Biography

Biography 2/3

Returning from India to London in 2008 was surreal, felt as though I didn't really exist in the world. I arrived at Heathrow airport, dressed in a golden punjabi suit, and wearing gold jewelery. I was paranoid about the press ambushing me so I previously arranged to meet a friend who would provide temporary accomadation to me. I stayed for about eleven months at a masionette located in a flatblock named Haymans Point, located in Vauxhall, a mere 500 yards away from the River Thames.

Nobody Zone (Wesminster)

With no access to civic amenities such as public toilets, rubbish bins, water taps (in Westminster public drinking fountains were removed by the Queen to preserve water exclusively for Buckingham Place Gardens) those who found themselves trapped (including me) desensitized in traumatized captivity of poverty had a meagre sub-existence. One night, being so tired, weak and dissociate I failed to check one of my sleeping places (little did I know of dissidents historically hung drawn and quartered at this Rotunda near Smithfield Market) and thus was covered in excrement.

I woke surrounded by annoying flies, my hair, face, and the sleeping bag had rolled about in faeces which had the effect of making me dry wretch out of my tear dripping eyeballs. I moved away from the soiled location, as people glared as they passed by I sadly sat on a bench and waited from 3 am to 5 am to wash this excrement off my face and out of my hair. I have never felt so removed from my sense of self, not even during the terrible beatings I suffered from my sick mother, or my brother and his flesh tearing, knife-wielding friends.

In London during this time I did not have a bank account and no address to acquire one, with my mind to altercate into confusion leaving no method to process a plan apart from A to B and maybe temporarily to C. This left me without any access to social security benefits for two years whilst suffering appalling inflictions on these depraved streets. I kept my vegetarian diet intact despite the public attempting to taint my food with meat.

I visited soup kitchens and food handouts, at all these places as with every other place, I was abused; most prolifically and drawing in closer when I was desensitized, exhausted and collapsed. Oddly there was one Gandalf appearing Jewish man who relentlessly moved through it all, riding his bicycle, collecting waste food from Pret-a-Manger, EAT and other fast-food chains to hand out to everybody displaced upon the Streets of Westminster. In his spare time, he'd always been found by Cleopatra's Needle, in the riverside London embankment area of Temple.

Suffering for ailing mental health (diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder during early 2013) profusely triggered (more often deliberately) by none stop anxieties to step and walk painfully tired feet. The resulting (trauma initiated bubble of dissociation blown up by generalized anxieties) provoked fourteen-hour day walking marathons around every dismal and depraved London district for an entire year.

I believe these messages to be dissociated "think to much" thoughts, from when I was violently traumatised and sleep-deprived unto a nervous breakdown; ritual abusive years of suppression and displacement, psychologically anchored to urine scented filth of Westminster's pear dropped Nobody Zone.

I am now searching to recognise the triggers that are the causation of these replaying thoughts. Could they be events, possibly when my arm was kick broken in half, maybe it was after being deprived of sleep during the night, when a deck chair smashed over my head as I attempted to sleep through the afternoon. Rotated church Soup kitchens switched choice of food, vegetarian for meat, tea for coffee and sometimes coffee placed into tea; from stale breath my teeth crumbled, corroded from soft cheese sandwiches and powder lumpy soup.

Maybe the break occurred when I was seated on a bench, head covered in somebody else's vomit, earnestly waiting for close public toilets to open amongst a flow of onlookers. Perhaps when my chilled bones were knocking on Portland stone paving slabs, a bin thrown at me, or being happy slapped with saliva by a gang riding Boris bikes, cheering from ITV tower's balcony party. The warm glow of crack cocaine pipes lit voids of darkness ending Convent Garden passages; may have been candles, if not stoking preconceived malcontent.

Could it be generalised anxiety that snapped the spring of time, walking fourteen hours a day, accumulating triggers along central London's depraved streets. Procuring agonising Plantar Fasciitis, exhaustion relieving pain from distraught projection collapsing. Maybe encroaching shadows, that sort to ritually abuse me tore my mind apart. Yet these memories I know, but yet answers maybe with compartmentalised memories I don't know, that are prompting recall through torturous flashbanks, warped into pretense, edging factorless future.

Yet from research, along the endless paragraphs of this website I know this gave my suppressors a good nights sleep, safe inside their warm homes, loved by endearing families; how their contempt burned a surmised necessity to subject me to such appalling desolation, more than enough to return to the crime scene and gloat at their work of disparity. I've often wondered if there is art in this, as they stole my paintings whilst I was unconscious, rough white canvas as sanctity I'd rested upon from systematic turmoil of undefinable streets.

"Should I stay or should I go now? Should I stay or should I go now? If I go, there will be trouble, And if I stay it will be double, So come on and let me know".

Trapped into maligning architecture, misdirected by repetitive occurrences, frozen by objects anxiety perceived as fateful omens, as hypervigilance parted an esoteric veil of an unknown world unseen. In squares, I perceived underground temples, a world underground beneath my feet, entombed, consolidated souls evaporated. Above in circular towers skulls rested upon tables, as timed shoppers made a desperate grab for fading reflection of possessions as if retail platform had elevated an item as all, upon this, here unearthly prosperity.

“I hurt myself today To see if I still feel I focus on the pain The only thing that's real.
I wear this crown of thorns Upon my liar's chair Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair”.

During a two-week admission in Lakeside Mental Health Unit, I entered and turned on the shower, locked the door, pulled out a razor and slashed deep into my forearms. Feeling a dark sickness ritual abuses had placed into me, circulating, this darkness inside blood, reaching across cold tiles spiralling towards a drain to escape me. Door kicked in, stitched up at West Middlesex Hospital, two hours later, discharged homeless, I walked twisted industrial roads, subjected to darkness at dusk. So many terrible tales, but not focus, nor inclination to write.

Drained of self-preservation from wet sopping rain, dried stiff by blistering heat from a midday sun, dissociated from thirst and eventually hunger, I ejected a tired, limp body from decimation cycles of this Nobody Zone. Twenty-five miles, just beyond London's orbital, receiving a kiss of death from an Italian man I waited, accompanied by undying optimism, upon an act of kindness without fathoming, wings clipped, burdened heavy from such inconsolable depths of despair, that this tired opportunity mule, had been curse Zoned a Nobody.

Radiated chapped fingertips from burning my oyster travel card hot upon buses and trains, in an attempt to shake off clown antics that disturbed my mind senseless. The night buses, journeying at length from east to south, from north to west, cramp seated amongst heated tempers, sheltered from snow outside. Oh where, oh where did I lose my definable moment, as that which was definable came to pass me by; so true yet so unreal, beyond reach of the disgrace facet of faceless decimation, cruelly sculptured contours displaying a smiling mask.

How covenanted purveyors of depravity insidious marvelled over writings of Charles Dickens, as if written word had become flesh from thirty-thousand displaced shoeless, rag children who had starved, eroded by a colonisation that had upheaved their famished parents from destitution into forced transportation, upon these towering streets during unhinged temperament of Victorian times. An erasure crevice of contempt that had removed water fountains to green the flowered gardens of those, dismayed from clouded ivory tower heights.

Nervous Breakdown

Sometimes I think I died on those streets, that I am stranded somewhere between worlds. The first mental health section 136 happened Hampstead Heath, awoken under snow, with no blankets; police said this was crazy and took me to Highgate mental health centre. I remained at the centre for two months, until the spring, then discharged homeless. I was detained and sectioned over seventy-four times between years 2013-15, six months of my life were taken way with hospital admissions; on acute wards I was psychological tortured.

