again, they stop working altogether. (That’s what killed David Foster Wallace. He decided to stop taking Nardil and try newer antidepressants with fewer side effects, but it turned out none of the zillion other antidepressants worked for him, and when he went back to Nardil it no longer worked. Poor man hanged himself. See here.)

So the waiting game began. Waiting for the medicine to work again.

The housework had piled up. Dishes filled both sinks and then the counter on either side. There were pots left on the stove, some of them still containing dried-out food. I hadn’t done my laundry in a month and was wearing my last pair of pants over and over. Empty pop bottles and not-necessarily-empty pizza boxes colonized the living room. Etc etc etc. All of which made me feel just worse.

It’s not like I didn’t want to get things done. I just…couldn’t. Like, there was this bottle of pop sitting on the floor. It had been in that position for days. In fact, it was still in the shopping bag it had come home in. I thought: Pick it up. Come on, just do it. Pick it up, it’s not that hard. Pick it up and put it in the fridge and you will at least have done something today, you useless piece of crap. I stared at that pop bottle for what seemed like ages and I just couldn’t pick it up.

(And if you are wondering where Michael was during all of this, I answer: working from 7:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. most nights.)

Michael’s parents come over every Saturday and they have lunch. They also clean the house. Even when I’m not depressed, I can’t keep things up to his mother’s standards. I will admit these standards are not unreasonable. She wants clean carpets, no trash lying around, etc. She’s not OCD or anything. My problem is that my parents never cleaned the house when I was growing up and I simply don’t realize when things need cleaned, or if I do realize it I often don’t know what to do about it.

I will also admit to a bit of laziness, and some differences of opinion. MUST dishes be cleaned immediately after use? Wouldn’t it be more efficient to let the sink fill up and do a whole lot at once? Is it TRULY necessary to wipe off the counter with a wet sponge both before and after you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Is it really THAT careless to toss your jacket on a convenient chair when you come inside, rather than hanging it in the closet?

But anyway, Michael’s mom was shocked at the state of the house last weekend with all the garbage and the dishes and whatnot. We had already been tense with each other for some time. She is not a bad person but we think very differently about things and Michael says there’s a communication problem: she’s totally misinterpreting stuff I do and I’m doing the same thing to her. But we want to get along with each other, because when we don’t it makes Michael unhappy.

We — that is, Michael and his mother, and Michael and I, and his mother and I — have all talked to each other and we’re trying to work some stuff out, arrange a truce basically. But that’s now. Last weekend was just the worst of my entire life. One thing lead to another and I wound up having two different psych evals — as in, was I a danger to myself, should I be admitted. I told them we’d already had one suicide in the family this year and didn’t need another.

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, explained about Nick’s death and the fallout and how I’m so anxious that my back has been locked up for eight solid days now — the muscles are knotted and it’s quite painful — and asked for some anti-anxiety medication. He told me I was already taking anti-anxiety medication and had I seen my family doctor about my back? I said I had and she prescribed Valium, which had absolutely no effect. He said that if even Valium didn’t work to loosen things up, there was nothing he could do for me, but he thought I’d feel gradually less anxious as the drugs started working again.

And they have started working again, as you might be able to tell by the Charley Project updates I’ve been posting. A tip for people: if I’m not updating Charley, unless I say it’s for a specific reason (I’m on vacation or something), usually there’s something wrong in my life. When I’m updating things are usually going pretty well.

I’m getting up. I am starting to feel like myself again. Though we’ll have to see what happens when Michael’s parents come for their usual Saturday visit.

“So now get up.”

“So now get up.”

Felled, dazed, silent, he has fallen; knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard. His head turns sideways; his eyes are turned toward the gate, as if someone might arrive to help him out. One blow, properly placed, could kill him now.

These are the opening lines to Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantell, one of my favorite novels and my definite favorite in terms of adult historical fiction. The “he” referred to is Thomas Cromwell, who was Henry VIII’s personal secretary and traditionally a historical baddie; the book attempts to salvage his reputation. The miniseries, available for streaming on Amazon, is really awesome too.

So. Anyway. Forget about Cromwell for a moment.

Last night after Michael went to bed I sat down and forced myself to start writing Charley updates. Just do a few, I told myself. Do some recent ones, pull them from the CDOJ database, to pad out the brand new 2015 space you’ve opened up. And one thing lead to another and I wound up doing more than just a few.

And today I wrote a Make-a-List Monday for next week. So things are coming back together, is what I mean.

I get in a very low frame of mind, is what I’m saying, feeling like I’m being kicked around this way and that by life, knocked flat on my stomach and still being beaten, and I wonder what the point is.

But really, there’s nothing to do but get up.