People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry


Eight years ago, I was criminally violated at a Catholic emergency room and psychiatric ward built by the nuns I had rejected in my youth. On the morning I was abducted from my home by police, ostensibly for being suicidal, I had stated on Facebook that I was literally trying to “save my life.” I was the opposite of suicidal.

How did this happen?  I was set up by my EEOC documented, mentally abusive, now former employer, the state’s largest community college. Nearly a year prior, the school had begun psychologically gaslighting with accusations of me being suddenly crazy and dangerous based on nothing. I was accused of being a potential school shooter—without a gun, violent action or verbal threats of violence.

To keep my job, which the school never intended, I was forced to meet with two mandatory mercenary hack shrinks. After seven years and tenure, the school attacked my teaching, removed me from the classroom, and stopped paying me.

criminal psychiatry
“One Way, Lady” by Gina Fournier

But why did this happen?  I was an outspoken English teacher. I was silenced due to my views on teaching (that traditional methods teach students how not to read, how to fake it and get away with it) and to cover up teacher bullies and violations of the contract. Coworkers wanted to control the creation of the teaching schedule for their personal edge without my objections. Have you seen The Chair on Netflix? Any kid will tell you, teachers aren’t necessarily nice people.

But how could you get locked up without need?  Most people still don’t get it and maybe assume I got what I deserved.

The school created a bogus paper trail, a false narrative, a big lie about me being suddenly mentally ill. Then, when the time was right, the school suicide swatted me.

The top school cop made reports of me being suicidal to my hometown police, based on comments I had posted on Facebook, which he misconstrued. Over the course of three phone calls to police dispatch, he made sure the cops were riled up.

Four white males were sent to pick up the crazy lady on the loose. They surrounded my house like a swat team. Police reports accessed through the Freedom of Information Act show that I was abducted from my home in handcuffs, in about six minutes.

As I suddenly noticed cops surrounding the house, I thought maybe I was being arrested because of what I had been reporting about the school on Facebook. Stupidly, I opened the front door. The lead cop told me, “Your employer called. They care about you.” I stepped onto the porch, thinking I needed witnesses. I tried to tell the cop that he was wrong and that he had been misled. Power dynamics and sexism plugged his ears.

The lead cop asked me twice, “Do you want to kill yourself?,” which is no way to say hello. The first time I answered instinctively, “No, I want you to kill me.” Bad time for sarcasm, but that’s me. Who else could I be? Naturally, I was very nervous, and alone. I thought he would remember that I had not called the cops. The second time he asked, I said I wanted “this” to stop, meaning the school’s attack. I did not mean my life.

The lead cop was poorly trained, by the look on his face afraid, and unprepared to listen. There was no attempt to de-escalate or talk things over. I was pushed back inside the house and jumped by police in front of the pictures of my recently deceased husband, handcuffed, dragged out of my home, and shoved in the back of a police car in my pajamas. It all happened too quickly. My dog and bird were left alone to fend for themselves. I was rightly terrified. I still am.


Absurdity. Hell on earth. Real.

I asked the cops where they were taking me. That’s when I learned that the conservative Catholics of my youth ran a psych ward at their hospital with the crappy reputation. Of all the bad ideas. I bet most city residents don’t realize—the same thing could happen to them.

First time in a police car: I performed. Sarcastically, I sang “God Bless America.” That’s me. As a female, I have been attacked for my personality in modern America using psychiatry and Catholicism as weapons. I have joked that I must have been Hitler in a former life, or at least his bookie. Maybe that’s not funny. What happened to me is not funny. Actual crucifixion would have been kinder, to end my torture more quickly.

I would not trust the nuns who raised me in lousy local Catholic schools with a dead hamster. I knew without being told that psychiatry is a mess. I knew I was in danger, not being helped.

The police pulled up to a back door of the emergency room. The lead cop driving was a simpleton. After he stopped, he turned to me in the back, handcuffed, and asked, like we were friends all of a sudden, Hey, do you know a Barry Fournier? His coworker in the passenger seat gave a him a look like mine that said, You’re an idiot. That exchange got me an extra shove from the lead cop as he pushed me toward my doom.


From the start, all things seemed wrong at the Catholic hospital, one not even my sheep Catholic mother turned to when her children needed care.

I wondered, why are we going into a back door? In the vestibule, clean towels were stacked; a bin of dirty towels needed washing. I was stolen goods being fenced.

Inside, it was dark, unlike any emergency room I’d ever seen. It was unpopulated. I was taken to a room without windows, no art, all beige.

I was undressed. I warned a hospital worker, the only one who recorded accurate medical notes, “You are raping my humanity.” In my medical records, all staff notes would later be erased by the notorious Catholics to cover up their crimes. The world has trusted the word of a corrupt religion over me.

I waited, and waited, and waited. There was no doctor present. The area was dark and nearly empty. I’d been taken to a ghost hospital.

A slight young white man guarded the door as he sat and read pulp fiction. I noted how small in stature he was. I was taller and bigger. I waited.

A white woman came in wearing scrubs. A young blond, younger than me by decades, younger like one of my community college students. I told her, “I hope you have a heart, mind and soul.” She did not. She was an intern. I know the names of all my attackers.

I ordered my medical records in 2013 and received a very large set with many pages of staff records. Again, when I was able, I ordered another set, in 2019, which was greatly reduced. All staff records had been erased and main documents had been altered to bury the facts: that I was not evaluated by the white male doctor who signed the clinical certificate and that he did not sign the student intern’s record (the one he was not supervising) until the next day.

I have never met the doctor who signed the paperwork to lock me up. I told the intern my employer was cause, not help. She did not believe me. No one has believed me, despite mounds of evidence (which would take so long to read). The intern did not evaluate me. No one evaluated me.

I asked all hospital staff I encountered to make phone calls. I was denied. The state mental health code states that phone calls should have been allowed.

I waited longer. No doctor ever came to evaluate me. I waited about another hour. The door to my cell was open. The young male guard had stepped away. In the dark unpopulated hallway, a computer stood unguarded and unlocked on a rolling cart. I made my decision quickly. The professionals no doubt would say I acted impulsively against my own interests. But I had to try to get the hell out of there before I was locked up. I stepped into the hall, started typing on the keyboard, and got as far as the Google logo, on my way to my email, when I was found.

Uproar. The young staff converged with a male goon squad. In modern life, I was shackled hand and foot essentially for doing my job as a teacher, for crusading about a reading crisis and putting students first. Enjoying his chance to manhandle, tackle and shackle me, a white male with a handlebar mustache smiled in my face in a dastardly way.


How dare my own society allow sexist and homophobic Catholics, of all the noted disreputable groups, to lock me up, illegally, without need—in a Catholic mental ward, of all the oxymorons (flying Jesus, eating god body and drinking god blood, infallibility of the Pope)—and get away with it?

Psychiatry and Catholicism have too much in common, both founded by men, upon questionable source materials.

When I was 13 years old, a young female whose mind and body were being smothered in Catholic school, I saw the movie The Exorcist. The sight of Linda Blair getting raped, I thought, with a crucifix—certainly not masturbating—stuck with me. The concept stayed dormant until I drew on it for a metaphor to tell my story. Raped by the church, raped by Jesus. A metaphor no one wants to hear, for a story no one wants to acknowledge.

The Exorcist got it all wrong. The Catholic Church is the demon to be exorcised, just like psychiatry needs to be rebuilt, to stop mind rape for cash.

I’ve come to think mind rape must be worse than vaginal rape. Women recover from vaginal rape to become lawyers, governors. People don’t recover so spectacularly from criminal psychiatry. Especially when the states and the world don’t recognize the existence of criminal psychiatry.


The intern thought she was helping me. The intern was torn. The intern played grown-up doctor and knocked me out. Afterward, she considered herself kind for unshackling me. (She read my mind; I’m reading hers.)

Unconscious. Lying on a gurney, a prisoner without any human or civil rights. Disrobed, knocked out by lorazepam, 6 mg, and haloperidol, 5 mg, over the course of many hours, unable to move. Me, Gina, my words and mind, were no longer necessary. The Catholic hospital had my body. I was human trafficked for $6,000 billed to my teacher’s medical insurance “Cadillac” coverage.

Illegally, involuntarily and unnecessarily, I was transferred from the emergency room, stripped of all agency. My person was admitted into a criminal psychiatric ward by a white male doctor I never met. Not once during the week I was held did the guy bother to stop by.


Day One, still Friday, I woke up as darkness was falling. For about six hours, my body had been stowed somewhere between the emergency room and the psychiatric ward. I didn’t know where I was for the first time in my adult life. I had been admitted to the mental ward without evaluation in an unconscious state. Violations of the mental health code were stacking up but did not matter then and still don’t matter now, it seems, to anyone but me.

A woman with dark skin appeared in my view. I woke up groggy to her face smiling at me disingenuously. There was nothing to be happy about. She told me with an east Indian accent that she would evaluate me later, when I was more awake, the next day. She lied. In pencil, I discovered five years later, the female psychiatrist wrote the second clinical certificate that night, or at some point over the weekend, without evaluating me. She cribbed her words from the police report and the intern’s paragraph, which was so poorly crafted, I am a forced to give it an “F.” The student intern spelled “delusional” incorrectly. I did not see my assigned psychiatrist again for another four days.


By this point in my life, 48 years old, I had seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest many times. Also Frances, with Jessica Lange. Maybe too many times? Had I jinxed myself? One of my favorite female artists is sculptor Camille Claudel, who was locked up in a mental ward for 30 years, the rest of her life, primarily due to the insistence of her Catholic mother and brother.

Growing up, my single mother taught me, not my brother, how to cry due to emotional distress. For the first two full days in the hospital, I cried. I cried until I cried myself sober and stable again. I did not swallow the drugs they gave me, not at first.

I can still see myself frantic at the crossroads of the main nurse station. To contact a lawyer or a friend, I tried to use the provided bank of old-fashioned phones to call out for help, but the police took my cellphone, and I had no phone numbers. I knew that feet away on campus with the Catholic hospital, which was named after a supposed saint/virgin and the concept of “mercy,” stood my crappy all-girl Catholic high school. Was I the only graduate ever to be locked up? Me, the most vocal Catholic critic?


Over the weekend, the part-time staff did not welcome me, as a new detainee, with any kind of orientation. I was mostly ignored. However, on Day Three, Sunday, one of the part-time staff persons, a woman I never saw again, let me use her shared office in order to access her computer so I could contact the outside world; a decided change in hospital procedure. I had asked to use Google to access email, but really, I wanted on Facebook.

I sent out distress messages that were seen. At home, a friend did her best to rescue my pets, brought me my least favorite jeans, and some needed hair care products. My assigned psychiatrist forbade any further use of Facebook.

The Humane Society sent a letter threatening to euthanize my dog due to abandonment. It was dated the day of my release.

Three girlfriends visited me that week. They wondered, why are you here? I told them why: I was set up. But that’s difficult to hear, apparently. One friend had attended the all-girl Catholic high school with me.

I no longer talk to these women. They could not understand, support or fight for me after I was released. I was not comfortable among them either. Maybe they wanted me to forget what happened. I can’t forget what happened. I needed to save my life, not forget. I still need to save my life.

Effectively, I had no family then and certainly have none now.

My sick husband had died just two months earlier. The school’s attack on me was an attack on us both. We had no children. I was targeted as I was because I have no children, no teenagers or young adults to vouch for me. America does not like middle-aged women without children. I am not Britney Spears or Drew Barrymore (both of whom I wish well).


Although I told the staff I did NOT want my mother’s involvement in my so-called treatment, my estranged Catholic mother asked to visit me. Allow her to watch me held slave by the Catholics at almost 50 years old? We had nothing to say to one another on the outside. There was no way I could allow her permission to visit me being held as a science experiment in torture. I said NO! I could feel myself shrink psychologically as the Catholics infantilized me.

I said I did not want my mother involved in my so-called treatment, yet medical records say my mother was “worried” and that I had “cut down” in the past.

What the hell does that mean?

Who lied with such poor syntax?


On Day Five, a Tuesday, briefly, once, before I saw my assigned psychiatrist for the second time, I met the patient rights advocate, who was hired by the hospital and required by state law. She gave me a copy of the white male emergency room doctor’s clinical certificate.

I read the doctor’s name, and said, who is this? I told her, I never met this guy. The patient rights advocate ignored me. She processed me very quickly. She began the Catholic hospital’s criminal cover-up.

According to state law, she was supposed to give me a copy of both clinical certificates, including the second one written by the female psychiatrist. She didn’t. It’s possible the second clinical certificate wasn’t yet written.

Five years later, the state’s Republican administration awarded the patient rights advocate top patient rights advocate in the state. As of this date, under Democrats, she chairs the state’s committee on patient rights advocates. She has the ability to re-open my investigation and save my life. She refuses to do so. This year, I asked the state’s female governor to review the patient rights advocate’s position. I was blown off.


