HRH King James Gets Around

Today was a fine day at the park. It was so nice I brought my Bible to do my daily Bible study here. The Bible is extremely worn with use and underlined, dogeared and even stained in places. It was ten bucks at Walmart. I had another Bible, a big study Bible bound in maroon leather for 50 bucks. It was the NIV version. It had to go. So, HRH in his black plastic cover that is disconnected to the rest of the book really gets around.   I have to tie him together with each use. It’s a nice day but the V2k intrusions from a cell tower nearby make the study nearly impossible. I end up in tears and vow not to study Bible in the park anymore. I go to read my novel and the intrusions stop. I watch the sunset and trains go by.

I sit in the doctors office waiting for my shot. HRH is along. I can play catch up from my missed study if I make it up here. I have to sit about 40 minutes before the shot then an hour afterward so the Bible gets used. It’s hard to concentrate as the nurses and aides gossip and laugh with one another down the hall. Many of the others in the waiting room are perps. Also, the TV is on. I put in my ear buds and stuff them in my ears then turn on the music to block the sound. I end up getting about an hour or so done out of my busted and tired HRH Bible.  I walk to the cafeteria to get the rest done.  Loud patrons and perps require me to put on the music again.

I’m waiting in my friend’s car.  It’s sort of hot so I open the door as I wait for her to get done at her doctor’s.  The eternal Words of the Lord now battle outside noises like cars and perps passing by.  The relative privacy of the car provides a slightly more effective Bible study.  It’s chilly outside but hot in the car.  Should I suffer the heat to have few distractions?  As usual, I have the music to block out distractions that we usually are familiar with as ti’s.  I get 30 minutes done by the time she gets back.  I realize the best place to do Bible study is at home but sometimes I procrastinate and don’t do Bible Study until it’s too late or I’m too tired to go anywhere, so, often HRH King James gets to go on another walk, bus ride, car ride or whatever.  Maybe, one day old King James might get to fly in a plane!  He also might end up in a concentration camp where we ti’s and Christians might end up.  Who knows?

This post is Number 100.  I have been off to a slow start with this blog.  My old blog had only about 250 posts total but more visitors.  I think this blog is bombing.  Everything I have to say about gangstalking has beeen said before by better bloggers than I.  Sorry for the days between posts.

The Elevator Ride–a tall tale

Paul-Bunyan-Babe-13or6ndFiction writers: You’re stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger. Write this scene.

Non-fiction writers: You’re stuck in an elevator with a person from your past.

Oh that dreaded moment–having to get on an elevator!  I had to ride up to meet with my new shink on the 28th floor of the newest building in town–the amber hippopotamus.   I tried to get on so as to ride alone, but, just as I was closing the door with the button a hand and “wait!!” stopped the elevator.

An old man got on He looked very familiar.   Then I looked…for sure, he was very well-preserved for his age–it couldn’t be!!!  He must be 100!  Well, almost.  It was the rabbi!

The rabbi.  From my past.  That refused to give me a Bar Mitzvah.  I decided to say nothing at all–what could I say?  It would make it uncomfortable for both of us.  I watched him get off the elevator–floor 26–Law Offices–and I rode on up to the head shrinkers.

I could not stop thinking of him even through my therapy session.  Did he know how he ruined my young life?  Did he know how he had alienated me from God at the time and had probably led to my adolescent rebellions?  Had he know I felt like a failure, all washed up at 17 and my highest goal had been to be a damn GROUPIE–until the perps had even taken THAT away?  Did he know that as a last-ditch effort to save myself from complete madness and suicide I converted to Christianity?  Of course not–he didn’t know.  When he sent me  out of his office disappointed at 17 when I tried to get a late Bar Mitzvah he never knew.  He was gone in a few years to greener pastures.  He hadn’t even remembered my sister’s “perfect” Bar Mitzvah when she did the WHOLE SERVICE flawlessly.

