V2K and Electronic Harassment

I know I've posted on this before but feel like I might be able to give a better description by revisiting the subject. It's something that I'm familiar with in personal experience but tend not to focus on.

I think the reason for that is because it's an experience I don't enjoy revisiting. The V2K technology, for instance, was used to communicate with me in the context of a very dangerous situation. I automatically associate it with deep cover operations and trafficking and for that reason it brings back memories of some of my most fearful experiences. 

But I would like to describe what the technology sounds like and how it was used with  me. I am not sure how advanced things were back in the late 70's/ early 80's but that time period marked my first experience of voice to skull. 

The voices were mechanical sounding. It was like someone had eliminated all of the high and low frequencies and focused on the mid-range frequencies of the human voice.  The agents used this approach to try to reinforce UFO related screen memories. I think they believed that the more alien they sounded the more they might convince me that I was hearing communications directly from aliens. They even went so far one time as to have me look up to the sky at a cloud while they were talking to me, telling that that's where they were broadcasting from. 

I have also experienced more human sounding voices, so I know they have the ability to transmit either way. The device they use seems to have a range of about 1.5 to 2 miles. The last time V2K was used on me (as far as I know) was around 2005 or 2006. I was trying to run by driving to Dallas and avoid being accessed. The handler present for that reprogramming was following me on the interstate. I heard his voice tell me I had to exit and turn around, that it would be easier to just get it over with because they weren't going anywhere until they were done with me.

He also mentioned the fact that he was about a mile behind me on the road. I find this very interesting because I did notice a degradation in the volume of his voice. I could hear him clearly enough but not at conversational volume and not without some signal fading. 

Another feature I'v'e noticed about this technology is that they can selectively freeze your body in place while the communication occurs. I can recall more than a few times when the broadcast seemed to include a signal that induced something akin to seizure or partial paralysis on site. If they didn't want me to move while they spoke to me, then I didn't. If they did want me to move it seemed that the whole series of V2K instructions were simultaneously being carried out autonomically. I would find myself running, ducking and dodging sometimes ahead of their verbal commands. 

I believe this information should cause everyone to pause and reflect on the real nature of MK Ultra. Someone who is not an MK Ultra survivor is not going to respond as easily to the technology, in my opinion  I can state unequivocally that my experience of V2K was enhanced by traumas such as electroshock and rape. This is because the people communicating through this means made me well aware that they were also responsible for the electroshock and rape. So, when they told me to run or perform some other action, the sheer fact that their power extended to being able to talk directly into my mind put a fire under my heels. 

Moving on to other types of targeting..I have had unexplained and sudden sunburn type symptoms on various parts of my body. I am not diabetic and do not suffer from neuropathy. During one phase of targeting I was dosed in my sleep with pseudomonas auregensis, the bacteria that causes an ear infection that turns ear wax blue. It is a very rare infection. The infection was "cured" by microwave targeting of my ears. Starting around 2011 I had severe heat and pain in my ears at night whenever I was on my pillow. I would wake up in the morning to what looked like cobalt blue ink staining my pillow.  This is something that should have required antibiotics to treat but since I never sought medical treatment for the condition and it went away on its own I can only conclude that the infection was literally melted out of my ear canal.  

To this day, I still have some strange auditory experiences. Once in a while I hear the sound of an old fashioned telephone ringing. It sounds as if it is coming from both the outside as well as somewhere in my attic. I've never been able to pin point the source.  I frequently suffer from bouts of tinnitus and have also had nights where I hear constant static and beeping, like morse code. 

I've spent a long time responding to these things medically, just chalking them up to allergies and infections. It seems the handlers appreciate that to a point and will shift tactics whenever the target takes the everyday, mainstream skeptics view of the situation, but the attacks never stop. They just shapeshift. One day you successfully handle EM harassment, the next they try to kill you in a car accident.

Juan

I’m wide awake and light as air. Why am I racing out of the house and into the twilight? I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s beautiful weather, though. One of those balmy evenings where there’s a gentle breeze and the night feels soft. 

A few houses down a car pulls into the driveway and Juan, the man with the checkbook, gets out and starts talking to one of his relatives, a much younger man.  Their voices carry on the wind as I run towards my house. I’m almost to my own driveway when I hear this:

“Do you think we’re clear or is somebody gonna drop a dime on us?”, asks the younger man.

The CIA is fond of autonomic puns. The moment I hear the word ‘dime’, I stop. I stop on a dime, but do I pick it up?