I spent more time in the police squad car transported to the hospital than I did meeting with my assigned psychiatrist.

The next time I saw her, after a significant lapse of days, my assigned psychiatrist blithely explained that she had taken a long weekend’s drive to Pennsylvania, to visit family. She said this to my face. Which had stopped crying. I had begun playing my captor’s game in order to earn my escape. I began swallowing the harmful Big Pharma drugs when I learned that they were testing my blood to make sure they were sufficiently poisoning me.

I fake grinned for this woman, which is a big effort for me. But I took notes, too, on the back of the worksheets aimed at subservient minds that inmates were given after business hours to fill time. One with emojis named emotions. Like “frightened” and “angry.”

My diagnosis morphed over the week: suicidal, bipolar, addicted to alcohol and cannabis. The hospital used pysch ward patients to recruit patients for addiction treatment. One drive-by-doctor thanked me for an “interesting” evaluation and predicted I would be locked up again because I smoked pot. I was a card-holding legal medical marijuana patient at the time. Smoking pot was and is legal in Michigan.

Staff records stated that I was no longer suicidal before I was released. I had never been suicidal.

According to my assigned psychiatrist and official documentation, I was sorting things out while I practiced my decoupage skills and colored with the Catholics under lock and key, forbidden shoes.

What passed for mental health therapy? Nothing that anyone could honestly call therapeutic: disjointed group therapy, kindergarten art therapy, slight lectures aimed at immature minds, lame handouts about self-esteem. I was a college teacher who had been sent back to grade school, but not a very good one.

There was so little interaction with me that none of the staff notes, those created by my assigned psychiatrist or the in-house recruiters, included the facts of my marriage, my abusive employer or my all-girl Catholic high school education on campus. Because no one asked me or listened to me. I was superfluous.


On Wednesday, Day Six, a lawyer showed up in jogging clothes briefly after I had been promised release. Experienced inmates warned against fighting in court, where a judge could send you back to the nut house, or court-order psychiatry and dangerous psychiatric drugs.

On the morning I was promised release, Thursday, Day Seven, my assigned doctor did not show, as was her pattern. Loony bin psychiatrists all appeared to hold day jobs and moonlight elsewhere.

Don’t take offense at my term loony bin. I have learned that the name describes the wardens.

A nurse eventually signed my release. I ran out of the place, nervous as hell they’d recapture me. I still am.


Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


Mad in America has made some changes to the commenting process. You no longer need to login or create an account on our site to comment. The only information needed is your name, email and comment text. Comments made with an account prior to this change will remain visible on the site.


  1. Half a world away yet was basically the same story for me.

    I was lucky enough to have supportive friends although none of them really got it. That’s a good thing as I wouldn’t want them to experience such horrible trauma.

    I agree that the loneliness from not being understood and the impossibility of justice are the worst parts.

    If you need someone to chat, I’d be happy to.

    Take care.

    Report comment

    • Thank you for your kind reply. I am sorry you are forced to be a psychiatric survivor, too. I am interested in all stories of psychiatric crime at Catholic hospitals and also the rise of HR department’s using the blunt weapon of hack shrinks to silence and destroy employees, as well as other issues in the Big Mess of Psychiatry. However, despite the too superficial and terribly painful false truisms, “You are not alone and people care,” day to day people like me and maybe you, too, victims of criminal psychiatry, are absolutely alone, and people in positions of power who could save and improve lives do not care one bit. They only care to cover up their crimes.

      Report comment

      • Have you ever read of Thomas Merton along with his friendship with the Dali Lama? As I explore your inquisition, then I wonder how anyone ever creates words that include the little c, as in catholic health systems. For the Hospital Systems in Louisville went through and I suspect will continue to evolve, though to discover streets names Abraham Flexner Way…. There are reasons and then reasons for how and why we are on these journeys! Stay Strong and best wishes in your field work and writing!

        Report comment

  2. Hi Gina.

    Similar story to myself of how I was captured by delusional nutjobs ( psychiatrists ).

    I hope your own fight goes well as I myself have no legal recourse because I do have a child and they have weaponised them against me.

    I was on a depot but was put on pills after years on an injection I didn’t want or need, yet I haven’t taken the pills in a long time against the shrinks ‘advice’ yet my sex drive is still kaput. I’m worried its ruined forever. I’m only 43. I am losing the weight though. I’ll be locked up again if the ‘doctors’ find out I’m off meds even though the only thing wrong with me is the side effects from the drugs they forced me to take for years.

    My family rarely bother even answering the phone to me anymore too.

    Also, like you, I insisted that my sociopathic mother not be involved in any way in mine nor my child’s ‘care’ so the ‘professionals’ went out of their way to include my mother at ground zero and exclude everyone else in my life.

    A lifetime of being scapegoated by a malignant narcissist resumed with my child, who was already a second class citizen in my family by virtue of being my offspring, being exposed to attitudes and behaviours I would immediately have nipped in the bud if my rights weren’t taken away from me. Instead I have to put up with it.

    I keep telling them they are exposing my child to the potential of being discarded by a sociopath and so on. They ignore me and try to manipulate me into ‘compliance’. They just don’t get it do they?

    Anyway, I wish you well in your fight.

    Report comment

  3. Hi Gina.

    It is a typical story, happens daily. They are simply a bunch of thugs. Professional thugs.
    “Doctor Thugs and their minnions”
    It is really best to drop it all and move. Where to move is the question.

    People who have even seen a shrink once in their lives or even a medical doc who writes silly stuff in their charts effectively reduce a group, a massive group, millions upon millions in fact, to second class or lowest class human.

    After psych talk whether by the hospital janitor or any person that walks in government circles and services, your life is that way forever.

    You don’t recover or loose your bogus conditions. All privilege gone because to save your skin somewhat, all you can do is become a peer 🙂

    But even that won’t save you. Being a fugitive sucks, but it’s truly the only thing left.

    Our governments are controlled by medical and psych mafia and the words like “stigma”, “doctor person relationships”, “shared decision making”, “consent”, “informed”, “evaluation”, “professional opinion” and on, are all smokescreen garbage.

    Best to decide who will be in control, although being a fugitive is them being in control, it’s better than to lick their dirty boots.

    Report comment

    • I am not interested in strangers telling me to drop it. I feel the comment above reveals very poor taste, possibly sexist man-splaining. The effects of being impoverished and mentally tortured would not be alleviated by moving to another state. Your comment was not helpful.

      Report comment

      • I will say, moving to a different state was helpful for me. Since I was dealing with a criminal psychiatrist, NOT of my own choosing, (see below comment, regarding her now FBI arrested partner’s crimes), who had for years been fraudulently listing me as her “out-patient,” with the health insurance companies, when I was NOT her “out-patient.”

        But I, too, also know the “mental health” workers, and their religious “partners,” are utilizing the “information age” to financially “target” innocent mothers of child abuse survivors.

        Since I was a partner to something like 60 class action lawsuits, by criminal corporations, back between 2006 and 2012. And, of course, I’ve kept all those financial records I could find, of all those systemic financial corporate crimes.

        Plus, I now also have legal proof of a subsequent satanic, child abuse covering up ELCA psychologist’s attempt to steal all my money, and profits from my “Chicago Chagall” artwork, via an “art manager” contract. Which was actually a conservatorship contract, dressed up all pretty, and disingenuously, as and “art manager” contract.

        The scientific fraud based psychological and psychiatric industries are a bunch of DSM deluded criminal enterprises, I agree.

        Report comment

  4. You should see what Harvard arranged for me, when they were using me as a guinea pig for unethical medical experiments. Something similar.

    On the bright side, they were testing a product that cures herpes, genital herpes, the annoying variety, and so I’m free of that, at least. However, the way it works, they will agree to withhold the cure from public knowledge in return for massive donations from pharmaceutical companies who profit off of perpetually managing herpes rather than curing it. So they needed to cover it up in some criminal way.

    This criminal cover up involved having goons do stuff to me that was “tied to the mafia” and then police take me to psych wards or meth wards where psych docs can corruptly write my medical records just right so as to discredit me so I can’t say anything. And in the process, when I was asleep, I am guessing they would check to see, was I getting a sore again or was the herpes really gone?

    I can allege all this, of course, but I did more than that. Prior to going to Harvard I learned about the importance of keeping records and maintaining proper paper trails. I did all that, and sent everything to a lawyer in the end. We will see what results from that.

    Do you think it makes me like a modern day James Bond? Some of my experiences were kind of similar. A James Bond who had herpes for awhile. That part is not what they would put in a movie.

    Report comment

  5. I was just kicked off Twitter permanently by the Felicians nuns during a panic attack. I appealed but expect nothing but pain until the day I die, no doubt early, due to bogus mental health care. Knowing my society takes better care of injured race horses than me imposes an unlivable amount of pain daily, so I feel the need to take action, daily, telling the world my story, even if it doesn’t help. I have used Facebook and Twitter as diary, therapy and advocacy since 2012 but stopped using Facebook largely because trolls kept getting me kicked off. Social media is certainly not good therapy, but I didn’t believe in mental health talk therapy care before retaliatory looney bin lock up (the chances of finding someone you connect with and can trust are so poor), and I certainly don’t now. Too dangerous and potentially harmful. I don’t what what will happen to me without this outlet.

    Report comment

  6. Please let me say this too: FLOTUS yesterday flew into MBS airport, five miles from my house. According to one source, she was invited by US Sen Debbie Stabenow to speak to a Native tribe about mental health care, then was invited to speak to a Jewish group–while her husband, POTUS, has plans to validate the pope soon, on behalf of Americans, which adds yet another dagger to my heart, mind and soul. This American does not approve of the US President validating the Catholic Church, especially above all other religions. POTUS already elevated the Catholic hospital that violated me during the January 2021 memorial for Americans who died of COVID. The singing nurse was from St Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward, in my crappy Michigan hometown. I checked: there were other singing nurses. Debbie Stabenow still believes the biochemical model of chemical imbalance causing so-called disorders. She has sponsored mental health care legislation, but she has ignored my requests for acknowledgement. At the Jewish dinner, FLOTUS was honored along with Mary Barra, of GM. A month ago, after nearly two years, I was fired from a subcontractor as a customer service agent, for GM. I have talked to more customers of GM than Barra ever will. If I had her billions, I might not be having an all day panic attack today, as I am, because I am reasonably concerned about homelessness, another snowball from hell lock up, or the real permanent end of hope pushing me to the cliff, ironically, to save myself from future torture. And I might not have gotten kicked off Twitter. Also at the same Jewish fundraiser was state of Michigan AG Dana Nessel. Her office is the target of two of my many Michigan Department of Civil Rights complaints essentially for lack of equal protection. Sarcasm (and the sometimes criminal mess of psychiatry) locked up the English teacher in the looney bin. These coincidences that add to my overwhelming pain are killing me along with unchecked criminal (not forensic) psychiatry but way too slowly. I have been suffering imposed actual mental torture for about 1/6 of my life, with no end in sight. Certainly, because of unchecked criminal mental health care and the actual mental torture I am forced to endure, with no end in sight, I would opt to not be born at all and wish my account in this life was never opened. No end in sight, no end in sight, no end in sight: of course I have panic attacks, terror attacks, after so many years fighting to save my life but losing.

    Report comment

  7. The month-long problems I am having with Michigan Unemployment agency that precipitated today’s above average terror/panic attack? Another killer coincidence. Today’s panic attack snowballed into me being kicked off Twitter by the nasty old world Felician nuns who 1) raised me, 2) built the hospital that violated me and effectively ended my life except for the pain, 3) built a $2 million dollar chapel for the hospital using my torture (part of their ‘holy’ work) as grounds for raising money to buy a crucifix from Germany and 4) refuse to advocate for me because protecting their own names and the Catholic brand is so much more important.

    It’s 8 pm. I have been crying since 9:45 am. I just read that the Michigan governor, a Democrat, who said she was vaginally raped (which I contend must be safer than criminal psychiatric mind rape for life), the same governor who blew off my request to review the state appointment of the patient rights advocate who began the cover up at St Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward when I told her I never met the emergency doctor who signed the first clinical certificate, THAT governor, today, it was announced AFTER my panic attack started, AFTER I was denied my popular public outlet for redress, by nuns whose cruelty is UNACCEPTABLE, replaced the head of Michigan Unemployment due to wait times and other dysfunction. There should be euthanasia if there will never be justice. I have a human right to not be tortured.

    Report comment

  8. Another reason I am terrified of not having Twitter: safety or the shattered of semblance of safety. No one will believe me. Read my account and look at my documentation online. I have been the object of serious retaliation since 2015, after I tagged my home in foreclosure to try and get positive media attention but only got a Fox news sexist hatchet job, when the former Republican AG who wanted to become governor (but didn’t) denied equal protection in writing (an unusual move) and then sent the Michigan State Police to harass me and mislabel me crazy dangerous in remote mid Michigan. Another set up and lock up followed, this time in jail, in 2017, for stalking a cop from the school. No one stalks a cop. I did not stalk a cop. The cop. from the school, lied. No one will believe me. I have documentation but it takes a lot of reading. The pain is unbearable. I see no evidence of a story like mine.

