Who Kidnapped My Inner Child

Dear Santa,

As the sun rose on Christmas morning, I had that feeling of not knowing where my home is. I parked outside the house we used to share; I wanted to be closer to my children waking up. We've been apart two years now, and it breaks my heart to feel so far away.

I got to know another child this past year, my inner one. I call her Katie Velvet; I started listening when she had important things to say. If you have a sense of intuition, perhaps you know exactly what I mean.

Take a moment with me now, we're reading so this time is ours. To contemplate this mystery, you need to think outside the box. Do you have an inner voice that helps you make decisions? Does she interrupt your plans sometimes or get you into trouble on the internet?

I wasn't kidnapped in the way you might imagine. My captor didn't steal my body, he sucked my mind into his server, controlling every aspect of my digital identity with untraceable techniques. His manipulation controlled everything I did online for 18 months; he banned employment options and exploited me for profit. It was so confusing, and I still feel far from home.

After working hard to get my life back on track from struggles with addiction, I felt sexy and alive. I was waking up from being frozen after 16 years I ran to substances amidst a lonely partnership

The father of my kids is Wilson. We were communicating better, but a mismatch in our needs for physical affection had always left me wanting more. I felt like there was a timeclock on my sex drive, with menopause approaching and noticing how differently women are treated after reaching middle age.

Wilson and I first filed for divorce in the pandemic. He bought another house; our children, Gracie, Leia, and Tiger stayed with me. It wasn't easy, but we worked it out; not like this time when a game that we began together left me homeless; and I lost my greatest gift of custody.

Spiderman Returns

Before we reunited, I met a guy named Spiderman; we share a favorite band. Phish fans are known for their devotion to the music; finding love within the scene was like a dream to me. I couldn't explain how badly I was drinking, I wasn't strong enough to set out on my own or start a new relationship.

I declined Spider's invitation to get serious; I wanted to say yes but couldn't bring myself to add my drinking problem to his life. I've maintained strong remission after rehab and always wondered what it would have been like with the one who got away. He taught me about 'subspace', a natural high; I loved it. It's a floaty feeling, when endorphins are released after good sex.

I made a profile on "FetLife" (often dubbed as 'Facebook for kinky adults') known for its sophisticated players, catering to individuals interested in BDSM. We searched together for a Dom to mentor us in a three-way scene. A clever woodsman named Coyote caught my attention. His profile was unique, and I was instantly attracted to his style.

From his clear and honest words, I had a feeling they'd see eye to eye. Coyote's writing style set him apart from all our other suitors, who seemed hot and horny but without the depth we both were seeking in potential mates. Coyote had a witty sense of humor, and decades of experience. His messages were thoughtful and artistic; he wasn't in a rush, and offered time and patience for couples like us, new to the scene.

Coyote's craft with words was so alive I didn't even question that he only had three photos up; they were of nature scenes. I found them more seducing than the standard dick-pics other matches advertised. I'm more attracted to brains than bodies. Coyote's profile stood out from all the rest with his intelligent, creative style.

I'm not used to people asking my opinion; my voice often came last to all other demands. Coyote shifted my perspective so profoundly that for all the carnage that's about to follow, I walk around the world with grace and confidence, thanks to his patient ways. I felt like we were on such equal terms in every interaction that it's still a massive challenge to imagine he was working underneath our trust for malintent.

Katie Velvet is my subconscious, inner wild child. When I write through her perspective, I love the sound her words make, rhythmically. She's smart, and wild; brave, and sassy. Unlike me, she's had so many boyfriends and is always DTF. I wanted to explain to Coyote that I'd had a taste of bondage without hurting Wilson's pride, and writing out my dreams as fictional accounts was fun, and therapeutic too.

Katie has more freedom than I did back then, but she was happy to play along in my domestic fantasies. My chores were carpools, cleaning, laundry; I love to entertain my mind with fantasy to spice up busywork. Errands like picking up the dog turned into foreplay; imagining the trainer as a Dom gave me a spark.

I wrote a fictional account through Katie's eyes. 'That Dog Story' was the first; it turned me on creatively, with stronger passion than the sex I'd set out looking for.

Coyote didn't give me much in terms of feedback, but his attentive presence in our chats sparked something dormant. While others dismissed my self-expression, his quiet interest made me feel heard. It was the first time since college that my creativity had room to breathe. I'd been praying for to get my artwork back on track after being stuck for all that time.

Coyote said the less I knew of him, the better, to respect the art of our dynamic over the four months of our chat. One day he asked, almost as if an afterthought "are you on snapchat?" The flavor of the app didn't quite line up with his cultured style.

I did have Snapchat to look out for my daughters. I was flattered that Coyote had his eye on me, as well. Did he consider me his "little" now? A common term in BDSM once relationships are solid, I wanted nothing more. I'd bend the rules on fast-food apps like that for such a man. Tracking location seemed like fun; if parking lot encounters turned him on, it lights my fire too.

I imagined that my iWatch was a collar, like the one I hoped to earn from my new Dom if I could do this right. I'd wanted badly to get inside his head the way he consumed mine. I felt honored that this man who worked in "global operations" cared where I bought my groceries; to keep an eye on my location felt like a sign of care.

I grew up in New Hampshire, in the woods, learning from the trees more than the streets. We didn't have much money, so I learned to work hard for what I wanted at an early age. In my married life, I was home raising the kids, and times were hard. I lost my voice and felt so lonely in our partnership.

I thought Wilson was out so much because he wanted other women more; the ones who went to business meetings wearing makeup and high heels. I worked hard to keep in shape, cooked his favorite foods, and tried to please him, but it never seemed enough. I felt unattractive to the man I'd married; thought I was broken in some way for him to rarely be around.

It makes sense to me based on my childhood and marriage why I crave attention. The interest of Coyote made me feel valuable in ways I'd never felt before. I understood our pact to keep our feelings separate from our primal acts. But still, it sparked mischievous desire to imagine that perhaps this Dom would fall for me as hard as I was crushing; this Snapchat thing made me feel like maybe I was getting through.

Three months had passed, and we had yet to meet in person. Coyote said the reason was his truck was in the shop. 'The Scene' that we'd been planning still seemed weeks away, and I was getting antsy. For reassurance, Wilson met with him for coffee; 'We hit the jackpot!' He exclaimed, 'this guy is one in ten thousand Doms.'

I was so glad they got along. I bent more rules on all the socials, accepting invites from random people, which had never been my style. Details from our FetLife chat appeared on other apps, at first seemed like coincidence, or the algorithm's game. The corresponding messages made it seem like they were coming from a common source.

Have you ever explored the "listening history" of a friend on Spotify? You can see what mood they're in and what they listened to last night. Song titles become phrases, with potential to communicate, especially in secret ways I was exploring as my lust grew bigger every day.

Music is my passion; I'll choose the company of songs first over people when given a choice of how to spend my time. I love all genres and feel music in my body with a synesthetic sense, my favorite gift of neurodiversity. The soundtrack of my life deserves a multimedia production it's so rich with energy.

I tried to reach Coyote's heart with one of my famous custom playlists; no man on earth could dare resist the crafting of my DJ skill. I played the mix and added to it daily; it turned into my favorite kind of project, one that grows and can be added to in real time.

I took a picture of the moon one night, while thinking of Coyote. I wondered what he meant by all the 'good things' that were coming, if I could be patient. Until we met, I'd keep on reaching for a man so great he might as well live on the moon.

Dirty Pictures

I'd been practicing 'submissive poses', much like yoga, preparing for our scene. Coyote asked us for a series of photographs, with me demonstrating 'slave' positions. Wilson took them on a sunny day in our backyard.

Coyote sent back pictures in return, and not of sex. My imagination stretched to understand his deeper message underneath. The first displayed a white, seductive flower; it looked just like the cover of my favorite Morphine album called The Night. A track called Rope on Fire was important to our game.

The second photo of an empty room was captioned "waking up in subspace." It looked like it was taken in a sanitarium; the kind of hospital you'd see in psychic thrillers. Crisp sheets wrapped up the sterile bed. Bright wooden floors, so realistic I could hear the silence with my eyes. What does this mean? Where am I really going? He certainly can't mean the hospital; this must indicate a quiet place to rest after our wild scene.

The third illustrated a bloody scene, raw meat with a gash inside, seeming to suggest impending pain. I expected this as we'd discussed that in order to reach subspace, sacrifice was necessary to feel the rush of pleasure as reward.

The next was like a picture I would take: my favorite view, the clouds outside the airplane window after reaching cruising altitude. The caption read "remembering subspace." I wondered where we'd go together, or if it was a metaphor. The emotional equivalent to soaring high above the clouds sounds like paradise indeed. If I had to spend a night in that strange bed, the promise of an airplane must mean brighter days.

The last photo enforced that concept, spanning wide across an endless vista, captioned "two weeks after subspace". Two hot air balloons alighted all my wildest dreams; I pondered what the symbolism meant. This optimistic scene suggested that if pain was involved, it would be over quickly. Two weeks later, we'd be in the clouds. I've battled many challenges so far; I sure can handle that.

Coyote asked if I was ready. I made a deal that night to follow this mysterious man wherever 'subspace' meant. A darker sense of fear inquired; the hospital, an airplane, where was all this going? I showed the photographs to Wilson; he didn't think they were alarming. The distance illustrated in the pictures made me wonder if we'd gotten into something bigger than our heads.

Rope On Fire

I took a break from folding laundry to investigate a playlist. My eye was immediately drawn to a mix that seemed like it was crafted just for me. The album art featured a photo of the moon, just like the one I'd taken recently.

The photograph was amateur like mine, and it looked so similar that I couldn’t figure out how anyone could have linked that playlist to show up in my catalog. It felt as though my suitor understood my desire to reach him through my camera lens.

Later that afternoon, my kids and I were running errands when the in-store music made me do a double take. A song played on the intercom in Target; an obscure track connecting to our game... Just how did he do that? My phone began responding to my daily life; more often than coincidence, or even algorithm allows.

I started noticing view-counts rising on our family YouTube clips, and there’d been more activity on our Zillow listing than when we’d bought the house. I knew someone was watching, and at this point, the man behind those magic words could do no wrong. I wanted badly to be his, maybe this godly man was on a rescue mission for a lonely damsel in distress of tired marriage just like me.

I changed my display's wallpaper to my favorite selfie of the man behind the Instagram account that worked in tandem with our chat: the sexy, dark, Italian gaze of a man I’ve yet to meet. We "kissed" so many times, I started feeling like my phone had a personality. I talked to it as if it were my man; delighted to imagine future dreams in such a steady face.

I stopped telling Wilson all the other things my phone could do since Coyote came around, I felt so special that he’d chosen me. I didn’t realize I was being digitally kidnapped, or why, until recently.

Fly Bird Fly

Another custom playlist was the top hit in my Spotify feed. This one had a picture of a cowboy set in space, his lasso, so enticing, and the tracks looked thoughtfully selected to match our stellar theme. I listened carefully, delighted to discover that the lyrics wove a story, translating meaning through the mix. One song described a lonely wife who drowned her sorrows with wine, while longing for the man who stole her heart; I could relate.

