The Gangstalking of My Mother

The Gangstalking of My Mother

My mother, Catherine Reardon Macy, passed away in a Wellesely, MA hospital intensive care unit in September of 2011 from COPD at the age of 79 and 5 months.  Simply put, she could no longer process oxygen from the air due to her decades as a somewhat heavy smoker.  I held her hand for the 4 hours it took her to pass as the ICU nurse quite professionally adjusted her morphine drip to ensure a fear free passage to the next world.

My Mother's Obituary from September 2011

https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/bostonglobe/obituary.aspx?n=catherine-m-macy&pid=153755111

As any son, I had loved my mother.  She had been a stewardess, a reporter, a member of the local Board of Health in the town called Kingston, MA, where she and my father, her husband, a pilot who flew 727s for American Airlines, raised my siblings and I in a 1700s yankee home on a 6 acre lot by a river named Jones.

A few years before she passed, my mother had a traffic violation in a local supermarket parking lot.  While backing up, she apparently hit another car.  My mother was in her 70s and growing frail and certainly the paradigm that she had inadvertently hit another car would be resonant with most.

Photo of a Damaged Car, a Result of Organized Gangstalking 

I recall her telling me about the incident, even going to court to defend her innocence.  Her story was that she had been a target, set up by grifters who had done this sort of thing before to others in order to realize some sort of economic benefit, by preying on those like her, elderly, or otherwise incapacitated.

She told me her lawyer had found that the other parties had done this before and could provide documentation supporting this, her paradigm.  She expected to be cleared in court, indeed her lawyer had assured her this would be the case.  Oddly, the lawyer, whose name I do not know, did not inform the judge of the documented pattern of behavior of the supposed wronged parties.

Why didn't he?

I don't know of course, but based on my experiences being targeted in the years since 2011, I learned about corruption, gangstalking and what it means to be a targeted individual.

If you choose to read my other blog posts, you will know why I call myself a gangstalked targeted individual and why I believe my mother was targeted and gangstalked in similar manner.

I believe I was targeted from birth in a complex US government program.  Sounds whacky, but it's not.  And I believe my parents were aware and were unable to inform me for fear of reprisals.  My best guess as to why my mother was targeted in that supermarket parking lot was to ensure she stay in fear, not succumb to the temptation of telling me, her first born son, that I was targeted and why.

My mother left me a few clues, three of which I'll share here.

1. My mother had a stated goal that she would repeat from time to time, that none of her children end up in jail.  This I found odd as we were a law abiding middle class family, my father on the local Planning Board, my sister a police dispatcher.  None of us were ever arrested growing up, none of us were troublemakers, and if anything the local police knew us as our parents were 'townies' and would sometimes drop by for coffee or parties that my parents from time to time organized.  So why didn't my mother express the more common desire that her offspring all get college, educations, or good jobs, or nice hones?  Why was her goal that none of us be incarcerated?

2.  Upon entering adulthood and moving away from home, my mother would always load me up with dog eared detective novels.  I recall politely telling her I wasn't really interested in the genre but for the works of Robert B. Parker and his series of detective novels focusing on the main character of 'Spenser'.  These novels were leanly written, always followinf a formula where 'Spenser' would often use self as bait, knocking on doors, generally annoying people, in an attempt to get the bad guys to react.  Of course it always worked, for such is the nature of fiction.  And so for decades my mother gave me these softcover detective novels over my polite objections, in the 1980s, 1990s, 2000s...  3 decades.  Why?

3. Before we answer that, let's fast forward to 2001 in Saint Petersburg, Russia.  I had inadvertantly entered fatherhood at the tender age of 36, this due to my then Russian girlfriend, Svetlana Chuloshnikova, removing her IUD without so much as a word to me, the man she intended upon and succeeded on entrapping.  And so I likely impregnated Svetlana at the house my mother once owned as she got older in Rockland, MA over the Christmas holidays of 1999.  And as nature dictates, on September 15, 2000, nine months later, our son, a blond boy I named Nicholas James Macy was born.

I was hesitant to remarry, that is to marry Svetlana, given her awful vibe, made horribly vibrant and visible, this due to our near brush with abortion.  I still recall having pressured Svetlana into agreeing to abort.

We went to the clinic, me by her side as there were no easy ways out.  Best to face this drama head on.  And at the clinic, when Svetlana let go of my hand and entered the abortionist's room, something in me snapped; I rushed into the room just after the door closed and Svetlana had disappeared from view, grabbed Svetlana, and rushed all three of us away from that most horrific of chambers.  I recall thinking, whatever was going on between us, undercurrents brewing, and those, I would for years write off as due to our social and cultural differences, me being East Coast American, and her Slavic Russian, I could do nothing to harm this outrageous fairy-like beauty, this woman who would become he mother of our only child, this Svetlana.

