Do You Know Mental Illness When You See It Or Hear It?

If there’s one thing that the last 30 years (1991 -2021) has taught me is that the vast majority of people do not have a clue what mental illness is.  Or how to know it when they hear it or see it.

Take for example, a woman who claims she can read minds.

Does she take advantage of all the remarkable opportunities such a gift can bestow upon her life or does she spend the next thirty years (1991 – 2021) screaming at the top of her lungs about the horrible things done to her by a woman she’s never, ever met in her life.  While at the same time, raising her children to do the exact same thing (screaming, stalking, and extracting revenge through financial, physical, and mental violence).  Even training them to sound like her? What good is the ability to read minds if your own mind is totally warped and mall functioning?  To me, she’s an extreme case of serious, harmful mental illness.

What are the 5 signs of mental illness?

The five main warning signs of mental illness are as follows:

  • Excessive paranoia, worry, or anxiety.
  • Long-lasting sadness or irritability.
  • Extreme changes in moods.
  • Social withdrawal.
  • Dramatic changes in eating or sleeping pattern.

However, I’ve been told that she, the woman screaming, is perfectly fine and normal, because she’s expressing her anger

Google question:  Is expressing your anger in violent ways normal

It is not uncommon to feel guilty or ashamed about being angry, even though it’s a very normal and necessary emotion. Anger only becomes unhealthy when it’s expressed in a way that hurts others or yourself. … There are many ways of expressing your anger, but becoming violent should never be an option.

My question is, ‘Why do you think it’s fine and normal to express anger which includes violence done to another person, especially if you’re angry over something you imagined happened?’

That would explain all the shootings being done by perfectly normal, rational people.

Colorado Mass Shooting

Let’s look at the other side of what most people took for mental illness.

The accused quiet woman swears she’s never met the screaming woman.   Yes, she has seen and heard the screaming woman often.  But, the quiet woman swears she’s never done anything, that she knows, of to the screaming woman.  Never slept with her, or her boyfriend or her husband.  Neither has she ever done anything to the screaming woman or her kids.  The only thing she’s ever done was try and report the screaming woman’s odd behavior and the fact that the screaming woman was stalking her, the quiet woman, to the Police.  That the quiet woman freely admits she did.    

However, she was not believed and was the one sent to the psychiatrist.

Decades later, the quiet woman was still trying to get the Police and the Village officials to believe the screaming woman was mentally ill and should be committed for her own good and the safety of others.   Again, the quiet woman was considered the mentally ill one. 

So, the quiet woman gives up and decides she has no other choice but to live her life listening to the screaming woman screaming day and night, night and day, while being stalked by her and her family. 

Now, the Police and Village Officials are really convinced that the quiet woman is the crazy one.  Because no sane person would choose to live that way.  She didn’t.  They chose for her.

I have absolutely become convinced that a large majority of Americans do not know what mental illness looks or sounds like.  And even if they did, there’s very little, if anything, they can do about it.  Trust me.  I know.

The Atlanta spa Shootings

Eliza D. Ankum

P.S. 30 years later, the Police and Village Officials want the quiet woman to see another psychiatrist in hopes that the psychiatrist can explain to her, that, yes, she was being stalked and viciously screamed at (verbally harassed) in such a way that the quiet woman won’t lose her mind and go out and express her anger.   But, mostly, they want the quiet woman to stop doing whatever it is she’s doing that causes the screaming woman to scream like that.   

I think they call that bad thing the quiet woman is doing, breathing.

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 59

Chapter 59

For mature audiences only

SHE WAS EXACTLY THE TYPE he loved to rape.   She wasn’t a whore! She was someone’s wife, mother, sister, and daughter.  She was loved.  That’s what made it so damn tantalizing.  Killing her would cause the most excruciating pain to those who loved her.  There’d be the inevitable, why’s, if only’s, and of course, the most odious guilt trip of them all, I should have.

No, he didn’t have to rape.  He liked to rape.  Hence his chosen nickname for himself, WARONS. Which was an acronym for Westside Area Rapist Original Night Stalker. He’d read something similar in Joseph James DeAngelo’s case file.  The California newspapers had nicknamed him EARONS – East Area Rapist Original Night Stalker.

DeAngelo, like him, was of that thick-necked, hard-headed, obstinate type so typical in the American Police Force.  

He was a tall, square chested, broad-shouldered, powerful looking man with large strong hands.  His jaw was set square.  His eyes, a clear, bright, and alert blue.  He had a wide forehead, equal and well set eyebrows, and a head full of straight, black hair that would have rendered him of Mexican heritage had not been for his blue eyes. 

He was, for most women, the quintessential, tall, dark, handsome, apple-pie eating American boy.  An American boy who liked to rape and kill women.

