I’ve been a victim of “gang stalking” since at least 2002, when I did media work for the historic “Judi Bari v FBI” trial (about a car-bomb assassination attempt – feds guilty).  Or it was the year that the stalking amped up.  It would become so intense, it would eventually drive me from my home.  Too bad, because word is that moving doesn’t stop it.

Victims of gang stalking are called “Targeted Individuals” or “TI’s,” and they become targets in a wide variety of ways.  Some are randomly selected, selected for convenience, but most TI’s have insulted the status quo in some way – or they are mind control subjects or subjects of other military/intelligence experiments.

Targets experience all sorts of physical and emotional harassment.  Lies spread in one’s community is common, as I wrote about in my blog, “Disinformation.”  Clever discrediting, strangers acting hostilely and bizarrely in public toward the victim, timed synchronistically, compounding the impact, orchestrations that are hard to believe – thankfully, these have been minor for me.  Worst is the electronic and medical harassment that leaves one with ears ringing, Taser burns, and more.

It’s an ugly, Top Secret project, supported with the most advanced technology, used to punish political dissidents or anyone whom someone in authority takes a hating to.  It’s used to groom society, punish those on the edges.  It’s experimental.  It’s brain warfare.  It’s too much money and too little accountability.  It’s human nature at it’s worst.  And it’s real.  Thousands of people are reporting the same sort of bizarre events, technological experiences, delivered in very similar ways.

My gang stalking has been a little different than most commonly reported, in some ways more refined than much of what I read (but not always), and I think that might be due to the sort of mind control program I was enrolled in as a child.  I believe my Eisenhower lineage has afforded me a bit of protection within a very dangerous project I never wittingly or willingly chose.

In recent years, I’ve been mind controlled, while fully conscious of what was happening, but unable to stop it, to let a man destroy my computer.  I’ve been controlled to have sex with a man who revolted me (thankfully, only once while conscious).  I’ve woken up with all the signs of having been gang raped.  I’ve gone to sleep fine, then woken with third-degree Taser burns, injection bruises, biopsy

scoop marks, “donut bruises,” wrenched back and other pains for no reason, and absolute exhaustion also for no reason.

I’ve been woken by tones in my head, I’ve fallen asleep with tones.  My house has been bombarded by extremely loud ultra-low frequencies.  And my portable door lock was broken the first night I installed it for protection.  I’ve had videos transmitted to my head, once two videos transmitted on top of each other – very interesting.

Most of the time, the gang seems to know my schedule and they time “hits” mostly when it won’t ruin my life, but once a series over a course of 4 months did change my life.  And it followed another series of events that happened when I went to the Lama Foundation Community outside Taos for a Permaculture Design course in the summer of 2013.  It seems someone didn’t want me to do this work.

Those two series of events – at and after Lama – which I’ll describe in a moment – would be typical gang stalking.  But one event at Lama went far beyond.  It seemed to mimic an ET abduction.

Now, I know that a few people who’ve long talked about aliens have begun to say it’s all disinformation, meant to discredit.  I don’t think so.  I know that a lot of sincere people, like myself, have been subject to experiences, all sharing similar themes, that have been interpreted as alien contact.  Still, I’d write them off as high-tech illusions in a minute, except that these experiences have been described since the beginning of time and across every culture on the planet.  Contemporary America’s scorn of “aliens” is unique in the history of the planet.  So, unless we want to call everything an illusion, as in the Matrix or some Hindu thought, I believe aliens are real and not just illusion.

I had my first totally-classic stop on the highway by an incredible brilliant white light back in 2000, and things picked up slowly after that.  I also began having shamanic experiences, and was happy and honored to be experiencing the numinous dimensions of our cosmos.  Frightening parts I tried to learn from, as part of the initiation.  Indeed, I soon learned that an African shaman described aliens identical to the classic ones described today – though I’ve never seen that type as I remember – but it gave me comfort that I was in a long-established, understood (outside America) realm of humanity interacting with other dimensions.

After I did six weeks of media work at the “Judi Bari v FBI” trial, my admittedly-unusual life has never been the same.  I believe the feds put me on a shit list.

