spirit fake van yellow bracelet How much it? from loersertydass's blog
Marshals And Bureau Of Prisons Are Trying To Break My Hunger Strike
Attorney Carmen Ortiz and her cybercrime chief, Adam J. Bookbinder, whose office prosecuted Internet innovator and activist Aaron Swartz, culminating in his suicide. Gottesfeld is accused of knocking Boston Children's Hospital off the Internet in the defense of abused patient Justina Pelletier. Marshalls had ordered my transfer to a facility in New York that was better equipped to handle my medical condition. At that point I had gone about four days without any fluids whatsoever and to make my wishes and refusal to provide medical consent crystal clear, I had written "No IV DNR" on the inside of both my elbows. Hey, if the DOJ wanted to allow notorious federal prosecutor Carmen Ortiz and her lackeys, to keep holding me because I tried to protect innocent, learning disabled teenager Justina Pelletier from abuse, torture, and an agonizing death, then I wanted to make sure they were fully committed to backing Ortiz up as she makes a pet toy and total mockery of our justice system yet again. After all, when Justina was suffering, Ortiz's office couldn't be bothered to even make a phone call to inquire as to whether her civil and human rights were being upheld (and they weren't). But I digress, I was not allowed to call my wife before the prison transfer, but I was promised I'd be able to call her upon my arrival.
Dubious, but still hopeful the move was a sign of the increasing pressure of my very public hunger strike. I'm cuffed, shackled, and loaded into a van with an unusually heavy complement of three officers for one inmate. On the way, they refused to stop and get food for themselves even when I told them I wouldn't mind and that I could no longer simply just return to eating normally when I wished. You see, word of the cause I'm fighting for had gotten around to some of the Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet diamond replicas staff and I had actually discussed it with the sergeant in charge of my transport in detail before.
"We're not doing that to you," he told me.
Shortly into the trip, mystery set in. Everyone in the van had assumed that "facility in New York" meant MDC Brooklyn, which would have been the usual next stop in the federal prison system. However when the officers put the address into the GPS, it was on Manhattan Island. The sergeant made a phone call to confirm the location and told me that in all his years he'd never heard of The Federal Bureau of Prison's "MCC New York," our apparent destination.
Once inside, the transporting officers explain the situation with the hunger strike and hand the receiving desk my considerable pile of casework. It's the last time I'd see entire reams of legal papers and reference books before they go missing, directly afterwards.
I'm brought to a supply room and "stripped out." While I'm undressing, squatting, spreading my gluts, and coughing, the guard watching me notices the writing on my arms and asks about my strike. I give him the basic gist, loaded with the words "allegedly," "supposedly," etc., that our lawyers all tell us to use in here. I refer him to my Huffington Post articles as my throat is dry and I've tired of explaining this whole travesty over and over again: from the troubled teen industry, to Justina Pelletier, Carmen Ortiz, the CFAA, and Aaron Swartz. He's upset though, it seems he wants a confession.
Is he an FBI agent? Is he looking to earn his way there? I note the name embroidered on his shirt. It could easily be made up for all I know. I dub him "The Interregator."
After that awkward moment I'm put in a waiting room with an emaciated looking man from Africa. He was clutching his hand and wincing. We speak briefly and it turns out we're both on hunger strikes, but he's also on trial. His hand, had been, slammed in a door by a staff member, a supposed "accident." However when I later heard them speak of how "he'll learn," and laugh, I had my doubts.
Suddenly, the holding cell opened to reveal a large guard gratuitously eating pizza. It seemed he was intentionally being noisy and he definitely overplayed the role of savoring his meal. The pizza smelled good, but his attempt belied a fundamental misunderstanding of how long term hunger strikes work.
With a devious grin, he asked me, "Do you want to smell this pizza?"
"I already can. No, thank you," I reply.
About two weeks into my hunger strike, and for the first time I can remember, my sinuses completely cleared and my sense of smell heightened beyond my wildest imagination, an apparent survival mechanism to help find sustenance when the body is facing starvation.
The guard closes the door. My African companion and I exchang glances, shake our heads, and laugh. I lay down on the hardwood bench. Exertion is the enemy, and I'll take all of the rest I can get before trudging wherever else they are going to shuffle me.
Time passes quickly and quietly. About an hour and a half later, they summon me for the intake screening. I hadn't been mistreated there yet, so I cooperate.
They take my blood pressure sitting, standing, and laying down, as well as my blood glucose, oxygen saturation, and pulse. They do their customary TB test and then take my weight for Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet gold high imitation cheap the first time in three days without fluids. My last measure had been 171 pounds, down from where I had started my strike at 204. I weigh in at 158 pounds almost the entire recent 13 pound drop was due to dehydration.
When I go back out to the receiving desk, the staff asks me to confirm how long I had been on the strike.
"October 3rd" I tell them. They are surprised.
"You haven't eaten anything?" they ask.
