AND THEN I WAS ILLUMINATED: THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE HAS ARRIVED
SELECTED CHAPTERS: TWO
This post is the second with excerpts from a new, important book. Read Selected Chapters: One here. Links to buy and read along: Ebook, Kindle, and paperback (Amazon or Barnes & Noble).
AND THEN I WAS ILLUMINATED
THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE HAS ARRIVED
SELECTED CHAPTERS: TWO
Mind control techniques, developed by Intelligence, presented to the populace via technologies devised by War, in a program run by employees of a combined civil and military Services outfit along with their civilian contractors, built atop the horror of the surveillance state, will be used to control us all. Safety, they say.
3. A Day in the Life
“You’re basically our pet.”
- System Operator
It may be impossible to express how frustrating, debasing, and debilitating being subjected to this particular suite of psychological tools is but I will try.
I wake up every day hearing whispers and squeaking in my head, knowing that the disturbing, vivid dreams I just departed from have been scripted by the machine in order to program me for the day. Extensive attention is payed to my member, nothing like natural morning wood but an association program, an artificial control on my libido. I hear the Voices talk about whether I’m horny enough or too horny, that I’m too frustrated or too pissed off to work out that day. I try to ignore it.
When I get out of bed, the high pitched whining Voice in my brain stops as the Voices reverberating in the room announce to themselves that I am awake. The room I’m in actually vibrates, subtly, as energy is projected at me at frequencies just slightly off enough from the sound being emitted by local sources to create apparent speech patterns that deliver messages to me, other operators on the network, and back to the System itself. These vibrations form a major chord, with a low note, two middle notes, and a dissonant high note. Their frequencies are related to my physiognomy and the shape of the space that I am in; the fundamental note of this chord happens to be that of my own voice when I speak at ease. Each note carries a Voice; each is a channel for communications. I hear one Voice tell the other that he or she or it performed poorly, did not provoke the desired behavior in that moment because it applied the wrong tactic. It sounds musical, which draws my attention; the low frequency channel sounds like a dubstep bassline, in particular. I am reminded that I cannot even listen to or play music anymore. I sigh within and move on.
I try not to respond to the insults that I hear as I prepare myself as quickly and efficiently as possible for my shift at work. If I mess up and do answer an insult (by thinking a response to myself, privately in my own mind), the System asks me why I would speak to the Voices it projects into my brain as if it’s blaming me for recognizing the strains of subliminal programming and ego destruction to which I am being subjected against my will. I take a piss and my anus starts to tingle and then itch, which happens nearly every time I evacuate my bladder, a control installed a few months prior to intimidate me into doing something or not doing something, I don’t know. To frustrate me, so that I work out, I think. Instead, I take that frustration and fold it up inside, where it can fester and eventually manifest in a heart attack. I’m simply not going to do what these people tell me. I will not consent to torture.
I happen to catch a glance at my slim form in the mirror, at how scrawny and unhealthy I am, at how I’m falling apart. Seven years of torture have not been kind. I realize that my girlfriend left me in part because of how unattractive I have become. I add another two things taken from me to a rather long list. As I dress, my spirit of resistance and lack of compliance are logged and apparent cause for further abuse, because they hit my brain with their headache ray. I wonder just how much damage they’re doing or have done to me and whether I’ll have any brain cells left by the time I either get them to leave me alone or I die. The anxiety causes heart palpitations. Or is this a direct result of some System function? I cannot remember. Then the thought is gone, replaced by nonsense.
When I get to my car, it vibrates too but differently. More intense. The chord is minor, related to the major chord I most often hear. When I light a cigarette, I hear the Voices tell me that they are healing my lung tumor and I am assaulted by perhaps hundreds of different memories of hearing this, hearing that they know they went too far with me and that’s why they’re healing me but I’m too unhealthy so I need to do exercise and we always leave test subjects healthy, and even a few memories of conversations between the Voices where one was instructed by the other to convince me that they are actually healing my lung tumors (belying the fact that they are not). After inexplicably forgetting, I remember once again that I am under invasive observation and that I am being reprogrammed. I become enraged.
