Right. Drugged silly. Might have been something like mefloquine. Possibly LSD given my reaction to bright colors–and, I am told–LSD can cause euphoria. Overly sensitive to lights, sounds, and movement. The 1955 MK/Ultra memo yet again:
2. Substances which increase the efficiency of mentation and perception.
This is also, elsewhere, referred to as “heightened awareness.” It is the cause, whatever it is, of some of the paranoia you see coming out of targets of these operations.
Some such people (in the Organized Stalking community) don’t know why they were targeted. I suspect they are practice targets for training of people like these twenty-somethings I’m about to describe, also known right now as Obama’s Bullies (to be Hillary’s Bullies come 2017).
Though Jason Leopold may not like me saying it, the fact remains that something is going on where, for example, Truman’s Syndrome is concerned . The testing of mefloquine or similar on US citizens might be the answer. It’s no wonder nothing came of people asking the government to “please cancel the reality show” that they had been put in, because those people went to the FBI for help. They like to stay clear of CIA and DoD operations as much as possible.
But why wouldn’t, shouldn’t you think that the US government would test something like mefloquine on Americans before using it on detainees? Why not? They did it with LSD and other substances before. It’s a no-brainer where motive, history, and psychological profile of the suspects (the intelligence and defense industries) are concerned.
I realize, of course, that journalists require evidence such as only an inside whistleblower can provide. Since whatever his name is has made his decision to not blow the whistle, this is the best I can do. I’m sorry if this offends journalists, but then only so sorry given the dire circumstances.
Before moving on to what occurred in late 2009, let me back up again to 2008 and then some background from before that. A Halloween party was given by a friend, same one who used to date our mutual friend Kate Conway.
There were a lot of people there, some of whom I recognized from previous parties. There were a few I had got involved in a conversation about TV at one of those. I had mentioned that I thought a particular episode in the first season of AMC‘s Mad Men, “Shoot,” was probably the finest piece of television I’d seen in a long time. The mutual friends of my host were raving about The Venture Bros. and said that it was better not having seen Mad Men at all.
At this Halloween party however, there were some faces that were not familiar. Some gent, thin, with blond or at least light brown hair I think, dressed in a blazer and only plastic devil horns for a costume showed up at the party. He was in his early to mid twenties. He came up to me and offered me something to smoke, which I took without question. I would later discover that not a single person at the party knew who he was, that he had crashed the party which took place in a private apartment.
I thought little of it at the time. As is usual, I didn’t really feel anything from it. The guy left the party soon after. As I think back on it, he had come straight up to me as if he knew me.
Later on, my partner went home. I acted very much out of character and insulted my friend and host. Belligerent, I think is an apt description.
I made it a point to come back over and apologize the next day. Though the apology was accepted, this began laying the groundwork for what would come later: essentially the Martha Mitchell effect . They would use these means and methods later to make it seem to all my friends as if I had lost my mind. In fact, it’s probably fair to say that I did as long as one also note’s the long history of this tactic.
Previous to the Halloween party, my friend had had a strange event occur. A girlfriend, who came before the one at the Halloween party and after Kate had passed out one day at their apartment. My friend made his own cider and she believed that that was the source, that she had been rufied…by my friend.
He arrived at the hospital, taken aback by all of this, only to find her brother preventing him from entering the hospital room and demanding to know, “What was in the cider?”
My friend told me this story and it was not lost on him that this is the kind of thing that comes back to haunt you when you run for office, something he intended, perhaps still does, to do one day. What was lost on him was that our own public/private intelligence community, at the behest of some subset of the 1%, are the ones who arrange things like this, just as they do with reporters, pundits, celebrities, and others. Go along with the oligarch-friendly talking points and you’ll be fine. Fail to do so, and you’ll find yourself under attack.
I had again bumped up against something, this time regarding control of the political machine via blackmail. This was far from the end of it, however.
