tedium

tuesday 26 january 2016

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I’ve just been sifting through older posts in this blog, as I sometimes do to find information and find where I’ve put it. it’s tedious — I have little patience for such tasks, but it’s the only way to find out what I’ve already written about, and where it is.

this blog, more than any of my others, has always been a struggle. I began it in april 2008, nearly eight years ago, on soulcast rather than wordpress. when later I moved a lot of the original posts to this website, I didn’t get them all. never finished the job.

the struggle has always been the how. how do I write about the department of mental health, the landlady, the mafia-chick, matthew and his colleagues in a way that will be credible? knowing that I was not then nor have ever been delusional, I wanted to figure out a way to make the bizarre and sick story that I’d got stuck in believable. I don’t think delusionals worry about that sort of thing, if they bother to write things down. don’t think they worry about how to write their story, what moods to use, what words. don’t think they go over their writing again and again to change some words, change some emphasis, in the constant desire to get the bizarre and sick story believed.

it started with a lot of anger and sarcasm in 2008. at that time I thought that if my outrage was crystal clear, some of that same outrage at the way I was being treated by both the people chasing me and the people protecting me would rise up in a reader. later I changed my thinking, reasoning that my fierce anger at the federal people would probably only be construed as nutty. anger in general is usually seen as nutty. we live in a politically correct world of vanilla sensibilities in which anger is not welcome. so I went through many, many of the earliest sehnen posts and toned down my fury quite a bit. I didn’t want to eliminate it totally, because then, as now, I felt my anger was absolutely justified.

over the years I’ve added details I originally didn’t want to use: place names, street names, the undercover names of matthew and some of his pals, and so on. there was a certain amount of fear in the early months of writing these things. fear that some of the agents might get hurt if anyone read what I was saying (I was still quite sappy and stupid about my protectors back then), and fear of the feds themselves. if I said the wrong things, would they shut down my blog? a number of people were telling me this: that if the fbi didn’t like what I was saying, they would simply blotto my blog. they haven’t done so thus far. over time, a year or two, I realized that my blog is no threat to their protection operation: they know that very few people believe me, ipso facto, their doings are not threatened.

I have no clue how many of them even look at this blog, but I know of one. one who, I’m nearly certain, reads every word I ever write online, has been doing so since I began. after all, I was already in protection for about nine months when I began blogging, and didn’t know it yet. that one reads, and that one knows, and maybe it’s even because of that one that my blogs are for the most part left alone.

by 2011 I was trying hard to include ever more specifics in my posts, to the extent that I have them. telling myself to be very clear about what I know for certain, as opposed to what someone else told me, as opposed to what I have had an educated guess at. another tweaking designed, as always, to create as credible a narrative as I could.

nothing seems to help. if any readers do believe me, they certainly don’t leave comments saying so. they don’t share my outrage at this immorality, they don’t offer any kind of support. I think it’s possible that of the readers who do in fact believe me, many of them do what people I know personally have done: they decide that matthew lied to me. that way they don’t have to call me a delusional, but neither do they have to get up the courage to accept what I say as truth. they can skirt around all of that by saying that matthew lied, and I, poor sap, believed him. I’m not delusional, I’m just gullible and stupid. my own friend in eastern mass believes this. how can she tell me every now and then how sharp I am, how correctly I have assessed the human race, and then strongly imply at other times that I am ditzy enough to believe a whopper matthew told me long ago? I don’t understand how she can think me astute about people most of the time, but as concerns matthew’s words to me, I am a putz.

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I fought believing it myself early on. or part of me did. one part of me had no doubt at all that matthew was telling me the truth, but another part did not want to accept it: this cannot be true in my life. I’m not a criminal, and mostly it is traitorous criminals who end up in protection. the others are hapless witnesses, who saw or heard something that turned out to be dangerous for them. I’m not one of those either. so I have ended up in illegal, immoral protection that uses me as bait without my consent, and I’ve done so through a means I’ve never heard of before. I was lied about, and then my life was in danger. the fact that I’ve never heard of this particular road to federal protection before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened to someone else somewhere; it only means I haven’t heard of it.

but it was all too bizarre, all too melodramatic and hollywood, all too restricted to the world of deranged thugs to be happening in my life. I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t true. and then I’d go out my door. I’d see the various dirtbags and protectors around me, watch them do the code that was becoming ever easier for me to spot. to translate? no, I repeat that do not know what any of the code means (a delusional would. a delusional would have all the answers because they make them up). I only know when I’m hearing or seeing code. I’d go out my door — any door I was behind anywhere — and immediately the show would begin. my heart would sink, my brain would say jesus, it is true, and every day it became less and less possible to deny it.

when I was still naive, I thought I could run away from it. telling myself that it was probably just a small mob that was chasing me, completely disregarding the fact that they had come across a state line from connecticut to find me, I decided to leave. I started with the county. out of franklin county I went, into the county called hampshire. I was crushed when I arrived there and saw the circus waiting for me. crushed, but not yet deterred. I decided to leave the state. surely that would do the trick.