How disappointed she’d seemed!  The senile old bastard!  Not remember ME?  Well those weren’t her words as “miss perfect” never cussed around those she wanted to deceive into her apparent perfection.  That was 20 years ago–a lifetime–and here HE was.

Part II

I got on the elevator to do down after my appointment, pushed “1” but the elevator stopped at 26.  HE got on again.  I slunk to the back of the car and pushed myself against the wall.

“Nice day isn’t it?” ashed the Good Rabbi

“Um, yes,” I said

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Um, no.”

“Yes, yes I do.  You look very familiar,” insisted the Rabbi, “Where do I know you from?”

“I dunno, I probably just look like someone you knew,” I evaded.

“No, no, no you are…yes you are, Hannah Rosanschweitz.”

“Hi,”  I was busted

“I always wondered what happened to you!” he gushed exitedly


The elevator stopped and we got out.  All of a sudden Rabbi Schwartz grabbed my arm and pulled me into the coffee shop on the first floor.

“Get whatever you want,” he ordered, “I’ll pay.”

How generous of you I thought, you ruin my life and I get a cup of coffee as a consolation prize.

“Just a large coffee,” I said

He got some herb tea.

Part III

“So how did it turn out?” he asked me when we sat down.

“What turn out?” I mumbled

“Your life, of course,” he said.

“Guess how it turned out,” I said with hostility in my voice.

“I cannot guess, I’m not God.  Well let me tell you about my life,”

He went through the litany of his accomplishments, grandchildren, great grandchildren, etc…He was now a Torah Teacher and did public speaking.  He was recently widowed and was sought after by lots of old ladies not all of them his faith.

“So, nu???” he asked.

“There’s really nothing,” I said.

“You are married?” he asked.




“What do you do?”


He looked at me oddly and I thought he might take off then but he peered at me and slowly asked,

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes,” the answer that got the Columbine girl killed.

“That’s great!  What Congregation do you attend?”


“You should find one.  No use not having a shul to go to.”

“I converted to Christianity.”

I expected him to at least look disappointed, but he smiled and said, “Mazel Tov.”

“Huh?”  now I was really mixed up and a bit irritated growing onto annoyance.

Part IV

“Yes, Hannah, It was the point all along,”

“I don’t get it,”

He started what turned out to be a very long story, indeed.  To this day, I think I must have dreamed it or had one of those hallucinations that the Dr. insists I  must have and I the ti insist I don’t have.

“You were the only kid in the whole Cheder that showed any evidence of having a real soul and I wasn’t going to mess that up.  Sure, I could have pushed you through your Bar Mitzvah and Confirmation Class, but I wanted you to find God for yourself not become a brain dead drone otherwise known as the assimilated “cultural Jew” with not enough spirituality to fill my Grandma’s thimble.”

“I CONVERTED, I did not become a better Jew,” I insisted

“Well, I guess you could’ve popped into the closest Chabad House and became a Super Jew–that might have done.”

“I DIDN’T I’m a fundamentalist Christian,”  I said, getting very frustrated.

He paused, took a drink of tea and said, “Let me tell you something, I was not born Jewish.  I was born into a Holiness church.  My father was the pastor.  We were a radical church, we handled snakes, spoke in tongues, had services that ran all day, and more rules than the “Orthos”.  I was considered gifted.  I was going to succeed my father as pastor one day.  I rebelled.  I could not handle the pressure–leading that flock deep in the Kentucky hills.  After getting beat by my father for a tiny infraction, I  ran.  I was almost big enough to beat him anyway.  I left Jesus, as well.

“I ran to New York and became a foster child.  I ended up with a Jewish family.  For some reason, I thought becoming Jewish and a New Yorker would hide me from my family.  It worked.  I went to Rabbinical School, met a nice Jewish girl, started running a congregation–everything.

“My foster parents adopted me and created a phony Jewish identity for me.  Caleb McDonald no longer existed.”