"I was taking some fluids until a few days ago: water, Gatorade, occasionally chicken broth, and "Jell O." (You may be surprised, as I was, to hear that medically speaking "Jell O" is a clear fluid.) "No solid food."
"The Interrogator" calls me a "fraud" and says, "That's not a hunger strike," and tells them to be sure to turn off the water in my cell. I briefly think about responding that I'd like to see him do what I had and then I'd be happy to discuss what exactly does and does not constitute a hunger strike, but think better of it. I ask to call my wife, and am told I'll have to speak to my unit staff about it, but that I should be able to make "some" calls with the lieutenant.
From there, I am in handcuffs once more, and brought to the "Special Housing Unit," or "SHU" (pronounced like "shoe,") a modern euphemism for solitary confinement. I'm "stripped out" again. and changed from brown clothes to orange, before being re cuffed. When in the SHU, you're always cuffed outside your cell. You have to stand with your back to the door and place your hands through a slot before and after leaving so they can take the cuffs on and off. It's dehumanizing. No matter what any prison official tries to tell you about other reasons, that's exactly the point.
On the walk to my new abode they ask me if I want writing paper and envelopes. I don't know if mine have survived the trip and their processing so I say yes. When we arrive at my cell, my escort throws best high imitation Van Cleef & Arpels clover bracelet them all over the place before sarcastically saying, "Sorry."
Early the next morning I'm brought to medical for the end of the intake process. I'm paraded through a conference room full of men in white coats looking at me like I'm a zoo exhibit. I'm still in orange clothes and cuffed behind my back.
"I'll see him in here," one of them said as he stands up and leads my escorts to an exam room, with me in tow. His coat said "Dr. Anthony Bussunich." He reminds me of the pointy haired boss in Dilbert, and I'm soon to discover it's a more fitting simile than I initially thought.
He turns on a digital scale and tells me to hop on.
I tell him that I will not consent to any medical procedures, as long as, I am handcuffed, being kept in the SHU, and being prevented from speaking to my wife. The conversation goes back and forth, going nowhere, with him citing Bureau of Prisons policy, that hunger strikers are kept in the SHU, and me vigorously asserting my right to decline all medical intervention.
He tries to scare me. First, he goes over the dangers, of the hunger strike, and especially the stoppage of fluids. I'm familiar with all of that and un phased.
Then he tells me that once I pass out, they'll be allowed to hydrate me to keep me alive. I inform him I have a DNR, health care proxy, and living will; that my wife has very specific instructions and that she knows whom she married. Technically, he is right, but ethically it's a much foggier area and I'm sure he knows this. It's a tense conversation between us, we're like oil and water.
Attorney Carmen Ortiz and her cybercrime chief, Adam J. Bookbinder, whose office prosecuted Internet innovator and activist Aaron Swartz, culminating in his suicide. Gottesfeld is accused of knocking Boston Children's Hospital off the Internet in the defense of abused patient Justina Pelletier. Marshalls had ordered my transfer to a facility in New York that was better equipped to handle my medical condition. At that point I had gone about four days without any fluids whatsoever and to make my wishes and refusal to provide medical consent crystal clear, I had written "No IV DNR" on the inside of both my elbows. Hey, if the DOJ wanted to allow notorious federal prosecutor Carmen Ortiz and her lackeys, to keep holding me because I tried to protect innocent, learning disabled teenager Justina Pelletier from abuse, torture, and an agonizing death, then I wanted to make sure they were fully committed to backing Ortiz up as she makes a pet toy and total mockery of our justice system yet again. After all, when Justina was suffering, Ortiz's office couldn't be bothered to even make a phone call to inquire as to whether her civil and human rights were being upheld (and they weren't). But I digress, I was not allowed to call my wife before the prison transfer, but I was promised I'd be able to call her upon my arrival.
Dubious, but still hopeful the move was a sign of the increasing pressure of my very public hunger strike. I'm cuffed, shackled, and loaded into a van with an unusually heavy complement of three officers for one inmate. On the way, they refused to stop and get food for themselves even when I told them I wouldn't mind and that I could no longer simply just return to eating normally when I wished. You see, word of the cause I'm fighting for had gotten around to some of the Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet diamond replicas staff and I had actually discussed it with the sergeant in charge of my transport in detail before.
"We're not doing that to you," he told me.
Shortly into the trip, mystery set in. Everyone in the van had assumed that "facility in New York" meant MDC Brooklyn, which would have been the usual next stop in the federal prison system. However when the officers put the address into the GPS, it was on Manhattan Island. The sergeant made a phone call to confirm the location and told me that in all his years he'd never heard of The Federal Bureau of Prison's "MCC New York," our apparent destination.
Once inside, the transporting officers explain the situation with the hunger strike and hand the receiving desk my considerable pile of casework. It's the last time I'd see entire reams of legal papers and reference books before they go missing, directly afterwards.