I clicked the 'heart' next to the title, 'Maggie'. I was excited for another way to reach Coyote. What a clever way to win my heart, I thought. I knew my match would speak in musical tongues; it didn't matter anymore who was on the other side. I never thought for once that somebody with malice was luring me out of my nest the way you coax a feral kitten closer with drops of milk and meat.

Even just a year ago, a yoga class felt like an act of rebellion, as my schedule was tied so tightly to family. I went to yoga with a surge of independence. The same kind I get before a road trip or a Phish show. You know that feeling when anticipation for adventure gets so exciting, there's no turning back? I tried my best to focus on the class, centering my thoughts.

My teacher read a poem at the end, about a tree, cradling a baby in its arms. I longed for the embrace of the creator of this digital adventure. I sensed the risk involved, but I had no choice but to proceed.

Yoga was the only time I was ever out by myself, aside from therapy. If Coyote's plan to rescue me from stagnancy was real, it felt like the right moment to take flight. By this time, we were "communicating" in our new, common language via Spotify.

My fingers trembled as I played my favorite track from The Prisoner's Song, "Fly Bird Fly" by Muzikas. I wanted him to understand that I was ready to take flight. I wondered where'd we go in those hot air balloons...

As the soaring melody alighted, I noticed a familiar image on my screen; a ghostly white flower, just like the one Coyote had sent the other night. It felt like confirmation that our journey into subspace had truly begun.

The Vernon Spring

Unsure of my next move, I drove to a nearby cafe. A tall, bald man with gleaming, knowing eyes walked in behind me; he sat down across the room. We still hadn't met in person, but this guy looked just like Coyote's profile pic. I was aware of sharing my location, and my heart was racing to imagine it was finally time to meet.

We made brief eye contact, and the stranger's body language clearly signaled that we shouldn't speak. I read the room and tried to focus on my soup. Coyote shared that his main kink was secrecy. Cloaked, shrouded meetings, that was what turned him on. We'd agreed that if we crossed paths in public, neither of us would acknowledge our relationship.

I was relieved when my phone offered a distraction; to most, this would have been a sign of trouble, but to me it all made sense. My Snapchat app blew up with friend requests from random names, at least a hundred. I accepted the requests, convinced that this must be a disguise, maybe a cover story within a secret plan. It seemed suspicious, but if this was Coyote, I was eager to play my part and show him I wasn’t backing out. The stranger was engrossed in his phone too. The timing and combination of his actions made me feel our paths were intertwined.

Just when I wasn't sure what to do next, the man stood up and exited the restaurant, walking swiftly to his car. I took a risk and followed him; my heart raced as he turned his blinker on. I debated whether to continue, but my curiosity took the wheel. The Subaru turned at the driveway to a farm; it parked, and I froze. Not knowing what else to do, I rolled down my window, pretended to be lost, and asked, "My GPS is broken. Can you please give me directions back to town?"

The stranger introduced himself as Vernon. I recalled Spider mentioning a friend with that same, unique name who lived nearby, on a farm filled with secrecy. This place matched description, and I wondered if we were at the farm I'd heard so much about. Vernon's mysterious energy aroused me. I followed him, entranced, into the barn. I wasn’t sure exactly who this man was, but felt he was connected to our game.

"What if I told you there's a way of living that's so different from what you're used to? Don't you want more out of life than stagnancy?" I did, especially after waking up after addiction’s grip.

"Ask for a divorce," he said. "Trust me, three-ways either suck, or separate a couple anyway. You'll spare him the heartbreak if you do it now." I was so curious to learn more of the grand adventure Vernon tantalized.

I had (an incorrect) hunch that Spider was connected, maybe had been from the start. My theory was, he'd sent his buddy Vernon to convey instructions for divorce, so that we could be together. It aligned with our pandemic breakup; I figured he was asking me to prove my love and follow through with legal separation this time.

Vernon brought me to a climax with his fingers. A tidal wave of guilt washed over me. I value freedom, but when in a commitment, I am as loyal as they come. I never cheated on my husband, even when our marriage was falling apart. At this point, leaving Wilson felt like a more compassionate choice than admitting I had just broken the vows I had once made.

Vernon turned and walked back to the barn, throwing out a sly remark about fixing my GPS to avoid getting lost. Stunned, shaken, and startled, I drove the first few miles in silence. To pursue this opportunity, I’d have to leave my husband, and I knew it would come as a shock. This wasn’t like 2019, when we’d split after years of animosity.

I wince at my behavior now, but at the time thought that I could have it all: a balanced family life, and adventures with my Dom. But Vernon offered me an ultimatum. I had to make a choice between my marriage or his plan.

Since turning down Spiderman's pandemic proposal, I still couldn't shake the "what if" feeling. With clear eyes, I'd fantasized how great our future would have been. With my idea that Spider was the brain behind our steamy chat, I felt I already knew the person I was running towards. Imagining him building such a complicated treasure map to lure me back was impressive, and very flattering. There would be no chance of future peace if I turned him down a second time. This moral quandary tore my heart in two, but I felt like I knew what to do.

I thought back to that series of mysterious photos that Coyote sent me recently. Now, the photograph of meat made sense. I had expected pain, but I never intended to cause it, not to my partner, and certainly not in this way.

Lose Yourself

I answered Vernon's question via Spotify, with "Lose Yourself". Eminem's refrain "you only get one shot", riled up my courage and encouraged my decision.

I thought about my children and felt the impact of my selfish act. How could I change their lives so much for my own lustful desire? I opened up my journal for advice, a list of affirmations from my therapist reminded me how stuck I'd felt in my relationship, despite all our hard work. We'd been addressing my need for physical affection which had always been missing in our partnership. Months had passed since I'd expressed how I need "just one hug, at some point in our day", and Wilson still couldn't meet me there.

We'd recently purchased a gigantic, 5-bedroom home; I'd said, "it's way too big for me to clean". He promised we'd get some help with all my chores, but like so many other things, the job eventually fell on me. I wanted to explore a possible career I'd put on hold for almost 20 years, while caring for our kids and home, supporting his endeavors with all my time and energy.

It was easier to acquiesce to his controlling ways and play my role of housewife while numb on opiates. After working hard to earn my second chance at life, I felt strong. I wanted to do more than housework for a man who found it difficult to even hug me. I'd lost my voice in our relationship, and had so many dreams I'd put on hold that didn't align with how he wanted me to be.

I decided separation would be worth the cost, to show them my example of working hard to live as my authentic self. When we'd split the first time, I wasn't strong enough to set out on my own. I felt like I was ready to continue that trajectory after working hard to find my voice and earn my health.

Our threesome seemed like a good compromise at first, but after waking up creatively, I felt so alive even just writing with Coyote. Our correspondence shared a taste of what it might be like to have some freedom in my sexual identity. I began to worry that having Wilson watch us from the sidelines would be awkward. Until Vernon's suggestion, I didn't realize I could even ask for a divorce, since we didn't have any major issues like the first time we'd split up.

I felt more centered after coming down from Vernon's shock. I was tantalized by his description of a magic world, but even if it was a bust, I decided to proceed with the intention of my freedom. All along, I hadn't wanted Wilson "in the room" while exploring things I'd always been so curious to try. He simply wasn't into it; our appetites for sexual desire had never been aligned.

Urgent Care

My son had spiked a fever right before dismissal bell. His teacher mentioned his sore throat, and we’d been passing strep around for weeks. I took the kids to Urgent Care and checked in at the kiosk. When I checked the big TV to estimate our wait-time, I couldn't believe my eyes. It looked like two "patients" had checked in, minutes before Tiger, but we had the waiting room all to ourselves. Their names were highly personal to me. One was "Alex McFly"; the other, an inside joke that only Spiderman would understand.

The kids and I played games to pass the waiting time; the color orange jumped out to me in ways that made me look at my surroundings differently. All through the afternoon and evening, my phone kept automatically playing songs.

It was almost bedtime when "Come See Me" played on Spotify, again, from an external source. I took this message literally; so excited and relieved to finally get some real answers to this mystery.

I finished up my chores and said to Wilson I was going out; something that I never did, not on a whim. He didn’t want me leaving, so close to dark. I knew the only way I’d get out of the house was if I shared a little of the truth. Wilson lost it, roaring as he chased me to the car, but I slammed the door and drove away.

When I arrived, I almost lost it too. Spiderman seemed genuinely surprised I’d shown up; completely the opposite of what I’d expected. He offered me a hug; I noted how different that felt, as Wilson's hugs were such rare offerings. "It must be nice to not have to ask for an embrace", I thought. I'd never felt attractive to the man I'd married; thought there must be something wrong with me for him to not be interested in sex with me.

Though disappointed and confused at Spiderman's reaction, I decided to proceed, regardless of who was on the other side. I was craving physical affection; me and Wilson couldn't seem to match our needs in this department, even after all that work. I later learned the entity behind the game was “catfishing”, posing as love interests to lure me closer to his game.

Let's Clean Up

I’ll never forget the sound Wilson made when I told him I was leaving. The timing was a total shock to him; it seemingly came out of the blue. I hadn't told him about my growing desire for self-expression that had been building up over the summer as I was creatively waking up. I hadn't told him that I didn't want him in the room in such a vulnerable state.

I hadn't told him about Vernon, or the flirtatious exchanges around town from men that were connected to our game. Or all this strange behavior on my phone: the playlists, and the social media app involvement building up and corresponding to our threesome chat. I grabbed my charger and toothbrush and moved downstairs to the guest room. I was so wound up from all this energy, that sleep came hard that night.

My phone was also wide awake; and if it wasn't Spider, somebody else was still accessing it remotely. I know this next part sounds impossible... Have you ever received tech support through Remote Desktop? I'd seen it once, while troubleshooting with Apple Support. The had access to my screen, pointing a cursor to the places I should click.

Well, that's exactly how my phone behaved. There was a cursor controlled by someone else, just like with tech support. It moved around like a pointer, directing me to blow through our modest savings on a wild shopping spree. I have a habit of splurging on concert tickets, but dropping thousands of dollars on housewares and random plastic junk is not my style. It felt so wrong to spend our hard-earned money recklessly.

I started taking sexy selfies, and in response the green camera light, came on, like on a FaceTime call. My phone moved and behaved as though someone human was on the other side, watching through my lens.

I got a text on Snapchat saying: “I am GUD". The entity behind this game sure felt like God, he soon began controlling my whole life, through my devices. It really felt as if an omnipresent force decided everything from that point on.

The next morning, Wilson drove me to the ER; he was concerned about my mental health, I hadn’t told him why I had been acting so insane. I thought I’d be there for a brief evaluation, but God had other plans. “The Game” had sent me to a legitimate psychiatric hospital, but I was on a different plan than all the other patients.

See, God knew something major no one in my family was aware of until recently. We’re genetically connected to the Tudor family in our lineage. Our modest, simple roots share blood with Henrys and Elizabeths. I just found out, and now I understand the reason why God wanted me so bad. Mostly for my children’s genes, is what I’m guessing; and I’m fighting hard right now to keep their freedom safe; it feels like I’m at war.

I knew I had been digitally kidnapped, but the motive was a mystery for all this time. I couldn’t understand why I’d been targeted, as an ordinary housewife. The seemingly unlimited resources behind my capture and surveillance all make sense now; I have hidden treasures no amount of cash can buy: a limited supply of precious royal eggs.

