It’s always better if I try to write in “real time.” In other words, if I spend too much time thinking about what to write for a blog post, I often do not write anything at all. Right now, my primary motivation is to bring about an end to this madness that surrounds me. I’ve also realized that my blog is my only real communication with the outside world.
I will start with this – a concept called willing suspension of disbelief. A willing suspension of disbelief is defined as the willingness to suspend one’s critical faculties and believe the unbelievable, or to sacrifice realism and logic for the sake of enjoyment (such as a magic act or movie). In this case, I am referring to the willingness to suspend one’s critical faculties and believe the unbelievable, specifically the fact that a few other people around me are able to read my thoughts with accuracy.
Driving home from my phone reception shift at the Buddhist Center this afternoon, I felt that my earlier blog post wasn’t much more than a reiteration of information that I’ve posted in the past. After all, I’ve been posting to this blog regularly since August, 2011 and have written a 300 page memoir on the same topic. Nevertheless, I believe whatever I am able to contribute in terms of an explanation and/or description of these events is helpful.
Take yesterday for example. Yesterday was Wednesday, July 6th. A day pretty much like any other. My husband gets up very early in the morning and goes to work nearby. I wake up a few hours later, eat breakfast, chant for about an hour, and take my dog for a walk. Yesterday while I was chanting I heard much more shrieking and screaming than usual.
Typically, it’s sh&^%head doing the screaming and yelling. I’m inclined to believe his real name is Sam McKellar, although I’ve never actually met him, so I don’t know for sure. He showed up one night in the spring of 2002 near where I was renting a room in Oxnard, California. I never actually met him in person. He’s always claimed to be from the Mafia, although I believe he’s a former CIA agent who was given a burn notice sometime during the fall of 2009. I left Oxnard a week or so after he showed up, and he followed me to Sunnyvale, California when I moved back in with my parents. He either bought or rented a house/apartment/condo somewhere in the vicinity of my parents house. When my husband and I moved into our own apartment in a different part of Sunnyvale, he too moved into another apartment not too far from ours. During these years he was relatively quiet, although I heard some yelling from time to time. Nor did he stalk me constantly. When my husband and I moved into our second apartment in September, 2009, he disappeared for a few months only to return (he actually rented an apartment in the same apartment complex as us, the Mission Pointe Apartments in Sunnyvale) with a vengeance in early 2010. By vengeance I mean with his son Eric, a crazy, meth-head lunatic woman, and all of the screaming, shrieking, stalking, and harassment present to this day. Something had to have precipitated this obvious change in his behavior (other than the meth addiction, of course), so I figured that perhaps this was around the time (or shortly after the time) he received his burn notice.
This was 2010. In 2012, he began recruiting the prostitutes and the drug dealers. It was around this time that Preston Scott showed up in Sunnyvale. At least that was when I started to see him in various places around town (at the gym, at Peet’s coffee, driving his old, green VW van to the Sunnyvale Bay Trails), although he never approached me in person either. This was also when more and more people started to take notice of the general craziness. I made several attempts to communicate with authorities from the local level on up, but was not successful. I finished my memoir in 2014 and self-published it, but the nightmare was far from over. Two years later, here is my typical “day in the life.”
Once a month on Wednesdays around 11am, a bird-watching group walks along the Bay Trails in Sunnyvale near the water treatment facility. The parking lot I usually park in was full, so I parked along the short road that takes you into the facility campus. I took Savannah out of the backseat and we walked along the sidewalk into the regular parking lot, passing a few construction workers on our way. The birdwatching group was gathered by the drinking fountain, waiting to start their morning walk. Savannah and I headed to the left, up the hill behind the small parking lot, and the bird-watching group headed down the path toward the right. I heard a woman scream and another woman spoke loudly in response, “No you’re not! Who did you tell us you were?” The first woman screamed, “I told you she’s my cousin!”
Savannah and I continued walking up the hill. She stopped occasionally to sniff for squirrels. She lifts her paw to indicate the presence of someone who isn’t supposed to be near me (since there are numerous people on restraining orders that are required to keep away from me), somehow, Savannah knows who everyone is and what they’re up to. We walked a few more feet and stopped behind the hazardous waste disposal area. She lifted her paw and I saw a black pick-up truck parked next to a small trailer. The truck turned around and drove off. Then a man in a suit opened the door of the trailer and walked out. We walked a few more feet across the hill. Savannah looked down the hill and across the street to the corner of Caribbean Dr and Borregas Avenue and the small office park complex parking lot. She lifted her paw again and a brown pick-up truck with a camper shell on the top pulled out of the parking lot and drove off. A man on a bicycle passed through the intersection and into the Water Treatment Facility entrance.
We continued our walk. We walked down the hill, crossed Caribbean Dr and continued walking towards the light at Caribbean Dr and Borregas Avenue. We turned right at the light and continued walking down Borregas Avenue. We walked a few more feet and turned around to head back to the car. A garbage truck stopped to let us pass by. We continued through the office park parking lots toward the intersection Caribbean Dr and Borregas Avenue. An old man driving a compact car with an Asian woman in the passenger seat passed us as we approached the same parking lot that the brown pick-up with the camper shell drove out of. We kept walking and I heard sh*&^head start screaming. It sounded like he was behind the office building and I wondered if that was him in the compact car with the Asian woman in the passenger seat.
We kept walking. Another car pulled into the parking lot and two men walked into one of the offices in that small office park. The man in the brown pick-up truck returned and also entered the same office as the other two men. A few minutes later we were back at the car and heading home. While nothing about this summary description of events that morning sounds unusual or out-of-the-ordinary, when looked at against the backdrop of events preceding it over the past fifteen years or so, it becomes a nightmarish ordeal that I experience on a daily basis.
For example: The woman who was causing a commotion with the monthly bird-watching group was most likely the meth-head who accompanies Sam McKellar most places. The person in the black pick-up truck was originally parked in the Bay Trails parking lot, but when we arrived, he/she pulled out and drove into the hazardous waste lot in front of the trailer (presumably to hide). I don’t know who the Caucasian man was who stepped out of the trailer after the black pick-up drove off. I don’t know who any of the other men were who I saw that day, but presumably they are all in some way involved.
I can hear Sam Meth-head and the shrieking woman yelling as I write this post. There are always around nearby. I hope that somehow, this is taken care of as all of these people should be behind bars. Thank you.