Noise Campaign: Neighbourhood Harassment

As part of the ongoing noise campaign against me, I’ve been neuro-linguistically programmed by certain taps on the ceiling. I hear these taps everywhere I go: People tapping their knives and forks, people tapping their phones, people knocking on tables. They do it in a very specific rhythm. Yes, I am being followed. Yes, I am being stalked. It’s hard to accept and sad but true. I even hear it on the walls in my partners (and therefore, so does she). Because I’ve been sensitized to it, nobody else notices it out in the open. This has been going on for maybe a year, subtly at first, but over-the-top now. I know I’m not going crazy because of two things: the timing and the frequency. It might not sound like a lot to deal with, but make no mistake, a relentless pattern of noise torture 24/7 can be a killer, quickly grinding down an individual’s will to live. It’s a reminder that one is under constant surveillance and threat, promoting a state of constant fear and anxiety. Sometimes, it wakes us up at two or three in the morning, harsh and insistent, then continues to keep us awake throughout the night. Depriving someone of sleep is a cruel tactic of the devil’s minions, it has profound negative effects, and is all plausibly deniable. Long-term daily harassment is a cancer of mankind. I took a noise diary testimony and letter to the council but they fobbed me off. I’ve tried speaking with the neighbours: they either play dumb or don’t answer the door. They seemed like a nice family at first. Being harassed out in public is one thing, but inside your own home is another. One of the ways I’ve tried to deprogram myself is to make light of it, and pretend it’s The Borrowers, tap dancing. The ball is in my court: How do I react? I’ve been sitting on this question for some time. They are conspiring to bring an element of prolonged suffering to my life and those around me. The natural reaction is to throttle them when they answer the door, and that’s the real issue here: losing sight of who you really are. They want you to react violently. And guess who’ll then be losing their liberty? Yeah, me. Not them but me. I’ve not helped myself in the past. Addictions have left me vulnerable. I’ve simply lay back and took this on the chin with no reply for far too long. Now, I feel as if I’m growing, as if their evil efforts are chiselling my true character out. This has to be a fight, otherwise it’s a walkover. Walkovers have very bad endings. I don’t fight them because I will win... I fight them because they are gang stalkers.

One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 7

I’ve relapsed on a diet of dope and The Fantasy Channel during my leave and am now actually suffering from an acute onslaught of voices back in the hospital. I am being physically harassed from adjacent rooms too, with very tailored and specific knocks from gang-stalkers on the walls and ceilings. I went for a smoke outside reception and the noises were coming unseen from the car park. If they can physically harass me in a secure government hospital then they can harass me anywhere. I know my neighbours and my girlfriend’s neighbours have already been harassing me for months but this is another level. I am also hearing screaming and sounds of torture from adjacent rooms. This I am now accustomed to but it never gets any less disturbing. It feels real, not V2K at all. The confusion is the hardest thing. Have a sincere dread of PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I’m seeing faces in the floor. They’re morphing, like animations. Imagine the darkest LSD trip of your life and you’re halfway there. I can’t look. I’m also receiving images directly into my brain, bypassing the optic nerve, graphic and indecent, so I can’t close my eyes. And let’s not forget the tactile hallucinations: itches and twitches and prods and pokes all over my skin. I can hear my loved ones being skinned and raped and the perpetrators taunt me as they do it (my mum is begging me to kill myself). I can hear deceased family members as well, all suffering. The sounds are very precisely located to come from behind walls and doors, not in my head at all. I’m as scared as a baby, too scared to even wanna help anyone. Going into catatonic withdrawal. I’ve been in some kind of horrible program for most of my life and it’s a synthetic Hell on Earth. The official term is Non-Touch Torture, and it just shouldn’t exist. But it does. It's called Zersetzung, and was used by the Stasi. The word means 'corrosion', or death by a thousand cuts, if you like. Nothing is deserving of this cruelty. I regret ever meeting those responsible for my harassment. I expect them to walk in with Grandmaster Freemason regalia on, and sacrifice me. I’ll be skinned and preserved then shipped to a customer in Russia for eternal torture, like in that movie, Hostel. That’s what I’ve been promised. After I give up, of course. Death is just the beginning. But I’ll never give up, so bring it on. As Winston Churchill once said, “When you’re going through Hell, keep going.”  

SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 6

Had that two hours leave this morning. Was hardly enough to get home and back via bus and taxi cab on time. Hoping for five hours tomorrow but I’m not holding my breath. Can’t relax in here, restless. It’s a long day. Sat in reception eating a Wispa Gold. New admission — old man. Roger. Funny. Walks around openly insulting the staff, saying the evil that the doctors do goes before them. I heard him addressing another new arrival as follows: “There’s nothing special about you, young man.” Isn’t that a great first line to say to someone you’ve never met before? There’s nothing special about you, young man. Reckons he was an assassin for the government. Avoiding the desserts and biscuits. A lot of the long-term ‘service users’ have protruding bellies. One of them looks nine-months pregnant. That’s a product of too many years of institution sponge puddings. Wandered the corridors with my iPod on, and danced a little in my room. Clue: Life is never too bad if you’re dancing along with it. Started typing up this journal on the notebook I bought from another patient for sixty quid. Don’t care about WIFI, only need Word. I have other valuables in my room but I always leave the door open, otherwise it’s a hassle getting the staff to open it for you every two minutes. A recent airplane disaster has put things into perspective. Brought in some rice cakes for myself. They’re one of my chief diet foods. Back to puffing away on the bog, drilling rollies like they are going out of fashion, and spending pure coin on the vending machines to boot. Dairy Milks, cappuccinos and choco-milks. Thinking about a motor when I get out, but it’s more attachment, more money, more problems. Might just stick to the push-iron bike and prioritise a holiday. Always dreamt of a cruise ship, for some reason. Never coming back here again if I can help it: I’d rather suffer the remnants of my destiny alone in my torture chamber. Oops, did I say torture chamber? I meant to say one-bedroom Golgotha. Sorry, I mean flat.

SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 5

Every week we have a review. They rarely go well. I left and slammed the door midway through the doctor’s bullshit. He’s obsessed on getting me on injections. Trouble is, I’ve not heard anything good about them. One lad said they did nothing but give him a dead butt cheek for a week. Another said they turned him into Frankenstein’s monster (zombieland). Yet another said they made both his legs shuffle constantly all day, like Elvis. The doc agreed for two hours leave, which never materialised. He strung me along all day. I had two Lorazepam, two Olanzapine, and a zoppie. Five or six smokes too. Plus biscuits. Yesterday we made some cheesecake in a cookery class with some fit bird. It turned out a bit sloppy but tasted great. We used lemon curd and Philadelphia. I’ll get my leave in the morning. Will most probably go home and get them bills paid. (I’ve never been so excited about paying bills.) Maybe I’ll find the time to sink a pint of Guiness as well. One lad tried to string himself up earlier (hang himself). It was all over a cigarette. Ash the snooker cue basher has been discharged. He’ll be back. The ones who need to be here get released, whereas the likes of me (innocent victim, model patient), have to stay. My big mate Ricky the wrestler is cutting himself. Two deep gashes on his wrist and face. I have my best chats with him. We were talking about cars to buy for less than a grand. I was thinking of a cheap n cheerful Ford Focus but he suggested an older model BMW 3-Series. There were flapjacks, pears and cheese on the supper menu today. Did 100 sit-ups on the edge of my bed.

SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient

DAY 4

Smoking again. Only three all day though. Jogging up and down the corridors. Boredom setting in. Two teenagers admitted in the evening, having come from other hospitals. Both voice-hearers. I'll be giving them some advice. I'd love it if I could save them a bit of the grief I've endured. I consider myself a guru on voice-to-skull transmissions (V2K). My best advice is to either tell the voices to f**k off, or, even better, just completely ignore them (which at times can be compared to ignoring a lynch mob). The trick is to thoroughly eliminate the perpetrators from your consciousness. I know I can be a help to teenagers going through this malevolent crime. Me, I go for pure ignorance. No talk back. You see people in the street having loud conversations to themselves. That's voices, that, it's obvious when you've been there. The voices love to control people's behaviour. That’s their main objective. They must have great fun with some people. I absorb all their abuse in, like a sponge, and then take it with a pinch of salt. It's your own imagination that gets the better of you, in the end: You succumb to your own fear. They capitalise on your most intimate fears and roll them like a giant snowball downhill, adding more and more you never knew you had. Ash, the naked fitter who trashed my late father’s heirloom snooker cue, has now normalised. He was talking about investments earlier while listening to the radio through the television. A lot of so-called schizo-patients have a gifted skill about them. I should have a decent kip tonight because I just had a sleeper tablet (Zopiclone, or zoppies as they are known). Doctor said they only prescribe them for two weeks at a time. Someone else told me they’d been on them for eight years. Last two nights I’ve been waking up every two hours with the usual controlled dreams. Time to train my abs tomorrow. Calves I can do in the shower, and sit-ups I can do on the edge of my bed.