Me & my Irish friend have lived in vagrancy for years, and during 2021, we both nearly died.

I am a 30 year old woman (28 at the time), and my Irish friend is in his sixties.

I spent 2020 and 2021 warning people away from taking covid shots, because I’d seen what they could do when I was in the emergency room of UT Hospital in Tennessee, wherein a woman was seizing and shaking in a wheelchair for an hour, and no one helped her until she fell still, appearing to have passed out or died right there. Only then did they hurry to wheel her out of the room. Other vaxxed people I know just didn’t come back to my bar after they got their shots. I did heavy research and found footage of these symptoms in countless other people, and I showed it to everyone I could, losing friends and being told to kill myself on a fairly regular basis as a result. Due to the immense fear I felt caused by covid shots, I neglected to learn as much about hospital protocols at that time; my focus was on the shots because the shots were what I’d seen in effect. All I knew about the hospitals were that protocols were being strangely changed and people were dying on ventilators a lot for some reason. I knew people were dying there, under weird circumstances, but I didn’t yet know about remdesivir.

I reached out to my friends about the covid shots (liberal friends who had moved to Washington a couple years ago). Two of them ignored me, one of them argued with me, and one of them—a guy who had a young son, whose safety I was worried about—told me it didn’t matter, and “no life matters.” They are no longer my friends.
I reached out to a youtuber friend of mine, but he didn’t listen, stating he’d already gotten his first shot and was still going to get his second.

I reached out to my family—my father’s side, who are wildly dysfunctional and difficult to reach out to—and only one of them listened to me and took the footage seriously, deciding against giving my little cousins any booster shots.

Everyone else—people at my bar, and random people I didn’t even know—told me to kill myself, told me I never deserve to have medical treatment again, and I need to “Stop making this fucking pandemic carry on, stupid goddamn fucking antivaxxer.”

I’m only carrying on about this to preface the next part of the story, wherein I became addicted to hydrocodone. I used to have a phobia of opioids due to watching a family member die from them when I was nine, but somewhere along the way during 2021, I apparently lost a lot of care. I did not care about what pills could do to me anymore. I did not care what happened to me anymore. It became very clear that everyone wanted and craved for people like me to die, so I thought, what the hell do I care? These pills make me feel better, and they’re the only thing that make happiness even possible anymore.

And this is important to the story because I got pneumonia in September, just when I was deepest in the drug addiction—and when I also caught covid.

Double and triple doses of hydrocodone can hinder your breathing, pneumonia fills the lungs, and covid makes it damn near impossible to expand the lungs for inhalation. So, I underwent the scariest part of my life, when my oxygen levels dropped into the death zone, and I kept hitting the floor. I remember dwelling on the ventilator and covid shot stories, and being terrified of going to the hospitals, but I was lying in the grass next to the road, and I didn’t think I could get back to my RV. I laid there, waiting, hoping to walk it off like I always do, but this was not like my yearly bouts of pneumonia during those years of vagrancy—this was something that would not go away, and only got worse.

I did eventually call an ambulance, and they announced on the scene (before even taking a look at me) that it was covid. I was taken to a hospital, and sometime while I was waiting there, I felt immense dread, and I left the premises. I was in a very tough spot, desperately needing medical attention, but I couldn’t just relax and accept treatment, because I knew something horrible was going on in the hospitals, and I knew people were being unjustly killed somehow. This was before I knew anything about remdesivir, but it was after I made the first version of my documentary, Democide by Design—which is filled with countless personal stories of those affected by these mistreatments in hospitals (newer versions of the film do mention remdesivir). Many of those stories were about the shots, but many more of them were about how family members unnecessarily died in the hospitals, having their phone calls with family cut off, being put on ventilators behind family members’ backs—terrifying things that made me feel only immense paranoia inside a hospital’s walls.

I went to my friends’ house, intending to just crash on their couch and wait it out. But, yet again, it only got worse. At the time, I did not know that I was also having hydrocodone withdrawals; I only knew that I was drained more than I’d ever been, burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, I could barely breathe, I’d nearly pass out every time I tried to stand, and I could not hold any medicines down, making home treatment impossible. So, I just waited.