As Latrice Armstrong had left her mother’s house, in Canaryville, earlier that afternoon, he’d taken the liberty of writing down her license plate number.  While at work, on break, he’d ran it.  God, he loved being a cop.  Being a cop had opened up all types of women’s legs for him.  He’d raped women in their homes, in alleyways, store stockrooms, and once or twice, in broad daylight on the side of the highway. 

He liked raping ordinary women.  Not so much the hookers.  He’d only started doing them, for revenge, after learning of the connection between a certain Alderman and a Commander, who, as it turned out were both related, in one way or another, to the men who’d killed his father for raping Helen. 

There was no doubt in mind that his father had deserved being killed.  But to have his dick cut off and shoved down his throat and his body dumped on the front steps of their home like a worn out animal carcass was a step too far.

It had been his friend, Jerome’s mother, who had told his mother of what was being whispered about the neighborhood of the circumstances that had led to his father’s murder. 

“That poor negro child had come home, hysterical, without her underwear.  Said your husband had done things to her,” she’d whispered in the kitchen, over tea and knobby fingers of Rožky, to his mother.  Need-less-to-say, the woman was never allowed back in the house, again.

He was only taking up where his father had left off.  He was BTK, Son of Sam, and the Hillside Strangler all rolled into one.  He realized his father had been right all along. He was his father’s son.  He was an abomination.


Eliza D. Ankum

Author of

Flight 404 – A Novel of Aviation Disaster
Ruby Sanders (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 1)
Jared Anderson (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 2)
Ruby and Jared (The Ruby and Jared saga Book 3)
OneThreeThirteen – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1
The Hunt For Red November  A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2Mr. President – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 3
Dancing With The Fat Woman
Thou Shalt Eat Dust – A Second Chance Love Story
Eleanor Grunsback – An Ugly Woman’s Love Story
https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.comSTALKED! By VoicesA Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 4

Chapter 4

WARNING:  For mature audiences only

HE’D MANAGED TO GET an hour or so of sleep after ramming his cock up the girl’s tight ass a few more times.  He enjoyed fucking dead Black girls.  All of the fun and none of the sass, he thought as he rubbed his hand once more over the girls round firm ass.   She was still soft.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet.

“Mmmm,” he moaned rolling her over and ramming his right hand between her legs.  He rubbed furiously at her clit.  He wanted to see if even in death she’d cum.

He began urging her on.  “Come on.  I know you want to.  Show me you’re still in there.  Show me how I make you cum.”  Insulted that she did not show her appreciation for all of his hard work, he pulled his right hand from between her legs and slammed his balled up fist down hard in the center of her face.

“Whore!” he screamed, releasing his pent-up rage/

“Whore! That’s what you are.  That’s what all of you are!  Whores!”

He wanted to hurl things, throw things, and break things.  But knew better.  The less he touched in the room the easier it would be to clean.   Standing up, he looked down at the dead young Black girl’s body.  At least, he reminded himself, he still had her.

He picked up the girl’s body and threw it violently against the wall.  When it plopped to the floor, he calmly walked over and begin kicking it.  Still not sated, he reached down, grabbed a hand full of the long black human hair weave attached to the young Black girl’s head and started punching her beautiful bronze face until it was unrecognizable.  Emotionally satisficed, he dropped the body back in the middle of the bedroom floor from where he’d retrieve it later.

He was hot and sweaty and smelled of whore.  He needed a shower.  But that was against the rules.  Some of those new detectives down at the Bureau of Detectives actually worked. And he wasn’t about to help them by giving them his DNA.  He kicked the body one last time before retrieving his clothes from the funny looking orange chair beside the bed.   He dressed quietly, casting his eyes over at the lump of flesh on the floor from time to time.  He tied the last loop in his shoe laces and snarled, “Where’d you hide them, bitch?”  The young Black girl gave no answer to his question.

The man got up, slipped on a pair of gloves he kept in his pants pocket and searched the room for her keys.  The apartment door key and the downstairs door key.  He’d need them to get back in and finish his business.

He scanned the top of the dresser.  Nothing.  He pulled open every dresser drawer.  Every single one of them was empty.  Which meant this was a place of business for the girl.  It was not where she lived.  “Ahh,” he sighed aloud.  “Her purse.”  The keys and her phone will be in her purse.  Now, where the hell was her purse?

Then he remembered.  The last time, he’d done this, the whore had hidden her purse where she could get it if there was trouble.  Bathrooms were usually the only rooms with a lock.  He sauntered over to the bathroom, opened the door, and sure enough, there behind a stack of folded towels was a nice pink lady like bag.   “Humph,” he said to himself.  A whore with a lady like bag.  What the hell is this world coming to?”

He rummaged through it, careful not to leave any traces of himself and found what he was looking for.  The keys.

As cool as if he were going out for a summer stroll, he walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the door.

