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The Reviews

Will yall stop telling people that I’m crazy, please?

Another guy, there have been many, reached out the other day to tell me that the reviews say I’m batshit insane. Why? Well, aside from my cyber-gang-stalkers, who do actually exist by the way, apparently my flakiness is cited as proof. 

We’ll address the hacker/stalkers first. Mind you, this particular phenomenon is far too complicated for me to cover it here. I’m writing an entire memoir about it, in fact. But it all started a few months before I moved to a cute little cabin in the woods, at the southern edge of Austin. 

I decked it out with beautiful vintage everything and thrift store finds, it was cozy and I was on top of the world. Come December, I broke up with the guy I had been seeing, who was becoming controlling (wrote him the note on the chalkboard depicted here) and moved in Brian, who I started fucking while D was still coming around.

That’s not all, of course. There were weird videos, too, and weird stories and weird apologies. Like the story from the guy who said his daughter was kidnapped and that after that, he fell prey to some hackers too. His hunters supposedly sent look-alikes of his ex girlfriend to his house, but she didn’t have same the infinity tattoo on her wrist so he could tell the difference. I met him in person finally this summer, meth pipe in his bathroom, track marks down his legs, and an apartment in my ex husband’s complex. 

That’s when shit got real weird. First of all, random profiles started adding me on Facebook and sending me strange things. Like these:
A joke about my decorating choices? Also possibly my grandmother’s bedroom.

Then there were the  messages from some guy name Aaron, a name that still comes up, wherein he admits to doing something negative to me without my knowledge and mourns, “But then I felt your pain. I’m so sorry.”

Aaron was chatting with me the first time I called the police to report the hacking and the content of the intruders’ messages, just in case. Before the patrolman arrives, he advises, not knowing by our conversation what I’m up to, “Focus only on what you can see.” I start to blow it, I guess, talking about child porn and cyberstalking, and he pings,  “No! What are you doing!? You look like a scared little child.”

Then there was this website with hidden messages: 1.am It’s supposed to be a gambling website. Translating the pages, specifically using Google Lense, made words pop out, isolated from the original text and unrelated to it. The words, I shit you not, changed irrespective of the web-text as well. And they were talking to me. 

One time, they told me to come back in twenty four hours and claimed they would “teach me” then. Ensue cookies for articles on Google about sex workers following hackers’ rabbit holes to their death. Then I go to work, go back to the site and translate the same page. The words are angry now, berating me for not following directions and for not giving the client that had been present precisely what he wanted. The client, by the way, had walked in doing what many, many people began doing at that time: saying words and phrases which were out of context to the situation, were repeated by multiple other people in my life in the same out of context way, and which were IN context to details of my situation they should not have known about. On this particular night, the words were, “Clean is better.” He used the word clean at least a half dozen different times in one hour. I was freshly showered and my home is never dirty. He meant the drugs, my use of which had, prior to this era, been uncommon knowledge.

Then people start telling me I was being recorded. Literally, “Everything you do is being recorded.” Others started making jokes about me being on the Truman Show. A stranger on a bus, not knowing anything about me, made the same reference. At one point, someone did literally sit in front of my boyfriend’s apartment with his cell phone held up and his hood pulled over his face, face tucked into his arm, so that he at least appeared to be actually recording me. He did this several times, until I demanded to see his face. Then he called me a hater, laughed, and never came back. Except in photos, anyway. I see his face in photos all the time.

The hacking was verified by Google, who responded affirmatively to my inquiry about the compromised status of my account after I purchased a G-Suite subscription and added all of my twelve email addresses just to have them repeatedly removed. I tried to change the passwords to ensure the hackers would be kept out, and one by one, they pulled my emails right back off, changing the passwords themselves as they went. Until 5 in the morning, they came in behind me and I went in behind them, frantically trying to out authenticate whoever they were until finally the whole thing was broken up into it’s disparate parts and I was completely locked out. 

On one occasion, I had a bit of a cough and of course these people had to make fun of me. Clients that I never once coughed in front of made reference to it, one pulled up a fake video of someone recording themselves coughing and asked me, “Why would someone record themselves doing that?” Ha-ha-ha, guys. 