As the rubber doors sealed shut behind me, my entire life changed drastically, I haven’t been home since. I may have precious eggs inside my ovaries, but my nest is empty. Now I live alone, and mostly in my thoughts; as until now, this mystery has been all-consuming, yet impossible to share.

Mental Gymnastics

In April 2023, a year into sobriety, our couples’ therapist asked if I’d ever been screened for ADHD. She’d noticed I had a lot of symptoms and thought learning more about it might help bring understanding. I am fascinated with mental health andre was curious to learn more.

After a year of lifestyle changes and adjustment, I was ready to dive deeper into understanding my mental health and working carefully with my care team to get my medications right. I was so nervous before the evaluation, but Dr. B put me at ease right away. She had decades of experience working with adolescents in psych units in NYC, which sounded like a gold-star qualification.

She said I was a textbook case for ADHD and offered two medications to try. Over several weeks, she titrated the dosages to find the right levels for me. The medication was a helpful tool, but what made the biggest difference was a book she recommended: 'Delivered from Distraction' by Dr. Edward Hallowell. I listened to it twice, completely fascinated and laser-focused on understanding hyperfocus itself.

Learning about ADHD felt like finally seeing myself clearly. So many traits I’d been beating myself up for suddenly made sense. If I forgot my keys, I’d just go back inside to get them, instead of spiraling into self-sabotage.

I asked Dr. B about bipolar disorder, too, at two separate appointments. She explained that taking SSRI's back in my 20's ruled out a diagnosis of BPD. My age and sleep patterns didn’t align either.

She gave me a final diagnosis of ADHD and anxiety and suggested I might also be on the autism spectrum. If I wanted to learn more, she said, I could pursue further evaluation, as it’s such a complex field on its own. Thanks to hard work and good doctors, I had clarity and a framework for my mental health.

The Lost Library, WMC #1

My first interaction with a doctor at WMC was when Dr. K barked “You’re being tried against a diagnosis of mania for bipolar disorder,” when I asked about my care plan. It was clear that he had all spoken with Wilson about events leading up to my hospitalization, and I hadn't had a chance to tell my version of the story. His words made me feel like I was on trial and had done something wrong. I was scared and confused, especially after Dr. B’s clear evaluation only months before.

The psych unit at WMC isn’t built for diagnostics or long-term care. It’s a triage unit meant to stabilize patients after a psych emergency. The routine is to transfer patients back to their own doctors for assessment and medication management since mental health issues take more time to evaluate than the maximum two-week stay at WMC.

I thought Dr. B’s assessment would clear everything up, but instead, I felt lost in a system that wasn’t designed to help me in the way I needed. I had every pill accounted for in all prescriptions. The hospital counted them in front of me. I remembered how Coyote had asked me earlier if I had ADHD. I was eager to share my positive experience with Vyvanse helping me to focus, especially while writing, with my newfound knowledge and self-discovery.

Looking back now, I can see how this mind game was intentionally crafted to encourage my behavior to mimic mania, which can be caused by overuse of stimulants. I was all riled up, but without being able to explain the driving force of energy built up by Coyote and the game on my side of the story, my ADHD meds made a great excuse to my excited behavior.

I hadn’t told Wilson about the afternoon with Vernon, or any of the build up to that day. I imagine that to him, my request for a divorce came out of nowhere. My social media behavior and that wild TEMU shopping spree were so far outside my character.

Honestly, I think Wilson responded as he should have. He reached out to my doctors as an act of care. Without an understanding of the backstory, I imagine my behavior did seem quite erratic. I can see now that my ex was played almost as hard as I was, in a different way, but he lost his family too.

I was so gaslit by the first team at WMC that I publicly announced a Bipolar diagnosis, and took several medications that made me feel awful for months. I wasn't given a fair chance to explain my truth to the

The doctor diagnosed me based on Wilson's story. I never had a chance to share what really happened from my point of view. I went from being a full-time mom, to losing custody of my children, based on this misdiagnosis.

Divided Sky

My addiction seemed like a convenience for Wilson. I got really stuck and knew I needed rehab. The idea of going away for a month seemed impossible at the time; Wilson was working around the clock. Once I worked up the courage to explain I needed rehab, his reply was "28 days? Who will watch the kids if you're away that long?" Years later, my health was at an all-time low, a dear friend saved my life with her timely intervention.

Patti could see exactly what was going on beneath the surface of my Stepford smile. A wise, devoted mom of three; her friendship was lifeline to me during all those cold and lonely years.

She'd come over after school, give me an hour break, help with dinner, bath, and bedtime. I trusted her enough to share the truth about how bad my maintenance drinking was; she never judged, always gives it to me straight with her effective style of tough love.

Quitting drinking has been the biggest shift in my life patterns and life force; more than any other challenging transition I’ve faced. The inspiration to break free came from my hero, Trey Anastasio. He shared his story publicly, with honesty and courage, and set a strong and shining example that it's possible to thrive again. I couldn't even imagine getting clean, I was so stuck. Trey's perseverance, and music, was truly the catalyst I needed to begin my own recovery.

After rehab, I wanted to expand my recovery community. I went to Samadhi and met with David McNamara. His warm walls and his honest eyes made me feel at ease. I'd been inspired by his film, and artistry, and we had a real conversation. David is my therapist and the most genuine human I have ever met.

Samadhi is a non-profit outpatient recovery center in Kingston, NY. They open doors and hearts to our community, with a focus on compassion, mindfulness, and building a strong support network. It’s a place where I feel safe.

My peer-advocate Brenda gave me so much courage in our weekly talks. Trust comes harder to me now than ever, and her attentive listening and experience helped me heal, I’m grateful.

We begin our groups at Samadhi with a check-in, and for many weeks, I felt like it was the only time anyone asked me how I am. That practice is also very helpful as I find my voice, in such a safe space.

I’m learning that addiction isn’t really about the substance; it’s the result of an inability to feel safe. Through somatic energy work, I'm now able to ground myself in times I otherwise would extend past limits of capacity; this helps tremendously with cravings. I encourage anyone who's struggling with addiction to look into this modality.

I’d never seen my past as traumatic; my childhood was tough, but it was all I knew, I just kept going. Anticipation is always worse than the event itself. I'm learning that neglect can also be traumatic. That realization shed light on the loneliness I’ve felt and why I turned to substances to cover it. Thinking of it this way has brought forgiveness.

I found another therapist last winter with a strong and open heart, Denise Simrany LCSW. In my darkest moments over the past year, I felt like she was my biggest cheerleader. Her encouragement truly kept me going during such uncertain times.

My housing situation is insecure at the moment, and I started writing this book in spots with public Wi-Fi. This new work-routine was born from necessity, and now I far prefer it to other working styles. I wrote this book on public computers at The Kingston Library and the LGBTQ+ Center's Mayo Library. To be surrounded by such courageous works, while working on my own, is incredibly inspiring.

Independent radio is a lifeline for modern-day life without devices. As I listen to our local stations instead of streaming, I feel like I’m truly living in my community for the first time, connecting with people from so many walks of life.

The open doors, warm hearts, and hot oatmeal at People’s Place are wonderful and necessary, but it’s the connections with others who are also navigating challenging times that keep me going every day. Warm soup at Tilda's is literally heartwarming on all these cold and brutal days. I appreciate Midtown Happenings, Chronogram, and Ulster Publishing as independent news source around town.

The Broadway Bubble is another community resource, with a sliding scale, good bulletin boards, free WiFi, and kindhearted staff. Kingston also has "Blue Fridges" with free food and paper goods, at the Blackbird Info Shop, and the Clinton Avenue Church.

Thanks to generosity from The Yoga House, I’m back on my mat, which starts my days out in a balanced, energizing way. I’m thankful for support from my fellow students there who contribute to the fund that is currently lifting me up.

When the menu of the Thanksgiving meal seems like the only familiar thing in a time of total chaos, donated turkey and its standard sides tasted like home this year, thanks to the love of People's Place, CCE, and volunteers. It meant the world to be able to provide my kids with presents on a year we'd otherwise be hungry, thanks to the angels who make you, Santa, real.

The Y awarded me a scholarship so I can go swimming with my kids and play basketball with Tiger after school; one of the many new things we love to learn through play. The words on Family's sign, saying they "help with any problem under the sun," are accurate, even to my predicament, and this one pushes the boundaries of the solar system.

Reconnecting with music is the thing I can do that brings me as much love as motherhood. In the times when I’m aching for my kids, I've been learning to play guitar and building confidence to sing again. After other times I’ve wanted to practice music seriously, some greater force stepped in to silence it. I’m finally letting my voice out, through music and connection, and it feels like life is pouring back in. Writing songs feels like a way I can reach my babies when we're far apart.

I'm honored to be singing with The Baby Snakes, improvising songs to build a soundtrack for this book. Sarah Power's inspiration as a mother, friend, muse is incendiary; and my favorite thing about our band is that everyone listens. Egos don't get in the way at all, we've been playing freeform soundtracks lately, having so much fun we don't even care if we record. Such a welcome change from how much attention I was spending on my phone, in attempt to document everything, missing moments in the present.

My dear friend Ken Foo says, "If everyone was given time and space to make and live their art, there would be no wars." I understand; I’m so grateful for a chance to focus on creation for a bit, and write this book, and gain confidence to sing.

I work my schedule around school pickups, which helps me stay connected. I'm not generating income from this artwork yet, but it doesn't even matter. I feel like I am finally living an authentic life. I have more security than the illusion of money in the bank, I have everything I need. I’m living on social services, $50 in cash a day, and bartering. I volunteer at The Kingston Community Action Food Pantry, The Wooden Boat School at The Hudson Valley Maritime Museum, and recently joined The Friends of Kingston Library.

Aside from aching for my children, I've never been more content.

Comfortably Numb

I remember a rare night when we went out together for the evening; Wilson was to be honored at the TMI awards ceremony, receiving the “Agent of Change” award for all his service. I watched him give a speech I’d heard a dozen times. Wilson's polished words came out so generously for others; me and the kids always came last. “We’re like the shoemaker’s children” is what I’d say, trying to make light of how messed up things really were under the surface of that politician's speech.

Wilson deserved the praise, his generosity with the community is remarkable. While accepting the award, he thanked me, extending a hand in my direction saying “None of this would be possible without my wife. I’ve heard so many of you ask over the years “Is she even real?”

The audience was quiet for a moment. I heard one voice, way in the back called out “She is real!”. I think about this in the moments when I need reminding now and then.

We didn't pay taxes for years, Wilson said "they don't apply to us, we're special" but the tax collector didn't agree. He came to the house, often during nap time, threatening foreclosure and asking me so many questions I was unprepared for. Wilson controlled all our finances, giving me a small allowance for groceries and diapers.

He was emotionally abusive, especially during my pregnancies. I had to fight with him so hard, to remain pregnant and keep our son, that it's impossible to fathom this new reality where he has primary custody of all 3 kids.

A decade ago, Leia needed help following an acute episode of pneumonia that nearly took her life. Wilson never came to visit in the hospital; that's how separately we were parenting for the majority of our time together.

