Voices

I’ve written around three novels in my life so far, with additional zines and comics not included. The novels are quite serious on the surface. I’ve looked at the mental health crisis from firsthand experience, I’ve written perspectives on my own personal views of ontology and psychology, trained from spending years in therapy. But I’ve never really spoken plainly and calmly about the terrifying situation in my life. I’ll try to make this as brief as possible. Folks who know this blog know that objective reality isn’t exactly my thing. But I’ll try my best, from what I know, to recount these experiences. I don’t know everything, but here’s what I know. Over the course of the last two years, I’ve been able to piece together fragments, from research and study.

I’m not sure how far this goes back, or the reasons why, but I’ve been under surveillance for many years. I know this from frequent tests, which at some point I became obsessive about, by working on twitter and checking the results, at first I would go straight to the feed, once I was comfortable enough, I started to do it through tweetdeck, and somehow, I’m not sure how I found it in journalism. I was shocked by its effects into an almost daze when I realized it was happening.

Over two years, I learned that our apartment in Emeryville was bugged. My phone is compromised. People can see this screen, and it puts me in a position I don’t think anyone understands. Every second of my life is an act of hope against terror, every instant I do anything I know that there is a risk of death or torture. No one has ever told me in plain language what is going on. Instead, people in my life have used it for political gain, keeping me further in torture, or advancing their perspectives.

We used to have cars making sounds outside our window in Emeryville, sometimes I still hear traces of it even when I’m walking, and even cities seem to stress me out sometimes. Now it comes in small collections of birds, an act of sound torture which is well organized. Often its in leaves on the ground. It’s a stealth situation, by mimicking sounds of the natural world, they are redirected and untraceable, and from what I can tell, this is well known. The effect is cumulative, they’re laughing sounds, which puts everything I do into a critical focus, as if my entire life was for entertainment. Sometimes I blow past it, other times like last week, it pulls me into relentless despair.

At this point I have had almost every conceivable threat directed toward me. Some of the most offensive accusations have been made that are unfounded and only result from the constant lifting screenshots on my phone and on my screen. I see when it’s happening.

There’s also a code system used for numbers relating to people I know, as if my entire life has been made into a game. This is terrifying and I don’t know when it will end. I’ve been driven almost to a psychological breaking point because of how it diminished all of our sprits and turns everything into a game of life and death.

I want this to end, and I don’t know quite how to do it yet. I’ve tried through poetry, through music, through art, not as artifice but as a cry from the depths of my soul. I hope no one ever has to go through this. It’s terrifying. So lately I’ve been getting into Human Rights Activism, since this is first hand knowledge of abuse that I can relate to with victims as an ally, someone tortured yet somewhat free, able to use my voice and my mind.

If you ever see me making art, stop paying attention to numbers and each process of what I’m doing, at this point every time it happens it’s a new assault. This takes so much bravery that I didn’t know I had. I have a vast wellspring of resistance that, for now, can’t be extinguished. I’ve always been looking for someone to state these facts plainly to defend me, and for this moment, that has to be me. So many others can’t speak out, so I have to. we have a desperate movement of suppression in many parts of the world, every time I do anything now, taking a breath, getting a drink of water, walking down a hall, playing with our cat, conversations with friends, I’m aware of this, and carry these burdens with me, for until all of us are free, none of us are free.

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