Since 2014, I’ve had a stalker.
Maybe.
It might be longer than that, I really don’t know.
In 2014, I was living the typical London lifestyle; thriving in a city of fumes and bright lights, soaking up the atmosphere before spitting it back out as purchasable talent, and dividing my free time between friends, family, and my couch. I was a stereotypical creative living in a city that was born to become my muse. Everything was pretty much normal – as normal as London can ever be – and I couldn’t imagine causing such intrigue that my typical, commonplace, and average lifestyle would catch the attention of someone with a strange fixation. After all, there wasn’t anything special about me or my life that would warrant such focus and fascination. I was just me, doing ‘just me’ things, whilst swimming in ‘just me’ circles with other people who were paddling in their own ‘just me’ whirlpools. Which forces the question: why choose me?
I first became aware of someone shadowing my life when my relationship with my wife (who was my then fiancé) became serious. We had set a date for our handfasting in late summer, and there was an international move on the cards for the following year. Everything was utterly exciting, new, and distracting. So distracting, in fact, that I disregarded the weird footsteps behind me on lone streets at odd hours, the numerous knocking on my letterbox before the mysterious knocker would run away, the keying of my car, the fresh footprints in my garden soil, the strange car that would often follow my route home, and indeed, the same car that I’d see parked near my house, only to speed away when I’d try to approach it.
I even dismissed the time that someone came to my door feigning to survey me for some local council nonsense. They behaved so peculiarly with the pen that hung from their neck, discreetly trying to extend it as if it was a microphone that was recording my voice. I also ignored the hang-up calls that happened so infrequently that I almost didn’t consider how many I had received. That was until a pattern started to emerge. I ignored the strange texts and emails, and even the weird friend requests that continued to invade my social media profiles. I ignored more than this too, all of which seemed petty nonsense that was hardly worth remembering. After all, nothing seemed overtly sinister or threatening, so I chalked up these various incidents – each act spread out over time – as being a coincidence. Besides, there’s something else. I’m a tough cookie who grew up in a tough city; I don’t scare easily, which means I don’t always register danger easily either.
After we married and honeymooned, and Erika returned to the States, things suddenly escalated. Everything that I’ve already mentioned continued but there were new incidents too. In January 2015, I fell dangerously ill. Subsequently, I was ill for three months and that’s when I had the downtime to really process all the bizarre things that had been happening for a year. Since I was bedbound for those months, I realized that my stalker was no longer able to tail me, which meant that if they – whoever they were – were persistent, the only way they’d be able to continue to stalk me is through virtual pursuits. Not being technically savvy, and therefore not understanding the magnitude of having my digital life ransacked, this didn’t bother me much. But it should have. Oh boy, it really, really should have…
A couple of weeks before I made my life-changing transition to the States, I was experiencing oddities on my laptop. My online traffic was unusual, some of my passwords changed, there were unusual logins on my Facebook account, friends were removed from my friend list, and then there was that one time when my cursor moved across the screen all by itself. I took my laptop to British Geek Squad and what they discovered horrified me. My laptop had been infiltrated by a faceless person who had complete control over my entire online existence. It was at this point, my stalker attained access to my banking info, taking out a sizeable debt in my name. My personal conversations, my desktop albums of friends and family, my private journals, work schedules, and contracts, and my digital coupons for my favorite sandwich shop were all in the hands of a predator. This person, whoever it was, had intimate access to every part of my world.
Once British Geek Squad had thoroughly washed, scrubbed, triple laundered, and soaped away all viruses, Trojan horses, and lame-arse hackers, I felt somewhat relieved. I had new protective software, new passwords, new social media accounts, and even a new overseas address. I put the experience, including the written death threat I received at work, and the other one received at my house, down to something of the past. It wasn’t ever going to happen again, how could it? So, up, up, and away to America I went! With my devices synchronized to my laptop, and with both devices logged into my new IP address, suddenly, my new and shiny American life was immediately hijacked by the anonymous turd who existed four thousand miles away. After digital forensics proved no convincing answers as to who this twat was, how they were able to keep hacking me despite MI6-style precautions, or what their street address was, the reality became all too obvious: I must know this person.
