LEAVING THE SCENE, ALMOST

LEAVING THE SCENE, ALMOST So I get back from my latest Svetlana imposed psychiatric vacation, which brought up the question of divorce in polite conversation to learn that both my tablet and cellphone have been messed with. The Tablet glued shut around half its perimeter, the phone with two new holes along the edge of the back plate, and a camera that won't work. I asked Svetlana about this and she had no answer, played dumb. I am used to this. The last time I went into the psych ward I had at home 150 Phenezepam pills, 50 Zopiclone sleeping pills, and a handful of phenibut. THese all disappeared, but for 20 Phenezepam. Again she claied to know nothing. I am used to this. As in Victor NY, and in Denver CO, cops broke into my homes and planted drugs, cocaine and meth respectively. I got through those times and learned I was targeted. The next morning here in Russia I awoke at 3, which for me never happens and find drug laced cigarettes, stronger that pot, some sort of synthetic thing in nice presentation boxes in the kitchen, while all beds, BUT FOR SVETLANA'S have crystal shards of some sort of stimulant. This had happened in Denver, I suspect it a standard police practice to entrap someone in drugs. In Denver, the bathroom moulding was an odd color blue, and when I tasted it (yes I tasted it, being suspicious, with reason to be so) found myself stimulated. In Denver the police had put in a pool of water with an unknown stimulant in my freezer in hopes I would do as I did, and taste it. The same is happening now in Russia, though my fear here is worse, given the criminal justice system. Russian cops have been continually breaking into my place since I returned over 3 years ago. Their first message was the theft of two pain killers that remained from some dental work I had done in Las Vegas. They played gangstaking games as well as a few psy ops, which I documented here on facebook. A piece of rope tied for no reason to the gateway etrance, this a psyop meant to push one to hang oneself. There were others, I'll not bore. I live under surveillance, and while I don't like it am used to it. Privacy no more, just like Denver, just like Victor, NY. This time was different, Sveta was away seeing her parents, and our son wanted to get some pot. I let him. Better at home than on the street. As we live under surveillance Sveta quickly knew about this though could not reveal her cards. So she used Russian law 323 by baiting me into an argument, which took me back to the psych ward for 30 days, my punishment for being a permissive father. She used this recess to ship Nick off to a 6 month anti drug program. She had sent him to a 12 month long one which I opposed, paid for and failed. I had been against it. 12 step programs have a documented 80% failure rate. And I know my son. My message to her was he needed time, the divorce was hard on him, that and he hates Russia. He is a teen. Give him space. Let him find a job. She had none of it. She paid for the first two months from money she got from me months ago so I was out of the question. The next four months are in question. I am calm, cool and collected on this matter, though very unhappy. Again, I returned home. Pissed at what she had pulled off against Nick and myself. Hell she was a prostitute in her early twenties. I don't hold that against her, I understand those were those times in Russia. I even recall her being part of a gang that traded vodka to alcoholics for their flats who then froze to death. Sveta was raised in much meaner world than I. She is stronger than me. If I have an advantage it is that can't lie, while she can. Again 3 o'clock, small crystals in the bed, I wake Sveta with concern that someone broke in. She will have none of it, ignores me and at precisely 6:34 a.m. goes out for cigarettes. She never gets up so early for cigarettes. Her body language is all wrong. Drugs in my apartment, a potential 14 year jail sentence, and once in jail to be killed, and she inherits. The vodka apartment scam writ large, and all her hatred bubbling through that Nick tried drugs under my parentage. I have little time, she is not going for cigarettes but for the police. I know her this well. I am not going to a Russian jail, I will leave on my own terms, though early, I had wanted to see grand kids. I went for the kitchen, got our best knife, locked myself in the bathroom and began to draw that serrated blade into my upper forarms, while crying, as I had no wish to leave the scene. I know too much, survived too long, I was to have been dead and jailed in NY, they had tried again in Denver, and I dodged and weaved and used my capital to rescue self and son. Here and now those choices gone. Cops bashing at our bathroom door, remarkable response time, tell me this wasn't planned. I wailed leave me alone, I want to die, got to my second arm. I admit my strokes were unprofessional, I was no Japanese soldier performing hari-kuri. I missed both arteries. Blood flowed. What a mess. The cops made it through the first door, the heavy oak one, leaving only the flimsy laundry room door. I sawed as I could; they ripped down the door and began to bludgeon me with batons. I screamed "Leave me! Let me die!" I succumbed to those batons and gave up my quest. I was guaranteed a trip to the hospital and later to the psych ward. Would I face jail time for the drugs or would Svetlana and her cohorts remove this evidence, and if so why? I had miscalculated. I had feared her plan was to plant drugs and be done with me, this they had tried in the US. Experience won out over reason perhaps. Svetlana had expected me to get high and at that mystical hour of 6:34 a.m. would have rushed out to get the cops to take me again to the psych ward, my punishment for allowing Nick to smoke pot. I did 33 days that time, had a lovely conversation with a psychologist to demonstrate that I had wanted to live, I weaved fact and fancy together. After being in the psych ward I met with head psychiatrist Ruslan Sergeevich, the balding bespactacled lord of that manor. I told him what had happened. He didn't blink. He said as no drugs were found, I had obviously hallucinated. I was flabbergasted. Sveta removed the drugs, she had always been close to the cops since her days as a prostitute. What to do but nod my head and ask for how long I must remain under observation. Ruslan's reply 30 days, this turned int 33 for an administrative reason having to do with my foreign passport. So when I met the psychologist I told her what she wanted to hear and weaved my weeks earlier hallucinations coming off anti-depressants, though one knew those were false images, with Ruslan's theory, saying why he must be right. Another case solved by Russian psychiatry! Brilliant! At least it worked and I returned home. How would he know, how would Ruslan know,he was no detective, but as Sveta had used law 323 to place me in that psychiatric hospital the cards were in her favor, and to get through as a cog does a machine, I knew my place. I played my hand. I noticed over the last several months that our doors had been worked on, different caulking had been used, some stimulating as in Denver. I worried then. I told Svetlana. She denied any work had been done on the doors. I asked her again last night. This time she replied differently claiming Alexander our repairman had done the work. Does alexander use stimulating caulking, and does ne toss small stimulating crystals on my bed. In my attempt to leave the scene on my own terms, I had indeed miscalculated, for this I am grateful, I once enjoyed the heck out of life, might so again. F*** these corrupt police and gangstalkers. I have talent, motivation,honesty, no privacy and perhaps the grace of God on my side, that and Svetlana appears to enjoy my company in her Soviet raised manner. That and we have a son more like me than her who needs his father. I pay her bills, I tell her I love her, we hug, sometimes kiss, though not like before, though she was and remains a beauty. Superior Soviet genetic engineering I guess. Need to work on that honesty gene... Or not. I tell her I do not want her to endure what I went through when my mother passed, we don't have sex, for that requires trust, at least for me. She cooks and cleans for me. We talk. She feeds street cats. We go for walks. Together we will apply for a Russian residency permit for me to live out my days here and yet, and yet the heartless beacon of divorce calls and to return self and son to the US. I found relatives on a farm there. What would it be like to join them. I do not know, but the thought inspires me. Enough of the darkness. I am a child of light, once blonde, now white. 55. Some of these things make me sad, others uplift me. To be human. And today it will rain.