“I was initially excited over Judaism as a “purer” form of serving God and I thought my congregants would be kind, sweet and wise.  I looked forward to having long philosophical discussions with the old men and teaching lots of eager students.  Boy was I disappointed.  Most of my congregants were only superficially Jews with only a few core members who at least went through the motions of religion but had no real soul.  The real men and women of God in my shuls I could count on my fingers.  Even with the “Jewish revival” in the 1980s there was a whole lot of energy going in but it devolved into cultism and rule following to the extreme.

“The whole Bar Mitzvah thing was a racket.  I HATED it.  It was merely a way for the kid’s family to show their money off and what a clever little soul dead arrogant brat they had.  Kids were future congregants and income, so, I could not shirk my duty…”

“By the time you came along, I was in my middle years as a Rabbi and unhappy.  I missed my old faith.  I missed Jesus.  When I used to pop into the Cheder from time to time I would see you and see the light in your eyes only believers at home had.  I saw hope.  I would NOT grind you through the “machine” that created responsible Jewish soul dead adults.  I was too scared to share Christ with you and get fired from my congregation.  I just let you go knowing Jesus would find you. and he DID.  You are the only soul I’ve won since I left church.”

My mouth would not close.

He went on, “There, I’ve preached my last sermon.  Rabbi Schwartz is now Caleb McDonald again.  I plan on being in church the next Sunday.  Do you have a church?”

“No I don’t.”

“I’m not surprised.  You never fit in.  Most churches, like synagogues, are filled with hypocrites today and you can see through the bullshit.”

“My life is no good,” I said.

“Don’t worry, just persevere until the end and you will meet Jesus when He returns.  These are the Very End Times.  Last night, I prayed to Jesus for the first time in 70 years.  His love and forgiveness filled my soul.”

“Wonderful, Rabbi.”

“Caleb McDonald, or Caleb.”

“Mr. McDonald.”

I turned to get a napkin and when I turned back he was gone.  I never saw him again.  There was a “missing Rabbi” in the paper a few days later.  It was on the TV news, then it wasn’t.

When the bombs started to fall the next week, I was not surprised.



Tell us about the last time you were really, truly jealous of someone. Did you act on it? Did it hurt your relationship?

I am jealous of anyone who is not a ti. They wake up in the morning and see the sunrise and are not listening to the endless voice to skull insulting and threatening. They go to work where they are liked and respected and feel a valuable part of the workplace.   If I went to work I’d get harassed all day, only get the simplest tasks to complete (so I don’t become financially sufficient or have any self respect). They come home to their family and enjoy their evening and plan what to do on the weekend. Their plans do NOT take into account the perps and what they have to watch out for. Fun and not paranoia determines where they will go.  I would come home and watch TV and overeat and try to escape the misery of the day.  Now there is no TV but the perps make me miserable when I overeat telling me all the time God will leave me if I overeat.

No matter what they do, even if its only shopping for groceries and going to the laundromat, it is fun without perps. Going shopping for groceries or anything else is running an obstacle course of perps and skits.  Shopping is HELL.  I used to go to the laundromat.  It was the WORST.  You HAD to be there and be abused since you could not go anywhere with your clothes in:  they could steal or damage your clothes. Even something as simple as getting dressed is fun. You can dress and accessorize your clothes the way you want the colors you want to wear…nothing is determined by the fear of the perps.  I go to the bureau and the comments start right away–even down to the underwear.  They keep telling me not to wear this nor that or I will get “cursed”.   They want me to wear brown and gray only.  I push the rules a little and fear retaliation.

You hop into your car (few ti’s have cars) and go where you want. I stay out certain sections of town where the perp demonic influence seems more prevalent. I get on the bus and skits are already lined up for me to make my whole ride miserable the whole ride including even waiting at the bus stop. You go and park your car and sail into whatever building or outdoor area you choose. I get off the bus and dodge perps in my path on the sidewalk including bikes that like to come really close and then the perp on the bike utters a threat and sails off. Once I get where I’m going the perps are all set up and ready for me with more harassment and skits. If I can find a place to go off by myself or ignore the perp circus its a blessing. Otherwise, hell.

