14 years ago,
I was sitting in front of my fireplace
with my journal open on my lap,
in the middle of the sofa
with my boyfriend in a chair
also facing the fireplace.
I was in the middle of a sentence,
when a part of me noticed
that the part of me writing –
or rather I should say,
practicing such beautiful penmanship –
was not the me
that started the sentence.
I wondered who she was,
and thought: helping angel?
inner wise one?
Programmed one
with sophisticated penmanship?
Programmed to take orders?
Of course. But I hoped
That wasn’t the one.
Not good.
She probably gave permission
and cooperated.
My vision changed,
and it seemed as if
I was seeing my hand
on the page
from 18 inches above
the top of my head,
as if it was suddenly
a smaller piece of the picture,
and dirty gold, oddly.
The thought crossed my mind that
Someone else’s vision
From above my head
Had been tapped into my visual cortex.
But how?
My fascination with that
was the last thing I remember
of sitting in the middle of the sofa.
When I next came to consciousness,
I was slumped over my thighs,
my right arm wedged
between the armrest
and my thigh,
and I was struggling
to lift myself or
form words.
I writhed, flapped my fingers,
and made broken bits of moans,
eventually unwedging my arm
to get my boyfriend’s attention.
He was distracted though,
Seeming to take instruction
from someone standing behind me,
over my head.
I knew this was a terrible thing
and they would not want me
to notice or remember,
so I never told him that I saw it,
Only continued to flap my hands
and say simple words like
Help me.
Somehow I got on my feet
and straightened my body
into a standing position,
but as I did
I felt an area of my body
communicate shock signals
to the whole of my system,
and I saw an unusual
stainless steel tool in my mind
and remembered one man
saying to another,
each on one side of my prone body,
“This will kill her slowly.
Maybe 10 years.”
Did they just give me cancer?
As I turned to aim myself
toward the bathroom,
I was glad it wasn’t only up to me
and my boyfriend to get me there,
and I found myself helped along
by someone behind me on my left
who occasionally kept me from falling.
I had come back to consciousness
sooner than they planned,
I guessed.
They were always doing shit to me,
but this seemed to be the worst.
I had begun my journal
that lovely evening at 8:45 PM.
(I have been noting details like this
since Y2K,
when I burned my previous
decades of journals
and began a series of “science journals,”
kept according to strict rules, detailing all the anomalous experiences of my life.)
Slowly staggering through the kitchen,
hanging on my boyfriend to my right, the third person behind me
and to my left,
I saw the large, familiar
kitchen clock ahead:
It was 10:15.
In an hour and a half,
I had gone from a most beautiful
life in a sweet small town
to the haunting reality
I could not put into words
but can now acknowledge
was a gruesome death sentence
that would slowly steal my life.
I was too enraged the next morning, Thanksgiving,
to prepare anything to eat,
and instead
I seethed and hissed and occasionally shouted,
reservedly – but with the most hateful disgust I could convey.
And sometimes I added volume –
to the same sorts of sentiments
which I repeated over and over again.
“Fuckers!! Secret societies!!
I fucking hate them!
….
Fuckers!!”
“What can help?”
my boyfriend asked
over and over again.
And over and over again.
With never any change of wording.
“What can help?” he asked.
I had answered “Nothing”
in every way possible,
including shouting.
When he asked again
for maybe the 30th time,
I asked myself,
What other way is there
to answer this question?”
Finally I answered myself:
Sarcasm?
“Electroshock?” I replied sarcastically
before I realized the danger in that.
There is a code
inside secret societies
that they can never do something
to somebody
without their agreement.
If they manipulate to get the agreement,
or if the other person thinks
they are kidding,
that’s fine under their terms.
I tried to take back my answer,
and repeated again and again
that I did not really mean it,
but my boyfriend didn’t want
to hear about it.
He had hung out here
for two full hours
listening to me rail,
and now,
as he gathered his things to go,
I realized that’s why he’d stayed:
to get my permission.
He was my current handler,
handling things like this.
Apparently there are no takebacks,
because I tried to make every argument
to not be electroshocked.
I don’t know how I spent the rest of the day after he left,
but the following morning,
my boyfriend and I
made coffee and sat luxuriously
outside in the garden
with gorgeous weather –
when it dawned on me
that this delicious feeling
was not just the fall garden
and perfect sun and breeze;
it was the desired effect of
My having been electroshocked.
When I shared what I had just realized,
my boyfriend smiled, paused,
and then we changed the subject.
