My recent vacations

Psychiatry a trap, I found out.

Russia has a law on its books, law 323.  It allows family and neighbors to report and seek assistance from the Russian government in the matter of family and neighbors who are in the eyes of the reporting neighbors and family a way to legally remove the bothersome person in question.

My 'handler', my gangstalking bride has used this method upon me several times when we were in the throes of argument.  No one was more surprised than I.  Being carted away by three brutish semi policeman is an education I would prefer to forget and truth be told to return to my earlier state of blissful ignorance on the matter.

I had read that part of being a 'targeted individual' often includes a road to the mental health care 'system'.  In my experience it does.

Once legally kidnapped by these fine folk, stripped, given ill fitting pajamas my adventure and my education on how our world works continued.

These forays into that arm of the Russian mental health system were educational to put it mildly.

My wife enjoys this power over me, this ability.  We now discuss divorce which she is in no hurry for as I pay all her bills.  In this case I would likely return to the US and reinvent myself again regardless of my affection for Holy Mother Russia.

So upon entering processing one is given the choice to be 'examined' (and this term I use loosely) or to be there against one's will.  A paper is offered.  Most choose the willing option as this results in a stay of approximately 30 days, the unwilling get 90 or more.  This fix is apparently in.

Upon entry, based solely on the complaintants' report, psychiatrists who are rarely seen prescribe pills, mostly anti-psychotics, these drugs dangerous and meant to control those prescribed.

On my first visit last fall I met a psychologist and made the dreadful mistake of being honest revealing at a high level my targeting, which includes having been come on to by Russian spy Anna Chapman, having a senior American NCIS agent Doug Boyle who I had mistaken for a friend unaware that he with many others had targeted me and so much more, my pursuit while in the US by 40 undercover FBI vehicles whose task was to entrap me, my ongoing life under surveillance and gangstalking.  And of course the fact that I hear a 15600 hz tone 24/7 slightly louder in my left ear than in my right, the likely result of being implanted while undergoing a life saving severed artery operation on my left arm while knocked out.

Big mistake.

The psychologists were thrilled.  They had a live one and advised the psychiatrists to doll out to me thrice daily strong anti-psychotics which left me mostly desiring sleep, tremors in my right leg (a common side effect I in time learned), a proclivity to drool, a sense of slowness, of stupidity.  I took these pills to see what would happen, to continue my voyage as a targeted individual and upon my release found I had the 'benefit' of free Russian government psychiatrist provided prescriptions to 'continue my treatment'.

In short order I realized my mistake, my tale so unbelievable that I chose the wrong venue in which to share this complex tale.  I don't recall much of that first stay due to the sedative effects of these 'anti-psychotics.  Dangerous drugs.

I do recall that most of my inmate colleagues that few were like me as most had far worse economic backgrounds.  That was both educational yet annoying, for with whom was I to have intellectually appealing conversation.  The answer, few, very few, I recall a young long haired unemployed wanna be singer who enjoyed practicing his English with me, and I was grateful for that human part of me longs for and needs conversation, the kind to which over my life I had grown accustomed and had frankly enjoyed.  Since learning I was targeted by CIA, FBI, the works (and yes I know how that sounds) I have gone into a sort of self protective isolation focusing on my small family while mostly avoiding others, especially those whom I believe to be spies and who were 'nurturing' me to follow my hedonistic tendencies of sex and drugs (hash and speed, hash a habit from my teenage years with many years without as I served in the US military and thereafter started on a corporate path to build what most would consider a mildly successful career in which I became worth over $2,000,000 with no debt.  Speed came later in early 2012 while naked with two whores,  Albina Tapiga and her bisexual lover Evgenyia Kritova.  My mother had died a few months earlier, her final lesson to me as I held her hand as she went cold was to live, to experience all that I might.  Her departure from this world took four hours and as a result I entered into two years of depression.  This has since passed, time being what it is, that mysterious not understood factor, that heals such wounds as mine as memory, even such as the passing of one's mother fades.

Add to this two factors, I had been slipped a Mickey by Russian gangstalker and I would later learn, my wife's former infertile lover, Alexander Valerievich Tregubov (this confirmed by Russian police, though I choose to take my lesson and not to pursue the matter in an unwieldy Russian court) that is I was poisoned the month prior to my mother's passing, lost 40 pounds as a result and came to believe,  like her, I was dying.

The other factor, the people I had believed closest to me, we're anything but as they were gangstalkers mostly in the employ of major national security agencies.  These included Steve Gardner, Christian Courbois, Henning Pedersen, Adrian Terris,  Kyle Patching, my wife, and so many more.  This was an undercurrent of deception that in those days I felt more than knew which is unlike my awareness today. 

And so unlike my response to my father's death some 30 odd years earlier when I was 19 deciding to be hard working, faithful, loyal, and true, my response to my mother's passing was to leap headfirst into that which I had largely avoided my entire adult life, debauchery, and the pleasures thereby provided.

I recall 4 individuals who surreptitiously offered me illegal stimulants, billionaire August Meyer and cocaine which I today avoid, MDPV by dark Web dealer and family friend Adam Stanhope, now supposedly passed a week after I reported him to the DEA via their online service.  My gut tells me his role in this affair was under FBI supervision.  Another story for another time. Adam's chemist pal from Wisconsin, Mark Brady and strong doses of MDMA, which I also currently avoid; lessons remain.  But it was speed, the amphetamine sulfate version, not the stronger cousin methamphetamine, which I tried for a week in Thailand, divorced and alone, still not knowing of my targeting, but for that my life had turned upsidedown.  

So debauchery.   Albina, now a divorced mother in Kazan, Russia.  Oddly I choose to remain on friendly terms with her full well knowing she had been tasked to get me to try speed.  We were naked the three of us just having had sex and earlier hashish which I find makes sex more arousing as many do.  I recall the excited look in her face as I contemplated the two long and fat lines she had laid out for me, one for each nostril.

I admit I still though rarely due to its legal status is Russia enjoy this stimulant and it's effects.  Like its legal cousin amphetamine which I was prescribed legally in the US in 2014, it promotes a sort of focused deep thinking.  Still it is a drug.  An ubercoffee I sometimes joke. 

Those days were to my mind wild, divorced with shared custody of our then 13 year old son Nicholas James, living in a studio apartment in Russia on the island I once worked named Vasilievsky with 3 former prostitutes one for whom I had desperately fallen, a girl less than half my age as poor as she was desperate and beautiful, Evgenyia Viktorovna Kosheleva. 

My reasoning?

I could save neither my mother nor reconcile with my fraudster wife, her deceptions revealed to me in what was to have been our final phone call the day before it all got hot and heavy being harassed and pursued by 40 undercover FBI vehicles which I was not to survive as the plan for me was to be a patsy in a US presidential assassination attempt.  Things had not changed much since 1963 in this regard.

I admit I feel for those poor duped souls, Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh, Myron May and others who did not do as I did and figured it out.

As a result am I lucky or one of the unluckiest people on this planet.  I still don't know.

Corrupt police planted drugs in my home in Victor NY, in my apartment in Denver and most recently here in Russia to complete their bosses cover up and to tempt me into finishing my story on their terms.

More to follow.  Time for a coffee.  And to see what this day offers with my bride, a step closer to this fiction of a reconciliation in which I had once hoped and had better my life upon or to a lonely divorce, once more, this time likely debauchery free.

Stay tuned.  I suspect you will.  The story compelling I add modestly.  ))