A holiday is coming up. YOU are planning on going fishing, camping or just sitting on your patio with a beer. You might have a BBQ or go to one. I am dreading the holiday knowing my perps make an extra effort to make my life miserable on any holiday. I don’t see family or do anything special.

Sometimes I believe the perps are all connected to each other in a hive network so that they know each others thoughts and the ti’s thoughts. It seems so well coordinated. They think in a group brain.”We” has replace “I. For a little fun they lose themselves to the network. It also makes each perp do what the boss says no matter what. No hiding.  They are not their own people.  Sometimes I wonder if demons have taken them over completely.  I have known people before and after they became perps:  a nice person becomes a psychopathic monster looking for anything that might hurt me.  Unless they were faking it “at first”.

Yes, I am jealous of all non ti’s.  I am not too jealous of the perps.  They have it better than me–for now but not forever.

I am also jealous of my sister.  She got all the good and I got all the bad.  Only one small consolation.  That woman NEVER HAD AN ORIGINAL IDEA IN HER LIFE.  I’ve known it since we were

Very Late

Today is Mother’s Day in the United States. Wherever in the world you are, write your mother a letter.

Lately, I haven’t felt like writing the blog as I’ve been feeling hopeless and it seems everything concerning the life of a ti has been shared online via hundreds if not thousands of blogs, but this Daily Prompt caught my heart as I never properly said goodbye to my mother. She died before her time almost 20 years ago. Here I share things I never said to her but maybe wanted to.

Dear Mother,

I don’t know how to start this because you’ve been gone so long.  I hope you are happy wherever you are, and not too disappointed in me.

You were the best mother you could be to me considering the (probably secret) pressures you had raising me.  You always taught me to be honest (“you are such a bad liar”!  “lying is forbidden”! “I hate liars”!) but you probably weren’t.  Why you gave into those people I’ll never know and why you sacrificed one child (me) to put all your effort in the other I’ll never know.  Guess there was a perfectly good reason.

I wasn’t the best kid.  I was a rotten teenager.  Guess that helped.  Still, you tried to be my mother even if it was in small ways here and there.  I’ll never forget when you showed up at my apartment with that money–and that my manager had let you in.  I’ll remember the occasional  shopping trips we went on and when you laughed and laughed at a “story” I’d written putting me in stitches.  I remember the occasional lunches out and when I was a kid you having to manage my health problems.  I remember you driving 30 miles to pick me up at a concert and 100 miles to pick me up when I ran away one of 7 times. I remember receiving concern from you in a very unexpected way once when my Aunt just laughed in my face.

You never conceded or compromised your principles.  You hated modern society and moral looseness.  You hated rock music.  You were a staunch conservative which is unusual for a Jewish woman.  You loved Ayn Rand and William F. Buckley.  You did not believe in God and I did not know why.  You looked miserable if you had to be in shul.

I don’t think you really wanted to marry Dad.  There was someone else, earlier that was either forbidden to you or who rejected you for another.  I’m sure you’ve told that creature, my sister, who does not acknowledge my existence, .  You started that, you know, splitting us apart.  Guess you wanted to save her from my fate.  I don’t blame you.

Sister Dearest is living the “American Dream”.  The archetypical 2 income upper middle class family with a too large home, 3 kids, lots of pets, etc.  I don’t think she got all she wanted for a career, but, maybe she COMPROMISED somewhere as well.  I have not talked to her in about 5 years nor seen her in 8.  I think she’s one of the perpetrators  like those that harass me now.  Looking back I can see she “perped’ me from the beginning with little nasty things once my gangstalking started.

