Welcome to reality

I’m a dissident, out of necessity. I am a catalyst, by nature. I am interested in how the world ticks, out of curiosity. You too? Keep reading then.

I’m also a scientist.

This site contains a world of hurt, however. I talk about things like extremism, stalking, gerontophobia and other forms of otherisation.

Sorry if I am kicking you out of your comfort zone right away now, but I’ve had something really strange and often pretty unpleasant, highly controlling and manipulative on my tail for nearly fifteen years now. It began in June 2008 and has included a freaking shitload of hacking as well as lock-picking and lots of cruelty. For me, part of the problem is the strange local ‘ndrangheta-style culture as well as the large number of gullible people. It compounds the matter.

When there aren’t many positive things in your surroundings and in your life, in order to make life better, for yourself too, you have to focus on the negatives and start figuring out where they come from. So that’s what I did.

So, here we go. Brace yourself.

Below is a kind of tool – an angle grinder, intended to cut through steel and stuff – that either one or more genuinely fucking “demented” lock-picking stalkers or random hostile elements in fucking “demented” Portsmouth use to cut into the flesh of living, not-sedated animals to spite people like me. (I’ll come back to the use of “fucking demented” later on this page.)

Even when unknown individuals pick your locks and use such tools on animals inside your home, when you start talking about this, many English people turn out to seem to consider that perfectly normal. Yep, most people here just shrug about it. Can you believe it?!

Yes, this has happened to me several times.

This theme of the decapitated bird was started when I was still living in Southsea (the southernmost part of Portsmouth).

Below is a photo of one of the victims, whose mate had already been killed to spite me earlier, after which I got the cryptic message “you needed a big kick”.

Photo, taken at 7 in the evening, a few days after the injury, of the injured side of a pigeon that had been attacked with an angle grinder and initially was in tremendous pain. Right under the bit of naked skull, you can still see the thick line of caked blood where the grinder had cut into her. The greenish color near the eye is an artifact. Thankfully, the bird’s healed well and without complications, but she’s obviously scarred and feather growth is impaired at the back of her head now.

The right side of the bird was more injured than the left so she was cut into from that side. Forensic psychology teaches that this was likely done by someone who uses an angle grinder at work. (It lowers the threshold for using it to cut into something else.)

This happened in 2019, not that long before I managed to get a professor in the Netherlands to call City Council Leader Gerald Vernon-Jackson on my behalf, after I came home from London to vandalism having been carried out in my flat again.

That professor was someone who does not actually know me, I should add. It was someone who I have never even spoken with, namely Karel Keesman. It wasn’t for example Hein de Baar, who’ll surely still remember me as we’ve still encountered each other and e-mailed off and on over the years – until roughly when I moved to Portsmouth – or Suzanne Hulscher, who knows about weird and scary shit that can happen to a person when she’s in another country or Bart Koelmans, who does not know me well at all but has met me plenty of times. It wasn’t Robyn Hannigan either, who knows about the struggles of all kinds of underdogs or, hey, Keith O’Nions (who would remember me) or Claude Allègre, both of who at least I have had lunch with at a restaurant once, ages ago. And with Janne Blichert-Toft, for that matter. It wasn’t John Parsons either or any of the folks at Bristol University that I have at least interacted with for the Geochemical Society in the past and it wasn’t any of various other folks, such as in Florida or Amsterdam if I had wanted to go back even further in time and bug more people about utterly bizarre shit that was going on in my utterly crazy English life. It wasn’t water quality specialist Dorien ten Hulscher. It wasn’t former physicist Hadass Eviatar (now life coach), who contacted Portsmouth Police in 2010, from Canada, because she was concerned about what was going on in my life. It wasn’t Mirthe van Kesteren. It wasn’t geologist Frank Beunk, who reported me missing to Dutch police in 2017 after my emails were getting messed with so that I seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. It wasn’t former physics professor Kine Sittig (now rabbi). It wasn’t Rineke Verbrugge, who is one of the people I have co-organized meetings for women in science and technology with in the past. It wasn’t Paul Bates, who’s at least met me, even though he does not really know me either. It wasn’t the former head of the DVLA, who’s also met me once, at a time when I was close to petrified with fear about what was going on in my life, but with whom I have a university and oceanography in common and who didn’t notice that I was in a rather odd state of mind at the time and treated me courteously, with the kind of professionalism that I had gotten used to in other countries but that seems to be pretty rare in England. It wasn’t Hank Greely, who will recognize my name but doesn’t really know me either. It was not Judith Daly, who has a PhD in physics, and whose organization surely had me vetted before I got to meet her at her offices in The Hague.