And, it just got worse.

During this time, my Irish friend fell ill with many of the same symptoms, and he had a hard time breathing—so another friend of mine took him to UT Hospital, where he was admitted despite telling them that he did not want to stay.

Eventually, when it became evident that I was not going to be okay, my friend took me to another hospital—one of the Tennova hospitals in Knoxville, Tennessee—and that’s where it got worse.

They told me they had to give me a covid test, and I told them no. They insisted, they pulled me over into a side room, and they kept saying “We can’t treat you unless we give you a covid test.”

I said I still didn’t want to—and they held me down, someone’s hand clamped around my jaw, and someone else forced one of those long chemical-covered sticks up into my brain.

I don’t know how those tests are actually supposed to be administered, but however it is—they didn’t do it right, because it was fucking excruciating. I was crying, trying to breathe, trying my damnedest to—and they just shoved it up even farther, burning and searing what felt like the back of my eyes, and making it impossible to get any breath whatsoever.

I nearly passed out before they let go of me.

I don’t remember how many people were actually around me, but the old lady who had the stick got mad at me, rolling her eyes and griping about how I ‘struggled too much’ and ‘ughk, now we have to do it again.’
I said no—but they forced me down and they did it again. Burning, searing, can’t breathe, and they wouldn’t fucking stop.

I’d grown accustomed to a vagrant’s lifestyle at that point, and I was used to pulling weapons on people who tried to hurt me in the past—but it’s another thing entirely when your body will not cooperate, and you are physically incapable of stopping someone from hurting you. The most miserable experience of my life.

They took me to a sort of checkup room in the back hallways, and my friend was still waiting for me in the lobby, because I planned to go back home with her. In fact, I told them this, and I asked them to make sure my friend didn’t leave (because they left me alone for hours, and I knew my friend was left to wait around for way too long).

Only after nightfall did they bother to tell me that my friend had already gone home.

I said “What the fuck? She’s my ride home. Why did she leave?”

They didn’t tell me. I later found out that they instructed her to leave, and they told her “Your friend is being admitted, so you can go ahead and go home.”

I specifically told them not to admit me… but, they just did whatever the fuck they wanted.

I was taken to a proper hospital room, and I thank God every time the memory returns to me that I found an old channel with a Goonies marathon playing on that TV, because that little 80s movie has always been able to make me calmer and more at peace. I could not have stayed as long as I did if not for Goonies and occasionally Greece being on. Kinda made me mourn a whole other America that clearly does not exist anymore.

In that hospital room, I was mostly ignored for two days. The first night, hooked to the machines, I saw my oxygen level plummeting every time I tried to move. The next day, I was able to get a message out to my friend, and she brought my phone to the hospital, where I made an instagram post about the ordeal. It’s the only picture I have from that time.

It was very difficult to ever fall asleep being so panicked, and I didn’t bother to eat. Everything tasted like sand and chemicals, and I felt no desire to even try anymore. I was terrified, but also fatigued, and it seemed clear that I was being assigned and strong-armed into the place I was now, and everything in the world wanted me there—maybe even wanted me to die.

So, whatever. Didn’t care anymore.

Or, at least, I thought I didn’t. I got a rather large wake-up call the next day.
The foam boxes of food and cans of soda were piling up on the table next to me, because I didn’t bother with them. But, I absentmindedly took a sip of a vanilla Coke on my second full day there, and I remember making a double-take at the can; I remember feeling a spark of confusion, because that was the first time I’d actually tasted something in weeks.

I took another drink—and it tasted just like normal vanilla Coke.

I got a rush from that, and then I tried a bite of every different food; green beans, mashed potatoes, meatloaf—everything tasted like food. I waved some nurse down, and I had her bring me more vanilla Cokes, which I usually hate—but I’d never been so freaking delighted to taste one before, and I wanted more.
So, I looked at the machine, and I stood up. I started pacing around my bed as far as the cords would let me go, and I watched the numbers on the screen. My oxygen was still dropping during my movements, but nowhere near as drastically as it had on night one.

I did this on and off throughout the entire day, because I knew I could just leave if I got to where I could walk around normally again. I planned to get used to moving around without getting lightheaded for a couple days, then just make my leave. It was awesome; this was the first time throughout three of the longest weeks of my life that I knew I wasn’t going to die.