The only way I “keep up” with the “family” is shameful:  I have to peek on Facebook and had to sort of open up a dummy account to do it.  Since I can’t  just ask her to be my “friend” on her account I find very little out.  There are only a few photos there, none very recent.  I saw my youngest nephew for the first and only time on Facebook.

As for me, I’m nothing and nobody.  I was harassed and forced off so many jobs that I threw in the towel and got benefits 5 years after you passed.  I have had trouble even keeping volunteer and “sheltered” jobs:  the perps are there as well.  I fight my weight but not too hard, and remain fat after a promising weight loss a few years ago.  I went back onto psych drugs due to the extreme stress of targetting getting worse and worse and the weight came back.  I lose more and more freedom to the perps all the time.  I wish you had told me about them.  I think you wanted to once but chickened out.  Bet you got threatened with harm happening to HER.  I got saved as a Christian right after you died.  On Mother’s Day.

Since you’ve died, I’ve had a hard education in life and people.  I never knew people could be so cruel and hard.  I’ve been used and abused and slandered and betrayed so many times I can’t count.  It got even worse when Dad moved away and I had no one.  People around me don’t even act human.  All I get to see are a bunch of scheming, vicious, nasty creatures who study me and use what they find to upset and unhinge me.  Being a target is a living death.  I’ve been accused of being a thief, a racist, a schizophrenic, and even a pervert.  That is a favorite one they use to get people to hate ti’s.  The rumors/fake files/Photoshops must be perpetuated so the harassment can continue and the rotten shits can get paid.  You remember that first, well second, if we are counting grocery store incident where I was accused of “stealing”.  You were still alive then.  Many more were to come.  Now I’m just followed through stores by a smirking staffer pretending not to “notice’ me.

I think you lived in fear.  You never wore bright colors or showed skin.  It was like you were in perpetual mourning.  Your black hair color was severe–even though you wore little makeup.  You tried to wear color towards the end of your life and right after that you became sick and died.  They restrict what colors I wear as well.  Were you a ti?  I think you were lied to along the way about lots of things and were very angry about it.  I don’t think life delivered what you wanted and you didn’t get your priorities right until it was too late.

I admired you intelligence, your sense of humor, and your love of ALL animals.  You were great when you let the armor down and laughed.  You were a great teacher–you taught me to drive and to write a term paper.  You were a good cook even though you hated it.  You were faithful with household chores even though you hated them even more.  You dragged hoses across that big old lawn even though I would have gone on strike and ordered Dad to get a sprinkler system installed stat or have a dead lawn.  You kept the house running–it went to shambles after you died.  Dad got very little for it.

You occasionally told stories of a happier past when you had friends and did things.  You fondest memories seemed oddly, to be of work.  You looked happy in college pictures.  Guess I’ll never know what happened but by the time you became my mother in your 30s, you seemed–damaged somehow.  Maybe you told HER about it.  I wish you had gone back to work after we were older–even part time.

I have your wedding picture.  When Dad was moving out of the old house for smaller quarters, I was instructed to find anything that was missed.  In the bottom of a drawer in Dad’s bedroom was a huge picture of you on your wedding day.  I grabbed it and ran out of the house for the last time.  We moved in when I was a toddler and then I was 33.  Dad let me keep it.  Here, in my welfare apt, it sits in the bottom of a drawer.

Wish it had been better for both of us.  I am writing this using reading glasses and my body has informed me I’ll never be a mother.  Guess that’s it.

“MOMISMS” from my mother:

“If you make that face it will stay that way.”

“If I make it at home its not fattening.”

“My little spy tells me you traded your lunch.”

“That’s NOT music: “rock music” is an oxymoron.”

“It rains everywhere but HERE.  It looked dry the second we pulled into the neighborhood. (drags out hoses).”

“It just SPRINKLED out here.”

“Pink Floyd–like Floyd the barber?”

“Where do they sell fudge here?”

“Why aren’t you hungry/you are eating too much.”

