The Consequences of Secrets; Unrepentant Diarrhea

My weight dipped down to below 155 pounds. Then back up to 158. Unrepentant diarrhea and puking has set in and I'm not eating. Of course I suspect poisoning but the banal reality is I'm probably just reacting to one of the meds I'm already on. By the end of the week I will be below 70kgs.
What are the consequences of secrets is my question - not a secret or a specific set of secrets but what are the consequences of a career in secrets and lies to harvest information. With all the things that are seen by these Agents when things go tits up - what is the effect of that on an individual. Just because you can see the carnage and consequence what does it mean when something less bloody happened. Say a broken heart or in my case a broken life. Well at least I didn't end up in a dumpster. To which I'd add - the day isn't over...  (as the character Lana from the TV Show Archer often says).
I'm not sure unrepentant diarrhea is much better of a fate than another body discarded in a dumpster. And perhaps in some way I do have a broken heart and I don't want to admit it. To be groomed and set up for something that never made sense nor that came into the focus of my understanding to then be abandoned after coming to the conclusion that I'd do anything for these guys. There is something of broken heart within this broken life. The only thing I have left are these words. The memories are trickster at best. There are not conversations with these types anymore. No answers to these calls herein contained. No fuel for the fires of imagination. Just a broken life and a broken heart and a wasting disease.

On Having Been Ghosted By Spooks

Not much to say about this. Jefferson was called up to meet "Dave" at this public park location. At the time the meeting took place the picnic table was where the photograph was taken. That was where we sat when Dave in a rather seductive manner showed me his concealed FBI gun and holster. In the background adjacent to the shelter was the interracial couple who were making out. While they were going at it in ways that seemed to me contrived and not natural - which suggests they were a part of the same team as Dave for this meeting. And the couple happened to depart just prior to Dave closing the meeting down. That probably explains why this was one of the few times I met Dave solo. I feigned ambivalence to the gun show only because it was a bit more than vaguely sexual and it was basically attached to him. Had it been set on the picnic table it would have seemed less invasive of me to consider it. So here is the scene we met at back then as it is today. When I add up this post all I get is a big question -The confounding question of this blogette which is why. What was the price tag of this meet up. Why was I groomed and what for and why was I discarded. There are other such locations and I still go to those and remember the visits. Visits that never strayed far from a parkinglot. I am desperately seeking and searching for answers that I cannot possibly find on my own beyond these posts. What further aggravates me is if this were the DC Metro area I was living I am sure there are enough people connected to such people that I'd happen upon conversations or connections with other people who could speculate or just comprehend the splinter in my mind that has been left from all this. But as this is old Ohio I am just on my own with a bittersweet memory of something at once frightening and threatening to something that has become almost romanticized in my mind in the passing years since. I would have done anything for these guys and to be shelved as I was will be a life long regret and a burden of mystery. I rather wish they would have helped set me up in another state in a different climate far from here in some lonesome mobile home park. Than to be left in the wake of their activity and abandoned.

