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.

End Of Block - Part 2

I've started a long short story entitled A Satellite For Me, about a man who is being harassed by a satellite. Now that makes for a great original premise, if I do say so myself. No structure, no plot, no outline...I'm just winging it all the way. The going has slowed down after six and a half thousand words, but I'm just waiting for an exit strategy now, some form of an ending. Once I have that, I can go in for the kill. It's good to have the main gist of it done though. By the time I publish this, it should be complete (or not). Depends on how long it pans out. Ideal length would be about ten thousand words, enough for a short standalone book. Otherwise, I could put it into an anthology. I'm still in this mental health rehab, and it's boring me nuts. Aw man, the boredom! It's shocking and it's chronic. I'm quite literally bored as soon as I get up out of bed. I'm getting absolutely no exercise or gym. I'm not even walking anywhere apart from the local shop to buy tobacco I don't even want. The food is hit and miss, spaghetti and fishcakes for lunch today...and that qualifies as a miss by the way. All there is to do is watch TV, and I'm not big on TV at the best of times. There's a separate DVD room where I can chill on my own for a few hours (not now), but my attention span is struggling to watch films at the moment. I can't sit through one without getting up to fidget about three or four times in between. I'm restless. Bored, and restless...never the best combination.

Smoking offers something to do because it gets you outside into the smoking shelters. You get some fresh air, plus there's a social side to it as well. Quite often a rollie is the only thing that gets me up in the morn, and I'm going back to bed by half five in the afternoon. Too much sleeping is linked to depression, I know, but the boredom really is that bad. I don't get asleep until nine-ish, so for three hours I'm just lying there with Radio 4 on. I've been taking my mind elsewhere, to a young couple in love, to distract myself from the present situation. It's nice, fantasising, almost like meditation, because I think happy and positive thoughts. I kinda need to mix it in with my fiction and I'll be onto a winner. Why a young couple in love I don't know. Maybe because that best summarises happiness. I'm thinking of them making love every evening and ringing each other up all the time. Of them sharing cooked dinners and bottles of wine. I wonder to myself: Am I envious? Am I jealous? Am I spiteful and bitter and resentful? It's not like I haven't been there. I'd had my taste of both youth and love. It's just that it didn't last long enough. That's the kind of thing one wants to last forever. But it doesn't, does it? Because nothing does. It arrives too late and departs too quickly. Love does, in my experience, anyway. As for youth, well, you know the saying: It's wasted on the young. Over before you know it.

Saw the psychiatrist last week. I walked out in the end. There's only so much bullshit a man can take. It's hard, been told you're ill, and being treated like you're ill. I am not ill! I AM NOT ILL! I feel like grabbing her and screaming this into her face. But of course, that would be the action of an ill person. Once you have that diagnosis, you can't win. It also gives harassers extra licence to torment you further. It destroys your word forever. Nobody believes you. What goes on to targeted individuals is hard to believe in the first place, but if they think you are nuts as well then your testimony is practically worthless. Still, it's all we have, and it's the truth. The assumption that we have a mental illness is false. No amount of doctors can prove otherwise. I take solace in the reality of the truth. Sometimes, it feels like only I know it.

Got a tribunal next week. I've been waiting three months for it. With a bit of some much deserved luck, they'll take me off my section. If they do, I'll discharge myself immediately. If they don't, I think I will start to lose faith and refuse my medication. I'm totally against meds, but they do help with sleep, and sleep helps with boredom. It's horrible waiting for something out of your hands. They promised me leave before I came here, but I still ain't got it. Social services are involved again, safeguarding my stepson. It's a nightmare. All I can do is be patient and calm and not react angrily. I've never done anything negative in front of him and I never would. I believe I am a good role model for him. I am not monetarily successful, but there's more to nurturing relationships than cash. We have always got along great and I stress again that I have never subjected him to any 'disturbing behaviours' that social services are so concerned about. I actually cannot go back to my own home at the moment, because he is staying there with my girlfriend. They moved in when they lost their house. All I did was do them a favour and spare them homelessness but now I am being punished for it. We are a tight family unit currently being destroyed by my recent incarceration. All I did was have a bad day and end up on Runcorn bridge but have since lost my liberty for six months and it's still not over yet. I may as well have gotten busted for something.