During the years I was psychologically terrorized was displaced on the streets, throughout the UK I was detained over seventy times with mental health legalization. Under section 136 of the Mental Heath Act I was taken to a designated place of safety, this was either a prison cell, a room on a hospital ward or a purpose-built unit. Here I was watched 24/7 whilst I waited up to seventy-three hours to be assessed by a psychiatrist. Often because the emergency services had deemed me a danger to myself or others. Majority of times I was reported with lies, other times, I was either in a state of catatonia or confusion due to being terrorized by non-stop harassment.

The psychological torture, directed from narratives of Dominican and Jesuit priests, traumatized me so badly that the ability to look after myself diminished to such a level that I simply wavered drinking water for nine days, and food for weeks at a time. Anxiety was high enough to fuel adrenalin until I developed narcolepsy whereby I would fall asleep on snow, or soaked wet through with freezing rain; this is how I became a danger to myself. The tortures targeted, exploited and awakened latent trauma I suffered as a child from a paranoid schizophrenic mother; the longing for the protective security of a father. Bullying, beatings, hunger, detachment were all factors.

I was abused whilst I slept or collapsed, and was also decimated, slapped in the face until inconsolable with false charity. Every giving hand was a taking hand, every association I made was exploited as an opportunity and plied an alienating perspective of contempt that would disregard any sense of worth held for me. I have memories, night after night, my body shaking, my bones knocking on cold concrete paving slabs, muscles burning with acidity, my dry skin soiled by clothes that had soaked up urine dirty from the filthy streets that became increasingly nauseating as the sun rose to warm the surrounding air.

I would usually get a few minutes to compose myself in-between the cranks that came in the early hours. During the night, the ritualized abuses always stopped at ten o'clock. Out of the seventy psychological assessments I was only ever diagnosed with psychosis once, most, if not all psychiatrists said I was traumatized, that the things I described were beliefs, and they could not prove them right or wrong as they were not on the streets with me to witness what was going on. The police were never called to investigate my complaints, and the only time they investigated was when a Facebook page with two-thousand members terrorized me none-stop for three months with cat and mouse taunting tactics.

Through my grief I was never consoled, in perspective of my single parent mother never picking me up when I fell. In Saint Marys hospital in Paddington, I was left with a broken radius bone for over eight hours alone without pain relief. During one mental health detainment in Derby I was left alone locked in a police cell undisturbed, unchecked for twenty-one hours. At this time, no refreshment was given to me, however I occasionally heard another prisoner begging for water, "please, please I am thirsty" he would cry. Whilst detained at Aylesbury police station I was stripped naked and placed in a stress position until unconscious, I remember one of the six men telling me I "stunk of piss", over and over again before I passed out.

I was also stripped naked and exposed to a CCTV camera after being punched at the floor in a police cell at Melksham police station. They had detained me along the A4 near Box hill, whilst sat by an illuminated road bollard, trying to ascertain my bearings and collect composure. Impatient police officers were heavy-handed, cuffed me and dragged me into the police car, at the station I was taken straight to the police cells, rather than go through process at the custody desk. After I awoke in the morning to realise I had been physically beaten, my wrists were so swollen and cut by the yanking of handcuffs that police men had to transport me to Bath Accident and Emergency to have my forearms X-rayed.

Even in the mental hospitals, the abuses did not cease. One man African nurse at St George's Hospital in Tooting verbally abused me, frequently, as if I was the anti-Christ, stamping on a silver pendant I had been wearing before it was forcefully taken from my neck. At Prospect Park Hospital, Reading I was detained for four weeks, a flighty male Filipino care support worker frequently requested to see my breasts; I also observed him make advances to other female patients whilst on the ward.

At Parklands hospital I was wrongfully accused of hitting another patient, dragged into a seclusion unit and forcefully injected with anti-psychotic medication, I awoke in a Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), Antelope House Southampton but was released a discharged a day later after a short psychiatric assessment by a professor. I was immediately discharged from the PICU but placed on an acute ward whilst the hospital tried to get me referred to the council to secure accommodation; however, I was discharged homeless.

Never once did I land into accommodation from being detained under the Mental Health Act. In London, at Highgate Mental Health Unit, after a two-month stay on an acute ward named "Amber" I was again discharged homeless; I was initially detained near Hampstead Heath after police officers found me hyperthermic as a result of being half buried in snow. They said such suffering was crazy and detained me, I was kept on the ward until the spring, then discharged back onto the streets to face yet more abuses, harassment and psychological tortures.

Without conditioning "Anxiety Silenced Secrecy" (chronic or persistent anxiety can negatively impact the cognitive part of speech production, as well as the physical process of speaking), and culturing beseiged mentality to produce unfounded "Stockholm Syndrome" (feelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim towards a captor) loyalty, these psychological attacks would become impossible to enact without adversary, consequential repercussion. Formulation of these attacks have for decades long been present with society, presented, maybe even autoqued as "merry-go-round" songs.

"One banana, two banana, three banana, four, Four bananas make a bunch and so do many more, Over hill and highway the banana buggies go, Coming on to bring you the Banana Splits show, Making up a mess of fun, Making up a mess of fun, Lots of fun for everyone, Tra, la, la, la-la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la-la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la-la, la, la, Tra, la, la, la-la, la, la".

Shielded by irrationality the psychological attack is launched by what the victim perceives as strangers; after one banana, two banana, three banana, maybe four banana the unnerved victim is depersonalised with irrationality from being subjected to paranoia. In addition, of sleep deprivation [compartmentalisation], incremental trauma [hypervigilance] the banana, from anchoured recall becomes an anxiety trigger; inducting stress and panic in the targeted individual. Eventually spiralling into generalised anxiety, as the victim struggles to define rationality, bananas become perceived as omens; that strike fear into an individual.

Whilst I attempted to sleep in doorways, I was offered vegetarian food that wasn't vegetarian at all. At soup runs I was given tea which had coffee in it. At a day centre in Derby, the Padley Centre (indirectly administered by nuns (Sisters of (no) Mercy) in Nottingham), my clothes were soiled with blue dye, returned to me soaking wet to wear during minus temperatures outside. Bruises on my forearms and upper arms, which appeared as marks as though somebody had grabbed and dragged me somewhere appear frequently on my arms, I have no memory and to this day still unable to recollect how they got to be there.

I found friendship with a business lady who owned a cafe over the road from Derby's catherdal but to counter this the catherdal neighbouring cafe wrongfully tried to ply me with meat curry soup, again this, as with other Christian handouts was claimed to be vegetarian. These were reccurent vingear sponge tatics designed to deplete my trust in people and through these abuses contributing to alienation, I became inconsolable. In hindsight I believe these egalitarian curses came from socialism deeming me somehow unworthy of humanity. In Sheffied, pushed relentlessly by anxiety I staggered twenty miles over moorland to Castleton, on the way I was reported to the police for not being equipt to withstand the elements.

I stood on a hillside, beside a cliff, as snow and wind ran over my bare shoulders and arms, dressed only in a strappy linen dress, no shoes or socks. A yellow and black police helicopter circled around me, shouting over loudspeaker to stay away from the cliff edge. The helicopter landed one-hundred metres away, a police officer greeted me. He said hikers had rung me in fearing for my safety, I talked to him for a while, he gave me tea and offered Kendal mint cake before climbing back into the helicopter after he decided I was fit to continue my adventures. I made it twenty-two miles to Castleton however I collapsed by the roadside at Winnats pass, suffering from hyperthermia I was taken to hospital in Stockport and discharged hours later.

