This Body is Bullshit

We had just gotten back from a weekend at our happy place—one of those rare weekends where your cup is full, your soul feels lighter, and you’re still carrying the good vibes from being with your favorite people. I was feeling calm, recharged, even a little joyful.

Then I pulled into the driveway and waved at my neighbor across the street. We’ve always had a friendly, casual relationship—shared drinks, pool days, laughter, neighborly favors. She once walked my 170-pound mastiff Gus when I was recovering from surgery. I thought we were good. But when I smiled and said, “Hey, happy Memorial Day!” she just stared at me like I had five heads.

And that’s when things started to get…weird.

She began ignoring me entirely. Then came the yelling inside the house—full-blown screaming at her husband. Doors slamming. Things breaking. One day the back storm door was on the curb broken. She plays music in the yard so loud it’s become a neighborhood issue. She’s cursed at people walking their dogs. She accused new neighbors of gossiping and called the rest of us “cocksuckers.” Charming, really.

It was escalating fast. One day, I went out to grab the garbage cans, and she approached me like nothing had happened. She asked if I’d been having trouble with my phone or internet. I said no. Then she told me she’s on her third phone because the others were “bugged.” That her husband has wired the house and is trying to make her crazy. And that my voice has been tormenting her through her speakers for months.

You read that right. She believes I’m somehow living in her walls, using AI to harass her.

I was stunned. It was hard to keep a straight face, not because it was funny (okay, maybe a little) but because it was deeply bizarre and unsettling. I got inside and immediately called our other neighbor, Teri, who’s also had some strange encounters with her. Apparently, she told Teri the same thing—voices in the house—and even accused her of using her job at NASA to move satellites to mess with their electricity. Teri said she shut off the power for two hours to try and track down the source.

There’s a part of me that feels awful—she’s clearly in crisis. She needs help. But there’s also a part of me that’s annoyed. Unnerved. Frankly creeped out. And I think that’s valid too.

Because now she sits outside every night in a chair facing our house. Just…sits there. No book. No phone. Just staring. A few times during dinner, she’s come into the parkway with her hands on her hips, watching us through the windows. My dad was over once and we had to ask him to stop looking back at her because it felt like we were in some suburban standoff. It’s deeply uncomfortable.

At a friend’s urging, Matt and I went to the police station—not to get her in trouble, but to get something on record in case things escalate. The officer we spoke to was kind. He told us this wasn’t the first time something had been reported. And thankfully, our town now has a social worker on staff. She’s been referred.

I hope she gets help. I do. I don’t wish her harm. But I also need to feel safe in my own home, and right now, I don’t. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. I’m tired of wondering if I’ll be accused of something I can’t possibly explain. I’m tired of trying to feel both compassionate and protected at the same time.

This isn’t just quirky behavior. It’s unsettling. And it’s exhausting.

And for the record: I’m not in her walls.