    I went to the unemployment office today in Saginaw to try and clear up the hold up regarding my identity verification, as I was reporting on Twitter. I stepped out of my car and immediately saw a very large drone over the building, yes, watching me, it seemed me. Largely empty municipal building and parking lot, just workers, COVID, appts only, only one other claimant in the parking lot arrived same time. I asked the security guard who came out of the building to meet claimants, have you seen that drone before? She had not. It was large one too. I could see the camera lense and the direction it was pointing. Considering my life since looney bin lock up (I only tolerate the Warner Bros spelling of “looney bin”) I didn’t take a picture because I was too depressed, and my welfare cellphone has a lousy camera. I was able to clear up my unemployment delay in minutes, I think. That’s what I was told. A customer service phone operator yesterday who contributed so greatly to my Twitter ending all day and night panic/terror attack, flat out made up crap, apparently. Said not to bother waiting, my employer was fighting against me and that I should just get a job (really). The guy today verified my identity and said I should see the money in my account in two days. None of the phone operators I have been calling all month suggested going in person to the unemployment office but instead said to wait and to keep using the computer system. But what about the drone? I waved it an unfriendly middle finger until it flew off, after the security guard looked at it (I don’t know if she stepped into the parking lot enough to see it over the roof of the maybe five story building). Inside the unemployment office the place was grey and empty except for workers. Apparently, the security guard had told the other workers about the drone and they wanted to know more as I left. When I went back to my 20 year old car, it wouldn’t start in park, an issue that was supposedly fixed with some of my last money, last week. It started in neutral, and I left, crying again.

    I won’t seek to use this place as a replacement for Twitter anymore. I am almost completely disconnected from the world except for the pain it has imposed on me. Trolls know how vulnerable I am. Ever hear of Kiwi Farms? They run a message board from somewhere outside of the US, psychologically abuse people, and have been credited with at least one suicide. Check out the dedicated thread with my name on it, which comes up when you Google my name. I am being crushed too slowly and erased. Please keep this record. I tried. I tried. I tried to save my life, but I was not allowed to win. I don’t know how to manage all this imposed pain, terror and devastation. I don’t understand why this level of imposed pain does not kill more swiftly on its own.

    Report comment

    • Gina, please don’t leave this website. It is a safe and friendly space, no one is allowed to bully anyone here.

      I experienced “psychiatric incarceration” in 2012, for more than a month. Like you, I used to work as an academic and I have experienced unemployment. I have not had a steady job since 2018 (when I lost my university job). Like you, I don’t have children. I feel that my society is callously indifferent to the situation of people who “don’t fit in” for some reason.

      I really hope that you will soon feel better. Please stay with us and feel free to write here.

      Report comment

      • Joanna, thank you so much for your comment and encouragement. Your kind supportive words are well taken and greatly appreciated. I am sorry to hear that you and I are in the same club. I hope your recovery is better than mine, and that you were able to heal, at least to some degree. For me, Day Two without Twitter (just three emails from Twitter Business). Of course, there are other social media platforms I have not used. And I can I still used Facebook, Youtbue, etc, though Twitter fits me best and meanwhile I can track Mad in America and others easily. I did feel obligated to let the Mad in America crowd know that my induced depression and panic/terror attack, to some likely seemingly bi-polar (one of my most hated terms, only applied to me by doctor I never met), caused 100% by unchecked criminal psychiatry and the state of Michigan’s screwy unemployment insurance system, has passed, without the police knocking on my door about me crying. Real blows to my life, my life put on the edge by criminal (not forensic) psychiatry, real fallout from same, like poverty, poor physical health and isolation, cause my depression. Psychiatry, hear me!! Look at the evidence, please! So, Joanna, thank you thank up thank you again, and I will.

        Report comment

        • Gina, thank you once again for your reply to my comment. I am happy that you appreciated it!

          Yes, fortunately I have been able to heal to a very large extent. But I find it sad that there are experiences (including my stay in a mental hospital) I feel forced to hide, though I have not done anything wrong.

          However, a bigger problem is my economic situation. Without my mum’s financial help my life would have been very stressful because of the very limited job opportunities for women like me, women who don’t fit in and don’t want to fit in the capitalist world of ruthless competitiveness, unquestioning workaholism, constant self-marketing etc.

          But I actually feel quite happy – my happiness comes from the inside and from my connections with people I trust (there are not many of them…).

          I can tell you that the experience of being labelled as “mentally ill” does not rule out happiness, though in order to feel happy one often has to reject many mainstream beliefs, including the idea that one must have a successful career and plenty of friends to be happy.

          Report comment

    • Gina, I saw your reply to my comment in my emails, but I don’t see it here. You are very welcome!

      You are so right in saying that your depression is caused by real blows to your life. People can be extremely distressed because of traumatic experiences, poverty, isolation etc. Mainstream psychiatry tends to overlook these very real causes of people’s emotional distress.

      Report comment

    • “Considering my life since looney bin lock up (I only tolerate the Warner Bros spelling of “looney bin”) I didn’t take a picture because I was too depressed, and my welfare cellphone has a lousy camera.”

      Oh crap. I wish I could edit that mash-up sentence, which I forgot to come back to. I edit a lot and need a lot of editing. In fact, editing is the best therapy Twitter offered. I worked through and past panic/terror attacks online (few followers except for mostly trolls). I recovered from blows, deleted and rejuvenated regularly.

      There have been many acts of retaliation and trolling that have occurred since 2012, which can be very difficult to document. I don’t know why the drone was there or who flew it, but I did not appreciate its presence.

      “Considering my life since looney bin lock, I SHOULD have taken a picture of the large drone, despite my excuses, because, as I realized then, reporting the story later, I would be, I am now, even more vulnerable to my attackers and other hostile ears (not news to me).”

      Not delusional. I understand it would not be shameful to hallucinate, but I don’t. There was a drone. The second one in my story (the first in 2017).

      Report comment

  9. While my story is very similar in that people just don’t seem to get how you can be institutionalized if you didn’t need it. There’s no way to defend myself. Even 15 years later I live in fear. The hospitalization hangs over my head and is used by abusive family members as a weapon for their gaslighting tactics. “See, we have proof of her insanity.” I also worked for a college just prior to the incident. The hospital’s sorry excuse for therapy was ridiculous. I could have taught something (and I have) much better. Instead of actually providing services, I was given coloring books and other art “therapy” projects that are designed for 4 year old children. Big surprise when I ordered medical records it was full of lies. No one outside with the exception of others who have been through it can comprehend the truth that hospitals are in the business to make money. I had many a psychiatrist tell me, “oh we are here to help people.” If that was really true how come they held me against my will for the exact time my insurance would pay. No one believes me that I was taken for 14K. These hospitals should be abolished, but hey, I got what I deserved according to my own family. I went from making good money as a college counselor to living the last 15 years in poverty. Went from having a good reputation in the academic community to becoming a pariah. They created so much trauma and I lay awake from nightmares. So much for helping people. I was actually shocked as to how it all happened. My therapist at the time had no idea where I was as the psychiatrist refused to contact her. She was probably the only person who could have stopped this as she had the information that I was NOT suicidal. But, I think the larger point is that it really doesn’t matter if I was suicidal or not. No one should be treated poorly. It’s so counterintuitive to helping people. It makes zero sense to abuse someone if you really want to help them. I will probably never return to the counseling profession. How can I when all my faith in it is lost. I use my skills now to protect my daughter from these dangerous people and dangerous drugs. I lost the income but also my life savings and retirement accounts as I have had to live off of it. By the way, the resident psychiatrist made fun of me for having a counseling degree. He said, how could someone like you end up here? Interesting, how emotional abuse is being advertised as help. I fail to see how laughing in someone’s face is help. I don’t recall that being taught in college.

    Report comment

    • I am so saddened to read your story. I wonder, if I may ask, how did they get their duplicitous medical hands on your body, so they could keep your body in exchange for medical billing (not actual treatment)? Wow. I call my story online “Coloring with the Catholics.” Thank you for sharing your story.

      Report comment

    • This is a common theme everywhere. I live in a different continent, and I’ve experienced the same thing. Gaslighting tactics by abusive family members. Once you have a psych. history, you always end up there. People who become psychiatrists do not and cannot truly comprehend this. The only way they could is if they experienced it themselves. And if they did experience it, their mental state would have gone so awry that they could never have become doctors in the first place. It’s a Catch-22 situation. The only people who can truly help you are those who understand it. But the ones in purportedly helping roles are the ones who can’t understand it, else they could not have gotten their positions in the first place.

      Report comment

    • “Don’t take offense at my term loony bin. I have learned that the name describes the wardens.”

      And I do agree, the truly insane people – the DSM deluded psychiatrists and psychologists, who are “running the asylums” – are the craziest and most criminal people of all.

      Report comment

  10. Hello, this is very well written. I appreciate that you tell it like it is and get across that the system is a scam. I am sorry for what you have been through. The pain you must be feeling must be immense. I am a psych survivor too and spend a fair amount of time researching stories of harm. Re the Catholic church, in Canada they committed a massive atrocity in concert with psychiatry. It happened in the forties, it’s called the Duplessi Orphan Scandal. If you look it up, be forewarned, it is extremely upsetting. I am continually shocked about how little coverage this tragedy has received, especially when residential school victims in Canada were found.

    Also where I live they do the “therapeutic” coloring too and also make people build little houses out of popsicle sticks. I had such an urge to ask psychiatrists if this was their way of making sure the “mentally ill” don’t wind up homeless.

    Report comment

    • My dad was born in Canada. I grew up near the tunnel and Ambassador Bridge between Detroit to Windsor. I’m hoping the US President when he meets with the pope soon brings up First Peoples in Canada, and the US, victimized in residential schools, some run by Catholics. I will check out your reference regarding psychiatry and Catholics in Canada, and will prepare myself in advance. (Checked it out. Psychiatric patients brought in more revenue than orphans per body, so children were re-classified, babies sold by the nuns for profit, denial.) Thank you so much. What a club, psych survivors, reminding me of The Island of Misfit Toys, a group of characters in a old American Christmas time TV show, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, who could use saving (please no one take offense). Ah. Personal connection. I don’t know how old you are, but I watched the tv show, Mr. Dress-up, from Canada, and loved it! In short, Canada and Canadians are special to me, so thanks again.

      Report comment

  11. Well, thank you to all who read my piece and for supportive comments. This week, I have used this place as a daily check in, instead of my suspended social media account, but I know my exposure here is fading away. Thank you again to Mad in America.

    I have all sorts of imposed problems induced by criminal psychiatry that begin the second I wake up. I am reasonably terrified that without a daily connection to this world online, I will be forgotten, and my fight and dim hope for justice and healing will be lost. Since 2012, I have not been able to heal, just manage. Overtime, I’ve fought to stay afloat but have sunk lower toward homelessness. Criminal psychiatry negatively effects resources. Nearly 60 years old now, I can’t expect much bounce or chance left. I can barely walk due to arthritis and injuries and I don’t know what.

    My attackers are certainly happy I’ve been silenced, which has been their documented wish all along. So many people I can name stand against me.

    It’s just not right that I can’t safely bring up euthanasia or imposed psychological pain too slowly killing me without hostile ears suspecting the problem is all me. The problem is all without and applied by retaliatory criminal psychiatry. Psychiatry’s undeserved power today is worse than the Catholic Church’s influence.

    The nasty old world Felician nuns 1) raised me in crappy Livonia, Michigan Catholic schools, 2) built the hospital that violated me and effectively ended my life except for the pain, 3) later built a $2 million dollar chapel for the hospital using my torture (part of their ‘holy’ work) as grounds for raising money to buy a crucifix from Germany (if you read my article you know what I think should be done with that crucifix, in the nun’s Halloween nightmares) and 4) refuse to advocate for me because protecting their own names and the Catholic brand is so much more important. This level of cruelty from so-called Brides of Christ is too much to handle on top of 300 union teachers pretending I never existed and not saying a word publicly about what the school did to me. On top of Catholic family that turned away. On top of the loss of all friends. On top of the lack of equal protection.

    My story is too much for one person, which I should be able to say safely, but I can’t.

    Coincidences like people in power circling me but not helping will likely continue.

    Now that I can’t be found easily online chronicling daily, will those who have taken advantage of me going public with my story in the past do so again? Will others take action against me? What will happen to me?

    Good connections? Through social media, I found a group writing mad memoirs and joined. I see how challenging it is for all of us to put our psychiatric survivor experiences into words.

    Best wishes to all.

