Retribution of Lies: Rumour 3 of Gone Girl Feminism

How feminist networks used Stasi tactics of 'comprimising rumours' to attack me and my family.

You might sympathise with my parents in this situation. If they ended up having a son who allegedly ‘slept around irresponsibly and groped women’, it must be hard for them to accept that he will face his just deserts. If their son had done such things, and if retribution were just. However, sexually harassing, coercing, and abusing someone for three years before sexually assaulting him is not justice. Directing him to a flat set up to drug him, and making it almost impossible to leave that flat, is not justice. Drugging him systematically for 9 years in bars, coffeeshops, and workplaces so that he is hounded out of employment altogether is not justice. Setting him up with a doctor who will sign him off as delusional, so that people can drug, assault and abuse him without any fear of consequences is not justice. Everyone has a right to a fair trial after all.

The accusations are not true, and retribution is not justice, but I want to say something else. I feel sorry for my parents. I think my parents are victims in this. The adherents of this feminist network do not care about my parents. I hope that much is clear, even if many supporters of the network in my village do sympathise with my parents. An online hate group ran by political activists has intentionally attacked my mother to destroy the relationship with her son and thereby divide the family against their victim. My parents have become the victims of a campaign of ‘Psych-Opps’ that was once the staple of the Stasi in East Berlin and is now the modus operandi of lefty progressive feminists. Cancelling and spreading false rumours as part of a smear campaign are perhaps familiar now, but Gone Girl Feminists also hack mobiles and emails, and use false accusations to turn friends and relatives into informants. Information gathered in this way, about the target’s family and friends, is used to pinpoint what false accusations to use against which family member, and when to make the false accusations. Most sinister of all, confidences taken from private medical appointments are used to attack the family. For a brief outline of the strategy and motivation behind these Stasi-style attacks see, How Gone Girl Feminists Attack the Family of their Victims. This post describes in detail how this strategy was used on my family.

How this attack unfolded

I tried to warn my parents that something was up long before I returned to Scotland for the first Covid lockdown in 2022. In a phone conversation in the fall of 2018, I told my mum that I needed to get out of Berlin, but I could not work with my dad on the run up to Christmas, as was our custom. No sooner than I got into the car at Glasgow International Airport I was told that I was working the next day. I would work three twelve-hour shifts with my dad and then, on Boxing Day, we travelled one hour to Perth for Christmas shopping. My Dad always had a wad of cash that I should use to buy presents that everyone would know I had not bought. On Christmas day I overheard, “Don’t bother about him, if he’s not saying a word. He went all the way to Perth with your dad yesterday and didn’t say a word to him. He’s hardly said a word while he’s been working with your dad either. Just ignore him”. I was always the sociable one, the happy-go-lucky one, and I never shirked work. I had been almost mute for 5 days by that point. Perhaps they thought I was getting lazy, or that I was above that kind of work, or that I didn’t appreciate their financial support with tuition fees. Maybe they thought I was angry at them or resentful for making me work. I don’t know why they didn’t ask me what had happened, but this sudden silence opened a distance between me and the family before my mum had even become involved with the network.

My mother’s father was an alcoholic who worked away from home. He was the chief electrician constructing large hydro damns in the highlands. Before being sequestered in these cold damp glens he hardly drank a drop. There were some months when he would make it home for the weekend, but he would spend it in the pub, rather than with his children, playing the box accordion, and buying rounds of drink for everyone in the bar. He was the best paid man in the village, but his family hardly seen a penny. My uncle would sneak into his suit pockets while he was out for the count on the couch so that my gran would have some money for the messages. My mum would watch TV round by a neighbour, where they once told her, ‘Your dad does not know how lucky he is to have you”. According to my aunt, this always meant a lot to my mother.

My father never knew his father. His mother struggled to bring up five sons, working multiple jobs. He was the youngest of the family and fought for the attention of his mother, often helping his mother clean the school after school. He didn’t want to leave his mother’s side. After dropping him off at primary school, she would often discover him waiting for her by the time she got back home. This is not surprising considering how he was treated. At school he was told that he shouldn’t be there because he was so stupid. He was made to sit up the back, and he was not allowed to take part. It’s not unfair to say that when he met my mother at 17, she essentially took on a child.

