I feel like puking my guts out

(I stupidly keep aspirating food and beverages and then coughing my lungs out. I guess it represents how sick I am of things.)


I would like to make sure that NOBODY ELSE is ever victimized by my stalkers and others the way I have been.

Something  – anything – like what happened to me here in Portsmouth is never going to happen to anyone else, ever again. Period.  

I was 48 when I moved to Portsmouth, thinking it was really nice town, much better than Southampton. I am 60 now and the hell mess that my life became when I moved here still continues to this day. 

Whether I am genuinely being stalked or people in this town decided to fake it, killed and injured animals and all. (I think I am genuinely being stalked by two seriously unhinged people, by the way, but they have an army of “flying monkeys”.)

And it is NOT OKAY.


The pandemic’s been keeping me here – not to mention the sadistic interference with the work I was going to do for that Chinese company last year – and likely will keep me here for a little while longer. It’s changing things.

So, no more me keeping silent to avoid more retaliation as usual and god knows what else. No more. No more begging the police for help or begging Portsmouth City Council for help or begging anyone else for help. No more leaving notes all over town in the hope that somewhere someone is going to notice it and take some action. (I get it. This town has a culture of abuse. Well, that too is going to stop now.)

(I keep getting these questionnaires from Portsmouth City Council about how to attract more businesses to this town and what not and while I complete them, I keep asking myself what on earth these people are thinking… pretending that Portsmouth is “Chichester by the Sea” and sugary sweet, all welcoming smiles.)

Not everyone here is bad, but Portsmouth’s bad apples here are ruining this place for everyone else.

Like I wrote a few days ago, my patience is paper-thin these days and I have built up so much internal garbage while in Portsmouth. It’s not healthy to bottle it all up.

(I will likely shut down this site by the end of the year when it expires as all it still does is serve as a place for me to vent. Over the years, elements in and around Portsmouth – whose initials apparently are SH and CH – have managed to shut down all of my professional and business activities – there is literally nothing left; the last bit of business and professional activity I still had was terminated on 29 September 2020 – so I will likely have no more need for a website.)

As you can also see below, the world we live in is challenging enough without people here in Portsmouth making it a lot worse IRL. There have also been people here who targeted the family of a missing man, quite similarly as I have been targeted. Nothing about that is humorous in even the smallest way. People who laugh it off are just as bad as the people who do that kind of thing.

This woman too says that she checked out the guy’s social media accounts to see what he was up to and “wasn’t coming out to get me”. I used to do that too as my stalker would often announce it in some veiled way if he was planning something so I checked his accounts with the idea of maybe being able to prepare myself for whatever he was up to next.

He for example announced “setup day” in August 2010, on his Twitter account. (Or was it September? I can probably look it up if I have to.)

(This was at my previous address, before things got out of hand much more.)

Officers at Portsmouth Police have no idea – no idea whatsoever – what stalking does to victims. They had no idea – no idea whatsoever – why you might want to keep track a little bit of the person stalking you to have an idea of what he might be up to, what he might be doing to you next. 

The impression I have of police officers is that they have their jobs because there is this organization called the police and it has to have employees to exist, that there is almost no connection between these officers and society. They’re like any commercial organization, pretty much. But we are the ones who pay these officers’ salaries and that should matter.

Some police officers here even joke about it and suggest that being stalked this way is a compliment, or a convenience, something handy to have around. (I kid you not.)

They also may be playing stupid games with victims. One police officer told me that I had to go to Southampton as that was where I filed the first report. That turned out to be utter BS.

Some have encouraged me to do my own investigating and report back to them which others than said about “why are you dropping off these reports?” On one occasion I was told that I had already been in to report something, the week before – nope – and that they had been at my residence to follow up on it.

(They’ve done quite a bit of nastier shit too, depending on how you see it. I have zero confidence in police left. None.)  


I am rambling now. I still have got so much bottled-up frustration from the past 12.5 years.

Bottom line: the shit stops. All of it. Period. Whatever it is.

Whatever the hell it is that is directed at me, including if it is all coming from my landlord these days as a geologist in Amsterdam started to believe. (I don’t think so, but in crazy Portsmouth, anything is possible. And he too apparently is one of those crazy Pompey born and bred dudes. So who knows. How the hell would I know? I am Dutch. Dutch people are pretty down to earth and as a rule don’t do a lot of batshit-crazy stuff. It seems to be the opposite in England, certainly in Portsmouth.)

