“On being mobbed” is written to document the many unethical and illegal acts in the “mobbing” of a Seattle tenant. She became aware of the mobbing in May of 2014 and has refused to be harassed out of her home. Because of the duration of this illegal effort and the day-in and day-out cycles of hoaxes, threats, insults and so on, it is difficult to apply a strict calendar to events. These blog entries are written thematically with the goal of inviting a criminal investigation that would expose the mobbers, end the mobbing and, hopefully, discourage this type of predatory behavior in the future.
My “criminal” nature has been a theme since the early days of my mobbing. This supposed constitution of mine, apparently better known to my mobbers than to me, consists of the imaginary crimes, thought “crimes” and everyday acts of which I am accused by the apparent paid harassers who have been mobbing me for going on sixteen months. In the hazy first weeks of the mobbing when I often responded to the harassment with incredulity, anger, and sometimes bemusement over the dovetail fit of “mobbing” with the virulent passive-aggressive pathology of those in the neighborhood watch, my “crimes” were the opening gambit.
Before the shortwave radio and wireless harassment started, at least before I was aware of it, I woke from sleep to the sounds of a woman leading the reading of the charges against me. The woman’s voice, which seemed to come from an upper story of the house to my north, asked some speaking in the voices of children for “the reasons” why they wanted me to leave. The accusations have been repeated countless times in the last sixteen months.
In these early days, my response was incredulity as I was roused from sleep in the dawn of those late spring mornings by the reading of a mock “arraignment” that seemed to issue from behind the window panes of a neighboring house. My crimes were unending, including owning multiple vehicles, having “fat abs,” and failing to keep a tidy house. I was “slatternly” and had been “kicked out of bars.” I lied on my time sheets, I was a bad writer (which may in fact be a crime), I kited checks, and I had done things to kids. I made trouble for my landlords, there was mold inside the walls and in the halls. The mobbers told me they had “heard what [I] said and saw what [I] did.” The woman leading the reading of the charges asked, again and again, “Why do we want [her] to go?” The childish voices would dutifully offer the crimes, and the charges in unison would be read.
Thus was the inception of the mob and the public square. With the construction of the renter as criminal and degenerate, the kangaroo court was well underway.
This pattern repeated again and again in the first days and weeks of the mobbing as I drifted in and out of sleep. “Now she’s going into REM sleep,” the woman would tell the childish voices before calling for the charges to be read. “What are the reasons?” It was during the time of enumerating my offenses that the mobbers used my full name, something they abandoned as the months passed and I failed to vacate my home. It was months before I realized that the mobbing, if well done, was carefully constructed to impart to me what the mobbers needed me to hear, and my full name likely used to ensure I understood that I was being mobbed and no other. “We are mobbing [my full name],” the mobbers would declare in childish and taunting voice. “She is the Village Idiot.” And so it was that my position and isolation were defined within my nasty community, at least, a dysfunctional coterie within the community who sought to gain pleasure or profit by “clearing” me from my home. And in these early days, when a quick ejection must have seemed certain to my mobbers cum captors and to any others in the neighborhood who supported them, the ridicule and accusations were repeated within earshot of my home as a woman who could perhaps be defined as the mobbing “queen bee” assured a passerby on his evening constitutional that “we” had “very sensitive microphones” deployed to track my movements and weeks later, as the mobbing took hold, gossiped with a few young women unfortunately under her sway that I thought there was bot on my computer. Indeed, I was, she proclaimed, “the Village Idiot.”
This invocation of ritual has long since been spent, and in these last months, the mobbers determinedly wake me by 4:00 a.m. and sometimes even 3:00, to inform me that they are hurting me, depriving me of REM sleep and exhausting me. Their patience spent, the elaborate readings of the charges, the mock trials and inquisitions, and the soliloquies and performances are a thing of the past. It’s rare that they throw at me some tired homily (“A stitch in time saves nine!”) and they seldom attempt to weave lines from films I’ve watched into the harassment. Most of the voices that they either illegally sampled, recorded or otherwise got from the active participation of those in my nasty neighborhood who would enjoy or pay to participate in a bullying crime they were assured could not be proved have faded away. Now as the end of the second summer of my mobbing draws to a close, the mobbers spend far fewer words as I consciously refocus my thoughts away from their radio-transmitted threats and insults.
“Get out!” they say, “We don’t know what to do with you. All we do is harass you.”
“Get out,” they shout, “We were supposed to get you out the first of the year. Move on!”
Move on. This exhortation has been present in the mobbing from the start. And it became part of the invective that made what was happening most suspect to me.