But I happened to be editing a paper for Karel Keesman at the time (via word of mouth) and this nonsense in my life really really really needed to stop. I was like an elephant in a concrete pit at a zoo. Powerless.

We met about a month later, Gerald Vernon-Jackson and I, but sadly, he mostly just shrugged. More sadly, I no longer had the mental strength to object at the time. (I CRINGE when I think back to that, when I realize how accustomed I had gotten to being abused and dismissed and ridiculed, and what that had done to me.) I was too fucking grateful that someone was finally willing to meet with me to speak about what was going on and listen to me, but he did not listen to me, did not hear me, at all.

I remember standing in the elevator with him and asking him what we were going to do about the culture in this town. He literally shrugged.

He thought that I was learning-disabled or something along those lines. That’s a fable that started going around in this town a long time ago, right after I moved here. That I have dementia and am technologically challenged or that I am learning-disabled and also some weird stuff such as that my father was a psychopath.

I had asked to involve two other councillors, with much better knowledge of what goes on in this town than GVJ, in our meeting, but that did not happen. Steve Pitt grew up here, I think, and in any case went to university here and ran a local pub before he became a politician, while Lynne Stagg was a teacher here, only went into politics after her retirement as far as I know and is a straightforward, no-bullshit, let’s-roll-up-our-sleeves-and-get-to-work kind of person, as far as I can tell on the basis of how she behaved at an environmental forum that we both used to be on. By contrast, GVJ is a career politician and he did not grow up in Portsmouth, but unlike for example Lynne, he knows how to make things happen. If you want to accomplish anything, you need a combination of different kinds of people, not just a group of clones.

There have been several more incidents in which animals were interfered with.

There’s been a lot of other abusive nonsense, too.

Since I moved into my current flat, I’ve constantly needed to buy new phones, as they all got hacked, some from the flat below and some because they were in my flat and the locks got picked, enabling direct access.

I’ve found a computer’s harddisk filling up with videos of the crotch and thighs of one or more women. I’ve found one of my phones filling up with gaming-related files.

Among other things, some of my Dutch WhatsApp calls were recorded in the past (2017/18/19). It worried the other person on the calls too when I mentioned it because it was just really really odd. It happened two or three times that I couldn’t make the call unless I okayed its recording but the recordings did not end up on my equipment. I no longer use WhatsApp.

Those of you locals who still think that I have dementia, am delusional, learning-disabled or what not and am making up the idea of voice cloning when I mention this should read the following :

On 5 March 2023, I discovered that one photo had disappeared from this website. It was this photo:

This is me, on the left, at an Environmental Chemistry symposium in the Netherlands, shortly before I relocated to the UK. I am pouring cola into a glass, from a can. The person on the right is my colleague Willem de Lange; we were both members of the board of the Environmental Chemistry (and Toxicology) Section of KNCV at the time. I think I took over from him as editor-in-chief of the newsletter and scientific yearbook.

On 24 December 2022, the options “Willem, policing, tentacles” popped up as location in my search window when I wanted to check the local weather on the BBC site (see this post). Why?

I haven’t spoken with Willem since 2004. I think the last time we e-mailed must have been before I moved to Portsmouth. He knew I was trying to find a new place to live including moving out of the UK, back in 2008. He knew that I didn’t like England much. I remember that he made a funny joke about England and said that it should be easy enough to find a place to live in villages in Groningen but that they might be pretty insular too.

I used to stop by on Willem’s business website from time to time to see how he was was doing and what he was doing, but it continued to be more less under construction for years. Nothing at all was happening on it. He either was extremely busy, then, or he had given up and was no longer self-employed, I figured.

I’ve meanwhile checked whether the hacker had deleted more photos. I had made a PDF of what was on this page, about a month prior. No, the hacker had only deleted the photo of Willem and me. Again, why?

A thought: Does the hacker think that I had a thing with Willem???? He’s gotten “jealous” before, after all, but that was ages ago. More recently, however, he thought that I fancied an American blogger called Greg. This Greg also makes videos, professionally, which like the blogging has to do with his expertise, not his life. Where on earth does that hacker get his weird ideas from???

Now a few things about me.