Momentarily, I attempt to use my visual thinking instead of my subvocal speech in order to disconnect from the System, but I can’t. Not well. My visual cortex has been altered not to function so that I cannot access my memories and to force me to think with words, a method probably easier to log, disrupt, and control. As soon as I activate my imagination, use my visual cortex, I see horrendous concatenations of people and concepts and ghosts of memories distorted by years of this unnatural torture. Normally, I have to stop using my imagination but this time, I persist. I imagine tearing the spine and connected skull out of the back of one of these System operators before smashing the berry of his stupid, corrupt melon against a wall. Streams of blood and chunks of brain-matter stand out brightly against the whitewashed cinder-blocks as they slide toward the floor and I stand there with my fists clenched, making sure that I am clothed and that no one is near me. (Because of the extensive sexual molestation and several, severe programming errors, I must always be clothed in my mind, which takes energy to enforce. They often attempt to use my imagination for me, which takes significant amounts of mental effort to overcome.) Then I feel a sharp pain in my left prefrontal cortex and the shrieking Voice that rides on my vehicle’s AC states that I was getting too violent. It doesn’t say this to me, but to another personality, another Voice, by way of explanation.
My imagination shuts down. I rededicate myself to publishing and explaining what is happening to me and many others and the Voices change their script. They all begin to speak with each other about how stupid I am. “He’s writing a book about how stupid he was”, they laugh. “He thought you were three-year-olds”, they state to one another, derisively. I suppress the immediate thought, “that’s not true, you idiots!” and I suppress the anger, the reflexive response to this pointed agitation, as memories flood my mind of hearing seven Voices playing the parts of older witches teaching their young how to perform spells in raucous, hours-long roasting sessions that I was forced to listen to every day for months while working in dangerous construction sites or attempting to grieve my recently deceased grandmother utterly alone in my home. That they think I thought any of the Voices were children when I did not (two characters claimed to be teenagers at the time but I was dubious of this as well), means that human actors are likely involved, and they’ve forgotten the roles they played.
I recognize for the hundredth time that there is a slight disconnect between my actual understanding of events and the System’s readout of such, a mismatch which might reveal the limits of this mind reading technology or provide other interesting insights. While I write a note, I remind myself that they are using these insults to depress me and derail me from doing my work. They stab me in the brain again. Because I was taking notes, apparently.
When I arrive at work and see my coworkers, I suppress another surge of memories of them as zombies, of years being tortured at my job as I tried to discern who was talking, who was doing this to me, who was controlling other people, so I could get them to screw off. I tremble a bit with rage and play it off as I get a coffee. The Voices are talking about how best to use their controls and I passively aggressively mention to my peers some small fact about this bastard experiment in which we are all unwilling participants. The Voices start telling me not to talk about them. Then they speak to one another about how much I know or I don’t. They tell me that I am dangerous. I light another cigarette and am exposed to a conversation, revealed through the jet-engine-intense industrial ventilation system nearby, about the fact that I was too old for this nonsense, this process. I am reminded for the thousandth time that I was not neuroplastic enough to be programmed or repaired. I get angry and start thinking phrases like “human rights violations”. My brain starts hurting more.
Then the Voices change the subject, screeching that if I continue to drink and smoke and don’t work out I’ll soon die. I think to myself, “I know”, and feel shame for being unable to ignore the unremitting incursion of these signals upon my psyche. It’s been long enough, why can’t I learn to ignore it? I sigh and sip my coffee and smoke, away from the others because to be around others causes nonsense trains of thought to spring up, misshapen circuits in my brain caused by poor application of the tools and concepts the System used in its attempt to rewrite the functioning of my mind. They say via an idling car nearby that I could get more pussy if I worked out.