I truly adore my stepson's company. He is bright and sprightly and clever and funny. There's something about been around youngsters that keeps you connected to your own youth. It's an education listening to him as he develops and grows. For social services to ban me seeing him again (we've been through all this before, it took a whole year of going to stressful meetings to get him of the child protection register) really hurts. He was only put on it in the first place because I was hospitalised for hearing voices. All I did wrong was start hearing voices, which by now you'll understand is nothing more than getting harassed by organised stalkers using Voice-to-Skull microwave methods. I've said it before but it's worth hearing again: The five worst things about hearing voices are these:

Actually hearing the voices: It really is a quite unimaginable form of suffering.

Loss of liberty: Being sane in an insane environment is not much fun at all.

Drugs: Being pumped full of medications isn't all that great either.

Nobody believes you: You are now officially loopy, why the hell would they?

Social services: They literally steal children from people.

There it is. I learned these harsh lessons through experience. Still, I try not to be bitter, and practice peace, tolerance and goodwill to all the peoples. That's my philosophy. I learned it from Buddhism. I'm not saying that my blood doesn't boil when I have doctors insisting that I'm a dangerous man, but I have total control over any rising anger these days. I get sad, morose and faithless at times, but never ever raging. That's not me.

End Of Block - Part 1

So here I am again at this fidgety little notebook with the too-small keys for my too-big fingers, the sole reason being to end a two month-some block. Writing is like drinking water, I remember the author Conrad Williams saying. My lips are pursed at the fountain...Not a single word in over two months. I mean, like, not even a Facebook post. My last Facebook post got me in big trouble, by the way. It read, You can't beat a nice crack pipe in the bath. It was a joke. I had never smoked crack in my life until a couple of days after this post. It spurred a new contact to get in touch with me and request a get-together. He must have thought I was serious. That's the problem with my sense of humour; it's all very blurred boundaries. It's difficult to decipher if I am straight-talking or taking the piss.

I tooted for the first time. It was a blast. I'd been cocooned on a claustrophobic hospital ward for eleven weeks and was out on leave with new friends. It was a happy occasion. I subsequently failed a random drugs test and lost any hopes of future freedom, including my leave. I was crushed. I couldn't get out of bed for two weeks. I should have been painting the flat with my girlfriend but was instead locked up against my will. It's literally set me back months and months. All over a random toot with a random guy. If only I hadn't posted that joke, then we never would have hooked up. Zestiny. That's a bad form of destiny. I don't know where that comes from, I think I made it up. Still. Drugs wreck lives. Even if you enjoy it and it feels nice at the time and nobody gets hurt. Look at these judges and footballers getting caught doing coke with prostitutes. One line on secret camera and their careers are over. What's the real harm they are doing? I feel for the dealers who get put away for time. What's their crime, really? They are just handling stuff, yet they get more than child abusers. All they do is handle stuff. I fail to see the fairness.

It feels good to have my writing cap on again. Life is bad enough without not being a writer. It's a difference in the mindset; my mind becomes a catchment area, a fishnet for all the bullshit. It's here where I mine the sense in the nonsense. Already I'm cautious about how long this will last, whether it's just a fad for a couple of days before the block sets in again. It's lacklustre not being a writer, when you really are. It's like smoking, when you really don't. Or not jogging when you really should be. I miss my swimming, I tell you. I've not swam for over seven months (the length of my recent ongoing admission), and it sucks. Not doing anything you really love sucks. We should be overdosing on our hobbies and interests, not putting them off for no good reason. I've not been blocked because I've had nothing to say, rather the opposite; the truth is I've got too much to say. The trouble is organising it into a coherent flow without repeating myself too much. The trouble is structuring the torrential outpouring to come. I've not kept a diary in the last seven months either. That's a genuine loss, especially while in mental hospital. All those goings-on and not an accurate logging of any of it. What a shame. All the characters I've met, and no record of them. I don't write diaries because I have an eventful life, I write them to keep track of time. Without a diary, time slips away into unmemorable nothingness. You simply forget stuff. Rereading old diaries exercises the memory and the mind. It's like little flames rekindling in the grey matter, flames otherwise extinguished by the monotonous swill of weeks and months cascading over each other.