    Report comment

  12. If needed, 20 weeks of unemployment will end the week of February 22-28, 2022, the nine year anniversary of my doom/death due to criminal psychiatry at St Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward, solely due to psychological abuse and planned attack by my former employer, Land of Motown Community College, with help from my hometown sexist police. I am looking for work (I can’t stand or walk for work, can’t drive, can’t explain my work history and not mention my story somehow) and editing my website, so I can best seek a publishing contract for a memoir. And painting. Spending time with my old dog. Worrying and somehow managing mental torture, as I am forced to do until I die.

    Report comment

    • Gina, you really don’t have to explain to employers why you no longer work at the college. You can simply say that you wanted to do something else, that the college job was too stressful or unsatisfying.

      It is not easy to get a publishing contract for a memoir. And even if you do get it, you have to find some way of surviving before you get it.

      If I were you, I would also apply for Social Security because of arthritis etc. – you have the right to Social Security, you don’t have to work.

      Report comment

      • I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I have interviewed. People don’t leave 100K jobs with lifetime security to become customer service agents because they prefer menial jobs with lower pay and people yelling at them. I know the chances of memoir publishing are close to non existent. I have a huge gap in my work history. Social security disability is not guaranteed or a secure living money-wise. Plus I have been told that my work gap will prohibit social security disability for some time. Mostly, I don’t need anyone to tell me I need to survive constant mental torture, please understand. I live this horrible life. I have been fighting so god damn hard to survive and to win but have been losing losing losing for almost a decade. Nothing nothing nothing is worth retaliatory criminal psychiatry and my story. Especially with god the god damn holding me down.

        Report comment

        • Bare honesty: it is so hard at this point for me to hear advice from strangers, even very nice ones. Dissonance, isolation. You have been very thoughtful and kind. Thank you. Know I always keep fighting and surviving and plotting, however, I garden, too, and know things decline and die. But mostly thanks to you for the personal encouragement I do not hear elsewhere. Peace.

          Report comment

        • I understand what you mean when you say that it is difficult for you to get advice from strangers. But let me just say this: maybe you would be able to find a job where no one would ever yell at you.

          Some people actually do prefer worse paid jobs to well-paid, but more stressful ones. Academic jobs are among the most stressful jobs and some people choose to leave academia.

          I know that social security disability is not guaranteed, but I think that there would be no harm in applying for it…

          Report comment

      • Agreed.

        You could also tell the truth without explaining.

        “I had a horrible life event and needed time to recover.”

        Some employers won’t want you then, but you don’t want to work for them anyway. Others will understand.

        Report comment

        • The only thing I want is justice. I don’t want any advice, really, not in this way, because my story is likely way beyond a stranger’s advice. It is impossible for me to have faith having been mind/life raped by god, who has been given by humans better protection than humans have given me, even when god commits crime. My point is there is no assurance of anything, not another day, not of getting a job. Even worse things may happen to me while I am pushed down, until I am completely taken out. That’s reality. I am not recovered and your advice is not what I want from sharing my story. I hope you understand. I shared my story in hopes it will help me get a publishing credit and win my life back. I do appreciate encouragement and community, in theory, in part, because I know I am supposed to say that, and kindness should be acknowledged. But positive thinking from strangers feels like another set up for failure pointing at me, instead of the finger of blame pointing at my criminal attackers. I hope that makes sense. Of course I want to survive and win.

          Report comment

  13. Maybe younger people have better a chance of recovering from the devastation of criminal psychiatry and still dangerous and societally accepted allegedly non-criminal psychiatry (see the next personal story, a beautiful one, but hopelessness makes more sense (the only sane sense) as I leave middle age (58 now). When I was fired from my customer service job, really for complaining that they sped up the assembly line (though that was not the reason given), I lost my health insurance. I had just gotten referrals for four specialists. Ironically, when I was working I could not afford the visits or the time off. Now for some reason the state reinstated my welfare health care (before they gave me unemployment, after much effort on my part). But I just discovered the most important referral, regarding my serious difficulty walking (just injury, bone spur and arthritis?), will not take my welfare benefit card. Terror attack number 4 billion and one since retaliatory criminal unnecessary psychiatric detention with the nasty discarded Catholics of my youth due to suicide swatting by my hostile higher ed employer. Where is the euthanasia for old lady victims of criminal psychiatry? Is there a heap of discarded old Americans that I am supposed to throw myself on? What am I suppose to do with my body as it continues to break down, especially amid all this dangerous imposed psychological, emotional and intellectual pain?

    Report comment

  14. I am not a psychiatric survivor. I am a victim of premediated crime. Health care by doctors after criminal psychiatry by doctors means, in short, doctors don’t want to treat me because of my severe depression and story. Of course I know to keep making phone calls!!!!!!!! It looks like my current doctors office is trying to get rid of me (having just switched to welfare on top of all) and I will need to look for another, which takes time and resources in very short supply. But moreover, I don’t want any advice about what I should do from strangers on a message board, please understand! I want what is made unavailable to me by my attackers (employer, police, Catholic looney bin, state of Michigan): justice. If not justice, I want euthanasia. I deserve to not be mentally tortured and slowly tortured to death. This hell, this pain, no one can know (still no proof of a story like mine), caused 100% by violation of the law by GOD, supported by my idiot-cruel Catholic mother and brother. Everyone in my life except my discarded senior citizen roommate has abandoned me. And so many people know, and no one who can will help. It’s too much imposed pain, real damage, real terror and real reasonable hopelessness for justice and the chance to heal.

    Report comment

  15. Joanna, you are very kind to listen and speak with me.

    My illegal unnecessary retaliatory psych ward detention is not all that mentally tortures me. There is too much more documented kickback, yes, retaliation.

    I was set up again after the initial looney bin set up and sent to jail jail jail, in a rural county, for stalking a cop from the school, at private Lake Miramichi, which I did not do. No one stalks a cop. I did not stalk a cop. A cop lied. Another day in America where no one believes the crazy woman. Lots more details.

    A least three or four or five major chapters to my story: the the slow snaking take down, the looney bin, the many stages of aftermath, poverty, jail, removed from the classroom AGAIN by another community college cop, serious real stuff, with serious consequences for my bank account.

    What woman without any credentials power or money get away with saying what I am claiming? Not me. No one.

    The documented details of my story after looney bin lock up are outlandish, even more than the school’s Putin-like set up. My own true story sounds way too crazy. And that knowledge is killer on top of killer on top of killer.

    (Already dead three times plus for me the knowledge that the dreaded Catholics of my youth have been allowed to criminally violate me: I escaped the Catholics at age 18 but at age 48 THEY WERE ALLOWED TO RECAPUTRE ME AND CRIMINALLY CRIMINALLY CRIMINALLY HURT ME EVEN WORSE THAN THEY DID AS CATHOLIC EDUCATORS (an oxymoronic phrase, certainly for this non believer, especially considering the poor quality of instruction).

    FACT: I am being slowly mentally tortured and life flattened to death.

    Even if magically the Land of Motown Community Collège sexist gaslight witchhunt stops tomorrow with justice and acknowledgement, I still have endured nearly a decade of premeditated, snowball from hell, societally-endorsed psychological destruction aimed at my name and me alone.

    I am down to much less than what I started with as a person. Wore down like stone.

    The terror of my now and future on this trajectory I have tried so hard to change is real and overwhelming, and of course critics will point to me as the sole crazy problem, which I know every second.

    The knowledge of my own futility is my jailers’ cage, and there are so many layers of cages placed around me.

    Report comment

  16. I ran out of time editing above.

    Correction: February 22-28, 2013 (not 2021) I was suicide swatted by my higher ed employer after nearly a year of EEOC documented gaslighting and psychological abuse. I was police abducted by all white males who escalated without trying to calmly talk and listen to me. I was removed me from my home in handcuffs, not accused of a crime, in less than 6 minutes, according to FOIA’ed police records. I had just written on Facebook that I was literally “trying to save my life.” The school was following my Facebook page, as their paperwork admits, but the school did try to stir up and mislead the police. I was taken to St Mary Merciless human trafficking emergency room and mental ward, where I was locked up without evaluation, just as I have said. When I asked for justice from the state of Michigan, I got retaliation instead, just like I said. No delusions.

    Wow. Further isolation. It seems I will need to stop coming to this place. When I found Mad in America, in the spring of 2019, soon after starting, I stopped posting immediately for the same reason. Someone who said they have had delusions assumed incorrectly I did too.

    Is there a term on these boards for people who incorrectly and inappropriately project? Truth is that someone saying they were locked up against need who later says they have had delusions that a parent was trying to kill them makes things harder for me in my fight to clear my name.

    (My own mother, estranged before looney bin lock up, has refused to advocate for me to the Catholics she forced on me, which is unacceptable to me.)

    This world of humans is a mess. The horror of criminal (not forensic) retaliatory psychiatry ever ends.

    Report comment


      Hi, Gina,

      I have moderated the comments you reported, as I understand in context why these might have come across as offensive to you. I am sorry we didn’t catch them sooner.

      In the future, please email me rather than posting complaints about posts in the text of a comment. I am very responsive to such complaints, but it doesn’t help the community at large to have to process these complaints publicly, and as such, it is stated in the Posting Guidelines to handle such complaints by talking to the moderator or simply reporting them through the “report” function at the bottom of every post.


      Report comment

      • Thank you, truly. But I need people with real names and job titles saying they believe me, too. I am suffering way too much, for way too long. Negative effects of criminal psychiatry are growing, overwhelming, but no one who can will do anything to stop my destruction. Mercy at this point is not to be. For me to die from the negative effects of psychiatry unchecked, not suicide, but maybe a heart attack in my sleep or something. So I don’t have to face me being destroyed even more and run the risks of what might be done to me. But thank you.

        Report comment

  17. No one, no stranger, in media, press, state government or politics has ever said: Gina, I believe you. That’s mental torture.

    I have spent nearly a decade sleuthing my own murder, gathering evidence, trying but failing to stop my own destruction from my attackers, Oakland Community College, Livonia, Michigan Police, and the state of Michigan (lack of equal protection and retaliation by Michigan State Police though former AG Bill Schuette, protected so far by current AG Dana Nessel, current Michigan Department of Civil Rights claims under investigation since 2019 no better than toilet paper).

    For sure as the Catholics sexually abused children around the world and covered up, until they were laid bare by the Boston Globe Spotlight team (and then still covered up), and psychiatry is an evil mess as corrupt as Catholicism, in terms of at least sexism and duplicity, no life would be better than this of life torture.

    It’s been almost ten years. I have told my story daily from the start and it has not helped. That’s mental torture. I am having so much trouble going forward mentally tortured as I sink/am pushed down/ripped apart in all ways, 58 years old, losing my ability to walk, facing a cliff of unemployment and homelessness, in actual danger, that no one recognizes.

    Trapped and rightfully terrified in a bullshit world that sells a bullshit message: just ask for help.

    Report comment

  18. I am doing so poorly since being kicked off Twitter during a terror attack.

    That day, a rogue state of Michigan unemployment worker over the phone told me to get a job because, she told me, I probably wouldn’t get unemployment and that my former employer was fighting it, which was not true. She might have said instead, with the same effect, become homeless, retaliatory locked-up again and increase your already unmanageable suffering. The next day I was able to clear up the hold up in person, at a state office, but it was too late. Still, I am ticking time bomb. I have no future except for pain. You can’t imagine. I still have not seen a story like mine.

    I said PANIC and HELP in my post and something Twitter considered hateful conduct about the nasty nuns of my youth who raised and raped me in their criminal Catholic hospital, the none who purport their own holiness and good works. All my externally inflicted pain is too much. I am not the one who initiated the hateful sexist and criminal conduct of the Catholics. The nuns refuse to advocate for me. The Catholic hospital under state law could re-open my claims that I was set up, psychologically abused by my employer, not suicidal and not evaluated before looney bin lock up. It’s too much. There is no god, yet god was allowed to criminal mind rape me. How could this be my life? I escaped the Catholics but they recaptured me. For human trafficking psychiatric torture. To make money.

    I used Twitter to state daily what happened to me. It was not good therapy but the only public therapy I can risk with my story. Now, I can’t post and I can’t testify daily, and the pain and terror are growing. Reality: my hell will never end and only grow until I am dead. That is mental torture on top of mental torture.

    I have a right to not be mentally tortured in Michigan, USA!!!
    I could go back to Facebook but Facebook is full of trolls and hacks for me. Facebook hacks laid the groundwork for the die I was murdered by psychiatry. Plus, I don’t like Facebook. And bottom line it looks like no one is going to help me anywhere anytime end unchecked criminal psychiatry by flying Jesus Catholics.

    I know mostly trolls likely from Kiwi Farms read my posts on Twitter. Twitter did not help me save my life, but I could hope maybe it would. Maybe the right journalist or someone in authority or power would finally hear me and help me. No more. No hope, no hope, no hope. I am in so much imposed pain.
    How do accept mental torture and slow isolated death from mental torture in this country I’ve come to hate?

