There are the dogs, for instance. I have a dog. I have a big dog. He likes to bark. They have two dogs that bark incessantly, so for Kevin it's like nails on a chalkboard. It's a continual nuisance. Then with the police, I call up, I try to buffer. I've gone up there. I've been threatened. They say, “It's dangerous up here, little lady.” I'm like, “I hope you're not talking to me like that because that's not going to bode very well for you.”
It's always at Kevin's expense. The guns will start going off—same family—with no warning. All of a sudden, Kevin is sitting there, everything's grand, and then all of a sudden a barrage of weapons is being discharged 150 feet from our door. I've seen him hit the ground. I've seen him get angry, go to the bedroom, close the door, go under the blankets and not want to come out. I then go back up there again, and my kids are screaming, “Mom, they've got guns.” I'm like, “I don't care, because Kevin means more to me than a bunch of kids playing with guns.” If they want to try, then good luck to them again. Then there's the dirt bike, which is loud, it goes up and down.
You call the police, they come, and in all honesty we were told once by a police officer, “I'm not going up there, they have guns.” I said, “Okay, I'm pretty sure you have one too, so go on up and take care of this.”
It's continual and it can be something as simple as driving down the road and someone inadvertently cuts you off. It sends him into a tailspin. A backfire, the start of a lawnmower, it's all these things that we take for granted that send him somewhere else, and somewhere to a place where we can't get him back from very easily.