True Story Alert
They Wanted Me to Break: A Descent into Madness, Isolation, and State-Backed Terror
June 23, 2025
By the time you read this, it will have been five years. Five years since the first crack appeared in the glass of my reality. Five years since everything I believed about safety, justice, and human decency was turned inside out. I write this with hands that still shake. Not from fear—but from rage. Because what happened to me wasn’t a misunderstanding. It wasn’t a glitch in the system. It was orchestrated. Cold. Clinical. Deliberate.
This is a warning.
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The Silent Dismantling of a Human Life
It started slowly, the way nightmares do when you’re still half-awake—tiny changes that didn’t make sense. A missed call that never rang. A text message that vanished. A strange echo on the line when I spoke. I told myself I was overthinking things. But the truth doesn’t wait for your permission. It creeps in through the cracks.
By mid-2020, I wasn’t just being watched. I was being hunted. My phone, my laptop, even my home—invaded. Violated. Private conversations disappeared or were tampered with. My emails would vanish. My bank account drained. Digital ghosts replacing human contact. Friends stopped responding. Some admitted my messages never came through. Others, I suspect, were told not to answer.
I wasn’t being paranoid. I was being erased.
And when I tried to speak out, to scream into the void, they tightened the noose.
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The Drive North: Death on the Highway
The surveillance turned to stalking. I’d look in my rearview mirror and see the same black SUV for miles. Then a man on a bike outside every store I stopped at. Strangers would stare, whisper into earpieces, follow me from gas pumps to bathroom stalls.
One night, I fled—380 miles of open road between me and a desperate hope for help. That highway wasn’t a road. It was a gauntlet. Brake lines almost failed. A semi swerved unnaturally close. Someone tried to run me off the road. Each attempt was just close enough to terrify, just far enough to look like chance.
That kind of terror doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like cold water filling your lungs while your mind screams: They’re going to kill me, and no one will ever find out why.
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The Hilton: No Safety, Only Surveillance
I stumbled into a Hilton Hotel on PGA Boulevard, believing the cameras and staff would keep me safe. I was wrong. The people I fled from found me within hours. They checked into the room next door. The walls shook from pounding. The adjoining door rattled. I heard the balcony door handle jiggle. I sawtheir shadows under my door. The front desk wouldn’t answer. My phone wouldn’t dial out.
In that moment, surrounded, trapped, and certain I was minutes from being dragged out of that room—or worse—I did the unthinkable. I broke the fire sprinkler. I needed someone to come. Not to rescue me. Just to witness that I existed. That I wasn’t crazy. That this was real.
The alarm rang. The water gushed. And I waited for help.
What arrived was something else entirely.
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Hospital or Hell: Stripped, Bound, Forgotten
Two firefighters. Two cops. Then a third one. The one who smiled while asking, “Why did you start the fire?”
There was no fire.
There was no smoke. No damage. Just water—and me, barely holding on. I asked for a lawyer. They arrested me instead.
No resistance. No fight. But inside, something snapped.
My heart pounded against my ribs like a war drum. I have a congenital heart condition. My blood pressure was sky-high. The EMTs dragged their feet. For 35 minutes, I lay in limbo between terror and collapse.
Then came the hospital. Palm Beach Gardens. I was stripped naked. Shackled. Left alone. For six days. No phone call. No lawyer. No judge. Just fluorescent lights and the stench of fear-sweat and bleach. Deputies rotated in and out. None said much—just stared like I was something between a suspect and a specimen.
They denied me water. Food. Toilet access. And when I protested, they laughed.
They accused me of arson. That charge was dropped later. But in the moment, they used it to justify anything: illegal detainment, unwanted medical procedures, sedation, silence.
You don’t understand the horror of losing your voice until it’s taken from you by someone in a uniform.
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The Jail Cell Nobody Else Was In
They moved me again. Palm Beach County Jail. It was COVID season—jails were being emptied. But I was alone. No other inmates in sight. I was put in solitary for two weeks. No sunlight. No warmth. Just concrete and buzzing lights.
When they couldn’t break my mind, they tried to label it “broken.”
I was transferred to the psychiatric ward.
Eventually, the false charge vanished like it never existed. And after a week of pressure and pleading, I reached my mother. She’s 82. She had to drive herself to the jail with cash. No one told her what happened. She still doesn’t know the full truth. I don’t think I could bear watching her understand it.
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A Sister’s Knife in the Back
I thought it was over. But the horror was just evolving.
My sister—who hadn’t spoken to me in eight years—called the police. Claimed I stole her car. Claimed I was dangerous. She had two cars. I borrowed one with my mother’s blessing while my own was locked up. Her accusations didn’t stick, but the poison had been released.
She told lies about me to anyone who would listen. She called the Broward County Sheriff’s Office and claimed I was a threat to myself, to society, to everyone. That phone call was the trigger.
They placed me into something called the Targeted Violence Unit (TVU)—a secretive surveillance program meant for the worst of the worst. Terrorists. Mass shooters. They put me there.
For the next five years, I was watched, followed, harassed, discredited, gaslit, tormented. Not just by strangers. By my own blood. My own family. My sister told my children I was schizophrenic. Paid people to lie. Bribed others to abandon me.
You cannot explain to someone what it’s like to live every day in a nightmare with no waking.
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A Final Plea from the Edge
I was finally removed from the TVU last month. But the damage is done. The stalkers haven’t stopped. The surveillance hasn’t ceased. The whispers continue, even in rooms I no longer enter.
I am homeless. I have PTSD so severe that sometimes I forget what silence feels like. I live in fragments. Memories out of order. Reality blurred. But one thing has never changed: the truth.
My story has never changed. Because I’ve lived every minute of it—again and again.
And now I ask you:
What would you do if the people sworn to protect you tried to break you?
What if your sister weaponized lies to destroy your life—and succeeded?
What if the only reason you’re still breathing is because, somewhere inside, your soul refused to die?
I want a congressional hearing. I want accountability. I want justice.
But more than anything, I want to be heard.
Please. Listen.
The drain of life from the targeted individuals caused by the special-interest poisonous evil snakes at the fusion center is overly burdensome, and the taxation is beyond one’s imagination. This is an un-American activity. DESTROY THE FUSION CENTER; DECAPITATE THE SNAKES OPERATING AT THE FUSION CENTER.
hear you! what a nightmare.its why im on this site to vent like you. to let others know what im going through. on here I don’t feel alone.
Will Myers
Intelligent Design and Biblical Scripture 