One of the things my stalker once wrote to me was “We ride together we die together“. Why? No idea. He’s done other strange things about some of which I now know (as of 2 October 2020) that they seem to have been inspired by a sadistic stalking case that began very locally (Gosport, Fareham) and later moved to another county after the victim’s marriage fell apart as a result of the stalking. (The stalker  – a Navy communications expert – had bugged the couple’s bedroom, among other things.) She moved back in with her parents, in another county. That stalker went to prison for life – with a minimum of seven years – after he tried to kill the next victim.

Whether that means that my stalker(s) study cases to pick up on things to do to victims which they then fine-tune or whether it is so-called Pompey humour, I couldn’t say.

Yeah, all truly hilarious, eh, Portsmouth Police.

Maybe one day you lot can explain to me what the fuck is supposed to be flattering or romantic about someone killing and hurting animals just to spite you.

And that is just one tiny detail of all the crap that has happened to me within this context.

(And what the hell do dogs – and cats – have to do with it? That, too. For example, one attack on an animal came after a DM in Twitter asking me how my dog got along with the bird. It sounded creepy – vaguely threatening  – also because I don’t and didn’t have a dog. Why that bird was attacked while I was out? I have no idea, but one thing is sure. There really is nothing romantic or flattering about that. The only indication I have about the person who did that – in my flat – is that the person was likely wearing a black jacket or black pullover, because of the bird’s response the next time I wore a black coat.)

And when I called my landlord about the locks constantly being picked, he said that it was just local kids who were doing this, who were going into my flat all the time and not to worry about it.

Excuse me? I called him from Fratton Station, as I was on my way to the airport but the train had not arrived yet. This was right after the ice cream incident with the neighbours on the ground floor (the day after I think) and I felt that things were getting out of hand; I mentioned the incident in the comment under a previous post: https://angelinasouren.com/2020/11/13/this-6/#comments.

On my way to the train station that day, one dude who I passed along Fratton Road commented loudly “There goes the deposit!” He was on his own and he was talking to me. I have no idea who it was. You’d have to ask him what he meant by that. In 2016, this was. I’ll look up the date. (And when I wanted to do that a few seconds later, the computer directory for the RiverCare project for the University of Twente evaporated on my screen… That is typical for the kind of taunting I have been exposed to since 9 June 2008.) But I found the e-mail, instead. The day was 31 October 2016.

I made an appointment to meet with the landlord on the Saturday after I returned but he never showed. During the phone call, he said he often hung around near our flats on Saturday anyway, which surprised me, so it was easy for him to meet with me on the Saturday after I returned, he said. I had no idea what he looked like as I’d never met him, but definitely nobody showed up. Although I have meanwhile been told that he apparently said something to me in person once without introducing himself so without me having an idea as to who he was, I am pretty sure that I still would not recognize him.

So, Mr Grant Murphy, did I speak with you on 31 October 2016 when I was on my way to the airport and called you from my mobile or did that call, too, go to someone pretending to be someone else? You answered the phone with something along the lines of “Student accommodations” and when I then asked for you by name, you said that it was you I was talking to.

If it was you, why on earth did you tell me not to be concerned about the locks getting picked all the time, that it was just local kids who were doing this?

One thought on “I feel like puking my guts out

  1. One of the most annoying aspects of my sadistic stalking experience has been the need to hide things in my own home so that whoever picks the locks and goes inside when I am out won’t find them. It is highly impractical, so impractical that it is not something I do diligently – but should.

    It forces me to find the things I have to hide, such as certain logins, which can be pretty annoying. So I don’t do it nowhere nearly as much as I should.

    As a police officer once pointed out to me, the lock-picking also means that I should keep all of my ID with me at all times. I encountered that police officer in a police van along Clarence Parade or South Parade, when I was on my way to my landlord after a lockpicking event and decided to ask him for advice. When I approach random officers in the streets, I tend to get a beter response than when I go to a police station. This officer openly told me that I could report the lockpicking and recommended that I did, but he warned me that it would only be treated as “intelligence” and that the police wouldn’t do anything else with my report other than treat it as intelligence.


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