Within days,
I began waking with the sensation
that the soles of my feet
had been pounded with 2x4s
in the night,
or that I had been dragged around
during the night by my hair.
That was Borrelia burgdorferi
multiplying
in two favorite places in my skin,
though I wouldn’t actually see
until three years later
when I purchased a digital microscope
that it was everywhere
on my body,
but worse, certain places.
When I realized what disease
I had been given,
I was not feeling well enough
to do sufficient research,
and I had lost my home
and was learning how to live
in a tiny trailer behind my truck,
and I didn’t have enough money
to visit doctors I trusted,
so I only read a little,
then began applying every sort
of antibacterial lotion to my skin
and scalp and feet.
That may be the reason
I didn’t have the sort
of open skin lesions
that many Lyme Disease suffers have.
But while my skin seems to have been spared,
the Borrelia seemed to have migrated –
as I began to develop a hand tremor.
I read a little more,
enough to worry
about what other of my organs
it may have invaded.
Apparently,
anything is possible.
I quit the antibacterial lotion,
and the hand tremor faded.
For the last 14 years
my energy levels have been
much less bad than
right after that night.
However, I am usually disabled
between 10 and 15 days
every month.
But I’ve been coached
to stop trying to be the superwoman I used to be,
and learn to go slow
and not push myself
and thereby
even out the energy of my days
so that none of them
are totally useless days.
I have to limit my energy expenditure every day,
which means I don’t wash the dishes as often as I used to,
or clean the house,
or take a shower as often
as I used to,
because if I overdo any day,
I could be banging into doorways
by evening,
and have worthless for
many days afterward.
I have wanted to write,
my former career and craft,
my beloved livelihood,
but I often don’t have
the energy I need
to focus on taking the idea
from draft to completion
to actual publication or posting.
I think about it
and often don’t even write.
Or I might write,
and I might get very near the end,
and then I am mentally fatigued
and not able to focus on the finish.
And I can’t save it for morning,
because I like those hours
for other things,
especially not for writing or editing about depressing stuff.
So these last 12 years,
I haven’t gotten much done.
And I am sure that was Their intent.
I guess I am
an enemy of the state.
I am certainly on
their targeting list.
And I have documented it now
for 26 years
in scores of science journals.
They financially harass me,
socially sabotage me,
interfere with important projects,
use me as a guinea pig
for frequency weapons testing,
and now they’ve decided
to eliminate me, apparently –
with Their biological weapon
that certainly has another name,
but is called by mainstream culture Lyme Disease.
Maybe I have really good genetics,
and they’re taking bets
on how well I will handle
the next brutal idea
somebody wants to test.
Or maybe they are scientists
from a different culture (alien?)
with ethics different from ours,
and since they created us,
for their purposes,
which they do not need
to share with us,
they have the right
to change and modify us.
They have just as much right
to experiment on us
as we do to cage and castrate
our farm and household animals. So we shouldn’t take it personally.
There’s no sense in calling it evil.
It’s just what it is.
We live on a planet of predation,
and we are part of sexual,
not asexual, life.
And the biological law of Life
is that it requires death.
There is no ethics or morals about it about it.
Simply biological law.
And the Creators have the right
to decide
who lives and dies.
Is that a decent philosophical stance
to get through one’s days,
given what we know about
our nation’s and world’s
secret societies?
It is my latest.
My name is Jean.
I am a subject of MK Ultra.
I am an author who can’t help
but write certain truths –
that different parts of me
argue over –
whether I should publish my observations
or not.
And certain of those truths
about our secret Creators
are adamantly not wanted
by Them to be published.
Oh well….
So now I have Lyme Disease.
And I struggle to accomplish
the basic requirements
of a decent life,
with showers and clean house
and something creative
and useful accomplished.
Certain members of the secret societies
are hoping to see me
on my way out of here.
I have often wished for the same.
And yet I keep investing in life.
And my angels do amazing healing work sometimes,
convincing me that maybe
I am still supposed to be here
for some reason,
even if I don’t understand it yet.
Looking online for organisms that match my organisms, I have been rather worried to not find them, as that leads me to consider the conspiracy theories about designer organisms being planted in targeted individuals. Maybe that’s an additional reason why no doctors want to treat me?
And many, many more fibers, including many that appear crystalline.
So I returned, 24 hours later, shaken but confident that a different doctor would see what I saw and not dismiss the clear compelling description I had of the white sticky substance that couldn’t be removed – that was still there for them to take a sample of – and the Q-tips for testing.