So I was driving to pick up my children and my Google Maps navigation voice changes, mid-drive, to that of a raspy old lady. I’m not sure “Raspy Old Lady” is even a Google option. I shit you not, when my children got in the car, it changed back. And when their chatter grew loud enough to drown out ROL, there she was again.

This was in 2019. Every year around my birthday, they come back. Its always the same thing, with new variations. They try to convince me that I’m being recorded and that my children are being sexually exploited and that I’m going to go to jail, among other terrifying things.
This year, they went above and beyond. They somehow acquired all of my family photos, many that I have never seen, and edited them to look like another family, but to still resemble mine. One photo superimposed my best childhood friend’s bedroom on my grandmother’s porcelain doll collection and wrote Renee on a paper in the background.
They put them all over the internet, usually on Facebook, but often on websites made solely to fuck with me. The first of the above photos features my dad’s girlfriend Heather, though not Heather, and a child I don’t recognize sitting in a chair identical to the ones my mother had in our house in Briggs. Common chair, sure. Common placemats? Heather’s, I’ve cleaned them several times at her current home in Lampasas.

This particular scene gets ever more strange when it’s zoomed out. My brother is also present, my son but not my son is as well, and my father’s look-a-like sits beside him. On the same website are pictures of my Aunt Jodi’s house, all the way up in Pennsylvania, with another patio set from our Briggs house depicted on the back porch, my Aunt’s carpet with the matching game I loved to play at my Aunt Angie’s house when I was little spread out on top, between a couple of kids. You’ll see it probably if you go to the link in the photo. 

The second photo was snapped from the first of several  livestreams that popped up a few months back wherein a group of people were discussing what “she” should do with her life. They weren’t kind, “Maybe she can find a sponsor for… Whatever it is that she does.” And “she” was never named. This person depicted above looks like my mother’s high school friend Denise, who lives in NJ. 

This one, taken of the same livestream — Which, by the way, I watched on ColdTowne Theater’s website, and which they claim to know nothing about — is of the Cabin boyfriend’s best friend Zach. How Denise and Zach know each-other, I have no idea. He’s native to Dallas and she grew up in PA.

So there were probably people who popped up, thinking I was making shit up or losing my mind, who said things just to fuck with me, not realizing the whole thing was real. And they probably made my mind spin into a million different directions, trying to figure it out, to connect the dots that didn’t seem to connect. They are the ones who call me insane and laugh while I struggle to keep a very real, and very caused, paranoid psychosis from swallowing my life. 

They’re not wrong, the whole thing is crazy and it does occasionally make me crazy. But without the intervention of these truly abhorrent individuals, I am completely sane. These folks are the ones I often rage about. They are real, and the anger is deserved. 

As for being flaky, I am flaky. Sometimes I’ve got other things I’d rather do, and I have the freedom to do it. YOLO. That’s got nothing to do with me being nuts. Irresponsible, inconsiderate? Sure. I’ll work on it.

I suppose there are two more points to address. The first is my extreme resistance to life events that have the potential to alter my fate, and to reverberate into even my children’s and grandchildren’s lives. This is self-explanatory. It’s simply also true that I am aware of the devastating or redeeming impact that a moment can have on forever. More aware than most people want me to be, and perhaps more than most people are. 

I can be emotionally driven, but I actually score “moderately high” in emotional stability and am quite reasonable. However, those people with un-earned power over my life are often met with that resistance, whether they are law officers or ex husbands.  I make no apology for that.

The last is my extreme resistance to anyone attempting to define myself for me. That is my responsibility and my right, and it is only mine. Everything in the world has been taken from me, including my identity. Only without my Self did I fear I might not survive. 

I will argue to the death if my self concept is at stake, because to lose it is death anyway. I take strides to assure that I have no blind-spots concerning myself, and everything that I am, I love, or am working to change, or have understood and accepted. When you can say the same, you will comprehend this “crazy,” which again, I make no apology for.

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