I’ve never been diagnosed with psychosis—quite the opposite.
Multiple psychiatrists found me fatigued, but sane. I had to know for myself if my experiences were are a part of some sort of a mental breakdown.
One psychiatrist suggested I might be the victim of a vendetta, and at our last session, he said he may take my case to the FBI himself. He asked me if I had any ideas who might have a vendetta with that kind of money and backing to come at me again and again. I gave him a name.
I was level-headed enough to have my mental health checked—because crime wasn’t just happening around me. It was following me. And it almost shut me down. So I sought a mental health check. If you are the victim of organized crime, I beg and plead with you to start there. A psychiatrist at the local hospital, after I checked myself in, looked me in the eye and said, “Tonia, I believe every word out of your mouth. But we’re not the FBI. What can I do for you once you check out?” I said simply, “Please remember my story if I am found dead in a ditch.” I checked myself into a voluntary mental health facility, but not for mania. I was approved for check in due to extreme fatigue. The intake doc just wanted me to get some rest in a safe environment.
I had been carrying this load for too long, and I did leave that short stint in the hospital with a diagnosis of PTSD due to the crime that had been following me, seemingly tracking me everywhere. That psychiatrist’s words meant everything to me that day.
“Tonia, I believe you.”
Those words were momentous. During the session, I kept saying, “I know all this sounds crazy…” The doctor finally stopped and said, “People who are crazy don’t think their stories sound crazy to others.”
One of my dearest friends said to me, “Just because a story sounds crazy, does not make it untrue,” and then she went on to tell me one of the craziest story of hers.
Those were all healing words.
And for the past few months, I’ve been building up the courage to tell my story—publicly. Even if I know it all sounds crazy. Even if it risks losing all the credibility I have worked hard to establish during my career, with my friends and family, and throughout my life. I’m doing it because I had forgotten I have a voice, and platforms to speak on. I had forgotten people have paid me a lot of money to do hour long speaking engagements in the past. I had forgotten who I was and that was exactly what my perpetrators wanted. To shut me down. To make me go away once I started recognizing all the patterns on how this kind of organized crime works. They knew I knew.
So here’s my big question?
How can thousands and thousands of people across the US be reporting the exact same phenomena’s and experiences without being taken seriously? How are the stories of stalking all so similar?
Is it easier to put what they call “organized gang stalking” or “electronic harassment” into the psychosis category, thereby continuing to victimize the victims, rather than putting the resources behind the investigations to nail what is lurking behind the curtain of sanctity and safety here in the U.S?
It began with my stolen SUV.
Then came an attempted break-in at my home.
A lens cap found outside on a table pushed close to the door of my office, back then, in Old Town Camarillo.
Then a woman crouching suspiciously in her vehicle on my street.
Then reports of package thefts in the neighborhood.
Then, a home across the street was burglarized—by Chilean Nationals, according to police.
I responded by launching a Neighborhood Watch.
My neighbors and I worked together. We shut it down.
And maybe that’s the kind of vendetta the doc was describing.
Or maybe I’m just a walking, talking, forever-victim of crime.
Because when I moved—
Crime followed me to Santa Barbara.
And then again to a second home in Indiana where I was terrorized. And the people who tried to help me were terrorized, and that terror continued even after I quite literally fled my home.
I’ve documented:
A stolen SUV. Auto tampering. Multiple police and incident reports. A neighbor’s burglary. Security alarms going off only a night while I was home alone. Drone landings on my property. Low flying aircraft. Diverted calls—confirmed by a town official. And the list goes on and on, and on.
This isn’t paranoia.
It’s a paper trail—photographic, digital, and meticulously kept when I wasn’t being hacked.
Maybe the narrative needs to shift on the other stories I’m picking up online, because those stories are falling on deaf ears too.
Thousands of Americans report what’s been dismissed as “targeted harassment” or “organized gang stalking.”
But maybe—just maybe—it isn’t mass delusion.
Maybe you’re targeted because you’ve already witnessed too much.
Maybe it’s your hyper-vigilance that makes you a threat. Maybe you’ve seen too much, heard too much, witnessed too much and you’ve gotten in the way. Maybe you are smack dab in the middle of a networked system that you were woven into and you were not supposed to notice.
And maybe shutting you down is easier than making you disappear.
One thing is for sure, I’m going to continue to write about my personal experiences if it means I can stave off this kind of personal hell for even just one person.
Tonia Allen Gould 