Whatever I was trying to think about disappears as am forced to confront the fact that I will probably die alone. I remind myself that I only want to think properly, unmolested, and that there is more to life than sex (though you wouldn’t know it if you could hear my current programming regime). I’d like to be able to read a book, you know? And think about it. In complete sentences, if possible. Thanks. But my desires are absolutely unimportant.
Miraculously, the industrial ventilator shuts off for a moment, the air conditioner for the office shuts down, and the neighbor’s idling car drives off. I can hear only the birds in the yard. The Voices in their calls continue to berate me for my bad behavior but at least they don’t sing constantly, just often. As I finish my second morning cigarette, I try my best to enjoy the few seconds of solitude in the silence of the gaps in birdsong as I try to remember whatever point I was refining before I became distracted. Something about how they’re training their behavioral control models on me. That they will use what they’ve learned from torturing me and the data they’ve recorded and stolen from me to do this to others, better, faster. More efficiently. More effectively. I suppress the urge to end my life immediately. Then the ventilator turns back on and the demon voices start to shriek once more. I twitch a bit and hear one Voice tell another that it can see why they’re messing with me; it’s funny, enjoyable. “He even throws his hands up”, they say, noting my rage tic. More damage is done. They say something about how one of them was trying to use me for politics apparently, but I’m too stupid. I start twitching again. I never wanted to be a politician. Then they tickle my balls and tell me to do pushups, even though I’m at work and I can’t and they know it. The low frequency Voice laughs and tells the others that they should have just suicided me.
This is all within twenty minutes of my becoming conscious.
It gets worse later on. After my shift while I smoke a cigarette and chill in my car, collecting myself after hours at a construction job where I’m forced to work with zombies, they start to stimulate my testicles while the warbly VLF voice asks me, disgustingly, if it feels good. Another voice tells me that this stimulation means I should do pushups. When I get to my room and start writing, they go so far as to give me erections and imply that I should turn on pornography and masturbate. In lieu of writing, of course. Or to manage my libido in an astonishing display of disregard for my privacy and agency. I ignore this and try to work and get a dose of artificial blue-balls as a reward.
When I write something they don’t like, or I start to remember something that gives me insight, they cause my temporal lobes to ache and I feel other painful sensations throughout my brain as they ostensibly chase the physical location of my memories. When I do remember something, a flash of an image, they stab my brain again and a screechy Voice says, “don’t use your visual cortex!” The whole time I am forced to hear what sounds like two people and artificial decoys speak about whether or not I will publish, how suitable I am for this and that. Predictions about what I will do. They tell one another that I will nap for an hour. They project a particularly awful (to me) image into my brain and one of the resonant voices singing in my environment tells the others, “that’s how we distract him”. They are using me to train new abusers, both digital and organic. More headaches when I note this event. Sometimes they will turn down the signals for a little while as an incentive to make me do what they want. I enjoy these quieter moments as best I can. The Voices are still there, though; they never really turn off.
When the three signals return to full strength, first the periodic bassy roar, I hear complaints that I haven’t done what they asked. Or other awful things. That they have “already tried to heart attack” me but it didn’t work. This statement requires interpretation from me in that moment; I am forced to spend time assessing whether it is an actual threat or a strategic comment meant to scare me into working out, thus helping them meet their goals in this involuntary behavioral readjustment program. It makes me remember last summer when they reached electronically into my chest and thumped my heart hard in my chest. I had forgotten about that. I reach for my notepad to write down what happened, because if I don’t the memory will be gone. They start to burn the nerve endings in my genitals. This is actual damage to my body, by the way, and it appears to be permanent. They do this to punish me for taking notes, or not following their inane commands. It’s unclear. There’s too much input for me to tell.