A man started showing up in my neighborhood in late December of 2009 or early January of 2010. Typically, he wore a bright orange down coat and one of those fuzzy Russian hats. In addition to it potentially messing with the head of a person so drugged, there was a bank robbery history detail that I was aware of from my short stint as a criminal justice major.
For a while, there were a few bank robbers who realized that a stocking mask would get you noticed as soon as you walked into a bank. They went more subtle. They simply put a band aid on their noses or between their eyes. These were children’s band aids. All clerks would generally recall after the robbery was that Superman or Mickey Mouse had been on the band aid. They could not in some cases recall even simple description like race, age, hair color, and even gender.
Unfortunately for ‘Balding’ , I remember his face despite the silly get up that he wore. As a third reason, it might further serve to make me sound irrational describing it. Don’t you wonder if I made up the silly man in the bright orange coat and fluffy Russian hat? (Don’t I wish that were the case.)
At the apartment there were what I would learn later were the usual harassment techniques. Gaslighting for one (made all the more “hilarious” because my partner and I watched the movie of that name in November 2009 having DVRed it during a Halloween marathon). Gaslighting is, for example, making the lights blink on and off, but only when you are there. When you mention it to someone else later, they work just fine. This makes people wonder if you aren’t hallucinating.
Similar is “ghosting”, which is the disappearance and later miraculous reappearance of some belonging. I searched for three days for my bag that had my writing notes in a Moleskin notebook in it. Three days later, it was right at the front door. That contributed to my partner’s belief that I needed to be committed to a mental institution. It was also interesting that no matter how many times I asked, he would not help me look.
That’s perhaps voice-to-skull again. “Don’t help him look” (or more likely, “Don’t help him, period”) was jammed in his brain and he rationalized why afterwards. See again what neuroscience says about how we make decisions even under normal circumstances from chapter six.
In the apartment upstairs, the owners had moved out and were renting it to a couple of twenty-somethings. In this case (“Anthony and roommate”) I do actually think that they were NSA, FBI, DHS, or subcontractors. When they moved in there was a clothing rack that seemed to have costumes on it (though I never actually saw any of those costumes in use). Also, as I walked out of the building one evening to walk the dogs, I heard him say, “Here we go” in a warning tone to his companion.
These two had previously broken the exit door to the building during an earlier move. We were literally locked inside the building. The only exit was through the garage or jumping from the balcony in the case of fire. Fire, such as the Conway’s had had. Fire such as the other three fires (all ruled arson) in Brooklyn that same holiday season. They eventually caught a man who claimed he saw a demon (“the demon eyes” I think one of the papers said on the front) who told him to start the fires.
This stuff is getting so ridiculous and so common that I can’t believe there isn’t someone else already pointing out that these are mind control/behavioral modification operations. This is the 21st century. Kindly pull your head out of the 19th, dear people.
In any case, breaking the door was in order to panic me. It worked a little. I wrote the condo officers and they took two days to fix it and they got angry with me for asking them to fix a fire exit. The fire exit for that half of the building.
Additionally, Balding would seem to be these kids’ supervisor. See below.
Here’s the moving truck license plate for all the good that does:
The noise was the worst, though. Sleep deprivation through harassment of all kinds was also taking a serious toll on my ability to cope. The noise from upstairs (which might not have all been even real considering V2K can project into your head), was what really made it unbearable.
One day, I was at home waiting for my partner to come and join me so we could go to my doctor’s appointment. He had previously considered having me committed. There were a couple of problems with that, of course. We weren’t married was one. They don’t exactly do that anymore unless you can afford to pay for the hospital stay. And lastly, I was not actually insane, but rather being harassed, drugged, etc.
New York would, though, be kind enough to rectify the situation where gay marriage was concerned, where staunch upstate conservatives would have a sudden change of heart and New York would at last join Iowa, Massachusetts, etc.