Dave

...Monticello's Properties Jefferson calling Dave, come in Dave...
Weighing in at 158 and still dropping.
I am pissing sh*t out my *ss at the moment from days and nights of extreme diarrhea.
Living alone and being sick is not easy and I'm doing this all whilst having put in 55 hours in one week at work. I am sleep deprived from being sick and my gut not letting me sleep. I am dehydrated from the diarrhea. More - so much more is coming out than going in and its been only liquid anyway. And I have to shower and pull a night shift in this condition.
I'm guessing any content I upload gets automatically forced into a dark corner of the Web inaccessible to most... except you.
And I'm guessing you are going to remain concealed in your own dark corner.
And I don't think there is much more for me to say.
I still do not understand the radio silence and I don't suppose I ever will.
I keep hoping that some shred of humanity buried deep within you contacts me but you and I both know that won't happen. I am not nor ever will be the recipient of any shreds of humanity within you. In short I am just the miserable contents of a file that went across your desk and was as the title of this blog states shelved to obscurity. Or rather shredded to obscurity. Deleted.
Isn't there some sort of underling you can send my way on your behalf just so I can sort of come to some reasonable way to put all this past to rest. Ask a few questions that won't be answered. Get a pat on the head so to speak.
Or how about a call or text with mysterious coordinates to meet someone at. Barring all that could you just stop and consider my dimension of life for a meditative moments. No family, living alone, aging. permanently gut sick, working a lot with no benefits. All while being heavily dosed for Depression and a whole slew of things Veterans from recent deployments face despite my not having ever served.
When I look back on my life overseas and all I tried to cultivate there disintegrating so fast and being left with this here - its beyond chilling. I has been difficult in this decade since to wake up every day here trapped in the Rustbelt like this. Knowing of better places and better ways of life. And just having to keep my head down and be stuck here within the outer belt of a 2 or 3rd tier city. Stuck here and unable to connect with anyone content with this place.
And a latent fascination and infatuation set in - I will always see you as I did those times you had the light beard of yours grown out or perhaps it was a very convincing synthetic beard. But that is how I remember you. Youthful, bearded, cocky in professional ways and yet ultimately well mannered. When I was around you and your colleague cohort du jour and/or Mike - I enjoyed the exposure to your intellect - that was the refreshing privilege to my life confined within this Rustbelt city - getting to for a moment to relate to you - it felt like getting lifted out of this reality of ghetto meth head ex-con poverty and low education types. For a few brief moments I felt what it was like to be on an intellectual level closer to the one you inhabit. There hasn't been much of that here. Except in the brief moments I get to talk to a medical Doctor or Surgeon (and often times those are just students). What baffles me about the Rustbelt is how intellectually and economically segregated we are here. I'm not saying I am all that but I have to settle for hanging out with people who have not been to college and who have not been overseas. I don't understand their struggles with addiction and the Law anymore than I understand this economic and intellectual segregation I am trapped in.
Could you not in all your stealth like expertise meet me off the Grid of your affiliations past or present or future knowing. Could you not play some character and find a way to meet me. Maybe I am wrong but some kind of communication with you or at least your kind might help me be able to lay all this to rest somehow. Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it would just give me something more to write to about.
Is there nothing for you to learn or benefit from such a conversation with me. And if not could you then do this out of some sort of humanity gracious generosity that I know is well within your character.
Trust me you don't want to be me. You don't want to be confined in this life as I am. This life there are reasons it all added up to this non-existence that I have to abide with. I could inventory the chain of events and decisions that brought me here and left me here.
You turned me and won me over and yet to be honest I had a better life before that. Meet me at that DC Museum is probably too much to ask. I dunno - take my car for a drive - so you can literally and figuratively grasp just about the only fun I have in life. How about some cold war era like rendez-vous over Gin tonics.
All I can say is that I am living and working for and paying for my own existence. I am stuck in economic and social confinement and its only natural that in some odd way I am pining for some trans-dimensional communique from you.

Left Behind

I'm weighing in at 162. Fatigue without fatigues or camo or anything mossy oaked.
At some point I realized no answer to these electronic flares were going to be answered. I tell myself my words so self published, however, furtively or dangerously were not going to be read by the intended person or agency or associates thereof I wrote them for. In a better world they would read these desperate construct of words and respond. A cameo in camo's would somehow manifest in my daily life. No business cards left stuck at the front door now. Mike and Dave - my very own Mike and Ike's. Well you threatened me with insanity and it happened so now what? Does this make you conclude you were successful or powerful that your words became a prophecy? Did you really see my attempt at life and free thinking as treasonous or a threat. Or was I just a curiosity for you to study? What were the moral implications of your interrogations that would play out in my personal life during your visits and well beyond. Just because you have the privilege to disappear - does that give you license to not consider the implications your work and disappearance would have on me to this day. My life is now confined in an economic strata between crack-heads, meth-heads, water-heads and "ho's" on the one hand to Nurses and Doctors on the other and in between its just retail servitude. This isn't a life. It's an existence - containment - nothing more. Had I just been taken down in those days when we met by some bullet or staged suicide - I'd argue that that would have perhaps been more humane that to build me up - to jerk my mind into thinking something genuine and "big" was happening and that I would useful. Useful is just all I have wanted to be - to whoever was paying the most for whatever cause. So that was a lie. Even though of course you said you wouldn't lie to me and that's another lie. Well I never lied to you even if I had a cloudy mind and couldn't always think clearly.
And still I think very highly of you (both). Even though you and I both know I shouldn't. I can't help it. I think very highly of you. I still feel and believe it was a privilege to meet with you. And I write this knowing your contempt and obvious critical analysis at my pathetic attempt at life. With all your brilliance and intellect did you ever stop to think what it must be like to be trapped in the capsule of my life with its intellectual and emotional limitations. Did you give thanks for that. Were you aware of how badly I wanted to break out of this encapsulation of my mortal and mental existence. And that if couldn't do that how much I just wanted to work (outside of retail) for a viable or livable wage.
Were you aware of how I wanted to pin all my medical bills to the wall in my living room and blow my brains out on those bills - spraying my brains on them - so that when my body was found weeks later someone would know why I had done it. And somehow in that equation I could think someone examining all that would care or understand.
And like a bad crush I still can't get you out of my mind - either of you - still. It's been how long now. I think about you more times that I feel comfortable admitting. A few times a day - still. Just as I do my ex - still. Mike and Ike left. My ex pushed me out of our home and life overseas. My mother had passed away - then my father - then Rebecca - then Margo - and of course Rusty. And where did this leave me. I ask myself why was I left behind. Left behind - two words that haunt me and now define everything about me. Left behind and left in a mental health and gut disease syndrome I wouldn't wish on anyone. Left behind in isolation and self doubt.
Infatuated with you guys to the point of blind faith. Still. I literally would have done anything you told me to and I would have naively thought it would have been alright. At least you did not use that dynamic to dispose of me. That is to your moral credit. But what if you had just given my failing life some help or support - how would things be different now. Perhaps I would have gotten out of retail which as I told you is all I have ever wanted. And possibly had a less crushing mental health illness. Likewise would it really be so taxing to reappear in my life to assist me in finding a way to grasp and file away my experiences with you. Whisked off to DC with some decent hotel accommodation and a couple visits. Or even just here. I miss the magic that you brought with your time. I wish you knew what it was like to witness that from my end. Mostly I just wish you wanted me to talk to you rather than me wishing I could talk to you.

