Month: October 2017

When A Friend Happens.

Last evening a new friend and I were talking in detail about what has happened to me.  This is the first time anyone has ever shown a real interest in understanding what’s been going on.  And this is true even while I was passed through many hands of professionals who jobs it was help.  All either ignored the elephant in the room or were not given to make report.  The elephant in the room is what the doctor and his practice has done.

Not only did he and they act horrifically and illegally towards me, they knew what they were doing while they kept it going for years afterward.  They have done it many times before to others, too. That is what I showed Judge McCullough when Multicare took me to court.  He didn’t want to see it either.  So the only problem for them was that, with me, I kept slipping out of the proverbial concrete boots they were trying to drown me with.   And I kept coming to surface, gasping for air.  From the time they had me raped I pretty much quit breathing. Have you ever tried living holding your breath?  Its not easy.

Even worse, their cohorts thought what they were doing was fun and funny. Some who joined in along the way, like a fellow existentialist named Chris McNeil, introduced himself to me on Facebook.  When Chris McNeil MHS spoke to me he said that the ones who did those terrible things were unprofessional because they busted open my emotional guts but didn’t know how to put me back together.   Yep, I was Humpty Dumpty, for sure.

Therefore, he said, they ran for cover leaving me kind of “bleeding out” emotionally all over the place.  I trusted him the same as I’ve tried to believe all of them along the way who were pretending they were trying to help me but really weren’t.   For those who know what its like being gang raped, they all are no better than gang rapists going in for a piece of the action.  They are filthy. Some say they go into mental “health” trying to cure themselves.  I believe it.

Like with Frank, my massage therapist’s father who gaslighted me in a way that very much frightened and further spun me, in my weakened frame of mind I did not want to believe Frank would purposefully harm me.  I did not want to believe all of these people would hurt me on purpose while listening to what I was telling them was being done to me!  Along the way almost every single “professional” jumped on the band wagon to take me out.  wow.  All I can say is wow.

Even up until right the recent post I have never told anyone what Frank did.  I have never even said his name until I said it last night to my new friend.  I was protecting Frank’s integrity and privacy more than I was protecting myself.  There are many things I haven’t shared with anyone about what they have done to me, because its just too much.  And that’s the plan.  They want to make it too much for us so that we kill ourselves.  Its murder without picking up a weapon.

But, about Frank, this is the first I’ve told that part or even said his name.  Did you notice in chapter “A Very Serious & Evil Enemy” that I never said his name?  Now I am telling myself to say it.  Why should I care about his reputation?  He’s the one who killed a man.  Not me.  I didn’t deserve what he did to me for them to cover his own ass.  I am tired of being loyal to people who have not deserved it .

They take a poke at me, like Christ McNeil did too. Than while I was hysterical, they’d run away laughing like the cowards they are, leaving me alone and  emotionally bleeding out.  Big men, huh?

So what’s in it for them?  Well, we know for Frank he was being extorted.  With Chris, he was the son of a cop.  A system’s man, for sure.  And he was a self proclaimed existentialist working on certifications and credentials.

If you have been following or are new to this, you may  not know that it was an existential psycho analytical outfit and its professor who was hired by the doctor’s group finish me.  “Cutiepie Sample, Sr.”

Of course I could not prove that.  Only a professional could.  There is enough in public records, though, written by me and given by them that proves they were doing a repeat with me.  I will write more about that later, but from what the professor told me they were wanting to write about it.  Probably from the poor, victimized doctor’s perspective.  But, between all that got made public, at their own hands, my living to fill in the blanks is going to be more telling on them than exposing anything bad about myself.

I thought all of this  craziness was posted here on WordPress, but I guess not.  I guess it was all posted on Facebook, of which a lot has been deleted because I would trigger, than deactivate my account, feel isolated, reactivate it, and this cycle repeated over and over throughout the years.  Than two computers melted down during the whole while, which cost me data on flash drives that so far videos, pictures of evidence and things I’d written along the way aren’t readable by this derelict computer I’m stuck with because right now I’m below poverty so I can’t do anything about retrieving it.  Hopefully the technological handicaps will be corrected when I figure out how to monetize this matter.  Then maybe I can post on youtube the videos from early on made while I was crying out for help.

As it has been, nobody really cared to help me, to delve into the details of what I’ve been trying to tell.  That is until this new friend who has taken an interest in the story of my survival enough to ask what certain things mean.  When I tell him he gets mad.  Not at me, at them. Finally someone besides me and my mom is getting mad.  Its all been since 2004, in the unraveling. And since that time Misty has died and so has Becky’s brother Rick. And now so has Chris Cornell died, too.  But we all know its thousands and thousands more people who are being killed and destroyed by their experimenting on us with those drugs, and these doctors are making it look like its our fault, when it isn’t.

Last night I told my new friend I want to destroy them.  In reality I want to destroy what they are doing.  If that means to destroy them, then so be it.  They do not care that they are destroying us. They only care for their money, power and their egos. Now I am going to take them out.  Because I was never mentally ill, and I was always only the result of what people were doing to me.

Like art depicts life, today I am still as if I’m in the 2005 Covington Rotary’s Haunted House’s murderous Multicare surgical room I’d built back then.


Lori Gregg knows about this.  But she ran away too. Probably Nicole Summers knows too.  And everyone ran away.  I can’t say that I blame them.  Everyone loves their doctors, and the reality is scary that the doctors know what they are doing.  Their skill is in making killing us appear to others like its fun and like they are just trying to help.

It isn’t fun or funny, and I “feel” like “they” keep trying to get a laugh out of me from it. That’s not going to happen.  I am taking them down, so they won’t be laughing anymore.

RIP Misty.  RIP Rick. RIP Chris Cornell, and the thousands of others they’ve killed. This is for all of us!