Of course that was after I was thrown out and my ex married someone else on November 11, 2011. In the strange coincidence category, this was both when Rolling Stone decided to release the Clooney article from the 11/24 issue online  and just a day or two before I was leaving Minneapolis after having to call the police due to my roommate threatening to kill me. (More on that later).
In other words, Obama’s bullies had actually been keeping me there just long enough to see that done and rubbed my nose in it by making me help out OFA first. I had even, in an attempt to protect myself from the pain, emailed a mutual friend to tell my ex that it was fine with me if he got married after the law passed. It really wasn’t fine with me, but when someone seems to hate you that much, you tend to want to protect yourself.
On my way to visit my parents in Tennessee, they (Obama’s bullies) hoped for suicide or violence because I found out by seeing someone else’s congratulations post on Facebook. My ex and I had actually discussed it, but he told me that it had been put off until March of ’12. Ever the optimist, and trusting him, I had assumed that to be the case. He claimed he didn’t want to “bother” me on my trip out of Minneapolis.
I am so glad to not only disappoint them in not killing anyone but to show them in their true light at the same time. I had, after that, heard, well rather what I would term an involuntary thought, in my head what I was supposed to think was my ex’s new husband saying, “It’s none of his business.” I confirmed that that was never actually said when I spoke to my ex later. He was visiting his father because his sister was at last succumbing to her cancer. She died soon after.
Recall what I said about the NJSF intern and Dan Markingson hearing ghosts give them instructions. A common thing here was to try to convince me that I had (have) ESP. I don’t. This is just a way of trying to throw me off on the one hand and make me violent on the other. Extended use of V2K can have (has had on me) a similar effect to torture, specifically learned helplessness. They drug you to the point you cannot cope and then tell you what to do, when to do it. This makes you more dependent on them and more pliable. Again, something like acoustic psycho-correction seems a possible candidate for pulling this off.
These people haven’t stopped trying to “weaponize” me either. More about all that when I get to later in 2010.
While waiting at home for the doctor’s appointment, the noise from upstairs was getting ridiculously loud. I later likened it to either some people practicing the Riverdance, stomping grapes, or running Clydesdales around in circles.
I wound up blasting “The Star Spangled Banner” loudly. The noise stopped. As I went out to the balcony, there was Balding just arriving. He was kind of laughing and kind of angry at the same time.
The “game” here had been to make me think that I had “won.” That I had out-thought them, had made them ashamed of what they did. Harassing a US citizen on American soil? For what?
They weren’t ashamed. None of these people know remorse. None of these people give a damn about anything but serving the greed of the corporate cabal they now serve. Believe that. Read independent news. It’s all over the place. A corporate takeover is, as Naomi Klein said in her book The Shock Doctrine, fascism.
But at the time I guardedly bought into Balding’s “mission”. There had to be a reason for all of this. They pretended as if all that had come before was training for what was to come. And I did at that point start to want to actually go to the trial. I needed to know what was going on. Might as well pretend for Balding’s sake that I am going because my country is asking me to.
When I arrived at my doctor’s appointment, Balding was sitting in the waiting lounge. I had tweeted much of what had occurred with the noise and song (using my old account that I later deleted in disgust) and he was staring in a cartoony jokey manner at his Blackberry with the hair that remained on his head sticking up comically.
I noticed that, as it had been in the movie theater, my partner didn’t seem to notice Balding, his odd appearance or his behavior. I leaned back and smiled and stared oddly at the duck decorations in the waiting area.
I had previously been misdiagnosed with diabetes at that doctor’s office. It happened because I had slipped up and had a soda with sugar in it too close to the blood withdraw then shown up early for the appointment.
Now, I was facing that prospect again. A nurse, who it turned out apparently did not even work there (likely from one of those same three suspect agencies, she struck me as Army for some reason) tried to force me to give blood early again. I refused and we had a minor argument.