I’m a Dutchwoman from Amsterdam. I’ve previously lived in the United States so you’ll find a mix of American and British spelling on this website. I’ve been in England, the southernmost one of the four nations that make up the United Kingdom, since the end of 2004. That was never the plan. I got stuck here by accident.

My last name appears to be a combination of Norse and French, because that is where the families on my dad’s side came from, but you have to go back pretty far in time to track that down. My mother’s family came from a different part of France and apparently were low-ranking nobility as they had a family crest. That too, was a long time ago.

I am an earth & life scientist, a geologist turned marine biogeochemist by origin, turned critical thinker.

Now I get to a few tricky issues. I’m a migrant. One of those turds, you know. Excrement. Smelly. We all know what successive UK governments and Home Secretaries have been saying about EU citizens and I can’t simply ignore that. We’re low-skilled cheap labor, the government said. Our numbers must and will be reduced, the government said. We should not think that we could feel at home here, the government said.

We’re all lying, out to get you, take your jobs, eat your swans and force wages in the UK down. Yeah, right.

This – below – may be an example of what all this government-induced otherisation translates into in real life for people like me. People make fun of you because they are convinced that you are making up your professional background. Locally, it’s often been conveyed to me that I am not expected to be able to do any activities that most teenagers can do and this has not ceased over the years (and on my computer, I have also sometimes gotten the message that I am far too stupid to do anything that really interests me and/or that I think I would really enjoy; it seems that English people don’t get the concept of boredom?).

I received this much later than the date in that note, and I am sure that the contact information is fake – as I have had something similar before, from a similar address – and as it was not included in the usual postal rounds, I am pretty sure it was delivered via my then immediate downstairs neighbor. I found it on my staircase at 7pm; it was probably on a Friday. There is no PA guy “Rob” and all that. Local people are just making fun of me in this note. Local people genuinely thought that I was lying or delusional about my professional background and/or my capabilities. Later, part of the reason for that was likely also that I was forced to leave handwritten notes so that the hacker(s) couldn’t see what I was doing because I didn’t type something up.

As local stuff often turns out to be a word game based on urban slang, on 17 March 2023, I decided to look into a few terms.

  • In urban slang, a “Graham” = A person who is generally white. He is funny and chill most of the time but randomly rages and makes everyone laugh. Example: “What a Graham guy lol.”
  • In slang, “snooker” means “to deceive, cheat, or dupe” but also “nuzzling” (to snuggle up), according to what I first found when I googled that but I noticed that there are several other meanings in slang (urban and otherwise)
  • There are also urban slang meanings for a “Rob”, including “Rob is a very cute boy, with a warm heart and nice smile. He’s intelligent, awesome, smart, loved, handsome, funny, caring, kind, gentle, playful, chill, …” and “Robert is a guy that is very sweet and understanding. If you are in a relationship with him you will find out that he cares so much about you.”




One of the many things I have learned in my time in England is that anyone can be turned into a pariah. You do not have to be mentally impaired or a very unpleasant person or exceptionally disfigured or extremely nerdy. It can be started by something as simple as one vicious cop spreading nasty rumors about a person for often unfathomable reasons. Tragic is also that once you’ve been turned into a pariah, everyone dismisses you as demented or delusional because then they won’t have to do anything and can pretend that nothing really ugly and untoward is going on.

I’m a VAT-registered sole trader and company director. I’m neurotypical, but I am intelligent and versatile. Like I just said, I have an earth & life science background and once played an active role in KNCV and GeochemSoc and to a lesser degree in AGU, KNGMG, IUPAC and ASM but also certainly in organizations for women in science and technology. I am a current member of IAPG, but not active in it; I merely stay informed.

17 March 2023: A screenshot of a page on the KNCV website, showing you a few of the former board members: https://mct.kncv.nl/bestuur I don’t know all of them and the list is far from complete.

17 March 2023: A screenshot of the first results that popped up in Google when I searched on my last name and Geochemsoc.org, and yes, I ceased my activities for the Geochem Soc in 2010, after I had moved to Portsmouth. I had started them when I was still living in Amsterdam.

Post-meeting dinner with the fellow board members of the Environmental Chemistry (and Toxicology) Section of the Royal Netherlands Chemical Society, me third-left. I am pretty sure this was in The Hague, after having held our annual public meeting and symposium at RIKZ (National Institute for Coastal and Marine Management). Willem de Lange (independent consultant) is in this photo too as are Remi Laane (full prof) and Tom van Teunenbroek (govt), two great PhD students and Remi’s wife.

