Bad breaks, good trouble and John Lennon's tiki

Anneleise Hall.

Content warning: This post talks about childhood sexual abuse

I would like - if I may - to take you on a strange journey. - Rocky Horror Picture Show

It's hard to know where to start with the story I want to tell today, because there are so many crazy, implausible, weird threads.

Someone put a hit on me.

It feels like I should be writing this statement with exclamation marks, brackets or parenthesis (like horror novel content)! to unwelcomely insert into my life as I sit here on a sunny spring Sunday in Aotearoa, listening to the random laughter of children and cars carrying on the breeze.

Signs of me being targeted go back to before the last election.

I had been posting about David Seymour being connected to the Atlas Network Canadian think tanks right up to the election, long before he got caught lying about it when Mihi Forbes questioned him on Mata in February 2024.

I was waiting for a hysterectomy and had been getting a lot of bad gynaecological symptoms as well as waking up with unexplained injuries and flaring CPTSD symptoms I couldn't seem to calm down.

More frequent unexplained injuries occurred after I published unflattering satirical blogs and a couple of cartoons at the end of 2024 and beginning of 2025 - after the Government had been in power a year - roasting the coalition's performance, particularly Christopher Luxon, David Seymour and Nicola Willis.

It seems most probable from painstakingly matching scraps of evidence and hindsight and flashbacks that that late 2023/2024 my home was being invaded, my dog drugged and tortured, myself drug raped and tortured while stupefied, and I think content was either live streamed to procurers/accomplices and or published. They may have been stalking me on bumble which I had temporarily signed up to on a whim but not really used.

The individuals I am aware of seem to be operating like some type of 'cartel' that includes individuals identified as possible former/current(?); dirty spooks, special forces, police, FENZ, port workers and various other operatives.

Apart from actually having a period of captivity in my home where I was aware of what was happening, over the previous couple of years I experienced weird injuries that seemed to happen in my sleep, and very strange accidents that were quite close calls, it all made much more sense.

Things were happening to my dog I could not explain; sometimes was sore when I touched him, he was throwing up bile like he'd been poisoned or his fur looked fried and I did not know why. He was usually close to me and it was just us - so I noticed and it really confused me. Things serious enough to take him to the vet and change his food but were not really solved.

I've also had people openly try and heavy me into keeping my mouth shut. So there's that too. A bit more overt. It's hard not to feel speaking out is a risk.

But the only bigger risk is staying silent and letting them get away with it - because then nobody is safe. That does not feel to me like doing the right thing.

I watched a video of colossally unfit Prime Minister Christopher Luxon awkwardly doing a photo op with the lads in a pub somewhere yesterday. He was shaking the hand of a soon-to-be-married man in a lime Borat G-String onesie, pink tutu and shock dog collar who was being electrocuted by his mates activating the shock collar every time he shook Luxon's hand. What a hoot right?

I am pretty sure from the fragmented recovered trauma memories and art I've made that I have had a shock collar used on me.

What's the chances that 'Stag Party' shock collar is used on a woman before the night is out? Probably non-zero. They get off on that stuff, the misogynists, dark triads, online rape academy types, the pedophile protecters, the workplace harassers.

Hopefully most people don't get to find out what it's like when you get targeted by people with the types of skill sets and technology we usually just watch movies about. I would imagine the type of people that send people to do hits probably need their own security details.

When I was a growing up we lived right next to the River Torrens, in Adelaide, Dad's hometown.

It was pretty normal back in the 70s for kids to free-range and I was a feral hyper kid who loved to roam the wildish tracks and clay caves to be found along the river bank. I could go for hours and make up my own world.

One of the coolest local memories of that house, apart from the rare-but-memorable brown snake visits, was an historic swing bridge.

A scary and fascinating thing to small children, the wire and wood bridge used to link two neighbourhoods and offer access to the river in the early 20th century when a part of the river had been adapted to use as trendy swimming baths.

With no walls, just wires the bridge could be either a terrifying or exhilarating experience. It always felt risky jumping or swinging in the middle, because Mum put the fear of god into us about falling in the river and there were child size gaps in the wires.

We did it anyway, and sometimes rocked that thing extra hard for the dare.

The river was directly behind our house and the lane to the bridge ran alongside the house directly to the left of us. The boy that lived there was called Dominick and he was a few years older. There weren't many other little kids on our street, so sometimes we would play together because there weren't many kids around our ages. Mum told us he had lost his mother and so lived with his grandparents and their son who we called 'uncle', as was the trend of the era. I can't remember if he was Dominick's Dad or Uncle.

One of my favourite games back then was Trouble. I was pretty competitive at it.

We would hang out outside in his backyard, he never came over to our house. Sometimes we would just talk through the fence.

A few years passed and the age difference became more pronounced he got braces, I didn't see him as much and all of a sudden he seemed a bit scarier and not so friendly.

Then one day when I was around seven I started crying in the toilet because it hurt to wee and when my mum asked what was wrong I told her I didn't know but 'Dominick put a stick in me'.

I can't remember what happened next but I never saw Dominick again.

He got sent away. I didn't understand what had happened. I could tell his grandmother was angry at me. I really missed him.

Nobody ever talked about it again. Many years later I found Mum kept a schoolbook from that year where my handwriting changed and my stories got angrier, I went from being a ballet dancer to Frankenstein stomping people and I got suspended from school for being aggressive.