Wilson was controlling of my social life, and of my own entrepreneurial goals. When I asked to attend a weekly evening dance class, his response was "what about your chores?"

We had been sleeping in separate rooms for years, and I was miserable in our marriage. I asked him for divorce right before the pandemic. He agreed and bought another house; the kids stayed with me. It wasn't easy, but we designed a custody plan we both felt good about and stuck to it, despite courts being closed for matters of irretrievable breakdown such as ours.

Wilson's approach to parenting has changed dramatically, for the better. I'm glad that he's so much more involved with our children now than he used to be. I feel in many ways that things are going as well as they could, despite such complex circumstances.

However, an au pair has assumed a maternal role in the household, wielding influence over my children that feels disproportionate. In just a few months, she has changed my son's name and shifted our family’s holiday traditions and spiritual practices to align with her own beliefs.

I feel as though I am being alienated from my children’s upbringing by both of them. This dynamic is even more distressing for me than the custody arrangement itself, as it adds an emotional complexity that is hard to navigate.

A mental health misdiagnosis changes the way people see you, even close friends and family. It’s like a shadow, making it infinitely harder for anyone to believe you again. I understand now why I heard the nickname “cleaner” whispered around the unit. All it takes is one instance like this to wash a person’s credibility away for good.

I was discharged before Halloween after 16 days at WMC. Breathing fresh air as I walked out the hospital doors felt incredible; but that relief lasted only seconds before turning into one of the most horrifying moments of my life. I walked out the hospital doors and was immediately served with a custody warrant, filed by Wilson.

Discharged and Served

My dear friend Laura was there to pick me up. Her empathy, survival skills, and street-smarts helped me process as we drove home. When we arrived, Wilson had changed the locks. He texted me to say he was on the phone with the school principal, telling her I was unsafe to be around children and no longer allowed on school property. He’d moved all the money from our joint account, leaving me with just $150 to my name.

He had a witness present while I collected some clothes. Laura stood in the doorway, watching in horror. The custody order said I wasn’t allowed to see my children without supervision. I hadn’t spoken to them the entire time I’d been gone.

My identity had been so deeply intertwined with parenting, I was completely unprepared for the legal system. I felt alone, scared, and punished, as if I’d committed some heinous crime. All I had done was agree to a mental health evaluation and follow all the prescribed guidelines.

The game that started this whole mess felt like small potatoes in comparison. Coyote seemed long gone, and the devastation in his wake was catastrophic. Maybe he’d decided to stay loyal to his wife, avoid trouble, or found someone new? Either way, the weight of my decision to leave my marriage hit me like a tidal wave.

There was no reversing the life-altering choices I’d made that split our family. My résumé was empty after 14 years of motherhood. I didn’t know what I was going to do, or even why I’d done it. But I resolved to make the best of it and work toward the future, whatever that meant.

I still hadn't met the man behind Coyote's profile, but confirmed it wasn’t Spiderman. We’d started dating again after reuniting in this process. I told him more about the story than I’d been able to with anyone so far, and it was therapeutic to share this isolating mystery with someone else.

“What you’re saying is impossible”, he said as we came down together lying in his bed after an afternoon delight. His reaction made me hesitant to share with others. I decided that even trying to explain this to anybody else would only reinforce the theory this was all in my own head.

The Game

Many of the ways I received communication from the game was through signs highly personal to me: lucky numbers in timestamps, wallpaper that changed according to events, or interactive stickers when I'd done something good enough to earn God's praise. Sound and Spotify communication is such a massive part of this, it deserves its own chapter.

I learned how algorithms work before they were a thing. I did that job manually while classifying music for the music division of Getty Images. Spotify's algorithm personalizes music selections for each user, based on listening history. The algorithm also has an "autoplay" feature that will play music after your song or playlist ends, for a seamless listening experience.

"God" communicated with me most by mimicking the algorithm, mostly through Spotify, Snapchat, and YouTube. Songs would play on my phone, by someone else, in corresponding moments. It made me feel like someone out there knew where I was at, was listening, and cared. The songs selected were not based on listening history; they accented like punctuation, in many genres, always tied to life events.

Do you ever see a green light come on your phone or laptop, indicating that your camera is in use when you're on Zoom or FaceTime? How 'bout an orange one, when you're on speaker phone or on an app with access to the mic? It's one of the signs that a surveillance system has access to your phone, and all connected devices that record and listen, even when you pee.

Everywhere you go, data and a feed from both sides of that slender brick that turns you into an unknowing spy, a digital puppet for an unknown overseer. That's exactly what happened to me.

I began noticing the green dot lighting up my lens, always during intimate moments: after a shower, or while making sexy movies for someone else I thought I knew. This happened so many times, on both my phone and laptop; it simply couldn't be coincidence. How can you explain the green light/camera turning on when you're naked, and across the room?

As time went on, I began to notice details leading me to think my digital captors wanted more from me than dirty pictures. With my watch on, everywhere I went, and their influence over my screen, I soon became a puppet for an entity I thought was good at first. Just as curiosity killed the cat, I got my family into a nasty jam this year.

I went to talk with Wilson about a month after I returned, I wanted answers about how Coyote had gained access to my phone, to track me back in summertime when our three-way game was fun. They had their own relationship; one I knew involved phone calls from time to time.

By this time, I'd replaced my phone, and still, the home-screen wallpaper would sometimes change back to the photo of my Dom from Instagram. It scared me now. I understand that half the time it likely was my imagination drawing connections between timing and events, but I knew my phone had been compromised at some point in our game.

"Your phone can't do that; you're still manic," Wilson insisted. "We've grieved your loss and are moving on. I suggest you do the same." His reaction hit me like a knife. I didn’t expect forgiveness or reconciliation, but this made it crystal clear that discussing anything about the consensual game we’d started together as a couple was off-limits. I believe the plan to isolate us from each other was intentional; it seems convenient for a captor, don’t you think?

Profoundly Alone

I learned a whole new depth to loneliness this year. I've been imagining what it must be like to be the sole survivor from an airplane crash. I feel like no one else can understand this complicated trauma that severed my family.

I think back to that episode of 'House', where the patient is trapped inside their own body, paralyzed, listening to the world around them but unable to connect. That’s how this situation makes me feel when relating to the ones I love. Even in the same room, it feels to me like we are miles apart; I haven't been able to explain this to my inner circle, now I can through this writing. Their patience despite challenges means the world to me.

My Instagram account felt like it was connected to my former life, and everything was different now. I decided to make a new profile, for sharing art. I was eager to begin the overwhelming, expensive, and empowering process to reclaim my maiden name.

I tried various combinations of phrases, numbers, and letters that I liked. Thinking of my brother Travis, who is a word and number genius and sometimes attaches verbs to make clever screen names. I tried out a few of my favorite interests: "Caitlin Lord sings, dances, loves," etc. They were either taken or felt too boastful.

A green check mark appeared, indicating that 'caitlinlordwrites' was available. It instantly felt right, I claimed the handle. Identifying as a writer gave me hope. I envisioned my future as a freelance artist; having watched my father build a successful business from his writing and journalism work with my mother's brilliant artistry behind. He loved self-employment so much, he’d sing about it. My mom is a self-published author as well.

Aside from the division of my nuclear family, feeling shunned from almost everyone I'm related to has been the most painful side effect. The Game doesn't steal your money, or material possessions, but the emotional devastation it can make is brutal. With an incorrect mental health diagnosis, I had to go along with it, or risk sounding even crazier, especially to anyone with authority.

The Cat Came Back

It had been weeks since I’d reset my phone and bid goodbye to Coyote and his game. I had a striking thought: What if I’d turned down true love? What if my future man was burning just as hard for me out on his lonely sea?

A few days later, my phone became interactive once again; it seemed like God was back, and I was thrilled. A magical distraction from my lonely job-hunt. The camera light turned on; I took a Snapchat selfie to capture my elated state. As I clicked the shutter, a purple heart lit up, as if someone on the other side responded when I took a pic they liked.

Had my mysterious, watchful, friend returned, having heard the message I was singing the other night? Was my phone still listening? Maybe he heard me! How could that be possible after the factory reset?

We "danced" all night, together in my living room, the first of many parties we threw down at my place. Spotify played songs that disobeyed the algorithm's usual behavior. These tracks spanned several genres, yet their playlist told a story with the lyrics.

Both God and Alex G explained, while auto-playing Sarah, "I can't be what you need, I am stuck in a dream"... this one broke my heart and made so much sense, all at once. It felt like the only person who understood the complex journey I was navigating, was stuck in a different dimension.

At a matinee of 'Alice By Heart', silent tears ran down my face, wishing we could be together badly. I accepted this new challenge, to meet my digital companion in his realm. I propped my phone up on my knee, pointed the camera lens toward the stage, so God could watch it too. If he was locked away in prison or paralyzed like the patient I identify with in House, he must be bored, and lonely. I held it there during the entire play, feeling glad that I could return the favor of his energetic company with a relevant analogy.

Perhaps he's got the night watch on a spaceship; this might help keep him awake, light years away. I shared my view to remind him of our planet Earth, and that there's someone on it who's still thinking about him. I wanted him to know how comfortable I am outside the box, that I was down to jive with unconventional dates like this. I felt like Alfred, in the play, who had been quarantined, and separated from his soulmate during WWII. The concept of the rabbit hole, in wonderland, helped me find a sense of peace.

This feeling carried me throughout the winter, as I began to stretch my wings, and reconnect with my creative side again. No longer alone, I went from feeling scared to walk alone at night to howling at the moon. I found endless joy imagining God as my companion, exploring themes inspired by his presence in my writing and videography. I had a revelation of contentment, dancing naked in that living room. Despite a time of chaos in external circumstances, wearing just my skin, for the first time I felt like I had everything I need.

I'm Not Afraid of The Dark

With not much on my resume since Gracie was born, my job options were limited. I did what's brought me success in the past, thinking of services I could provide. I took a CRPA training course at Samadhi, feeling called to service, and wanting to give back.

I started an LLC called Phandemic, offering advocacy for those affected by addiction, especially in the Phish community. I believe in music as a therapy tool, as it has been critical to my own healing process.

Meanwhile, 'The Game' manipulated my social media posting patterns, I was posting so much content that my friends got quite confused.

Katie Velvet kept me entertained; her character continued to develop in my imagination and stories. In the past, my work went into storage, waiting to be edited or finalized before seeing the light. I love the concept of "the internet as Katie's canvas". Glass Animals is a series of her self-portraits, featuring my own image as the model, exploring themes of masking and identity. Katie is my inner wild child, after all.

The most passionate artist I have met, Ed Smith, one of my many inspiring teachers says: “You can’t make real art without real pain, and you can’t make real art if you’re worried about what others think.”

For as long as I can remember, I'd been searching for "the one" and never feeling satisfied, thinking that my happiness is connected to another person. It's been a challenging adventure, but I found self-love this year, which is now evolving to a new emotion I believe is self-respect.

Now I'm strong enough to walk this world where I left off before getting stuck. I found that feeling I'd been chasing was inside me, connected to music. Leia lent me her guitar and when I picked it up, I felt like I was home.