In a year's time, on a boat on the Neva river, I got on my knee and I proposed marriage to Svetlana, and we were married at a beautiful Naval church in Saint Petersburg, Russia.  My mother and her youngest sister, Margie, my aunt, had come for the wedding.

Here's the part that sticks out now in hindsight.  I recall being concerned that my mother was continually smoking, lighting each new cigarette with the one prior, just smoked, and talking, nervously talking.  I had never seen her behave in this manner before, or since.  I wrote that off as perhaps something that happens to women as they age.  I see it differently now.  I think she was real nervous, nervous about what though?

Let me segue for a moment to that weekend before the wedding.  The traditional practice dinner at the downtown Sheraton hotel.  Svetlana's parents, Boris and Nadejda had arrived from her hometown of Nizhniy Novgorod.  And me, I was also present, though I had been delayed by an unexpected car accident.

I was in my company car, a 1.8 liter engined, turbocharged Volkswagon Passat, sitting in the passing lane, the left most lane, of the two on that side of the intersection.  To my right, also pulled up and stopped at he red light was a small Russian manufactured Lada.  90 degrees to our right came a sporty LS400 Lexus who seemed not to know that the light had changed and that I in my Passat, as well as the Lada to my right, had received a green light and had begun to pass into the intersection.

With no further ado, the Lexus slammed into the passenger side of the Lada, which rebounded off the impact caused by the Lexus and into the passenger side of my Passat.  The passenger side front seat window burst as if an explosion had gone off, shattered into a million litle pieces.

The police came and took our statements.  The driver of the Lexus was younger than I and had the look of a weight lifter.  Before the police arrived the Lexus driver whose name escapes me, made the bold claim that he had not run his red light.  I remained calm and described to the Russian police that the Lexus driver was lying, that he had run the light.  The Lexus driver decided to change his story as I was unwavering in telling the police what had happened.

Car accident.

Simple stuff.

Or was it?

That was 2001, just before our wedding day.  Fast forward to 2020, just some weeks ago.  I received an odd facebook messenger from a Russian whom I don't recall meeting but he was amongst my fb friends list.  His message, as he sent via fb messenger, quite unexpected, passed on a greeting from the Lexus driver to me.  Weird, how had he known my name?

Now let's jump to 2014 to Virginia Beach and to the residence of senior NCIS agent, Douglas Boyce at 313 Sage Road, and his invitation to visit with them at their 313 Sage Road home.

After Doug's unexpected revelation to me that he had been an American spy when we had met in Russia in 1999, he went further to describe to me bits and pieces of spy trade craft.   He described how spies like him used psy ops to manipulate targets into taking actions not in their best interest.  He described to me how spies would often portray themselves as oddballs to deflect attention.

This accounted for why Doug was wearing Nehru jackets when we met in Russia so long ago.  And why while attending a mutual acquaintances wedding in Russia, another American, Matthew Igel, who unless I miss my guess now so educated, was employed as an American spy a la Doug, reported to me that Doug had shown up in a tux while sporting high top white sneakers.  Matt at that time was a senior sales executive at Kelly Services in Saint Petersburg, Russia.

Doug's point was that in the spy game those boys so engaged would spend significant effort to distract and to misdirect the target so as to keep them confused, unable to separate wheat from chaff, this so as to hide the truth behind a smokescreen of deception.  I think now as the years have passed that this car accident was to distract me from what was really going on as regards my marriage to gangstalker wife Svetlana.  Sounds incredible?  It certainly is, but this does not necessarily make it untrue.

Doug described to me how spies deflect attention, and how spies would use technology, 'street theater', 'directed conversations', 'managed aggression' and more to ensure the target was truly distracted to what was really going on around him.

And so when I considered that the aforementioned car accident may well have been a feignt, meant to distract me, to misdirect me, from what was really going on around me, I understood, perhaps intuitively that I had been targeted and so much around me was 'directed conversations', 'street theater' and worse.  This took time of course, only upon moving to Denver in April 2016 did I connect the pieces of this puzzle most horrific.  I had been targeted from birth by the CIA to create a patsy for a planned terror event, a la Ole Dammegard, this time a presidential assassination attempt that was to have murdered Obama, install Biden, and blame me.  Wild.

