Terrorism and Surveillance ((Part 4))

As with anything in life, it’s good to know why the things around us are happening. Many of these things, maybe even most, happen for a reason. However and But to say

EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON

is to take part in what is known as the Just World Fallacy.

The world is not just, as I have recently learned. It’s not even close. When Allan took to damaging my things “below the radar,” in a manner consistent with being trained to do so, I realized that sometimes we lose twice for the win of another. In this case, I don’t think there’s really a winner. Allan, at the behest of the US Government, created a situation for me at first so painful that, like I have said elsewhere, I was driven to the border of madness.

My favorite cycling jersey (a gift from Dr. Phil Levy), my short-sleeved Dior windbreaker from the 90’s (a gift from Dr. Phillip Brookins), and the bright yellow shirt I wore to my first and only No Kings protest (a gift from no one, I guess) all ruined in highly-deniable ways. I looked at these things I had spent more than two decades taking care of and said to myself, this is all so intentional. I had washed these things many times in laundry facilities across the US and they had never taken anything close to what they took on that day. Yes, I had washed two of these things together, in a single load, but the number of snags was a statistical improbability for ANY single load. As for the short-sleeved windbreaker, one hell of a fashion piece, that was damaged without being washed.

When confronting Agent Allan about these damages, he took to textbook gaslighting me, attempting to have me assume that I was the reason for the damages. I could see right through it. I could see that a statement like “Are you even supposed to wash that stuff?” was a direct example of poor gaslighting. I had, like I said, washed these things so many times before, and had never seen such an intentional scene. Virtually everything else in the same load was damaged in the same way. My towels, laundered similarly, took on bleach damage (which I, at first, took as pickle juice damage), new holes, and an inordinate number of new snags. Allan assured me during his Escapade of Noticeable Lying that his clothes weren’t tarnished and so he “was not going to buy a new dryer.” Dude, I can see through this stuff. Y’all should have used somebody a bit better at this stuff.

This was the first major damage event. For me, the burnt cutting board and the obvious cut to the bottom of my favorite pancake bowl mattered as well. I had made pancakes the night before and had washed this bowl carefully. I strategically noted its pristine condition, the smooth nature to the whole thing. Then, full of pancake, I accidentally left the bowl upstairs. Recall, the scam room I rented from Allan was downstairs. When asking him about the bowl, he attempted to convince me that it had been there for several days, in the drying rack. Yeah, as if that explains anything about the knife cut. He also tried to convince me that I had done it, had made the cut. Once again, I know gaslighting. I can see it. I can sense it.

So far, you might be thinking:

IS THIS MAN UPSET ABOUT SOME CLOTHES AND A FEW KITCHEN WARES?

No, I am not. These things were just the beginning. I could tell that Allan spent a lot of time in my room, which he assured me he was not doing. He pretended a novel experience when he was allowed in my room a single time, to help me with something. It was obvious to me that he was acting. I have seen more films than most people and have made a point of recognizing good acting and bad acting. His acting was quite bad, maybe even horrible.

Here I was, set forth to write about how all of this may have happened to me. And now I’m off on a tangent about my damaged things.

Oh, well.

These damages continued to mount. I noticed new cuts to my acoustic drum set, the very same one I have had since my Deathbed December days. I know this set, and its cases. I have spent so much time taking care of this stuff. I was even paying over $200/mo to keep it all nice in Florida, before I made the decision to move these things across country to a house in Lyons, Colorado. Here, he attempted to convince me that these cuts were due to my moving the drums from the house in Lyons to his house. What about the paint then? Yes, the cases had paint on them. “You must have scraped them coming down the stairs there.” Does this explain the same paint on the smaller case that I only carry in front of me? No, it doesn’t. Once again, gaslighting. Perhaps there’s an equivalence here:

GANGSTALKING EQUALS GASLIGHTING

Where you see one, the other is too. So, I moved anything that could be further damaged downstairs, if only to be closer to me. Still, these things would take damage. In some cases, I could actually hear him doing it. I heard the sound of an impact that turned out to be a crack in the bassdrum itself. I took copious photos of these damages, so that I could compare, for the sake of incrimination. I should have known by their removal from my phone during move-out that I was dealing with something bigger than a mere psycho. The second I opened my phone and found photos missing, photos I know for a fact I actually took, I should have seen it.

Following continual damages, I gave notice of my intent to leave, to move out. Beyond this, I could tell that Allan was attempting to determine when I was going out, and for how long. Then, one day, when I made a trip to return borrowed films to CU Boulder, where I had been teaching, I came back to a mass of damages, all highly-deniable. But all very real.

The first thing I noticed was the damage to my hard-shell guitar case, which had remained pristine through all modes of living, including my dissertation-finisher period, when I lived out of my car, by choice. Doing so provided me with the time and space to actually finish the degree. Finally, I’m a doctor. And, then, only a few years later, I’m a terrorist. What a world.

What a shitty ass world.

Now, had my guitar case been the only issue, I may have been able to get over it. But it wasn’t. Virtually everything in my room took similar damages. Damages meant to evade police suspicion, in spite of their ubiquitous masses. I guess the sum of small doesn’t make BIG in all cases. My music equipment, my desktop computer, my favorite films. Me and mine and so much of it. Here I was, creating a card game while publishing an article for peer-review. I still thought I was safe. I didn’t yet know the government had chosen me for a torture program so pathetic that it smears the blood of 1000 wars upon all who take part.