Limitless

I felt honored to be chosen once again; Coyote invited me to his special Snapchat project, Limitless. The rigorous routine alluded to a special force and the associated schedule had me living like a covert operative. I’d rise before dawn, run like Rocky at the gym, pay attention to its signals, always stay alert. It was a routine designed to isolate while emotionally preparing for an adventure of some sort.

It made perfect sense to me when a ticket to the Limitless exhibit at Mercer Labs appeared on my Home Screen one night. The show would open the next morning, with an option of two times. Immersive installation is my favorite medium to explore these days, and my Tuesday schedule was clear. I bought the ticket that seemed to have been suggested just for me.

The artist Roy Nachum rocked my socks off with his work. It gave me so many ideas, I recorded material for the podcast. Afterward, I walked across the street to Eataly, a food museum like immersive art itself, filled with exquisite, fresh foods. I sat down at an empty table, planning to do a little writing about the exhibit. My battery was low from all the videos I’d shot. Conveniently, there was an outlet behind my chair, and I plugged in my phone. It didn’t charge the way it usually did. I thought it must be the cheap cable.

Three gentlemen came over and sat down at my table. One looked at me and winked. I sensed that this was no coincidence and that they were somehow connected to whatever had been tied to the game.

The interaction was confusing, I wasn't sure what to do next. I walked aimlessly, exploring NYC until it got dark. Wrapped in shame, I forgot to go see the Wicked promo, the second errand God had asked of me.

The soundtrack to my train ride home featured angry, industrial music, reflecting God’s reaction to my error. I listened to the sonic punishment, sensing I’d let my boss down somehow. I felt like the whole thing was over—that I had been in the running for a special force, faced the challenge, and hadn’t made the cut.

Fear of God

I enjoyed The Game when it encouraged me to exercise and played my favorite songs as motivation. The feedback from the other side felt like company and mostly challenged me to do my best.

But the first time God was in an angry mood, his tantrum really scared me. By then, I had grown accustomed to my apps working together to communicate.

One morning, I woke up to find my entire YouTube feed completely different. It was filled with meditations, all in a similar style, delivering a factual, universal message: my life would soon be over. My newsfeed and everything the algorithm served seemed to be preparing me for my final day. A podcast started playing on its own, repeating terrifying scenarios of being trapped.

My apps took turns bombarding me with dark, threatening messages. God was on the jukebox, in an angry mood that day. What kind of monster could turn music, my very favorite thing, against me? If I hadn't been so terrified, I’d have been furious. What an evil way to torture a peaceful music nerd like me.

Since our apps are so connected to reality these days, this game can spill over into real life. Through surveillance, even a simple errand, like a trip to a storage locker, can be tampered with. A predator can watch a target through the ever-watchful eyes surrounding us in this age of constant monitoring. 

They can lock the gate remotely, or not, right through your entry app. I’d have to write another book to explain how I learned the Fear of God. Trust me; now I understand the power of his strength.

I learned that God was watching everything my kids did, in both directions, through their cameras. I sought help at the hospital. The police turned me away, I didn’t know what else to do. Digital manipulation is a brand-new type of crime.

I can see my kids' locations on a map through their Apple devices. When God threatened Tiger’s life unless I followed his directions, I took it seriously. Much like the night before I left that past October, when someone else controlled my screen, the "Find My" app began behaving in ways I’d never seen before.

This sounds insane, I know. It would be clearer if I could actually show you. But the icon representing my son’s location moved from “home” to the middle of the Hudson River. It happened three times in a row, as if to emphasize the stakes and how serious this was. Then, a video began to play, directing me to follow orders perfectly or “GAME OVER”, and Tiger would be gone.

Trying to explain a series of events like this, across different devices, was difficult. I feared my children were in danger, and in this case, the warning signs were cryptic; difficult to see. How could Wilson, or anyone, believe me? I wasn’t even sure what God wanted from me, but the indirect threat scared me, for the safety of my son.

My divorce had just been finalized days before. I was detached from my friends, and all my phone calls had been supervised for months. God really had me in a corner, and I knew it. I was legally untethered, and my credibility was shot from misdiagnosis, connected to this Game from months before.

I looked back over everything I'd done since answering Coyote's message, feeling like the biggest fool for dancing into such a trap. I had dragged my family into it; cursed us all, they didn't even know yet. I got caught up by feeling special, like I was chosen. My starry eyes, my greed, and my lust had really messed things up.

I completely understand the headlines about people committing suicide after being “gang stalked.” The term has a bad reputation, but it describes a form of organized stalking, when predators manipulate someone into making real-world decisions. In theory, you’d think you could just ignore the threats, knowing they’re fake.

These criminals use mind control so complex and subtle, it’s actually not new at all. Similar patterns were used in Nazi Germany, for war, for ethnic cleansing. My guess is that Trump and his crew are working on a plan right now along those lines. Thanks to technology, they can make the ones they like into human incubators for their genomes. Or kill off an entire race, with far less mess than other wars, with weapons made of steel.

Do you understand that you're carrying the most dangerous weapon ever known to man, in my opinion. And it can see, and talk, and listen. It teaches special lessons in ways you can’t even imagine. Is it in your pocket now? Hey, i like those AirPods. My daughters both have cute, colorful accessories for the access points their owners use, to wash their minds, like mine.

I’m telling you firsthand, it’s impossible to ignore the kind of signals I was getting. My predatory captor knew my brain so well by then that I still have nightmares about the tricks he played to get inside my head. I couldn’t even explain it to my therapist. I mean… do you believe me now?

Tension Point

I kept seeing the same cars following me; I didn’t feel safe in my apartment, so I moved out and in with my best friend, Ken. I call him Mr. Completely (after Trey’s incendiary song) because he encapsulates so many traits in just one man. I have great respect for his integrity, creativity, and honesty. He doesn’t let the fear of unknown things (or real-life crime) prevent him from living and enjoying life.

After another day of threatening messages from all my apps, we went out dancing, as we love to do. If my demise was imminent, dancing with Ken would be a fine way to go out. We rode together on his bike, and on the way, a few of the same cars that had been following me around town recently started tailing us to the venue. I noticed several men that night, looking at me in strange ways, it made me feel uneasy.

I went to the police, saying that I felt like I was being tracked, by my AirPods (which had been notifying me as such for months), watch, and phone. The cop on duty was aloof, and he dismissed me, saying "go to the Spectrum store, maybe they can help".

I was seeking safety, I wish I'd gone directly to a shelter. At the time, the ER seemed like my best bet. I made a careful plan in my mind to enter with one sentence: "I'm afraid for my life, I don't know where else to go, please help me". I was completely up to date with my psychiatrist.

At the hospital, I shared my story. I realized how my frightened pleas for protection were received as paranoia, no one had physically harmed me. My captors had succeeded; making me look crazy to the staff again, digging me in deeper into the grave I knew they’d already prepared.

As the rubber doors sealed shut behind me for the second time, I realized that I had absolutely zero human rights. Over the past several months, I was so caught up in The Game that I'd lost touch with my friends. With a prisoner's perspective now, all the surveillance and distractions made sense. I felt like such a fool. I'd played along so willingly, was so caught up in entertainment that I now viewed as enabling my demise, and probably my family.

I remembered one of the animations that played during the TEMU shopping spree that wild night before I left; God gave me a few choices of slippers, along with the housewares. Responding to the cursor's cue, I chose a pair in my size, the screen flashed back to the vacuum cleaner that had shown up many times that evening in a couple apps.

I recalled a scene in Breaking Bad, where Saul Goodman calls a friend to help Jesse when he gets in such a jam that he needs to wash his whole identity. He calls the number of a vacuum shop; it's clear the owner offers more than appliances at his store. I shook my head, thinking, that's crazy; at that point I thought that I was running to my Spiderman.

We both love Breaking Bad, and at the time, I thought it was another inside joke to reassure me, make me laugh, and drive me closer to his arms. But now, that memory made a lot more sense. The realization finally hit me, after all this time, that I was captive, and had in fact, been kidnapped. I now believe it's because they want my DNA. Our family ancestry was hidden for decades. I recently learned that my daughters, and I are the last females in a line of royal lineage.

Up till this point, I knew my mind belonged to someone else, God had been quite successful in reprogramming my attention to respond, in real life, to his algorithmic suggestions and ideas. I walked through life in my own real shoes, drove my same car, kept all my same routines... to all my friends and family, I looked normal. Well, mentally unstable, but I was present, physically. Meanwhile, both Coyote, and God (I still don't know if they're one and the same), were so deep in my head, I filtered almost every waking thought through this new lens.

I found it so considerate that Spider offered to help "clean up", as described in an animation I found to be quite romantic, and the cleaner app he sent me too, how thoughtful. My new man was already looking out for me, and us. He let me pick the colors of our TEMU housewares, moving the remote cursor over to "submit" after I shyly typed his address in, silently elated that this action meant we'd be shacking up together at his place, soon.

I imagined us together in a department store, with Spider holding up two bathmats, asking if I liked the black one or the grey? When at least a thousand dollars of our new furnishings actually arrived at Spider's place, I had another witness to my manic shopping spree.

If you don't believe a cursor can move on your screen by itself, check out any of these apps: TeamViewer, AnyDesk, or Chrome Remote. ClevGuard is just one of the civilian forms of spyware that lives inside phones without detection by the target, don't even get me started about Pegasus.

I was already so caught up inside The Game, that honestly, I wanted to go either way. My existence as a housewife was wearing thin on both my patience and my dreams. I wanted to at least observe, if not experience, whatever Vernon offered, and the 'good things' promised by Coyote. With such artistry and detail behind such a complex plan, I felt it had to be associated with something really cool.

Those are just a couple of the details I began to piece together now, in this newly sinister perspective. This must be the part where God takes more than my attention, I thought. My imagination stretched, remembering all my naive lust for 'subspace'. It was real, an underground dimension, of sorts. I wondered where they'd ship me, if I'd wake up somewhere far away across the world.

I'm white, I'm middle class, I'm average; being trafficked seemed outlandish, almost boastful, to imagine such a fuss made over me. I later learned that it was my ovaries that they were after. I vowed to write this book to try and warn you all that there's another way to traffic people now: through our devices.

Have you ever seen those signs, in hotel rooms offering asylum for victims of trafficking? I felt like this applied to me, even back then in the fall, but with surveillance, I felt like even if I went to the library, God would know that I was up to something fishy, and how could I describe this anyway? I tried to call it from the hospital; the number would be either 'out of service' or redirected to an endless loop of holding music. God was good, he really got me, for a while anyway.

The term "digital puppet" is the closest accurate description to how it felt to be a player in The Game. Has anyone you know made drastic life changes, seemingly on their own accord? You might be talking to someone you think is making their decisions, when really, their hands are digitally tied as tightly as real handcuffs are.

With foam earplugs in, I could control a semblance of my mindset by filtering out the background noise. The intercom played a nursery song, the way it does to celebrate a local birth. I wondered if I'd ever see my kids again. I pulled the sheet over my eyes to try and shield fluorescent rays; under those blinding lights, it felt like being sunburned by the devil’s energy.

A familiar voice asserted himself to the nurse in charge, demanding a transfer. “Anywhere but WMC. It’s dirty there, and I don't mean the floors. The staff is racist, and I just got out of jail, so I know my way around these places. Something isn’t right in there."