    Report comment

  19. I was not allowed to EDIT due to site hacking (which felt very personal):

    ” . . . the NUNS (not nones) who purport their own holiness . . .”

    “Facebook hacks laid the groundwork for the day (not die) I was murdered by psychiatry.” (Posts documenting Oakland Community College’s attack were removed.)

    Please body have mercy on me and end this hell. I don’t deserve this hell. No life would be better than this endless torture in sexist corrupt Jesus-polluted Michigan USA.

    The hell of criminal psychiatry never ends and certainly death would be better than mental torture without end.

    You would shoot your own daughter out of mercy like an injured horse if you witnessed her suffering like I am.

    Report comment

  20. Troll farm Kiwi Farms has found this posting.

    Are posters there responsible for recent hacking of this site?

    Today I was able to join the Kiwi Farms website solely for the purpose of posting a demand to take down all mentions of me. For what it’s worth, I also sent screen shots to the current state of Michigan AG. I don’t think the site is allowed to operate out of physical location in the U.S.

    For almost ten years, I have asked for justice and an end to criminal mental torture, but criminal mental continues unchecked and my imposed suffering only grows.

    It is not ok for this world to mentally torture me. But it does.

    Nothing is worth criminal psychiatry. No life would be better than the torture imposed upon me.

    No justice? Euthanasia now.

    Report comment


    My story is similar. Similar enough. Daily terror attack.

    I was set up by Oakland Community College between April 13, 2012 and February 21, 2013. Before that I was bullied by coworkers Ray Mort, Eric Abbey and Suzanne Labadie, mostly over the creation of the annual teaching schedule.

    February 22, 2013, at St Mary Merciless in Livonia, Michigan, after suicide swatting by the school and police mishandling, I told first year intern Nicole Shattuck, who had no training and no legal standing, who was not supervised by Dr. Andrew Muzychka, my actual story, in short form, and the dumb broad wrote I was “dellusional” spelled incorrectly. She denied phone calls, drugged me up, knocked me out and transferred me from the emergency room to the looney bin while unconscious.

    Nothing in this world of corruption and cruelty is worth this life of mental torture.

    Report comment

  22. nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing is worth this hell

    there is no outlet for my pain, no end, no justice

    one can’t even say a sexist religion is sexist!

    (I still haven’t forgotten or forgiven the astonishly offensive “old hag” visual game, metpahor–whatever that was–in Whitaker’s Anatomy of an Epidemic book. I stopped reading at that point.)

    removed from commenting on my own story

    nothing is worth this hell!

    Report comment

  23. The same Catholics who locked me up illegally gave me a copy of the constitution, the one which promises the equal protection from criminal psychiatry I have been denied.
    So what about equal suffering for all then? The inverse of the 14th Amendment?

    Since replicating what I’ve gone through would be impossible, equal suffering might be, metaphorically speaking, since Catholic Jesus metaphorically mind raped me, if Catholic Jesus were allowed to slowly rape and torture dead your children, and then you were thrown in jail for complaining and asking for justice.

    Followed by poverty, isolation and a lonely slow terrifying death as your body breaks down.

    How the fuck do I get out of this cage?

    If Brett Kavanaugh can show his anger and get a lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court, my expression of anger should be okay, too. If video games can portray slaughter, my figurative anger should be okay, too. If people flock to horror films, my creative display of pain riffing on a horror film should be okay, too. If people only go out to the movies, now, in the new millennium, to see superheros save the world, my wish to take down criminal psychiatry with my words alone should be okay, too.

    I’m trying to heal. I’m still trying to save my life.

    But I’m not allowed to explain, not even through metaphor, the pain of forced retaliatory criminal psychiatry.

    People want funny, but there isn’t anything funny about ten years of mental torture with no hope I will ever be free until death do us part.

    Report comment

  24. [NOTE FROM THE MODERATOR: Discussion with the author of this comment and with Bob Whitaker clarified for me that she is using “Catholic Jesus” as a metaphor for her mistreatment by those people claiming to be Catholic and yet abusing her. It is not intended as a generalized slur against either Catholics or Jesus. The author wrote and earlier blog using this metaphor for MIA, and this appears to be building on that metaphor. She fully understands that these comments apply to a description of her experience, and is not generalizable to others of the Catholic or Christian faith.]

    Rattling the bars of my cage . . .

    The same Catholics who locked me up illegally three decades earlier gave me a copy of the Constitution, the one which promises equal protection from criminal psychiatry I have been denied.

    No justice ever for me?
    So what about equal suffering for all then? The inverse of the 14th Amendment?

    Since replicating what I’ve gone through would be impossible, equal suffering might be, metaphorically speaking, since Catholic Jesus metaphorically mind raped me, if Catholic Jesus were allowed to slowly rape and torture dead your children, and then you were thrown in jail for complaining and asking for justice.

    Followed by poverty, isolation and a lonely slow terrifying death as your body breaks down.

    If Brett Kavanaugh can show his anger and get a lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court, my expression of anger should be okay, too. If video games can portray slaughter, my figurative anger should be okay, too. If people flock to horror films, my creative display of pain riffing on a horror film should be okay, too. If people only go out to the movies, now, in the new millennium, to see superheros save the world, my wish to take down criminal psychiatry with my words alone should be okay, too.

    I’m trying to heal. I’m still trying to save my life.

    But I’m not allowed to explain, not even through metaphor, the pain of forced retaliatory criminal psychiatry. That’s torture on top of torture.

    People want funny, but there isn’t anything funny about ten years of mental torture with no hope I will ever be free until death do us part.

    How the fuck do I get out of this cage?

    It doesn’t matter. It was too late years ago. No, you don’t understand. I will never be able to look at other Americans and not think, you should have been Jesus raped, too!

    Report comment

  25. People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly From Criminal Psychiatry. Part II.
    By Gina Fournier

    Part I of People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly From Criminal Psychiatry covers the first part of my story, psychological abuse, setup and suicide swatting by my employer, police abduction and my time held illegally by the Catholics of my youth, in a criminal mental ward, at a hospital in Livonia, Michigan, built by the old world Felician nuns who ran St. Michael’s grade school and defunct Ladywood High School. Part II and Part III cover the retaliation and negative fallout I have been forced to endure in lieu of equal protection for criminal psychiatry.

    The federal government has no idea how many Americans are involuntarily committed each year because no statistics are gathered (add source). This means that the United States also does not track the number of Americans who feel they were abused at a psychiatric hospital, which have the power of jailing citizens, with no set release date.

    Recognition for psychiatric mind rape is still decades behind existing support for sexual rape. I’ve come to the belief that mind rape is worse than sexual rape (short of murder), for one thing, because recognition of psychiatric crime is decades behind recognition for sexual crime.

    Criminal psychiatry needs brand name familiarity and its victims, including me, deserve the recognition and justice we lack. Criminal psychiatry is not “forensic psychiatry,” like the name of the state hospital in Saline, Michigan, for those deemed criminally insane by psychiatrists. The term I’ve been using, “criminal psychiatry,” refers to doctors and hospitals committing violations of the state mental health code—in my case, violations protected by state government, under Republicans and Democrats, since 2013.

    I’ve yet to read a story like my own. I did not seek psychiatry, but it still destroyed my life.


    Maliciously, on February 22, 2013, I was suicide swatted by my former employer, Land of Motown Community College (a pseudonym), on a day I said on Facebook I was trying to “save my life” from the school’s ongoing psychological attack.

    Had I been allowed phone calls, as required by state law, in the St. Mary Merciless emergency room, where I was taken unnecessarily by poorly trained all white male police, I could have called my lawyer to corroborate my story. That’s criminal psychiatry.

    I never met and was not ever evaluated by the white male doctor who away signed away my life. That’s criminal psychiatry.

    Unlike some victim of sexual abuse and rape, I have been telling my story as a psychiatric survivor since Day One, but have not been acknowledged, or released from my cage. That’s criminal psychiatry by God in the United States of America, allowed by government to grow into mental torture. And it’s not ok.

    In your God I do not trust. People do not rise from the dead and ascend to heaven, thirty-three years after virgin birth. The state of Michigan has no right to let Catholics acting criminally call this female crazy.


    Like most Americans, my liberal-leaning, Ann Arbor lawyer did not understand the terrain of psychiatry. In 2012, almost a year prior to suicide swatting, he counselled me to attend hack shrinks, as the school requested, based on its empty claims that I was suddenly severely mentally ill and dangerous. Yes, my sick husband needed the health insurance provided by my job, but walking into trap was still a huge mistake. My lawyer did not realize that no matter what I said, the school’s mercenary doctors, The Wolf and The Terminator, would tear me apart and use the DSM against me, as they were hired to do. The plan may have been ad hoc, but Land of Motown Community College wore me down, then set me up for a life sentence with psychiatric stain and stigma, and my lawyer helped. Then my husband died.

    In 2013 and 2014, I sought new legal counsel. Repeatedly, I was told my first civil rights lawyer screwed up the case. When Land of Motown Community College launched its attack, he should have countered the empty accusations hurled against me more strongly, and I never should have been counselled to attend hack shrinks. I found out that medical malpractice, in effect, does not exist for average people in Michigan, due to financial disincentives for lawyers.

    Calling it a useless gesture, my lawyer had filed an Equal Employment Opportunity Commission claim three months before suicide swatting. My claim explained that I did not have a mental illness. Instead, the school was retaliating, which is not the usual means of invoking the Americans with Disability Act. The EEOC did not take action on my behalf (it usually doesn’t). The EEOC did open the door for a court case, but I could not find replacement legal representation. Recently, I was informed by the EEOC that Land of Motown Community College never shared any documentation to support its defamatory claims against me.


    Unlike many survivors of sexual abuse, I began telling my story immediately. However, without acknowledgement for criminal psychiatry and justice for violations of the mental health code, things have only gotten worse for me.

    As planned, a month after I talked my way out of St. Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward, I was forced to quit my tenured 100K a year teaching job at Land of Motown Community College. I wasn’t being paid and due process was being strung out. I handed them what they wanted, my resignation (it’s difficult to fire a union teacher), but one can’t remain employed with an employer willing to psychologically abuse and resort to crime in order to silence.

    I needed to stay in the area and settle my newly deceased husband’s estate, which was a huge job. Meanwhile, I could find no other work. Box store manager did not want to hire a former college English teacher with more education who mysteriously left a well-paying lifetime position. My finances drained. I lost much needed transportation. Eventually all people in my former life left my side, as I was forced to continue fighting to “save my life.” Onlookers seemed to want me to simply forget about criminal psychiatry.


    My full story does not fit comfortably into any short form. It’s reasonable to worry that people can’t handle my truth because telling my true story makes me sound crazy.
    In September 2015, two and half years after illegal and retaliatory psychiatric detainment, I could see I was losing my battle to “save my life.” But what had happened to me mattered. To remain vocal and promote my story, to continue fighting peacefully, I installed a civil rights protest.

    In desperation, I spray-painted the metaphor “Jesus raped me” on my Garden City, Michigan home, which was in foreclosure due the poverty that accompanied criminal psychiatry. The phrase grew out of my life experience raised and violated by Livonia Catholics, with inspiration from crucifix scene in The Exorcist, in which the devil in Linda Blair rapes the 12 year old with the most sacred image in Christianity. My installation was covered by local, state and local affiliates of national news, but not in a positive fashion.

    No press interested in covering the salacious angle–not the Hometown newspapers, The Detroit Free Press, the CBC local affiliate, MLive or Fox News Detroit–was willing to report outright my claim that I never met the white male doctor, who did not supervise the first-year intern, who nevertheless signed the clinical certificate to lock me up at St. Mary Merciless.

    To further explain my metaphor and expand my message, I removed the doors from the house’s interior and created more signs, which I displayed on the front lawn. “Got civil rights?” “This Could Happen to You!” “Bill Shuette, bust Pope?” Pope Francis had left Vatican City and was visiting the United States. “Investigate Livonia Catholics,” I pleaded.

    When the camera crew for Fox News Detroit showed up, I told them I did not want to appear on camera. I wasn’t wearing make-up or professional clothing, I wasn’t prepared for an interview, and I was ill-composed. I was caught up in mirth which escapes me now and laughing strenuously at the next-door neighbors having a fit. The family feud with the neighbors pre-dated my dead husband’s birth, almost 60 years prior.

    Purposely filing a sexist hatchet job, Fox News Detroit filmed me despite my wishes not be filmed and aired the footage (add link). Their newscasts reputed that I was mentally ill and that the local Garden City Police were helping me find mental health resources, neither of which were correct. For years, gawkers followed me on Facebook because of this new coverage, which was apparently broadcast beyond the metro Detroit area. Some still do (

    When I lost my home downstate, I escaped from one job desert, Garden City, to another: my dead husband’s cabin in Mid-Michigan. The cabin lacked running water because our lives had imploded before we could properly close the place down for winter. While I was locked up at St Mary Merciless human trafficking mental ward, the pipes burst. I didn’t have the money to fix them.