The System makes more predictions. He’ll sleep for two hours. He’ll go here. He’ll do this or that. The resonance follows me to the bathroom and gets much stronger in the tiny space, causing audible and recordable peaks of sound. I turn on my recorder and the signal gets quieter. I stop recording. Weird things happen again when I pee. System operators or their semblances talk to each other. Questions like “You thought he was rich?” and “You tried pussy-whipping him at his age?” ring out, as if the tile walls had momentarily been made into loudspeakers. I know that, when I lay to sleep with a lump of insulated lead on my face to protect the memories they are removing via hypnosis and energetic disruption, the whispers and squeaks and images and testing will all get stronger as my tormentors engage in sleep deprivation tactics to further wear me down. I want to deny them their prediction and stay awake, but I’m too exhausted. I have to check out for a bit. I just can’t hear it any more.
I could go on.
All day, every day, psychological and physiological stimuli are applied without pause in order to program me like a machine, with total disregard for my humanity, my decisions, my damned schedule, even. For the System, I am a machine in fact. If they apply this or that stimulus, they will get the desired result. Eventually, anyway. I’d hate to think that this nonsense actually works on people, but what I hear and see, my own experience, and my unfortunate gut feelings tell me that it often does.
What follows is as full a rendition I could make of the process I underwent when I became a test subject for these technologies. It is the whole thing, the entire experiment, from day one until now, as it continues. If it becomes either boring or too much, consider skipping ahead to the essays in part three, which begins with chapter 46. Why?. Also consider reading chapters 6. Misinformation, 10. The Voices, 16. Scripts, 17. Modern Psychology, and 24. The Compass. Please, enjoy!
4. My Subjection
“He’ll make a nice slave.”
- Whispers, Brain Programmer
Needless to say, I did not react well to being a test subject. I was basically a complete idiot for six and a half years before I realized that I was not experiencing the directed energy of psychics or some other nonsense, but that of a technology designed to torture and control me. I could have called this book I Was A Idiot: How the Observer and Controller Class Abuse Morons like Me. I have to forgive myself every day for not getting wise sooner but that’s really how bad it is. All day, every day, year after year, I have been subjected to purposeful reprogramming, body manipulation, unnatural brain stimulation and physical attack, sexual torture and, worst of all, the Voices. Nearly forty thousand words a day funneled without pause into my brain, reacting to everything I think with insult, misdirection or worse, embedded in the environmental soundscape and as squeaks and whispers in my head, every waking hour and then even in my dreams. And with the weird body stuff and the making zombies of the people around me, I can honestly say it was and still is more than a little difficult to think. Also, I am not the one projecting energy at people, dissecting their minds in vivo, using nothing less than the other people around them to reinforce delusions in order to effect and maintain control. They are.
I was first overtly subjected to this technology in September of 2018. I say overtly, because I was already under observation although I didn’t know it. For a few years I had been experiencing a strange tinnitus at night. I thought it was the music I was playing with others and at my home, ear damage. Sometimes people call this phenomenon the sound of silence: in a quiet room, a high-pitched sine wave, like a tiny bell ringing in your ear. The common explanation is that it’s blood flow in one’s brain or something. I remember actual silence. And I remember hearing this pitch for year or so, too.
I remember the exact day and circumstances in which I was first contacted by the System. At the time, I was playing music in a band and we had bi-weekly practice. Earlier that week, I had mentioned to a band mate that I stood to gain a fairly large sum of money related to the sale of a software product I was developing. Two days after mentioning this, while getting ready myself for practice, strange and disturbing images were suddenly and vividly projected directly into my mind.
It was like nothing else I had ever experienced. I was in the shower, thinking about something else, my imagination or mind’s eye running as normal, and foreign images appeared in my mind atop the things that I was imagining but somehow clearer, like a digital photo had somehow been sent directly to my visual cortex. Like a single frame that made a hole in my internal visual space and remained static over and clearer than the moving images of the memories I was reliving at the time. Again, like nothing else I have ever experienced. The content of that imagery combined with what I was thinking about in that moment formed strange, artificial connections between a large number of sensitive core concepts that, in a single instant, caused severe and most probably irreparable brain damage. I left the shower shaking.