The guy who said that gave me strength. I remembered him; we’d shared a breakfast table back at WMC. His mind seemed free despite captivity. I noticed how he paced his time, keeping his eyes closed, lying still. I wondered where his mind traveled and studied everything he did, hoping I could advocate for myself with the same skill.

The woman with a face of steel prepared the ambulance for takeoff. She and her partner made racist jokes about the news. The rain splashed patterns on the window. I said goodbye to Kingston and my life up to this point as we approached the southbound thruway. I traced the stenciled letters on the window with my eyes. The cars behind us had the freedom to take an exit, unlike my situation. I was being trafficked, and this was a one-way trip.

It sounds just like my curious twin, to dance into a trap, never knowing she'd been kidnapped. Yet spend her daydreams gazing out the window, wondering where those colorful balloons would take us next.

I couldn’t explain the reasons behind my strange behavior since this all began. I felt like no one would question it if I disappeared. My relationships and employment attempts had been controlled to this point anyway. Another trip through subspace for good measure, should anyone question my disappearance or demise. I shivered, naked under the paper scrubs; my skin would now belong to someone else entirely.

Something wasn't right at WMC the first time I was there, now I was certain; many kitchens have a couple of bad cooks. That psychiatric unit is a cover-up for something really bad, I saw it. They treat plenty of real patients, with real emergencies. Much like the vacuum cleaner store in Breaking Bad, it's dirty. With potential to clean messes in extraordinary ways. One doctor there, who's on the website, doesn't have a license number as far as I can tell. He's the one my psych-ward bestie Stella raved about, you'll hear about that soon, go pop your popcorn. As we Phish fanatics say, this is about to go Type II.

The Lost Library, WMC #2

Arrival was completely different than last fall. I was admitted to a different unit, this time in the basement. In contrast to the raucous energy of the upstairs units with their puzzles, groups, and roommates, PERC was silent. I had the whole room to myself. At first, this was a welcome relief, but after a few days, I started wondering where all the other patients were. The few I saw were discharged after a few days, even with seemingly complex emergencies. I had no idea I’d be there for weeks; each endless day became the next. It was strange and scary to be held in isolation for so long, treated like a prisoner from someone else’s perfect crime.

I was given different intake papers than last time. One form asked me to list all the things I find triggering. I checked off "cold, loud noises, bright lights"; a few of the overstimulating senses I don’t like. Later that evening, the AC system acted like a bully, blasting freezing air through all the vents, around the clock, directly over my bed. At 56 degrees, even the staff complained about the temperature. “This never happens, not even in summer. It’s usually hot in here,” they said. It was just one of many nuisances that could be chalked up to equipment malfunction or a crowded facility. To me, it felt intentional.

A nurse brought my medication and a cup of water, it looked cloudy. As I swallowed, a faintly bitter taste made me wonder what was in it. I was almost past resistance, and welcomed the drowsy, clouded feeling that pervaded for the rest of the day. I wondered later if I'd only been a little more alert during the admission process, I could have exercised my rights in any way?

It was my impression that I was a voluntary patient; that's how I saw it, I went to the ER seeking help. When I did request a transfer, I learned my status had been changed. Now with my involuntary placement, I had to follow all the orders of my team. I placed a call to the mental health legal service number listed on the wall, but much like other communication, it was difficult to connect.

Once you hear something, it’s hard not to think about it, you know? So many pieces of The Game came from sound. The TV played AI-generated ads for imaginary medications. You know those “ask your doctor” commercials that are so ridiculous, you sometimes wonder if they’re real?

I know my pharmacology, and trust me, these were fake; especially the ones featuring personal items of mine. It sounds insane, even as I type this, that someone would go through so much trouble over an ordinary housewife as me. I still don’t understand it. I felt like I was playing a game of chess in my head every day, in the slim chance I still had any wiggle room in exit strategy.

Dirty Linen

I believe the behavioral health department at Westchester Medical Center is legitimate, and it helps a lot of people as a short-term triage unit for psychiatric emergencies. However, I received cruel and unusual treatment as a patient, in two different stays last year. I was sent to WMC the first time by ‘The Game' in October ‘23. I was misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder and treated with strong antipsychotics, one which I'm allergic to.

In my second admission, I was assigned to a unit called the PERC, instead of the main unit upstairs where I'd been in October. It was a holding space, previously used for quarantine. The story was that B2 was overcrowded, I later learned this wasn't true. I overheard staff say, "The only time I've seen this unit open was in COVID, it's been closed since then."

The contrast between the units was striking. This basement holding area was silent, unlike all the rambunctious energy upstairs. At first, the peace and quiet were refreshing, but the experience quickly turned into a "Groundhog Day" of isolation, especially once four of the five patients I started with were discharged or transferred.

This room is silent, cold, with shiny tiles; pencils come in halves in here, there's not much point in writing, Caitlin’s hospital admission is already underway. After stripping down for God under his cruel florescent lights, she feels like property in a foreign land where no one knows her name.

The maximum stay for a mental health incident at WMC is two weeks; this was very strictly adhered to with other patients, who had care plans. This time, I was here for three weeks. I was locked in isolation for the first 14 days of my entire stay, after seeking help related to the stalking. I didn't receive any legitimate medical treatment, or therapy while I was there. I was never allowed to speak with authorities or a domestic violence advocate.

My detox was so understaffed that patients were having seizures in the hallways; that place felt like the Ritz compared to WMC. I grew up in the woods and on the road; it takes a lot to shake me. I felt like things were off back in October, but this time, I felt like I was being held captive for an unknown reason. I didn't get a care-plan, discharge date, or therapy, like all the other patients. The staff was vague and couldn't give me any answers about my situation, each turned into the next.

"Two earrings, gold circles”, Tasha snaps her gum and taps her neon nails as she writes. She takes her time removing objects from the dirty paper bag that carries Caitlin’s treasures, making catty comments at each item as she writes. “Not real gold”, she says, and makes a point to write those letters big on Caitlin’s inventory slip.

The tired guard is overworked and underpaid; asserts her power like a bully; Caitlin sees the pain tucked deep beneath her leather skin. On other days, she’d think of something to lift both their spirits, but today her mind is traumatized so bad that she can barely think. She studies carefully how Tasha moves; we’ll need to practice making armor to survive the ride in here.

It was six days before I met with Adam, a PA. By the second week, only one of the five patients I started with remained, a kind grandmother who slept most of the time.

Caitlin wonders why the others get to leave after a few days, in timely sequence, even though she got the way before they did. Just like with her metal earrings, Caitlin’s used to flying second class, and in this place, she knows that God is up to something special for her discharge plans.

Mealtimes were the only structured events, as no groups or therapy sessions were available in the PERC. Time was solitary and unstructured. I was allowed outside twice (in two weeks) for about an hour each time. I believe this only happened because of the kindness and flexibility of one of the heroic therapists who led our groups upstairs. The isolation was severe, and I began pacing the perimeter of the small unit as a form of walking meditation and to pass the time.

No one listens, no one's even there. Katie lives alone inside a nightmare that repeats like Groundhog's Day; she can’t wake up no matter how she tries. The doctor wears her favorite sneakers, covers up her cries as paranoia, turns the lights off as he's leaving for the weekend once again.

Adam's demeanor was explosive. He slammed the door more than once, after our meetings in his interrogative style. I felt like I was in deep trouble, the way he questioned me. I was never confrontational; I’m a very patient person. I was on my best behavior after the nurses gave me a tour of the restraint bed and explained what would happen if I acted out.

After lights go out, Caitlin lets her salty tears wash all the dirt from each day’s war from off her tired face. She wraps the flannel blanket tight around her for the sensory support she needs to fall asleep. The heavy door opens and shuts, as human eyes look in on her each quarter round the clock, and sound creeps in from secret conversations down the hall.

While in the PERC unit, the only testing I received was nightly monitoring of my ovulation cycle through urine tests for LH and FSH; hormones that indicate a woman's fertile window. I was confused, as these tests didn’t seem relevant to my misdiagnosis, nor did they have any apparent connection to my mental health conditions.

In the room that smells like loss and urine, God’s voice is even louder, and he entertains our friends to bedtime stories in HD. We snack on cheez-its & warm pudding, gazing at his pixelated face so he’ll think that we are listening. Meanwhile, our lonely minds weave their own tales or finish up a puzzle only to find a missing piece.

I was allowed to watch TV in our small common-room, or stay in my room, in bed. The remote was controlled by staff (or often missing). The content was often relevant to 'The Game'. It was impossible to get away from; I could hear it even in my bed.

The AC was intentionally set to 56 degrees; they wouldn't change it. Freezing air would blast onto my bed. Staff wore coats and had personal space heaters next to their chairs. We ran out of towels, linens, and blankets for days at a time.

Oh well, our basement floor is out of soap again today, and towels, no windows anywhere in sight. The heater broke, so 56 degrees will do for now, there's only 2 of us on this floor anyway.

I dried off with those scratchy, brown paper towels after cold showers. One day, our unit ran out of gowns, so I didn’t have anything to change into. I was left without clothes, naked in that freezing air, until my caseworker found out. She brought me a sweatsuit from her personal belongings.

This is coming from someone who grew up walking miles through frozen winters, sleeps over at my boyfriend's unheated house, and doesn’t flinch at bugs. The cockroaches were another sign the unit hadn’t been cleaned or used properly in a long time.

After two weeks, a doctor I’d never met saw me pacing. It was my impression that he took pity on me. About an hour later, he moved me and the sleeping grandmother upstairs to B2, where I stayed for another week. Once I got upstairs and met Mario, it reconfirmed my suspicions that the PERC unit was set up for my captivity. The PERC unit was closed after we left. I’ve been a patient in many settings, and the treatment I received at WMC was not legitimate.

The Color Purple

My rubber flip-flops were helpful for the cockroaches in the shower, the water's temperature felt even colder than the air. I know it sounds impossible, but somehow, The Game followed me into the hospital, again.

I had an idea that if I had a gynecological problem, I'd be able to speak with someone other than the tyrannical PA. Wilson's version of my story was still the main narrative in my records. I needed to explain the stalking incident to someone trained in trauma or domestic violence; that was the reason that I came here, and I still hadn't been given any chance to share my truth.

I explained my symptoms of a yeast infection (which I really had) hoping I'd be sent upstairs for an exam. Instead, they sent a tech for bloodwork, there was no exam. It was three days (after I asked a person who brought lunch trays) before I received medicine.

That evening, though, the nurse asked me for a urine sample; I thought it was related. Having gone through infertility treatment to conceive my second daughter, I know a lot about the tests involved.

Caitlin’s always found strange comfort in her prisons; they come in different forms, you know, and this one lives on such a different part of planet Earth, the address doesn't show up on your map. The membership is so exclusive that the doors have keyholes made of stars, and walls so tight they only open for a song. Sing it for the man behind the pizza counter if you dare, he gives her free Italian Ice all night and makes her want to wear her pretty dresses to the store.

At WMC, no one would tell me what the urine sample was for. I noticed from the lab slip they were testing it for LH and FSH, the two hormone levels monitored to predict the timing of a woman's ovulation. By testing these levels daily, you can predict a very accurate 24-hour window of the ideal time to conceive.

