“It is better to die standing up than to live on your knees.”

“It is better to die standing up than to live on your knees.”

Peter R. de Vries, Dutch crime reporter, born in 1956, killed in 2021

I have been trapped in a bizarre sadistic slavery situation for over a decade. Portsmouth Police knows about it, Portsmouth City Council knows about it. Nobody cares. Because I am disposable. No more than trash.

That’s what it often feels like.

But to be fair, there’s not much they can do. There’s only one thing that they can and should address, which is the local culture and local youngsters who play an important role in it.

But that is not the whole story.

My situation often leaves me with very little to do. I have been climbing the walls with boredom for a long time. Having a hacker greatly limits what I can do.

So it may really be a good idea if I can start putting my recently gained nsights and experience to some good use.

I have done a lot of reading since all of this began.

I used to think that I was being targeted by one or more people with a narcissistic personality disorder with psychopathy. Or two people with DiD.

But I have arrived at the conclusion that I am predominantly targeted by one or two people who are autistic. Likely Asperger’s.

It’s taken me a long time to develop some idea of how this works.

First of all, autistic people see other people differently than neurotypical people do. This is one of the reasons why they may take photos of the object of their fascination. It’s innocent but can be very disconcerting for the person on the receiving end. I also constantly got asked for photos. Just photos of my face.

Second, while they don’t mean to be cruel, mean or controlling, they can be very cruel, mean and controlling.

On the other hand, they can be cold and calculating and see you as no more than a study object to experiment with.

(Source: Michael Fitzgerald. See https://angelinasouren.com/2021/09/14/stalking-and-aspergers-2/)

To be on the receiving end can be incredibly frustrating and exhausting.

And there is nobody you can share it with. It’s an immensely lonely experience.

It’s undoubtedly similar for the autistic people who stalk. They don’t see what they do as stalking and to be called stalkers hurts and infuriates them.

I’m not aware of any organisation that mediates between autistic stalkers and their subjects or who can connect with autistic people in these situations.

There’s one organisation that offers training for people so that they can mediate for autistic stalkers in courts. I can’t afford that at the moment. But that is all that I have found so far.

England can be a highly frustrating and infuriating place and to be in this kind of situation as a foreigner in England – with lots of local people who know what is going on laughing their heads off at my powerlessness – is very unhealthy. My body has become one big inflammed mess, it sometimes feels like.

So if you are in a similar position, dear reader, I hope you gain some comfort out of knowing that you are not alone.

I will try to write a book about what I have learned. Will they let me? Time will tell.

(19 September 2021. Ha. I wrote a few lines and it promptly got interfered with. 😂)

Now I will move on to a few harsh realities about England.

In England’s otherisation-based culture, people have become so accustomed to abuse that most do not consider it wrong.

Abuse of women and of people over 45, for example, is so commonplace that even Lib Dem City Council Leader Gerald Vernon-Jackson sees nothing wrong with it.

He is rumoured to be gay, he told me he is dyslexic, he is over 45 himself, but he is not female and he is in power. According to Wikipedia, his dad was Canadian, but he was brought up in an English politician’s nest and has been a career politician all his life.

There’s an Englishwoman called Melina, named after Melina Mercouri. She grew up in Farnborough. She had her own gardening business and support from the Prince’s Trust. She eventually stopped the business because everyone kept treating her as if she was a small child and she got too fed up with the abuse.

There is another young Englishwoman who works at the Navy and who walks home along Kingston Road in Portsmouth. She gets (hopefully only) verbally abused at work by men who barely have a clue as to what her work entails. She is very strong and she knows her worth. But why should she have to endure daily abuse?

Abuse of women and of people over 45 is what almost everyone in England was and is brought up with and therefore considers “normal”. Abuse is what many teenage girls in England expect from a relationship.

Abuse in relationships is more widespread in the UK than in the EU. Most are quick to attribute this to ethnic minorities and foreigners in the UK, but domestic abuse flares up during England’s football matches and at Christmas. Off the top of my head, the number is 22% in the EU but 27% in the UK.

Workplace bullying is also more common in the UK and is mostly concentrated in London and in the rest of England’s South East. The figure for workplace bullying of disabled people lies around 70%.

I am a woman. I was 44 when I left Amsterdam and moved to Hampshire. I was physically attacked when I was based in Southampton. Hampshire Police could not care less. After all, it is normal to be abused for females over 45, particularly if they are single.

As you’ve now understood, I became the target of something far more sinister when I relocated to Portsmouth, which at first sight had seemed so much more pleasant than dull and dreary Southampton.

From the day I collected the keys to my flat in Southsea, I became subjected to relentless anonymous sadistic abuse, often rather puerile in nature, but sadistic nevertheless.

This came from strangers around me and didn’t necessarily have anything to do with austistic individuals.

My income collapsed completely shortly and in a short time after I moved to Portsmouth. I’d become self-employed 11 years earlier. I wasn’t wealthy but I had been doing okay.