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On October 24, 2012, I was in the process of being taken to court by a group of people I did not know, led by a man who had raped me for my doctor’s father’s group. I was facing 4 years in jail, at least, if I did not plead guilty for what was finally later diagnosed as a normal reaction by me from the emotional trauma of what they were doing to me. In my blog I’ve already spoken about the prescription mind drugs that open the portals to Lucifer. Now I am trying to decide which topic to take on, the portals of Lucifer’s (which is demonic lust) created by their prescription drugs and describing what that looks like, or about Big Pharma/psychiatry’s intentional creating in us addiction to blame us for our “condition.” I need to pray on this, because I am far from an expert on either topic. I’m not an expert on any of this. I am not an author, neither, nor a sensationalist. I am rather boring, actually, and I like things that way. But what they did to me has got to be told in a way that no reader is mistaken so that people know what they are doing to us, and especially to children, by purposefully making us vulnerable for entering their demons into us. I can only tell my story as it was. I am grateful for Facebook’s memories because they do help to remind me of where I was “at” during particular times. Facebook has given me access to posts from before this profile, from during a time when I was completely freaking out on line, September ish 2009 – until this profile was created. I would trigger than deactivate. Be alone, reopen the account, trigger, than deactivate. And that is why I call Facebook group therapy. On October 24th, 2012, I was seriously planning my suicide while my rapist was writing on his own blog he’d never killed anyone before. Somehow I doubt that. Just the same as I doubt Dr. Sargent Jr. and Sr. never killed anyone before me. RIP Misty. RIP Rick.

(What I am sharing of Facebook Memories is a meme made of what Representatives have said about rape. Because here on WordPress I have not figured out how to post pictures, I think what I will do is make the posting of my memory viewable by the public, and  I’ll put a link here if its allowed.  Perhaps you can copy and past the link to your browser.)


About Gaslighting. Beyond Freaky.

If you are unfamiliar with the term gaslighting, like I used to be, gaslighting is used to describe someone’s messing with your head.  Not just mildly, but seriously and with evil intentions.

Professional gaslighters take pride in their prowess.  The idea is to emotionally destabilize a target, and to do it in a way where they will  begin to question their own minds.

The term came from an old 1940s movie where a newly married couple’s husband wanted to drive his wife insane, probably to steal her assets.  I’ve never seen the movie, have no desire to. But its said in it the husband rigged the dining room’s lighting (which in those days a lot of ceiling fixtures operated on gas) to change it. As they dined he would cause the lights to dim.  When the new and trusting wife commented he would tell her the lighting is fine, and he would ask her if she was alright.  Of course he’d return the gas to normal than dim it again for the scenario to repeat over and over until he’d convinced her she was having delusions.  And so it goes.

I was told about this technique from a woman who was the former business partner of a man who was helping having that to me.   Up until that time I was calling it what a therapist the State  sent me to see at Kent Recovery Center (for drug and alcohol rehabilitation) called it.  Which on the streets its called a mind fucking.  Yep, that sounded about right.  More accurate than gaslighting, but at least gaslighting lends an example.  A mind fucking seems rather abstract.

Really, I could have gotten twisted by what the chic at work had been doing but in mortgage finance competition is dirty.  It never used to be that bad until after 9/11 when all of the criminals entered the industry to launder money.  After 9/11 it became rife with creeps.

Also Feds were crawling all over us so the real bad guys were trying to frame primarily innocent people to keep the Feds entertained and off their backs.  So, okay, I got that.  I certain amount of creepiness was not unusual.  I wasn’t happy about it, but no big deal.  I was used to it.  But when the massage therapist’s father gaslighted me, all apologetically and like that, my already loose mental gaskets blew more.   To make it clear, if only for myself, I’m sure the father fled so quickly because he didn’t want to be confronted by me.  Had he remained, even passively and unsure of myself, I’d probably have asked him something lame like, “What’s going on?” and he wouldn’t have wanted that.

I have to admit what he did began etching away at my confidence.  The old me would have went on high alert. I have never been too much of a wallflower when it comes to confronting someone committing infractions.  But this was different because I’d been changed by the drugs and overwhelmed by everything that had already ensued.  And now,  I mean, wow, the dude had killed someone way back when and was being extorted to play music to me that was obviously personal information probably gotten from spying in my home, and even now I wonder who and how a lot of the information they were using against me was obtained.  Faceless people in our lives, thinking they are a part of it when they’re not. Judging us, thinking things about us, all the while sick themselves. And now that its being acknowledged “they” say 85% of the people being gang stalked are women by groups of men.  Probably public and private  contracting I.T. spies, too, from all of what entities we cannot know.  Faceless men peeking in our windows from a satellite.  Now that’s beyond freaky, man.  But this with me was personal. That’s for sure.  So personal someone was willing to extort the father of my massage therapist to make him participate.

Truth is, if I’d confronted every single gaslighting event during the time I was targeted I would have been in a perpetual defense mode. As it was I only tried to defend or talk about it to a very close few.  As it was I was sounding like a paranoid lunatic.  So much I even wondered about it myself sometimes.  I kept things along the way to remind myself it was true, and I kept talking about it to people who would listen.  Some were trapped, like the people in the ambulance on the way to Pierce County Crisis Center, but they listened and expressed sympathy. And for me that was good.

Also they listened at Valley Medical Center after my sister convinced me to go there.  How that came about is that I was in one of those really low stages I’ve mentioned before, where I would be crying and crying hysterically and could not stop.  Nobody really knew about those spells until this time.  Why it came out is because I’d gotten into my truck and I was driving around the Multicare building on State Street in circles.  It was closed, so that must have been on a Sunday.  I didn’t have a doctor, and I was distraught about the forthcoming Multicare hearing.  I didn’t know what to do.  That’s how it became for me after the 19 days and nights without sleeping.  There was never a time in my life when I didn’t know what to do, even if it meant crawling into bed to pull the covers over my head. But anymore I would get overwhelmed and I would not know what to do.  I had not felt right in my skin since the 2004 Buspar prescription.  So there I was driving in circles around Multicare, snots running down my face and hysterical. I became blinded by the tears so I decided to pull over on Kennebeck and I called my little sister who lived just a few blocks from me.  She asked me to drive to Valley Medical where she and my mom would meet me there.  She asked if I thought I could do that, to which I said that I could.  It was at Valley Medical Center where they began dispensing Ativan.  Ativan was great.  It did not take it long to calm me down with the Ativan.  And while I was there I told them everything that Multicare had been doing to me, and about the Ambien, and all of the other drugs they’d dumped into me.  So at Valley Medical Center they dumped Ativan ito me.  Oh my God.  The insanity and irony of that is just hitting me.   “Oh sorry they messed you up with Rxs honey but here’s another one.  Hope this helps.”  Wow.  Are you getting the drift?  The whole scene never stops amazing me.  Actually, though the Ativan did work, but there are always side effects.

