At WMC, the second time, 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 shivered. Through a prisoner's perspective, 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 likely now, 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.
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. I felt silently elated that this action meant that 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 any someone else, I'm here to burst your bubble. The times are changin' man, technology grows faster than the speed of sound.
Check out any of those apps: TeamViewer, AnyDesk, or Chrome Remote. And while you're at it, 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; I couldn't sleep with bright flourescent lights on. This must be the part where God takes more than my attention, I tossed and turned. I visualized a tunnel, underground, its entrance portal was the very room that I was locked inside, with green crayons and fizzy ginger ale. 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. I thought of other women here before me, and I vowed I'd write this book, A Mother's Warning.
I now can share the warning signs I learned through my experience. A cybercrime taught me to read a new and cryptic language. I learned it from my captor when he was digitally manipulating me.
Criminals are hacking kids and teenagers' phones in ways you'd never notice, and mimicking the algorithm, it's a form of mind-control. This allows them to communicate with victims, and make them do things for their profit. Surveillance makes it very difficult to escape "The Game", with predatory forces monitoring every move your children make.
An app as innocent as Themify sends victims information with tags and messages through color schemes, icons, and number patterns. These benign signals only make sense to the target, once the predator has trained them through an online game.
When I noticed that my daughter's screen-time usage was higher in a desktop organizing app than any of her social media, that seemed off to me. I checked it out, and sure enough, it uses the very same language that God trained me with before sending me to WMC.
A patient with involuntary status (as my record now mysteriously displayed) has literally signed away all of their human rights. I didn't have a husband anymore, no one else to speak on my behalf. God owned me now, I knew it.
I thought back to another time I got scared, and felt like I was in over my head. Back in the hotel, while I was searching for apartments, you know those signs they have sometimes? Permanently affixed to the door, below the peephole, offering a toll free number and asylum for victims of trafficking?
I tried to call the number then, back in the fall; I felt like this applied to me. Under surveillance, even if I went to the library, or a pay-phone, God would know. 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. I tallied up the resources it took to pull me underground. I wondered if we'd go directly to the airport? 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; stop for gas or get a milkshake. It hit me then, that 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. The behavioral health department is a cover for something really bad, I saw it.
They treat plenty of real patients, with real emergencies. But they also traffic women through it, digitally, like me. You'd never know your daughter's mind is being accessed, trained, and programmed by organized criminals. Until, perhaps, she gives her baby up for adoption, 9 months after her own trip through subspace.
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.
Comments