(Why did my hacker(s) have no problem with this photo?)

I have nothing against low-skilled labor, by the way. To the contrary, I am totally not a desk jockey. There is a lot of manual labor involved in geology (and also in marine science) as well as a lot of walking and climbing. Want an example? I collected 500 kilograms of rock samples during my fieldwork in Sweden (usually needing to be chiseled and hammered out first, after taking down their location and orientation) and they had to be crushed or sawed and/or pelleted for further analysis.

Let’s continue a little “tongue in cheek”.

Here, I have cleverly photoshopped myself into a central spot in a photo showing the participants of the postdoc course “Speciation and Bioavailability”, organized by the SENSE research school at Wageningen University and Research Centre. It took place in September 2002.

Obviously photoshopped image of me pretending to be talking at Delft University of Technology, another one of those Dutch diploma mills where anyone can collect any kind of degree from the reception desk, no questions asked. (I wasn’t talking science here, but newsletter finances and such; this was at an annual meeting which took place in 2003 or thereabouts. I still have that fuchsia turtleneck.)

In this photo taken at the University of Plymouth in 1999, I have pasted myself at the back. This was at the third Progress in Chemical Oceanography meeting (PICO-III) at which I had just talked about some simple experiments to do with the redox chemistry of cerium, a rare earth element. The University of Plymouth currently ranks 4th in the world for marine science (THE, 2022).

Photo taken during boat trip near Arnhem with Arcadis Elements team in 2003 or 2004, into which I have photoshopped myself with a glass of wine. I don’t remember the name of the woman standing next to me, but I liked her. The guy was called Onno, the partner of the woman who ran this entire undertaking. She was in charge of in-house communications, if I remember correctly, but her LinkedIn profile appears to have been hijacked.

I’m a late bloomer, though. I used to work in tourism & hospitality in Amsterdam and only decided to turn myself into a scientist when I was in my mid twenties.

Back to the story about the local nonsense

In June 2008, someone started pestering me, anonymously. In October 2008, I filed the first police report (44080 461347). By the end of the year, I knew that I was likely dealing with a sadist, but I was about to move away from whoever it was, or so I thought, so I shrugged about it. I considered instantly going to the police in my new home town and informing them about what had been going on, but I didn’t. (Big mistake? I doubt it.)

As it turned out, I had moved to the town where all the action was coming from. So, things got much worse and within a year, I lost my income. I was financially stuck and I was being targeted by something really strange. I have been to the police many times about this since (441402 84491, 441601 70391 etc). That usually only made things worse. At best, it was a waste of time that made me feel even more powerless.

Fast forward to the now. For the past ten days or so (i.e., at the end of February/start of March 2023), whoever was doing this was more active again.

  • Among other things, the locks on my door apparently had been picked again to leave the following message: “that the freedom of the individual is a precious and hard-won value which these measures corrosively attack”.
  • Also, a dial for a heat pad had been turned down to zero (but not off).

“Nah nah nah nah nah” has been an increasingly common tone in incoming communications throughout the past fifteen years.

Am I the target of one or more abusive hackers and lock-pickers who believe that if you push a woman into poverty, restrict her life severely, manipulate her by for example making sure that she does not die and keep her from meaningful interactions with others by curtailing her digitally and painting her black to others irl by spreading lies (such as that she was raised by a sociopath who neglected her when she was a child, which is bs), she will end up loving you and move in with you, or at least will admit that men are superior and bow to her superiors?

There often seems to be an incel theme in my abuse. However, these ideas are also prevalent in the local culture, so this doesn’t necessarily mean much. Besides, the infliction of cruelty for the sake of inflicting cruelty is a strong theme too.

In the past, every time I talked about what was going on, I tended to get punished for it. My internet access got cut off or both my computers got disabled, animals got attacked with an angle grinder to spite me, things like that.

Very recently, this has changed a little. It looks like I am now allowed to express that I have been fucked with and have continued to get fucked with.

Here’s another example of the kind of nonsense that’s been going on in my life.

At the end of 2019, someone started transferring my electricity account again and again and again. The company that is supposed to have my account at the moment, well, I can’t quite get through to them when I want to communicate with them, and what I get to see when I log in doesn’t add up either. I have gotten “I can’t help you with that, we have a special team for that, I’ll have to talk to the team” but got told that “there is no team” when I asked to be transferred to that team then, so that I could speak directly with them. (That person engaged in bs with me for about 20 minutes.) I also still get usage reports from the power company that I used to be with, however (no, not the owner of the distribution network as far as I know). The idea behind this may be “to rob me of my power” or “to rob me of my energy” or “take my power away” in line with a vial of CoQ10 on my kitchen counter having been emptied by the lock-picker.

