Christmas diary of a so-called electrohypersensitive person
Monday, 27 December 2021
Today is Christmas Day 2021. I am not writing this account for self-aggrandisement, but to sing of my blessings and raise awareness about all the people across the world who are in a far worse position than I am. They number in the millions. It is not just other people’s 4G and 5G phones, masts, Wi-Fi everywhere, but also the LED lights in homes, shops and Christmas decorative lights, which emit pernicious radiofrequency radiation (RFR). This ubiquitous energy tortures me on smart motorways with the new weaponized streetlighting. It prevents me from going to public places and the homes of friends and family, and it has invaded my home. It causes huge heartbeats and heart arrhythmia. A cardiologist says my heart is perfectly normal. My skin itches, muscles ache, ears ring with tinnitus, but I think I am just hearing this radiation. My mood and motivation ride the highs and lows of these emissions. I am only getting the same symptoms that enemy troops get when targeted with psychotronic and electromagnetic weapons.
By the end of this account, you will know that I am speaking honestly about my situation. I enjoy good physical and mental health and am driven to question everything, to seek the truth as best I can, in order to assuage my ignorance that has been a lifetime in the making. I am waking up to a reality that I never dreamt existed.
My problem is not within me but is caused by the environment. RFR is five trillion times higher than the naturally occurring level. My situation will soon be your situation. We are being microwaved alive. It is the same radiation that a microwave oven uses to cook food and no one in the media of is discussing the issue.
I wake on this Christmas morn from a refreshing sleep in my BlocSilver home-made sleeping bag in my little bedroom, which I have made as mobile-phone-radiation-proof as I can. All the other bedrooms are too radiation-polluted for me to use. It is 7.15 a.m. and I take off my BlocSilver anti-5G hood, which I wear in bed to protect my indispensable brain.
Once out of bed, I slip on the BlocSilver full-length protective underwear over my pyjamas (because I would otherwise start feeling ill from the radiation straightaway) and go downstairs to greet my wife who is making a pot of hibiscus and ginger tea for us to drink in bed together.
She listens to BBC Radio 4 till we get to the first round of the daily dose of Covid propaganda. She agrees to turn it off to stop my arguing back on every lie that is uttered.
After about 20 minutes we go downstairs to have our breakfast. Mine consists of different organic nuts and berries, flaxseed, wheatgerm and porridge, nicely soaked in organic grass-fed raw milk.
My wife sits at the dining table, and I sit with her for a few minutes before she and I notice me drifting off into a half-waking catatonic state caused by the radiofrequency radiation. She quickly rouses me, and I trot off to the lounge to sit on the floor between the door and the sofa. It is the only place downstairs where I can watch television without experiencing the effects of the new streetlights outside, which beam radiofrequency radiation (RFR) into my house day and night courtesy of the local authority.
Breakfast completed, I have come round and now feel normal, in fact quite good.
Christmas Day is unfolding. Towards 11 a.m. I drink a pint of filtered structured water and have a sandwich of organic wholemeal sourdough bread and organic butter made from grass-fed raw milk, followed by a square of organic 99% Vivani chocolate, complemented by an organic date, which I have discovered reverses the low mood that can be triggered by the effects of RFR on our brains. Research has discovered that it causes a decrease in blood flow to the brain along with a reduction in blood glucose, serotonin, dopamine and acetylcholine neurotransmitters. I am so blessed to have come across this information because it explains all my symptoms exactly. My body is under attack from the radiation-polluted environment.
We have two guests for Christmas dinner. The first knocks at the front door and I quickly exit the downstairs toilet/office/RF sanctuary where I have been reading in order to let him in. I have to secrete myself behind the door to avoid a blast of RFR from the streetlight. Our first guest understands and comes in. He is double-jabbed, “boosted” and flu-vaccinated and lives with all the Wi-Fi gadgets you could think of, all carefully coordinated by Alexa. I talk to him in an animated fashion for about five minutes, getting him a drink before my half-waking catatonia starts. My wife swiftly reminds me that it is the radiation he is emitting that is doing me in. Back in the toilet I recover completely in 15 minutes, just in time to emerge to greet our next guest. She is totally unvaccinated and well-informed about what is going on, but has to live in the 5G emissions that bathe our town of Sutton Coldfield.