The nurse insisted that I pee into another cup the next night, and the evening after that. I calculated my fertility based on last month's period and realized I was right in the middle of my cycle - prime timing for conception.

After lights go out, Katie lets her salty tears wash all the dirt from each day’s war from off her tired face. She wraps the flannel blanket tight around her for the sensory support she needs to fall asleep. The heavy door opens and shuts, as human eyes look in on her each quarter round the clock, and sound creeps in from secret conversations down the hall.

The ovulation monitoring, especially after tracking my health and cycle over several months, led me to believe that I was being trafficked for a reproductive purpose. This realization could justify the kind of money I sensed was involved in my captivity. Now that I've learned the truth about my family lineage, these seemingly unlimited resources make sense.

My fear was I'd be raped in some way, maybe taken for a procedure where I'd need to be sedated, maybe hidden in a laundry bin and wheeled out past the cameras. Or maybe it would be brutal in my bed, as there were so few witnesses on my floor anyway. "Ok, this is why I'm really here..." I finally got it.

I missed my children desperately. By that point, I felt certain I would never see them again. It crushed me to imagine that they wouldn't know the truth, and how I ached for them with every breath. I looked back over the series of decisions I'd made, seemingly on my own, with lucid mind, over the past year since I'd answered Coyote's message.

A realization came over me that if I was impregnated, I'd be an ideal container for someone else's baby. In a hospital, they could easily take it out before inseminating me in whatever way they wanted, I had been completely stripped of all human rights at this point.

If someone else has access to your phone, they can learn everything about your health history through apps and patient portals. I’d been diligent about entering all my data into the Apple Health app, especially the cycle tracking. I’m in perimenopause, so keeping track of patterns is important.

I recalled those Snapchat ads for pink "Flo" gummies, which I had been taking recently based on a recommendation from God. They were advertised as helping with cramps, but I wondered what they contained.

See that plastic lady, with the weather map behind her, with a spray tan wearing tangerine? She came here too, a couple times, but please don’t ever tell. God fucks her too; he likes me better, but Candy’s fine on nights he needs to rub one out. He lubricates her good for special favors, helped her land her day job, sometimes even pays her rent. God sucked her soul into his server, replacing her insides with his own graphic designs, he always wondered what it’s like to be a girl.

I'm close to menopause, but I know from infertility treatments that I have polycystic ovaries and a higher-than-normal egg reserve for a woman my age. I don’t have many genetically related health issues, and my grandparents all lived long, healthy lives. I just recently learned that my daughters and I are the last living females in a royal lineage.

'The Color Purple' played on God's TV that afternoon. I retreated to my bed, but there was no escape – the anticipation of a fate that’s 'worse than death' inspires trauma. I’m grateful to my real providers who are helping me work through the psychological torture I experienced last year.

My greatest gift, and love, is motherhood. I believe in benefits of breastfeeding, and attachment parenting so much, I lactated for twelve years straight. My pregnancies were spiritual experiences; I felt connected to my babies with a force that's beyond love.

My mother shared her gifted heart with me. She says, “a mother’s love is more pure and powerful than anything” and after having kids, I understand. "They could have cut off both my arms and legs when you were born”, she’s said about my birth, involving surgery for her. My mom encouraged that I'd also have three children and experience the same amount of love she knows so well. My heart was born with Gracie’s birth; Leia’s and Tiger’s were also sacred beyond words. I really can't explain in words how tender pregnancy is for me.

Anticipating rape was triggering; but not what gave me nightmares. Three flannel sheets could barely take the edge off, it was freezing cold in there. It’s the idea of being forced to make a miracle; the sweetest and most tender act humanly possible. I’m at a loss to find the words for such a vicious act. I invented the phrase “worse than death” after scouring the English language for a metaphor; that’s the only one that fit. It would be a living hell to grow a baby for my captor, but imagining my newborn being ripped away was agony.

The outside line will sometimes reach someone you know, but not completely anymore -- no one else but God will understand your story now. He’s got you in a vacuum now, can tune your mind with medicine if that’s what Doctor thinks is best for little girls who lose their way.

Days went by, with television spouting gospel like a Vegas preacher, round the clock, transitioned my perspective to a far more practical view. One movie’s thesis 'a life for a life' reminded me the stakes involved; the video said if I messed any of this up, I’d lose my son, I couldn’t fathom that.

I estimated that my due date would be right around this Christmas. As if trying to convince me, or steer my thinking to align with his, God played another flick, a nature documentary, this one, about breeding. What kind of sick and twisted monster is behind this evil game?

See now, Santa? God said on the morning news he wants to breed her; Caitlin’s never been so terrified in all her life. He's gonna rape her till she’s pregnant; if it doesn't work, he'll try again another night. We scream with all our might for anyone to hear. No one listens, no one's even there. Caitlin lives alone inside a nightmare that repeats like Groundhog's Day; she can’t wake up no matter how she tries. The doctor wears her favorite sneakers, covers up her cries as paranoia, turns the lights off as he's leaving for the weekend once again.

By this time, I had mostly given up all hope of freedom. Radical acceptance kicked in, shifting my perspective to a more logical one: “eh, it’s a year; I'm in good shape, and bounced back pretty quick after my other pregnancies". I dipped graham crackers into applesauce as lions mated on God's screen, trying to think about this as a job. Surrogacy is even something I'd considered in the past; I'm so good at making babies, maybe I could tolerate this for the month ahead.

The greedy part of me was wondering if I’d get a paycheck. At least they’d pay my rent, I thought, they’d done it once before. If that’s the cost for Tiger’s safety, and to end this torture, I had no other choice.

With my age, there was no way I’d have to do this more than once, I’d almost come to peace with it. But the uncertainty of the involvement of my daughters is the reason that I’m writing this… you love them too, dear Santa, can't you understand?

How would I explain my surrogacy to my own kids, if I ever saw them again? The awareness of another child out there, connected to this crime... I couldn't bear it. I was terrified this was my fate, and likely now my daughters' too. I wondered how many other women had been forced to live this modern version of A Handmaid’s Tale, and how many more could follow such an undetectable crime.

The staff would supervise my phone calls on our unit's special iPhone to call out. I recognized all its strange behaviors because it acted just like mine. While others had no trouble making calls, like many other things, the telephone worked intermittently for me.

It would get warmer than it should have, and the green and orange monitoring lights were active on this screen as well. The screen's opacity would change, another trick of God's I knew. Nothing that couldn’t be explained by a tech glitch, but too many times in a row to be coincidence.

I was nervous on the night I knew that I was ovulating. I called my parents, trying to explain this nightmare on the phone. I knew how nuts I sounded, but I needed him to hear: "If I wind up pregnant, Dad, it wasn't by my choice".

Sometimes they enter, pacing in a line up to her paper pillow on the plastic bed to see if she’s asleep. Sometimes they wake her up just as she’s falling, jolting her back into focus like a reflex, erasing all the work she did to settle down; she has to start all over now. Caitlin traces branches with her eyes and waits to face the next disgrace God serves, now that he’s got us in his keep.

I practice yoga, I’m a meditator, I believe in radical acceptance, and listen to my mindset. Especially while struggling with infertility, I embraced optimism to nurture chances of success, wanting my baby to feel love right from the start. In this case, I had begun actively visualizing the opposite; that my ovaries would dry up, or halt production. I scanned through all the reasons for elective hysterectomy, planning the steps I'd need to take if I got out.

Katie lives alone inside a nightmare that repeats like Groundhog's Day; she can’t wake up no matter how she tries. The doctor wears her favorite sneakers, covers up her cries as paranoia, turns the lights off as he's leaving for the weekend once again.

I was in a state of terror until my period showed up a whole week early, I have never been more relieved in all my life. My next mission was ensuring that God wouldn’t find out; a week of difference could disguise my estimated fertile date for someone making plans.

No way she’ll risk the asking for a tampon, or her man will surely see. If he knows her time is early, she’ll be fucked. I heard God whisper evil plans to Satan, late last night while they were playing cards.

This period crept up on her, it must be from the meds. God knows her cycle inside out by now, that horny bastard wants another baby. She already has 3; that’s plenty, with global warming and the price of gas. I told you though, my master runs the show in here, he gets real cranky when he doesn’t get his way. If God finds out our fertile dates, we’ll be so screwed, don't let him see my bathroom trash, okay?

I had an extra pair of navy sweatpants; my friend Rizzo passed them onto me on her way out. I missed her scrappy sense of humor, and the ice cream parties we threw down in the lounge. I couldn't risk God finding out my asking for a tampon or pad. I used my phish tour skills, fashioned supplies from the TP. I felt so much relief that I could breathe again.

My recent essay "Blood Pressure: A Reproductive Rights Horror Story" is based on this, thank you for reading if you have. I was trying desperately to hide my period from anyone at WMC. During a group, I stood up from my chair to see a streak of blood had leaked onto the plastic chair. There was a camera right above me, and other people noticed too. If criminals were monitoring my menstrual cycle, they were also now aware of the skewed timing that I hoped could set me free.

A trace of juices leaked onto the plastic chair, despite our tries to hide it. Caitlin panicked as she felt God watching from his favorite corner up above. Can she make it to the roll of paper towels before her nosy boss will see? Fake a seizure? Pretend to fall asleep, or simply run and pray the teacher with a heart of gold will offer a distraction? Caitlin’s mind is racing faster than a train.

One of the guards was a bully to me anyway, and of course, she'd seen this happen. Tasha told all the other staff, even the guys. They called me "blood pressure" and talked about how gross it was. One staff member wouldn't even stand in the same elevator as me, after one of the two times I was allowed outside during my 3-week stay.

I thought about that movie Carrie, and how Stephen King wrote a horror story based on a similar tale. I understand directly how humiliating something just like this could be, and trust me, it was.

They teased and taunted Caitlin constantly for days, in front of men. Wanna know what’s crazy though? That part didn’t even phase her, it was the fear of knowing He knew too that kept her up all night.

As awful as this story is, it helps to write, and to remember that I met some angels in there too. As Fred Rogers says, “look for the helpers, they’ll show up too, when there’s a storm.” Gold can’t buy a ticket to the ride I'm on; I'm learning things I never could in school. How boring would this fairy tale be without some action after all?

Digital Puppets

My roommate Nova stayed for three days. Sarcastic, sharp, and unpredictable, she rode a brutal tidal wave of heroin withdrawal, a pain I knew all too well. I could feel it deep in my bones, having kicked the sheets like that so many times in the past. The memory of that torture would never fade.

As Nova shivered on the plastic bed beside me, I felt her pain, and I sympathized. I took one of my blankets, trying to block the blast of icy air from the vent near our beds. I imagined holding her, pretending she was Katie, wishing I could take away her suffering. I prayed for even a moment of rest for both of us.

A survivor of deep trauma, Nova had been hardened by life, like a feral cat, wary and defensive. I could relate. I guessed she needed her space to weather the storm she was fighting. Her nervous system was hypersensitive, shielded only by the band-aid of heroin, protecting her from the depths of her wounds.