Books, rare and unique collections of worded paper, ruined, by scratches and tears to covers almost 100 years old. If you’re a reader, then this should make you cringe. I guess those involved don’t read much. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to stomach the prospect of something so dystopian. Fahrenheit 451. My life.

Things within boxes closed. Objects, inside a vehicle locked. Damaged. Music, clothing, camping gear. Damaged. It was all so professionally done, so deniable. So disgusting. So, in a panic, I moved out, in less than a full week. During this panicked ejection, I continued to note new damages. Further besmirches to things that had already been “hit.” The cops didn’t seem to be of much help either. I got the sense that they weren’t trying so hard to do anything about it all.

Yes, they wrote a report. Yes, they seemed to care. But, no, justice: none.

It took months to get a detective on the case, and even then, they had only reviewed a portion of my photos before closing the case. I knew something was up. I didn’t yet know it was the government, but I knew it stunk twice.

And, as for the tampering of evidence, that continued. It continued through move-out. It continued from states away. Photos, on my own, private, device, were altered in such a way so as to cast doubt upon me as a legitimate source of knowledge, and honesty.

This. Freaked. Me. Out. Dude.

Imagine going into your phone and NOT seeing the evidence that would have put your abuser in jail. And seeing as Allan was, and probably still is, An Idiot, I knew that others must’ve been involved. I could hardly believe it all. Well, I believe it now. I can’t NOT see it clearly, now.

Then, after uploading evidence to my cloud storage, I noticed that things were still being changed. This is where I should have known it was the government. I took it for something larger than Allan, but nothing so elevated as the US Government. Had it not been for the similar damages continuing to this day, I wouldn’t have been able to say, definitively: GOVERNMENT. Since this all began, I have experienced altered surveillance footage, and highly coordinated efforts. I would see new damages, not by any tricks of my mind, but actual damages, and the footage would show nothing. And I promise you, I am not mentally ill.

Well, I began this post with a discussion of how this all could happen to me.

I mean, what did I do?

Did I even do anything?

Yet/Somehow, this post has turned into a detailing of my plight’s forces.

As such, let me get back to the point.

Was it that half deposit I hadn’t returned to a soured roommate in Lyons?

Was it that one time I decided to wear a dress?

[Heavy Pause]

What IS it, man?

What is so heinous that I am subjected to such tortures?

Just last night, I had to lose my stalkers along country roads. There should never have been that many cars down that road at that time of night. But there they were. And, no, I am not being paranoid. I will get to a place, in the middle of the night, noting a single light shining upon my car. Then, after a short period of time, five or six lights, shining directly at my car. I am being monitored constantly. And, by definition, it’s exhausting.

Did I say something wrong at some point? Something so wrong that an actual terrorist might five me real high for?

I don’t know, and I guess it doesn’t really matter.

It is happening. And that’s enough.

Maybe I was selected randomly? I have also read that these programs target the homeless, especially the homeless that happen to be hyper-intelligent. They target those who, possibly for no reason of their own, have become alienated. I have become alienated. Living in a car, previously by choice, did that to me. I spent weeks not speaking to other people, all the time. I thought my job at CU Boulder would do the trick at bringing me back, at reintroducing me into society. Well, it did at first, but this would not be a lasting effect.

In my second semester (at CU Boulder), I began noticing what amounts to fame. Not the kind of fame where people come up and ask you for a scribbled autograph. The dark kind, where others keep tabs on you, like a secret police. I could tell that everyone in Lyons, give or take, had some idea of who I was. I would catch people taking pictures of me. I would overhear groups chatting about my personal matters, just beyond earshot.

Two girls, in a pizza shop, mentioned to each other knowing me by my hat. A man walking by my local bike park would say “You should see what these people do behind closed doors,” in response to his girlfriend waiving to me, saying “The people here are so nice.” Maybe these are just coincidences. Perhaps. But, still, this doesn’t explain the invasion of my home. I would come home from teaching and notice my blinds out of place, things in my room moved about. I could that someone had actually been in there.

Then, almost if by miracle, there was Allan, intercepting me on, give or take, the exact day I notified my property manager of my intentions not to renew, my lease. Yes, the property manager sucked, and the place had rodents, but it was ultimately the price increase that made me leave. When I got to the bike park that day, Allan followed behind me like a fly on shit. I can see now that I was successfully intercepted. I couldn’t see it then, in spite of the timing being so exact. Suspiciously, I hadn’t ever seen Allan at that park, a park I frequented every single day. I think they call this a red flag.

A BLOOD RED FLAG

So, why have I been targeted? I don’t know, and probably never will.

What I do know is that my being “listed” has led to a nightmare so real, so lucid, that even the best writers should fail to poke its archetype.

Why does THIS even exist?

I have spent my whole life trying to be a good person,

And they ruin it so quickly.

They have ruined me, so quickly.

PS — I thought for a moment, as I have been largely left alone since last night, of not posting this. Then, I thought to the damages, to the supremely strange phenomenon occurring about me, surroundingly, to the mass of people picking up their phones when I go to the bathroom. To the same cars being everywhere I go. No thanks. These programs do exist. If not me…