Anxiety pushed me to walk endlessly for up to seventeen hours a day, eventually acquiring an extremely painful plantar fasciitis in both my feet. I witnessed every depravity imaginable and experienced what I can only describe as pure hatred. On the South bank, five black youths rode by on Boris bikes, offloading huge mouthfuls of spit on my face and body as I slept on a bench overshadowed by a party being held at ITV towers. Celebrity party revellers on the above balcony cheered the assailants riding rings around me as I attempted to chase them away, once I had awoken enough to find my bearings and figure out what was happening to me.

In Bayswater, I refused the advances of a dreadlocked black man, wearing Ethiopian flagged army clothes. He encroached upon me during a rainy and windswept evening, as I attempted to sleep within a part sheltered doorway. When I told him to "go away" he replied "you don't tell me to go away, this is my yard, if you're here when I get back I'll beat you". After he disappeared, I collapsed but awoken being hit in the face with a rolled up newspaper. He had returned and was beating me, the paper must not have had the desired effect, so he kicked me repeatedly in the face with his black boots. I put up my right arm to block him, which he kicked and kicked until my radius bone broke in half.

I awoke hours later, wish washed in a pool of blood, the scent of rain around my nostrils, dry eyes upon wet eyelids, cold air impressed upon hot swollen cheeks. I had been half dragged out of the doorway, but although exposed to the street, it had taken hours before a member of the public phoned me an ambulance. Paddington CID interviewed me and described the assailant as dangerous because he had threatened me and then came back to commit the crime, which they described as GBH, Grievous Bodily Harm (with intent). However, after a two-month investigation, examining CCTV etc they found no leads. The City of London is such a big place, he could have been from anywhere and could now be long gone.

My arm was bodge cast in paster and in the early hours of the morning I was discharged into the pouring rain, before I left the building's cover I was told not to get the plaster wet. I rolled my eyes as I walked through the electric door, rain pelted across my face as I pushed forward to find a café to consolidate my thoughts, to figure what to do next. These abuses, both mental and psychical went on and on, down on the embankment a deck chair was cracked over my head as I attempted to get some sleep from a disturbed night. In Covent garden the glowing light from crack pipes use to keep me awake, this had the effect of stigmatizing candles with hypervigilance for a while.

Working out how to get from A to B became an endeavour, from C to D an impossibility. I attempted to find solace in art, painting abstract expression with the medium of acrylic on canvass. I thought maybe somebody would buy the paintings, but instead they were stolen as they were completed, taken from me whilst I slept vulnerable inside shop doorways. During the two years I was displaced on the streets of Westminster I never begged for money, I was not in receipt of state benefit so found my food at soup kitchens or had money left by me as I slept, no signs were ever put out asking for money.

I was not alone suffering these abuses, others that had been displaced upon the depraved streets of Westminster were also getting abused. A homeless outreach team suggested I buddy up with a woman who was getting sexually assault every night by African men. This woman became a good friend to me, we often go for tea and cake at Pâtisserie Valerie cafés. At night, we slept behind the Strand hotel, by warm air vents. It was here we fought away violent and abusive sexual predators that came to assault us in the dark, with my appearance the assaults declined, but my friend endured a nervous break-down, anyhow.

Her named was Alex, she had worked as a television presenter in China but had refused to read the CCP narratives on the Dalai Lama so within hours was deported and flown back to the UK. She had a house in France but could not find work there, so travelled to London, figuring if she kept down jobs whilst homeless she could pay off her mortgage within a year. She did work two jobs, one cleaning toilets at the Tower of London and the other doing evening clerical work for a law company in the City of London. In the end was rehoused in Westminster, I have no idea if she managed to retain her house in France.

I used to change my sleeping locations regular, one location was by the rotunda by Smithfield market, I had no idea at the time that the location was where one of my ancestors was hung, drawn and quartered. Few people know of the extremities we go through in contradiction of everything our ancestors went through; as if the sins of those who slaughtered our forbearers were our fault. One late evening I arrived at this location tired and weary, I rolled out my sleeping bag and collapsed on top of it. I woke just before dawn with a nauseating smell about me. Rising and turning, I discovered I had rested in excrement.

My hair and face was covered in this excrement as I turned restless and during the disturbed night. I became dry retching, my eyes poured with water after I had accidentally wiped excrement into my eyes to waken them from sleep. I dragged my things out of the rotunda, and onto a bench, here I waited two hours for washing facilities to open. Furthermore, I could feel the presence of excrement alienate my perception as London rush hour commuters passed me buy, one diverted from the shoal and offered to purchase me a hot drink from a nearby café. Additionally, I never felt the same again in the presence of people after that morning.

Another location I often slept was in Lambeth in Bishop's park, just behind Lambeth Palace. Many Polish men would sleep here, they were kind to me, regularly sharing their last sandwich with me. They nick named me Pippy long stocking due to my quirky dress, these were hard-working, honest men who had lost themselves somewhere between trauma and alcoholism. After two months on the streets, many would go on to suffer nervous breakdowns; witnessing this inhumanity disturbed my mind intensely. Sleeping in the park was dangerous, shadows lurked in the bushes, dawns were pungent with the stench of foxes urine from the rising dew.

Harassment abuses were intense around the areas of Clapham, Roehampton and Muswell Hill, as if I was being pushed back from realizing something or nearing somebody or people. The cult used logos on attire to signify its agenda, for example, Chicago Bulls was Martin dePorress to whom they refer to as "Tin man", this becomes apparent when the logo is reversed and overlaid upon a picture of dePorres with a sweeping brush. Other logos were Nike - swoosh resembling planetary rings, Raiders - looting and plundering inherent worth, Obey - disempowerment, Tap Out - alienation, Mc Donalds fries packaging - the number 13 etc.

“In Christianity, the Logos (Greek: Λόγος, lit. 'word, discourse, or reason') is a name or title of Jesus Christ, seen as the pre-existent second person of the Trinity. The concept occurs in John 1:1, which describes him as the Logos "in the beginning.".”.

Many people know or are aware of the esoteric meaning in these logos, but few, other than operatives of this cult, have become aware enough to witness directives being covertly used and abused upon disposessed victims. Logo'ed items were also placed in front of my path to arrive at my feet, such as banana skins, flattened Red Bull cans, children's shoes - Cinderella / Decagram, old denim jeans - eugenics, etc. Lighting fires to smoke out my oncoming direction was also a frequent event (see Buddhist smoke ritual Sang Pūjā, see how Sayme Ling and the Dalai Lama is connected to this!) and freshly cut grass (which I have an allergy to) also seemed significant to them.

These seemingly innocent, everyday objects provoked panic attack responses as frequented occurrences became linked with extremities of suffering and instances of trauma. Cars would pass by me and throw out McDonalds litter in front of me. I have been followed into every place I've acquire sustinence for the last thirteen years, new items of clothing have been replaced with identical items of clothing that have already been worn, this happened in day centres where I would use washing services or place my bag somewhere whilst I would used the toilet etc, I believe this was done so I would not feel new.

I was desecrated in more ways that I know, and in more ways that anybody would likely be able to understand. A common occurrence and immensely disturbing incident recurrently happening as I was walking out of town was a noisy car tearing past at speed from behind me; these cars were full of black men, and one lone blonde women. I began to assume that these were members of my lineage being put through terrorizing abduction scenarios to gain misguided allegiance through manifesting Stockholm Syndrome. Sometimes the abuses within a town would become so horrific that anxiety would push me to walk twenty miles out of an area.

In London, I visited soup kitchens such as the American Church on Tottenham court road, the sandwich handout along the strand, a mobile soup kitchen at the back of Adams house or various soup runs frequenting Lincoln's inn fields. I have travelled enough through my life to know that many homeless men have taken sanctuary with monks at monasteries, to assume that Dominicans and Jesuits monks could have easily been around me, manipulating my life among other homeless people undetected. Indeed, the associations made were none-stop, not anywhere did I go without being infected by them as an encroaching manifestation of pestilence.