What Part of Self Described "Post De-Radicalized" Man Did You Not Ketch

I'm not sure when I realized I had been "radicalized" but certain people back then close to me discussed it though never with me - although looking back perhaps they should have. Then later I'm also not sure when I realized I had been "de-radicalized". Its not like I ever set out to be radicalized or later de-radicalized. It was more like chasing a White Rabbit to quote Jefferson Aeroplane. Ah, back to Jefferson. Red haired Jefferson and an alias that I thought was moving on up to the Middle Eastside in the back seat of Monte Carlo Dave's car. Nothing is or was ever as it seemed. Which might be why I never thought in terms of being radicalized or de-radicalized but looking back it sure seems so from this post de-radicalized point on the continuum of a life so loosely lived as mine.
The White Rabbit for me were ideas - of my own - and that is perhaps why I never saw radicalization as myself. Ideas that I was chasing - fragments of knowledge from books and the media that seemed to lead me. Or perhaps quite possibly through an unseen electronic agent of any sort I was being led as one nowadays can be led by misinformation. Manipulated - directed to places in ones mind one would not normally go that can lead to other parts of the world as in my case. Either ideas that were solely my own or perhaps from an invisible electronic hand I was led into thinking those very ideas as if they were my own - Well lead me they did to worlds within worlds of this world. From Bruxelles to Paris to Dubai to Karachi to Multan to Lahore to back to Dubai to Abu Dhabi to Sana'a to back to the UAE to Paris and Brussels and then back to a cold storage interrogation waiting room for hours ran by armed military types. Waiting and waiting in the parts of the JFK airport most travelers are lucky to not know are there just beyond the main travel hallways.
To here to more operatives of service secrets - to now here years later - with too many questions for ones mental health services therapist to know how to respond to.
And here I am losing weight and sending up electronic flares from my co-ordinates and getting trapped within an electronic universe of billions and billions and billions of other peoples bytes of information and misinformation.
And time will get piled on to this electronic flare of mine - and it will go unanswered except of course by myself. And eventually from being shelved to obscurity I will get buried under obscurity and then I will be gone. And then later perhaps someone will stumble on these words and want to know more. And I wish you were here now to ask tough questions because perhaps your questions would help me with some of my own my pressing existential ones that relate to being a lost post de-radicalized soul.

Deradicalized Subject Notes to Self: Sending Up PTSD Electronic Flares Because There Is Nothing Else To Do Here. Marooned In Insanity.

I am down to 166 lbs.

I feel like I am on the verge of suicide and yet I am not hurting myself. 

I want help but I can't seem to get it. 

I'm lonely. There is no one to talk to. And so I am submitting this less than admirable non professional report. 

The music at work gets in my head and makes me crazy - that insanity is compounded by tinnitus.

My perception of time is that it either is sped up or so slow that I have fallen out of time. Either way I fall into a panic.

I am lonely. 

I'm physically and emotionally lonely. 

This isn't good writing but it is where I am at. These words indicate concerning symptoms and yet they will go unnoticed.

I'm trying to send up an electronic flare from my critical marooned isolation. If it is seen it will be disregarded. The words I fail at writing do not matter. It is only more of myself that continues to be unseen. Wasted words perhaps.

Some guy in line at a bakery I stopped in at put his hand on my shoulder to pass behind me in a confined crowd - it made me realize how long it has been since I've had any gentle touch.

He spoke confidently in a voice that had been sometime back shaped by involvement in a college Fraternity - He said that "he didn't want to 'wang' me" as he wedged himself through the narrow area at the check out. I said I wouldn't mind if he did. We laughed or rather guffawed. He went and sat down with his family.