Outside, the sky was a dark navy blue indicating that sunrise was maybe two or three hours away.  He had time.

He walked slowly to his car, a white Buick Encore, that he’d parked around the block, unlocked the truck, and pulled out the Samsonite Winfield 2 Expandable rollaway suitcase he used for these occasions.  There was a reason he liked them petite.

Pulling on a baseball cap and keeping his head down, he made his way back to the apartment building and using the dead young Black girl’s keys, let himself back in.

The lump of flesh was still where he’d left it.  He knew what he had to do.   There was a reason he liked them petit.

First, he pulled the sheets from the bed and placed them on the floor next to the body.  He rolled the dead young Black girl’s body onto the sheets.  Opening the suitcase, he pulled out a turkey baster full of bleach and plunged it into the dead young Black girl’s vagina and squeezed until it was empty.  Then, he stuffed her, the sheets, and the pillow cases into the suitcase.  Satisfied with his work, he put the keys back in her purse and put the purse back where he’d found it.

He did one final check of the apartment, making sure he’d left nothing of himself, and assured that he had not, he left dragging the rollaway suitcase behind him.

He took Indiana Avenue south.  Passing First Unity Baptist Church, he knew he’d escaped the Police Station at 5101 S. Wentworth Avenue.  He didn’t slow down or speed up.  He didn’t even turn his head for a look see.  Instead, he kept going until he reached Cottage Grove Avenue.

He hung a left.  Things were going as planned.  Confident, he took another left onto 64th and stopped when he reached a section of apartment buildings near 65th and South Ingleside Avenue that had a large parking lot which was adjacent to an empty lot.

He parked his car under a large grove of trees.  He had to be careful now, it was getting light outside.  But he wanted to make sure that those leaving for work, early in the morning saw the fire.

He pulled the rollaway suitcase from the back of his car along with a bright red container of gasoline.  His lighter was in his pocket.  He said nothing.

Stooping behind one of the park’s large trash cans, he unzipped the suitcase and lifted the young Black girl’s body out of it and dumped it into the trash can.  He looked down at the sheet covering her naked body and smiled.  He stooped down again, picked up the bright red gasoline container and emptied its contents all over the sheets making sure every inch was saturated.  Then, he closed the suitcase, put the cap back on the container, removed his gasoline soaked gloves, pulled the light from his pocket, flicked it, and tossed it in.  The trash can erupted in flames.

The tall well-dressed solidly built man got back into his car and drove off.

Eliza D. Ankum

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 3

Chapter 3

WARNING:  For mature audiences only

IT WAS A NICELY DONE working girl’s bedroom.  Nothing too gaudy or too feminine that was off-putting to a man’s desire.  It had everything necessary to complete their transaction.  A king-sized bed.

He’d allowed her to led him in, undress him, fondle and suck on him, before he threw her on the bed and jammed his hot throbbing rod into her black cunt.

“Oh baby, that’s it.  Drive it deeper, faster, harder,” the young Black girl on the bed beneath him yelled.  She was only about seven years older than his daughter, Emma.  He shifted his weight and obeyed.

Her eyes were closed as she ground her pelvis into his pushing her hips up meeting his every downward plunge.

As she began climaxing, he shifted the weight of his body to his left arm and cupped his right hand around her slender bronze throat.  He pressed down hard with all of his strength.  The girl’s eyes popped open.  She began struggling beneath him, not with pleasure but with fear.  The more she struggled, the more excited he became.

Her slender arms and delicate hands pounded against the sides of his naked body.  And when she gored her bright red nails into his back in a desperate attempt to stop him from choking the life out of her, he only became more and more excited, pounding even harder and deeper inside her.

He prayed that the sound proofing in the building was good as he grunted loudly his cumming as the life seeped from the young Black girl.  It was even more exciting cumming inside her as she died.

He stayed on top of her and inside the body of the dead young Black girl, savoring the sensation of her lifeless body.

She’d been soooo good.  He’d have sex with her two or three more times before leaving.

He pulled out of her, rolled over onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling wondering what the fellas back at work would think of him if they knew.

Eliza D. Ankum


Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 2

Chapter 2

WARNING: For mature audiences only

THE YOUNG BLACK GIRL – a real stunner, in his opinion, with deep brown skin that shimmered like polished bronze in the glow of the apartment’s soft lights.  She was petite – no more than five-two – with a slim figure.  Just the way he like them.

When she’d opened the door, she’d smiled at him with a mouth full of perfectly white and perfectly aligned teeth that he was sure one of her other customers had foolishly laid out a giant wad of cash to get them done for her. Or, perhaps, he thought, one of her other clients was a dentist.

Hmmm, he thought, dwelling on the idea of what that rich, generous client would think about the work he was going to do on her tonight.

In that melty chocolatey voice that most women of her kind have, she said, “Come on in, sweetie.  I’ve been waiting anxiously for you.”