In 2014 Dr. Hicks said there is no such thing as side effects, though.  He said there are effects we have right away, or after some time taking the drug. But always the effect would appear.  He said the industry calls them “side” effects to sound less apt to happen.  But that is a lie.  RIP Dr. Hicks.

Now, talk about something being even more creepazoid!  During the first part of 2006, too, before the first court date for some reason my ex and I started talking again.  Just recalling some of our dinner engagements during that time I don’t even know how he was putting up with me.  My Lord, I was obnoxious.  Nonetheless, while we spoke I think we started talking about the doctor because I told him for he and I to be friends again he would have to find another doctor.  You see, Dr. Sargent Jr. was also his doctor.  Both of us had gone to him for years.  But my ex was hearing from me for the first time what all they’d done to me, including that on December 5th during my OB/GYN appointment. then he shared something with me, something that really creeped both of us out.

Don told me he’d already quit going to the guy because oddly he was called in by Dr. Sargent for an out of the ordinary exam.  And he said what was weird is that during the entire exam Dr. Sargent was asking my ex personal questions about me that he didn’t think was any  of Dr. Sargent’s business.   Don told me he felt completely uncomfortable with the inquisition.  At the time Don and I were not even talking, and he said so to Dr. Sargent.  Besides its against HIPAA to talk about a patient like that, too.  And, as it so happened, the date of this grilling by Dr. Sargent was December 5th too, the same afternoon they had me surrounded and being bullied at the post hysterectomy exam.  December 5th is our son’s birthday, so the date isn’t hard to remember.

So what we realized was while I was in one room being surrounded by them at the very same time the doctor had Don in the other room giving him the third degree!  What the hell?  Who do these people think they are?  The whole thing is sickening. Beyond sickening.  Absolutely, despicably sickening and totally perverted.

And that was in early 2006.  This kind of intrusive, perverted crap went on and on, and got worse and worse.  For over 12 years those people put me through the freakiest kind of hell just because they could think of.  And it isn’t funny. But they thought it was funny.  I know this for a fact, and I will talk about this later.

I need to take a break here.  Its too overwhelming.

My Facebook page says my only regret is not having murdered them when I had the chance.  I’m feeling that right now.  Yes, I need to take a break to shake it off.  Its creepy chit, man.

Whomever is reading this, thank you.  Seeing your views registered here gives me encouragement and support and that means a lot to me.




A Very Serious & Evil Enemy Lights The Gas.

Historically, to achieve what I’d wanted required a plan.  I suppose that’s where our training comes in.  From a plan, during hardships, we are able to overcome them to keep things going.  We can even go on auto pilot.  Get ‘er done, man!  Just get ‘er done!  I supposed at the time I had the capacity to get ‘er done.  At least, I thought I did, right?

1.  Return to routine.  check.

2.  Continue working on customer’s loan transaction.  check.

3.  Research and prepare for the court case.  check.

4.  Resolve declining (actually a non existent) income.  check.

Of course there were sub categories to the focus points.  But, you get the drift.  I was working on it.  Getting ‘er done.  That’s what I do.  Its my training.

I’m not a pharmaceutical scientist or a brain specialist I can’t say exactly what was my problem.  Ten months had gone by since the Ambien episode and, rather than improving, in many ways I was getting worse.  And I had plans, dammit.  When we have plans we get the job done.  Historically when I made a plan I would follow it to fruition.  This time, though, having a plan wasn’t working so well.  I guess we’d need to ask the doctor.  Oh, wait!  I didn’t have one anymore.

And by the way Multicare and Dr. Sargent Jr. seemed to be all over me like white on rice.  I was hearing whispers and gossip from the old ladies at church and at some places I volunteered.  I guess people were wondering what was going on.  The doctor had hung his stupid picture on a 20’ plastic banner across the front of the building on State Street, which was right down the street from where I lived and was right on the path of where I walked every day.  Physically, other than from the accident, I was very fit.

Of course at work Multicare was on the line.  As well I was working on that loan for the Multicare nurse to whom I had to share there was a restraining order against me.  A no contact with anyone from Multicare order.  I had to tell her and her family it would need to be their decision whether or not to work with me.  I was such a danger, right?  sigh…..  I would honor whatever decision they’d made.  They chose to continue working with me.  They said they liked me and they knew the deal was hard, and they appreciated my time.

Really, though, with my experience the deal should have been easy.  It was not that complicated, except that there were 4 people on the loan.  One having less than stellar credit, but there were enough compensating factors to make the deal good.

A problem was that at the office I could not figure out how to work their computers.  And the manager was not going to help me, either. David Floan had been right.  I should have gone to Bellevue.   Not having help with getting into the computer was big because by that time everything was being put through electronically.  And everything I touched turned into a mess.  I could not organize, I could not correlate, and what I did put together made no sense.  By the time we received final loan documents there was a required cash to close of over $10,000.  I remember the funder was laughing to me, wondering what the hell I was trying to do, and I couldn’t say.  So, really, it was a miracle to even have closing docs.

As its customary, a good loan officer previews the documents and the settlement statement before the clients are called in to sign.  Its been my training to be at all closing.  I know most loan officers don’t, but I always have.  It gives the client a feeling of security.  If they had questions I would be there to answer them.  And being there with them was the best training for me as a loan officer.  So  I set down  that say in the closer’s office to go over everything like I had always done.  Rate, check.  Costs, ……. costs,……. costs,…….. ? Over $10,000 to close.  Oh, no. No, no, no.

To tell the truth, fixing the problem should have been easy.  A little massage here, a little massage there, and finding where things had run amok, getting new correctly docs, is what I did for a living.  Its what we do when something weird slipped through the cracks.   No big deal.  I was a pro.  So what was the problem?

Except it was a HUGE problem, because I could not figure it out, and I did not have a manager who was going to help me figure it out, either. She thought it was funny.  But, of course she would.  “Mom, Multicare’s on the line!”