My mother and father met at one of the ceilidhs frequented by the folk from different villages. He got a friend to ask my mother if she would dance with him, but my mum insisted he ask himself. I am not doing my father justice here, nor my mother, nor their 60-year marriage. I am trying to point out the weaknesses that the feminist network would take advantage of. Both my parents had an absent father, and while one fought for the attention of the absent father, the other fought between four brothers for the attention of a single mother. Both fear the absence of the other, and this is a source of insecurity and anxiety for them both. It was a tough life for them growing up, but they boast of it at times. My Grandad once called them out on their, ‘oh-but-we-were-poor’ craic by going one better than them:

“Aye, but we were so poor… when we had a rasher of bacon, we’d tie it to a piece of string so we could all have it”.

People say my dad does not know how luck he is, but my mother has kept him totally dependent on her on purpose. She is haunted by the thought that people can do without her, leave her, like her father had repeatedly done. She likes to hear people say, ‘he doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you’. It’s not just the bills, or the book work for ‘his business’, that my dad gets help with. It’s everything. He often finds an excuse to snap at her over something trivial, “Don’t be bloody stupid”. I have sat down with him to talk about the way he speaks to my mother. He thinks he presents as dominant, but he hasn’t even the confidence to call in a takeaway order for himself. He is dependent on my mother in ways that would not be acceptable for teenager. My mother wants to keep him like a child, and she tried to do the same with me.

When I decided to return home for the first Covid lockdown, I knew they needed some notice why I might be different, quiet, or silent. I told my mum that I had been abused and that she does not want to know what ‘they’ had done to me. I don’ think my mother ever absorbed this. I didn’t realise at first how much my mother was struggling with anxiety. Family and friends had asked her to seek help for anxiety for years. However, my mum’s mother died in 2015, and my mother’s health suffered afterwards, and she lost weight. My mum’s closest friend was diagnosed with cancer, and she did her best to be there for Maggie until she passed away in 2018. This set my mother back again. Her anxiety had always expressed itself with manic cleaning and with 2000 Covid pandemic, her anxiety became worse. Remember it was initially thought that this deadly virus spread by contact, by germs on surfaces. The arrival of her son should have been something that cheered her up, it always had done, but I had been drugged in a flat for 4 years by that point, and I was an empty shell of her son.

It wasn’t unusual for her to use me to make my father jealous, and that wasn’t a big deal, but I noticed she was doing it more than usual. On a rare short walk together, I told them that dad might not like The Marriage Story, not as much my mum, because it is about getting a divorce, but The Irishman was more his thing. When we got back the house, my mum told me she had threatened to leave my father. My dad had frozen and went silent when I mentioned the film because he thought I was taunting him. At first, I was inclined to be more sympathetic to my mother. I thought she was having to stick up for herself now that the Covid lockdown had forced them together 24 hours a day. He had work related injuries that meant he could hardly walk. Then I realised that my mum was hounding him for sinking deeper into the sofa. I came to mark how my father was becoming sensitive, and how my mother would snap at him over nothing. He couldn’t do anything right by my mother, he would bend this way and that to respond to my mother’s complaints, as if to straighten an old stick. He started to think that mum and I were ganging up on him.

My mother and I were talking in the garden when my dad screeched at us from their bedroom window in a high-pitched voice, “stop talking about me in my own house, this is my house”. I said ‘we’ needed to give Dad a break, when I really meant my mum. We had always understood one another, even when we said nothing. We both had the same attitude towards people, but I had to rephrase my concern three times. “No, just ignore him he’s always like that.”, “Well he speaks to me like that all the time”. I explained that recently dad had thought I was taunting him again. This time he felt he was being treated like child. “It serves him right”. However, on my third attempt, I didn’t hide my frustration and impatience. She responded before my words could sink in. I just sat looking at her for a moment. Her eyes were glazed over and always looking elsewhere, nowhere, betraying a constant state of agitation and anxiety.