My treatment quickly became so terrifying that suicide was in my journals and thoughts every day for the six months following the trial, less often after that, but the idea never left me until last summer when I finally realized I’m philosophically opposed to it for one simple reason:  I might not fully understand what’s going on (after all, there’s much going on in other realms that we can’t see), and it might not be as bad as it seems.

So, for the last year, when I’ve been the most harassed, I’ve only wished to die, prayed to die, thought I was going to die, had heart problems, had at least one heart attack, and wondered if the gang would eventually kill me.  But I never any more think about killing myself.

Some activists on the subject say the Gang hopes to drive us to kill ourselves or kill someone else, and only rarely do they kill a Target – but they make it look like a suicide if they do.  (So don’t be fooled.)

In the spring of 2013, I completed 6 months of work I’d done to qualify for a small grant to start a business.  I really needed to do something new, get away from the computer which I’d worked on since 1986.  I’d been studying, teaching and practicing Permaculture since 1989, and I wondered why’d I’d been afraid of it before.  It seemed too “good” for me, too wonderful to replant my life into Nature; I’d been sacrificing all my life, and now I was going to give myself something Good.  A new late-life career, and perfect one.  I sent in a check for a major chunk of my money and drove away to attend my second Permaculture Design Course being offered at the Lama Foundation community.  I was in love already with the vision, the strangers I’d soon meet who’d love design the way I do, who like their hands on living things, who can imagine a new way of living on Earth.

The first night after dinner, we were notified that we were expected to help in the kitchen at least once during our 10 days, and I decided to get it out of the way immediately and worked that night.  I was astounded to witness how filthy the kitchen was.  It didn’t look like anyone there had any concept about state laws governing commercial kitchens.  The large wooden cutting board had remnants of vegetables embedded in pizza sauce that looked to be a few days old, and everything sat on a layer of grease that could be scraped up in large strips if one was inclined.  I leaned into it.

Some time later, many of us became ill with a Norovirus, and we all soon learned that the entire regular kitchen staff was sick with the virus and one of them had gone to the hospital.  The kitchen crew we’d met were all stand-in’s, and no one had thought to clean the kitchen – and then they asked us to do it.

One of our group went to the hospital.  One went home.  And a few of us passed out in our tents, in and out of consciousness for a few days.  Most shocking was that we seemed to have been forgotten.  Those who didn’t get sick didn’t realize how very sick we were.  Thankfully, someone brought a 5-gallon container of water for three of us to share.  One person came and asked if any of us would like food, but when I said yes, a banana, he forgot and never returned; later I learned he’d gotten sick.

Our fevers, as we baked in our tents mid-day, would wake us up, we’d crawl out and get chilled, and that would wake us enough to stagger over to see if the others were okay, and one trip out that day would be all we’d accomplish.  By day three we were walking again, sitting far from the others, in case we were still contagious, sipping soup and marveling at what we’d been through.

Between the kitchen work and the virus hitting, something else happened, but I don’t think it was related to the illness, because I’m the only person – I think – that it happened to.  I woke in the middle of the night and tried to move my arms to get an elbow beneath me so I could reach with my other arm for water, but something prevented me from even moving my elbow.  I woke more fully in alarm, discovering that my sleeping bag was somehow wrapped around me extremely tight.  I thought I must have somehow lain on a  doubled-over piece of the bag, so I tried to roll off of it, but when I rolled back and forth, the entire bag was wrapped tightly around me.  Eventually, I rolled more and wiggled enough to get an arm out, and then the other, and discovered I was truly wrapped inside the bag, like someone had rolled me up in it.

Suppressing my alarm, I reached for my water, but it wasn’t there.  Nothing was there.  Not my journal, not my purse, nothing.  Where was my stuff?!  I wasn’t sideways in the tent.  I was one-eighty.  I turned and crawled to the other end, where I found my water and all my things.  What had happened?  I couldn’t have wrapped myself up like that.  And how did I turn around one-eighty?

I’d had a number of alien experiences over the years, had heard the tales of people waking up in their yards or down the street, or in some night shirt they never saw before, so it wasn’t a difficult leap to conclude that this was another alien bungle, an escalation of weirdness on top of an awful lot of weirdness already.  I slaked my thirst and fell back to sleep.