Juan moves up the driveway with his characteristically awkward gate. He’s like a penguin or someone trying to manage two sprained ankles.  I manage to unfreeze and find a hiding spot behind the family car.

“No, there aren’t gonna be any dimes dropped. That’s what the meeting was about. I just talked to Oxana and Pam. They’ve got a test for people who drop dimes.”

“Ok, then what are we doing with the gun?”

“We’ll get the Miller kid, Charles, to run it.”

Oh my god! They’re talking about my brother! I don’t think this is right. I think this is something my parents need to know about. I’m only around 5 years old and my perspective is that our situation is gradually worsening.  My brother was only a teenager but was already being used as a courier. He had shown me a black velvet sack full of stolen diamonds that he had to deliver to someone. I didn’t approve of that either, but diamonds are not as scary as guns. Kid logic. 

This memory isn’t clear at all, but I know that I said to one or both of my parents that I heard “the people up the street talking about forcing Charles to deliver a stolen gun to somebody.”  I don’t remember their reaction. It must have been lukewarm because I decided to corner my brother privately and tell him what I heard. He seems annoyed and tells me not to worry about it. 

About a week or so later and at approximately the same time of night that all of this transpired I’m told by my mother that the man with the checkbook needed to have a word with me. Her face was filled with concern and anxiety. “I’m sorry”, she said, “but you dropped a dime.”

I didn’t understand the turn of phrase when Juan said it and didn’t understand it when my mom said it, either. I interpreted it literally. I asked her why anyone would be upset with me for spilling change onto the ground.  She tries her best to explain it without giving too much away. “His dimes are his secrets. He doesn’t want people knowing where his money comes from. He thinks you’re spilling his secrets out in the open.”

“Can’t we just explain to him that I didn’t know dimes have two meanings?’, I plead. 

“No, that’s not good enough for him. You were outside. You heard him having a private conversation. You stopped and listened. He wants to make sure that doesn’t happen again or he’s going to kill you. He’s protecting you through the secrets of his business. If he weren’t then the Humero people would probably have already kidnapped you from us and sold you into slavery overseas by now.  He’s not a good guy but he does believe that family should stick together.”

I’m beginning to understand that Juan is some type of criminal. He’s no better than the rest in terms of sexual perversion yet he doesn’t believe child victims should be taken from their parents. I guess in a situation like this you learn to redefine the meaning of the word ‘blessing’. I now know that dimes and blessings have two meanings. 

When Juan enters the house, I feel like it’s the first time I’ve really met him and seen him up close. I’ve dealt with him elsewhere but can’t recall him ever coming inside. It’s time for a formal introduction. 

He walks through the door with one of his associates and lumbers past me towards the kitchen. I can’t hear the conversation he’s having with my father and brother as I sit and wait in the living room. Time passes, and I see him walking down the hallway towards my bedroom.

He’s shaking his head and repeating himself: “No, no, we can’t have any little tape recorders or video cameras in the mafia.”   I understand on a gut level that he’s referring to me. It’s the first time I’m aware of how others viewed my gift of eidetic memory. I knew I was different, but I didn’t understand how. I didn’t understand why people viewed me as abnormal. 

My mom walks me into my bedroom. Someone has placed a tape recorder under my bed. Juan walks in and says “You know, kid, we weren’t talking that loud. How the fuck did you hear me over 25 feet away? I don’t know but apparently you did, and you felt like telling other people my business. See, I’m in the business of nobody knowing my business. Unless you want me to sell you to Osama bin Laden then you need to get into the business of nobody knowing my business.”

He tells me to press ‘play’ on the tape recorder. I do and there is no audio. Just a blank tape. He tells me to press stop and rewind. I do. He tells me to press record. I can’t remember what else he said but in a few moments he tells me to stop the tape again, rewind, turn the volume down and press record again. Erase the tape. 

“Now”, he asks, “what did I just tell you? Did I say anything to you, little tape recorder?”

Here’s where being on the autism spectrum was frequently almost the death of me:  I say to him “You said something to me but not to the tape recorder because we erased that.”

He gets agitated. “YOU are the tape recorder! What did I say?!”

“You said you’re protecting me, but I need to shut up.”

“Wrong answer.”

He tells me to put away the tape recorder. He looks directly into my eyes and says “Well, I guess I’m gonna have to fix you myself.”

I used to have all  this memory intact when I was younger. Now all I can remember is screaming “No!”