However, I did end up leaving earlier than I planned to.

That night, I was finally able to fall asleep for a decent amount of life (longer than an hour or two), and then, I woke up at 2-something in the morning. Someone had turned my TV off, and all the lights were off. Someone was standing over my bed in the darkness, adding something to my IV bag. It took me a minute to focus on her, and I blinked a few times, trying to figure out if I was seeing it right, because it just totally threw me off.

Nobody had been in there to administer any actual treatments the whole time I’d been there.
Now someone’s showing up at nearly three in the morning to do so, and they didn’t even bother turning the lights on beforehand.

I looked up at her, and I said “Hey… what’re you doing?”

She shrugged and shook her head, and said “Nothing.”

I nodded at the IV bag. “What’re you putting in there…?”

She shrugged and shook her head again, and she said “Nothing, it’s just part of the protocol.”
After that, she just walked out of the room.

I just sat there for a while, and a deep, intense dread started building up inside all over again. I kept looking at the tube in my arm, and my heart started hammering. Again—I didn’t specifically know about remdesivir at this time, but still, I cannot convey how very deep and intense that dread was, and all that damn fear just came flooding right back.

I do have OCD and PTSD, and both of those things can cause you to panic and vastly overthink things sometimes. But—I’d heard and seen enough to know that my feeling so fearful could very well be for countless real reasons, too.

So, amid a slow-rising panic attack, I just ripped the fucking tube out of my arm.

I started bleeding everywhere, and I pulled everything off me, then grabbed something from that little counter (either a gauze pad or a paper towel, don’t remember) and put it on my bloody arm. I grabbed my phone and walked out, little spotted blood trail behind me, and I just found my way to the lobby and went out the front doors. I could not stay there for a fucking second longer.

I stood outside in the cold, waited for an Uber to come pick me up, and I rode back to my friend’s house at three in the morning.

I thank God that I am paranoid. But… it’s not really paranoia if they’re really out to get you.

I knew Irish was still in UT, but I didn’t yet know how he was doing. All I knew was that I’d have to learn to treat this by myself, because I could not trust the system to do so. This is where OCD comes in handy—because I stayed up until sunrise in my friend’s house, scouring and researching until I found a way to get stromectol—ivermectin—without a prescription. Thank God for the Alex Jones Show, because I knew exactly what medicine to look for.

I ordered ivermectin from a Canadian pharmacy that got its product from Dubai. Takes forever to get to Tennessee, but it’s better than doing nothing.

After all this was the longest damn month ever.

I was still fairly unwell, had immense fatigue and hair falling out, so I stayed at my mom’s, waiting for Irish to get out of the hospital. They kept him there for weeks, and every time I talked to him on the phone, he sounded worse and worse. That immense dread I felt in Tennova stayed with me the whole time he was there. I coached him, told him no ventilator, no covid shot—just say no to everything. And that’s exactly what he did.
But they still gave him remdesivir.

They didn’t tell him, of course. They told him they were giving him antibiotics (months later, when we got the paperwork, there were no antibiotics on his lists of treatments, but remdesivir did appear there).

They wouldn’t let me visit him or come get him. They kept him there until his pancreas shut down, and he somehow ended up with diabetic symptoms. They also didn’t let him have any of his regular medications that he usually needs, for cholesterol and blood pressure and such. Then, they made him walk across the room to see if he could walk without fainting. He didn’t make it, and he hit the floor. Somehow, they took this to mean he was ready to leave the hospital now.

They kicked him out when he could no longer walk. He couldn’t lie down without drowning in everything that had filled up his lungs. And, for no apparent reason, his pancreas just didn’t work anymore. He also told me how filthy the hospital was—ripe environment for a staff infection—and they harassed him constantly about taking a covid shot, which he consistently refused.

It was very difficult to go and pick him up, then drive around with him while I was still barely functioning, but it was necessary. UT Hospital made it to where he needed a breathing machine on and off throughout the day now, so I took him to my mother’s, because his usual lifestyle (living in an RV with no power) would have killed him.