The psychological burn out from the intensity of these occurances eventually took away my ability to speak, or to disturbed to sit down for any restful length of time. At the high of this I was detained at a mental health unit attached to Middlesex Hospital. Here I was admitted to an acute ward after psychatrists became aware of the extremity of problems I was having with anxiety. Here I felt so polluted with abuses that I locked myself in the shower room and slashed upwards my forearms wide open. I turned on the shower so as not to make a mess, after a while a nurse because aware of somebody in the shower due to the noise, I did not answer and thus this nurse, with others kicked the door in.

I was taken to the main hospital were they stitched my arms up, arriving back at the unit, I was told to pack my belongings and was subsequently discharged homeless. Crazy things happened in many hospitals including Highgate Mental Health Unit, here a man came in from the street absolutely stinking. At dinner shortly after I complained he was getting too close to the food, he swung his huge frame around and punched me flat in the face, knocking me off my feet and landing onto the table that broke with my fall. The patient was allowed to roam the ward freely for hours afterwards, still angry within contact reach of other patients.

My efforts to clamber out of detachment and socialise were endless. Whilst detained at Highgate I made friends with a black woman who had lost the plot due to an atopic pregnancy. I also made friends with a half Jamaican / Indian woman who had bio-polar disorder. She had signed a recording contract, but things then slumbered with ailing health. The African nurses became unnerved at us hanging out together, and said to her "why you hanging out with her for, remember who enslaved you". She kicked off at them, alarms were sounded, more nurses came, they pinned her down and injected her. She took an allergic reaction to the meds and was transferred to the Whittington hospital, Visiting her I felt sick to the stomach so petitioned a complaint.

Ongoing relentless tribulations felt as though I was being cooked alive with intense scrutiny. Out of the months I was detained on acute wards, I was only offered lorazepam, which I later learned both blurred and destroyed memory of events that had disturbed me enough to have another panic attack. I did not want to take medication anyhow, but they never offered me any kind of therapy either, I don't believe I saw a psychologist practising psychotherapy once whilst I was detained in any hospital. I also stuck friendship with a small Eritrean woman, I later found out her brother had smashed up the statue of Communist despot Haile Selassie in Wimbledon, knowing this made me so happy!

Visiting other towns and cities was no different, at times it felt as though a game was being wagered against me. Every time I would go to walk by a cash machine, even if it was on the opposite side of the road, somebody would come daily to collect a receipt statement but never withdraw cash. Days later, I would witness them throwing the receipt away in a bin in front of me; so bizarre. To allivate poverty I used to go into resturants (when I was not smelling to pungent) and eat nice food to elevate my seritonin levels from pregressive depression. This really became a thing for the cult, hordes of them would fill resturants and glare at me through glass windows as I staggered by.

I acquired cheaper food in pubs, but within ten minutes of entering the music would change to "Motown". In every pub this happened, over and over again; I became so sick of it. There were many popular songs the cult revered including, Madness - "It must be love", Bob Dylan - "Like a rolling stone", Lionel Richie - "Easy", Queen - "Bohemian Rhapsody", Bob Marley - "One Love", Bill Withers was a big favourite with - "Ain't no sunshine" and "Lovely Day" were to name but a few that were continuously played and, incidently, I hated all of these songs until they all were dissociated from my mind. One cannot possibly imagine the livid and repugnant disgust at being trapped in this hapless shadow, that chased me down to interlope me lifeless.

Bayswater

In Westminster, I eventually engaged with the council as was given a local connection and thus given a room in a "Lookahead" hostel by Leinster Square in Bayswater. The hostel was a disturbing experience, my neighbour was so acrophobia she never, ever left her room and frequently requested me to go to the shop for her. I asked her if her family had any connections to Freemasonry, she replied my father. Freemasonry had a presence in the hostel, beside each bedroom door were a cupboard, every year the Freemasons would donate their used suits which would then be crammed into these spaces.

It felt so bizarre to be walking through columns of Freemason suits every time I walked in and out of my room, I protested, but the suits were not removed. The hostel was directly west of Whiteley's shopping centre, this place accommodated "Princess Productions". During my stay at this hostel, I had bizarre out-of-body experiences as I lay on my bed at night, drawing me towards the east but never to the west before Leinster Square. The room was furnished decent and was warm, huge piles of snow had settled on the balcony outside; considering the severity of the weather I was reluctant to leave.

My art work was vandalized at this hostel, continuous abuses became so bad I eventually vacated shortly after a hungry and miserable, dark, depressive festive season with very disturbed residents, perhaps in some ways most crazy than the loonies stalking me outside. There were also inert things that caused me panic in the streets, at times I felt trapped by repressive archeture, hypervigilance had not only blurred things out but had revealled much about London and its esoteric alignments. So times products in supermarkets would trigger me that I laugh about now, including demon donuts at 69p a bag I found in Bayswater Sainburys.

During my rest at Lookahead hostel I realised they were tagging me everywhere I went. This led to me purchasing a travel card, which I burned daily in an attempt to loose them. I visited every district in London, sometimes I spent the night travelling on night buses, other times travelling at length on London's underground. I'm getting tired now, I've only written a few paragraphs and I been on this eight hours, what the fuck is going on?

Hyper-arousal revealed numerical esoteric manipulations deep within the gauntlet maze of city life. I searched endlessly for vocalized confirmation of ancestral connection similar to that I had experienced in India. I was threatened, distracted, humiliated, scorned, gang stalked and ritually abused thousands of times. As I drew closer, homing in, I was physically threatened with pretend punches; street dustbins were also thrown at me.

In contrast, as I was leaving a town or city I often, to the contrary, found myself “rung in” and reported to the emergency services with false accusations, wrongfully stating me as wandering down the wrong side of a motorway, other false witnesses wrongly also reported me “hanging off” roadside bridges. Although they were times when my life might have been in danger, grief-stricken with anxiety and panic attacks; most reports made by the “public” were either overstated or astonishingly false.

In truth, few citizens possessed enough humanity to be empathic and care about welfare. I was rung in and reported numerous times merely because of an uncouth and exhausted presence that was at odds of “lowing the tone” of a gentrified village/suburban neighbourhood. More than three times I found myself restrained, placed into a car and driven over a country borderline, into another jurisdiction by an over rung fed-up police force.

Despite being never diagnosed with a major mental illness, almost six months of my life was subsequently taken away and laid to waste, locked inside abusive mental health unit acute wards. Several doctors forcefully injected me with an ageing anti-psychotic named Chlorpromazine (considering my age and history of substance misuse, the medication would have most certainly put me at grave risk of irreversible tardive dyskinesia).

I successfully launched and won a mental health tribunal, leading to my immediate discharge from the nightmare hospital. To my dismay, I learned that two doctors (one South African, the other Ugandan/Gujarati) had collaborated to administer a massive dose (just minutes before the tribunal). Before my detainment in Saint Anne's hospital, I was diagnosed with borderline emotional personality disorder, being due to not developing coordinated emotional responses with my confused and delusional mother.

On another ward in Basingstoke (after being picked up walking the A303 by police, section 136 and admitted under section 12 of the mental health act) I was approached by two female patients who stood at my door to attempt to provoke me into an angry response, failing to get a reaction one of them faked being hit whilst her cohort backed her up. I was dragged from my bedroom, taken downstairs, put into seclusion and forcefully injected with Haloperidol, some hours later I was transferred into a PICU (Psychiatric intensive-care unit) in Southampton.