I knew I wasn’t returning the same person who left for Berlin several years ago. I always intended to keep out the away. The state I was in during those four years that I was drugged in a flat in Berlin was frightening. Once the effect of the drugs had waned it was hard to conceive of the idea that the person drugged and the person after were one and the same. I didn’t want anyone to see that I could become so ill, even if it was the result of being spiked with drugs. Even when I was not directly under the influence, I knew that I was different after this abuse. I hoped I could regain my old self, so I was delaying contact with people until I pulled myself out of it. I did a lot of cycling and walking at the beginning of the lockdown, spending most of the day out of the house. Once, as a returned home, my mum marched up to me, “Well the boys at work told me today how I have been doing a fantastic job, so it’s good to know that I can do something right”. She got uncomfortably close, staring at me as she said this. There was absolutely no context for this. I realised that she would triangulate between the men in her life and play them off one another, it seemed like I was now in the firing line. One morning I waited until it sounded like my parents had left the house, but I was startled by my dad in the dining room and by my mum who was busy in the kitchen, both started asking me questions. I responded but I laid my dishes to the side and went back to my room. My mum followed me up minutes later, “Do you not like us anymore? Can you not bear to speak to us?”. These comments became more frequent. Increasingly I would stay in my room also to avoid being caught between them. My dad had started to take things out on me.

I came back from Berlin for the second lockdown, but I moved into a house on the Main Street. It belonged to a friend of the family in London. My dad’s continued hostility after I had moved out surprised me. I would help him with work but he would turn into someone else when his friend arrived with coffee and rolls, “When are you thinking about going back to Berlin then?”. He would send me off to the shops, making it clear I wasn’t needed at all. I was there for them to give me that coffee, which they had enquired about a couple of times, ‘Is that coffee OK?’. He would take me for a breakfast roll, where the women grinned at me, and he would reveal after they were friends of his. At the end of another day, he would tell me mum had not cooked a meal for us, only for my mother to ask why I wasn’t there for dinner. In short, I think he was happy to humiliate me with the help of friends who knew the tricks of the Gone Girl network.

I tried telling my mum that I wasn’t welcome in the house. She had managed to turn us against each other, despite me trying to stay out their way. I reminded her that I had been abused in Berlin and that she had never took that into consideration, nor what she was doing to dad. At one point she suddenly exclaimed heartbroken, “we have always had such a strong close connection, I don’t understand what has happened?”. I felt so sorry for her. I thought of those grotesque women in Berlin who were responsible for intentionally destroying so many loving relationships, of which they knew nothing of, the kind of which they had perhaps never experienced themselves.

However, I was also angry that mum could not see that she was not always the victim. My mum would turn up at my door crying, looking very drawn. She was ill for many reasons but the breakdown in our relationship was one of them. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to draw some boundaries because I was caught in the middle of a co-dependant relationship. I later asked her not to come round to my house for a while, but she did the next day. I asked her not to text for a couple of weeks, but she did. I asked her to leave me alone for a month but the next day she sat herself beside outside a coffeeshop. Despite this, she claimed that dad and I were fighting for her attention. This was probably with the encouragement of her girlfriends in the village who know the cliché of childish men.

My Sister and Dad

Everything I said seemed to make the situation worse. I decided to ask my sister, 5 years my senior, to help. She had asked my mum to counselling for her anxiety years ago. I knew there was a risk of my sister betraying me. I had been told how she would gang up on my mum, reporting everything my mum did to her dad to win his affection. Others had also said that my sister has always felt under my shadow. My sister did betray me and as a result my mum swung cynically back to Dad. She predicted that people would see a side to her that she had kept hidden. And so, my father found himself in favour again. He didn’t ask any questions about the change in his fortune. My mother became ingratiatingly girly and fawned over him. Now she tried to make me jealous in front of my father. Referring to him as ‘Dad’ when she boasts that ‘Look where dad is taking me!’ pointing to a hotel brochure. My dad looked uncomfortable at this, but he said nothing. He thought he had won a fight for mum, while I was quietly working diplomatically to help him.

Once, my mother acknowledged with pride that she had turned my dad and I against each other. Dad jerked his neck round to look at her in astonishment- I had been right after all. He had been treated like an idiot while I had always understood. I had tried to tell him and I had given him examples. However, to this day my dad denies all of it. He screams at us denying my mum threatened to leave him. When my mum corrects him, my dad freezes in a rage with his arm outstretched still pointing out into the middle of the room. He stares into the floor with a wild, distorted red face. My mum tells him to put his arm down, but he remains in that position as my mum and I continue argue for a while. Eventually my mum starts shouting to put his arm down again, then she shouts his name to try and snap him out of it. A few months later this all repeats itself. My dad pretends things are not happening because it is empowering to reject people out of hand. It is a way for him to hide his moral cowardness and fear to himself. When I relinquished the pedestal that my mother put me on, I was always going to be on my own. When I turned to other family members to help- my mother’s sister, my dad’s brother- they made it clear that the feminist network had already explained everything. It was a good story, a simple story. I was feeling shame, and guilt at the horrible things I had done. I was feeling indignation and anger at women when I was only getting my must desserts. I was, in short, a misogynist lashing out at a woman. Why else would I be ‘turning on’ my mother.