“I HATE knee-jerk liberals!”

Out the Window

When you gaze out your window — real or figurative — do you see the forest first, or the trees?

The trees er, the perps unfortunately. Perps on foot, perps in cars, trucks, bikes, wheelchairs and busses. Fake perp “emergencies” where the fire truck drives back at exactly 5 min after it roars by. Perp neighbors walking up and down the street to intimidate me. Perps who drive by and look in the window, perps who walk by and say “this is where she lives”. Hell. When I want to escape, to merely get away to a park I’m informed there will be Hell to pay so I stay yet another day. Other days I get out and the perps are out there as well.

Few and very far between

Tell us about a time where everything you’d hoped would happen actually happen

We were supposed to go out of town to see this place for the day and ended up spending the night and getting to go on a guided nature walk as well. It was the first time out of this prison city for a long time and I needed the break from all the perps.  Even the lady who helped to run the event said I looked “rested” after only sleeping a short night out in the country.  It was real sleep without scripted dreams, discomfort, itching….The meals were taken care of as well.  Turns out there were perps there as well as I found out the next day, but, not the tech on me all the time.  I felt freer than I had in years.  Too bad it had to end so fast.

Advice for new bloggers?

it's a disgrace crazy diary diary

Give your newer sisters and brothers-in-WordPress one piece of advice based on your experiences blogging.

I really can’t say much, but, here is “all” the things I’ve learned while blogging to make the new blogger’s life easier.

First, choose a theme that reflects the tone of your blog..if it’s happy make it bright colors, if not a darker theme is great.  Also there are different styles of themes…some allow you to put a picture at the top of the blog, some don’t.  Choose widgets that allow your readers to get to your posts easily.

Add pictures off the Web or scanned pictures to illustrate individual posts.  It draws in readers and creates interest.  Don’t forget to tag posts so when other WP bloggers do a search in their interests your blog may come up.  I think the tags end up on the search engines as well so tag to the audience from the general public you want reading your blog.  Categories are much wider than tags in scope and can clue in readers on how to sort posts in order of what they want to read.

If it’s a long post, write your first draft on paper.

After that post onto the Draft screen off the paper editing as you go.  Add links now.  Then, do another edit before posting for spelling, sentence structure and anything you forgot to post or want to leave out.  Keep pressing “save” because I’ve seen looong posts I’ve made disappear into the air when I didn’t do this.  It is supposed to save Drafts automatically but I’ve lost posts.

Publish the blog.  Then, go to your page and read it on the blog for the final edit.  You will find you still have missed a few things.  Correct any final mistakes and Update the blog.  Also, click your links and make sure they actually work.

Set comments to “moderate” so you don’t attract too many spammers or trolls looking to ruin your day.  If someone disagrees with you avoid flame wars unless you have the kind of blog where you want yourself and others to argue in the comments.  Ignore anyone who seems to be just a provocateur looking for a fight.  Don’t approve spammer comments.  You will soon learn to spot them.  It will be like “I can haz liked yr blog eez difrent…”

P.S. Tags connect with the Web and Categories connect into the WP Search.  I think I was mixed up at first.

Secrets secrets

mind readingWhat’s the most significant secret you’ve ever kept? Did the truth ever come out?

I won’t say the secret but the perps found it out by reading my mind and most of my stalking/v2k–everything comes from that theme.  The first V2k I heard was in 1992 and was “We know what you did”.  What I did was not illegal but it was immoral but no one knew about it unless I had been followed at the time.  They read my mind to get at the “goods”.  I’ll let the cat out of the bag maybe when I’m dying.

I”m also under spiritual attack lately. I went on a walk and at least 3 people tried to curse me. I also heard a perp say–is she still REALLY alive? Meaning me.  I have satanic perps trying to curse me to death first by undermining my faith in God so I sin and then sending out curses and hoping they stick.

