For years, I believed I belonged in this neighborhood.
I raised my children here. We celebrated birthdays, barbecues, and quiet Sunday mornings. My neighbors waved hello. Some, like the retired couple at the end of the cul-de-sac—“the bullies,” I’ve come to call them—seemed kind, even grateful. They trusted us enough to ask for favors when they traveled: “Can you pick up our mail?” “Could you check if any flyers are left on the door?” We never said no.
I even saved the man’s life once. He was stuck in a tree—his ladder had slipped, and he was stranded. I just happened to be leaving my house when I heard him yelling for help. No one else was around. I ran over, pulled the ladder back into place, and helped him down. He thanked me. And for a while, it felt like we were neighbors in the best sense of the word.
But things changed after my divorce. Once my children grew up and moved out, I was alone in the house—and suddenly, the tone shifted. The polite smiles faded. The requests stopped. And the scrutiny began.
At first, it was subtle. A cold shoulder here. An intrusive question there. Then came the escalation.
They began intercepting my contractors—literally chasing them off the property with demands and threats. They told them they weren’t allowed to trim the large oak tree that hangs between our houses. It’s their tree, yes—but only their side. The side dangling dangerously over my yard? That was, apparently, my problem. But not one I was allowed to fix.
Then came the bushes. I planted them along the side of my home—neatly, legally, and well within my property line. To be sure, I hired two independent surveyors. Both confirmed the bushes were entirely on my land. But the bullies didn’t care. It wasn’t about boundaries—it was about control. They simply didn’t want me planting anything there, so they kept giving me a hard time, confronting me again and again as if I’d done something wrong.
When I called a roofer for an estimate, he barely made it to my door. The bullies intercepted him in the street, bombarded him with questions, and made it clear he wasn’t welcome. After he left, he called me from his car.
“Your neighbor was waiting at the end of the street, waving me down like I did something wrong,” he said.
“These people are sick. I’m not stopping for that.”
It was harassment, plain and simple.
They kept inventing problems that didn’t exist. One example: a backyard light fixture I installed. They claimed it violated HOA brightness rules—despite the fact that it wasn’t pointed at their home and met every requirement. I wasn’t breaking any rules; they just wanted to intimidate me. Still, I re-angled it multiple times to appease them, hoping to avoid more conflict. But it was never really about the light. It was about control.
But the complaints weren’t about light—they were about control. Their threats to report me for HOA violations were never about the rules. They were about intimidation. A way to keep me on edge. A warning: push back, and you’ll pay.
They didn’t want me improving my home—they wanted to sabotage it.
When I brought in a sprinkler technician, they followed him around my yard, questioning and harassing him until he eventually came inside to whisper, “Your neighbors are acting crazy. They were following me and harassing me. I almost left.”
It’s not just sabotage. It’s the isolation. The weaponization of a neighborhood association that I, like everyone else, pay monthly dues to. But unlike everyone else, I became the target of selective enforcement.
Despite being served with two formal cease and desist notices, the bullies trespassed behind my home and took photos of a small piece of foam—something I used to redirect sprinkler water. It was tucked behind bushes, inside my fenced yard, completely invisible from the street. You’d have to go looking for it on purpose. It was a simple, harmless fix for a routine issue. But the bullies weren’t interested in peace—they saw an opportunity to pounce.
They sent an email to their personal friend and HOA insider / inspector—claiming I made unauthorized modifications to my fence. Without visiting, without speaking to me, the inspector issued an official violation. It was absurd. And clearly biased.
When I called the HOA inspector for clarification, it was obvious he had already made up his mind. He sounded rehearsed. Defensive. Cold. He insisted I remove the 4×10 piece of foam. When I pointed out that it wasn’t a fence alteration, wasn’t visible to the public, and didn’t violate any rule, he pushed back harder.
It felt like I was on trial for living in my own home.
Eventually, I contacted his supervisor. Once I explained the relationship between the inspector and my neighbors, the fabricated violation was dropped. But by then, the damage was done. The message had been received.
I was not welcome.
I tried seeking help. I called the police over five times. Each time, I was told it was a civil matter. “We don’t get involved in neighbor disputes,” they said.
I filed two separate injunctions. Both were denied. “Not a safety issue,” the judge said. After the second denial, he suggested I file a lawsuit—as if that were an easy option. But I didn’t have that kind of money. I’m a single woman trying to make a living, raising children, paying for college, rescuing animals—just surviving. Litigation was never a realistic path. And they knew it. That’s why they kept pushing—because they could.
I reached out to the police, again and again. Over five calls. Each time, I was told it was a civil matter. “We don’t get involved in neighbor disputes,” they said. I even emailed the chief of police. A woman named Mary called me back, repeating the same line. When I requested records of my reports and call logs, the answer came: “No records. All cases closed.”
I tried the mayor’s office. Nothing. No reply.
I was being harassed, bullied, and defamed—and no one would help.
This is what power looks like when it’s unchecked.
This is how wealth and proximity to authority can crush the quiet people—the ones who just want peace.I never wanted a fight. I just wanted a home.
But in this cul-de-sac, survival became an act of defiance.
***
***
The ManifestStation publishes content on various social media platforms many have sworn off. We do so for one reason: our understanding of the power of words. Our content is about what it means to be human, to be flawed, to be empathetic. In refusing to silence our writers on any platform, we also refuse to give in to those who would create an echo chamber of division, derision, and hate. Continue to follow us where you feel most comfortable, and we will continue to put the writing we believe in into the world.
***
Our friends at Corporeal Writing are reinventing the writing workshop one body at a time.
Check out their current online labs, and tell them we sent you!
***
Inaction is not an option,
Silence is not a response
Check out our Resources and Readings