My Mum

There were a series of ploys while I looked for a flat in Glasgow. In the end, I took a flat in the catchment area of a mental health practice that would carry out a series of harassments, starting from the first appointment letter. The worst of these ploys was to use what I had said in these sessions to hurt my mother and divide our family. To read the letter I wrote to the clinical director of the centre, with a detailed account of my treatment at the clinic, click here. A few sessions in, I seen her grin behind the mask as she said, “Oh no, please tell me about your mum and dad.”.

I had just told her about my friend being drugged in Berlin, and me suspecting someone had arrived in the bar just to play barman and then leave. This is a classic tactic. When the victim describes the person who drugged them to the manager and police, they can so no-one of that description works there. On the night in question, I didn’t bother telling my friend that I had spotted a guy coming in and the barmen signalling where we were sitting. After the barman sat the drinks on our table, I just swapped seats because my friend had me by the scruff of the neck 20 minutes earlier telling me my worries were all in my head. I wasn’t going to tell him I thought I was going to be spiked in the first bar we got to. The ‘barman’ left shortly after serving us our drinks, that was the only drink my friend finished that night. I had to take him home before his night in Berlin got started.

I could see the nurse grinning with delight behind the mask when I told her this story. I guessed she relished the effect that this would have on my friend. It was more ammunition against me. When I mentioned that I would probably need to talk about my parents, I seen the round of her cheeks appeared above the top of the mask and little wrinkles burst out from the corner of her eyes that now twinkled. She pleaded with me to talk about my parents there and then. I said, among other things, that my mother would ignore the boundaries I set with the excuse of bearing gifts or doing me a favour, “but acts of love are also a demand for love”.

Just a couple of days after this session, I got a call from the friend who went to Berlin with me, and then from my mother. I hadn’t heard from Dave since we got back from Berlin, and I was surprised to hear from him. He asked about the counselling sessions, but quickly followed, “yeah, it’s interesting the kind of things you tell a councillor.” … “you know, it’s interesting isn’t it… It’s interesting the things you tell people, when you know that they aren’t going to tell anyone.”. He left ominous pauses between iterations of the same point. Then my mother called me. “Sometimes people just do things out of love and there is no other reason for it. Some people just don’t understand that. There is no other reason for doing these things”. This was a bizarre thing for my mother to say out the blue. Both my mum and my friend had been given an excuse and an emotional incentive to turn against me. Both might feel hurt, angry and humiliated at what people were hearing about them from my ‘confidential’ counselling sessions.

You might wonder why I would disclose this information if I knew that the nurse was working with this violent network, and perhaps that she was not even a nurse. From the beginning, I just didn’t believe my friends and family would be involved in something like this. That was part of the reason I refused to drug people as a barman, because I considered how disappointed my family and friends would be in me. I thought that I might be laying a trap for the network. I was goading the network on to approach my mother and old friend with confidences from my counselling sessions. I thought this might be the moment that things turn around. I had told my friend that I had been abused in Berlin and left to escape it, but I had been told that the campaign would follow me here. I didn’t want to go into the details but if anyone started telling any stories about me, he should just come to me, and I would explain what was going on. I thought my friends and family would be angry at medical professionals acting against me on behalf of a network of anonymous activists.

My Uncle

My uncle should have been waiting to hear why he was asked to the house, but he started talking immediately, criticizing my father, “a lot of husbands destroy the confidence of their wife without ever realising it… a lot of men don’t know that you see”. He was already reading from my mother’s script. He wouldn’t know that I had sat down with my dad to talk to him about the way he spoke to mum. He was not there. He abandoned his wife and two young children and just disappeared, turning up in France years later with an old flame, who was now divorcing him. He had other children we knew of. He was what they called ‘a ladies’ man’. His lack of self-awareness was a skin crawling spectacle. My mother knew she could appeal to his ego. He was perfect for Gone Girl feminism because he understood that he was special, he understood women, women could trust him to understand.

