At least, that’s how I explain the sudden urge to leave to myself, and it’s not unreasonable.
But something is making me unhappy there too.
I return to London until 2012, when I decide to come back after attending Barbara Loftus’s wedding and remembering how much I love the town.
I wonder if Barbara was supposed to be thoroughly isolated from anyone who might have sound advice; and nosey-parker, Miss Marple me needed gotten rid of, at least temporarily.
Vicente refuses to eat or drink anything at my house¶
I had a boyfriend, Vicente.
He is Barbara Loftus’s husband’s brother.
They’re local to the area and have a local name; Ibars, Ivars, or similar.
I meet him at dinner at Barbara and Joan’s house in January 2009.
Joan’s female friend Vicent is there and I later understood that there was something off with her.
I remember Barbara telling me something that sounded like she thought Joan was with her for somewhat fraudulent purposes and that his real love was Vicent.
She said this to me in terms like it’s what they do here with the foreign women, for money.
Anyway. They end up getting married.
I like Vicente.
He seems normal.
He’s not an egomaniac and he doesn’t seem to be a pervert either.
It’s nice to hang out with him.
He seems honest.
He never introduces me to his parents though.
I find this weird.
Sometimes, he introduces me to his multiple friends on nights out and they all sit around looking miserable, not talking.
There’s something off with them that I don’t understand.
I notice that some people in the town totally ignore his presence, even step away from him, and I notice it and find it very weird.
Whenever Vicente comes to my house, he refuses to eat or drink anything.
On some occasions I’ve even cooked lunch and I’m literally sitting eating it by myself and he’s sitting at the dinner table with me, and he refuses to even try a bite of my food.
I ask him what’s wrong.
He doesn’t have any answer.
Like he could have said, oh, I’ve eaten, or I’m going to eat soon, but he doesn’t even say those things.
He won’t even take a coffee or water.
Sometimes, he brings his own beers.
There’s no explanation for this and I always thought it weird.
I guess, if he knew I was being drugged and poisoned by the porn-gangs he might refuse to eat or drink anything at my house.
The idea of something like this happening outside the movies would have been preposterous to me at the time; and remained preposterous in my mind until the summer of 2024 - 15 years later!
I believe whatever poisons they use target the higher functioning centres of the brain over time, leaving victims with neurological problems related to decision making, recognizing objects, and other stuff we’re still researching.
I believe the population then gaslights victims saying they’re insane, or have had a stroke, or have a heart condition, or whatever they need to say, and trusted medics confirm it.
I believe this has been going on for centuries.
And since porn took off, I believe the sedating drugs they use on targets shut down the higher brain centres completely; perhaps disconnecting the brain from the nervous system for short periods.
It is my view that this can easily kill or render a person a vegetable for life.
Perhaps certain people’s constitutions manage the drugs and poisons better than others.
Perhaps this is why they need a long period of time preparing someone for the horse porn and the snuff.
Perhaps the women who have panic attacks; like my mother or Cindy, are left alone after a few tests.
While the rest of us, the toughies, end up food for the pigs because no-one asks questions about dead or missing women who’ve suffered a lifetime of sexual abuse.
A month or so before I leave Dénia, I bump into Alessandra.
I haven’t seen her for a while.
She tells me she is sick; seriously sick.
She has scleroderma, or similar (if I remember rightly).
She’s anxious and scared; fraught in fact.
She is happy to see me because wants to talk to me about the systemic candida I suffered.
She has related the two illnesses due to the autoimmune connection.
Did Zoe BJ or Hazel suggest Alessandra talk to me?
When I was ill with systemic candida, no-one thought I was ill.
Is this why she was shepherded to have a chat with me?
She shows me apparently tightened skin on her arms and says this is her main and only symptom.
She tells me she could die if she doesn’t get treatment immediately.
I don’t see anything obviously wrong with her.
I’m not sure what I’m looking at but I trust she’s telling the truth because she’s so scared.
Indeed, it’s hard to believe Alex is ill; she looks fit and well physically, as robust as ever.
She tells me she has to have a full bone marrow transplant or she’ll die.
It seems extreme.
I’m worried about her.
She tells me there is a high risk of the procedure failing, and that means death, but her doctor is the best surgeon in Spain in this field, and she trusts him.
I hear a kind of reverence in her description of this man (… the seduction tech main feature again)!
She has the extremely high-risk procedure at La Fe hospital in Valencia, and thank God, she survives.
When I meet her again in 2023, she’s a different person, and obviously suffering from the multiple side-effects one might expect from an immune-system transplant.
She tells me about the debilitating side-effects; breathlessness, can’t walk far, weight gain, other things.
I say this because I can hear Hazel all over our conversation without Alessandra mentioning her name.
She tells me about her British landlady who is such a cool person she hasn’t put the rent up in over ten years.
After my horrible experiences in Dénia involving conspiring healthcare professionals, I now suspect Alessandra was never unwell.
I suspect she was manipulated with spiked drugging, just like I was, which was then reinforced with choreographed events, conversations and meetings, and online activity which made her believe she was ill.
She probably had “chats” with Hazel who knew a good doctor.