People like me don't make family. It's for the best. But it is not easy carrying on like this.

I miss talking to the agents because at least they feigned interest and were well educated and professionally trained, intellectual and of a social and professional caliber well above my station in this country. They ran on a certain clockwork. Methodically, punctually, regularly. I appreciated the conversation. I hope I made them laugh and I hope some of those laughs will be remembered were with me. I suspect though more I was the object of their laughter now forgotten. What I haven't forgotten are their cutting comments and seemingly off the cuff assessments - the stinging judgments passed. What if they had just helped a little instead.

I feel trapped in the US - in Belgium I knew people from around the world from all different classes of life. Here I am stuck in one depressing strata of urban poverty and social malaise defined by neighbors burnt out on opiods, meth and too many blunts.

I really want help. Professional help. I really need a case worker who can grasp my somewhat deceptive circumstance. I can't seem to get connected with anyone for any assistance.

Why if my life is over am I the last one to get the message and why if my life is over must my heart still beat.

What is wrong with me and how do I get help. This nagging, nagging sense that something is very wrong.

It always feels like something is wrong. It always has. It still feels like the tragedy that unfolded in 1976 is still happening.

I'm in angst and I cry and I panic and I just want someone to talk to or be there on some level. Why am I stuck in these post family nightmare equations that wont end until I do - why can't I just be free of this and find my own life.

How can I be like this - for so long. 

Why do I just get to watch everyone else having a life and i'm trapped in a psychotic dimension of the past.

...and on to the next half-nervous break down... 

Its 5:23 am and my heart is racing. 

I can't get back to sleep.

In the 17 years with my ex this didn't happen. 

We always slept together no matter what... 

No nights of personal terror of being trapped alone.

...even if we weren't always able to reside in the same country we always shared a bed.

Their life went on.

Mine went back to where I had left it for Belgium

It hasn't gone on much from there.

When I awoke at 4 am i was thinking I don't want to die.

It's either I think my life is over and that I should be dead.

Or that I should just get the inevitable over with.

To being afraid of being dead.

And not wanting life to be over.

Then its another panic attack at 4:33 am
And to take my mind of that I think to the past as one does.

I am not the asset - Perhaps never was.

The short term asset of sorts for invisible agents.

For which I never mattered. 

The only time I think I've ever been an asset and I never understood my place in their equation.

And they never understood the toll their machinations and designs had on me. 

Nor do they now care. 

I am sure they are tucked away in well appointed addresses of a suburban nature with three car garages and insulated by a wealth I will never know.

Anyways I am not that asset now.

I am not someones husband. 

I am not someones brother.

I am not someones son.

I'm scratching my head over thinking am I someones friend.

Because no one is calling, emailing, texting. The doorbell hasn't rung in so long I periodically check it myself to make sure it still works. 

These nights are very difficult

I remember having things to look forward to. Places to go and people to go there with. 

To now. 

Trapped alone in some bachelor syndrome.
I guess this is what being a post "de-radicalized" looks like - None of this I would wish on anyone.

Lima, (Ohio) Syndrome

Google search "What is the opposite of 'Stockholm Syndrome'..."
Answer 'Lima Syndrome'...
Lima Syndrome is when the Captors feel sympathy for their hostages and set them free.
Therefore all I can surmise is that while I fell under the spell of a makeshift Stockholm Syndrome from the unknown Agents - in my effort to try to understand - they in turn were charmed into Lima Syndrome and regrettably set me free.
All of which leaves me somewhere South of Lima, Ohio.
If you can call that free.
I call it forgotten.
So no matter how much I wish a one Mr Jefferson - not the one from the moving up to the East Side to a dee-lux Apartment in the Sky-ii or one from a dream place from history named Monticello but to some referenced name like Sherman from which to move under - I call out oddly some nights from a Kafka-esque dream or some latent sexualized teen angst - for "Dave"... Dave who is no longer there or returning e-mail or phone calls.
With the remarkable beard and voice. And keen sense of obligation and intuition and then boyish charm.
And a Mr Jefferson shelved so far into obscurity only the bureacracy of mental health hallways now listen with only certain disregard. Belgian disregard.
What does it take in this misinformation age to get an answer from a Mr Dave - whoever he was from wherever he went.
For the things that need said in the Information and Informatica trade.
To Dave or his colleagues.
To make sense of where now is for he. And why. For me.
How many flares must I send up.
Desperately seeking D_A_V_E
Monte Carlo Dave To Monticello.

931 Thomas Jefferson Pkwy, Charlottesville, VA 22902

 1772

How hard can this be as a flare to follow.
Though not expecting.
Desperately seeking...