If I had a time machine. I’d go back four years and never buy the flat we call home. A stupid mistake, blinkered by a good school catchment area and fogged with Covid cabin fever. What happened as a response to this would be close to unbelievable if it hadn’t happened to me.
Around the same time, a couple bought a flat in the same building as a small rental I owned and needed to sell. All being fair, there should have been 20-40k equity in it, that should have been my son’s higher education fund or deposit for his first home.
When the building’s former management agent seemingly dropped our account out of the blue February ’22, with the building close to disrepair and the insurance not paid, this new couple swooped in to take control, having already deflected the other owners away from me. They’d quickly jimmied themselves into a strategic position from which they could withhold the necessary paperwork to sell, whilst having manipulated below market value prices in the building.
I knew the management agent and this couple were connected, and I was the target. maybe on behalf of a consortium of management agents, who didn’t appreciate my-learnt by-doing knowledge of property management.
Partially premeditating future problems, I compiled and printed a document I named Please Read Me… highlighting discrepancies on Companies House, anomalies with invoicing, insurance fraud, deflections and manipulations. And sought legal advice.
Around the same time the hunch my social media and messenger were compromised became more solidified. Little tells in the written messages made me doubt their validity, and I knew people wouldn’t let me down, or not get in touch.
As I was emailing the housing association one night about my troublesome neighbour, the most recent paragraph kept disappearing. At the point of pressing send, the final, crucial paragraph was eliminated remotely at the last second.
After I’d accessed and printed a historic email I went back to it a week later, and the conversation has been totally rewritten.
100s of hours of research went into writing Please Read Me… and I was being tracked, spied on remotely the whole time.
I clung tight to the concrete facts; someone has posted a book about abortion to my four year old; my phone is certainly not private.
The sound of your computer taking a photo isn’t something which can be mistaken. And I’m crying, I’m in hell. I can’t find a way out, see any end to the darkness, the obstacles, the barriers. The people. That’s when I heard it.
It was a person’s job to create the state I was in. And document it.
The hacking occurred when I’d willing given all my devices to my friends, the next owners of my studio. I wished them well, and still do. I wanted them to benefit the client base and social media. I wanted, and still want to repair our relationship. Severing me from my studio served to hurt me emotionally, deflect that community away from me. By the time I realised, it was too late to do any damage control. Betrayals by those you trust hurt the most.
A doctor in my family gave off a notably uneasy vibe when I said my former dance studio and the rental flat were somehow connected. The woman driving the studio takeover whistled awkwardly when I mentioned selling my flat as a last resort.
Naïvely believing myself a clued up, street smart, defender of social justice, targeted as an inconvenience to The Upper Echelons of People Who Manage Property, I wrote Please Read Me… hoping to expose the white-collar criminals and corruption. But it did the opposite. My universe shifted with the realisation of what that document represented.
It created disparities in time, scale and subject. It included an arbitrary certificate of incorporation titled Form 10 Directors. If I’d followed through what the 30 000 other companies which had the same certificate mentioned what I would have found out what the common link is. I understand it’s a tag the government puts on a person’s medical file as mandated for psychiatric care. I know no such practise should ever exist. The health service didn’t put that information on Companies House, it was the other way around.
It represents that me, my life, who I am, what I do, is disposable. To be obliterated.
I’d been fighting, using the knowledge my phone was hacked as a tool. Unashamedly. No one should be privy to the information there. I didn’t know what I was in opposition with.
The government. What is that really, as it pertains to me? Something so big and far away I can’t really imagine the detail.
But seeing your life, your phone usage, your guilty, should be private pleasures, in a Facebook group with 10s of thousands of people who slightly bizarrely discus politics by substituting politician’s names for those of Harry Potter characters; you being publicly humiliated. It both destroyed and reassured me. I knew I’d been targeted by something; the repeated home break ins, my neighbour framing me with the police, the women who hacked my devices were actually named. The person responsible for tracking my every movement unashamedly referred to themselves as one of the evil ones. That’s what we’ve been subjected to.
My son’s spent half his entire life being the target of an evil one. Isolation and poverty were a choice made for him. I sat here staring at the evidence this was a coordinated attack. Seemingly unrelated people in my life intentionally causing real world suffering in a misguided, botched attempt to cause the symptoms of psychosis.
When the mirror shards came together, in my first instinct, I wanted to connect with the other people who had endured similar abuse. I bear no grudge against those who have wronged me; nor know what motivated or manipulated them.
I’m grateful to the people helping me; who worked out the truth long before I did. I’ll protect the identity of the first who said with such sincerity, no matter what happens in the future, you’re not crazy. That the attack was as much about the flat we call home, and about me, as much it was the rental flat. That moment of realisation the psychological attack was a response to my buying this flat. I struggle to write it, because I know it’s true, I just don’t want it to be so.
Our former Prime Minister, did not resign as mayor of London because of Partygate. I identified some of my real world abusers using my hacked phone; the hackers, my spying neighbour, the purchasers of the flat, likely the same people preventing me from communicating. I saw him looking at me before all of this began, from a window in Liverpool. It wasn’t a coincidence. The difference between manslaughter and murder is premeditation. It was his intention, to form a calculated attack on my life. To remove everything and everyone I love. The person controlling my phone knew I was suicidal, and prevented me from reaching out to my friends. What does that make that person in relation to me? He had truly dark intentions.
I have to leave the country. In concrete terms: I have no privacy. All my communications monitored. The equity from the rental flat, which should be my sons has been totally wiped out. I’ve been raped of money, of friends, of trust, of time. Of happiness. Life I’ll never get back.
This is only a small splattering of the atrocities. The horror I’ve been put through is staggering. All because I bought a flat.
I have to leave because I refuse to live without basic human rights. Because the people who ran the country ordered this.
Because no one should have to live in fear.
Plucked 