The REST of the story–or, SHE got her happy ending

One book I’ve read over and over in my life is Joanne Greenberg’s I Never Promised You a Rose Garden.  I love how “Deborah’s” therapist “Dr. Fried” aimed and got a cure for her young schizophrenic patient.  The book was autobiographical and described how a young socially maginalized Jewish girl becomes ill with schizophernia and goes away for three years to a mental  hospital and misses most of her adolescence but gains wisdom, makes friends and gets cured in what seems like a cruel place but is her redemption.  The actual hospital, Chestnut Lodge was a mental hospital for the rich and famous, and “Deborah’s” or well, Joanne’s, parents were rich.  I always knew she got better and went on to write books and got married but didn’t really know the “rest of the story” as Paul Harvey would put it until I went into a bookstore and read the Afterword (finally!) of this book’s latest edition.  Ms. Greenberg really DID get the happy ending and I did not.  We were both hospitalized at 16 for mental problems but she was given the luxury of being able to live life afterwards without ever relapsing when her therapy was finally over 5 years after she was admitted for the first time.

She got the husband, the kids, the house, several careers, speaking engagements, fame and now she is respected as a religious teacher who YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME prepares Bar and Bat Mitzvahs for their ceremonies.  Oh the irony. She has a website with a blog that describes her religious life.  I got nothin’  Not even religion.  I can’t even be comfortable around God after I heard I “lost my Salvation”.  All because I got targetted and she didn’t.  I wanted her future.  I was on my way to a future by 1987.  I had left that hospital, gotten my GED, got off the pills, was feeling better emotionally as the hospital scars faded, was back in college after taking a year off and doing well, had lost weight and felt well, and then I saw the first stalkers.

Why, God?  Why didn’t a get the happy “Rose Garden” ending?  The book ends on an ambiguous note but it’s obvious she is on the fast track to Wellville then.  One thing I noticed that many didn’t was that one of the main players in her inner dramas came from a PICTURE OF MEPHISTOPHELES in her Grandfather’s library.  Yes, ladies and germs, the Devil.  She had gotten demonized from long hours of isolation and fantasizing about creatures she found in her Grandfather’s library.

Somehow, her Doctor, the famous Frieda Fromm in real life, managed an “exorcism” through long hours of hard therapy.  I look back on my fantasy world and much of it is demonic.  I liked to live in my fantasy world all the time as well but was scared out of it a few years ago and still visit but never stay. OK I admitted it.

Fantasies are the fruit of an idle mind and can be the devil’s workshop. Idle vain thoughts can become an inner world that becomes so powerful that its almost impossible to break free.  This brilliant doctor was able to pick apart “Deborah’s” fantasies and delusions and debunk and disempower them over a slow and painful process of psychotherapy which would be too expensive and time consuming today.  She started by gaining “Deborah’s” trust and asking to be let into her world which she showed the Doctor bit by bit over time.  “Deborah” got much worse before she got much better–something these quick fix mental hospitals with their med stabilizing routines would never do.  They did not merely go around the problem with coping skills and pills and DBT classes.  They took the mountain head on and demolished it!!!!  It is like reading a miracle of Jesus in slow motion.

I remember people trying to get me to kick MY fantasies at 16 and it utterly failing because I had nothing to back it up with and ended up falling thru the air right into a locked ward.  My world, like “Deborah’s” was darkness and isolation so leaving the lighter world of my fantasies for cruel reality was merely torment.  I did try, however.  Some of the characters in the book would act “well” for awhile but the illness lurked in the shadows waiting to strike again since they had not acheived a full cure nor taken the demons of their illness head on.  They would come back with a relapse, patch up, and then leave again for another “round” in the world.

“Deborah’s” doctor went through a long slow process to show her patient how reality was superior to her fantasy life by showing her that life did not have to be ugly and that her fantasies and characters that ruled her inner life were scams.  No one ever took that time with me.  I LEARNED it over time how fantasies are scams and time wasters and how they make it easy for the devil to introduce occultic ideas and characters into your inner being degrading you and ruining your relationship with God.