I remained here overnight locked inside a room, in the morning I was allowed to walk around, where I observed other patients being followed everywhere they went by nurses. After a few hours, I was interviewed by a psychiatric doctor (a professor, he said I should not have been placed on the PICU ward and thus near immediately transferred me to an acute ward and not returned to Basingstoke. Three days later I was discharged onto the streets of Southampton, where I roamed the windy winter streets, unhinged by the unjustified episode.

I created abstract composition art with mixed media whilst on an acute ward at Basingstoke. The first piece of art was a fish jumping through a solar / Luna eclipse, the second piece a rabbit hole and the third piece I named “air guitar” created after sixteen hours of listening to heavy metal music through my headphones.

Five Techniques

Police detainment inside police stations were also brutal. In Aylesbury, tired, cold, hungry and not quite “with it” I was again detained, taken to a police cell. During a panic attack, I was wrestled to the police cell floor, stripped naked by five male police offices whilst being put into a stress position. This involved me laid face down on the cell floor, both my wrists cuffed behind my back, my arms stretch out and pivoted into a lever where pressure was applied to my chest.

Two officers knelt on either side of my shoulders, whilst another of the officers knelt on my thighs. The fifth officer stood upright, his feet near my face, I could hear him stating that I stunk of piss among other derogative remarks. This lasted until I came around to hear a police officer shouting she's stopped breathing, she's stopped breathing. An hour later I was police escorted to a 136 unit at Stoke Mandeville hospital, I waited here nearly sixty-two hours to be assessed before being discharged homeless onto the streets.

On a sharp cold night walking the A4, ascending Box Hill near Corsham in Wiltshire, whilst resting by traffic ballads I was detained with Section 136 under the Mental Health Act 1983 (allows the police to take you to / or keep you at a place of safety) by police, detained and transported to Melksham police station. After refusing to give personal details such as name, date of birth, I was taken to the cells. Here as I struggled to stop them from removing all my clothes I was punched in the face by a male police officer, thrown on the police cell floor, stripped and my naked body exposed to the police cell observation camera.

During the struggle, my wrist had swollen so badly that I was taken into Bath Accident and Emergency to have them X-rayed. Leaving with no apparent breakage I was transferred to Green Lane Hospital on a mental health unit for a two-week admittance, whilst here I learn some anxiety coping techniques but thereafter discharged again homeless onto the streets. Next I was detained by police at a busy Swindon Road Junction and taken to a mental health unit near Swindon Great Western hospital, the ensuing mental health assessment placed me under section 12 of the mental health act and thus transferred me some eighty miles to Western Ward located at Southmead Hospital in Bristol, Avon. Here I witnessed a merry-go-round of tomfoolery antics, partly involving a deranged woman of broken dreams who deceived her true self to be the elusive and Champagne socialist artist named “Banksy”.

I was never medicated on this ward yet kept on this locked downward to suffer mind-bending cranks an entire month to the point where I saw light impressions on a door code lock. I punched in the numbers in sequence and the door opened leading into a nurse's cloakroom but onto yet another locked door, so my divine escape met a dead end. Eventually, I was discharged back onto the streets, I walked out of the hospital grounds and walked the ring road until I became dazed and dissociate at the end of Bristol Road.

If I were to look back at myself, I would have looked not dissimilar to a battery hen, just released from the captivity of her cage, not knowing where to go or what to do. A woman familiar with this stopped her VW camper van, ran over across a busy ring road to give me a warm embrace. She then offered me respite, inviting me to her house located in Eastville, Bristol. Bizarrely we had the same surname and were almost the same age, given this uncanny coincidence I chose to stay for a while at her house and slow found clarity among a still mystified, diabolical, external predicament.

She helped me steady myself for the month I stayed at her house, but she was not without problems as well. Her sociopathic ex-husband had used her state of mental health against her and had thus taken her children away from her, leaving her to fight a fraught custody battle to have her children returned to her. Fearing my poor state of mental health would affect or delay the return of her children I agreed with her to vacate, thanked her for my stay and with a hug squeezed her a warm goodbye.

Returning to London I slept among the chill blown winds in darker more hidden places of Hampstead Heath primarily to escape ritualized abuses enabling me to project through the darkness from my inner light to enlighten imprinted insight. Due to the extreme weather conditions, I was again detained under the mental health act by concerned police, dug out of the snow and transported to the Highgate Mental Health Unit. I was kept on an acute unit until spring thaw, whereafter I reluctantly sought the safety of sanctuary at my mother's home in North West Leicestershire.

Whilst here a systematic campaign of slander, libellous, fear-incited hatred manifested against me. It started by being followed by slow drive-by cars, with windows half wound down, provocative occupants shouting “pink lady” at me. The first few times I thought nothing of it, but then the escalation began. The drive-bys became more aggressive, with mobile phone cameras in their hand's passengers would shout insults to provoke expressions of aggression.

Loughborough

I met Karen Blake on a cloudy breezy afternoon, she had arrived by bus from Leicester, a locality where she had been working as a nurse in residence (usually a stop-gap for intelligence operatives) at Glenfield Hospital. We seated together outside and enjoyed Persian food. Observing her demeanour I noticed the two and throwing of her conversation changing the movement of her eyes revealing Trauma inflicted injury. I guess through our knowledge of this contained in my blog writings (which she initially came to speak about) we struck an informative friendship.

During the later part of the afternoon, after witnessing a rude man exposing his backside to us, she spoke of witnessing many members of the public randomly abusing me. Elaborating, she said she had counted over thirty instances within the duration of a mere four hours that I had got to know her. Before stepping on a bus back to Glenfield, she softly spoke of finding a place in Nottingham and for me to join her as a house share. Over the next two to four weeks, I learned by telephone correspondence that she found a small terrace house cheap enough to rent in the Forest Fields area of Nottingham.

Out of all the horrific places I'd barely lived through, Loughborough had treated me with the worst intrinsic targeted contempt. The hospital that I was told I was delivered (Loughborough General Hospital) had laid in utter ruin for decades until it was finally demolished into a mist of rubble. I never made any other friends during the five months I lived in my ground floor flat at Freehold Street in Loughborough. Visiting social workers were supportive but limited in their capacity, and again local police were sympathetic.

A few weeks back I had taken to a countryside wonder, places I'd walked as a child, but arriving back I was informed by a neighbour they had seen five to six people go in and out during the time I was away. Strangely, the incident had not been reported nor items such as my ageing laptop had been stolen from the intrusion. As I reached for a towel in my airing cupboard, I realised that my dreadlocks had been stolen; the only item in the entire flat to have been taken. Martinists also encroached upon the rear of the flat and ritually broke circular bread outside my kitchen window every mid-Sunday morning.

Nottingham

The damp terrace house in Forest fields had a large immigrant Muslim community who, although seemed extremely busy all the time, kept themselves to themselves. My anxious friend (and now co Tennant) had acquired a receptionist job with Blue Arrow recruitment agency near Nottingham Castle and by the time I arrived at the doorstep had already signed her line of our twin occupational shorthold tenancy. To the left, the Islamic neighbours never spoke to us, to the right, we never really knew our neighbours other than through months of repeated abuses shouted through the terrace house's paper-thin walls.

At this house on the hill I would sleep for fourteen to sixteen hours at a time with a few intermittent five-minute breaks until I collapsed into deep sleep yet again. We both endured terrible nightmares which didn't seem to conflict, such as the state of compartmentalisation we were both in. She confirmed the stories of the film Shebab Daiya and elaborated that she used to regularly walk Palestinian children to school to shield them from being shot.

