End Of Block - Part 4

It's Easter, and it looks like I am finally out of here on Thursday. This ten-month sentence has come to an end. At last! All I did was get mentally tortured by methods of microwave harassment and then lose my liberty when I complained about it to the authorities. Hows that for a bum deal? That's what this modern society does to torture victims – lock them up. I should have received hugs and cuddles and compensation. Not so. My psychiatrist asked me what I thought of mental health services. I don't know what he expected me to say. I think he was expecting some kind of glowing review. I told him that psychiatric units are the very worst possible kind of prisons; detention centres where no crime need ever be comitted, soul-destroying places where they forcibly administer poison on a daily basis. That pretty much sums up my humble and honest opinion of the whole system. It absolutely sucks.

It's far worse than the prison system. Far worse. Take it from me, because I've been in both. And I'm lucky in a sense that I am getting out relatively fast. These horrible sections are indefinite and I'm surrounded by certain hopeless chaps who have been incaracerated for years and years. Let me reiterate – I have never suffered from a mental illness and it took them ten months to release me. I've never displayed any worrying symptoms to reinforce their suspicions that I'm a nutter. I refuse to believe that the mythical illness 'schizophrenia' even exists. It's certainly fictional in my case. My psychosis wasn't drug-induced, it was electromagnetically-induced via the microwaves of electronic harassment. Let me just say: I can and always have been able to handle my drugs. Bombing speed and necking pills was never a problem. Far be it from me to make idle boasts,  but I've done it copiously in the past with nothing more than a mildly depressive comedown/hangover to deal with afterwards. I felt guilty and hollow after my drug sessions, but never psychotic. Drugs can do a lot of things, but they can't make you physically hear voices. It takes evil gangstalkers with mind weapons to do that (implanted chips and satellites). But of course, all this talk about people plotting against me only comes across to the doctors in the form of an elaborate delusion. Those strangers follwing me around are just my paranoia. The neighbours making my life hell is just part of my condition. Perhaps the most disapointing part of the whole shebang is the fact that not a single person believes me. Now that's a lonely place to inhabit.

Still, there's hope in the TI (targeted individual) forums on the web. I've recently connected with other victims on Facebook groups. They understand. They have been through it. They fund my research as I dive deeper into the rabbit hole. Targeted individuals are real. We are not all suffering from some imaginary mental illnesses. We have, and are been, tortured for crying out loud. It is among these people that I learn the truth about what is happening to me. The targeted individuals I have met in hospital are misinformed. They are not intelligent enough to search for, and much less understand the truth, so they go along with the misconception that they are unwell. I seem to be the only one I know who knows. I long to meet another TI in the flesh who is actually aware of what is going on, as I am. I long for that fellowship with similar enlightened victims. The ignorant TIs I know from hospital think that the voices are bad spirits. I know for a fact that it is other people. Real people. Bad people. Bad people who enjoy transmitting their own voices into the heads of innocent undeserving citizens via the voice-to-skull weapon (V2K). The voices in the head are the very worst part of gangstalking. It's quite literally impossible, even for someone who excels in self-expression through the medium of words, to fully explain what the suffering is like. V2K, quite simply, is demonic. Using a phenomenon calling Voice Morphing, they can impersonate the voices of family members. They can then play out scenarios of your loved ones in pain. It's convincing as fuck. When you hear the disembodied voice of your loved ones screaming in agony from the room next door, then your natural instinct is to presume that it really is happening. Remember, not all the voices are inside the head: they come from outside the head too, through the fucking ears it feels like (the truth is that Silent Sound is an electrical signal that bypasses the ears on its way to the brain). It's so cleverly sophisticated, it's unreal. It's fooled me many times over. I've heard my family members begging with me as they get tortured literally time and time again. I've actually lost count over the years of my harassment. It's pretty damn awful, let me assure you, and that's why they refer to it as mental torture.