At practice I was in a daze. I didn’t know who or what had sent me those images or why, if it was organic or technological or what. I knew that it was not simply a mistake in my brain, some misfiring of neurons. Someone or something had clearly communicated with me from a distance. So I was aware, watching, afraid, stressed, etc. I noticed while playing that another band mate, not the one I had spoken to about money, was concentrating on me more than normal, looking at me quite intensely, which was quite unusual and out of character. And then my brain began to buzz, to fizzle, just a bit, tingling in a region that I later learned was my left temporal lobe, an area normally used for speech formation and information processing.
I was nearly catatonic. Someone had communicated with me from afar and my band mates were potentially gifted with some form of telepathy or what, I didn’t know. This was the basic trick, a belief made and reinforced in one evening by shocking me and then presenting a subtle clue that it was other people. Possibly these people around me. Were they the ones who had hurt me? Was that initial shock or psychic shot part of some hazing ritual for the knowing? Were they the only telepaths or was everyone only playing coy and had learned, from early age, something I had not: how to sense and feel the thoughts of others? What were the physical, the mechanical conditions necessary for this kind of communication? What were the implications? How deep was it? Could other people read my thoughts like hearing my voice on the phone? Did they only get impressions? Could they see images? Would they see me struggling with and trying to undo the damage that that first “message” had done? All these questions and more swirled within me as I tried to cope with and readjust to a new world I had apparently entered somehow, a world where there existed few or no borders between minds.
The next few practices were more normal. Externally, at least. No more odd staring at me, no more brain-tingling. But as I tried to deal with what I’d experienced, the damage just ground down further into the core of my being. More materialistically, I should say that the artificial connections between concepts that I was attempting to disentangle (actual, physical structures in my brain created when that external interference impinged on me) were growing with each experience and memory made after the initial attack. A trauma flower, blooming rapidly from the moment I was accessed. And all of this took place during musical performance. If you are not a musician and have never performed in groups, it is an all-encompassing experience. Your motor control is engaged, your awareness is split between the different rhythms and melodies and considerations of the other people in the band, etc. Even in this already stressful situation I tried to reason, tried to understand. I thought that maybe we were using sound from our instruments to talk? As a wave along which to transmit our thoughts? That’s how we synchronized our minds to form a channel of communication? That would be cool. But not cool was the suspicion that the weird things I was trying to fix in my mind were somehow visible to the others around me.
That was the most damaging aspect I think, originally, at least. The awareness that one’s mind is being read, especially when something is strange or alien or wrong, causes horrible trips and malfunctions in one’s thinking, stilting and derailing thoughts at inception. Even if nothing is wrong, the idea is shocking. Imagine living an entire life knowing that your thoughts are insulated, that some snap judgment made about someone on the street, for instance, will never reach or harm them, and then being presented with possible experiential evidence that this is not so. Imagine having to manage all of the normal social considerations one normally makes, but open and visible to everyone. The final, innate boundary of privacy is the skull.
I was in a prolonged state of shock, simply trying to understand, and barely able to think. The presence of this damage (and likely a heaping dose of unrecognized subliminal input) caused a stubborn loop where I would try to negate or move around the damaged sector in my brain, yet my consciousness just kept hitting it as if it were a wall. The stupid idea I was using to comprehend what was going on, the idea that other people were reading from or speaking to my mind, only reinforced that damage and made further connections while at the same time splitting my awareness into a multichannel stream. The System would reinforce this idea for years. Not knowing who or what it was, I looked for answers everywhere, in every little detail. I paid attention to everything. For years. An exhausting practice that, in retrospect, did allow me to learn a lot, but which damaged my health and my mind and distracted me from properly reasoning about what was happening and living my life as I should.