Today as I look back on those closing documents, what the problem was kind of makes me sick. Because today I would easily be able to fix it.  It was no big deal. Wow, was I ever messed up!

The only thing I could do back then was call the clients to tell them the bad news, that the loan I’d found was unacceptable.  I asked if they would like to work with someone else to fix it, to which they said no.  We cancelled the loan, and as far as I know (because now and then for years I would check records) they dropped the whole matter of refinancing.  They had been very kind to me, and told me they’d never worked with someone who handled the problems to professionally.  I think what they meant is that I stood up and faced the music.  I didn’t fall apart.  Well, I didn’t openly fall apart.  But, so much for my career.

About researching the case of Multicare versus Judy I found out the law Multicare was using did not even apply.  It was b.s.  What they were doing was not even lawful

Also, somehow a street minister had crossed my path who told me that I’d already lost.  So, what I needed to do, he said, was to pull as much documentation together to file to show any reader what they were doing to me.  So I did.

By the time that matter went to court I had over 35 exhibits that included quoting the ill used law and its real purpose, my pharmaceutical records, information showing they’d violated my HIPAA rights, maps and pictures of the parking lot showing that I could not have done what they were accusing me of, and so much more.  I went there expecting to lose.  In actuality I won.  But they did not let that happen, and I’ll get into that more later.

After getting out of Pierce County Crisis Center I was still going to massage and physical therapy too.    At massage I’d been transitioned back to the daughter who had returned from China.  At physical therapy they were working on transitioning me to a private trainer, because they were getting pressure from somewhere to release me.

Please set down for this that I’m going to say.  I don’t think I’ve ever shared it before with anyone.  Maybe not even my mom.  And that’s probably because I very much admired this person, and have not ever wanted to believe he would do evil towards me.  And to me what he did is shocking.  The reality was too much for me to handle, but here it is:

One day, still early in the year, before my first Multicare hearing, probably around February or March 2006, while I set there in the lobby waiting for a massage the therapist’s father, who you all know by now I’d greatly admired, rushed through the outer door and into the lobby. He stopped in front of me and I kid you not, he very sadly said right to me, “I’M SO SORRY, JUDY.  ONE TIME I KILLED A MAN.”

Obviously he wasn’t referring to the present tense, so it must have been something from the past.  Maybe it was when he exchanged the money for the Russian tank plans? Maybe it was during the war?  How could I know?  He’d never mentioned before his killing someone.

Why would he be telling me now, while I was setting there in the waiting room?

What did that have to do with me?

Curtly, I replied, “Well if you did that than the man must have deserved it.”

Why would something that happened decades ago suddenly be so important to him to say?

He turned from me to enter a room to my left.  From where I sat I heard something that sounded like a click, click, clicking, a shutter, or a cassette or recording device being worked with.

He came out and stood again in front of me and said, again, “I’m so sorry, Judy.”

Then he rushed out just as the sound of music began filling the room.  It was the first time I’d ever heard music in the waiting room.   Things became surreal.  The music was my favorite that I danced to in the evenings for the demons.  How did he know to play that particular music?  Why did he tell me he’d killed a man?  And because of that it currently related to me and he was sorry?   What was he doing?  Why was he doing that to me?

I was nobody.  I am nobody.  Who would do this with me?  Why would he even do it for them?  Whoever they were?

Why didn’t he tell them no!?  Who were they that they were so powerful they could threaten him with something that happened, probably somehow in the line of duty, that was from so long ago?

This was big, and it was (and still is) very scary.

I think from that day forward a lot of my plans fell apart.

Somehow, from something, I had made a very serious and evil enemy.

At that time I didn’t know who it was.





Multicare. What It Means When They Say Better Connected.

After Kathryn slyly served me Multicare versus Judy the only place I could think to go for help was St. Joseph Hospital where they’d been so kind before.   I suppose I was feeling spun kind of like I had been that time with the Ambien.  Maybe they would keep me safe, again, the way they had when I’d lost all of that sleep.  I wasn’t feeling safe anymore.

In the emergency room at St. Joseph, this time they didn’t know what to do with me. The said their psych ward was full, so they assigned a social worker for the handling.

The social worker entered the examining room where I’d been left setting.  In front of a nurse she performed a questionnaire evaluation of me.  I thought it went well, although I’m not really sure what I said beyond that I didn’t want to be alone because I didn’t know what I would do if I was.  That’s a pretty broad statement, I’d guess, with a lot of “legal” ramifications.    But, I’m not a lawyer.  Although its interesting on my journey how many people have suggested I should sue “them.”  In that regard, who does one sue when its a better connected network that is fluid and in motion?  Lots of nameless faces, like the social worker who I have no idea who she was, or even why she was assigned to me.  But when her cell phone rang she excused herself to take that call.

Realizing I’d been there for hours a nurse came in to offer me to partake in getting food and drink from a small refrigerator outside my room.  Gads, yes, I was starving and thirsty, too.  The nurse told me to help myself and that the food and juice were there for us.  I stepped out to take a Pepsi.  Than I went back into the examining room to wait.  Wishing I’d have picked a sandwich, I went out, again, to get one.  As I reached into the fridge I heard someone snarl to me to get out of that and back to the room.  I didn’t.  I picked out a sandwich and a juice, helping myself the way the nurse said I could.  Than I turned to the voice to see it was from the social worker.  I told her the nurse told me I could use the refrigerator.  She told me that I cannot and to put back what I’d taken.   She still had her cell phone in her hand, talking, too.  I said, “no.”  She started yelling at me so that everyone was looking.  I was embarrassed, and even a man came out of another examining room to see what was going on. The social worker was trying to pick a fight with me in front of everyone.  I wasn’t going to fight, so I ignored her and went back into the examining room with the sandwich and juice.   The social worker had upset me, though, and I wondered who was on that call making her mean to me?

Shortly after the snack altercation the social worker came back into the room. She told me to go home.  She said they didn’t want me there, they didn’t have the room, and I didn’t need to be there anyway.  She said there are worse things than being afraid of being alone.  I told her no, that I was not going home, and if she tried to make me I would report her to someone.  Heck, I don’t know who I thought I was going to report her to but I said it anyway.  The nurse was standing there listening, and I was crying.