In the morning, I wondered if I could have done that to myself.  If so, it would be a first and highly strange.  I decided I wasn’t going to say anything about this to anyone.  No, this was my new Permaculture life.  I was leaving the crazy shit behind.  (Yeah, I thought I was going to be an activist on the alien issue once, but I’d tired of that pretty quickly.  No one wants to hear.  And sometimes the craziness seemed to go away for long periods of time – not to say it had gone away, but I was trying to make it go away by ignoring it.)  But here it was.  Again.  Shit.  Invading my dream.  I would pray on the way to breakfast, and get myself back into equanimity.

At breakfast, someone leaned forward and asked the group, “Hey, did anyone else hear the humming in the sky over the trees last night?”  I gulped and my head popped up, and so did a few others.  Two people reacted excitedly, and after them I said that I had too.  No more than that.  No one asked if anyone had any weird experiences, and I said nothing – until near the end of the course, and then just to three people when we carpooled to lunch one free day; they were all very “into” the subject.  It gave me an outlet for a little storytelling, and made me feel not so alone in a crazy reality.

When the Noro virus hit after that, I never felt good again while at the course.  After recovering, I sat in the back of the room for a few days, then rejoined the group in my old place and tried to concentrate on the instruction.  But I was tired, very tired.  The schedule of instruction, demonstrations, work, and movies at night filled every day, and I still needed to catch up on my sleep, and wasn’t sleeping that well, this 61-year old body on thin pads – not as fun as it was decades ago.

When others of our group got sick, and resentment grew for this “spiritual community” that chose not to tell us that an illness had made 30 people sick just before we arrived, and then sent their guests in, unawares, to clean the locus of the disease, we asked to hold a circle.  The community representatives quickly copped to their guilt in pretty, practiced phrases around the circle, but seemed far more skilled at PR in cliches than actually caring about the people who were so severely affected.  (I’d trained in all the communications skills modalities that they were emulating, and I used them too, mellow as any meditator, but I also called them on some of their word gamesmanship – politely of course.)  For the rest of our stay, a few of us found ourselves the subject of sudden silence when we’d come around a corner or enter a room.

Besides the many days of pain and suffering, the toll it took on our health, and now this emotional insult on top, we’d all paid (I forget exactly) over $1,000 for 14 days’ teaching, and we’d each lost at least three days.  And we hadn’t been able to eat any of the food (for which we’d pre-paid separately) for those three days, and could only eat small amounts of food for the next few.  Those of us who got sickest thought it only made sense to ask for a refund of at least a portion of our food, but the community was indignant and refused.  They even implied that we were slacking by not taking another tour in the kitchen.

One night, in a gesture of appeasement, they offered two of us a bed in the guest yurt – for free – so we could sleep more comfortably.  I thanked them and accepted.  That night, shortly after I’d retired, they fired up the hot tubs right outside the yurt and had a loud party with lots of whooping and laughter.

Since I’d moved all my things into the yurt, and the campground was a half-mile forest-walk away in the dark, I didn’t want to move, so at 10 pm I walked out and down the trail and around the yurt to let them know that someone was sleeping there.  They apologized, promised to end the party, and then promptly began again as soon as I lay down my head.  I enduring it for another half-hour, practiced breathing and praying, then talking to myself.  I finally got up again to let them know, again, politely, that their noise was still keeping me from sleeping.  They apologized again, made promises again, and then after I’d lain down, they returned to partying.  Around midnight, as I was putting on my coat and leaving the yurt, someone spoke softly and everyone became quiet for the night.

I stood there wondering at the mindset of these people who’ve inherited, or taken over, a spiritual community – one I’d had such high expectations of, one that a friend of mine had done the first Permaculture design for decades ago, and other friends visit every year and wax poetic about.  What had happened?  I’ve come to accept that everything is infiltrated by the Dark.  And spiritual communities, perhaps, especially.  It only take a few people to drive the good ones away.

