People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry (Actual Violations of the Mental Health Code): Fallout (Part V)
By Gina Fournier
People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry was published on the Mad in America website. It summarizes the first part of my story: setup and suicide swatting by my employer, police abduction from home and the week I was held illegally by the Catholics of my youth, in a criminal mental ward, at a Catholic hospital, in Livonia, Michigan. The hospital was built by the old-world nuns who ran St. Michael’s grade school and defunct Ladywood High School, which I attended. People Don’t Recover So Spectacularly from Criminal Psychiatry (Actual Violations of the Mental Health Code): Fallout(Parts I-VII) cover the retaliation and negative fallout I have been forced to endure in lieu of equal protection for criminal psychiatry, including jail time. Thank you for reading.
Between my release from the Osceola County jail, September 28, 2017, and final sentencing, January 25, 2019, court proceedings in the 49th District Court were drawn out to keep me under the thumb of the state of Michigan and the rural Trump-supporting locals for as long as possible. I was dog whipped first on a PR bail, then on probation, for a crime I did not commit.
You’ve heard it said before, if you follow the news. The mentally ill, or the allegedly mentally ill, in my case, are more likely to be the victim of crimes, not criminal perpetrators.
No one stops a cop. I had not stalked a cop. There was no evidence I stalked a cop. Because I had not stalked a cop.
But no one listens to a woman once locked up in a psych ward, for sure not the particular judge assigned to my case.
~*~
In October and November 2017, after I was released from jail, allegedly for harassing and threatening behavior, I became the recipient of rape and death threats sent to my email by a character using the name Jeff Morgan, a random generic name, I assume, one that I did not recognize.
The Michigan State Police refused to file a police report.
The Michigan State Police were only willing to harass me, silence me, mislabel me, and prosecute me, based on lies and lack of investigation, not pursue actual harassing and threatening behavior aimed at me.
Yes, I know. If I tried to pass this story as fiction, it would be called a soap opera.
October 31 2017. “YOU ARE A LOSER!! get a job. so you can support yourself instead of tax dollars and expecting everyone to give you a hand out. what happened to you is your fault. no one else. YOUR NOT A VICTIM TO ANYONE BUT YOURSELF!!!! you got in trouble for a reason just end it now if you cant grow up thanks for ruining my college career”
October 31 2017. “if your ridiculous posts do not stop i will show up to your cabin again tonight for more then just your signs.”
November 2 2017. “while you were at the library, hunter ate some rat poison. might wanna check on him”
November 2, 2017. “IGNORE MY MESSAGES AND I WILL BURY YOU SIX FEET DEEP AT YOURE DEERING HOME
November 10, 2017. “fuck jesus im going to rape you until you squeel and scream for death. more then your normally do with your whining ass”
No one cared about the threats aimed at me, the supposed crazy lady, not the authorities or my court appointed lawyer.
~*~
In January 2018, over three months after my release from jail on PR bond, by mail without any warning from my court appointed lawyer, the judge ordered me to submit to a forensic psychiatric exam at the state forensic hospital at Saline, two and half hours away by car transport that I did not have.
I knew I could not risk another psychiatric exam or psychiatrist. Psychiatrists are just as biased as preachers, and can be just as easily bought.
I called my lawyer. I could not get past his gatekeeper secretary. After a few calls, she told me my court appointed lawyer got the judge to rescind the order but the office gatekeeper bullshitted me. The next time I appeared in court, I could have been arrested, jailed or sent to Saline for defying the order.
Somehow the judge let it slip.
~*~
On February 22, 2018, to commemorate the fifth anniversary of my illegal looney bin lock up, February 22, 2013, the local branch of the department of health of human services tried to lock me up again, I believe in a looney bin, preferably, on another ruse, about the civil rights protest signs I had erected up north.
My signage included wording such as “Catholics F*ck Female,” “Lake Miramichi Lying Cop Works for Land of Motown Community College,” and one about busting the state AG. My civil rights protest up north was more expansive than the one downstate because the lot was larger. Plus, Chris had a lot of wooden boards laying around, and I had brought paint with me up north.
No, I told the posse of three, two MDHHS representatives and one county sheriff, I had not called the police to report additional stolen signs.
The cop then switched fake gears and started asking me welfare check type questions, which I shut down swiftly and assuredly.
I held my ground. With camera aimed at their faces, I named the MDHHS representative standing before me and asked for the name of the police officer, at which point the group turned around silently and left.
I have video proof. Proof means nothing once your impoverished and labeled crazy.
The county police did not document the visit, I learned through FOIA, but 911 dispatch did. 911 dispatch records state that the Mecosta County prosecutor, another Republican, ordered the hit.
In writing, the Mecosta Country prosecutor denied involvement.
Jail lock-up wasn’t good enough to satisfy the blood-thirst of local authorities, due to the greater civil rights afforded criminal prisoners.
I surmise, the local authorities wanted me back in a psych ward, where I could be kept indefinitely and stripped of my human rights.
~*~
In June 2018, at my court appointed lawyers strong-armed recommendation, the judge accepted a delayed sentence plea deal, which meant my crime would be determined after a year’s probation.
Acting like a used car salesman, my lawyer had promised me the entire thing could be reduced in a year to disturbing the peace, a minor misdemeanor. I knew I couldn’t trust his spiel, but my options were limited.
While I read a long statement about my innocence and poverty, the judge interrupted me and said she did not take plea deals from accused who claim innocence, but she did in my case.
The powers at be hoped they could catch me actually doing something wrong.
~*~
In ill-defined straits, I moved from the confines of bail to the restrictions of probation, which included internet restrictions. At first, I was supposed to find a job but not use the internet, which was unreasonable, and showed how ignorant the judge was about the centrality and function of the internet. Her ignorance about the internet became another one of my problems.
I had asked my attorney what I terms I could use online to discuss the Land of Motown Community College sexist gaslight witchhunt and at least Lying Cop #1, if not also Lying Cop #2.
The guy had never taken my story seriously. “Minions,” he suggested quickly and dismissively.
No clear agreement was made about what I could and could not say online about the Land of Motown Community College sexist gaslight witchhunt when my internet privileges were returned, which was a dangerous position, I realized, knowing there was no way I could shut up.
The judge had already conservatively interpreted the undefined meaning of “contact” in the relevant statutes.
I never contacted the cop, Land of Motown Community College Lying cop #2, before or after the PPO. (Land of Motown Community College Lying cop #1 was my suicide swatter, and Lying cop #2’s boss.)
~*~
Meanwhile, a local with means loaned me the money to pay my back property taxes, as long as I signed an agreement to put the property up for sale.
I spent my last summer at Lake Miramichi with a “for sale” sign on the front lawn.
While I was in jail, neighbors had removed my civil rights protest signs. Some were stolen; others were heaped in a pile.
Chris had been correct. Both houses were lost due to the sudden onset of psychological warfare.
I was run out of town, again.
