This is in sorts a declaration of intent. It should get reposted as I update the details and find time in which I can work out a final version for my donations page, so it may still containt some inaccuracies. Feedback and friendly chatter is always welcomed.
Current Revision by bleedleaf (19 Jul @ 16:19)
In the late 90s, while I was still in college and holding a steady job, I was taken to a psychiatric institute to be medically tortured through a process I’ve recently begun to understand as gaslighting. I can only assume it was for being profiled as an anarchist.
I need help with this, still. After all these years I’m still trapped inside that prison. Most of that time spent burying it inside, trying to survive in its shadow. I want, I need, to tell this story and come to terms with it. If only for myself so I can move on.
Until such time, nothing I do does more than just add to this torment. My situation is only getting worse, and the pain of isolation and exclusion only furthers it, fueling a hatred for those who’d have me get involved with their lip service solidarity while only being dismissive, associating me with this group that cause or some other in insistent refusal, dismissal, silence, turning a blind eye and deaf ears to my own cries for help. This system is run by incompetent fools and fascist liars.
I’m always someone else’s problem, until it’s time to call the cops in
and let the shrink experts deal with it.
I need verbal communication. I need a human voice, a conscience talking back to me and echoing me back to myself, to sort this out. Machine communication and words on a screen…
I do not find this entertaining. I want to disassociate myself from this. Your culture of fear, terror, war and violence. I’m fucking sick of these politics, these games, the sordid circus of our fascist for profit existence in which even desperate cries for help are judged and framed with selfish intent, laughed at and ridiculed.
I’ll turn 40 years old next year. A cancer survivor, I’m entering the third year off remission.
Along with several other injuries and conditions which recommend treatment -and severely limit my abilities, I also survived being tortured in the late 1990s by medical personnel at a so called psychiatric ward, my legal guardian at the time having been convinced by an ultra-religious uncle that I was using hard drugs, and that this was the best course of action to deal with it. Hard drugs like atheism, and anarchism, with the occasional reefer.
I was pressured into admitting suffering from what amounts to lies and fabrications. I was restrained and given hallucinogens against my will, and called a liar when I refused to admit suffering from hallucinations, insisting the injections were to help me stop having them. Never before or again in my life. (Even as recently as 2015 I was dog whistled by a pain doctor claiming some cancer treatment options were closed to me because of these “hallucinations”. I was forced to delay chemo because of it, refusing to proceed until that asshole was barred from all access to me, which they only partially complied with.) At times I was told to confess to having lost contact with reality and told to never read sci-fi novels or bibles again, bibles I repeatedly insisted having never opened for the life of me outside of my pre-teen years at Sunday school. Though I hardly ever read anything, they disagreed, and aggressively insisted it was what was fucking up my mind. Getting the “good cop bad cop” routines from nurses and therapists with bloodied knuckles. Threatened with further treatment if I refused to sign consent to receive further treatment, and to submit to whatever their recommendations for my condition would be, whatever they decided it was. And more.
All throughout being repeated that all was for my own good and safety.
Everyone is just doing their jobs.
Could’ve been worse.
After they decided it was clear I wasn’t going to cooperate with them, they would give me some loose, sometimes just a little. Once I was even allowed to leave by one doctor only for another to have me brought back for escaping. After the long weeks spent strapped to tables or locked up in padded rooms with only a plastic jug, after all the psychological abuse and the pain of restraints or confinement, the forced injections, the violent coercions, straight up torture all nice and light –nothing more than scrapes and bruises, I still followed through with some threats and attacked first best chance I got. Seized the opening no matter how small the opportunity, testing their limits. I escaped several times, I guess. Police were never far behind to bring me back either way, whether I fled or was let go. As bad as it was, I follow the news, I think it’d be easy to name other mistreated prisoners. I would definitely not want to diminish their suffering by comparison. A handful of months is nothing compared to years or even decades of similar and more intense abuses.
I was eventually sent to jail for attempting on the life of the person I was to ask permission to leave to. For several weeks then, I was moved to a different cage. This current nurse in charge had refused by claiming I was a danger to myself, that I still hadn’t signed the release and agreed to the medications, and my answer to that was kind of an angry “you mean I’m a danger to you.” Two of the medical personnel involved were granted restraining orders against me. I was found not guilty of whatever I was there for and ordered never to go near that place again, given no recourse or compensation, no possibility for justice. No one wants to hear about this, that’s the story: it didn’t happen, it can’t be real, I need help, I need meds, I need to get over it, no one wants to hear about this. In any case, it just follows the same “there’s nothing to be done about it” from referral to referral and back again to some different uncivil servant only interested in which box to check and where to stamp the rubber.