The paranoid activist community centred around a social club known as the Sumac centre shunned me as an undercover infiltrator (until I very well known, and trusted activist arrived and stated otherwise). We also received a visit from a well-mannered and positive guy from SchNEWS (again named “Martin”) whom my friend got to have some intimacy with.

Due to the severity of PTSD, my friend tried to establish a link with mental health services. It took two months of persistent phone calls, repeated clerical errors and the such to get a referral. My friend claimed that she thought I was being religiously discriminated against. From the narrow terrace streets of Forest Fields, I would wonder uphill and into Sherwood, to wider less claustrophobic streets, where the wind was fresh through a well-maintained park.

The main road through Sherwood became busy and somewhat jilted during afternoon traffic rush hour. One early winter evening, my mind clouded with dissociation (which I describe as a white/greyish cognitive mist) I stepped into the road and was thrown backwards six or so feet. Passers-by rushed towards me and in concern instructed me not to move as I tried to lift my legs to get back onto my feet. A kind lady police officer arrived and remained with me during minus temperatures for six hours until an ambulance arrived, luckily I was OK but the car I had collided with was smashed, window screen broke and bonnet dented, at least the driver was OK.

One afternoon I had a severe panic attack, I disappeared for an entire fortnight. When I finally got back to Nottingham I'd learned the house was now closed off, that the guy whom I was working with to find alternative accommodation (due to the Muslim landlord defiant about me not working as a professional occupant) had died of a heart attack whilst out jogging. His correspondence had not been written down, so nothing was known about me. The council denied me a local connected despite seven months of residence before hearing the most tragic news.

Whilst on the walkabout, my dear friend Karen Blake had learned that she had been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumour, she kept this problem a secret from me, her family, everybody. She had gone down to Brighton, booked herself into a hotel and overdosed. Her family empathised stating it was a shock to us all and asked if they could use the photograph I took of Karen at her rememberance service. Not only did I loose my caring friend but changing circumstances, of not being able to keep our tennancy had abruptly ended my stay in Nottingham; I again became a destitute and transient vagrant. Stricken ajar with loss I wandered from Forest Fields bewildered.

I was detained by police under the mental health act after being found stumbling over frozen clumps of soil within a ploughed field after sensing they were coming for me. I was making my way towards some street lights I presumed was a village. This vagueness ensured a two-week stay in Bulwell mental health unit. After discharge to nowhere, harassed and left without accommodation recourse I departed with a sense of vagueness from the county.

Derby

I then moved to Derby and slept on the streets, here I had acrid liquid poured over me whilst asleep in a doorway, hours after the location was chemical washed, froth from detergent foam was everywhere. Bruises on my arms appeared as if I had been grabbed, of which I have no recollection of, and I was persistently harassed by wide eye Negroes whom I believed thought I was Lucifer or something.

This dismay happened for over a fortnight until I came into the trust of a squatting collective in legal occupation of Derby's historic Smiths Clock Works. Here I stayed with a White couple, mysterious dreams prevailed. The chunky red-brick building (resembling a building from the TV series Camber wick Green) had a history with the infamous “Hellfire club”, we also found a Free-masonic book left in the cellar and what appeared to be a hidden concealed but cemented entrance into some sort of tunnel.

After appearing troubled the collective mysteriously disappeared (as the dreams I had dreamt) and the dishevelled squat was again empty and locked shut, whilst again on the streets I made friends with a kind lady from a bakery who spoiled me with food and coffee. In other places, I believe I was intentionally contaminated with meat products despite clearly stating I was vegetarian.

One example was by a café owned by Derby cathedral, a young Negro lady had offered then came back with curried food, as soon as my lips came into contact with the rim of the polystyrene cup my vibrancy dissipated. Henceforth, I tipped the insidious gesture of decimation away and disappeared from Derby, knowing with a surety that the Church of England was very much an enemy and probably always had been.

I was also detained under section 136 in Derby three times, twice detained within the local hospital and once at a police station as a “chosen” place of safety. Although I protested strongly at being detained initially the police although coherent and well manner ignored my petition. I was taken into the custody suite, searched and locked inside a cell. After six hours, I was visited by an officer with a single pip insignia, who was courteous and empathic to how stressed I was getting at being locked away inside a cell for hours.

Then silence for fourteen hours I was completely ignored, at first politely knocking on the cell door, then calling out after some hours became shouting. In the surrounding cells, I could hear a male voice pleading for water, after another hour, parched with thirst from the dryness of the air conditioning I began to bash my head against the wall, smearing the walls with blood. Two hours later the shutter flap lowered, an Indian doctor peer through. I was given a sedative to calm me down, after being cleaned up the psychiatric doctor demanded me to be released immediately, no official 136 assessment had taken place.

Manchester

The wind and rainswept paving slabs of Manchester were gruellingly harsh with a rising stern, blown coldness swept indiscriminately sidewards by a wind of moor. Unbalanced and often broken, these slabs would constantly tipple, soaking my feet in filthy grime. Within every dark place, the quiet places where bodies slumbered, mainly partially exposed to freezing temperatures that clung hard to my hands, face and neck, the same ever-present chill that caped my body following me as a shadow, not noisy or silent but there.

Every twenty yards, hidden between protruding doorways weathered and run down, people were pleading for money and stretching a limp arm for food and drink. At night, these streets turned malevolent, defining an edge of anxiety around every turn or corner. Through my pupils blue flashing blue lights painfully penetrated wiping away justifiable concern; partially away from my focus on danger but only for the sleepless, alienated night to reappear anew and unidentifiable.

Some people wandered (focussed on the unfocused) whilst others, dressed in trailing rags, often appeared on an imperative mission or shouting eagerly or with effort, provoking from others. Seated painfully, men would approach and asked if I was OK whilst others would place a hand on my shoulder, close one eye and ask me the seemingly same question but with a sense of ulterior motivations. Both women and more than often men, mostly of white English origin would be found to collapse, clothes ajar, above trickle sobbing and below leaking streams of urine dammed by torn open packets of spice (synthetic cannabinoid).

Smartly dressed people from other ethnicities would look down on them with disdain, whilst other white people would turn their heads away shamefully or walk on by not showing any empathic emotion at all. To raise my spirit, I purchased a Tarot deck and sat down in the street to give free or donation Tarot card readings to the public. The most grateful member of the public was not some purple velvet-clad Wiccan, but a lone Black African Guy.

His head and shoulders were slumbered, I said “free reading”, he replied “I have no money”, I stated “no it's free, to you”, he said no “I am a bad man”, I said “just split the pack and take out one card”, doing this he pulled out the ace of pentacles. I told him I'd been wanting this card for a long time, but always reluctantly received the hermit card. With a sense of optimism he reinvigorated, became lighter, smiled and said thank you but deep inside me, I knew honesty and that he had been a very bad man.

Strenuous, dissociate weeks passed by with regular visits to the Manchester council. After three weeks they placed me in a B&B then another B&B (both in the Rusholme area of Manchester) visitors to the B&B's and the entire area was so edgy dangerous for me that I departed back to sleeping on the streets yet again. Manchester city council took a negative view on this and paid me nothing but false hope until I defused and stopped attending these appointments for civic help. Rationalised common sense upon these streets was hard to find, I was harassed here and there, none stop. I often slept in warm stairwells within huge flat blocks near Piccadilly station.

I would often spend ridiculous money in restaurants (when my hygiene predicament permitted) to balance my serotonin level through consumption of nice food. One stormy night the temperature had plummeted to minus three Celsius, I roamed the streets anxious marching up and down, soaked through to the bone chill of wind blew through layers of stretched cloth to my bone, a numbing pain resonated inward having the effect of blinding my cognitive reaction to sight outward.