He seemed to believe every word he was told. “Sometimes it’s best to admit you have made mistakes and move on”. This he offered as an aside to an anecdote that could be plausibly passed off as something he had picked at random. Perhaps he didn’t know that the campaign against me had started ten years earlier and I had tried to start my life over many times. I guess my uncle presumed that I had cheated on a girlfriend, and that was the mistakes he was alluding to. As a ladies’ man, he might think all men are like that. He then moved through the script given to him by the feminist network, linking apparently random anecdotes that carried a warning to me not to make any more written complaints about the abuse I was suffering. I had already been drugged and diagnosed with delusion at mental health clinic in Glasgow, just as the feminists in Berlin had warned me. My uncle happened to know someone high up in the NHS who decided to be whistle blower about something, and his life was ruined. He eventually couldn’t work because the trauma. He was just a very sensitive person. Someone else he knew worked for the NHS but he had to give up work because he totally lost control of his bowels.

At the time of this sit down with my uncle the network had started drugging me with a coupld of new drugs that attacked my digestive system in different ways. There were a couple of other anecdotes that day, but you get the picture. My uncle did not ask what he had been called to the house to discuss, he seemed to know in advance what to say. He told me I should focus on my PhD and not complain about being drugged. Perhaps he didn’t know that being drugged had prevented me from completing my PhD.

My Aunty

When I started to look for a flat in Glasgow, I stayed at my uncle and aunt’s. They had two stories plus an attic that had been converted into a living space and studio for their daughter. At first, I stayed the odd night on the second floor in the spare bedroom. I tried to cram three or four flat viewings over a couple of days. They slept in separate rooms because my uncle suffers from sever back pain, so I was in the third room which was a cubby-hole with just two steps from the door to a single bed. As expected, it was immaculately clean and tidy, exaggeratedly so because there was nothing on the bedside table and the few shelves were empty. All the surfaces were spotless, except for what looked like a scrunched-up bit of paper on the window ledge above my bed. I suspected it had been left there on purpose with a written message from my cousin, but I was bemused to discover it was a sweaty wrapper. When I flipped it over and it said, “Kinder”. It belonged one of the mini-bar chocolate bars from the Kinder surprise multi-packs. However, ‘Kinder’ is German for children.

In case, you have not read interpocula yet, one of the ploys of Gone Girl activists is to make a man think he has a child by one of the activists. ‘The Berliner pretegnancy’ is supposed to be the revenge women take on men who cheat. However, the victims are entrapped in abuse relationships with undercover activists while they are sexually harassed for years by others. After 3 years of this I was sexually assaulted. Afterwards I was effectively held in a flat set up for me to be systematically drugged. I had to leave Berlin and when I got a job in Glasgow after the Covid lockdown, I had to stay at my uncle and aunt’s because I still hadn’t found a flat. The small, carpeted studio in the attic was cleared out and a mattress placed on the floor, the bed was made for me arriving. As I lay my head down, looking at my suitcase on the floor, I tucked my left arm underneath the pillow. I felt a dry flaky thing underneath the pillow. It was another ‘Kinder’ wrapper screwed up into a ball.

After the first meeting with a doctor, I was diagnosed with delusion. I told my parents that I had been forewarned by feminists in Berlin that they can get doctors to do this for them, and thereafter, the men cannot get justice, and that is why they can do whatever they want. I had not challenged the network at all in Berlin, but now I was home, and I had nowhere else to go. I now needed health care and protection under law. I needed my parents to stand up and say my son is not mentally ill, he is not a disgusting sexual predator, he is human, and he should have his human rights back. My aunty knew my mum had suffered from anxiety. She knew that I had always been on my mother’s side. So, I asked my aunty to drive us 2 hours north of Glasgow to have a sit down with my parents about what was happening, and what had happened between us during Covid.

On the drive up, I started explaining in a circuitous manner what the talked would be about. My aunty instinctively defended her sister against my dad, knowing how he spoke to her, and got onto her. I acknowledged this and told her that I had sat down with my dad to speak to him about it. I had always been on my mum’s side, and she knew that. Something was different with my mum when I returned from Berlin. “Are you sure you don’t just feel guilty about something”. So it wasn’t just my cousin who knew the Gone Girl story. I asked guilty of what. She would not say.

My aunt was claiming that I had turned on my mum because the guilt I was feeling at leaving a fictional child in Berlin. She may also have in mind the guilt at all the cheating I had (allegedly) been doing. Feeling guilty also because the perception that people now had of me, because of the rumours, was harmful one to my family and friends. I might feel guilty, that is, for not being who, or what, my family and friends thought I was. All of this derived from a formal ploy that can employed against any individual man by the feminist network.