Because I always rejected their medications, and still do. Even in prison they had to force them on me, with their delicate violence gently shoving it down my throat once they realized I could fake it and just spit the pills back in the toilet later. I do now however keep some morphine in the cabinet for rainy days, refills when I can, just in case.
The story goes on. Working class life. Never managed to save more than a couple grand at once, which went on computers. The list is long: from factories to community centers to offices to construction and demolition work to kitchens and generic retail stores, warehouses, various trades and apprenticeships. This is a fast forward to a couple of decades -and several violent altercations later- past the years spent basically being a hostage to street gangs, defrauded, beaten, under constant harassment by both law enforcement and thugs, skipping over ordeals I’d rather not go into right now, and the mundane employments, the injuries and illnesses, accidents and personal conflicts, to the cancer that signalled my definite retirement from the “job” market.
I am since unable to maintain any sort of stable occupation, again. I live on the credit cards which I managed to obtain while being a student at university, with these days a deficit of around 500$ each month being as low as I can manage. My medical diagnosis barely allows me beyond basic welfare support, which by itself doesn’t even cover food, shelter and utilities. Without that credit, if and once they take it away, the streets, with everything that entails, is soon to be the next stop. Either jail or the morgue follows, it’s practically unavoidable. A total of an extra 1300$ a month would be required to cover all the prescribed therapies, treatments, and minimum living expenses.
All that would mean starting up a yearly gofundme type campaign of roughly 15 600$ a year, plus some other amount to cover for what would then get cut from the welfare checks in retaliation.
Donations of 15$ or more would get you a hand-bound notebook if you so desired, blank or with your suggested content printed inside, simply email bleedleaf@riseup.net with your details first. Once the initial production models are used up however, I plan to raise the minimum to 25$. A few of the newer books, made of new paper (blank on both sides for double the usable pages) and natural wool, are already available.
Donations over 10$ give you the option of ordering a Capicorn, or any other available –bda-, for free. Again, please provide with details by email or message first. Feel free to ask any question you may have.
Similar gifts will be offered to those who offer monthly support through patreon (soon-ish)
paypal.me/bleedleaf
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(what follows isn’t directly related, from several year later, after several moves and from a different city. Another one of those anonymous pings, the great reaction judging social cyber experiment at work, another fuck you answer…)
C’est important. Ça raconte d’où je viens et où je m’en vais.
Je sais pas par où partir pour une traduction, ça m’est venu en anglais. Je reçois jamais de feedback, c’est pas une blague que j’en demande.
Ça contient des choses qui hors contexte je ne répéterai pas.
Sur ce qui est des violences, des menaces et des injures de la gens internet, pour ceux qui voudraient m’en prévenir et me sermonner, d’un côté comme de l’autre, voici ce que j’en pense:
J’ai été témoins de meurtres à sang froid. Tout bonnement, sans artifice et délibérément, avec intentions déclarées, tout filmé, on ramasse un pauvre rien à la rue. On est sympathique avec lui et on l’invite au gym. Là-bas, son crâne est aussitôt défoncé en étant brutalement frappé à maintes reprise sur le dur planché par l’élève qui passe son examen, puis on traine le cadavre encore chaud pour le garrocher dans un conteneur à vidanges pas loin dans la ruelle.
Rite d’initiation et avertissement. C’est ça les black ops. On en a même fait une vidéo qui fut publié en ligne. Les peu de mentions du crime dans les médias cependant laissent entendre au mystère, et les déclarations de la police ne font que rajouter à la terreur. Les informations de tout le monde étaient pourtant là, et les enregistrements indéniables. Le tracé de sang lui-même aurait difficilement pu être moins subtile. Le message était clair.
Les tops commentaires sur le clip à ma dernière connaissance? “Un n* qui en tue un autre. Who the fuck cares!” genre.
Ces gens sont toujours libres et vivant.
Ça ne fera même pas bientôt une dizaine d’année de celle-là.
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Les p’tit pitous qui grognent sur internet pis qui sifflent dans la rue, trop peureux de se dire sans se cacher, j’en ai rien à chier de leurs menaces. Mais vraiment rien.