As I walked through streets that appeared to me as gloomy tunnels of darkness, a light shone from a department store window. The light was coming from a white “rag doll” with blonde hair bright blue button eyes, I decided I needed a friend so purchased her. With the doll placed in my waterproof bag (lined with plastic shopping bags) I walked and roamed through pouring rain until I collapse into a deep doorway of old Granada TV studios.

Soaked through, my outer clothes had become ice hard as I shook frantically within to maintain my plummeting body temperature. Facing death, I pulled out my doll from my bag, put her into my icy coat, next to my heart and wept uncontrollably. A warm spread, enveloped and relaxed my tense body, I opened my eyes, and it was morning; for the sake of preserving my life, I decided to leave Manchester. I headed westwards and hitchhiked southward down the M5, I passed through as many towns to recall but eventually arrived upon the doorstep of my Easton friend's house.

Bristol

I felt a sense behind the door come, blocking the electric light inside. The door opened, and my friend embraced me with a hug as tears poured down from her eyes. I was invited inside to discover she had got her children back, she seated me in the kitchen and made a hot drink. She wept as she told me that she was on a huge bipolar mania from a gigantic December supermoon and that social services were threatening to take her children away over Christmas.

She said she called out for me to come and help her through the massive high she was going through, so she could keep her children over Christmas. I gave her my details to give to social services and agreed to stay until the moon lowered considerably into a waning crescent. She called herself a Bi-polar bear, and the highs and lows that came were significant enough to place me as something to stabilise onto the desperation of her yo-yo mood swings.

Aside from mood swings life was OK in the house, the children were looked after and loved, I never once witnessed them mistreated in any way; she still only had part custody so in between social services visits the kids were to and throw with their sociopathic father anyhow. I found her concept of giveaway free money difficult to comprehend, a concept that dragged her hours later into profound despair. She confided in me that she had been abused badly as a child by her father and uncle and needed somebody to go with her to the south coast to help her attain clearance to end the suffering of the bipolar she was battling through.

We travelled just over a hundred miles south to a cemetery where her father “rested”. I know consecrated ground to be demonic, so waiting on the fringes of the cemetery whilst she attempted to locate her father's graveside. Half an hour had passed, my friend was fraught at not being able to find him, so I entered and found her father's grave within minutes. As I called out to my friend I felt her father's spirit squirming unrest fully in his grave; she wept and shouted by his graveside then gave me a hug thanking me for the support that enabled her to come.

I walked out of Bristol eastwards, finding myself upon the M4/A46 junction at midnight. From here I headed north until a man pulled over in a Volvo estate and asked what the hell I was doing by the side of the road at this unearthly hour. I stated I was walking to a Cotswold town, any town where in the morning I would make a direction to go. As I stepped into the car and travelled up the A46, the driver revealed he had only three months to live from a fateful appointment with death via incurable cancer he'd been suffering from.

He told of being an organ player in almost every Cathedral within the UK, amplifying that he'd felt constrained by Christianity for most of his life and now with the time he possessed was living in the way of his direction. He offered to take me to Cirencester before dropping me off inside Stroud centre; his boyfriend closely following us in a car behind. I made four hours rest laid outside the doorway to the Retreat bar before being roused by an apologetic manager eager to gain entrance into his business. After enjoying the soup with a compassionate shopkeeper, I set out to return to Manchester.

Initially I planned to go to Liverpool first, but the selection of somewhat crank lifts took me straight into central Manchester. I felt immediate alarm at being returned here so swiftly from the hundred miles it took to travel from Stroud. I walked reserved through the city towards the city hall and into the police station, there I spoke to an emergency council officer who stated that because I had left the area I would now have to completely restart my housing application; the whole process over again. Going through another three months of hell did not appeal, so I set direction and took to walking twenty miles out of Manchester, pledging never to return.

Goole

I managed to hitch from the outskirts of Tintwistle, a peak district journey that took me eastwards to the town of Goole within the country of East Riding. In a small satellite village, I was helped out of the cold by a concerned local councillor, who referred me to the council for help. I was given a small room on Pasture Road to stay in whilst the council looking into my housing claim. After a mere few days, I was harassed and threatened by a street gang of youths from a boxing club, that once attempted to throw me onto railway tracks in front of an oncoming train.

I endured prolific and constant and malicious harassment for months, which was also being investigated by the local police. I was also frequented by a woman from a local baptist church. Furthermore, I bought up the convent harassment with her in offhand street conversation, and she stated that she knew of three librarians that had been strangled with their Red Scarves, which startled me to learn took me aback for a moment. Driven by acute anxiety, I walked the surrounded countryside of Goole and beyond intensely, mostly by a swollen river that was used to bring ships into Britain's only inland shipping port.

There was a large Polish community here, a local man, resident fifty-two years, could not recall one Polish settler ever starting a conversation with him. Entering bars the music would automatically change to “Motown” music, men of the locality would appear sullen. I attempted to make friends with a proprietor at a local crystal shop who organised some large northern even yearly. She witnessed me being harassed, but with a police investigation happening, there was little else to do. The result of the police inquiry was disconcerting, a witness was coerced into not giving a statement and poor CCTV footage of the gang of “dark blue hoodies” ensued a lack of evidence.

Sheffield

Disillusioned I departed from Goole, guilt-ridden at abandoning the help that had been given I hitched hiked south West and via Wakefield to arrive into the Southern Yorkshire city of Sheffield. Here a housing association gave me a tiny studio flat in a huge block, I was told that people had stayed in what I can only describe as shoeboxes for years, so I accepted a shorthold tenancy. Here, although the lounge had double-glazed windows, the sounds of women screaming entering in and out of nightclubs played havoc with my PTSD. Tens of drunken abusive men exposed themselves and urinated outside the wall of my flat almost every night.

The flat had a tiny front room which tripled as a bedroom, kitchen and lounge, from next door I would hear weird chants and scratching sounds through my lounge wall from a rather strange, maybe a little indifferent immigrant African neighbour. I differed the flat to be used as an emergency shelter and set out to walk the Pennine dressed only in a white strappy linen dress. So ill with trauma was I that I did not notice the cold or passing hill walkers' concern for my safety as a gust of wind blew flakes of white sleet dancing over my bright pink upper arms.

High up in the broody white/grey swollen sky I noticed a yellow and black police helicopter heading towards the direction of Hope / Castleton which then turned, descended, circled bull horning to stay away from the cliff edge; landed a mere two-hundred yards away from me. A police pilot, dressed in a jumpsuit exited and trudged his way over to me explaining he had taken off Wakefield to come and assess my safety. He shared a flask of tea and offered Kendal mint cake before getting into his ride and leaving. I continued my journey south, arriving two hours later in Castleton.

From Castleton, I attempted to climb upon another hill towards Winnats pass trying to find my way to Mam tor, at which point I collapsed and awoken inside a heat blanket riding to another town in an ambulance. Medics claimed I was suffering from hypothermia and had to be taken to A&E to be checked out. Arriving in the town I abruptly left, headed to a bus station and from then on my journey is somewhat unknown, unremembered by myself. Leeds was grim, the housing cooperative (Cornerstone) was full, so I again approached housing and was given a room in a woman only hostel.

Leeds

The hostel (located in the Woodhouse area of Leeds) was surrounded by a huge twelve-foot iron fence and had security surveillance cameras attached and operational on every wall. Some windows only partially opened and there was a 24/7 reception. Just outside, on the rough ground a hundred or so yards from the road was used as a prostitutes' miscegenation knocking-shop, after some research I discovered the entire homeless charity network in Leeds was owned and once removed operated from behind the scenes by Catholic Nuns in Chapel Town.

