FREQUENCIES TRAVELER August 17, 2016 CBC...cell blood count "What are you doing?! You may NOT DO THAT TO ME!" I was very clear in speaking out to the woman. The blood -- my blood -- was drawn anyway. "What are you taking it for...?" I was still inquiring as my instructions were clearly being violated. I was an adult. I was not, however, a consenting adult. I was an adult who was in a very dangerous and isolated situation. The date was March 1, 2007, my father's, "official" birthday. I say "official" because he had actually been born on Leap Day, February 29, but, registered March 1 for the government's sake. "CBC," came the reply. Common as dust, this draw. What hospital visit in modern times does not include a CBC laboratory/blood test at some point? Even excluding the fact that this visit was neither my choice nor my wish, a CBC draw can be used for numerous purposes. I would soon hear one of them. A while later, as I lay on the examination table inside a stripped, locked, and guarded small exam room, I could overhear talk and laughter outside the door. The guards called aloud, "She's all white." Racial typing. Why did they, the guards, need to be advised of lab test results? Why did the hospital need to determine my race? Yes. I am A+ blood type. All white. So? Why were they doing this to me? I thought. Motive? I was neither drunk nor high on any chemicals or smokes. I do not smoke, as a matter of fact. I was peaceful, no disruptive behavior nor delusional activity. Again, why? Was someone doing a "5150," "5250," "5260" on me? Or worse? No one explained. Also, the "when?" word arises. When, at what precise date and time, at what moment, did I lose every legal right I possessed? Could anyone secretly claim anything about a private adult citizen and have that citizen placed in a hold cell for three days or two weeks or six months or worse without their due process normal rights and rights to "discovery?" As if I did not already know, I could pose the question to my now alone self, as I waited in that horrible room. How does a completely sober, clean, straight, sane and conscious human being citizen of the USA become the racketeering commodity of thugs-for-rent and medical criminals? As I have stated, I was locked into a small exam room at Kennestone Hospital. I had been "mental-health arrested," I was told. That was ALL that I was told. The room did not even have art on the wall. Stripped bare and cold. Bare walls and bare floors. A gurney-type bed or table. Locked door. Two guards at the door standing outside in the hall who would not let me out. No toothbrush or toothpaste or comb. The day passed into night without development. On the second day I said to myself that, if this was a "Mental Health" event, I would probably be under the care of a Psychiatrist of some sort. How else, other than physical escape, would I get released but by his or her signature? This was obviously pure "bull." "Mental Health arrest?" I was in danger and did not want to lay around waiting for more danger to appear. "I have to get out of here," I thought to myself. "Who knows the next step in the plan? Why was it the guards who were the ones who had said that I was racially white, and later on their shift relief personnel also, still holding me prisoner in that small cell, err, room. Why were they armed?" Some time later, in the future, I would be told that I was listed as being admitted to the hospital under mental health arrest at the request of family members who said that I was "upset and needed a little rest." The whole thing had the apparency of a family member who is being lied to by someone about a near relative who lives in a different state. When, after decades of living independantly, the distantly-located relative asks the family to help her handle some events that sound frightening, perhaps these type of events sound unlikely to be the type that happen in "OUR" family. Maybe one hears of such things happening to people in other places or in the movies or to some Special Operations employee. Could that sister have become feeble-minded? Or is she now easily influenced by others, i.e., weak-minded, watching television and only imagining that something as unlikely as this would happen to her, average upper-middle-class white American, as these events! Surely, this is a preferable thought to entertaining the idea that "OUR" family has been put into such a scandalous and dangerous situation. We surely do not qualify. Alternately, perhaps, the fear is that the idea is not only likely but, (horrible to imagine for a conservative family): TRUE. Could it be that someone has suggested to the family member that the worst case scenario, as suggested by that sister, just might be truly the case here? What to do? What not to do? Whose advise is taken that suggests that it might be best for everyone if you allow your sister to think incorrectly that family is here for her and will just order some room delivery dinner and rest for the evening before commencing on a new look at solutions? Who would decide that, instead of dinner being delivered that evening of March 1, 2007, a cop in a police car would come to take your sister into custody and deliver her into the hands of these armed guards and CBC-blood test drawing strangers? I was in that emotionally sterile room feeling anything BUT rested or comforted. Is this how the modern medical community treats patients reported to be getting admitted to a hospital for mental