After another long while the nurse came back in.  She set down on a stool in front of me to talk.  Her demeanor was extremely sad.  She told me that they are going to send me to a place where I will not be alone.  The reason for her sadness was because she didn’t think I deserved to go where they were sending me.  And she thought maybe they were doing that on purpose.  She was kind of whispering, like a friend, and she told me to expect the worst.  I was grateful for her kindness.  What she wondered, so then I did too, is why with my insurance a better place was not being found for me.  I told her not to worry, that I would be fine.  I told her I appreciated being given a heads up, and also I appreciated that I did not have to spend the night alone.  She smiled and left.

After another while a different nurse came in with the social worker.  The social worker hated me.   She gave me papers to sign, and instructions to follow a person who would take me to an awaiting ambulance for transporting me to another facility just as soon as the ambulance arrived.  She said I had to be placed and strapped onto a stretcher, too, for the ride.

When the ambulance got there, I was so wound up I would not shut up. On the ride to the new location I talked a lot.  I remember telling the two people in the ambulance all about what the doctor and Multicare was doing to me.  I told them about the drugs, and what they’d done to my life, and they listened. They expressed that they could not believe it!  Even the driver was listening to me.  They were nice, and I was still kind of crying.  I was glad, though, that they were listening.   A lot of people have heard my story.  I couldn’t shut up.

When we got to the new location it was as bad as the nurse said.  Maybe worse.  The place was called Pierce County Crisis Center.  It was a quasi private/publicly owned place, as far as I could tell. They took away my purse and my soft neck pillow and replaced those with their own cardboard like pillows and as bad a blanket.  While being admitted I could hear someone behind me screaming and kicking the walls in a locked room.  I was worried about that person but the staff told me not to be concerned.  It was an every day occurrence around there.  I was assigned a spot in a room where framed plywood set about 1′ off the floor.   I set the cardboard like pillows and blanket on the makeshift “bed, than surveyed the facility.  Roaming the halls were both men and women.  The place was crowded, too.

In the gymnasium like area the showers and not even the toilets were private.   There was no hot water, not even warm.  It was all cold.  Showers would be cold.   It was December, so the cold air blew through the heavy old drapes on the equally as old and un-insulated windows.  My “bed” was right under the windows, too.  My arrival was after dinner, but I wasn’t hungry anyway.  I laid down to rest.  Than I began to cry.  I was coming down from the high, so than I was going into that despairing low like I’d mentioned before.

Sometime in the night a staff member gathered me up for an entrance interview of some sort.  The woman was extremely kind.  Like I had done with the ambulance attendants, I told her what the doctor and Multicare had done to me. From the 19 days of the Ambien, to the drugs, to the hysterectomy, to the weird burning peel of my skin after the MRI injection, to their security’s surrounding me after the pelvic exam, to the parking lot incident, to the court papers I’d just received.  I wouldn’t shut up, and I was crying.   The woman was sad, too, and very sympathetic.  She thanked me than said I could return to my “bed.”  I did, and I stayed for 3 days crying.  I couldn’t stop crying.  People came and went.  Even one time there was a pregnant woman trying to sleep on a blanket on the floor.  The halls were filling with people sleeping on the floors too.  Than someone gave the pregnant woman a place to be off the floor.

Early one morning on what I think was my third day there, while I was still crying, a woman came in to talk with me. She told me they’d heard that the authorities were going to condemn the place.  They’d heard it would probably be that evening. She said that when they do the people stuck there will be taken to somewhere even worse.  In retrospect I believe she was referring to Western State Hospital. Because she told me if I got stuck there there’d be no getting out.  She said that is what happens at that place.  She wanted me to pull myself together so they could release me to go home.   She pleaded, “Please, Judy, we don’t want you to go there.  And if they condemn this place they will definitely take you there if you can’t pull yourself together.”  Than she asked if I thought I could do that within the next few hours?  I told her I would do my best.

When I stepped out of the room some 4 or 5 hours later, without tears, to report I was ready to check out, I could see the relief on the faces of the staff.  I have never had one single bad thing to say about the staff at Piece County Crisis Center.   The place was a shambles but the caring people who worked there were top notch.

By ambulance, again, I was returned to the St. Joseph parking lot.  I’d spent New Years at the Pierce County Crisis Center, and I’d worried the truck would be gone, towed away.  Happily it was there.

When I arrived home it was still daylight.  My mom and sister were standing in my driveway.  They had expected me home right after Christmas, and when I wasn’t they called my cell phone that went straight to voicemail.  I showed them it was because the battery had gone dead.  They had been worried about me and the police were preparing to take a missing person report for them.  I told them that I’d checked myself into the hospital.  They were very relieved to see me, and after hugs and such, they went home.  My sister lived about 5 blocks from me, and still lives there.  My mom still lives, too, about 10 or 15 blocks from where I lived at the time.  We lived close by each other on purpose.  I loved my family.

When I got into the house there was a message on the answering machine from Swedish Hospital.  They had been trying to reach me.  They wanted me to know they had space for me in their psychiatric facility, and this was the only number they’d been given by the caller to reach me.  I was pretty sad because everyone knows Swedish as excellent.  Probably they would have been better for helping me.  As it was, I still had not gotten help, and I no longer had a doctor, either.

About 3 or 4 days later the newspaper reported that, indeed,  the Pierce County Crisis Center had been shuttered.  At that time it was uncertain if it would ever reopen.


ADDED: I almost forgot this, which is that the woman at the Pierce County Crisis Center told me that if I didn’t snap out of it then when “they” came to condemn the place she was afraid that I would get lost in the shuffle.  If I got lost it was possible, she said, that nobody would ever be able to find me again.  And, that may have been true because my family would have had no idea where to begin to look for me.  All they would have known is that I never came back from Whistler.  Do you see how it works, that we can vanish?


Living In Peter Piper’s Pumpkin Shell.

Stopping to add another note before I go on.  I’ve never said I am perfect.  I’ve never said I always need to be right.  What I am saying is that my doctor’s group, along with his father’s group, kills people.  While they are they pretend to anyone who might look in their direction that its not their fault when it is, too.