This was substantiated when I was offered a room in a house attached to the nunnery, the room was coffin-sized and was a wall away from the pavement of the road. Refusing this, I was offered a Victorian conversion flat on Louis street next door to Leeds Islamic Centre. Given the two choices I accepted the flat, the neighbour downstairs although indifferent in her way was no bother but upstairs an Asian lad would smoke Crack Cocaine all night with his friends which kept me awake night after night. Some men from the neighbouring Mosque also accused me of being a Secret Service spy, and one time violently demanded to be shown the photographs on my mobile phone.

Death of Mother and Father

In 2014, I lost both my parents, my father to a lengthy cancerous brain tumour and my mother quickly to a heart attack, both had died aged 66. He never requested to see me whilst he was dying in his hospice, but I saw my mother two days before she died at home. I always argued with my mother and often left on a grudge or altercation, but this last time I shook off the historical grief and with a huge hug I said "I love you"; that was the last time I saw her.

I intended to go to my father's planned cremation, staggering continuously through sub-zero temperatures a considerable length of the A4 to get to Brixham, Dernwens. None stop harassed along the way I collapsed and was henceforth found by the roadside and picked up suffering from hypothermia and taken by paramedic and ambulance to a local hospital in Marlborough for my declining temperature to be helped back up.

I missed my mother's funeral, she was cremated, her ashes scattered in the North Sea at Marsdon Rock, South Shields. I never received my father's ashes, half were taken by a woman, his mystery lover, the other half kept by my estranged sibling.

Inheritance

I broke this horrific cycle of cult orchestrated, trauma triggered, anxiety-induced "Jesus in the Slum" internment, voided from prosperity of my life (the covenant of saint martin views having a home as sinful, whilst inserting migrants into our family house), after receiving a forty thousand pounds inheritance from the legal finalisation of my deceased mother's estate. This came through whilst I was sleeping rough in Cambridge, nearing the time of the deposit I checked the bank to see if the money had been deposited.

The Third time I checked if the transaction had cleared the cashier looked down and written on a piece of paper the amount of 45,000 [something] pounds, he looked up, smiled then enquired, "how much would you like to withdraw today?". I withdrew some small pocket money and proceeded to go shopping, first purchasing a warm wax barber coat, then a pair of leggings and finally a Dell XPS laptop. It felt bizarre to purchase things I could see, I never of knew this feeling throughout the previous forty years of my life.

I booked myself into Cambridge Hilton Hotel for two nights whilst I would decide where to go now that I wasn't financially broken any more. I took comfort, perhaps too much comfort, in being able to distance myself from the cranks on the streets and stricken with Anxiety and PTSD could not work out a process towards a sustainable solution from the inheritance. I stayed at some fabulous five-star hotels including the Belmond Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons in Oxfordshire, home to Raymond Blanc's cookery school.

Rooms were from £400 to £700 a night, others were higher in price. The food had consistancy, meaning you could eat the same thing, over and over again and it would still taste great, but was considerably expensive at £180 for a 10-course meal. As usual, I sat alone and dinned, dining alone can be the most lonely place in the world, but I managed to avoid cross table talk.

I booked a few days at a huge suite during New Year at the Waldorf Astoria Edinburgh - The Caledonian which was as lonely as being on the moon, I could never understand how mindless hammerhead Arnold Schwarzenegger got in and out of that small bathtub. I had planned to stay over the New year but instead acquired an £80 bottle of Dalmore and sped back to the Welsh black mountains via intercity train to be with two friends, arriving an hour and a half before midnight with a smile on my face.

Furthermore, I spent a considerable amount of money on chauffeur driven cars and when in London used a specialist firm to mentain distance from Martinist cranks. My advanced trained driver who also worked for the Beckhams had the numbers 666 on his licence plate, I thought to myself, that's all I need. I used him three times until he failed me at Kings Cross station, arriving an hour late, he stated he didn't want to do the job! But I managed to get a full refund for that day from the company.

I made a point out of sleeping a few nights in one hotel in London that I used to sleep behind, warming myself on the filthy air that came out of the hotel's vents. I used to look up at the windows of the hotel and think, who sleeps there. Not only that, but I booked a room overlooking where I used to sleep rough, I looked down through the window and replied to past self saying “I do”. Furthermore, I travelled the length of the country very illusively for two months before the money ran out. The last of the money was spent on camping and hiking gear as I set out to walk the more scenic routes of Albion.

Admittedly, I frivolously squandered most of the money on luxury whilst absent from previously inflicted depravities. However, I did manage to gain enough momentum to refocus my life upon outdoor adventures to avert slipping back into ill-fated urban stagnation. There was also enough time to put back together what I felt was my torn apart soul. To start, not looking back, I walked twenty-five miles out from Central London and into East Sussex where I commenced onto these so much needed ancestral spirit awakening adventures.

Rambling / Hill Walking

For here I walked both the South and North Downs, length of the Ridgeway, Devon and Cornish Coastline, Welsh Coastline, Snowdonia, Black Mountains (Offas Dyke), Kilder Forest, the Cheviots, Peak District (Pennine Way), Scottish Borders (Southern Upland Way), Galloway Forest, Cairn Gormmes and the far North Western Highlands (including the Isles of Lewis). I have also stayed in twenty or so bothies.

Lodging

I am no stranger to travelling, having visited every town and city within the UK since the early nineties. For here there were times of rest, I utilised spareroom.com and acquired accommodation in Llanstadwell, Pembrokeshire for two months and then unfortunately moved to Tredegar where I resided with a Reiki healer, unknown to myself she was connected to Mooji (aka Cassette Lord Tony) and her visiting family members of the crypto-Communist Simon Community, co-founded by Jesuit influenced Marxist Eddie Linden.

My stay in Pembrokeshire was infected with overnight cranks booking the room opposite me as a B&B, but the owner felt genuine, even sincere but still involved with “them”. The terrace house in Tredegar was most definitely a Martinist mousetrap, plotted and deviated I believe to drive my stressed mind over the sanities edge towards suicide. Two other places acquired through the same company were also baited entrapments

These consisted of one-two weeks stay in Halifax with a Sikh Asian lady who professed being known to the Alpha Course and one three month stay in Foyers, Inverness with a single elderly lady whose pig mask-wearing son taunted me with nasty messages unto my Facebook account. After the stay in the Highlands my account was deleted from the Spare room website, I did not bother to create another account.

DNA Test

In between these times, totalling nearly eighteen months, I found the company of a close friend who wishes to keep her identity and life private. So I will only say I healed my mind a lot within a sanctuary of kindness and compassion she provided. During the later months of 2017, I took a DNA test to learn a little more about my White ancestry. Results declared me 100% North and West Europe, further defined as 56.2% North and West European, 26.9% Irish, Scottish and Welsh, Scandinavian 16.9%.

With half of my family, on my mother's side, located near Newcastle, I was relieved to find that my DNA contained no trace of either Jewish or Negro markers. I was stunned to discover I had no English DNA, being not Saxon or Breton. In 2018 with the help of this great friend and after much bureaucracy (which included a visit to the passport office in London) I acquired myself another passport and this time an Indian e-visa to last three months.

I returned to India for the third and probably last time, flying again from Heathrow to Mumbai International to arrive on the 19th February, I then changed over to domestic flight (travelling with a transfer ticket) to Amdavad (this is the old name for Ahmedabad after King Raj changed the name to get the Islamic population out of Patan, once Gujarat's capital), Gujarat on the 20th. Arriving at the SVPI airport I reluctantly submitted to be scanned with biometrics such as the excitement of anticipation of viewing Gujarat before me, after seven years of sheer and utter misery alas only a window view away.