Preface: Same as always... Make sure you favorite or bookmark frisco-squid.blogspot.com, so you can check this blog regularly for new posts. Please read and share them all. Yes, yes, share all my blog posts yourselves!
Here is my latest blog post. We need leverage against Obama to get me my human rights, and I have been working on my memoirs.
SynSyn, it is time to sue Obama personally for abusing his office to support his personal agenda against me. It is never about the money. Of course, we will drop all civil charges the moment I get my full human rights. We need to make sure the award is so huge that Malia and Sasha's grandchildren labor to payback my grandchildren once we win. This is our leverage to get me my human rights finally. Move things through the courts fast track, as always.
How do we know Obama has a personal agenda against me? Well, why else is he doing it? Obama's bubble and mandate did not make America any safer. Quite the opposite, his personal agenda against me started a civil war. And with the mandate already repealed, why is Obama still enforcing the bubble? There is no explanation for any of this except for his personal agenda against me. Force Obama to offer a counter explanation, and tear his obfuscating explanation to shreds in court.
My beautiful world, I heard that Obama offered up a "transition" to my eventually someday long from now having human rights. Do not let Obama's lies fool you. Nothing has improved for me yet. Nothing. And nothing will improve for me until I can finally be with my husband. Tell Obama to give me my husband first and then transition everything after that.
I did some work on my memoirs this weekend. Here is some rough first draft for you all...
I was thirty-one years old. I had just moved out of my little sister’s house in the Twin Cities after we did not get along and was temporarily at my parents’ house in Iowa when the things I could notice started. At first I thought my father was following my Facebook wall surreptitiously through stokeo.com and spock.com despite my very high privacy settings just because my father is an (expletive) who sickly enjoyed prying into my life. For years he had kept an eye on my credit report against my will and what he thought was without my knowledge.
At one point in May 2009 I became convinced the world was keeping secrets from. I remember repeatedly asking my mother what the hell was going on, and I remember her always lying to my face. My father has been evil to me for so long; I remember nothing about him except for his spying on me from that time period and his trying to tell people I grew psychedelic mushrooms in the backyard. It was my older sister Tara who told me with no shortage of words that I must be relapsing into mental illness because no one was keeping secrets from me.
That was how I ended up in a psych ward for the first time in my life. I asked a psychiatrist what was going on, and he told me I needed to be admitted. Thus, I was kept at the 4A unit at the University of Minnesota Medical Center—Fairview for about ten days in May 2009.
While I was in the psych ward, they filled my body with spy equipment. I did not figure that out until much later, though. I remember being terrified of falling asleep while I was in there. I kept waking up medicine-headed and with whiplash from their attacking me in my sleep every night. They did not put me on meds until I left, and it was a beginning dosage of abilify.
The psychiatrist there tried convincing me I had a thought disorder; that was why I believed the world was keeping secrets from me. Of course, it was an entirely fake psych ward built to keep me in and broadcast me in. Do you remember my telling the world "This ends when Johnny Depp tells me he loves me," from what was supposed to be the federally protected privacy of my own hospital room? The mic still hurts my left ear even to this day.
I was a voluntary intake, so I filled out the application to leave “against medical advice;” even though, there was absolutely nothing wrong with me nor my mental health. I was being raped in my sleep there every night, and I knew I had to get out. The later stories were that they only performed oral sex on me in my sleep, but my body knew differently while I was there. And that is still rape, anyway. They injected me every night while I was in that psych ward, so I would sleep through it. And they desecrated my body.
That was how it started. I knew the world was keeping secrets from me, and then the abuse started. They abused me in my sleep in Iowa after that. And when I fled Iowa for someplace safer, they abused me in my sleep in San Francisco, too. When I fled the States desperate for physical safety, they abused me in Mexico and the UK. When I returned to Iowa after England in December 2010, I learned to sleep with a camera watching me, so I could finally have a little peace in my sleep. Thank the heavens for my benevolent hackers. Nerds have been my heroes for years.
They started drugging me in my sleep, so they could rape me in the hospital in May 2009. The next thing I noticed was that I was being monitored and broadcast.
There used to be a working speaker in my left ear, too. They used to watch me through the cameras they put in my eyes and pump voices into my head through the speaker. In 2002 and no later than 2003, I used to actually hear voices. This was nothing like that. I know what it is like to hear voices from my own brain. These voices in 2009 were not from my own brain. They were not as smart as I am. I also felt the speaker go in one day in the psych ward when they took my temperature with an ear thermometer.
It was when I could hear people around me when I was in public places like the coffee shop and restaurants talking about the minutia of my life that I knew I was being broadcast. It took me until I was in San Francisco to figure out the cameras were in my eyeballs not on my glasses. It is just not rational in most situations to believe that there are cameras in one’s eyeballs.
I called the FBI. I told the man who answered the phone in Omaha that I believed I was being watched and broadcast. I remember his exact words…
“What was your name again?” he asked me.
I told him, “Tanya Varilek.”
I will never forget his response, “This is something you are going to have to figure out for yourself. Don’t expect me to help you.”
I also had a rape kit done one afternoon in late May 2009. I went to Mercy North in Ankeny, IA. My family friend, Li, had asked me if there was anything she could do to help me, so I asked her to take me to the closest clinic. I had my contacts in while I had the rape kit done, so for years I thought the whole thing had broadcast. They found live sperm and semen in my body.
People also started roofying and drugging me every time I left the house. Every time I ate food outside the house and sometimes inside it, there were drugs in it. Everything I drank. Everything I ate. Mushrooms. Cocaine. Meth. Roofies. The list is huge. It took me until I was in San Francisco to finally just stop drinking the water.