And so in retrospect I think my mom was excessively smoking and talking as she was nervous, she knew I was targeted, could say nothing for fear of reprisal.

I'll answer all three questions posed above with why I think she had the repeated goal that her children not be incarcerated, why she gave me used detective novels over my polite objections for decades, and why she chain smoked and chatted seemingly endlessly at our wedding.  I think giving me the novels was the best she could do to nudge me into looking at the world, from the perspective of a detective, so as to survive the events that I would later endure being heavily targeted and gangstalked.  I think the reason she stated repeatedly of her desire that her children stay out of jail was fear.  I think she and my father knew I was targeted, and that those who gangstalked them had threatened them that if they interfered with the psy op I was to endure and have descibed at length in this blog they would be set up by a corrupt legal system and so would be their children.  And so my parents remained quiet.

I recall an incident in our old New England home, located on a bank of the Jones river in Kingston, Massachusetts.  It was night, I was in bed, perhaps I was nine.  The house had four bedrooms, all upstairs.  The kitchen downstairs, where my parents would dwell late into the evenings smoking cigarettes and sipping scotch.

A gunshot rang out.

I stayed in bed and was told the next day that an old muzzle loaded musket that my father kept in the living room, two rooms away from the kitchen had somehow mysteriously gone off.  With the passing of years, my accelerated unwanted education about spycraft, gangstalking, and worse, I think this now a lie.  I suspect though can't say, that it had to do with my having been targeted from birth, and that my dad, a US army air corp C46 pilot in the second world war, likely OSS, knew about my targeting, and knew the consequences if he and mother didn't toe that darkest of lines.  Perhaps they had something akin to an argument, and perhaps he had fired for effect.  He passed in 1984 at the age of 65, and as I recall in the last year I knew him, a sadness, perhaps a depression in the man.

My Father Herbert F. Macy Jr in a C46 After WW2 Somewhere in the Middle East

 My Father Herbert F. Macy Jr Somewhere in the Middle East After WW2

My Father a C46 Pilot for Alaska Airlines Flying in the Middle East After WW2 in Operation: Magic Carpet

Back to my mother, as a result of being found guilty of the parking lot fender bender, my mother had her driver's license taken away for a year and was forbidden to leave the state of Massachusetts for the same period.

My mother loved to travel and this judgement tore at her down deep.  She had been a stewardess and later a travel agent.  I recall her taking me to Italy, Tunisia, Germany, France, Belgium, the UK, Luxembourg and Yugoslavia as a teen.  I loved these trips, the two of us escaping a life most mundane in Massachusetts.  Perhaps these trips helped push me in my desire to 'join the Navy and see the world' and my career as an international traveling salesman, visitig at last count, 70 countries.

My mother wanted help to finance further legal efforts to prove her innocence, her disappointment in her attorney visible, as she seemed not to understand why he had not informed the judge that he had learned the supposed wronged parties were actually gangstalkers.

Based on my experience being arrested by corrupt cops in 2015 on the charge of 'child endangerment', and having successfully negotiated a corrupt criminal justice system, believing that these corrupt cops had influenced my attorney, Mark Hannan, in that matter, based upon his visible discomfort in our initial meeting, and always keeping me waiting to the last minute on his work with the court on my behalf, this done to put me under psychological pressure to do so ething stupid, a variant of 'managed aggression' if to use adequate terminology from the targeted individual / gangstalking lexicon.  It was a form of baiting me, in my worried state, having been arrested as the result of a 911 call to the police that I never made.

I still recall the dispatcher calling my number, saying she was calling back to ascertain whether or not I required police assistance that fall day in 2015.  I assured her I had not made the call and had no need for police.  She assured me she would cancel the call.  And as I learned how corrupt our cops and criminal justice system is, especially since 9/11, the cops came anyway, saw small pot plants my teen son had nurtured over my objections, as I was lickety boom arrested.  Never before and never since, interestingly enough...

So my mother was likely targeted and gangstalked as was I.  A dark tale to be sure.  Damn.  Where I thought I had all sorts of neat and interesting friends, I actually had none.  I'm not complaining, mind you, simply decrying the false narratives laid into our brains using the mass media, gangstalkers and more.  And so in conclusion it seems to me my mother was gangstalked to ensure her silence and the success of an MK Ultra program that failed.  I remain as do my memories and stories.  To be honest, I wish I did not know that which I have learned, for I see the world as a far darker and crueler place than before discovering that I had been, like my mother before me, gangstalked.

Oh my.  My mother used to say 'why couldn't we all be like cats?'  Make of that what you will.

God rest my parents' souls.