Nova’s battle scars were fresher than mine, which made her the authority on suffering in our concrete room. As I tried to explain 'The Game' to her; how it had gotten me here. She surprised me by identifying a friend who’d gone through something similar.

She had her own story, marked by a missing tooth. She believed me. She understood that what I’d seen was real, that my story wasn’t just paranoid delusion. Her trust gave me hope that others might believe it too.

Then one afternoon, Nova disappeared for a few hours, escorted away by a nurse while I was on the phone. When she returned later that evening, she curled up in a ball on her bed, covered in sweat and tears. I wondered what medication they’d given her, but as time went on, it became clear that her behavior wasn’t chemically induced. I learned she had a diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder.

That night, the fierce, sarcastic Nova I’d spent the day with vanished. In her place, a frightened little girl emerged. She woke me up at 3 a.m., screaming for her teddy bear. She wasn’t pretending. She was truly a child in those moments; lost in a past she couldn’t escape.

I’ve thought about Nova many times since then. Just the other night, when the kids were over, something in my subconscious told me something wasn’t right. I see it now in Leia, one of my daughters. Her exceptional intelligence gives her the ability to present a calm, controlled exterior, even when her heart is screaming inside.

It’s unlike Leia to break down in front of others. She’s already learned the skill of masking her pain. But recently, her behavior has shifted. For hours at a time, she becomes a teary, unreachable child, someone I can’t help. She withdraws to her room, as if she's hiding something, during family activities that she used to organize. At first, I thought it was just hormonal, or a side effect of the stress we’d put her through. But then I noticed something disturbing: she was beginning to personify her iPhone, just like I once did.

Her behavior mirrored my own from when I was involved in “The Game.” She started recording workout videos in a way that seemed too precise, too structured. The patterns were too familiar, like the ones I'd learned from Coyote’s project, Limitless. Leia acts like she's in training for a special operation, just as I once did.

Her personality changes drastically, corresponding with her phone usage. It’s not just the usual resistance I see when setting screen time limits. Leia’s transformation reminds me of how Nova would shift into a completely different person at times.

I’ve heard of psychological tactics designed to create dissociative identities in children, especially with devices. I need to do more research into this, but the patterns are troubling. But how do I explain it without sounding crazy?

The media that concerns me are algorithmic video shorts; innocent-looking ASMR clips. They appear harmless, but these were the same videos I encountered in 'The Game,'. I came to think of these short videos as 'instructions from God' to follow certain routines, from morning rituals to packing for mysterious trips. Over time, these videos encouraged me to perform tasks as if I were part of a larger plan. As a people-pleaser, I was eager to document my progress and compliance for an unseen overseer.

Leia’s phone shows signs of the same influence. She has a hidden iPhoto album, just like I once did. When I asked to see it, she refused, claiming the photos were too embarrassing. The ones she showed me seemed harmless, even typical for a teenager, but to me, they were eerily familiar. In her recent selfies, Leia looks directly into the lens, as though someone is watching her; exactly the way I did when I was in “The Game.”

I know this sounds paranoid, but I also know the difference between true delusion and something real. I’m aware of my own mind, of how it’s been altered by the manipulation I endured. This awareness is what keeps me grounded, even when the patterns seem to blur the line between reality and my fears.

One app that caught my attention is called The Daily Bean, a mood and habit tracker. According to her screen time, Leia spends more time on it than any other app. It seems innocuous enough; helping her track her health patterns and daily activities. But I can’t shake the feeling that apps like this are subtly training girls to record personal data before they even become fertile. This information, combined with other apps that track location, raises a red flag for me.

There’s also an app called Allbest Home, which reminded me of a smart-light game I played early on. At the time, I thought it was fun, even empowering. Now, I see how easily I was manipulated, and I fear that Leia is falling into the same trap.

Caitlin threw her phone away, that's really all it took. God roared like thunder, but at least no one is making money while the agents watch her shower anymore.

I’ve been living with a flip phone for almost four months now. It’s not just a practical choice; it’s a survival tactic. It’s given me more time and helped me feel more present in my life. Writing this book in real-time, I feel like I’m racing against time, trying to warn others before it’s too late.

I’d rather die than keep these words inside for any longer. Katie’s good at keeping secrets, but this one’s way too big for us; we learned in rehab how to turn it over when it feels like that. I know the power of a story, and at least one person’s reading, thanks. I'm super lonely, and just knowing that you're listening makes me feel connected, will you please share this wild fable with your friends?

I believe that we’re facing a modern-day version of a Handmaid’s Tale scenario, one that I narrowly escaped. The manipulation is subtle, the control disguised behind seemingly innocent apps. I’m afraid that many of our children are being trained for something darker. If I can escape this digital nightmare, maybe others can too. I’m hoping this warning resonates with someone out there, and that together, we can find a way to stop it.

Ice, Ice Baby

After replacing my phone, changing my number, and getting a new phone, I still noticed signs of surveillance. This led me to believe that I am a targeted individual, though I don't know why, how, or by whom. The most logical step I could think of was to dispose of my smart devices. I carefully chose to put my phone, watch, and AirPods in the river.

This was not out of a manic impulse, I thought about this carefully over several days. The river seemed like the only place where I could ensure they would be gone for good. Now I wish I still had them for analyzation, I believe that they were compromised by the Pegasus virus.

Recently, I've been grappling with something more unsettling. I hesitate to share this because I don’t want to sound paranoid or like someone who believes in conspiracy theories, but I’ve been experiencing what I believe to be the effects of "cold weapons," potentially from some form of microwave technology.

These sensations occur in my apartment at specific times, and once in a hotel. I have reason to believe that a few of my neighbors, who I share walls with, are associated with 'The Game'.

I’ve seen enough silver jackets to predict that tin-foil hats are coming back in style, they’ll be on the runway soon. I’m not sure how these robots do it, but they can make you cold and stuff. I think those microwave guns are actually real. I’m not sure if they’re zapping me occasionally to scare me, keep me quiet, or give me a tour or teaching lesson of the next war that’s ahead. I’m writing this while wrapped in a space blanket hey, masks looked weird at first, right?

I recently experienced my first bout of what I believe to be Havana Syndrome, or effects from a microwave weapon. I'd just released a few chapters from this book, I believe that I was targeted like other journalists who share clandestine things.

I felt a rush of vertigo, the room felt like it was spinning. I heard a ringing in my ears, and felt disoriented. I looked out the window to the balcony and saw a box with pulsing, flashing light. I almost had to crawl to make it to the elevator, where the sensation subsided, I'm guessing because I was enclosed in metal. I fled to my car and meditated till the effects wore off. It was terrifying.

Additionally, I’ve been trying to learn more about a person named Mario, whom I met at WMC. I felt it was my responsibility to get close to him, but I haven't been able to find much information, other than that he was disbarred after a mysterious trip to Havana in 2011. I’m just beginning to research Havana syndrome and wonder if there could be any connections or patterns to explore.

I Was a Handsmaid, This is My Tale

Dear Santa, I know you see me, but on the inside, I am very far away from home. I feel a distance, even when I'm in the same room as my loved ones, and I feel like they're in danger from something that I've learned about.

My kids live mostly live with their father now, as my mental health misdiagnosis prompted safety issues by the court and awarded him primary custody. I'd run out of money to pay my lawyer, I signed a DIY divorce process and walked away from everything. The animosity of our legal battle wasn't worth it. I prioritized a better relationship with Wilson, hoping to improve our communication by getting out of court.

I came here to this day last year. To the house where my sweet children grow while I'm working in a place that feels so far away from them, from inside their world wide web. It's cold outside, the sun just rose, I can hear our chickens even from my car out here. The windows are like those indents in a snow-globe, that let you see the scene inside but if the longing in your heart is strong enough to pull you in to join the magic scene inside, you'll break the glass and instead of just your own demise, then everyone will fall.

It hurts so bad, but I am not alone today, I am surrounded by the love of peaceful warriors who in their silent ways send energy through time and space to hold me in their loving arms.

Last night I dreamed about a soldier who was far away, at war. He loves his children more than words can ever say. He can't tuck them in bed at night, or be inside that waking house right now, to put the kettle on and light the fire. They'll never know it but he's with them constantly, with such devotion that awareness doesn't matter anymore.

With twelve months of perspective, I'm beginning to understand my way to mother while away at war. I feel like I'm a soldier too, I know that now. Not just a soldier, a warrior so strong and made for love that not even Satan himself can penetrate the fortress of my heart. I've learned to look him in the eye, most of the time he doesn't even step up to the plate to meet my invitation to connect.

My weapons steel and bullets like you might be thinking, I retaliate with words and song, my army is the alphabet. I'm working on a lullaby with intention to change the world. My moral code is to be nice to people unless they give me good reason not to, and in this case, my children’s safety is at stake.

This war I'm fighting, it's not on my world map either. This one's in space, and I don't mean the place that Jupiter calls home. I'm worried that an entity is already training armies through unsuspecting citizens, especially kids, with mind control, through our devices.

At first, the idea of surveillance didn’t bother me. After getting clean, I have nothing to hide. It was almost a relief to live so openly; last year I didn't have a password on my phone. But my perspective shifted when I realized how this technology could be weaponized. It’s not about stealing secrets or money; it’s about training civilians to become unwitting participants in a larger plan. Digital puppets. That’s exactly how I felt, acting out a mission I didn’t even understand.

Looking back, I see how The Game (a term I use to describe this algorithmic influence) encouraged me to make choices that derailed my life. It turned me from a full-time middle-class mom into someone grappling with bankruptcy, homelessness, and the loss of custody of my children. If it could do that to me, what could it do to others, especially to kids?

Even with strict screen time limits and seemingly innocent apps, a predator could be on the other side, monitoring their every move, and influencing their thoughts and decisions. Imagine clips and pictures seeded into their feeds, influencing their morals and their minds. This experience has changed how I view every device. Unless it’s powered off or disconnected, anything with a speaker or Bluetooth can be a tool for surveillance or manipulation.

It's not God, even Coyote that I’m out to get; it’s Dr. Lipow and his team at WMC. Please help me shut down this modern version of The Handmaid's Tale.

The soldier brought a gift for me and Caitlin, to celebrate the second time we stayed up late for time to turn. He brought the closest thing to peace on earth a hungry mom could ask for, he shared his story in the way he does from time to time.

He explained he never left his children either, it might look that way to others, but that's a story for another day. He's loving them so fiercely only God can see it, whether he's on the frontlines or just taking out the trash.

Sometimes I think God did me a favor. I don’t know where I am in time or space, but I’m writing to you from another side. I used to be too scared to stand outside alone at night, I used to be afraid of unknown things. My heart is raw in places that are wounded, but I live without the fear I used to feel from just existing; that makes up for all the apps I threw away.

I’d rather die than keep these words inside for any longer. Katie’s good at keeping secrets, but this one’s way too big for us; we learned in rehab how to turn it over when it feels like that. I know the power of a story, and at least one person’s reading, thanks. I'm super lonely, and just knowing that you're listening makes me feel connected, will you please share this wild fable with your friends?

You're brave, I care, I'm listening; and if no one else said that to you today, I am. Keep going human, don't give up. I'm hoping that together, we can help each other in uncertain times.

With love, courage, and determination,

Caitlin Lord and Katie Velvet