They waited until the actual appointment and it all went peacefully apart from her asking me more than once, “Do you often have trouble finding your veins?”, implying that I was a drug user. I answered her firmly that the only time I had to concern myself with that was when I gave blood and that was not often enough to say “often.”
They used a supposed hearing testing device that I’ve never seen before nor since. It supposedly checked my hearing without my input automatically.
Then came time to chat with my doctor. He started on any doctor’s usual line of “are you having problems inside your skull?” questioning. I had a decision to make.
I had done all I could think of for Peter. Maybe it was better to give in. To pretend that, yes, I needed some drug to make me feel better and satisfy my partner and doctor and won’t-the-rest-of-you-leave-me-the-fuck-alone-now?-thank-you-so-very-much. Give up.
And that was one of the times that this dude, who I didn’t even know, popped into my head. To come do that silly thing in that deli, if he were a friend of Peter’s, took some courage. I was also thinking afterwards, “Dude, can’t you see what danger you’re in?” That was why, I thought, that I didn’t ask his name, didn’t confirm with him who he was. I was afraid for him. He seemed a nice type.
And so I came to expect, truly, that Peter would somehow get off, not go to prison, and, without ever telling this guy or anyone else that I had a crush on him, have a beer to celebrate the good news. We would part ways. I’d be back with my partner and the dogs, he’d be wherever it was he was. I’d get over it. There was absolutely nothing indicating that the guy was even gay (another thing they use repeatedly as a pattern in order to get me to fall into despair–what a government we have). I had figured it ended like it had with Adrienne. Fond memories, not to be.
That changed later when I had to–had to–believe more. I had to in order to survive. More about later.
In the doctor’s office I had to decide whether or not it call it quits or keep fighting. Balding’s theater seemed to indicate to continue. But what pushed me over (I thought) was the unbearable thought of disappointing that guy. It seemed to me, whoever he was, he cared what happened to Peter. A lot.
The way he smiled at me…it was as if to say, “I know everything’s going to be okay because you are on the job.” Christ, he had me at “slam!” The idea of disappointing someone who, I then believed, had put that much trust in me, was too much. I could not refuse.
I have to think that was a lie now. Where is he? Likely harassing someone else on the taxpayers’ dime. Likely living a comfortable life due to doing his part to cover up how the same/similar methods used on me were how 9/11 was engineered, and how the people of the world are going to be enslaved one of these days just as Aldous Huxley had told the U.N. And he’s likely having “fun” doing it.
Avoiding pain or enduring it for someone else. Given most situations, I’d prefer to avoid the pain. Most people would. That is also why, however, I think that we are doomed. We cannot even agree on what this thing is we fight against and it is unlikely I’ll be believed despite the ample historical context.
I made the decision (though if it was the only one I could, it wasn’t really a choice, was it?) I manipulated my doctor. I posted a brief summary of the Wexler event about Cheney and implied that I was now paying the price for having “conspired” with so many Jewish people to see Cheney impeached. My doctor was Jewish, understood something about the Holocaust surely (I made a vague reference to it), and understood when I gave him the URL.
It didn’t take him long to wonder if there weren’t something going on anyway. He told that strange nurse that there was a man who wanted to talk to her. He was nervous. What was going on? She played dumb for a moment just to annoy him I think. I recall him saying in that polite but really stressed sort of Woody Allen way, “Over there…a man to see you. Over therrrrrrrrrre.”
That combined with (diabolical isn’t it?) asking him to prescribe me a placebo in order to make my partner feel better, made him wonder who the patient here really was if any. I felt bad, a little, for that deception, but the Cheney thing didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility. Whatever this was, it was bigger than a simple traffic stop gone awry (like in the Modest Mouse song).
Do you think that a real paranoid schizophrenic could have pulled that off?
I tried. I believed. I was as positive in my thinking as anyone could be that my ex and I would get back together. The power of positive thinking, I would learn, only prevents you from giving up. It does not ensure a win.
