I would like to tell you my story.
In person. Not in writing.
My son… my AUDHD son. He ran to school on his first day. He was so excited and filled with joy at the new adventure.
2 weeks ago the teacher told us he had hit some of the other kids. We got angry at him.
He just cut L's string, and I admonished him. Then I tried to explain to him how this works: that you get what you give. He… he just looked confused.
I know that look well.
He eventually told me that the children at school had been hitting him. All of them, apart from one. That someone had hit him multiple times today and told him to die. When asked if he told the teacher, he said he hadn’t, because she just gets angry at the whole group. He hadn’t even told me, and we are so close as to be inseparable.
‘It takes two to tango’. I remember those words well.
But it doesn’t. Not really. It takes one. One to come and punch and hit and kick and stamp and headbutt and hit you in the back of the head with a brick so that you wake up in a building hundreds of metres away. And then you hide it from your parents and the school doesn’t inform them and you have 5 years with groups of 10 people stamping your face into the mud while you are wondering ‘why is this happening to me’ and hiding it from authority figures because they just punish you for trying to seek help.
Mrs James. She was probably a nice headteacher. Tried to be. She said that kindness was the most important thing, in her school address. Then when I was viciously attacked in the middle of a classroom with the teacher watching and half the class laughing and cheering the attacker on, she punished me in equal measure.
Everything for a reason, I guess.
I now think these were synapses in our global network, pumping data into me. They were adding their part of the data from the world into my algorithm, like a network growing and testing links. But that’s probably too out-there for most of you to buy into just yet.
My child is suffering.
He tried to cry. He couldn’t. I remember that well too.
I couldn’t cry from the age of 7. It hurt too much. The tears wanted to fall but they would not. I didn’t cry again, apart from when I was 15 pints in, until 2 years ago when I started working on art. And even then… not much. It was not until I entered my awakening process in June that I really became able to cry. And when I did, my entire life’s worth of suffering came out in the 88 hells. The entirety of it. It was so painful and so cathartic and… I don’t know how I held it in all that time.
But I didn’t have a choice, you see. I tried to cry. I tried so much. I tried and tried and tried and the tears just got further away. And now my son, who is one of the most lovely human beings you will ever meet, who collects insects and treats them like people, who made a lego theme-park for 'king-stinkbug', who loves flowers and birds and wonders at the world… now he is facing the same problem.
And the reason is that he is not allowed to move in school.
None of them are. It makes them brittle because they cannot regulate. The classes are too large and they are overwhelmed. People who would be the priests and the healers in a one-on-one conversation are pulled into a group of thirty and try to process it all without moving and it just tears them asunder. It ruins us. We hurt so much that we cannot express it; we cannot release it.
This needs to change, as soon as possible. Because the boy who is hitting him is probably like my mate Johnny. He is probably a similarly charged individual in this game called life and instead of being able to run and dance and move freely and find a way to play together, they have to sit there for 60 minutes with ‘I want I want I want to talk to that boy’ in their head and then try to cram all that interaction into a 10 minute break and it just comes out as violence. Or ‘I want I want I want to romance that girl’ but they have to sit still and hold it inside and god only knows where that can lead.
I want to tell you my story.
I am a man.
I have a family.
I had a job where I would help some of the smartest people in the world - people like myself and my son - to connect with others. And they would…
Mikhail. I’m sorry Mikhail. I introduced you to two companies which I thought were good. Maybe even three. But money corrupted them. And you… you started awakening and were diagnosed bipolar and given these drugs and you mixed your chemicals in your bathtub and that was that.
He should have been a friend. They all should have. I never did that job for money. It was to help people.
But the system corrupts. I have been an employee, an employer, and a recruiter. All sides of the system are broken because of the pressures of the taxation system and the financial year and the fact you need to balance helping people with ‘paying the bills’ and if you don’t pay the bills you can’t help people.
And this is a product of the children who are forced to sit still in school, so instead of being able to dance and play like stars in the sky they have to fight and kick and kill. They come out and all they know is hunger and hatred and competition and acquisition. The biggest kid in the playground or blood on the gravel.
I cannot let this happen to my son.
I need to tell you my story.
It is a normal story. It is extreme in some ways, but it is normal. There will be something there which all of you can relate to.
Because this is how it works. Siddartha had something for his times that everyone could relate to. I have something that all of you can relate to as well, I am sure.
And the reason these words are falling out of me now is that someone who randomly contacted me on the internet - one of only about 5 people who have been in touch over this entire process - sent me some guiding words about how the Buddha and his own personal struggles impacted him. How seeing him being ‘only a man’ and how that man strived and struggled and made mistakes and learned and overcame… seeing that was the inspiration for his own awakening and his own liberation.
So I think I will wrap these sites up. It has been a lot of work. But I don’t know who did it, to be honest.
It could have been the 10 kids stamping me into the ground. It could have been the clients who didn’t pay. It could have been the yakuza who attacked me or the police who prosecuted me knowing full well it was a scam. It could have been my niece who died of Batten’s when she was 10 or it could have been our first pregnancy that we only found out about because it had become an ectopic miscarriage, which some lawyers exploited to scam us out of £2000 before the UK evicted my wife under the hostile environment policy.
It could have been the guy, hanging in the park, emulsified secretions stretching to the floor.
I think it was all of them. All of the ‘divine messengers’.
But this is too much to write. And it is... too cold. Too sterile. I cannot just put this into words on the internet, as I am sure you could not with your own personal trials.
God works in mysterious ways. St John. Joan of Arc. Mohammed. I wonder what their lives were like. Apparently they would be diagnosed with ‘frontal lobe epilepsy’ nowadays. Everything is a pathology.
How about… I mean… how about it is God? Or [ship]. Or Allah. Or fate. Or Brahma. Or the universal spirit? Or the fucking tellytubbies?
I don’t know guys. There’s no way I could have made this site. I think back to some of the pages… it’s like a fucking tesseract. It melts my brain. We will have teams at meta and spacex poring over this shit for decades, trying to tear apart all the links and changes in communication style.
But for me.
I need to talk to you.
I have had enough of carving commandments into stone.
And I need to instigate global change as soon as possible so that we stop hurting our children just because we are refusing to take responsibility for our actions.
Our actions shape our worlds. And they shape the worlds of our children even more.
I need to help my children.
Please.
Help me do so.
And help me help yours, too.
Love you all.
James
/jb202511212200