Earlier, there were lots of games on the theme of “provider” (as in broadband and phone provider).

Also in 2019, I got a potential London-based employment offer, for 3 months, at about £1,100 a month. It required me to work from home, go attend conferences about modern slavery and other business ethics issues, report back on that and, wait for it, administer the agenda and do all scheduling for the rest of this remote team. From my hacked computer. With a poltergeist in it who likes messing with things and also picks the locks on my flat’s front door. Yeah, right. I’ll spare you other details.

My e-mail gets interfered with big time and some of my postal mail. There is a word game play on “male”. I sometimes get e-mails that are years old. I get messages like “e-mail is unavailable” when my mail comes in. I’ve gotten stuff about my “mailbox” having no space, my “inbox”, face-sitting and golden showers (but the latter two were quite some time ago).

Locally, I get nowhere, because nobody ever knows anything or anyone.

You sometimes can hear people say bizarre things like “X went to primary school with Y. X would never betray Y.”


(By that, I mean to refer to some kind of unknown but serious pathology because such statements reflect a profound level of paranoia.)

In addition, many people in the toxic island town with its ndrangheta-style culture in which I’m stuck, and where I don’t know a soul, seem to be so consumed by particularly their hate for women and also for strangers (or whatever it is) that they believe every lie that they have been told about me and aren’t willing to consider for even a second that what I’ve been screaming at the top of my lungs for, can you believe it, nearly 15 years now…

… namely that I’m being sabotaged to death and that there might be a reason why I got an image with text on my screen a few years ago about the malicious narcissist carefully selecting an intelligent target because he loves destroying them and because he thinks that intelligent people never expect that much malice and never see it coming and that that makes destroying them so much more fun for him… or whatever…


Because for starters, it’s far too fucking weird for anyone to make up, maybe?

Note that I couldn’t save that image (I tried) and it popped up on my screen and disappeared again before I could take a screenshot or grab a phone.

Note that I was able to take a screenshot of a message that said “I’m coming for you to cut off your nipples”. It was not online. It seems to have appeared only on my computer; it wasn’t in my YouTube Studio.

(This was in March 2022, I think.)

The ones in town who do know about what is going on – there must be some – are keeping their mouths shut because they simply decided to hate me without even knowing me and the same hacker(s) who is (are) hacking me to smithereens because they hate feminists and hate foreigners and hate intelligent people or whatever exactly it is why they are doing it are also using their hacking skills as currency to benefit those people who know very well what’s going on and keep them quiet?

Yes, there could be someone involved in my abuse who is autistic or learning-disabled, but where does the malice come from in that case? A lifetime of having been otherised and ridiculed? A few days ago, the hacker(s) gave me the hint to look into this book (or at least, this author’s work). That’s quite an expensive book to buy when you don’t even know who it is supposed to pertain to and which bits in it are supposed to apply. So, no, sorry. All I spend my money on is security measures, food and donations.

I don’t know what it is or who it is who it is who is targeting me but I do know the following:


It never struck people, also in “the establishment”, in this town as really odd that a highly educated capable woman who had been supporting herself UNTIL she moved to Portsmouth was going around picking up food from the streets here and was forced to live without electricity and hot water so so so so often here for over a decade?


Instead, some actually shouted abuse at me or called me names.

Because some told themselves that surely I had dementia.

(After all, I was over 45.)

Others told each other that I was learning-disabled or that I was a very mean, ungrateful and calculating person who was defrauding the system and was only pretending to be living in deep poverty.

(These human toads don’t matter by themselves, but they sometimes poison their surroundings.)

If you, locals, have perceived me as slow in the past decade, that was for physical reasons, such as long-term food deprivation or pneumonia recovery, nothing to do with me having a learning-disability or dementia.

How utterly desperate my situation was and how immensely vile the targeting is only became clear after 2015, the year in which I discovered that my locks were constantly getting picked. I’ve made four failed escape attempts since then.

  • In 2020, I discovered that my abuse contains elements that were also seen in a local long-term stalking case that took place about a decade earlier.
  • In 2022, I discovered that my locks were already getting picked at my previous address in Portsmouth (in Southsea).