Following is this morning’s written summary in conclusion to a conversation that took place last evening, and what I decided to say after yet another night with nightmares and incessant praying to get me through them, glory be to God:

I live in Peter Pumpkin Eater’s Pumpkin Shell for a very good reason. I’m not afraid of the supernatural, though. And I never question someone else’s reality, either. And, especially, I never try to control their narrative. Thank you for sharing your experiences. I think I am going to consider this, that you’ve extrapolated, because I think it needs addressed to the readers. And I think its been these assumptions that gets presented in their psychological attack on us. Because if they can present we were unstable to begin with, which they do, than their schtick remains unscathed. I am here because all of those things you have assumed, for why I was targeted, is  wrong.  You said:

“It seems that in this case that you were chosen for reasons I can tell you
1. Not close w family
2. Divorced
3. Work-related stress
4. Not a endless supply of cash”

So I’ve prayed on it and have realized the need to address it today in my writing. Thank you so much for your help. In the story (Iwassupposedtodie) you’ll find a reference to an easy read called The Emotional Rape Syndrome. It actually explains very easily why people need to assume the fault is of the victim’s. In reality the fault is in the predators, and not recognizing who the predator is because its outside their comfort zone and brainwashing perpetuates the predator’s narrative. Keeping charge of our own narrative isn’t necessarily vital to our souls, but it can be vital to whether or not we are a) employable and b) acceptable in society. It is making us appear as not those two things for how they take us out. It can happen to anybody, just as it happened to the beloved Chris Cornell, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Robin Williams, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, and on and on and on and on while nobody stops the problem.

I have never said to anyone I’m perfect. I have only said that Third Reich psychiatry and Big Pharma have mastered PsyOps to capitalize on making us appear even less perfect along with giving the appearance they are perfect and the authority.

In reality we know they go into the “business” because they are pretty fucked up. And from what they have shown me they are miserable bastards and bastardettes, too. Pretty much jealous when some of us are genuinely happy people. Happy with ourselves, happy with our surroundings.

I was 1. close with my family, 2. satisfactorily married until the drugs blew my mind, 3. could come and go from work as I wished because that is the way we kept things, and 4. financially secure with all insurances and assets in place to see us both through to our deaths.

You might want to read The Emotional Rape Syndrome. Its on Amazon Kindle for about $5.

So that you know, I’ve seen God, and I’m not schizo. 🙂 Again, thank you for sharing (your perspective.)

It will be nice if for interest, in creating your own perspective, you reflect the truth.  Thank you.

Added:  This may help other sincere readers to understand the real predicament.

Free Falling

Christmastime in Chateau Whistler was fabulous.  As they were preparing for the upcoming festivities I’d considered staying over the New Year, than thought better of it.

After having brunch with a couple I’d met at the church service we bid one another adieu and I headed home.  With an event-less drive back, time took about 4 – 4.5 hours, so it was still daylight when I got home.

I loved my home with its one of a kind view.  My keeping it became a last minute contention in the divorce.   Rarely did I ever stand up to my than husband, but about the house I did.  I guess I knew in the back of my mind my condition because when he made his power play to take it I became a tiger!  I growled to him that I would give every cent of equity to a lawyer for fighting him before I would give up the home.  I told him that without the stability of its very low payment  and familiar surrounding surely I would perish.  I would not manage in a strange environment, not with everything else I was going through.  He agreed.  We’d been friends since I was 13, so he knew it.  Than he whispered, “You won’t make it without me, Judy.”   At that point I believed staying in the house was my only chance.  I knew the prognosis was that I would not make it, but I wasn’t making it with him either if he left me the night of the Ambien the way he did.  I was between a rock and a hard spot.  To be honest I hoping I would make it, then when I did he would respect me again so that we could resume our life together.  It was a good life.

Living there was a miracle for this little girl from the trailer park.  There was not one single day I didn’t appreciate it.  As it is, I am an appreciative person anyway.  There was hardly a day when I didn’t express to my husband how much I appreciated him and our life together, and I would always tell him I loved him.  It was the same with my home.  It was filled with plants that I loved growing, too.

The house had a 180 degree view boasting the Olympic mountain range which is the home of the rain forest.  I saw its peaks in the west through the northern windows.  I could see, too, towards the north across the Seattle skyline all the way to the Canadian Cascades, with Mt. Baker to the far east in the view.

Every day and most evenings during the years there I would stop to appreciate its ever changing view, and the twinkling lights of the night.  It was like live art.  And that time of the year the lights also included Christmas lights. During the 4th of July the view included all of the firework displays from Des Moines to those that were shot off the top of the Space Needle in Seattle, all the way to Bellevue’s show.  I was blessed and I knew it.

As I set down the luggage inside the family room I was appreciating how nice it was to come home.  It was 2005 so I did have a cellular phone but only a few special people had the number.  No sooner had I set down the luggage than the landline started ringing in the home office.  I made my way to get it in time, and found Kathryn Moschel on the other end.

“Where have you been?”, she asked!

What I thought was my friends and family knew where I was.  I didn’t owe it to the neighborhood to report my whereabouts.  Lord knows, when I became single I told my female neighbors that nothing would change with my living style.  It would remain quiet and quaint, and I asked them if they see any out of the ordinary to please check on me living alone.  Although I didn’t say it, I had a lot to resolve that didn’t include taking on a suitor of any kind.  There would be no strange cars parked at my house over any night.

In response to my request instead my neighbors came back with that they would not do that because I am a grown woman whose privacy they want to honor.  I thought weird my privacy was more important to them than my request to keep an eye out for me.  I was not exactly Glady Kravitz, but I always kept an eye out on the neighborhood and even one time we spotted burglars ripping off Gloria and Bill’s house, too.  I thought watching out for one another’s welfare was being a good neighbor.  But not anymore, I guess.

With Kathryn on the other end of the line I told her I just took a vacation.   Than asked here, “Is there a problem?”  She said no, and that she was anxious to hear all about the vacation and asked to come over right away to hear about it.  To which I said fine.

