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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Joanna Dennehy

January 9, 2017

In just ten days, Joanna Dennehy murdered her housemate, her landlord, and a love interest, then drove across the country and attempted to carry out murders on two complete strangers she found out walking their dogs. Lacking both motive and remorse, her spree garnered a great deal of attention, with most people simply grappling to make sense of something that was ultimately nonsensical. 

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Nothing in her childhood would have suggested she was troubled, but as she reached adolescence she became rebellious, though that's more the norm than the exception. Unlike most teens, however, she seemed to exclude the people from her life that shed light on reality, choosing instead to surround herself with people who believed her every word, admired her faults, and followed her blindly. 

She sort of stuck in that adolescent phase, with romanticized ideas of being an outsider and no beliefs, values, passions, or hobbies to ground her. Her decisions were based on impulses--to drink or take drugs, to scare off her partner and children, to create alternate versions of her life and pass off stories as the truth. 

She left home at 15 to live with her 20 year old lover, John Treanor. They had two children, but she frequently told friends she never wanted them. She'd run off for days at a time and have affairs with different men and women, she was an alcoholic, and she was prone to increasingly violent temper tantrums when she didn't get her way. 
When she started carrying a dagger in her boot and talking about a desire to kill someone, Treanor decided it was time to take the children and leave. 

As Elizabeth Yardley put it in The Guardian:
"She came to value nothing, believe in nothing, reject society and any contribution she could make to it – pursuing only her own increasingly bizarre impulses in an existence where the line between fantasy and reality had become increasingly blurred."

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She describes Joanna as someone who completely fell through the metaphorical cracks of society and implores us to look within ourselves to find ways to help people like Joanna, before they have committed multiple murders. And while I don't disagree with Yardley, I do feel the need to ask "how?" 

Perhaps I'm unlucky, but I feel like I encounter quite a few people who will frequently pass their invented realities off as facts. And what's the best course of action here? You can take them aside, and tell them you don't believe them, but Joanna had dissenters as well, and those were the people she simply cut out of her life. Those closest to her, who knew her best -- her parents, sister, partner, and children, those are the people she ran the farthest from. It allowed her to maintain her illusions. She told her landlord that she had served time in prison for killing her father after he repeatedly raped her as a child -- a reality she fabricated. Whether he believed her or not, he wanted to help her, and ultimately it cost him his life.

I don't believe in pure evil, and I would never say that Joanna is beyond help, but I do wonder: when we encounter people, and we know they're full of shit, do we call them out on it? Perhaps if everyone around them tried to draw them back to reality there could be some benefit, but it seems they would just search out other people, more susceptible to their beliefs.

These people seem to operate like small scale cult leaders, they only need a few people, but those few must believe them hard and fast. 

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I doubt I'm alone when I say that I often feel as if I'm on a never ending quest to figure people out. As if understanding them will bring about some type of resolution. But I think it has more to do with my curiosity, and that in obtaining knowledge of something new, you slowly develop a better grasp on the complexities of the world. But when I think about people like Joanna, and the people I know who cannot stop themselves from fabricating new realities, I wonder if perhaps sometimes, attempts to understand these people are more harmful than good. Perhaps there are those rare people who defy understanding to such a degree that it would serve us best to simply not obtain that knowledge. 

P.S. I mean this on an individual level, of course. I in no way think that psychiatric and behavioral health specialists should abandon people like Joanna. On the contrary, they are perhaps the only ones who can do any good for someone so adverse to reality. 

Further reading:

"Calling her mad or bad won't help," The Guardian

What makes a female serial killer tick, The Week UK

The girl from a loving home who became a serial killer, The Independent

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Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: 
And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate.

I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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