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.”
Thursday, 30 April 2015
Wednesday, 29 April 2015
SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient
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.
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient
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.
Monday, 27 April 2015
SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient
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.
Sunday, 26 April 2015
SECTIONED: One Week Diary of a Mental Patient
DAY 3
Couple of good visits this week. You find out who your friends are when you are locked up. The weekends are much quieter on the ward, and Sunday, although being the longest day, is the best day for food (fried brunch and roast dinner). Did my laundry early and hung it in the window to dry before someone bunged it in the drier without asking. Also mastered my first cardio session in two weeks. Tried to have a smoke afterwards but couldn't finish the disgusting thing. No more rollies. Fitness and a bigger lung capacity is much more important. Watched a Louis Theroux documentary about mental health. He always does a good program, he does. It's as if everyone is blind when it comes to being bonkers, however. All I ever hear are the words 'illness' and 'medication'. They're both bullshit. I know the dark dirty truth and that truth is the stonewall reality of mind control weapons being used on the non-consenting public. Whenever I try to enlighten anyone, it comes across as part of my condition. As a delusion. My GP can't even bring himself to say the word 'voices'. He calls them 'thoughts'. They're not f**king thoughts, doc, they are proper audible microwave signals being sent from a third party via clandestine electromagnetic instruments. That's what they bloody well are, mate. All those fancy qualifications and he still doesn't have a jar of glue. Then again, why should he? Only the victims do. The level of ignorance is frightening. I wonder how many more years will pass before the perpetrators’ secrets are exposed. I predict that movies will be made about them in the future. It's an absolutely fascinating science, shame it's used for evildoing. It's just a matter of time. The evidence is all over the net. I was telling a young man about people getting micro-chipped (this chipping practice will be standard procedure for all pet dogs in 2016). He forthright told me that I was talking rubbish, he didn't believe in it. I wouldn't have believed it myself once upon a time. But there are pictures and testimonies online. God help me if I never had the internet for extensive research. Testimonies are all but one strong piece of the evidence puzzle. This here is part of my testimony. Good news: I've packed in the smokes. Good news: I'm writing again.
Couple of good visits this week. You find out who your friends are when you are locked up. The weekends are much quieter on the ward, and Sunday, although being the longest day, is the best day for food (fried brunch and roast dinner). Did my laundry early and hung it in the window to dry before someone bunged it in the drier without asking. Also mastered my first cardio session in two weeks. Tried to have a smoke afterwards but couldn't finish the disgusting thing. No more rollies. Fitness and a bigger lung capacity is much more important. Watched a Louis Theroux documentary about mental health. He always does a good program, he does. It's as if everyone is blind when it comes to being bonkers, however. All I ever hear are the words 'illness' and 'medication'. They're both bullshit. I know the dark dirty truth and that truth is the stonewall reality of mind control weapons being used on the non-consenting public. Whenever I try to enlighten anyone, it comes across as part of my condition. As a delusion. My GP can't even bring himself to say the word 'voices'. He calls them 'thoughts'. They're not f**king thoughts, doc, they are proper audible microwave signals being sent from a third party via clandestine electromagnetic instruments. That's what they bloody well are, mate. All those fancy qualifications and he still doesn't have a jar of glue. Then again, why should he? Only the victims do. The level of ignorance is frightening. I wonder how many more years will pass before the perpetrators’ secrets are exposed. I predict that movies will be made about them in the future. It's an absolutely fascinating science, shame it's used for evildoing. It's just a matter of time. The evidence is all over the net. I was telling a young man about people getting micro-chipped (this chipping practice will be standard procedure for all pet dogs in 2016). He forthright told me that I was talking rubbish, he didn't believe in it. I wouldn't have believed it myself once upon a time. But there are pictures and testimonies online. God help me if I never had the internet for extensive research. Testimonies are all but one strong piece of the evidence puzzle. This here is part of my testimony. Good news: I've packed in the smokes. Good news: I'm writing again.
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