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Day 197 of My Living Xperiment: A Mad Woman and the Machine https://t.co/VmAYSDTbji

— Carla Gericke, Live Free And Thrive! (@CarlaGericke) July 16, 2025

A Mad Woman and the Machine

Once upon a time—say, 1998—a younger version of me stood in a bar in San Francisco, telling a room full of well-meaning, cool-tee-shirted software engineers that fluoride was poison. That the FDA was a captured agency. That Monsanto was not your friend. That the Rule of Law, if it ever was noble, had been hijacked by the Rule of Money. That maybe—just maybe—the “fringe” was simply a forecast.

They laughed.

Or worse, they proverbially patted me on the head and let it be known, “We got this.”

Fast forward to 2010, in the Free State of New Hampshire, at an off-the-grid farm called Bardo, standing around a roaring bonfire on a crisp fall night, surrounded by hills colored like candy corn.

“Dudes, they’re manipulating the weather!”

“Carla,” someone said, circling a finger beside their temple, “And her chemtrails. Hahahaha!”

And so it went.

In truth, it’s the story of my life.

Me—curious, skeptical, deeply read—offering breadcrumbs of truth while the men in my life followed the System deeper into the woods. A system they were trained to revere: The Writing-Down-of-Things. The Law. The Data. The Code. The Algorithm.

In a word: Statism—that comforting lie that someone else is in charge and doing the right thing. That someone else “has this.” Because outsourcing accountability is the Machine’s most magical of magic tricks.

When no one is to blame for the problems they cause, bad things never get fixed.

And while skeptics like me were watching and warning, The System teased, marginalized, and eventually gaslit me into submission.

Into silence.

When Skeptics became “Conspiracy Theorists,”

 the unaccountable won.

Here’s the twist I didn’t see back then:

The very system that once protected the men has now mutated into a Machine that’s devouring them too.

The Borg has no loyalty—not even to its benefactors.

It’s gone full autopilot, an organism of fear built from every memo, statute, executive order, risk assessment, modeling scenario, and CYA directive ever etched in ink.

It started innocently, maybe even divinely: observation, recordkeeping, story.

We named things.

We admired—then charted—the stars.

We honored myth and cosmos.

But then we got clever.

And then we let our imaginations run wild.

Then came entertainment.

Profit.

And propaganda.

And somewhere along the way, the Written Word stopped being a prayer and became a prison. A replicable manifestation engine—not of truth—but of fear.

Nightmares spread faster than dreams.

Warnings codified faster than wonders.

And the Universe, always listening, started echoing back exactly what we captured.

And now?

We are drowning in our own ink.

Silver iodide raining from the skies.

Thimerosal in baby bloodstreams.

Fluoride in formula.

Patents on the weather.

Copyright on your consciousness.

A world so anxious about the future, it is poisoning The Now.

And when I dared—again—to say, “This is madness,”

when I pointed to the mask mandates with their upside-down logic (wear it here, not there, not when you eat, not when you breathe too hard),

when I warned about the experimental injections,

about informed consent—not Uncle Sam’s mandates—

when I spoke up about the spiritual sickness of government-by-safetyism…

What did the men say?

They said—again—that I was mad.

It’s always the same spell:

Gaslight. Minimize. Discredit.

Accuse the woman of what the system is doing.

Call the truth-teller hysterical while the actual lunacy becomes law.

The hardest part?

It wasn’t the strangers.

It was the men I trusted.

My community.

My community of men.

So many of them.

Men who now watch other unhinged men—mad with dopamine addiction—step into my safe spaces (spaces I created) to scream in my face…

…while telling me I need help.

That I am the problem.

I’m not.

I am the woman who sees.

I am the woman who warned.

I am the woman who knows.

Knows not to condone the gaslighting, the minimizing, the discrediting.

The lies designed to destroy my reputation.

Not again.

I remember when the feminine wasn’t shamed for her knowing.

When wisdom wasn’t mocked for lacking a peer-reviewed source.

When intuition was considered guidance—not a mental illness.

I remember.

And I refuse to forget.

So let me say it plainly, before The Machine writes it down wrong again:

The System is unwell.

The men who support the System are unwell.

The women who support the System are unwell.

United, they are building a Hell.

We need medicine.

Real healing.

Not more toxicity masked as “for your own good” by your Masters.

The solution isn’t to flip the polarity and let a new matriarchy wield the old whip. It’s not domination we need—it’s restoration.

A cosmic rebalancing.

A return to source.

We need the masculine to listen.

Not performative allyship.

Not TED Talk applause.

Not “I believe you” while still investing in Pfizer.

We need your reverence.

In return for ours.

We need you to remember that feminine energy is not chaotic—it is creative.

That madness isn’t madness if it’s the truth ahead of its time.

That conscious creation begins with what we choose to speak, to write, to believe.

And that means we must start naming beauty again.

Naming hope.

Naming peace.

Writing down a new dream.

One where we are free.

One where we are whole.

Because if the Universe is echoing our thoughts,

then let us be very, very careful

what we think next.