    Around this time, I received at the cabin, via mail delivery delayed by my move (for which I had not registered a forwarding address), a written a response from the state AG, printed on official state letterhead. He denied my request for equal protection for the long list of state criminal mental health code violations I endured: primarily, that I did not meet the requirements for involuntary detainment.

    Generally, a state AG would simply ignore a private citizen’s request, so the letter is unusual and revealing. To ground its denial, the state referenced news reports of “Jesus raped me” instead of the state mental health code. The state did not investigate where the St. Mary Merciless white male emergency room doctor was when he was not evaluating me or supervising the first-year intern who locked me up. The state did not check his phone records for his whereabouts.

    Soon after I moved to the cabin, on November 19, 2015, the Michigan State Police descended one night, after dark, during off season when few residents were around my stretch of Lake Miramichi. Two cops accused me of plotting to kill the Republican AG who denied equal protection based on the Fox News Detroit sexist hatchet job. (Add link to video) The incident with the state police was a ruse used to mark me seriously mentally ill in the area police 911 dispatch system. Six weeks before, in a one-line Facebook post, I had joked sarcastically, “Looking for a contract killer,” I meant for me. The post received two likes. No one else took the post seriously. In their report, the state police lied and said they showed me the post, which I had completely forgotten about. Even without the seeing the post that night, or recalling it, I knew the state police were up to no good.
    Another set up was in the works.

    The state AG was planning a run for governor in 2018, said to be a life-long dream. My higher education former employer, Land of Motown Community College, sits in the state’s richest county, Oakland County, formerly a Republican enclave. Notorious L. Brooks Patterson, now deceased, longtime Oakland County Executive, was one of the most influential Republican party players in the state. Protecting one of the county’s biggest name brands, the largest community college in the state, with multiple campuses, would behoove Bill Schuette.

    My story was becoming too long and too absurd.


    Between 2016 and 2018, while I lived on charity with no bank account, income, or transportation, eventually every single county and state agency that could target me at Lake Miramichi did so. I was a target who could not move, with no friendly witnesses except my dog, Hunter, and cockatiel, Louie, my dead husband’s bird, who has also since died. Louie was the last witness to watch the Livonia Police Fuck the Bitch Squad ignore my words, escalate a false police report and unnecessarily abduct me from home, in order to handle me quickly and dump my body like fenced goods, rather than appropriately clean up the mess of suicide swatting.

    In April 2016, a representative from local office of the state department of health and human services suddenly appeared, as if magically, bearing McDonald’s like a bribe, but he would not listen to my claims about criminal psychiatry. He would not reveal who alerted the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services either. That first MDHHS representative, who was generally kind but mistreated me with his devilish details, was replaced by a woman who was not kind, and who became psychologically abusive. Her cover was the false promise that she was going to help me replace my plumbing, which she never did.

    In July 2016, as I was returning from a food pantry, Osceola County police pulled me over for a loud muffler. In the previous fourteen years of going up north, since 2002, I had never seen any police patrol on Route 66 or the country roads between Lake Miramichi and Evart, none in the surrounding area, but that changed after “Jesus raped me” and the involvement of the state police. Osceola County took my vehicle, my husband’s old Ford Explorer that some strangers had gotten running for me, and I was forced to walk a few miles home, until a farmer gave me a ride (and later dropped off groceries in my driveway). I lacked car insurance, so Osceola County threatened to jail me. I lost my vehicle, which was impounded. The food donations were left inside the vehicle, the dry goods with preservatives, the eggs abandoned to rot and smell. I was not jailed but given a misdemeanor.

    Power began creating a criminal record in association with my name, instead of the criminals at the school, among police and at the hospital who compromised my life.
    The cabin was not centrally heated. My full-time job became wood collection, by any means available. I was thankful for donations, especially of hard oak, but still needed to gather heating supplies to feed the Franklin stove fireplace for the long winter that lasted into April. After my car was taken, I hauled wood. I made like an ox using a wheel barrow when the road was dry, and a sled when the road was snow-covered. I identified down wood, sawed it into piles, hauled it, and then stacked it on the porch or under plastic tarps on the ground around the saw horse.

    It was the best of times and the worst of times. I existed in nature 24-7, and I was afraid of nature 24-7.

    I am not a chain saw person, though we had one. I used a 24-inch bow pruning saw to cut branches from tinder to log. Daily outdoor exercise kept me going through three winters, which blows even my mind. However, I now need a hip replacement I can’t afford.


    The pressure from criminal psychiatry has never let up.

    In February 2017, the country taxwoman wanted to take the cabin due to unpaid property back taxes. A judge appointed by Democrats gave me extra time. In February 2018, a judge appointed by Republicans said no. It’s easier to lock up, either in a looney bin or jail, a homeless person.

    Suicide swatting followed me up north. (count number of times)

    DO NOT call them police welfare checks, not when people are more likely to be harmed or murdered than helped. I learned to have my camera cell phone charged and ready to document the interludes. Repeatedly, on camera, recorded, which makes police visibly uncomfortable, I said I was not suicidal but needed justice from the crimes committed February 22-28, 2013, by the school, Livonia Police and the Catholics who raised me. Police routinely ignored my claims and called me crazy in their reports.

    The problem was complex. At a private lake community, because of unchecked and unacknowledged criminal psychiatry, I cried inside my home, next to a lake, where sound carries. The cabin sat on a county line, so police from two counties, Mecosta and Osceola County, plus the state police were dispatched, alternatively and in pairs.

    Worst of all, a white male police officer employed under my Land of Motown Community College’s two-time chief of campus police suicide swatter (the second time occurred a year after I was forced to quit my job, when the cover up had begun) lived across the street, it turned out. There are 10,000 lakes in Michigan. What are the chances? I’m guessing he did not appreciate my second civil rights protest signs, installed up north, especially the one which called for his boss, by name, to be jailed for making false police reports.

    Strangers have caused me great headache by misreading my Facebook posts, in which I have consistently asked for justice. Incredibly, one time, Freedom of Information Access records show that Facebook itself instigated a police welfare check through a lawyer from Ireland. By that point, I was sensing I would never be allowed justice or allowed to heal from the effects of criminal psychiatry. Things were never going to improve for me and only grow worse until I was crushed, and possibly locked up again. In isolation, I was trapped in a dangerous hell on earth no one would acknowledge, ironically not suicidal but perhaps needing to change my position, intellectually speaking, to end dangerous and debilitating mental torture.


    I have tried everything I can think of stop this hell. Using a welfare phone with unreliable signal (and intermittent internet access borrowed from neighbors around the lake), I called the National Suicide Lifeline Hotline, not because I was suicidal, but because I needed ultrahazardous mental torture to end. Did Lifeline have any resources for people who have been suicide swatting? The person who answered had no idea what I was talking about, assumed I was passing word salad, and wanted to call the police for another potentially life-threatening welfare check. Quickly, I hung up.


    Eventually, FOIA reports show that state police stopped documenting the name of an instigator for so-called welfare checks. Criminal Catholic God must have sent them. I had asked the Felician Nuns to advocate on my behalf to Trinity Health, who now owns St. Mary Merciless. Over the phone, a nun told me her superior said no. And that she would pray for me. Maybe it was the state Republican AG running for governor initiating the police hits. Or maybe it was a local county prosecutor. Clearly, a party with ill-intent had become involved.
    There is no doubt I was being watched. The police accosted me at home at first but so-called welfare checks starting happening in town, too.

    Outside the Evart Library, on the day Trump was inaugurated, police reports say I was harassed because they had confused me with another local, which I believe to be absolute bullshit. I had never before seen the city police harassing citizens on either of the two main streets that constitute the city of Evart. Six months later, at the sole grocery store, Foster’s, I was accosted in the parking lot by one of the state police officers, a diminutive female, who had harassed me on behalf of the state AG. She was backed up by Evart City police.
    Talking about the imposed pain of suicide swatting on Facebook does not mean a person is suicidal, but just using the “s” word forced upon me in order to try and remove its stigma and stain has been misused to cause me serious trouble.

    As a result of my experiences, I have been taught to distrust all police organizations and police officers.

    Humbled, I utilized the Mecosta Osceola Transit Authority to get around. Mostly, the service provided rides for adults with mental and physical disabilities. What is normally a twenty-minute ride to town took a couple of hours each way on bumpy unpaved roads due to all the stops at private homes, except for mine, because of the lake’s status as private property. I was picked up and dropped off on the main road, outside Lake Miramichi property, at least a half mile from home.

    Under such circumstances, a person buying groceries with charity is not planning suicide. For real, not the old joke of walking miles just to go to school, I had to carry what food I bought home uphill.

    One good outcome of Facebook? I was sent cash and some goods by strangers through the mail.

    A local who took pity on me, who does not wish to be named, became my benefactor, otherwise I never would have survived.


    A Lake Miramichi summertime neighbor had told me that a cop from Oakland County lived across the street. My intuition was perked. Did the neighbor mean a cop from Land of Motown Community College or Oakland University, two similar school names routinely confused?

    In early May 2017, a process server aggressively opened the screen door and threw in some paperwork, then let the door swing shut on its own as he ran off. I was to appear in court in one week’s time regarding a request for a personal protection order by a man I had never met.

    The cop says he bought his house years earlier but we never saw anyone at the property. Before his death, my husband and I came up weekends. Maybe the cop and his wide came up week days.

    No one stalks a cop. I didn’t stalk a cop, especially one I had never met and could not pick out of a police lineup. I did cry inside my home on the lake. My cries do include anti-Catholic curses. But I was accused of standing in the man’s driveway every weekend and yelling for hours, even threatening the lives of his grown children, which I did not do. I have never met his adult children.

    My ordeal with criminal psychiatry was encouraged to grown and morph into another no-win ordeal as a poor person set up in the unequal legal system.


    I had not me the cop who accused me of stalking him, but I had met the cop’s wife, in the spring of 2016, it must have been.

    A regular dog walker, I was in the habit of walking near my dogs, Dalva, and after her death, Hunter, on leash but allowing my dogs the freedom to sniff without me holding the leash, which had not been a problem in the preceding years.

    One day, after escaping up north, as we walked by the cop’s property, the police couple’s retired police dog, a German Shepperd, which I had never before seen, ran off their property to chase my dog, Hunter, also a German Shepperd, but one without the training to attack. The cop’s dog chased Hunter onto my property, where Hunter was bitten around the neck, leaving puncture wounds. Stupidly, I did not call the cops because at that point I have never seen cops at tranquil Lake Miramichi. The cop’s wife felt the need to jump on an ATV to save my dog from hers.


    No surprise, the dirty cop’s wife was also dirty. Through sleuthing I discovered she was responsible for suicide swatting at least once, Labor Day Weekend in 2016, about which she lied to police dispatch, by giving a nonexistent home address. Later in court regarding the ppo, she lied under oath to the judge about her behavior.

    Timing is everything. After court, when I had means, I obtained FOIA records which listed the bogus address and the wife’s actual phone number, which matched Michigan State Police records, with her name not redacted.

    Under oath, the cop for Land of Motown Community College named the school, the HR lawyer who executed the school’s attack and my two-time suicide swatter, campus chief of police, the cop’s boss, as the source of information that I was crazy dangerous. What was actually psychological abuse and suicide swatting were pointed to as the basis, the cop argued disingenuously, that he and his family needed court protection from me.
    To malign me further, somehow the cop even brought up the ppo a judge downstate had granted against my deceased husband, five years earlier, in 2012, four months before illegal looney bin lock up.

    The court transcripts, and other documents, are posted in full on my website


    With encouragement from Land of Motown Community College, my husband’s world had detonated more quickly than mine.

    During the early fall of 2012, Chris verbally abused me and hounded me to move out, all of sudden, to separate from the firestorm in my professional life and to try and salvage what was left of his own life. By October, I was forced to leave, in the middle of the night, I hoped temporarily.

    My name was not on either house. Chris was always afraid his name was not on either house due to the way things went down after his parents died. Chris was afraid both the Garden City and Lake Miramichi homes would be lost due to the school’s psychological attack, so Chris filed for divorce. Simultaneously, Chris thought he was dying, which his doctor discredited, but Chris was right. Two years prior, a kidney had been removed due to an undiagnosed blood disorder.

    I requested and was granted a ppo against my husband in October. In November, Chris requested a retaliatory ppo, but the judge did not buy his story that I was a danger to my six-foot four husband. Family court was the last time I saw Chris alive and conscious.
    In December 2012, hours after Christmas, he died, after five days in the hospital. A third string intern called me just in time. Doctors did not know how to treat simultaneous bleeding and blood clotting. Chris had not called me while he was conscious due to the ppo.
    Wanting to hold my own in divorce and needing to keep Chris from talking to Land of Motown Community College cost too way much.