The guy who arrived to my mom’s house with the breathing machine and oxygen tanks told us about his thirty-year-old friend who’d just died for no apparent reason on a ventilator. My mamaw had just died from the same damn thing. About a year and a half later, Irish’s mother was killed by the same protocol too, and they didn’t bother telling him until she was buried. If you’re reading this story on the Covid Crimes Against Humanity website, I am here to tell you—the cases documented on this site are far, far, far from all of the cases out there. Many people don’t report them because they’re simply under the impression that their loved ones died from covid, not from the hospital’s persistent malpractice—and many people are also unaware that a reporting system even exists. Both of these facts mean that most of these cases are not yet reported. If you think this is a rare once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence, I can tell you from a vast, traumatic cavalcade of real life experience that it is not rare at all.

Hospitals get money for every death they mark as covid, and this is on record.

Remdesivir was the least effective in its overseas trials, leading to organ failures and death. This is on record, and I recommend listening to interviews of Bryan Ardis (which you can find on banned.video) if you want to know more.

I myself had cataloged a lot of these stories fairly early on, and I put them into a film I made called Democide by Design, which you can find on Rumble.com. Footage, statistics, and countless personal stories are in that film, which I am finding more and more of every day.
But, let me digress…

I kept Irish in my mom’s house, trying to take care of him while I was still unwell. He had to sleep in a recliner because lying down made him suffocate. He began to fade off, and he nearly died in my mother’s house.
But that exact day—guess what arrives at our door?

My ivermectin from Dubai finally showed up.

I started administering that to him, and he bounced back in less than a week. His pancreas is still having problems, but aside from that, he’s just like he used to be. The doctors at Cherokee said his oxygen had actually improved from how it was pre-covid after he was given ivermectin.

My mamaw and Irish’s mother were both killed by the protocols, along with the loved ones of random other people we’d encountered through it all, but Irish and myself both narrowly escaped from it. So, I suppose there are four or five stories scattered amidst my tale.

How rare could it really be if it’s affected me so many times?

How could us unqualified normal people doing our own research be such a bad and stupid thing to do when it very clearly saved lives in my own endeavors?

To anyone reading this, feeling that deep, immense dread and that heavy cloud of What can I do? weighing over them so insistently—listen to me.

I’ve had issues all my damn life. I grew up in an abusive home, I’ve lived in vagrancy for seven years, and I am nothing but a struggling unheard-of author who’s been homeless most of her adult life, and been a drug addict through the later parts of it. Yes, I have mental disorders. Yes, I am ‘unqualified’ to know the finer details of these medical endeavors across the board. Yes, I am essentially just a nothing person, a nobody that everyone else in the world has little reason to listen to or care about.

But I saved a guy’s life. I also saved my own, and I may have helped to save my little cousins’ lives as well. I’m not a medical professional—I don’t even know CPR—but I somehow treated someone who was dying and brought him back from the brink. I don’t have qualifications—but my eyes work, and I know that when I see someone having vaccine convulsions in the ER of a hospital, I damn well do not wanna take that shot.

Anyone on the planet can say hell no, and do whatever the hell they can to make it all stop.

Don’t let anyone gaslight you into feeling like you’re not qualified to speak, because everyone is. So you might as well kick, and scream, and make as much of a ruckus as possible—because you only get one life, and you don’t wanna waste it doing nothing and refusing to care enough to act. Doing nothing is a lack of care. I like to think we’re better than that somehow.

I really don’t wanna be submerged in this all the time—hence why I write so many books and draw so many comics—but doing nothing is just not an option.

You really can’t live with yourself when you do nothing.

So, let’s all just do something now.

We have communities, and websites, and support groups, and chat rooms—and we can share ideas of what to do whenever we want to now.

Good luck.

Auf wedershen.

—-initial submission—-

I have actually started a podcast, which I have done nothing with yet, but episode 1 details this painful story in full. I have not found a decent platform for this podcast yet, so for now, It’s simply on mediafire, and you can download the episode and hear the full story here; https://www.mediafire.com/file/8iafk87crfz3atb/Konspiracy%2527s_Commentary_Episode_1_Addiction_%2526_Covid_Protocols.mp3/file