I don’t know who is doing this to me. I sometimes get called me “angel, my angel”, mum or mother, and wife.

Is it orchestrated by someone who I once saw at the door of my building in Southampton, with my then immediate downstairs neighbor, and who later turned out to be living in Portsmouth? Or is he just a fall guy, a pawn, a patsy? How would I know? After all, nobody in Portsmouth ever knows anything about anything or has ever heard of anyone else.

For two years, whoever is doing this did their best to convince me – brainwash me into believing – that I had been sexually abused as a child and had multiple personalities. The latter continued for a while later but by then I was immune to it and I started thinking, also for other reasons, that I was dealing with someone to whom this actually applied and I tried to establish a dialogue. Silly me. (Because I now suspect that I was merely dealing with a bunch of trolls at the time. But was I really? Or was I dealing not with one mentally unwell hackers but with several mentally unwell hackers?)

The suggestion was made that “they” had been in an abusive situation as children, tried to get help and that they then ended up in a situation of worse abuse.

I was also told the following.

  • I was told that what was being done to me – such as many sadistic or weird spoofed prank calls referring to personal details in my life – was because I was from Amsterdam. (At a local InnovationSpace workshop)
  • I’ve been told that it was because of my business name. (On Twitter)
  • I was also told that it was all regular English humor. (At a phone shop, for Orange, which no longer exists)
  • I was told that it was like hazing. (on Facebook)
  • I was advised that I should deal with it by just laughing along (and giving as you good as you get). (By a well-meaning friend who had been bullied as a child) This, along with merely accepting it all, backfired.
  • I was also told that I was dealing with “a malignant narcissist, a psychopath”, at some point. (By another friend, by e-mail, in English)
  • I’ve been told that I was dealing with a “dog in a top hat” and “an art work of light and dark”. (In Skype chat)

What was I supposed to think of it? WHO exactly is doing WHAT to me? And why?

I used to think that I knew who was targeting me, but then it turned out to be someone else who constantly started popping up in real life. Eventually, it dawned on me that anyone in your phones and computers can pretend to be anyone else and could even be someone who’s hacked into someone else’s equipment.

I’ve had a message once that on my screen, it was only one person, but it is not one person who is behind this. There are different “forces” at work here, so to speak. For example, on one occasion, someone in my computer stopped me from adding the word “Portsmouth” to a website that I used to have. It seemed to indicate that local trolls scour the web for anything local that they can target and that is certainly the case, as far as I can tell. (I recall an item in the Portsmouth News.)

I’ve made four escape attempts.

The situation became completely unlivable for me and after 2016, I started trying to escape. Since then, I’ve been focusing predominantly on that, on getting my life back. Because having a life clearly was not possible in Portsmouth at all.

At the end of 2019, the hacker(s) interfered with work that I was going to do for a Chinese-American technology company that I expected to bring in around 3000 bucks. That work, apparently, was for Amazon, ultimately. (Then again, I’ve seen too many bogus internet pages since I moved into my current flat to still be willing to trust blindly what I find on the internet.) It’s known that Amazon records customers via Alexa, however, and I agree that helping them do that in my home country is not a great idea and the work wasn’t brilliant (understatement). But when you’re like an elephant in a concrete pit (electronic cage), you want out, and that work could have been my ticket out because it paid well enough. The interference happened in the same way that work I did on computers at the public library sometimes had gotten interfered with as well; these computers run on a different operating system. Two, three years later I was still getting occasional e-mails about this work, initially at several e-mail addresses. Translation: Nah nah nah nah nah.

So I cashed out some of my small Dutch pensions; that got me about 1500 euro but that was not enough to enable me to escape. It helped me survive, though.

In March/April 2022, I had a video interview for a project in the US (medical, for a government institution). There were many e-mails and I was asked to upload copies of documentation such as diplomas but also a criminal records check because I needed to be vetted. Once I had started doing that, I no longer heard a word. I asked had they received the documents. “Yes.” I was still waiting for some documents but didn’t upload them when I got those, because it was clearly some kind of very elaborate (and probably expensive) prank again. I had checked into the company and it all seemed legit, but what I found may have been faked. I still made a few calls and I also got in touch with the company that housed the documents that I had uploaded (they used Docusign for the SLA and Citrix for the uploads); all that the latter resulted in was marketing e-mails, in German. All I still heard from the company that had offered the project was an e-mail asking me whether I had heard from them recently. Translation: Nah nah nah nah nah.

I can give many more examples.