Dreams good, fantasies not so good.  Joanne Greenberg began settling for the fantasies but ended up getting the Dream.

She continued in therapy and even had a hospital admission in 1953 at about 21 but that was it.  After she got a GED, she had to carry “sanity papers” to apply for college only to be told her info was not confidential.  She ended up at another college which began her long college career.  She worked in the summer.  She met her husband, Albert, at a party, and I think it was love at first sight.

She meets her old therapist for the last time in New Mexico on a working vacation.  Things did not go so well for her old therapist.  Her health deteriorated and her psychoanalytic skills were no longer sought after when the pills took over the scene.  She died young only a few years after she stopped seeing Greenberg.

When she and her husband first moved to Colorado they lived in a garage.  She was prompted to write her first novel, The King’s Persons, by her husband based on a school project she did.  Her husband did vocational counseling which prompted to write the book The Monday Voices. 

She had slight after effects of her illness and would become weary after a long period of socializing.  I have this problem too, but never have to worry about it much as a ti.

She became inspired to write “Rose Garden” at another party but had to change her name on the cover at the request of her mother.  It was not an instant best seller but grew popular slowly.  She hated the movie version of the book.  I loved it.

She now lives in a lovely mountain home amongst family and friends.  I live in a version of Hell.  I suppose, you might say, she got the American Dream and I got the Nightmare.

I feel as if my future was stolen from me.  I wrote her at 17 right out of the hospital and I got a one line reply saying my future might not be as bad as the past.  Yeah right.  Well, at least at the time I got the letter back I felt I could have had a future.

mad lib??? The Replacements

Turn to your co-workers, kids, Facebook friends, family — anyone who’s accessible — and ask them to suggest an article, an adjective, and a noun. There’s your post title!

I had no one at hand when I found this prompt, so, I found a post by another ti called the “Replacements” on Stoporganizedstalking

I get look-a-likes as well:  it started after one of my friends killed himself right before my gangstalking started in 1987.  After the stalking began I started “seeing” him all over town.  I began to think he could be alive and he faked his death and sort of doubted his death until I read about how perps did this to upset and confuse targets.  I have had look-a-likes of celebrities, dead celebs, and family members.  Sometimes a look-a-like will stalk me for awhile to get me to thinking that person “wants to talk to me’ but it’s just a game to fool and upset me.

Some look-a-likes are exact ringers and cause me to stare at them.  Others, are poor substitutes you only look at once or twice.  I have had a real good one stalking around the neighborhood lately.  He since has disappeared.  I found a couple of these look-a-likes were recruited from the local homeless population who will do anything for a bit of money.  I have caught them hiring the homeless to do this in the past.  Recently, I found a look-a-like at a bus stop and walked past him and his handler whom I saw walking up and down the street before, so I could not see them.  They walked right back to where I could see them so I had to move again.

The meanest look-a-likes will perp me as they strut around in front of me.  It was especially cruel when they did look-a-likes of my mother after she died.  They do lots of look-a-likes of my sister as well.

Since I do not use an HMO I recognize the doctors and nurses where I go so they don’t play those games at the doctor’s office.  I DID have a nurse who was particularly cruel perp to me once but she quit.  There is still one nurse there that totally has it in for me but I’d recognize her anywhere.

I am not sure if any of my look-a-like perps are “cloned” or just hired at casting central.  One weird time a celeb lookalike, a real ringer, had a lookalike of his SON with him and his son kept walking circles around him like a satellite all the while they laughed at me as I freaked out.  I doubt most are cloned.  People tend to look like each other and there is a science of facial characteristics police agencies use that could find a “match” for a look-a-like within a particular perp pool.  A wig, certain clothes, a bit of acting, and you have your look-a-like–just don’t smirk too soon or I’ll find you out!