I became stuck in what amounts to sadistic slavery. What felt like “half of Portsmouth” but in reality must be no more than 50 to 100 individuals, maybe even less – and none of whom I know – were and are keeping me in a virtual cage, a lone fish in an experimental fish tank, and abuse me as they see fit.

They shut off my power and water just for fun, they redirect important local postal mail and mail from UK government departments and the like, delay it by sometimes more than 9 months or make it disappear entirely. Once I got handed a wet and muddy package with random letters from a period of around 6 months. They’ve been picking the locks to my flat since 2011 and I’ve spent a few hundred pounds over time, most of it recently, to upgrade the locks on my door. I’ve also added locks.

Let’s skip the details of my electronic abuse, but now you understand how these anonymous ghosts accessed my computer equipment, why I couldn’t keep them out.

Why that is?

Women are not supposed to make their own living here and people will do anything to break “feminist bitches” like me, to show them their place and show them who’s boss, it appears.

Anonymous individuals greeted me from a 1st-floor window as I was walking down Kingston Road one Sunday afternoon and then threw a bucket with liquid over me, very deliberately. Anonymous people have thrown pebbles and peach pits at me and anonymous people in one of the flats above me threw a peach cut into the shape of female genitals onto my secluded patio in Southsea. Anonymous individuals painted a slogan on the wall there, with an arrow to my name. Just a few examples.

Anonymous individuals have yelled bizarre utterances at me and a few years ago, it was made clear to me that I was no longer eligible for food bank use. (I am not eligible for Universal Credit. Not that I mind. All it does is keep you trapped and it comes with a lot of abuse.) At the food bank, it was also suggested that I had better leave the country.

I was referred to the free hot meal events around town. There I found more abuse.

I encountered a horrible truly sadistic pastor who preys on the poor at the meals at the John Pounds Centre. Everyone believes he is a caring soul. “He is a pastor!”. He gets off on people’s misery because it makes him feel far superior. He really gobbles it up and sneers at the uppity ones who catch on to his double entendres, the sting behind his innocent remarks. He revels in people’s powerlessness and misery. He relishes it, laps it up like honey.

A pastor at St Jude’s told me that there was a food handout at noon on Saturdays at a certain cathedral. I walked four hours through the pouring rain on two Saturdays to find that food. First, I walked to the wrong cathedral. The next Saturday, I walked to the right cathedral only to discover that the food handout was consecrated tiny edible flakes called “hostie” in Dutch. The body of Christ. Very funny.

When you’re going hungry, this too is sadistic abuse. It took days for my clothes to dry, longer for my shoes to dry. I no longer go to these food handouts. I’d rather starve to death. While these places have genuinely kind people too, they are also where less well-meaning people volunteer and work.

I have come to associate words like “cruelty”, “abuse”, “hate”, “barbaric” and “backward” exclusively with England. How can I not?

I have tried to escape from Portsmouth four times (five times if you count the time when I walked into the sea in despair).

In the summer of 2019, after I came home to another incident of vandalism in my flat, the locks having been picked again while I was away, I asked two professors  in the Netherlands to call Portsmouth City Council Leader Gerald Vernon-Jackson. None of these two knew me personally but they were people I was working with at the time and I am a nobody here in Portsmouth.  I needed someone with standing to mediate for me.

I’d been asking for help with my situation for years, after all, as the local police knows and as also for example former local Lib Dem City Councillor Steve Pitt knows. Steve Pitt used to be a pub landlord. I used to frequent that pub. It no longer exists.

Professor Karel Keesman called Vernon-Jackson, who owes his double-barreled name to his Canadian dad. Not much happened for about a month until yet another attempt was made to evict me and Vernon-Jackson agreed to see me then.

He decided to ignore the cause of my problems, the background of my situation. Sadly, he probably unwittingly ended up making a public spectacle out of me that signaled to the community that I was a nobody and that it was okay to continue to abuse me. So that is what happened.

Only a few months before I met with Vernon-Jackson, someone had taken a rotary metal cutter to the neck of an animal for no other reason than to signal to me that women must know their place and that this is how men deal with recalcitrant women. (I received a message.) It had happened before. (I received a message that time, too.) That bird died, this one survived. A bird had also been attacked, similarly, inside my flat while I was out. Before that happened, I had received a weird message, someone asking me how my dog was getting along with the bird. I don’t have a dog.

Gerald Vernon-Jackson unwittingly signals that he is okay with this kind of thing because this kind of thing is seen as perfectly normal here as I stated at the beginning, above. He is certainly is no exception. I can’t hold it against him. He’s just like just about everybody else here.

My birthday is coming up and it is making me nervous. In recent years, my birthday has become an occasion for extra abuse. It used to be Christmas, but the emphasis has shifted towards my birthday.

I do not want to continue to “live” like this. This is no life. At all.

Although certainly not everyone here is evil, Portsmouth is a highly corrupt sadistic cesspit at heart. It can be vicious beyond belief. I keep waiting for the crap to stop but it never does. This is not “hazing”. This is structural sadistic abuse. Persistent.