By the way, there is so much misery in England, certainly locally, that for a long time I also focused on finding ways, no matter how silly, in which I could inject some positivity and empowerment into the local community and/or into England, or a sense of abundance. Otherisation is usually related to feelings of scarcity, the idea that there is not enough to go around. Then it hit me that people did not actually want that. They wanted to be miserable and to be able to complain. It is part of their identity. They actually feel threatened if you want to take that misery away from them. Being able to complain about it is important to them.

No, hacker(s), you are not “helping” me. You are being fucking abusive, and that’s for starters because even when you think or pretend that you are helping me you cannot afford to be overt. That makes it abusive by its very nature. You cannot send me any e-mails under your real names saying that you have a suggestion for me, can you. It’s not what it is about, either. It is about manipulation. It’s about sabotage. The mistake I made in 2022, against better judgement but I felt that I had no choice, has made that very clear once and for all.

Years ago, you told me “you’re actually a really nice woman” and I thought to myself “no shit, Sherlock” but that was years ago and you never let go, still have your jaws locked around my life.

One way or another, I am always bracing myself. For interference on my screen, in my phone, with my computers or any other kind of “surprises”.

When I want to travel to another town, I cannot do any online searches related to it, cannot take a phone with me and have to pay cash for my train ticket, otherwise I’m likely to run into some stupid stuff again or have clowns following me around. You can’t make this shit up. It’s fucking ridiculous.

The “unobtrusive” people who sat down behind me after I had gotten yet another new phone, who looked at me while trying not to be too obvious and all that nonsense. If there hadn’t been those two on the bus back then on one of my escape attempts, those two who got on late and who got into my seat as soon as they could so that they could sit behind me, because it forced me to sit down in front of them, of which the guy with the purple or blue or pink or green hair then blew air at me and said “I can’t stand looking at that woman” etc, including the stuff about the two guys’ csa, if it had not been for that, and if it had not been for that fiver – yeah, that one – I would likely never even have noticed that older woman who was sitting behind me at the Costa when I got up, or that older guy at the other Costa (though I was not entirely sure about him, but he had full view of what I was doing and he was most definitely focused on me) and particularly the two Spanish people in the seat behind me on the train, right after that fiver, of which I caught that the guy without having a need to was peering between the seats to look at what I was doing – namely using a phone – after I had just bought that phone.

(I actually knew that using that phone on the train was a mistake as it would have too many people on it who are based in Portsmouth. Human nature got the better of me.)

(Also, the first fiver popped up in the snow in front of my door right before Christmas in 2009, after my income had collapsed.)

It’s FUCKING RIDICULOUS. It’s fucking ridiculous that just typing this makes me feel like a fucking idiot because it makes me feel so fucking powerless and because I know that it makes me sound like a fucking idiot. It’s all too fucking goddamn ridiculous.

And then, kaboom, I now skip mentioning two more folks and then suddenly my stealthily purchased tablet – right after I got that phone, on another trip and that tablet did not get caught right away – is now getting messed with too. It’s fucking insane.

Like I’m a fucking undercover CIA intelligence officer in Iran or whatever. I am not.

Get this… Some of this actually seems to have been based on the advice that _I_ have typed up for women who are being stalked, about how to use phones, just like I started getting voice-cloned calls – or calls from hand-picked voice talents, maybe? – after I had written that people who I know should call me, instead of e-mail me, because then at least I could recognize their voice.

It’s fucking unbelievable.

Some of this is perhaps only possible when you’re stuck on a tiny island like Portsea Island because of the geographic constrainment. Think cellphone towers. Think tracking someone. Think also “highly dense CCTV network”, the densest in the UK.

Also keep in mind that the folks in this town literally think that I am likely not even capable of doing stuff that almost any uneducated teenager can do and some that any high-school graduate can do. Wipe down counters and coffee tables. Make coffee. Greet people and tell them which door to walk through next. Nothing wrong with doing such things, mind you, but to suggest that they would be too challenging for me because, after all, I am supposed to be learning-disabled or have dementia, which many folks here have told each other without ever having spoken with me, let alone worked with me, that is a little over the top.

Yo, you hackers and lock-pickers: Haven’t you gotten the message yet?