So, I'm nothing but a torture victim who is about to be let back out into the jungle. The harassment has all but dissipated during my spell in hospital. It's only the controlled dreams which have stayed the course. They're bad enough like. That's a genuine infringement of your most simple earnest liberty, having your dreams infected. But I'm used to them, because they go back years and years before my targeting became open. I'm worried about my neighbours, however, I'm worried about gangstalkers following me from pub to pub, and I'm worried about the voices coming back. Some lowlife heartless miscreant harassing me via V2K I can handle, but the torturing of the family scenarios have a distinctly disabling effect. As they would with anyone, I suppose. I consider myself strong, and I still buckled from its voodoo power. For someone of a weak disposition, I gather that kind of abuse would make them insane in a hurry. It's not fair. Nobody deserves it.

I am also worried about Directed Energy Weapons (DEW). These can be mini laser guns which you can buy on the internet. They work through walls and cause all kinds of sicknesses. Somebody could have one pointed at you from next door, killing you softly, and you would never know. Scary. I've been a victim of this. On one occasion I couldn't move, I was paralysed, and the only way to describe it appropriately is to say that I felt like Superman in a beam of Kryptonite. There really are some disgustingly vile creatures that pass for human beings out there, and I for one can't understand them. The bottom line is that they worship the devil, I guess. On the bright side I have a change of address lined up. I am being considered for a new house. I have never lived in a house before, only council flats. Hopefully my circumstances might never be as bad as to lead me to want to nearly jump of Runcorn bridge again, but until then, I'll keep writing the truth. Don't forget to do your bit and carry out a bit of your own research regarding the topics I mention. There is a silent holocaust approaching and the more people who know about it, the better. Thank you.

Jumper

I don't want to go into my reasons, but boy, did I have my reasons. I had many reasons and plenty reasons. I had more than enough reasons. I had ten lifetimes worth of reasons. I'd been to the bridge just two weeks before, pacing up and down the path, not wanting to jump. My behaviour was childlike because I was torn between dying and living, like a kid having his favourite toy taken away. Second time was different. I was determined and wanting to go. I picked my spot and sat down. No rush in dying. I didn't contemplate jumping down onto the road in case I landed on a car and killed the occupant, or caused a traffic accident. They say that when a person is close to being capable of taking their own life, then that person is close to being capable of taking someone elses's. In other words, suicidal tendencies are similar to murderous tendencies. I can see an element of truth in this, although I personally would never consider endangering the lives of innocent people. I'd find it hard to punish the guilty people responsible for my sabotage, those who had forced me to this perilous precipice, because I don't even believe in a life for a life. That would make me no better than them (although it's hard to be worse). I don't believe in murder, full stop, but that's exactly what my suicide would have been: Induced suicide. There's a crucial difference. I said I don't want to dwell on my reasons, but extreme covert harassment pretty much sums them all up. I would never consider kicking my own bucket if not from the persistent evils of powerful enemies, because life, ordinarily, is just too good, it's not in my biological typeset. I'm an ever-optimist writer who sincerely enjoys life...ordinarily, without the harassment. But that's all a different story and I won't go into it here. The reasons were real and I had had enough. Utterly and totally had more than enough. 

 

So. I'd decided to go. The plan was to topple forward onto my skull and splash my brains all over the concrete. That may sound a bit brutal, but I'd become convinced that a 'quick splat' was a fairytale ending compared to the never-ending insanity of eternal hell. And one unfortunate belief system I've become sympathetic to is this: Although the promised Heaven of the bible is an outright lie, the possibility of Hell on earth is a reality. A quick splat, compared to being drowned, preserved, skinned, crucified, skin sewn back on, etc etc, over and over for the rest of time, was an absolute dream, a ding-dong no-brainer. Psychosis can be a ghastly business.

 

Moving on...I'm sat there on the pathway with my legs crossed, gazing out towards the horizon. I'm pleased to see they have started work on the new bridge; they'd been talking about that for years and now it was finally happening. The cranes were huge above the water, testaments to the ingenuity of man. I'll never get the chance to cross that bridge, I thought, and I'll never get to go on a plane. Now, with the advantage of hindsight, and the benefits of having come thru it, I can't wait to cross that new bridge, and I can't wait to go on a plane. Roll on me holidays...I deserve one.