I went to new hampshire, to keene. if the circus was there waiting, as I now know it had to be, it was not obvious to me right away. it grew up around me as I hung out there on the main street, bloomed and grew larger like some macabre garden of fertile sociopaths. I sat there on that main street, hot and tired and homeless, and was crushed yet again: there was no running away from it; it would be waiting wherever I chose to go.

the plan was to sit there till night, then find some cops and ask if there was a shelter. I didn’t have to go looking for cops, by the way. they were cruising all around me for hours in their cop cars, back and forth, back and forth. anyway, the plan was altered when I became sick. apparently from something I’d eaten earlier in the day, food allergies rearing up in their distressing way. I got very sick. and when I was so sick I couldn’t stand up anymore for the weakness, when I sat down on cement and collapsed against the brick wall of a cumberland farms, the police came to me. three agents got there first, quietly guarding me out there, very close, parking their motorcycles in a row in front of me, creating a sort of wall between me and the street. the store manager had called the cops. he thought I either had alcohol poisoning or was repeatedly shooting drugs in his bathroom.

the moral: there was no running away. it was most likely not a tiny mob. I could not get away from it, not in the living state, anyway. I entered a deeper level of despair that night. the feeling of being trapped magnified remarkably. the feelings of being powerless to do myself any good. without a badge number, without a document or two, I could never sue the feds and get them to stop this undercover torture, to talk to me openly and keep me informed of what was happening in my now very insane life.

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sehnen means longing. when I chose that blog name I was longing for news of my animals, for a home, for the department of mental health to do right by me. only three months into the writing, matthew told me about the other business going on in my life, and more longings were born. the longing for people to believe me, the longing to find some lawyer or journalist who would try to help me confront my protectors, the longing for these mob people to be given the message that I’d never done anything to them. the longing for matthew to stop participating in this scheme — a scheme that maybe he himself had designed, for all I know — to protect me and use me as juicy bait at the same time.

what does longing become when it lasts, unsatisfied, for years? I ask myself that periodically. does the longing for fulfillment of a need become a great hard scab after years of denial? does it become a malignant tumor? in my case, it has certainly become an ever-growing contempt for the human race. but what else has it become? it doesn’t feel the yearning way it did when it was young. it’s much different.

but it is still there in some metamorphosed shape. the longing for belief, the longing for proof, the longing for a way to get the feds to stop all the cloak-and-dagger theatricals and treat me like a person.

and I sort of lied. there was one indeed one smidgen of code that I translated: when a male agent takes off a grey shirt right in front of me, it means I’m leaving town. I did a lot of town-leaving back when I was homeless. anyway, this bit of code was by far the easiest, and the only one I ever thought I’d figured out.

lontano dagli occhi d’amore

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the man with the white hair

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2016 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

where is he

saturday 22 august 2015

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long time no write here. long time no write anywhere.

I don’t recall whether I’ve said it here earlier in this blog, and don’t at the moment have the motivation to check back and see, but I now have a therapist who does not think me a delusional and who believes me concerning the law enforcement versus crime types theater that has existed in my life for nearly eight years. I have had this therapist since 2013, and it’s a relief not to be called a wing-nut, in whatever euphemistic PC terms therapists have used to call me said wing-nut.

last night I was doing some housecleaning. I happened upon a notebook from the summer of 2008, a summer that has been much discussed in this blog. the summer when the dramas between my protectors and those who hunted me was at its most bizarre, and most ugly. there were not nearly enough notes on those pages to suit me: I didn’t keep up the written notes as well as I wish I had, but I was taping things onto recorded journals too. that summer. that summer out of a movie, that summer out of time and place; time and places as I had never known them before.