rest from emotionally upsetting conditions? Obviously, this was the opposite of restful or calming. Cold. Hostile. Imprisoning... for what crime?...mean-spirited. Danger-filled. Against my will. No information and no conversation. No doctor visited me. I decided to get out of my usual quiet demeanor for one purpose: maybe there was some human being present on the floor who was not a monster and might remember me or get help for me. But they could not even see me or know anything about me if I remained quietly hidden in this cell. I began pounding and screaming on the glass; so much so that someone would feel the need to respond. Finally, one of the guards opened the cell door. I talked him into a quick visit to the restroom a door or two down the hall. Coming back, I saw a nurse standing down the hall in conversation with someone else. Whether it was my opportunity to be released or permanently imprisoned could not matter at this moment. I had to chance it. I was going to chance it. I began screaming at the top of my lungs in that hallway at Kennestone Hospital. The female nurse looked up. She had noticed me. I motioned and she came down the hallway towards me. "Two days! I am being held prisoner. Kidnapped. Where is the psychiatrist?" I had gathered that I would need to be signed out by a doctor or remain in that cell indefinitely. The nurse told me that she would check into it. "Were you then released?" you ask. "I was transferred that day by ambulance from the hospital to Rome and the Psychiatric Facility there. The mental facility....the nut house. Apparently. there was no psychiatrist on staff at the hospital that weekend and I would need to be discharged by one. I had guessed correctly. They thought that it might be a faster process at the facility in Rome. "I'll be dead or discharged," I thought. I had never had a mental health facility on my record. Ironically, the damage and danger to my children and descendants would be exponentially worse now that my permanent record would show psychiatric hospitals and mental health arrests than it would have been if they had killed me, but not insinuated falsely that our family bloodline was flawed by mental illness -- it was NOT. Some year in the future, this lie could cause my descendants to be falsely diagnosed, falsely accused or falsely imprisoned, discriminated against in school or enterprise or social life and opportunity or reproduction or eliminated physically: exterminated for a wrong reason. Worse: if the descendants thought it to be true, they could be encouraged to believe lying diagnoses or prognoses about themselves. In our family, in particular, there had already been a precedent: our father had died in 1970, supposedly after a "mental health" arrest and admittance to the mental health floor of a hospital in a northeastern Florida hospital. Dad had lived in the western Panhandle. This was not supposed to be a longterm stop; but, rather a short visit with old friends, last addressed here. These were the days before instant messaging, Skype or e-mail. Most folks did not have cell phones or even cable television yet. Payphones and telephone books were the only way to start a communication to see if people were in town as you passed through. It was 1970. The Viet Nam War was going strong and protests were everywhere in the USA and internationally against both war and the USA involvement in it. The National Guard had infamously killed protesting college students that same spring. It was a Nixon White House and missing minutes of recorded tape and spies. Cold War against Russia. CIA and KGB and military intelligence and the first year of UNIX. CIA experimentation with psyche-altering drugs, such as LSD, on the public without their consent. Later, in 1977, Congressional Hearings would question some of these activities, with the spies admitting to them at that time. 1970 was the year my sane father, under great stress and duress, quietly allowed himself to be led away to his death for the sake of peace. Mom said that dad seemed, toward the end, to be speaking to someone she could not see (espionage frequencies? V2K's equivalent of the time?). She assumed at the time that he was reliving WWII and the Japanese handling of POWs. She did not know. She thought that, if he were suffering difficult flashbacks, then it might help him to relax under medical supervision. (Sound familiar? Repeat of history in his descendant?) I would get the call in the middle of the night to tell me that my father had passed away SUDDENLY at the hospital from cardiac and respiratory problems, per autopsy. It also said that dad had been in that hospital for ten days or two weeks... if he were this ill... at death's door... and in the hospital... where was he? Cardiac Care Unit? Intensive Care Unit? Emergency Room? Medical Ward, at least? Thirteenth Floor Nut ward? Dying from craziness? Medical distress bad enough TO KILL HIM in a hospital?... for many days?... diagnosis? Treatment? Did you know that some of the medications that they give to persons admitted to the nut ward will kill you if you have a respiratory problem such as Emphysema? Did he get proper diagnosis and location in the hospital. Did he get proper treatment? Was he falsely diagnosed and wrongly treated? Worse still: Was it deliberate? Of course, the military, police and spies/assassins/contractors would be in places like that hospital at that time. Did I mention to you that he was forty-six years