 

Quietly I counted all my reasons, and the consequences should I decide to stay. People passed by me, on their way to and from work. A few cyclists, too. One lad stopped and gave me a final smoke. One girl sat down with me and asked if I would like to walk with her to safety towards the end of the footpath. I shared what was, in my mind, a couple of special moments with these passers by. I implored them not to ring the police. The police had come and collected me last time, and I didn't want them to come again, even though I knew that eventually they would. It was inevitable. Sooner or later, they would be alerted.

 

I checked the time on my phone. I'd been sat there for over an hour. All my psychotic symptoms were still with me, right there until the very end. I tried to think of the positive memories in my life. Some of them made me smile, filling me with uplifting strength. It was important to be thinking nice stuff when my head hit the deck. I knew, however, that the longer I left it, the harder it would become. Surely I couldn't fail twice. But I could. Because I was leaving it too long. I kept glancing towards either end of the footpath, expecting the squad. And it happened. I saw the familiar dark attire of a police constable heading my way. I kind of knew I would need a little coercion, a little push, so I got to my feet, put my hands on the rail, and yelled, “Stop! Don't come any closer!” He obeyed me, keeping his distance of maybe twenty yards, looking laid back in his sunglasses, almost cool. He asked me if I was a red or a blue, after me telling him that I had to go. He radioed thru to get the traffic stopped because he couldn't hear me. It was the most surreal thing, having no traffic, let me tell you. I didn't realise how noisy it was until the sound was removed. Deserted and empty, the bridge was actually peaceful. It was just me, the cool cop, the stillness, the water, and the wind. It was practically beautiful. It made a fitting exit strategy to any life.

 

Next came the mediator. He wore civilian clothes. I climbed up onto the rail, dangling my legs over the other side. It was very windy and not easy. After three nights without sleep or food, my balancing skills weren't at their all-time best. I was in danger of slipping at this point. I didn't want to fall and make ungainly shapes in the air; I wanted to glide gracefully down into a nice and smooth forward topple. I manoeuvred myself into various seated positions on various poles extending off the bridge, trying to calculate exactly how and where to fall onto the slanted mass of concrete below. It wasn't going to be as straightforward as anticipated. I realised that I should have been practising this from a ten metre diving board if I wanted to bow out professionally, but who the hell does that? There are no dress rehearsals for high drops into sudden death.

 

I noticed, in West Bank, a whole street full of people who had come outside to watch the jumper. It added some extra pressure, as I didn't want to disappoint all my spectators...not to mention all the emergency services, also patiently waiting for me to plummet. Police, ambulance, fire services and a rubber boat team were on standby. I was acutely aware of holding up the traffic and delaying the already busy schedules of ordinary everyday motorists. The bridge could be a bottleneck anyway, without some dallying suicide freak shutting it down into a mile-long standstill. I had halted the economy.

 

The mediator was shouting at me by this time, but I wasn't listening. I could hear his voice but not his words. I heard the cool cop's words though; he said that the last one had survived. He was talking almost to himself, and my doubts, with that one comment, were actualised: I was going to balls this up and be a cripple from the neck down for the rest of my sorry life. So I climbed down. I climbed down and rested my head in my hands. It was done. I wasn't gong to do it. It was a long walk back to the waiting police car, a long and lonely walk back.

 

I'm still here.

End Of Block - Part 3

I've been waiting three months for a tribunal to let me out. It got cancelled on the day. My solicitor said the doctor's report was so damning that there was little point in going ahead with it. Fucking great. My hopes dashed yet again. I'm here for the long haul now. The process is so slow, it's excruciating. I can't even bear to write about the ins and outs of the messy details myself. I'm entangled in the system. Even one of the staff said that it is all corrupt. I'm losing my physique and I'm losing my fitness as a result. That's not all. My dignity is on the line. If one more person gives me a lecture about my 'illness' then I fear I'm going to crack up for good. It's making me suicidal again, to be honest. If only I had the guts, I have more than enough reasons to string up. My life is in total disarray. I'm trapped. I'm losing motivation and hope. It's a real skill, being able to look on the bright side, but it's a struggle trying to remain positive all the time when most of the other residents have been here for two years plus. I want to tell everyone about microwave harassment but know that they won't listen to me. It'll just look like I'm succumbing to my so-called condition of paranoid schizophrenia. My lips are tied shut. I know more than the lot of them combined, that's the truth. I know that I have gone through a terrible ordeal and that all this soul-destroying incarceration is a mere consequence of the trauma. I honestly don't know what is worse, the actual harassment or the hospitalisation. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me. Nobody has any idea of the suffering I've been through, and what's more, it's so otherworldly and complex that it's difficult to comprehend or explain adequately.