I’ve tried before in this blog to quantify the rage I feel at the fbi, and can only fail. never can I find the right combination of words to describe it accurately, so that anyone reading the words would get a good sense of the hugeness of the anger. and the anxiety, and the sorrow, and the resentment. i was bait, I was property, but I was not a human being.

it’s been a long time now since undercover man extraordinaire, matthew the bold and the brave, has put his carcass in front of my face. the longest time ever, I’m sure. so long that I no longer know exactly when the last time was that he did it. august 2014? september?

when I don’t see him for a while, I engender daydreams: he’s dead. or he’s finally quit working for the fascists. or he’s been assigned some other territory and will never gawk at me again. I have engendered the daydream many times over the last seven years that he will one day do right by me, even though the rational part of me knows perfectly well that if he were morally capable of doing right by me, he would have done so long ago. but there’s a part of me that needs so ferociously for someone in the fbi or dea or atf to finally do right by me… and matthew, having professed his so-called love for me back in that evil summer 2008, has always seemed the most likely candidate for a moral conversion. there are no moral conversions among the ranks of the various gangs of federal police. at least not for me.

seven years later, I have still never written in my blogs about all of it. baffling that the story of one wretched summer has still never been fully told, that the undercover tales of one ugly summer could fill a couple of hundred pages if I were to write it from beginning to end. an absolutely ludicrous pastiche of costumes, codes done with cigarettes and cigars, hand signals, planes, motorcycles, helicopters, dogs, whistling in the dark, gunshots in the dark, lies, manipulations, very sleek black cars with connecticut plates, and more, and more. and all the time I was the bait, and I was the property not allowed to be taken by the other side, but I was not a person.

only part of me wants to know where he is. most of me is content not to see him, so that the daydream that he could be dead and gone can be allowed to grow. because only if he’s dead can I be certain that I will never see his face again. and most of me wants that very much. can you imagine the anger, can you imagine the sorrow? probably not.

and as to ginger rubberboobs… there was some trouble with her last year several times, shooting off her psychotic mouth at me. finally I asked a detective in town if he would have a word with her. did he? I don’t know. he said he would, said he’d tell her not to speak to me. I don’t believe much that people say anymore. in any case, I daydream often that she’s locked up in a federal prison, where she belongs, and that they’ve sunk the key to her cell in the sea in a block of cement.

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

expunging

thursday 21 march 2013

the delusional thing. a diagnosis made on what basis? I occasionally asked this question, back in 2008 and 2009, of various psyhcobabble boneheads. they didn’t answer me. they changed the subject. and no matter how many breaths I wasted telling them that that conclusion was an insult to both my integrity and my sanity, that a flesh-and-blood human being (the infamous matthew lacoy) had taken me to his apartment numerous times, had told me certain things, and had done some very undercover-cop-like things in my presence, no one was moved to write something other than delusional on their little pieces of paper. no matter how many of them told me that it was true that I didn’t have the affect that delusionals normally  have, or the multiple fairy-stories, still they wrote what they wrote. when I objected that I was not receiving sinister messages from my toaster, or my TV, or the inside of my head, the psychobabblers looked down at their shoes, or out the window. and regardless of how many times they asked me, in how many different places, had I ever heard voices? seen visions?, and my answers were always NO, they still wrote what wasn’t at all true on their papers. they asked me what year it was, who was president, how old I was, and other such things, ad nauseam, and I always had the right answers. but still they wrote their totally erroneous words on their little pieces of paper (which later got transferred to their computer files on said fruit-loop, anne nakis).

it’s bad enough when ordinary people dismiss you as a delusional (and by no means every ordinary person has. a good number have believed me), but it’s far worse when the psycho-corps writes it on papers whose words get typed into computer files and you, the incorrectly diagnosed, cannot erase one word of it. even after you are quite dead, anyone who might decide for whatever reason to go nosing around in your life can potentially find these untruths about you and take them as truth. after all, if a psychobabbler said it, it must be true. right?

though I strain this old brain, I can’t now remember who it was I had the expunging discussion with, which particular psychobabbler in which particular town. nonetheless the conversation was had, in which I asked what would I have to do to get these totally false diagnoses removed from my various records. the answer was that I would need to 1.) be evaluated by at least two separate psychiatrists who would both declare that I was not delusional… that perhaps matthew was, or that he was just a creep who was hoaxing me for some reason, but that I myself was simply repeating words that he’d said to me and relating things that he and others (including the mafia-chick herself) had said and done in my presence; 2.) hire a lawyer to go to court with me and present the testimony from these psychiatrists, and said lawyer would urge the judge to order that my records be expunged of words like delusional or schizophrenic.

as if I have the proverbial snowball’s chance in hades of hiring shrinks and some lawyer for the mentally ill, on my disability income of less than $1500 a month. as if I ever have any prayer of getting this job done. with no other options, I have written for five years in the sehnen, braon, and mishibone blogs about absolutely true words and events of 2008 and 2009. I have talked myself blue, with the result that some people believe me, and some don’t, and those who don’t are mostly the airheads who write the slander on their pieces of paper. after my death, all of this slander will still exist in various psychobabble computers, and there is nothing I can do to clear my name in their realm, to defend my sanity and my integrity.

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read…     who was that guy…    why are you still alive….

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

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