I have a vague memory that the 'uncle' turned up one day with a black eye and broken ribs we got told were caused by 'coughing from smoking'. Then he died.

A year or so later, when I was 8 years old, I got sent on a solo holiday to New Zealand to stay with Mum's family while the rest of the family moved house.

I went from a lovely week at Gran and Pop's to stay for a week at the Southland farm where Mum's Aunt was a housekeeper.

While I was there one of the farmers enjoyed taking me off in the truck, terrorising me, raping me and threatening to cut my throat and throw me in the offal pit. He also watched me in the bath and raped me in my bed. My aunt was elderly, technically an employee, he told her to go to her room when I called out to her. He was a big man who had been a freezing worker.

The paradox was as a fearless ADHD kid I also loved being on a farm. I was enthralled at the shearers in the woolshed, revelled in herding in the sheep for crutching and running in the madness with the dogs and the welded iron rattler.

One day doing the rounds, the farmer saw a ewe had a prolapsed uterus. It looked like it was running round with its guts hanging out its bum.

From memory the farmer tried to "shove its guts back in its bum' . I was obsessed by it, this giant organ just hanging out and the sheep still alive running round with it. Probably to fixate on anything other than what had been happening to me or maybe because it externalised what was happening to me when nobody was looking.

Then I ended up in Christchurch with other relatives.

Sometimes with CPTSD stress or triggers can spark flashbacks: while trying to remember snippets of what had happened in my house I started getting other flashbacks about being tortured with a fire poker while the Hallelujah chorus is playing.

When I see the published photos of the Epstein dentist chair it makes me think of abortions and internal torture.

Over my life I've had such bad scar tissue on my cervix, that was never properly medically explained, that I have needed full anaesthesia for routine gynaecological procedures because local was not effective.

So it might be true. The flashback. From being eight years old and trying to put the afterbirth back in the cat after it had kittens. "That's what you're supposed to do that's what the farmer said with the sheep." But I was 'evil' so I had to be punished.

Trauma, especially childhood abuse can involve a lot of investigating your own life because often so much gets covered up to protect certain people. And the brain blocks out things too horrific to contemplate so it's not always easy to connect things that trigger you. Predators weaponise that.

Many people with CPTSD from being abused in childhood also have dissociative disorders because their nervous systems were constantly assessing risk while developing.

Trauma can also significantly affect the way memory 'stores' events, which means its common for the brain not to recall certain memories unless it's 'safe'. The younger the victim to more this becomes the default I think, and why some people don't remember childhood sexual abuse for decades –or sometimes forever.

Unfortunately often the reversals of the dissociative amnesia are prompted by new traumas.

In 2012 I finally remembered what happened with Dominick while I was flatting with a sexually damaged alcoholic.

The reversing traumatic amnesia was a soft spilling over of distress, like blowing bubbles from a bubble wand that floated around my head in my 'inner scape'; and like the tiny fisheye reflections when you walk past shiny Christmas baubles, I could see little vignettes of inappropriate behaviour in them involving children.

When I remembered what the farmer did a year later in 2013, after an accident where my teeth got knocked out, I made a historic police complaint and a supporting evidential DVD statement. Two years later, despite another victim being discovered, it was not pursued for prosecution.

My late mother was born during WW2 to hardy Irish Catholic diaspora stock.

Life for many was still pretty grim in post war in Southland and while Mum was a bright student, even awarded the Dux medal. Despite her intelligence School Certificate was the highest academic level she was encouraged to seek and at 15 she got a 'good job at the bank' so she could contribute board to the house hold and help support the family.

Stylish, hard working and ambitious, at 21 years old she packed her trendy little bag and took herself off to to the bustle and bright lights of sixties Wellington.

Mum loved Wellington. She shared a social flat with three other 'girls' and thrived on a vibrant social scene, catching the cable car trying different foods and the like. She also met and married my Dad. In hindsight it was never really that clear what either of them really did ...but there are a few photos and occasional drunk stories of wild parties at yacht clubs and very prominent people's houses.

It was during this time an event happened that gave birth to one of the most iconic and weird stories in our family lore. Mum met the Beatles.

Mum didn't just get to meet the Beatles when they were in Wellington, she got to hang out with them in their hotel room.

We knew this story was true, she did meet them, because she was given John Lennon's iconic tiki that was hung around his neck at the airport and the matching poi.

Te Papa purchased it from us before Mum died. She always told us her friend was a journalist who got to interview them and they asked her to 'bring some girls'.

We quizzed her sometimes, it was like a secret joke with her and Dad.

Before dementia affected her recall too severely she did a newspaper article about the tiki; she used an anonymous name and thought it was amusing. I think in hindsight the truth was more likely she was part of the Beatles' security detail.

She kept her secrets close my mother. Some of what I've found out about intelligence operatives the hard way has made me think about the Trump classified documents case and how he outed CIA operatives and a heap got killed.

Because I also think in hindsight, remembering lots of things that weren't suspicious individually but collectively form a pattern, that after I did the police complaint Mum was targeted; especially as she got more vulnerable, even in the rest home, because the farmer that raped me was connected to the same dirty spook-led pedo cartel that has been activated to target me now.

NZ's own Epstein Class...

Dirty old buggers.