    There is one main road around Lake Miramichi, on which people drove cars and ATVs and walked their dogs, in season. No other witnesses corroborated the lying cops’ story as witnesses. Their adult children did not show up or testify. It was too early in the season for me to ask neighbors to testify on my behalf. Plus, no one liked my civil rights protest signs: “Trying to save my life” “Ride to town? (no offers), or version two of “Jesus raped me.” In both cases, downstate in Garden City and up north at Lake Miramichi, I repainted” Jesus raped me” with “Act Peace,” which attracted zero press coverage.

    In the 49th District Court, in May 2017, the judge did not wait to see the supposed video evidence of me standing in the cop’s driveway, allegedly taunting and threatening the couple hour after hour, weekend after weekend. The Republican judge granted the ppo based on the couple’s testimony only. The only other person in the courtroom was the court reporter.

    I felt the set up encircling me, but couldn’t fully recognize it yet: no matter what transpired, I would have been locked up in jail for violating the ppo, whether or I did or not.

    For me, retaliatory jail following set up for illegal looney bin lock up is all part of criminal psychiatry, inextricably.

    Report comment

  26. People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly From Criminal Psychiatry. Part III.
    By Gina Fournier

    Part I of People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly From Criminal Psychiatry covers the first part of my story, psychological abuse, setup and suicide swatting by my employer, police abduction and my time held illegally by the Catholics of my youth, in a criminal mental ward, at a hospital in Livonia, Michigan, built by the old world Felician nuns who ran St. Michael’s grade school and defunct Ladywood High School. Part II and Part III cover the retaliation and negative fallout I have been forced to endure in lieu of equal protection for criminal psychiatry.

    It was clear the locals wanted me gone, and they were willing to try a variety of measures to get rid of me.

    Despite widespread particularly rural poverty in the area, the county health department, District #10, came down hard on me. They condemned the cabin, concurrent with the ppo granted against me. The sanitation officer accompanied by county police taped a yellow sign on the door which pronounced, “condemned.” I could be arrested for living on the property.

    After they left, I immediately removed the sign. I did not need a visual reminder. Risking jail time, of course I stayed in the cabin because I had nowhere else to go.
    To flush the toilet, minus working plumbing, I used what I called the gravity flush. A neighbor gave me a bunch of industrial white buckets, which I filled with another neighbor’s winterized well-water. It was in my own interest to stay on top of circumstances and sanitation best I could.

    I fought the order to condemn the cabin. At a hearing in the Mecosta County Building, where I also fought the taxwoman each year, I was told my pictures of clean plumbing could have been taken at another house, despite the fact that the home in my pictures matched the picture taken by the sanitation officer. The sanitation officer had taken one picture of feces inside the toilet before I poured water down the toilet to flush it. He did not take any pictures of the many buckets of water waiting ready.

    The sanitation officer, last name Earnest, was married to the county taxwoman, last name Earnest, who ran for office as a Republican.
    In August 2017, a week or so before I was arrested for violating the ppo against the Land of Motown Community College cop I had not stalked, the dirty cop and his wife taunted me from their driveway while I painted my civil rights protest signs. Of course, they were never really afraid of me at all.

    You killed your husband, you poisoned him! The husband shouted, as the wife filmed. I didn’t have my camera on me. I had not poisoned my husband.

    The pictures taken by the wife of me clearly standing in front of my own home, not in the couple’s driveway, turned up in my arrest report, which said I violated the ppo. I had not contacted the couple and had stayed away from their property, just as I was ordered.
    Nevertheless, on a beautiful late August afternoon, less than two weeks later, after I cut the lawn of the half acre lot with a borrowed lawn mower, I was arrested. For the second time in my story, I was handcuffed, but this time as an alleged criminal perpetrator.

    Michigan State Police took me to the Osceola County jail. I was put in a holding cell, booked and then transferred to the woman’s dorm. The woman’s dorm was sealed with a metal door and reinforced with cement block walls painted white/beige. Multiple bunk beds were aligned along the walls, and in the middle of the rectangular room, metal tables with attached metal stools were bolted to the floor. The cell featured an open-air bathroom and shower. My nightmare created by criminal psychiatry had sunk to another depth of hell.
    By seven thirty pm, the other jailbirds were already in their bunks watching TV as I arrived. Dazed and despondent, I headed for the back of the room, away from the television, but I could not escape the jail walls or its glaring fluorescent lights. With my back up against the wall, I sunk to the floor distraught.

    I was soon pulled from the women’s dormitory and put in solitary confinement for crying. Another depth of hell, so soon? A female jail guard opened the door to the small private cell and threw in one of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander novels. Another depth of hell. It was additionally upsetting to think I’d kept in solitary confinement long enough to read that very fat fiction book.

    I was let out of solitary confinement that night and returned to the women’s dorm, where I stayed for a month, because I could not make bail, as the locals well knew.

    As I made myself settle into life in jail, I sought a routine. I got up early to do the cleaning duties jailbirds were supposed to share, so I could control the tv for a few minutes a day and catch the news. Otherwise, the jailbird who ran the place preferred reality tv cop shops and zombies. I watched the state AG who initiated retaliation up north, Bill Schuette, announce his run for governor while incarcerated.


    There is much I can say about being housed in a rural county jail for a month. The most salient point for this narration is that jail as a detention center made more sense than the Catholic mental ward, though I belonged in neither. At the Osceola County jail, at least we got some fresh air and a view of the sky, during exercise jaunts in a human animal pen. Fresh air was withheld at St. Mary Merciless.

    Two law firms served indigents. The other jailed birds, including repeat offenders, indicated that I had been assigned the weaker law firm of the two available.

    The same judge who declined to view evidence for the ppo hearing was assigned to my felony stalking case.

    My court appointed lawyer was a talker with an occasional nervous twitch in his eye, who at first said he’d get me out soon and have the charges dropped, no problem.


    A few weeks into my time, my court appointed lawyer stopped talking my calls and changed his story. I needed to take a plea deal, he said.

    I truly thought a plea deal meant a plea of “I’m not guilty, but I can’t afford actual defense.”
    I said I wanted to risk a court trial, but my court appointed lawyer effectively coerced me into a plea deal by not preparing for a court trial.

    Though I had not talked to my estranged Catholic mother since 2012, I asked mother for bail. I wrote her. I called her using the jail pay phone. My silent benefactor had put some funds in my jail account so I could buy a phone card.

    Now an old woman in her 80s, my mother said she’d ask my brother, her only son, if she could give me bail money. I wish I had never asked. Asking my mom to bail me out of jail reinvigorated our separate stands.

    While wearing orange jail garb, holding the jail pay phone receiver to my ear, instead of “Yes, I will bail you out,” I heard my mother nag: “The family is Catholic!”

    When I explained what had happened to land me in jail, admittedly a long and difficult story to hear, in return mother admitted she had talked to the HR lawyer at Land of Motown Community College, back in 2012. She said he told her I was messing with the lives of my co-workers. Apparently, she chose to believe him. My mom did not recognize the inappropriateness of her treating Land of Motown Community College as if I were an enrolled K-12 student and she were a parent of minor at a parent/teacher conference.
    After offering my mother co-ownership of the cabin, she responded by talking about her separation and divorce from my father, when I was thirteen. Like people talk about pets, and young girls naively pledge their lasting love, my mother protested. She thought my dad was her “forever” husband.

    My brief and desperate hopes of a reunion in order to save my ass from jail were dashed. Earlier, when I needed him, my husband had freaked out and died, and now my mother was disturbed by Catholicism, toxic and no help. Talking to her again, from jail, added hurt to hurt.

    The people deigned closest to me had actually gone mad, while I had been slapped with a false rap of insanity that had been allow to snowball.


    Ironically, in jail, I attended bible study sessions centered around reading Rick Warren book’s The Purpose Driven Life: What on Earth Am I Here For? (The irony.) I did so just to leave the women’s dormitory. The room where Bible studies convened once weekly for an hour featured a window that slid open a crack. Seeing a glimpse of end of summer tree leaves, green and reassuring, made the objectionable Christian content worthwhile.
    As well, in somewhat refreshed surroundings, I could feed my mind by condemning the nonsense of Jesus as god believers calling me crazy, though I kept my complete thoughts and my metaphor to myself. The Bible ladies had given me a composition notebook and pencil on my birthday, which occurred in jail, unbeknownst to them. I greatly appreciated their gift. Paper and pencil are not free in jail. Nothing is.

    To their discredit, the Bible ladies did not seem to know that one could be detained in jail only because one can’t afford bail before a trial or plea deal. The Bible ladies assumed we jailbirds had all done something very wrong and needed Jesus, guilty without need of proof.
    Unfortunately, only Baptists showed up to preach to inmates. If Muslim, Buddhists, Quakers, Jews, Sikhs and devil worshipers had volunteered to preach at the Osceola County jail, I would have welcomed all religions and anti-religions. I would have played along like the omnist narrator in The Life of Pi, just to move my body from one room to another.
    A friend loaned me a copy of the The Life of Pi to read while I was held prisoner at St. Mary Merciless.

    While in jail, I received word that I lost my appeal with the District #10 health department over my toilet. Rubbing my nose in my loss, the unkind second MDDHS representative showed up to visit me in jail to report that she could not help me with my plumbing, if I remained incarcerated. But she hadn’t been helping me with my plumbing at all.
    After about three weeks, my court appointed lawyer talked up the plea deal and release with a leg monitor, as if they were positive things.

    I was adamant there should be no leg monitor attached to my body. My body had endured too much trauma and violence: hand cuffed by police twice, shackled hand and foot by the first-year intern in emergency room, committed, incarcerated, thrown in solitary confinement, body searched. In front of jail video surveillance camera, I flashed hand-written signs, No leg monitor or I will crack! I was sure wearing a tether would break me.
    As I was about to be released on a personal recognizance (PR) bond, I reaffirmed there should be no leg monitor, but my sleazy court appointed lawyer waffled. After he split, I was informed that a leg monitor had been ordered, which is standard.

    Somehow, I played on a jailer’s fatigue on a Friday afternoon (certainly not his sympathy) and got out of jail without a leg monitor, which I could not afford.

    Tethered enough as it was, psychologically, I returned to the cabin where I could be jailed again for simply trying to be.


    Between my release from jail, September 28, 2017, and final sentencing, January 25, 2019, court proceedings were drawn out to keep me under the thumb of the state as long as possible. I was dog whipped first on a PR bail, then on probation.

    In October and November 2017, after I was released from jail, allegedly for harassing and threatening behavior, I became the recipient of rape and death threats sent to my email by a character using the name Jeff Morgan, a random name, I assumed, that I did not recognize. The Michigan State Police refused to file a police report. The Michigan State Police were only willing to prosecute me, based on lies and lack of investigation, not pursue actual harassing and threatening behavior aimed at me.

    Yes, I know. If I tried to pass this story as fiction, it would be called a soap opera.

    October 31 2017. “YOU ARE A LOSER!! get a job. so you can support yourself instead of tax dollars and expecting everyone to give you a hand out. what happened to you is your fault. no one else. YOUR NOT A VICTIM TO ANYONE BUT YOURSELF!!!! you got in trouble for a reason just end it now if you cant grow up thanks for ruining my college career”

    October 31 2017. “if your ridiculous posts do not stop i will show up to your cabin again tonight for more then just your signs.”

    November 2 2017. “while you were at the library, hunter ate some rat poison. might wanna check on him”


    November 10, 2017. “fuck jesus im going to rape you until you squeel and scream for death. more then your normally do with your whining ass”

    No one cared about the threats aimed at me, not the authorities or my court appointed lawyer.


    In January 2018, by mail without warning from my court appointed lawyer, the judge ordered me to submit to a forensic psychiatric exam at the state forensic hospital at Saline.
    I knew I could not risk another psychiatric exam or psychiatrist. I called my lawyer. I could not get past his gatekeeper secretary. After a few calls, she told me my court appointed lawyer got the judge to rescind the order. The office gatekeeper bullshitted me. The next time I appeared in court, I could have been arrested, jailed or sent to Saline for defying the order. Somehow the judge let it slip.

    To commemorate the fifth anniversary, February 22, 2013, of my illegal looney bin lock up, on February 22, 2018, the local branch of the department of health of human services tried to lock me up again, on another ruse, about the civil rights protest signs I had erected up north, including “Catholics F*ck Female,” “Lake Miramichi Lying Cop works for Land of Motown Community College,” and “I was not seen by . . . “ (insert the name of the doctor who did not evaluate me). My civil rights protest up north was more expansive than the one downstate. Chris had a lot of wooden boards laying around, and I had brought with me up north paint.

    No, I told the posse of three, two MDHHS representatives and one county cop, I had not called the police to report additional stolen signs. The cop then switched fake gears and started asking me welfare check type questions, which I shut down swiftly and assuredly. I held my ground. With camera aimed at their faces, I named the MDHHS representative standing before me and asked for the name of the police officer, at which point the group turned around silently and left. I have video proof (add video link). Proof means nothing once your impoverished and labeled crazy. The county police did not document the visit, I learned through FOIA, but 911 dispatch did. 911 dispatch records state that the Mecosta County prosecutor, another Republican, ordered the hit. In writing, the Mecosta Country prosecutor denied involvement.