I get her a drink and retreat to the toilet as the same cycle repeats. After 10 to 15 minutes, I am once again myself and can open the toilet door and the lounge door opposite and take part in the conversation from a distance. I am doing really well and gaining confidence, so I join our guests in the lounge. It is so good to have a “crowd”’ of non-socially distanced friends talking animatedly, conversing like we used to do in the era Before Covid (BC). Ever optimistic, I forget to protect myself and soon my wife realises that I have stopped talking. She suggests that I retreat to the toilet in order to be well enough to carve the Christmas chicken. From my sanctuary, I overhear our first guest surmising that my plight is probably due to the huge RF signals generated as people use their Wi-Fi devices more and more through the day.
Half an hour later I feel better and feel up to carving the chicken. Dinner is ready, and my wife anxiously inquires as to whether I will be okay sitting at the table in the dining room without getting a “hit”. I tell her I’ll risk it, but I’m ready to retreat if it gets too much.
The drinks oil the wheels of cordial interaction. Our first guest pours me a big glass of organic red wine, which I consume with pleasure. We help ourselves to vegetables whilst I keep an eye on the RF level. It is okay; I can’t feel anything. This guest wonders if it is because people have put their Wi-Fi devices aside in order to eat their Christmas dinner.
The meal is fantastic. I am able to stay at the table for two whole hours. The conversation is exhilarating. If the lockdowns have taught me anything, it is that human interaction, whether at work or with family or friends, is the most precious activity there is. This pandemic fraud can be understood with 10 minutes' research that first confirms that the PCR test does not identify any virus or variant (the Government says: "RT-PCR detects presence of viral genetic material in a sample but is not able to distinguish whether infectious virus is present") and second the so-called vaccine is of a type never used on humans before. Do I want to risk taking it? No! Why would I want to take a vaccine for a virus that has not been identified? And if the so-called Covid symptoms are not caused by a virus then it must be something else. It is the Wi-Fi and 5G because the symptoms of radiation poisoning are identical to those of Covid. Electrosenstive people are testimony to that. It is that easy.
Both our guests understand my situation and do not dwell on it. My wife had invited a lady who would otherwise have been on her own at Christmas as she was bereaved two years ago. She has been badly traumatized by the Covid propaganda. However, she phoned earlier to say she preferred a quiet day at home. This was sad because the campaign of fear and terror waged by the government have robbed her of her confidence to do almost anything. When reflecting on such criminality I usually tell myself a joke. My latest is a new meaning for the phrase “a hung parliament”. When the people – or “the masses” as the elected prefer to think of us – find out what has really been going on over the last century, they may wind up regarding “hanging” as the more merciful of the options available to them. But I digress.
Between glasses of wine, I nearly forget to protect myself. Our first guest is telling us how the usual weekly night with his mates at the pub has been cancelled because one of the group has a daughter in her thirties, a doctor married to an anaesthetist, and the husband is having difficulty coping with looking after their children whilst his wife deals with the “Covid” crisis at the hospital. This means that the grandparents are on standby to go and help out their daughter and son-in-law with the children and this drinking pal did not want to catch Covid from his friend. We were all curious as to why a young anaesthetist might need help with looking after the children. It turned out that at the age of 26, about 10 years ago, he had had a successful operation for an aortic aneurism, but two or three months ago had become seriously ill with infected heart valves, necessitating a life-saving operation.
He was still recuperating and facing the possibility of never being able to work again as a doctor. I am eager to ask for more information, such as has he been double-jabbed and boosted, when our second guest intervenes to remind me of our prearranged pact not to raise the issue of Covid or vaccinations in order to keep the peace.
