PLEASE READ TO ITS COMPLETION
Failure is a tough pill to swallow.
Seems just days ago that I was hard at work on Girl Justice. Well, the universe has, through a strange twist of fate, elected that I change course.
To be clear, Girl Justice is still my organisation, and I fully intend to see it through.
That said, you should know that life circumstances have dramatically changed for me.
And as a result, I am no longer in Ann Arbor, or Michigan, or even the United States.
Those of you close to me may know that in 2011 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. What you may not know is that I got very close to beating it, so to speak. At my last doctor’s appointment, my psychiatrist went so far as to say that my symptoms were in complete remission.
About 5 months ago, I quit my medication regime cold turkey. I wanted to see if I could maintain or improve my stability, and in fact I became much more capable and lucid immediately.
So when I told my parents and doctor this fact on the same day, I did so in the spirit of triumph. For life was good - Girl Justice was humming along, and I had just secured a contract with a new client for my online marketing business.
But my parents did not take my good news in the spirit in which it was delivered. On the contrary, their concern grew into an unbelievable level of accusation and paranoia, and they began to make arrangements to take me to a mental institution (I shit you not).
While over at my mother’s house, my dad showed up unannounced, and attempted to block me into the driveway so I could not leave. Instead, they wanted to check me into the mental ward - even though the doctor at my last appointment said I was symptom free. I actually had to physically maneuver away from him to drive off.
Life in Ann Arbor also grew intolerable. My dad started showing up unannounced at coffee shops I would frequent, and left me ominous notes in my mailbox at my apartment. But that pales in comparison to the berating in conversation, the accusations of my own mental instability, and even attempts to physically restrain me in his home.
I felt like I was in a Kafka court where you are presumed guilty from the start, and the judge, jury, and lawyers are all out to convict without any chance of you presenting your case. I almost succumbed to their version of the world, until it became clear to me that they were not going to allow me to live peacefully.
And so in the face of an insane quantity of mounting pressure to check into a mental hospital (like Hotel California, a place that when you check in, you can never leave), I took the only recourse available to me.
I left.
I bought a plane ticket out of the country with frequent flyer miles that I had accumulated.
But as I was about to board my plane to Panama, a police officer on a bicycle called me out. I was interrogated right there at Detroit Metro Airport by four police officers, whose names I have recorded.
My father had filed a missing person’s report with the police, even though I was a free man traveling freely, of my own volition, as is my right (and as is yours).
The officers were rude and non-responsive. They accused me first of being suicidal, and then that I was leaving the country to go fight ISIS (both blatantly false accusations that my father had told to the West Bloomfield Police Department).
Finally, when it had became clear that I had committed no crime and had posed no threat, they let me board my connection flight to Atlanta, with an ultimate destination of Panama.
In Atlanta, as I was about to board the plane to Panama, I was stopped again, this time by an FBI agent. My father had gotten the feds involved.
I explained my case, that I am a free US citizen with the right to travel as I see fit, and that my father was making ludicrous false accusations in a last-ditch attempt to keep me under his control (which was true). The FBI agent, a very nice man named George, informed me that I would not be allowed on the Delta flight until I was cleared by a psychiatric evaluation at an Atlanta hospital.
Seeing no alternative (as they would not let me board the plane otherwise), I consented to the evaluation.
At the Atlanta hospital I was cleared by not one but two psychiatrists as completely mentally stable. At this and at every other point, I was extremely compliant, giving no room for any potential accusations of aggression or instability. Satisfied, FBI Agent George took me to a hotel for the evening, got me a new ticket to Panama the next day, and then I was off.
The saga continued, of course. In Panama, my MacBook was stolen from my hostel on the first night, along with much of my cash.
I am no longer in Panama at this point, and would prefer not to tell you my location as my dad has connections with Interpol and I would expect nothing less than for him to mount a full-on manhunt, even though I have been repeatedly cleared by psychiatrists, have committed no crime, and am seeking only to live in peace.
But now I am flat broke. I had to make a choice to leave in that moment, and so could not arrange for much financial stability. And so now I have just over 200 dollars in spending capability, and then I have to figure out where to sleep...
So I am asking for your financial support, because when I run out of money I don’t know where I can stay and I do not want to give homelessness a try.
To be clear, your support is a literal life-saver, as it will keep me in a warm bed, rather than homeless and wearing fingerless gloves, with cardboard as my only shelter. 200 dollars does not last long.
My parents forced my hand here, and I am ready to start a fresh chapter free from their influence. While I have no intention of returning to the States at this time, I personally value your friendship, and if you want more details, you can message me privately. But please. Whatever you can afford to give will literally be saving my life. Please send me whatever you can afford: You have my deep gratitude. Thank you.