I suspect a diagnosis of ill health was confirmed by conspiring health professionals, and she was told she would die if she did not have this experimental, perilous, and invasive treatment immediately; a treatment whereby all her bone marrow was removed and replaced, leaving her without an immune system.
I’m reminded of the vile medical mantra, “your child will commit suicide if you don’t give her these drugs and let her chop her boobs off”.
Did Hazel set up a “chance” meeting with me using my devices’ hacked location software?
Alex told me she was the first person to have the procedure done in Spain.
I wonder how much Hazel was paid to provide a manipulated test subject like Alessandra, and how many of the medical professionals knew she was a lab-rat.
Did Hazel recommend the utterly useless therapist in 2023, ensuring that Alessandra never asks questions about what happened? Or was the therapist instructed to be useless?
Curiously, not long before she “got ill”, Alessandra had an abortion.
Did the criminal gangs need to gather foetal cells from Alex to ascertain whether or not she was an adequate test subject?
Did they also need foetal cells from Alessandra for the procedure itself?
Was Alessandra a demo for the caliphate, persuading them to spend billions on the hypno-tech, thus paying for all the fast and expensive cars speeding around a tiny parochial village in Spain, Dénia?
The most problematic thing with Alessandra’s diagnosis, in my view¶
When I had systemic candida causing me many horrible symptoms that often kept me off work, doctors refused to believe anything was wrong with me.
After my GP in Leopold Road N2 told me I was hysterical, I decided to sever my relationship with Western medicine for good.
Studies show that women are rarely believed by their doctors, and worse.
This bodes extremely badly for heart disease in women, which kills excessively when compared to men due to women being dismissed early on as exaggerating, or whatever.
The horror stories women have about child birth and gynecology in general are pretty telling.
The fact that Alessandra’s bizarre symptom that you could not see was believed so early on, and she was referred quickly to a research hospital which would then confirm a diagnosis, is unprecedented in my view.
Is Alessandra’s GP one of the medics at Carrer Beniarmut; like mine who failed to perform a kidney health test when I requested it after getting rhabdo symptoms, and most assuredly was set to confirm a diagnosis of diabetes after my acupuncturist told me I had it.
Interestingly, throughout the duration of the switcheroo porn special I was concerned about my health and I did consider the possibility I had diabetes.
I guess I was being primed online for that; the only thing was that the acupuncturist was so obviously lying I was unable to take her seriously.
I went for a full blood work-up in Thailand soon after that and everything, including heart and kidneys even, was fine; and it surprised me.
This has been an ongoing theme with regards to my stays in Dénia.
It seems to me that whenever the sedating rape-gangs got started on me, I would start to think about leaving.
So, shortly after I met Vicente, I decided to leave.
When my dad visited me in Ricardo Ortega, and I was fired at the same time (to give me a reason for the expected depression and anxiety), I decided I was going to leave.
After getting seriously depressed in Joan Fuster, I knew I had to leave.
Even cutting my ten-day stay short at the Scottish woman’s house - the friend of Zoe BJ who had permanent cystitis and had set up a charity - I had to leave.
I had massive boils at her house too.
It’s like the body knows what’s going on and tells the brain without the details.
“Get OUT NOW!”, the body screams to the brain, or something like that.
We might call it a left-brain/right-brain conflict.
And there’s a sadness along with it, an ambivalence, which means they can always lure you back.
Falling out spectacularly with my brother in Thailand¶
My brother and I had already visited Thailand together in 2008 and we had a really special time.
In 2009, things were different.
I’d begun the detox already while my brother was shagging some bird in the room beside me for about 48 hours.
He’d met this woman on the street.
She’d been tying her shoelace at the side of the road, or something, as he came out of a shop in Lamai, and she’d looked at him, that way, and they ended up in bed shortly afterwards.
She had her rucksack with her and all her belongings.
I didn’t see him for about two days as he was locked in his room with her, shagging.
When the woman finally left, I told him it was a bit off us going on a detox retreat and him shagging random women right next to my room for days on end.
He went ballistic.
I’ve never seen my brother so angry before in my life.
But my words did not warrant the reaction, AND he has detested and loathed me, and I mean LOATHED, ever since.
I felt like our relationship was shattered into tiny pieces then and there, and would never recover.
Could the woman have been a porn-gang employee tasked with messing with my brother’s head about me so that he would not pose any problems for future porn-specials?
You see, we had become friends again in 2008 the first time we went to Thailand.
I was trying to help him with his obvious drug addiction and I paid for a whole load of his trip for that reason.
He loved it so much - and we really had a great time and connected a bit like we were little kids again when we were best friends - he decided to come with me again in 2009.
And then this event happened, which totally destroyed our relationship.
Interesting isn’t it.
Was she filling his head with drugs and lies about evil sisters for 48 hours?
Or was she just topping-up towards an explosion on an already well-twisted-against-me mind?
More interesting is that, even though I only saw the woman briefly leaving the resort with her enormous backpack, I believe she could be the same woman Ugly brought to Cauterets in August 2024.
It’s unclear why anyone would do such a thing; it strikes me as something only the most insecure person would find appealing, especially in criminal terms, because it is also fundamentally foolish and fumbling.
Unless, they knew about my handwritten letters and offered poor Ugly up, and he took the bait.