  • You fuck with my bankcards, I very publicly throw my bankcards away after ensuring that nobody can do anything with them.
  • You fuck with my trading because you can’t stand seeing that I am making money and also because you have to fuck with everything I do anyway – whether or not accompanied with stupid comments like”we have experience with betting on football matches” – I deliberately put in losing trades and let them run – which I told you I would fucking do if you didn’t stop your fucking abusive crap, and then I really did, as you know – and just overall stop giving a fuck. (Which I had to do too, then, for obvious reasons.)
  • You keep disabling my 2FA – apparently, because that 2FA security cannot possibly be this dysfunctional, with so many serious traders using this software – so that you continue to have access to my trading account, I… wait, what?

Don’t you get it? Don’t you see the pattern? If you now fuck with whatever I am doing, I’ll help you achieve what you want, I’ll help you achieve the particular loss that you want to cause for me.

You always always always fuck with just about anything that I do anyway so what difference does it make.

  • You fuck with my e-mails, I no longer send or reply to e-mails.
  • You fuck with any of my marketing attempts, whether it’s Amazon ads or another channel, I just stop doing any marketing or just stop giving a fuck.
  • You fuck with events that I attend, I simply stop attending events.
  • You fuck with my internet access, I go to Aldi and buy some chocolate or whatever or go to Tesco for wine (or just eat plates heaped full with pasta or rice and end up coughing a lot or whatever).
  • You feed me loads of horror, anime, gaming, cars and football in my YouTube stream, regardless of how exactly you do that, or shut down my internet access altogether again, I go buy snacks and a bottle of wine if I can and watch an old DVD (that is, if/when you let me use the computer). And then I may go buy another bottle of wine. Heck why not?
  • You fuck with me making inquiries about wanting to get my broken-off tooth fixed, I simply ignore the fucking tooth and let the fucking tooth decay.
  • You fuck with me making inquiries about any other health problems, I simply get the damn pneumonia or wait to see whether the fucking foot gets worse.
  • You change my contact data at HMRC, I change them back, no matter how foolish I come across when I need to contact parties because you’ve been messing with the bank account number or my password or my phone number or some other detail again.

All there still is is your fangs and your bite. It’s always the same stupid boring stuff.

In 2011, I referred to it as clingfilm wrapped around the throat of my life.

It’s always the same stuff. The stupid hacking stuff and the stupid other abusive stuff.

Thankfully, I’ve always had great bouncebackability, too.

I want to be able to breathe easy and feel safe again, but I am determined to remain “gobby” until I take my last breath.

The two photos below show you what I looked like when I moved to Southsea, Portsmouth (where I instantly became hated and targeted by anonymous folks around me who didn’t know me and knew nothing about me). I was over the moon when I was able to move to Southsea. No, I am not suggesting that I am perfect, but why would anyone even want to be or should anyone have to be?

This blue streak was glued into my hair by a hairdresser in Old Portsmouth (Mellors), who expertly colored some of my grey hair when I was still living in Southampton. (I’d selected them on the basis of one of their hairdressers; the profile made clear that they didn’t only want to cater to very young girls or proverbial grandmothers.) Suddenly I was no longer “like air” to people, even on days on which I was very grouchy. In England, having grey hair had made me completely invisible and isolated me, but not having grey hair doesn’t protect against otherisation and smiling can make you seem weak.
This is me in my flat in Southsea in 2009, tanned and fit because I was out running on the Southsea Common almost every day and had a patio. I had bought that camera at Schiphol Airport when I was still living in Southampton and went on a day trip to Amsterdam, with Flybe. Even though I am smiling, I was already often doing my best not to cry in those days. I now know that what went on behind my back when I was still based in Southsea was horrific, which I discovered by accident (after I requested a copy of certain records because I needed an official record of certain dates). Particularly Steve Pitt, who was NOT part of this as far as I know, but whose pub I’d already been to a few times before I moved to Portsmouth, has witnessed me change over the years from someone who was outgoing and confident and supporting herself to someone who was scared, angry, miserable and utterly powerless, someone who often had no food and no electricity.

I know that I’ll never get to hear from anyone anything about what on earth happened to me here in Portsmouth, let alone who was who and what within this context.

I’ll say this, though. What’s been going on in Portsmouth and what is going on in Portsmouth, that thing that pervades Portsmouth, that thing that targets me here, whatever the hell that is, it has thoroughly eroded my faith in humans. Maybe that means that I was incredibly naive about humans before. But I don’t think so…

I so want my life back. I want my pre-Portsmouth life back. The life in which I could make decisions about my life instead of having almost everything controlled by that thing out there, whatever it is.

I so so so want out of here. I want my life back.