From the time I’d returned from vacation, came through the door, set down the luggage, took Kathryn’s call, than got back into the family room all took about 10 minutes, 15 at most.  I was on my way to the kitchen to start some coffee when already Kathryn was knocking.  Geez, she must have flown on her broom, because the distance from her house to mine was about 10 times as far as the few steps I’d taken inside the house!

I could see her face through the little window in the door.  She was looking down.  As I opened the door to her let her in she pulled off some papers that were scotch taped to its front.  She pulled them off the door and asked me, “What are these?”

“I don’t know!”, I said with surprise.  “I have just come through that door without anything there!”   There was no way upon entry I’d missed seeing them. She handed the papers to me.    Inquisitively, I turned them around to read.

The front page said, “Multicare versus Judy Lee.”  I could not believe my eyes!  From what I could grasp Multicare and Dr. Sargent Jr., were suing me in the courts. The papers seemed to say there had already been a hearing I’d been given notice of.  How could I have been given notice while I was gone?  All of this seemed to have transpired while I was gone.

I was confused, as my mind started reeling.  I thrust the papers back to Kathryn.  I asked her to  read them to me, to tell me what they said.  I couldn’t understand them.    She said the same thing, that to her it appears Multicare and Dr. Sargent Jr., have gone to court and that there has been another hearing scheduled of which I was ordered to appear.  I felt faint.

The papers were troubling enough, but more I couldn’t understand who had taped them to my door.  It did not occur to me Kathryn had just served me.  So what I thought is that some stranger had been watching, lurking outside around my house for who knows how long waiting for my return.  And from where, I wondered, could they have been setting to see me the very moment I’d arrived?  Who could that have been?  No process server could be paid for that much time.  Nobody knew when I was coming home but my family and very close friends.  I was so stupid!  It just did not occur to me it was Kathryn setting there in her window waiting, wringing her evil hands while holding onto those papers to serve me for them.   I asked her to leave, than I set down to stare at the papers.  Kind of like Scarlet O’Hara I told myself I will deal with it tomorrow.  So I got up, made coffee and began unpacking.  So much for getting away from the craziness.

I couldn’t relax though.  My head was spinning.  The papers were causing me to flip out.  I could not understand them.  I couldn’t handle it. Being alone was scaring me, too.  I couldn’t ask Kathryn to come back over.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was overwhelmed.    So I picked up my pillow that I kept with me at all times for my neck injury and I drove to St. Joseph Hospital Emergency where I asked to be admitted into the psych ward so they could help me like they did before.



What Happens When They Shoot A Bird?

Excited to get out of “Dodge”, so to speak, I could not have headed out for Whistler at a more splendid time.  Reservations were for over Christmas, so that I’d be there right through the holiday.  I knew the village would be decorated with festivities to perfection.  I very much needed a break.

Snow was falling and the roads were icy.  I’m used to driving under those conditions so it didn’t worry me.  Talking to my son before leaving he suggested when I noticed the conditions change to put the truck into 4 wheel drive rather than letting it remain to go into auto.  He said in the couple of seconds it takes auto to kick in I could be wrecked.  As it turned out he was right!  Because in the middle of nowhere between Vancouver B.C. and Whistler an Isuzu driving in front of me hit a skid, did a triple flip into the air, then landed upside down in a deep ditch alongside the highway!  It was a sight to see that happily my own truck did not repeat.  The Isuzu was upside down, oil burning a cloud above its pan, its windows blown out, and the little kids were climbing out of them.  That made me nervous so I ran over to stop them before they roamed, frightened, onto the highway.  Fortunately cellular service reached so that help was called.  A Frenchman who arrived on the scene spoke Chinese so he told me I should go on my way., to stay ahead of the bigger storm coming.  Since the people in the accident seemed alright and could not speak English, anyway, I went ahead and got back on the road.

The rest of the drive went without event, although by the time I reached the village snow was falling.  I was hungry and anxious to unwind from the drive so I left valet and the concierge to handle everything while I escaped to dining.  I was given a wonderful seating in front of the high windows where I could watch the snow falling.  The flakes were beautiful, sparkling with moisture, what I called puppy flakes because of their enormous size.  Ah, I knew this is what I needed.  No more Multicare, no more weirdness.  At least not during Christmas.

Looking back now it amazes me how well I handled myself considering being delirious.  Everyone around seemed to enjoy my company.  And I theirs.  And skiing was fabulous, too, with all the new snow.  During the day I would ski, than in the evening I would relax in either the dining room or lounge in front of the fire.  I’d brought my C.D.s.  I had the concierge bring to my room a player so that all night I could dance for the demons.  And I did, just like at home.  In my delirium I was hardly sleeping again.  I was wound up.  Only looking back later did I realize those highs and than the plummets into deep despair that had become a part of the new personality.  At the time I had no idea.  I didn’t really notice.

One day while there instead of skiing I’d rather wanted to swim.  I hadn’t brought a suit with me so I would need to locate a shop to find one.  I did, and to get there would require a trek to the other side of the village.  So I set out on foot to make it.

I’ve told this story before.  I think, a number of times.  Or maybe I’ve only gone over it a lot in my mind since its happening.  A couple of years afterward I colored with crayons a picture of it, of the man.  Maybe later I’ll figure out how to upload what I drew to this page.  I’ll see.  But, as it went, during the walk to the shop for a bathing suit, I needed to cross a street.  As I started I saw on the other side Quattro that (the suddenly terminated) therapist had told me about.  It was above the street about 5 or 6 deeps steps and set back.  As I began crossing a man was coming out of Quattro.  He was actually rather unusual in his appearance. Very tall and gaunt.  He wore a black trench coat.  Reaching that side of the street and having stepped up onto the sidewalk, he was behind me about 30 yards or so.  As I walked he called out to me.  I don’t know how I knew he was calling me but I turned around to face him. As I did he reached his right hand from inside the breast of his coat then he stretched out his arm and made his hand appear to be like a gun. Then, pretending, he shot me.  I don’t know why that didn’t bother me.  Instead I stood there while he approached.  You can only imagine how bizarre a conversation it must have been between a delirious woman and what was obviously a somewhat insane man.

As I recall, it went something like this.

Me:  Do you know what happens when they shoot a bird?