No, he thought, you haven’t.  But, he knew better.  He couldn’t allow her to see the beast, yet.

“Can I fix you a drink?”

“Yes,” he mumbled, following her down the short narrow hallway that led into a large living room that had floor to ceiling windows that offered up a view of downtown Chicago’s skyscrapers and Lake Michigan.  No wonder she had cost so much.  One thousand for the entire night.  She or her pimp had to pay the rent on this sucker.

He thought about his humble little three-bedroom house back in Beverly with its small fenced-in backyard.  The only view it offered was a view of his neighbor, Stanley’s, backyard.  And of his two teenage boys – Logan, 14 and Oliver, 16.  And how they had to share a bedroom so that their younger sister, Emma, who was 12, and on her way to becoming a woman, had the privacy she needed.   And here was this Black whore, living like this!

When the young Black girl bent over a glass and gold bar cart to pour him a drink, she gave him a look at her well rounded, generous behind.  He thought about his wife, Grace.

Grace was warm, loving, thoughtful, and in some ways, sexy as hell.  And she thought the world of him, and truthfully, would have done anything for him.  She loved him, and he knew it.

There was just one problem.  With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, she didn’t do for him what he needed.  She didn’t get his Johnson hard.

At home, he was a limp dick unless he fantasized about the raunchy black bitches he saw walking the streets.  Or he closed his eyes and played back in his head what he’d done to the other whores he’d had.  Same things he was going to do to this Black whore tonight.  Tomorrow night, he could make love to Grace.

Desire flared in him.  He reached out and stroked the young Black girl’s firm rounded ass.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re ready to go aren’t you?” the girl cooed.  Turning to him she ran her shimmery bronzed hand over the rock hard white bulge at the front of his pants.

“Ooooh.  That’s a pretty good sized one you got there sweetie.  Why don’t we go on into the bedroom and you let me play with him for a while?  I might even suck him.”

“Yes.  Why don’t we do that,” he answered, his voice husky with lust.”

“Good.  I can’t wait to ride him. Hard.”

Eliza D. Ankum



Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Warning:  For mature audiences only

THE TALL, WELL DRESSED, solidly built man scouted the hallway of the upscale apartment building located near South Indiana Avenue and East Hyde Park Blvd.  His work and personal cell phones had been turned off and safely stashed in a Faraday Cage in the trunk of his car.  A white Buick Encore.

He pulled an anonymous cell phone, which he used for just such occasions, from his jacket pocket and began scanning the apartment building’s unit numbers for the apartment number in the ad he’d pulled off the escort service’s internet page.

Finding the right unit, he paused outside the door letting the wave of excitement, regarding what he was about to do to the occupant of the apartment, wash over him.  Excited yet calm, he knocked on the door.  The burgundy painted door swung open before he could knock a third time.

The girl, as promised by the ad, was young, petite, very pretty with a shapely slim figure, and a gorgeous smile.  Even more importantly, she was African American.  Black.  She had to be.  It’s what got his juices going.  He’d had enough of white bread.  He needed something spicier.

All day long he saw them.  Watched them as they swung their amply rounded asses back and forth across the streets of his city.  Low cut tank tops with no bras and short denim shorts worn without the benefit of underwear.  Their chocolate brown sweaty skin glistening in the hot Chicago summer air that smelled of reefer and Jew-town polish sausages.

Eliza D. Ankum




John Lewis’ Final Crossing Of The Edmund Pettus Bridge

This morning, I got up to watch This Week With George Stephanopoulos, but instead, I had the good pleasure of witnessing US House Representative John Lewis’ final crossing of the Edmund Pettus Bridge.

If you missed it, you missed God’s salute to him.  

It started with the people.  As the horse drawn cart carrying Representative Lewis’ body neared the beginning of the bridge crossing, the people were yelling their love for him and praise for the work he’d done on their behalf.

But when that cart neared the top of the bridge, it got quiet.  You could no longer hear the people.  And then it started.  As a low buzzing that turned into a loud crescendo of katydids.

Click here to watch and LISTEN!

It was as if God was using them to say:

Well done!  My Good and faithful servant.

Black lives do matter to ALL of US (United States of America)

A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth
Eliza D. Ankum


Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 19

Chapter 19

THIS IS CHANNEL 4 NEWS Washington, DC.  And my name is Peter Rawlings and we’re coming on the air to bring you an update on a story we told you about earlier this evening. Continue reading

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 18

Chapter 18

JADONA STONE, Jade to her friends, sat in her office in the East Wing of the White House wondering how the hell had all of this happened. Continue reading

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 17

Chapter 17

RUYAH LAID DOWN on the elegant king-sized Embassy bed and allowed the tears she’d been holding back for the last few hours of her old life to flow. Continue reading