Saw a rainbow earlier. It made me think of ancient civilisations. As in, I wonder what they made of them. I bet they thought they were portents from God. It got me thinking that I would write about it, somehow. Hey, writing about anything qualifies as being a writer. The blocked author will take any food for thought. But that's enough about rainbows. Content is all. It's probably better to be blocked than to be writing pure bollocks. There's a thousand and one other writers out there writing pure bollocks. I hope this isn't pure bollocks. You decide. This is where I am almost stumped: Where do I begin? I'm in my chair, I've got the cap on, I'm drinking from the fountain...but it's as if I'm afraid to start gulping it down. There's too much of it, it's too serious, where oh where do I begin? Mind control. Start with the mind control. But that's like a child abuse victim writing about child abuse. It's too full-on. It's too much. That kind of stuff can be weaved into the fiction. Fiction offers a release. Fiction offers extra licence to express oneself. Or does it do nothing but muddy the waters? It's oh so true: Truth is stranger than fiction. Maybe I should stick to non-fiction. And this is the beautiful part of writing...talking to yourself. I'm doing nothing but talking to myself now. Just gotta keep it going and beat this block...

Pleasant dreams last night, mingled in with erotic ones. When you are regularly subjected to remotely-induced night terrors (mind control), pleasant natural dreams are to be cherished. It's nice when pop-ups from youth appear, random people you'd forgotten about. I used to make a lot of dream logs a few years ago. Sometimes stories appear in dreams. They take harbour in their entirety, start to finish, and need no planning. I've often capitalised on this, and written straight-away in the morning. I don't write about my dreams any more, I simply enjoy them. The good ones, anyway. I wouldn't have thought it possible that someone else can control your dreams, but I have long been a victim of this. I'm certain there is either an implanted chip or a satellite involved. It's fantastic material to discuss, but scary as hell when it happens. I think, of all hallucinations, tactile ones are the worst, because they are the most convincing. It's bad enough hearing things and seeing things, but feeling things, like something crawling on you for example, is particularly convincing. Simply horrible. When you combine the three, you are inhabiting a virtual reality. A bad virtual reality.

It's hard work not wasting time dwelling on my harassers. It's as if their sole purpose in life is to destroy mine, but sparing me the mercy of death. If I could make just one shout out to the world, it would be to enlighten people about the evils of organised stalking and electronic harassment being done to targeted individuals. Please google targeted individuals and help me raise some awareness about the awful and terrible crimes being perpetrated upon hapless innocent civilians. It's so atrocious. And its all true as well. Don't believe the lies been told about how they are all crazy. The stuff happening to them is crazy, but they aren't; not unless they are driven crazy by it anyway. Moving on. I've just come across a comic called The Secret Of The Brainchip, about psychosis. Fascinating reading. The truth will eventually come out in future generations. I feel the block coming back now. I feel as if I have to keep giving reference to it, in order to beat it. What I am at heart though is a fiction writer, whether I like it or not. Flash fiction especially. A thousand words or less is enough to make your point. I like compiling flash into short anthologies as well. I might write something about a satellite next, but I do have something to say about psychiatrists also: They don't know a goddamn thing. There, I've said it. They know nothing about mind control or taking drugs, yet they sit there lecturing me because I'm not a 'professional'. Professional. Don't give me professional. They don't even know about the very drugs they themselves dispense, because they have never tried them. Oh please, don't get me started on psychiatrists. Ah well, you know what they say: If you don't have nothing nice to say, then don't say nothing.

Blocked again! Well, it was fun while it lasted. And at least I got over it for a short spell. Think I will read over and edit some recent flash work to keep me at the keel. Ok, done that, and am now about to read over this. I'm aware that I'm starting to waffle though,so it really is time to wrap up End Of Block. It has proved as a useful warm-up for something else to come, something bigger, maybe a long short story. There's something cosy about calling in everyday for a little chat with myself, but I guess that's what blogging is for. There's no better listener than the blank white page. It's both daunting and inviting. I'm in that strange place of wanting to write but not knowing what to write about. I'm in the mood for redrafting, editing, publishing...I enjoy making chapbooks. It's an ordeal numbering each one, but there comes a satisfaction in producing quality products. Away from my office and home computer though, I'm at a bit of a loss. My travelling notebook is usually reserved for new stuff. Fresh, off-the-cuff new stuff. I'm acutely aware however that one is only as good a their latest offering. That means that if I write something crap, then I am now crap. Each creative outing is a test. Do I still have the goods? Have I still got what it takes? There's only one way to find out...

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.