Him:  Yes, the other birds peck out your eyeballs.

(I didn’t know that was a scene in Christ, the movie. Later my friend Mark told me that.)

Me:  No, the flock scatters because they are afraid. But they come back, when they’re not afraid anymore, to share.

Him:  I feel like they are pecking my eyeballs.

Than I started talking about Jesus to him, and he listened, as we continued up the sidewalk.

When we came to the signal where I needed to go right on the sidewalk, he stopped.  He said he had to walk straight, going through the intersection, rather than turning.  So we said goodbye.

Then I turned back to him to ask if he will be there when all the birds return.  He looked very sad, then he  shook his head and said, “No, I don’t think so.”  I felt sorry for him.

That is as close as I can remember right now about that interaction.

I reached the shop and found a perfect bathing suit, than trekked back to the Chateau.  I stopped at the Concierge to get writing paper, because I was going to write to the doctor love letters.  At the desk the Concierge asked me if I’d found in the Village what I needed.  I said, “Yes.”  To that he said perhaps I ought to spend the rest of my stay in the Chateau.  He told me he thinks there is everything I needed to be happy.  And that was true, because I’d found the chapel for their Christmas service, and carolers roamed the interior of the Chateau.  The slopes were right there, plenty of shops, and so were the full facility recreational rooms, sauna, pool, hot tubs with surrounding snow covered mountains.  Like a weirdo I went to one of the shops and found a great shirt to take back for the doctor as a gift.  Clearly I was insane.

The next afternoon I read in the newspaper a Hell’s Angel who had slipped his ankle monitor had returned home without incident.  The story told that he was not found having had a gun.  For some reason I believed the story was about the odd man who had walked with me from Quattro.



One More Note: Dead People Don’t Talk.

then I’ll move forward to the rest of the trip.

That I’m here writing is a miracle.  I can’t express this enough to people. Yes, I was supposed to die, or at the very least I was supposed to slide into oblivion never to be heard from by them again.

I went 19 days and nights without sleep.  I WENT 19 DAYS AND NIGHTS WITHOUT SLEEP!!

Nobody survives that.

And, yet, here I am.

Not only am I hear, but I am here to tell and to tell big time.

Because what they did to me they do to a lot of people.

The induced in my hysteria.  I was hysterical.  Once I was hysterical they kept me there.  Not for a day.  Not for a week.  Not for a month.  Not for a year.  They kept me in the state of hysteria for YEARS.  There was no relief from them.

Early on one of my friends, whose daughter is a doctor, asked me if I was trying to ruin my doctor’s career.  At the time I said, “No.”  I was just trying to understand what he was doing to me.  At the time I didn’t understand it was gaslighting, mind games and PsyOps.  I only knew that I was hysterical, and they were messing with me.  What it was is that the doctor’s dad was going to show me.  He was going to show me just the same way he and his established network shows everyone else he screws up with those drugs who tries to defend themselves from them.    And he did show me.  Their whole gang pounded on me, and some even did it under the guise of “psychotherapy” research and class study.   They would trigger me on purpose, than laugh about it, go back and make report to obtain a certification of some sort.  Its true.  And I wasn’t supposed to make back enough to become credible to witness.  Remember, I was the crazy one.  Not them, even though they get their jollies doing this.  Do not ever think they have not enjoyed what they’ve been doing to me, or that they don’t enjoy having the power to do it to others. They do enjoy it, and they have shown me that they do.  They have no remorse.

They are dumping their crap into kids.

They are dumping their crap into the elderly.

They are dumping their crap into the HOMELESS.

They are making us sick and they do not care.

If my friend asked me today if I was trying to destroy the doctor’s career I would say, “Not only that, I hope I become his worst nightmare.  His father’s too.  And of their wives.”  I used to care, believing they are human and that it must have been me.  Something I’d done.  Something in my life was bad, the way they were saying through their network that it was.  But, it wasn’t me.  It was them. They are not human beings.  I don’t know what they are. I don’t even wonder anymore.    I don’t care.  I only hope to become their worst nightmare.

RIP Misty.  RIP Rick.





A Quick Note:

There was a time when I believed I owed it to the whole to take the hits for them. Then a friend, who actually ended up not being a friend after all because, as tough as he was, he really couldn’t handle the truth, had told me that I was a sucker for the “liberal” agenda. The truth being he was one of “them.” The truth was outside his comfort zone, his own belief system would be in jeopardy. From that what I came to realize is that it wasn’t just the “liberal” agenda making me a sucker, and that many people with an agenda will use others to do things they don’t want to do. Sometimes this is okay, because we are willing to be part of the team. Other times its not okay because we are actually being manipulated for someone else’s gain. Part of the psychological attack that was done against me included the predator’s convincing me (and others) by what they were doing to me was for helping. Indeed, I wanted to believe it, too, because all good and fair decent people don’t want to think the people we have been given to trust actually are evil. And, yet, they are. Not only that they help to operate an evil network because so called good people are willing to go along to cover their own asses. And this is why I am not going to stop writing the story, even if it is not exciting, that will tell how low the individuals in the system will go to protect themselves. This includes even if they have to collaboratively kill good and fair decent people. The truth is, they do not care, and they hide within the system giving an appearance that they do. They are liars. WITH DOCTORS LIKE THESE WHO NEEDED ENEMIES?

ADDED: I was thinking about an expose from a woman that, to me, revealed something very personal. I wondered how she could do that, expose herself in that way to possible criticism of something that personal. Than, I wondered what it is I’m doing with my own blog. And I realized the difference. I am not personally open. Yes, I talk and share, but my very personal feelings and private event I have always kept to myself. In my blog I’m not talking about something personal. I’m talking about something personal of others that was done to me by them that they don’t want revealed. Yes, they tried to shame me to shut me up. They did terrible things to me, too, that I’m not finished telling about. But none of what they did really was about me, but more revealing about themselves. It did not matter to them who I am or was. What mattered to them was covering up themselves by having access to using and making more false notes to create their own narratives. I know I say these things over and over, but the reality of them is tormenting. I will continue writing until everyone I know gets the full picture of who they are and what they have willingly done. RIP Misty. RIP Rick.