old? For many years, there were those, including myself, who would feel that something was very WRONG with the versions of his death. We sensed the lie. We hoped and wished that the lie would turn out to be that he had faked his death. But I had been there at his open casket and interrment. Lie. We sensed the lie. We had to hone in on what the nature of the lie was. "I'll be dead or discharged." Again, the thought. For my dad, it had not worked out. No rescue. Some ones... frightening and lying to family... removing their ability to control circumstances... family would, unwittingly, help to place him away from allies who might help him... who might have saved his life. The save did not arrive. He died SUDDENLY, they said. Suddenly, after ten days to two weeks in the hospital? Really? I want to ask, who killed him? Negligence? Indifference? Incompetance? Murder? ... Murder, would not surprise me. I am not the type for the nut house or drunk tank. I was too sober for this experience. I was too awake and educated for this experience. After the second day in the Rome facility, I had determined that my situation was what I had suspected. There was no concern over my mental health or public safety. This was some piece of a plan of government contracts and cover-ups. I took another chance. I asked one of the so-called patients why she was there "Depression," was the response. Who would not be depressed here? It begged the question. You had it or came here to get it? I resisted that urge at sarcasm. Some tax dollars were being spent on something here, but relaxing the stressed or cheering up the depressed? You do have a sense of humor, after all, as you laugh all the way to the bank. "You know," I said. "You'll find out more if I'm out there in the world. They won't have anything to spy on if I'm stuck in here." A chance. An intuitive venture. The next day I was released... free to go. Nothing WRONG with me, they said. One person offered to give me a ride back to a place closer to home where I could get back to my life. I was no saner, no crazier, no calmer, no more dangerous than I had been on March 1, the official day of my father's birth. He was a leap-year baby, but in those days, prior to computers, one could alter things. Grandma had been advised that his life would be less complicated if they just put March 1, on the birth certificate instead of February 29. That day, more than thirty-six years later, in Georgia, March 1, 2007, the day of the mental health arrest, I had been watching television news about deaths and a police officer driving the wrong way up exit ramps to his death and a bus driver mistakenly driving off the side of the midtown bridge resulting in deaths, after having the mental impression that a road lane existed there, which did not, the touted version, or of some unseen hand remotely taking over the driver's controls. No saner or crazier, but free to go. How did I know someone was up to something; that the government or "Company" was misbehaving? Common question. How could anyone and everyone miss it? Yes, A+. Yes, all white. My medical records would tell you blood type. The "wraps" and ZOOT-suits would reveal bio-resonance and biological markers. Were imprisoners and agents and techies mindless thugs? Now I would have a crazy house on my permanent record. Was that the goal? Attack my credibility? Ruin me and my professional reputation, part of income/business canabalism, prior to theft of primary assets and death of business owner? That would be part of a replacement scenario. Nothing I had done in my life ... nor failed to do... would qualify me for a death sentence or the vast array of lies that were being generated about me to explain what was happening. We know that "routine. We know that "drill." "Discrediting me or killing me...was this part of somebody's plan?" I ask. "Not unusual," someone says. "In the military... when you know too much." Says another. "Training accident..." ventures another. "My descendants are also attacked by doing this to me. A lie. No mental illness in the family bloodline. I would not want them to worry about the possibility or be subject to the lies of these crooks," I continue. "Mental attack, yes. Attacked in the brain/mind/EMF connection. Mind Games is one way to refer to it, the torture, mind imprisonment, mind theft, and the many other mind aggressions using advanced technologies such as the Whole Day, It, the whole thing, these are nicknames... microwave towers and MASERS and speed-of- light and speed-of-sound and speed of thought/frequencies apparatus, V2K, ULTRA and other acronyms and nicknamed Dream Police or chain gang remote assassin technologies. The mind, under mental attack by others, is not mentally ill, with its implied defectiveness. Closer would be to say injury or theft or mental/physical/spirit hijacking/kidnapping by deliberate means and by other entities." I am back in town now and reflecting back on what I had just experienced... Did I remember to mention that I was not, as in "negative to," a government employee; neither a volunteer, chattel, military, convict, illegal immigrant, government contractor and not any type of security, law enforcement or undercover informant? And, totally sane? Did I mention that? Good. Remember that. Will you, the reader, the listener, the spy, do that much for me? NEXT PAGE Copyright 2016-2022.Asha of Antares.Asha Ariel Aleia.All Rights Reserved. Background courtesy: Asha Ariel Aleia | |||||