What I am subjected to here is mostly vintage Portsmouth, a city often so hostile, so insular and so violent that a TV documentary was made about it.

My abuse began on the day I collected the keys to my flat in Southsea. I didn’t know anyone here so I know that I am not to blame, that it has nothing to do with me.

As far as I can tell, there is a bunch of people here who are determined to wipe the smile off the face of any independent female of the human species who has the audacity to smile and be happy, while refusing to subject to the locally accepted superiority of the males of the species.

The aim is to break those opinionated feminist bitches, show them who’s boss and shut them up?*

Rumours have been spread about me and many gullible local people seem to have fallen for them blindly. That’s not my problem. I know that I am not learning-disabled, I know that I am highly capable and I know that I am not a leech, for example. I don’t need others to confirm that for me. I have always known very well who I am and nothing can destroy that. That’s not the problem.

The problem seems to be that, like Vernon-Jackson, many people here expect me to live on my knees.

I’m not having it.

13 September 2021

(section at the start added on 18 September)

14 September 2021

* Isn’t that true, Mr Electrician who said he lived around the corner and installed my new meter on 28 June 2021, who sort of accidentally sort of half fell on top of me and sort of already predicted that this meter would break too?

It did last week. At least, that is what it looked like. It had been registering use incorrectly off and on; I even had a negative use of 20 pence one day and some days had an inexplicable high use.

Anyway, when I topped up the key, the key did not top up the meter with the correct amount. The next thing that happened was that it rang an alarm a few times during the day and the next day, it suddenly shut off the power.

I have tried a few older keys and the meter responds to those, but it does not respond to the newest key.

The mysterious big smirk on the face of the guy at the checkout when I topped up had already made me wonder what was going on. I know that messages can show up on the till display when a key is topped up.

Still haven’t heard back from the power company.

I was unwell last week and not up to much so it didn’t matter much that I didn’t have electricity, but I am feeling better and am getting bored now. The weather has gone dark today so it’s darker in my already pretty dark flat.

Have there been pluses – advantages for me – too? Yes! Sure. Those pluses were compensation for minuses, however. This seems to create a lot of tension. I am probably seen as ungrateful, but I feel that if people had not done what they did, I would not have needed their favours.

15 September

PS Mr Electrician also helpfully placed warning tape over all the mains cables. “Danger. Treat as live.” Message? “All women are brain-dead.” It makes you a prick, dick.

16 September 2021

Yeah, meter seems to have gone faulty.

17 September 2021

No problem. I can’t switch to a different supplier as… wait for it… my address no longer seems to exist. It’s happened before, in Southsea. Couldn’t get business landline and broadband installed for that reason. It’s probably the PCC database again from which my address has disappeared?

All my e-mails to power companies come back as undeliverable, so far, except those to Bulb as those simply remain unanswered.

17 September 2021

I suspect that the next local not-so-funny joke will be to put glass fibres from insulation material all over my bed – or perhaps a bath towel, but more likely the bed – because I may have applied for or asked information about a warm home discount some time ago and asked Rockwool/Rock Panel to send me a sample because their ads funnily enough started turning up everywhere and I wondered why. There’s been a new indication of this too now. Well, at least I’ll be on the lookout for any signs of that.

The solution I envisage for my situation? I think I may already be eligible for deportation. Otherwise, I may have to commit a crime serious enough to get me a jail sentence after which I will be deported automatically. There does not seem to be anything else that I can still do to resolve my situation here in England, is there. I am done with this England thing, the weird sadism that the English seem to be into wherever you go in England. Not to mention the endless misery and the poverty. The deprivation. (I was going to add “incompetence” to this list but hey, it is not really needed.) If I can’t be me, I’d rather be dead than become a lifeless thing.

Deportation would have the advantage that I would likely be greeted by the Dutch Salvation Army and could thus avoid falling into the hands of sadistic people who would take advantage of my situation and perhaps keep me trapped in a different kind of slavery again. As an unpaid domestic worker or in the hands of dysfunctional narcissists.

I asked my embassy for help years ago, anonymously. But all that they can do is visit me in prison if I ever ended up in prison, they said.

If deportation isn’t possible, then I would rather be dead. I am done here. No more hate, no more English sadism and all the other bizarre dysfunctional shit this country is into. No more.

I was dreading the end of the lockdowns. There were 15, 16 months in which the country wasn’t its usual dysfunctional hateful Neanderthal self. It was slightly liveable for a change. I was DREADING, really dreading, the end of the lockdowns for that reason.

I am me. Not a scruffy old football that the English want to kick relentlessly. As they do with all women and many others.

18 September 2021

I think that what the locals have done is transfer my account again. That’s why my current power company is unable to address the problem.

The locals have transferred my account several times before already. Oh yeah, it’s them, not the power companies. And whether this has anything to do with autism remains to be seen.

How these two things interact? Hackers can do useful things. My autistic hackers have a highly valued currency that they can and do use.

There is currently almost nothing I can do. I spend a lot of time in the dark. Literally.