I'm brought to a supply room and "stripped out." While I'm undressing, squatting, spreading my gluts, and coughing, the guard watching me notices the writing on my arms and asks about my strike. I give him the basic gist, loaded with the words "allegedly," "supposedly," etc., that our lawyers all tell us to use in here. I refer him to my Huffington Post articles as my throat is dry and I've tired of explaining this whole travesty over and over again: from the troubled teen industry, to Justina Pelletier, Carmen Ortiz, the CFAA, and Aaron Swartz. He's upset though, it seems he wants a confession.
Is he an FBI agent? Is he looking to earn his way there? I note the name embroidered on his shirt. It could easily be made up for all I know. I dub him "The Interregator."
After that awkward moment I'm put in a waiting room with an emaciated looking man from Africa. He was clutching his hand and wincing. We speak briefly and it turns out we're both on hunger strikes, but he's also on trial. His hand, had been, slammed in a door by a staff member, a supposed "accident." However when I later heard them speak of how "he'll learn," and laugh, I had my doubts.
Suddenly, the holding cell opened to reveal a large guard gratuitously eating pizza. It seemed he was intentionally being noisy and he definitely overplayed the role of savoring his meal. The pizza smelled good, but his attempt belied a fundamental misunderstanding of how long term hunger strikes work.
With a devious grin, he asked me, "Do you want to smell this pizza?"
"I already can. No, thank you," I reply.
About two weeks into my hunger strike, and for the first time I can remember, my sinuses completely cleared and my sense of smell heightened beyond my wildest imagination, an apparent survival mechanism to help find sustenance when the body is facing starvation.
The guard closes the door. My African companion and I exchang glances, shake our heads, and laugh. I lay down on the hardwood bench. Exertion is the enemy, and I'll take all of the rest I can get before trudging wherever else they are going to shuffle me.
Time passes quickly and quietly. About an hour and a half later, they summon me for the intake screening. I hadn't been mistreated there yet, so I cooperate.
They take my blood pressure sitting, standing, and laying down, as well as my blood glucose, oxygen saturation, and pulse. They do their customary TB test and then take my weight for Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet gold high imitation cheap the first time in three days without fluids. My last measure had been 171 pounds, down from where I had started my strike at 204. I weigh in at 158 pounds almost the entire recent 13 pound drop was due to dehydration.
When I go back out to the receiving desk, the staff asks me to confirm how long I had been on the strike.
"October 3rd" I tell them. They are surprised.
"You haven't eaten anything?" they ask.
"I was taking some fluids until a few days ago: water, Gatorade, occasionally chicken broth, and "Jell O." (You may be surprised, as I was, to hear that medically speaking "Jell O" is a clear fluid.) "No solid food."
"The Interrogator" calls me a "fraud" and says, "That's not a hunger strike," and tells them to be sure to turn off the water in my cell. I briefly think about responding that I'd like to see him do what I had and then I'd be happy to discuss what exactly does and does not constitute a hunger strike, but think better of it. I ask to call my wife, and am told I'll have to speak to my unit staff about it, but that I should be able to make "some" calls with the lieutenant.
From there, I am in handcuffs once more, and brought to the "Special Housing Unit," or "SHU" (pronounced like "shoe,") a modern euphemism for solitary confinement. I'm "stripped out" again. and changed from brown clothes to orange, before being re cuffed. When in the SHU, you're always cuffed outside your cell. You have to stand with your back to the door and place your hands through a slot before and after leaving so they can take the cuffs on and off. It's dehumanizing. No matter what any prison official tries to tell you about other reasons, that's exactly the point.
On the walk to my new abode they ask me if I want writing paper and envelopes. I don't know if mine have survived the trip and their processing so I say yes. When we arrive at my cell, my escort throws best high imitation Van Cleef & Arpels clover bracelet them all over the place before sarcastically saying, "Sorry."
Early the next morning I'm brought to medical for the end of the intake process. I'm paraded through a conference room full of men in white coats looking at me like I'm a zoo exhibit. I'm still in orange clothes and cuffed behind my back.
"I'll see him in here," one of them said as he stands up and leads my escorts to an exam room, with me in tow. His coat said "Dr. Anthony Bussunich." He reminds me of the pointy haired boss in Dilbert, and I'm soon to discover it's a more fitting simile than I initially thought.
He turns on a digital scale and tells me to hop on.
I tell him that I will not consent to any medical procedures, as long as, I am handcuffed, being kept in the SHU, and being prevented from speaking to my wife. The conversation goes back and forth, going nowhere, with him citing Bureau of Prisons policy, that hunger strikers are kept in the SHU, and me vigorously asserting my right to decline all medical intervention.
He tries to scare me. First, he goes over the dangers, of the hunger strike, and especially the stoppage of fluids. I'm familiar with all of that and un phased.
Then he tells me that once I pass out, they'll be allowed to hydrate me to keep me alive. I inform him I have a DNR, health care proxy, and living will; that my wife has very specific instructions and that she knows whom she married. Technically, he is right, but ethically it's a much foggier area and I'm sure he knows this. It's a tense conversation between us, we're like oil and water.
The Wall