The next morning, I decided not to be cowed and asked for a meeting again with the stand-in director.  Younger than me by thirty years, she sat upright, as in meditation, a mild smile on her lips.  I told her about my experience in the yurt with the party, pretending it was simply youthful exuberance, a mistake, but I let her know I was still sleep-deprived and hurt by the inconsideration.  She told me the party was a highly unusual one, that the tubs were “always” treated as sacred space, and usually there’s no speaking at all, and only whispering if speech is necessary.  “I don’t know what happened last night,” she told me with innocent eyes and a Mona Lisa smile.  Then she “reminded” me what was the cost for the yurt per night and suggested that I square up.

Our eyes were locked in mutual Buddhist loving stares, and I said, “No.  I’m not paying for my nights in the yurt.”  She politely presented reasons why I should pay, and I politely reminded her the yurt was an offered gift and compensation for not being able to eat for three days because of their virus.  She seemed to have enjoyed her game and “allowed” me to use the yurt for the next few nights for free, but I’d stay only one more.

At home, I had another shock, a personal one I’ll skip.  As soon as I could, I launched my workshops and hoped to begin picking up design work.  Five days before my first workshop, I was hit and could barely get out of bed.  For the next few days, I couldn’t concentrate to plan my workshop and had to do it in the last two days.  I was rattled by the timing, and my workshop was not very good.  The next month, the same thing happened, same timing, hit five days before my workshop, and unable to concentrate to teach.  It happened every month from August through November, always just before an advertised workshop.  I took a break in December, and in January acknowledged I was afraid to announce anything.  My partner said he’d cover the bills for awhile, and told me to take a break.  And I never taught Permaculture again.

The gang stalking, as I said, amplified long before, in 2002, and it seems like it’s gotten far worse in the last few years.  But maybe it only changes.  I think they use some of us to test their electronic weaponry, see if they can scramble our brains just a little, keep us functioning, looking mostly normal, but not be able to concentrate.  Sometimes, they try out weapons that bruise and burn us.  Sometimes they seem to take biopsies which leave us with “scoop marks” or divots in our skin.  I’ve even woken with a healed scar on my neck that a medical professional assumed was from thyroid surgery.  I wonder.  And then there’s the injection bruises – I began to watch for those and for a long period of time found two each week, like clockwork, most with accompanying exhaustion to some degree.

I seem to be used as a guinea pig for a lot of electronics lately, hearing tones a lot, having strange tones come out of my TV, and hearing strange things on the phone, liked a human voice speeded up on my answering machine, and taped recordings giving directions to “re-record.”

I woke once with a tunnel in my skin on my left scapula where I’d long believed a malfunctioning implant had been because it always itched terribly and I’d developed a strange, 4″ wide bruise that radiated off to one side and had been there for over a year, which no doctor could say what it was.  The same morning the tunnel appeared, letting me assume they’re removed it, a new hypersensitive spot was tingling higher on my shoulder and continues to this day, years later.  Indeed, the year-old bruise did fade over the course of the next month.

Everything in the world today is “infiltrated” with people who’ll do things like this to some people.  Some say the actors are demonic, others alien, agents of Archons – all sorts of theories or language is used to talk about this phenomenon.  But most people understand it’s managed by someone inside government intelligence agencies.  And their Gang members are everywhere, even in spiritual communities, somehow recruited into this work.

Victims are everywhere too.  Suffering silently, because no one wants to believe this.  I know it’s hard to believe, sometimes even when it happens to you.  But it keeps happening, and goes on for years, and decades.  Then you finally discover there’s a name for it!  And  there are many people scattered around the nation who tell you you’re not the only one, you’re not crazy, and it’s also happening to them.  Bitter comfort.

And then we’re told the rules:  Don’t tell the police.  Don’t tell your doctor.  (I erred there – my propensity for telling the truth.)  If you tell, others warn, they’ll call you crazy and lock you up.  I’ve been called delusional – but only by one doctor who is probably involved.  Thank God that many other doctors around the nation, who know me personally or have read my accounts in full, concur that I’m suffering from something very real, and it’s not in my mind.

One good thing about it, at least for me:  It makes me look beyond this plane and align myself with energies of the cosmos, rather than Earth.  And it usually only affects me for maybe a quarter of my time, so with the rest of my life I can pull myself together and do my best to keep contributing to a better world.