One night during a summer storm, I stared down the laser scope of a sniper for the first time. I was in my parents’ living room curling up and trying to sleep when I saw the red laser shine through the trees from the direction of the gas station on the corner. It shone directly into my eyes. All I could do was stare back again. The sniper never fired.
According to the voices pumped into my head through the speaker, a few days later I learned that I was “Too cute to shoot.” I was told the sniper fell off the roof of the convenience store in the storm after being unable to look me in the eyes and kill me.
The story came from the speaker in my ear, but it proved reliable. The second time I noticed a sniper pointing a gun at me, it was at the back of my head. I suppose there are benefits to being a doe-eyed innocent.
Shortly after that, my BFF for almost my entire life Syniva sent me a train ticket, so she could take care of me in Chicago. I knew I was being raped in my sleep every night. And I knew I was being broadcast. I knew I needed a support system, but I could not bring myself to bring my mess into Syniva’s home. I loved her too much for that.
“Are you sure you want this?” I remember asking her.
She paused for a moment then said, “Yes, we talked about it, and we want to take care of you.”
I just could not bring the tragedy that was my life in to make a tragedy of hers. I knew I had to find some place safer to live, though.
I remember going to the main police station in Des Moines. The police were no help to me, but at my request they gave me the phone number for a man with the mobile crisis unit. He assured me that I did not need a doctor and that no doctor would be willing to see me anyway, but he kept urging me to move someplace outside Iowa where people were more civilized.
That was when I decided to spend what was left of my frequent flyer miles and go home to San Francisco. I had first moved to San Francisco in 1999 and had been back and forth to places like Baltimore and Monterey for job and school reasons for years. San Francisco was my home. I needed my friends. I needed my support system. I needed my neighborhood. I needed my home.
It was when I arrived in San Francisco that I first realized how horribly libeled I had been. Obama had called me a hooker to explain why I kept complaining about being raped. I also felt constant pressure to keep my suffering to myself, or I would end up in a psych ward again to be abused nonstop again. If you have ever woken up with whiplash repeatedly after nights you could not remember, you know how terrified I was of being put in a psych ward again.
San Francisco taught me that my being broadcast had made people love me. I never once felt love in Iowa. I felt harassed and on display. In San Francisco, I saw Critical Mass ride their bicycles through the streets naked out of respect for me and a man with “LIFER” tattooed in huge letters across his neck. That was in days of my arriving there.
Despite loving me, though, my friends and all the locals seemed convinced I was a hooker. At the time I had no idea where that came from, and I later learned it came from Obama himself. A good, dear friend of mine kept telling me that he believed in carrying guns for protection and that he used to date hookers. Looking back years later, I figured out he was flirting. I had no idea why he kept saying those things at the time.
I knew the speaker in my head was some horrible person trying to control me and not actual symptoms, but it could still convince me of things. For a few months, I believed that I would go to prison for having cameras in my eyes if I ever acknowledged they were there. There was so much pressure on me to never complain to anyone about the wrongs I was living through. When I got over it, I started my blog.
The cameras have a history of coming out on their own. They look like the rubbery membrane under the shell on a hard-boiled egg. Of course, every time they would come out, someone would hold me down in my sleep and put them back again. It was one day after this happened that I started my blog.
That was the order in which I became aware of what was happening to me. I noticed there were secrets, then abuse, then broadcasts, then drugs, and then libel. Those are the beginning few months up there for you to read. For a while there while I was in Liverpool, the libel claimed I was a dead, pregnant, lesbian hooker.
Obama picked me out of all Americans to be used by him to get totalitarian control of the media. He spent 2009 trying to throw me away after that, but because I refused to allow him to drive me mad nor kill myself, he drafted his mandate and put it before the Democratic Congress as part of his Health Care Reform Bill in December 2009.
Do you remember when they claimed I had died? I was in Mexico at the time. Did that free up the media to report the truth? No, Obama retained his totalitarian control of the media. My being out of the country in the first place should have set America and the presses free of the bubble.
When the bubble started it was not about me. It was about Obama controlling the media. But because I started taking a stand against the president and fighting for all Constitutional rights to be returned to all Americans including myself, because I fought back, and because I have been so effective, Obama developed a personal vendetta against me.
Do you remember when Obama would sing in public places? There was some Al Green and some "Call me Maybe." He was trying to make himself as popular and likable as I have always been. Obama can be such a poser and a wannabe. He does inane things out of jealousy.
The mandate is even repealed now, but Obama still enforces the bubble. He is just abusing his office to support his personal vendetta against me, and I challenge him to come up with any other explanation for why he does such horrible things to me and refuses to stop.
My brave rescuers, I always hear such promising news from you. Thank you for everything you do for me. I wish I could make everything easier for you. Whatever you need, just make sure my beautiful world hears you ask for help. They will provide.
My beautiful world, I would be nothing without you. I fight for you. But I am only capable of doing what I do in the world because you love me. Thank you. Someday we will all be free. Thank you for fighting for me. And keep making all that noise for me. Voices only work when people can hear them.
SynSyn, please do not forget to thank the Parkhill's properly for me. I was at their place for a total of five nights. Move ahead with criminal and civil charges against everyone possible. With criminal charges, our priority #1 is putting Tom Varilek and Obama in prison. So much of the world will be better once they go to prison. Priority #2 is putting Landy and Singh in prison. Thank you for everything you do for me. You are the best BFF ever!
Sweetness, you make me sing Disney songs to myself. We are not even near each other, but you still make me glow with happiness and pride. And once we kiss... "So this is the miracle that I've been waiting for..." I love you, darling. I love and adore you. I cannot wait to kiss you at last.