It was a nightmare. I’ve met others since, people close to me, who hear Voices from time to time, almost like instructions, and most of these people do not overreact as I did. But they think they’re hearing great spirits or saints or dead relatives and possess belief systems to which I do not subscribe, beliefs I will accuse the System of abusing. And the use of music to abuse me I find to be exceptionally cruel.
Music as a discipline and even as an experience touches a large number of brain regions and functions at all levels. It incorporates higher-level thinking in the form of creativity, critical analysis, social understanding and gaming, lower-level stuff like motor control and muscle movement of the limbs and throat, dexterity, visuals and imagery for those with tendencies toward synesthesia or an aptitude for marketing and art, hearing and language and memory triggers and making friends and meeting members of the opposite sex and having fun and movie soundtracks and nearly all of the human experience. It pervades life. While it makes sense, using music as a vector for subliminal study and control is absolutely evil and, unfortunately, not entirely new. Subliminals have been planted in label records for ages. And since when did they start piping loud pop music into speakers at every store and gas station you go to? I was never really a fan of that.
Still, I was dumb. Before being attacked I had been very slightly exposed to information about the existence of these technologies online. I should have known better but when I got hit it was too much. And it’s designed to be too much.
It wasn’t long before the System’s script for me became quite elaborate. I began to hear voices about a month later and was then in stages subjected to more direct brain interference, odd physical sensations, extensive social manipulation, and a ton of other nasty tricks that left me unable to think for long enough to connect those distant things I had read about on the internet to the very real things happening before my eyes and within in my mind. And within the people around me. Every person is unique and the System affects us all differently. It is learning how best to use its myriad tools to control us.
The effects this System can have on your inner and outer life, on your physical body and your social circumstance, are real and very tangible. Before being placed in the program, I was a productive, fast-thinking, somewhat decent problem solver with a small business of my own; I could play multiple instruments, compose music, and I was in three bands, two of them performing; I had a decent number of friends and normal social abilities; and, importantly, I could think and communicate effectively. I was a normal, functioning person, is my point. And yet I was naive.
Now, my inner life has been reduced to getting caught in damage loops, rejecting the things I hear, and trying to ignore or work around the constant Pavlovian stimuli I’m bombarded with as the System tries to conform my behavior to its program and I try to complete my own thoughts without being interrupted. Being around other people causes near panic attacks or horrible nonsense trains of thought that derail me for hours at a time (and even though I know what’s happening, that it isn’t the people around me who are scrutinizing me, and that no human can naturally hear my thoughts, the damage is already done; these are hard-coded reflexes caused by years of torture and neuro-linguistic programming). I am isolated. I have been socially black-listed, beyond what I did to my own reputation by being a tweaked-out idiot while under duress. I have problems being told what to do, even by those I love. Music is gone; I cannot play or even listen to it without hearing their signals. Whenever I do hear music, I experience the shock of a dozen tortured memories all at once and then in waves. My brain tweaks out; it just won’t work right. This ruins every almost every social situation, leaving me stressed and anxious and unable to interact normally with people. My friends simply go without music as a kindness, which instills negative associations against me in their minds. Not to mention the destruction of a lifelong hobby, so much brain-space, years of developed neural real estate I can’t use anymore. My companies have been disbanded. I am unable to work, really, so I’m effectively destitute. And being constantly harassed is depressing and debilitating, believe it or not.
This is not all just woe-is-me but what the System can do to its subjects, and what it will do to those who don’t follow its demands. In other words: this could be you. And I remember how most of this happened. The System uses a process, and does a ton of crazy shit. I must share my experience to describe it but I’m a private person and it pains me to do so. It’s all extremely embarrassing. I share it because I’m that pissed, and I don’t want it happening to you or the people you love. Popular ignorance is what protects and enables the machine.
NEXT WEEK: THE PROGRAM TAKES HOLD
CONCEPTS IMPLANTED, AND
THE MEMETIC ENVIRONMENT CRAFTED BY THE MACHINE
Missed the previous post? Selected Chapters: One. And the Book Announcement.