The power of this ploy stems from the scientific tone of a key term, ‘cognitive dissonance’. This is a scientific term used in psychology, but it is cynically abused by feminists. They argue that a natural response to shaming is anger and indignation. This has been used to explain my anger at my mother. The common understanding of ‘shame’ is being abused by feminists. Shame is commonly considered a self-accusation or self-condemnation and thus it affirms autonomy with a commitment to live by one’s own standards. What the feminist network is doing is attempting to weaponize shame through a social-accusation or social-condemnation. If my aunt was using the term guilt, and not shame, it is not just because these terms are commonly conflated, but because this term is closer to what feminists are wielding over their victim. They are acting as judge, jury and executioners.

The first phase of ‘shame’ (allegedly) is anger and indignation, but people might be indignant that they are being judged, not by their actions, but as a toxic cis-man. The second phase of ‘shame’ is denial but, you guessed it, someone might deny doing something they are accuse of, not because they are ashamed, but because they are innocent. My aunty knew the script; she was telling me that I was denigrating my mother because I was guilty and I was suffering from shame. The feminists had warned her in advance that a psychological term, ‘cognitive dissonance’, explains that when a man says he is innocent, you know he is guilty, because he is feeling ashamed and rejecting their verdict as a predictable coping mechanism to cognitive dissonance. I wasn’t going to challenge my Aunty on this in the car. If, “when he says his innocent, then you know he’s guilty’, sounded reasonable to begin with, she must have been well disposed to the idea. It would fit with her perception of my mother and basic gender stereotypes. When we were sat round the dining room table my aunty uttered the same sentiment, “Are you sure you don’t feel bad about something? You’ve changed, I think something must have happened in Berlin.”

The adherents of the Gone Girl network have orchestrated a situation in which it is in my families interests to ‘play along’ with the campaign.

My dad doesn’t want to admit that he has been bullied and made to look stupid by his wife. That he has been wound up and made jealous like a child. He won’t admit that his wife was threatening to leave him, or that decades earlier, she had been repeatedly spiking him with a laxative. Like most men who have suffered the spiking in my village, he doesn’t want anyone to know about this because he doesn’t want to be humiliated.

My dad doesn’t want to admit that he took revenge on me because the way his wife was treating him, but all the while, I was trying to support him diplomatically. I gave up my privileged position in my mother’s eyes to take his side for once, and this is why she rebounded back to him and to being girly around him. He is too scared to acknowledge my role in his return to favour and offer some solidarity or diplomacy in dealing with my mum. He just stays quiet like a child in a world he doesn’t understand and can’t cope with.

My mother doesn’t want to admit that she ignored my plea to come home at Christmas to rest, and my plea not to work because something was wrong with me. She doesn’t want to admit that instead of asking me what was wrong, she derided me for being mute, and dropped me off at the airport to go back to Berlin. My mother doesn’t want to admit that I had explained my change in character and why I was withdrawing away from the family to my room. I told her she probably didn’t want to know the details of the abuse, but I could tell her if she wanted. However, the network could provide a mor appealing story to explain why I did not want to tell her what happened. Why I was saying those horrible things about her in my counselling sessions. No doubt, it had something to do with shame, either of cheating, or because I really fell for ‘the Berliner Pretegnancy’.

My mother doesn’t want anyone to listen to me, or taking me seriously, if I’m contradicting her story of being persecuted at home. She does not want anyone to know that someone diagnosed with an anxiety disorder feel they are constantly being persecuted, accuse people around them, and be incapable to sympathizing with them. She doesn’t want people to know that she has ignored the calls for help from her family, even while they were trying to help her in a challenging time.

She would rather play the victim and heroine for the Gone Girl feminists according to a script that they have written for her, to unfold a plot that was always going to divide our family, and alienate me. I have not suddenly turned against my family this has been orchestrated. This is not a case of me attacking my mother because I feel guilty or ashamed. Although it is true that I would never have previously disclosed private matters of the family, but I do not have a choice. These matters have been weaponized against my family. This is what ‘the private is the political’ means in practice. Progressive feminists claim the privacy and intimacy of others as their political. It is the material they employ to, in the Stasi terms, ‘decompose’ people hostile to their ideology.