They had prior to this done something to my partner that made me think he was going to commit suicide (right after coming home from NSA subcontractor Google). That also pushed me away. Might he be safer if I left? With so many manipulated factors (including his stating that he wished I was dead, locking me out on the balcony and then laughing about it, and really just being hateful and at the same time claiming he thought I needed help), that relationship was doomed with or without the “honeypot.” He made it easier to cope for a while.
But when you are in the middle of some kind of turf war between warring agencies that merely want a larger piece of Apple “Tax” Pie all vying to please the boss by ruining a former and (sadly) future supporter in order to avoid some small embarrassment or maybe a major leak on technology that is being used to manipulate and murder Americans, things get very, very confusing. And maybe along the way you bump into something else. Something older, something so set in place for so long that you can’t help but think now and again…
“Resistance is futile.”
1 Associated Press, “Truman’s Syndrome: When You Think Your Life is a Show”, Huffington Post, 25 November 2011:
NEW YORK — One man showed up at a federal building, asking for release from the reality show he was sure was being made of his life. Another was convinced his every move was secretly being filmed for a TV contest. A third believed everything _ the news, his psychiatrists, the drugs they prescribed _ was part of a phony, stage-set world with him as the involuntary star, like the 1998 movie “The Truman Show.”
Researchers have begun documenting what they dub the “Truman syndrome,” a delusion afflicting people who are convinced that their lives are secretly playing out on a reality TV show. Scientists say the disorder underscores the influence pop culture can have on mental conditions.
Delusions can be a symptom of various psychiatric illnesses, as well as neurological conditions such as Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s diseases. Some drugs also can make people delusional.
The problem seems to stem from lights seeming brighter and people somehow seeming more dramatic. Things seem unreal. I had that happen for a time. I didn’t believe anything odd until I had to, though. Think of how the kid survived in Life is Beautiful and you’ll get part of the picture. Delusion as survival tactic.
The remote torture via NLWs is the hard part to communicate to people to whom it has not happened.
By the way, never saw that Jim Carrey film. Saw the one with the penguins but I didn’t buy any or steal them from the zoo.
2 V. Bell, P. W. Halligan and H. D. Ellis, “Beliefs About Delusions,” The Psychologist16 (8): 418–422. JI 0.325, August 2003:
Sometimes, improbable reports are erroneously assumed to be symptoms of mental illness [due to a] failure or inability to verify whether the events have actually taken place, no matter how improbable intuitively they might appear to the busy clinician.
See also where the nomenclature comes from. Wife of Watergate co-conspirator John Mitchell:
Martha Mitchell, the wife of Nixon campaign director John Mitchell, makes an unexpected phone call to UPI reporter Helen Thomas. Mrs. Mitchell is initially calm and even a bit sad, but when Thomas brings up the subject of Watergate, Mrs. Mitchell becomes agitated. She is “sick of the whole business,” she says, and adds: “I’ve given John an ultimatum. I’m going to leave him unless he gets out of the campaign. I’m sick and tired of politics. Politics is a dirty business.” Suddenly she screams, “You just get away—get away!” and the line goes dead. Three days later she calls Thomas again and asserts that she is a political prisoner in her own home.
Also see a couple of my blog posts about that, the strange fate of witness for FBI Rex Niles, the Mollath affair, and George W. Bush’s suggestion that Americans should be medicated by force:
3 I use the nickname jokingly since I’m at the age of losing hair. However, there’s more to that to be covered once I get the story moved to Minneapolis. I once considered calling this book Hair Game.
4 See the preview page here:
“My name is George and the world is in trouble,” George Clooney tells Erik Hedegaard in the latest issue of Rolling Stone, on stands and available through Rolling Stone All Access on November 11th.
A coincidence that that was the same date as the wedding, but the kind that these people like to exploit.
Again, George Clooney, and a host of other people, never had and still don’t have anything to fear from me. I know a set up when I see one. Well, except for that one time in the deli.