And to make it worse, the doctors are writing lies. They said that I am suspicious and guarded and reporting further hallucinations. It's not true. I have not reported any symptoms to them. They twist your words and then put new words in your mouth. Everything is taking time, they keep shifting the goalposts. It's so unfair. The corridor got flooded this morn, boiling hot water pouring down from the ceiling. Some cowboy builder stood on a corroded water pipe in the attic. I was locked out my room all day. This is at the time when news of the floods in England is all over the TV. I was just thinking about how unlucky those poor buggers were when I got a small taste of it myself.
 

Been getting out to the cinema quite a bit recently. I've seen Black Mass, Krampus, Christmas With The Coopers, and Star Wars. Of these, Black Mass and Star Wars were the worst. I don't get the hype with Star Wars, I really don't. It's just another jumped-up remake at the end of the day. Just another noisy explosive film. I've been doing normal things like shopping for Christmas decorations too, and every time I am in public I get envious of all the normal revellers who don't know how lucky they are not to be sectioned under the mental health act. I've been escorted home to see my girlfriend as well. She's finding it hard at the minute, relying on food parcels. It turns out she is not entitled to any benefits. Times are terribly tight for her. I'm lending my support as much as I can from my very limited position. She needs me more than ever and I can't do a thing about it because I am locked up. I've been granted my first period of unescorted leave, just two half hours per day. It's a start, and things can only get better from here. I just walked to the local shop alone. It feels weird. I'm a bit rusty when it comes to interacting with members of the public. Suppose that's to be expected after six months of detention. And what a detention this is proving to be. Wow. I'd much rather be in prison. It's going back a few years, but my nine month stint in jail was a doddle compared to this. I was busy and active in nick, there was always something to do. A typical day involved doing my laundry job, going to the gym, having an 11-a-side game of football, going to the education suite for some writing, going to the library for a game of computer scrabble, having a game of badmington, playing some snooker, and socialising on a wing full of 100 people. It wasn't mind-numbingly boring like this. All I can do now is either play pool or watch telly. The crap they watch on telly here! Chronic Channel 5 movies all day long. I'm never watching Channel 5 again when I get out.


First ever Christmas locked up. We had a decent dinner and put on some party hats but that was about it. Went home on the eve and took a food hamper for my girlfriend and her son. Last week they had no food in and now all the cupboards are full. She's still very depressed though. She lost her job, she lost her home, and she lost me. This is a very trying time for both of us. More so for her if I'm honest. I might be locked up, but at least I'm not alone. Then again, I feel pretty alone in here. I've never felt so alone in all my life. Just because I have company doesn't mean I enjoy it. There's nobody in here to have a meaningful conversation with. I think we are all alone in here, actually, together alone. All together alone. Just found out that I'll be getting out in four weeks! Fabulous! What a relief it is to have a release date. For a while there I thought this was going to be rolling out for months and months. The end is in sight! Went home for a visit yesterday though and found nothing but stress. The TV is broke, the boiler is broke, and the computer is broke. The computer takes six years worth of work with it. It's my life. All my keyboard music and photoshop files look like they have bitten the dust. God knows what writing I have lost as well. I'm really having trouble with all my belongings at the moment. I don't want to be bogged down by it all. It's a more simple life in hospital: fewer belongings, less things to go wrong.


They've gone back on their word again now, saying it might take a few months longer. I give up, I really do. All they do is get your hopes up and then dash them again. Still, spirits up, the finish line is still in sight.