The gig was up. I couldn’t keep living in denial. It was time to dismantle the mental image that I had built of a murky stranger living in his mother’s cupboard (the UK version of the basement) wearing an orange anorak while sporting a greying combover. Instead, the likelihood was that this person hadn’t just stumbled across my path upon a serendipitous day, discovering where I lived and worked by chance, but that they already knew who I was. In time, this further became obvious through an onslaught of threats from fake profiles; talking of my parents with enough leverage that I knew this stalker had been around us – as a family. By this time, they had also hacked into five of my friend’s Facebook accounts, while threatening me from the duplicate profiles of my cousin, and my wife. Oh, and did I forget to mention the time I received an Instagram message from a duplicate profile of myself, once again threatening to send my parent’s a budget version of Playboy-style pictures of my “fat, ugly, rotten, whore body, which looks like it has been run over a few hundred times with a stampede of elephants”. My parents aren’t prudish. I simply responded by telling Skanky Stalker to go ahead, bracing my parents for the incoming that never came.
Since 2014, I’ve been physically, financially, digitally, and emotionally stalked. I’ve been threatened, terrorized, scammed, violated, and harassed. I’ve been observed, scrutinized, followed, and pursued, and no matter what security measures I’ve taken, what professionals I’ve hired to keep me digitally safe, or how many accounts I’ve closed, passwords I’ve changed, phones and laptops I’ve switched out, including the changes of phone numbers, IP addresses, and even residential addresses, my stalker seems to catch up with me eventually. This persecution extends beyond me. It has extended to my wife, close friends, family, and my parents. I’ve even lost a couple of friends as a result of the relentless harassment. I’ve made police reports on both sides of the Atlantic to no avail. This person, whomever she may be – and I do have strong suspicions about who she is – remains anonymous. For now. But there’s a new element to this longwinded game of harassment that my stalker never anticipated. An element that has led to me reclaiming my life from an almost-decade nightmare.
Nine years is a long time. Within those years, I’ve experienced more life than at any age before, which is a weighty statement for someone who spent their life fully living in adventures. I’ve evolved several times over and have changed all outside personas. I’ve reestablished and reconnected to the deep roots of my soul, and with this poignant journey of self, I’ve emotionally and spiritually transcended. I’ve changed from one thing to another, before changing again, and then again, and I’ve soared and flourished within those changes. I always assumed I knew who I was and what I wanted from life, but as I came to learn, I had no idea who I really was. It’s with that authenticity and self-progression that I’m no longer connected to the woman that I was in 2014. She’s unrecognizable to me and definitely beyond my reach.
My time in America has been exceptionally beautiful and exceptionally harrowing. Experiencing both sides of American culture has brought me to where I stand today: a person that I am most proud to be. It is here, in my forty-first year, that I’m living my most empowered and true self, basking in the glory of me, while becoming the most emboldened, mature, and graceful version of myself. I’m both grounded and centered, with the wisdom to fully comprehend the difference. Nowadays, I thrive in environments that were once alien to me, and I seek out simplicity and tranquility over chaos and ego.
My stalker may be a stranger to me, but what my stalker has failed to realize during these dragged-out years of prowling, is that I too, have become a stranger to my stalker. I exude happiness and emancipation and cannot be coerced or tormented by someone who chooses to live their life as a villain. I’m no longer the person that my stalker thinks I am, nor have I been in many, many years. The tactics once used to bully, manipulate, and traumatize my younger self are no longer destructive or harmful to my life. No longer are they detrimental to whether I have a good mental health day, and no longer is there leverage to any of their vindictive and ludicrous intimidations and plots. In fact, I’ve long since healed from the damage they’ve done, and in truth, I have freed myself from my stalker. I refuse to continue living a life that’s reliant upon their narrative and agenda. Those years are long gone, sweetie.
As of today, I continue to be stalked by someone who lives in the shadows. That’s their choice on how they wish to spend their time, how they wish to leave their imprint on the earth, and how they wish to waste their life. From my perspective, they died a long time ago and no longer have the power to hurt or interrupt my life. My experience with my stalker is all that I have shared, and whilst I feel empowered and safe in releasing myself from their ongoing threat and pursuit, that doesn’t mean that all victims of stalkers have the same luxury. Because quite simply, they don’t.
(Artwork: The Sun by Carrie Joy Byrnes)
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