    After delay, in June 2018, the judge accepted a delayed sentence plea deal, which meant my crime would be determined after a year’s probation. While I read a long statement about my innocence and poverty, the judge interrupted me and said she did not take plea deals from accused who claim innocence, but she did.

    Acting like a used car salesman, my lawyer had promised me the entire thing could be reduced in a year to disturbing the peace, a misdemeanor. I knew I couldn’t trust his spiel, but my options were limited.

    In ill-defined straits, I moved from the confines of bail to the restrictions of probation, which included internet restrictions. At first, I was supposed to find a job but not use the internet, which was unreasonable, and showed how ignorant the judge was about the centrality and function of the internet. Her ignorance about the internet became another one of my problems.

    I had asked my attorney what I terms I could use to discuss online the Land of Motown Community College sexist gaslight witchhunt, Lying Cop #1 and Lying Cop #2.
    The guy had never taken my story seriously. “Minions,” he suggested quickly and dismissively.

    No clear agreement was made about what I could and could not say online about Land of Motown Community College when my internet privileges were returned. The judge had already conservatively interpreted the undefined meaning of “contact” in the relevant statutes. I had never contacted the cop, before or after the ppo.

    Meanwhile, a local with means loaned me the money to pay my back property taxes, as long as I signed an agreement to put the “lakehouse,” as Chris called it, up for sale. I spent my last summer at Lake Miramichi with a “for sale” sign on the front lawn. While I was in jail, neighbors had removed my civil rights protest signs.

    Chris had been correct. Both houses were lost.

    I was run out of town, again.


    Somehow, after telling my story in the application, I got a job as an adjunct, teaching English, at another community college, Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College (another pseudonym), and moved to Bay City, Michigan.

    Two weeks into the semester, on September 13, 2018, another, a third, community college cop, targeted me. He followed me in his police cruiser as I walked out of the building to my car in the parking lot after my last class of the week late, Thursday afternoon. I was required to report all police contact, so I purposely texted in detail to my probation officer what had happened.

    With proceeds from the sale of the lakehouse, I had purchased a vehicle, another Ford Explorer, this one a 2002, made before 9/11, with over 200K. (The odometer works intermittently.)

    The cop waited until I got inside my vehicle and rolled down the driver’s window, then he pulled alongside me so our open driver’s windows aligned. The cop from Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College smiled and joked, but nevertheless gave me the silent message that I had been IDed and should not get too comfortable. It is not usual procedure for community college campus police officers to ask adjuncts where they are going after class in this manner.

    Had cops from Land of Motown Community College contacted the cop from Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College? I obtained the Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College cop’s name through FOIA. On Facebook, he self-identified as a Republican, in support of Bill Schuette for governor. He also self-revealed as a conservative white male sexist and a racist through his reposted memes.

    In early November 2018, after the administration at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College had asked me to take on another class, a section that another teacher had started but abandoned, I was pulled from classroom at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College. I was removed from the classroom on the anniversary of being removed from the classroom at Land of Motown Community College six years earlier. I was not given a clear reason for my termination.

    The day before, on election day, the former state AG lost his bid to become governor.
    I’m glad Bill Schuette lost his bid for governor. Coincidentally, the candidate who did win, a democratic female, Gretchen Whitmer, after inauguration—unlike Bill Schuette’s retaliatory accusations against me delivered by the Michigan State police in 2015—became the target of an actual plot, by a posse of white male militia, with weapons and intent to do harm, now under federal investigation. (need link?) To illustrate just how intellectually corrupt and sexist the state of Michigan is, from Lansing to Livonia, over budget disputes, the state Senate Majority Leader Mike Shirkey called Whitmer “bat shit crazy” at a Christian college while meeting with young Republicans, and got away with it (add source).


    My access to the internet moved around while I was probation, with access increased in steps over time. But my access was fully restricted once again when I was de-classroomed at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College. The judge had allowed full social media access when I began teaching for the Fall 2018 semester, then the same week I was fired at Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College, she revoked my access after I talked about Land of Motown Community College on social media. I was not barred from talking about Land of Motown Community College on social media, but the judge allowed things to become very murky.

    By the first week of November 2018, according to a report by my probation officer, a few strange things had happened simultaneously. Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College contacted the court about my probation and suggested I be jailed for alleged probation violations. (What did they know about the terms of my probation?) Also, an internet troll, using the name Christine Heikkenen–who “liked” The Oakland County Sherriff’s office and politician Adolf Hitler–contacted either the Osceola County prosecutor or the 49th District Court to report that I had allegedly violated my probation by responding to the troll’s Facebook Messenger message. I was not restricted from messaging; I had text messaged with my probation officer. Earlier, in the fall of 2017, the troll Christine Heikkenen had contacted me about the threatening emails I had received from the troll Jeff Morgan, which the Michigan State Police chose ignore. Due to mishandling and opaque but questionable actions by my probation officer, the Osceola County prosecutor and the court, Jeff Morgan’s name ended up in my probation report, which recommended additional jail time for the alleged probation violation.

    How did an internet troll contact the Osceola County prosecutor or the 49th District Court to report an alleged violation? Did the troll make a phone call? Send an email? Show up in person? What name did they give? What exactly had I said on social media to anger the court and supposedly violate probation? The judge made sure this information did not get out, and my lawyer helped.

    With proceeds from the sale of the cabin, I had hired a Bay City lawyer to take over for the court appointed lawyer in Osceola County. My second criminal lawyer was significantly late for the first court date, which made for a very poor start. After he finally arrived in Osceola County, the judge talked to my new criminal lawyer privately in her chambers and kept all discussion off the record. No probation hearing ever took place. At one point, while sitting in the empty corrupt room, surrounded by the portraits of former judges, only dead white men, I heard the judge making jokes and my Bay City lawyer laughing in response. I thought, “You idiot!”

    After exiting the judge’s chambers, my new criminal lawyer approached me with a court order that restricted my internet access for the alleged probation violation minus testimony or the presentation of evidence. Going forward, I could not discuss the Land of Motown Community College sexist gaslight witchhunt or anything online. Once again, I was silenced. My Bay City lawyer said I had no real choice: sign or go back to jail. And he informed me my delayed sentencing plea deal had been negated.

    However, because my new criminal attorney and his wife were expecting a child, court proceedings for final sentencing were delayed until January 25, 2019. I spent most of the winter, alone with my animals, in isolation and terror, with the threat of jail time hanging before me.

    On January 25, 2019, I was given a stalking misdemeanor and the case was closed, with no additional jail time imposed. My Bay City lawyer said I was lucky not to return to jail and credited his own efforts. I was not impressed. I had taken the time to inform him in writing of the back story and strange recent actions with internet trolls, but he had ignored me.

    Patronized me, as if doing me a favor, he relayed, “Somebody is after you.”

    I thought to myself sarcastically, “Why are white men still allowed to be?” I needed this guy to create a clear court record, which he failed to do.

    I had been trying to tell him my story all along, that someone was after me, but he had not listened to me and had not adequately prepared himself on my behalf. His publicly shared profile says he attended area Catholic schools.


    So-called welfare checks continued in Bay City (count). I was still crying inside my home. There was no longer a lake to amplify and bounce sound, but now neighbors were living much closer by. At first, my landlady and a neighbor called the cops. Then, again following the pattern set at Lake Miramichi, eventually Michigan State police reports named no instigator.

    After the last welfare check, a black female cop, the only black cop among dozens I’ve dealt with, and only the second female cop amid a sea of white male cops, noted in the police report that my body did smell.

    Uncharacteristically, Hunter growled at her. I don’t think he’s seen many black faces. Or maybe he realized this woman was on the scene only to insult my humanity.


    That spring, I launched my website and began to combine my story with the mountains of documentation I have gathered to support my claims.

    Meanwhile, my necessary job hunt was not going well. Now, box stores did not want to hire me because of my criminal record.

    I was running out of money from the sale of the lakehouse.


    I guessed, if requested, that St. Mary Merciless would not send an exact duplicate copy of my medical records in 2019 to match what it had sent in 2013. And I as right. When I finally received the records, they were scrubbed, changed slightly and greatly reduced to hide violations of the state mental health code.

    On April 1, 2019, I called the hospital to follow up on my recent records request. Later that day, St. Mary Merciless sent the police to my home. I was accused of threatening to burn down the hospital, which I had not done. Casually, and sarcastically, I had told the two young woman I had talked to in records that the Felician nuns should have been raped by Jesus too. I was not arrested, but was provided with grounds for further action against the hospital.

    In the fall of 2019, I filed with the Michigan Civil Rights Commission numerous complaints, which were accepted, against Land of Motown Community College, Livonia Police, St. Mary Merciless, the state AG’s office, the MDHHS, various police agencies and Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College. Because of COVID, those claims are still under investigation. If one of those claims is decided in my favor, I may be able to get a second civil rights lawyer and sue somebody, finally, over the fallout from unchecked criminal psychiatry.

    A Facebook follower had told me about an obscure community college police officer state law aimed at reviewing police behavior. Both Land of Motown Community College and Inside the Thumb Mid Mitten Community College refused to review the conduct of their police officers, which provided timely grounds for action. Similarly, the MDHHS harassed me surrounding FOIA requests, which was enough basis for a complaint. Too many police welfare checks had transpired in cover up. Filing of civil rights claims finally stopped the so-called welfare checks.

    I still cry in my home.


    Haven’t I proved that I was never suicidal by now?

    In November 2019, the state tax collector emptied my back account of my last dollars because of unpaid back income taxes. I negotiated, hounded, and got my money back, with the help of a state presentative, contingent upon a repayment agreement.
    In December 2019, I finally got a job working customer service for a phone bank, servicing customers of major automobile manufacturer. When COVID hit three months later, work moved from the office to home. I coworker moved into the second bedroom in my apartment to help pay bills. I can’t imagine any other stranger would put up with my crying. He’s a discarded senior citizen with a shell-shocked life, too.

    In March 2021, I appealed to the governor and the director of the MDDHS to remove from her position the committee chairperson of the state committee of patients rights advisors. Patients rights advisors are mandated by state to work inside psychiatric wards, paid by the psychiatric ward, to ensure state law is upheld and that patients know their limited rights.
    The same patients rights advisor who had covered up violations of the state mental health code at St. Mary Merciless, in 2013, was awarded top patients rights advisor in the state, in 2018, under Republicans. At some point, she became the chairperson of the state committee of patients rights advisors of the MDHHS.

    I appeared via zoom at the March 2021 patients rights advisor committee and named the woman as the person who covered up the psychiatric crimes committed against me in 2013 at St. Mary Merciless. Her name was not included in subsequent meeting minutes, despite my request. Subsequently, she resigned her chairperson appointment and was given the job as the patients rights advisor at the state forensic psychiatric hospital in Saline, Michigan.

    Given my story, and all the nefarious actors involved, I fear I will be forced to be a recipient of her criminal so-called patients rights services again in the future.
    In September 2021, I was fired from my customer service job for asking management to admit they had sped up the assembly line of calls and associated computer work due to staff shortages, which they refused to do. Currently, I have two tentative job offers, but my background checks have been held up, for seven weeks. One potential employer said the counites involved were holding things up, which concerns me. My unemployment runs out in March 2022. I have no safety net, family or friends left.

    58 years old now, my health is poor. I have arthritis and need a hip replacement. I was recently diagnosed with heart problems, mitral value regurgitation, and a permanently injured esophagus, a condition called achalasia. My heart is broken and my story is stuck in my throat. I endure ongoing mental torture best I can.


    I have gathered evidence to support all my claims. However, without greater regard for psychiatric survivors, evidence documenting criminal psychiatry is useless, especially in this post-fact world.

    All these years, I have regularly and repeatedly written letters to my political representatives, Republican and Democrat. I have asked state representatives to sponsor a simple bill mandating that all hostile psychiatric evaluations be video recorded. No one has ever responded to my claims.

    What has happened since criminal psychiatry in retaliation is just as damaging if not more damaging than illegal looney bin lock up.

    Double gaslit in America.

    Report comment


    People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry (Actual Violations of the State Mental Health Code): Fallout (Part I).

    People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry was published on the Mad in America website. It summarizes the first part of my story: setup and suicide swatting by my employer, police abduction from home and the week I was held illegally by the Catholics of my youth, in a criminal mental ward, at a Catholic hospital, in Livonia, Michigan. The hospital was built by the old-world nuns who ran St. Michael’s grade school and defunct Ladywood High School, which I attended. People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry (Actual Violations of the Mental Health Code): Fallout (Parts I-VII) cover the retaliation and negative fallout I have been forced to endure in lieu of equal protection for criminal psychiatry, including jail time. Thank you for reading.

    Report comment