I feign listening to the conversation whilst I try to join the dots. I bet this anaesthetist has been vaccinated and it has caused pericarditis or myocarditis in the same way that so many international footballers, athletes and teenagers have suffered. We are told that the putative cause was an infection caught from the mouth of a patient he was attending to in the course of his work during an operation. “A likely story,” I thought, “They blame a bug without even considering all the toxins in the vaccines. How very convenient!”
The conversation is back on a safe track and our meal ends as the time draws near for the Queen’s annual Christmas speech to the nation. Everyone gets comfortable in the lounge whilst I resume my usual seat beside the sofa. Too much RFR, so I put on my hood, but I am still in too much pain so I quietly abandon the Queen and resume reading in the toilet, once again comfortable.
My situation frequently leads to disappointment but I try not to dwell on loss. I may plan to watch a television programme with my wife, but if the radiation is too high to cope with, even with my RF-blocking suit and hood, I have to give up and retire to the toilet. I make return visits to cafés or countryside that were previously RF-safe only to find that now they have an RF signal I cannot cope with, and my plans have to be altered. The signal-free environment has become smaller and smaller. It is loss, part of depression. I don’t want to be forced into this mood, so as soon as possible my wife and I work out a partial solution; we try to beat it or get round it. So right now I switch my attention to the story I had been reading all morning. It is a short story called “The Machine Stops”, written by E.M. Forster in 1909 (free download).
It is about a future with AI satisfying all the needs of the world population as they live underground, alone in hexagonal little rooms, rarely going out, but communicating with friends and family around the world via video screens. It feels a bit like my situation, but the difference is that they are so grateful to the Machine. Constant propaganda has taught the masses to like this life till the day that the Machine stops. It is a brilliant story and so relevant to our contemporary world. I just heard on the radio that food delivery is getting so good that people do not need to leave the house or even cook now that a pizza (which is highly toxic, of course) can be delivered 24/7.
I hear our guests leaving. I reappear to say goodbye. They have really enjoyed the afternoon, as have I. We congratulate my wife on a superb Christmas dinner.
I am not ready for rest so I start reading my next book “Tragedy and Hope 101. The Illusion of Justice, Freedom, and Democracy” by Joseph Plummer, a précis of Professor Carroll Quigley’s encyclopaedic history of the activities of the elite (Tragedy and Hope: A History of the World in Our Time), who wanted a trusted historian to document their take-over of the world. But he reneged on his agreement with them to keep the information private and had it published. He was lucky they left him alive.
After finishing the first chapter, I decide I have had enough excitement for one day and want to have a lie down. I try between the sofa and the lounge door, but there is too much RFR so I put on my hood, but still it is too much and I have to go to my last resort for a daytime rest. I move my laptop out of the toilet and lie down in there. It is about 4 ft square, so I pride myself on my athleticism at 75 being able to lie out full-length with one foot on the cock-stop and the other on the toilet lid. I had the forethought to take off my sweater as it gets hot in there. I keep my hood on just in case and take in my Qi Shield RFR-protection device. I used to find it effective, but much less so now. Relaxing, I realise I can still feel RFR, so I lower my hood to cover my face such that I am now totally covered. It works. I can relax and slip into meditation. I listen for what God is saying. He is silent but what comes to mind are all my blessings, a caring wife and family, a home, being free from pain most of the time, warm Internet friendships with people I have never met, and a growing number of awake friends in my area. These are riches beyond compare. I know of people who have had to leave their houses and live rough or in their car because they cannot cope with the radiation coming into their house. I know people who are ill, probably because of ignorance of the polluted, toxic environment they live in.
At 8 p.m. I find that the RF signal has gone down so much that with my hood on, I can watch television from beside the sofa.
I have had a good day this Christmas Day. I will continue to work on staying well and wait patiently for better days to come. After all, Solomon is said to have wisely observed that all things will pass.
© R. Paul Gregory. firstname.lastname@example.org
I would like to thank Claire Edwards for her assistance in helping to edit this account and supporting me with understanding what it is like trying to work in this awful 5G environment.