Category: Diary

How to Cope with Emotional Terrorism plus Honey Traps and Digital Trespass: Naming the Invisible Abuse

There is no word strong enough to describe the violation of being terrorised simply for choosing distance.

When a person does not want someone in their life—whether out of self-preservation, clarity, or sovereignty—that boundary should be sacred. But for some, it becomes a challenge. A dare. A trigger for cruelty.

This isn’t about their heartbreak. It’s about your control.

Some individuals, often shielded by privilege or unprocessed emotional immaturity, believe they can force their way into someone’s life. They weaponise access, proximity, and social camouflage. They use charm, money, or manipulation to override consent. And when that doesn’t work, they orchestrate from the shadows—using others to do their dirty work.

They create chaos through triangulation, gossip, and manipulation. They keep the target guessing, destabilised, unsafe. It’s not just abuse. It’s theatre. And they are the coward behind the curtain.

This kind of abuse is hard to name. It’s layered. It’s silent. It’s devastating. And it often goes undetected. Because the victim is strong. Because they don’t fit the stereotype of someone “in danger.” Because they’re articulate, resilient, and trying to carry on. But strength doesn’t mean immunity. In fact, it often makes them a target. The abuser resents their autonomy, their refusal to bend, their clarity. So they punish it. And the systems meant to protect? They often fail. But this can change if those affected have the support and justice they deserve.

I believe Police reports may not capture the nuance. Restraining orders may require proof of escalation. Friends may say “just ignore them.” But ignoring doesn’t stop the erosion. What’s needed is trained professionals—people who understand the patterns, the psychology, the silent devastation. People who can intervene before the damage becomes irreversible. Who can say, “I see what’s happening. You’re not overreacting. You’re not alone.

This happens to women.

This happens to men.

This happens to anyone who dares to say no to someone who refuses to grow. Because some people never grow up. Not because they weren’t given time, but because they refused experience. They floundered through life avoiding responsibility, dodging discomfort, and curating a glossy façade. They never learned through hardship—never held a crying child through the night, never stood in a welfare queue, never weathered the storm of turbulent relationships in favour of denial and stability. They skipped the curriculum of learning about empathy. And now, in older age, they are bitter. Resentful. Vindictive.

They behave like malicious children in adult bodies, using money and material gain as shields to protect a hollow core. Their lack of life knowledge has curdled into frustration. And instead of facing that truth, they lash out—thriving on causing pain, misery, and confusion.

It’s a worthless existence, contrary to how it may appear. And they are often hungry for attention. Any attention. Even negative. So even a blog post like this must be crafted with care. Because naming them—even obliquely—can feed their warped need to feel significant. That’s why this post is not for them. It’s for the ones they target. The ones who feel unseen, unheard, and unsafe. The ones who are strong, but tired. Clear, but punished. Sovereign, but stalked.

Some victims have never met their abuser. The intrusion began online—through social media, through digital proximity, through the illusion of connection. And it never stopped. Not through direct contact, but through proxies. Through setups. Through the slow, corrosive trespass of someone who refuses to let go.

Others are honey-trapped—lured into false intimacy, then punished for trying to leave. Manipulated, surveilled, emotionally blackmailed. It’s not just romantic betrayal. It’s strategic entrapment. And it’s happening to men, too. Quietly. Invisibly. Devastatingly.

If you’re living in the “not knowing what’s next,” if you’re being punished for choosing peace, if you’re being stalked by someone’s emotional baggage—know this:

You are not imagining it.
You are not too sensitive.
You are not wrong for asking for help.

You are protecting your life.
And that is sacred.

Tiffy Belle 💕

by Tiffany Belle Harper

Hamas Killing Palestinians. Neanderthal Behaviour. Pity the Victims of this wretched battle

The Palestinian people are nothing but victims of hatred and nastiness from just about every angle. The IDF have persecuted them and Hamas are executing them. Is this real life with human intelligence. Or are we A hateful curse?!

And the men they shoot so recklessly are held to account for doing no wrong, other than wish to survive.

We must worry for their wives, their mothers and children. What have the gunmen and rapists done to them?! Filth! All of those attacking the poor and innocent. Are COWARDLY Filth! Be really fucking ashamed. Dig deep for your own salvation. FILTH!

Tiffy Belle.

by Tiffany Belle Harper

Reclaiming My Life, My Space, My Spirit

This is not a story of defeat, but of reclamation.
For years, I was targeted, diminished, and surveilled by those who mistook cruelty for power. Yet here I am—choosing to write, to speak, to live on my own terms.

This blog is my sanctuary of truth, a place where I reclaim my voice, my space, and my joy. It is a declaration that I am more than what was done to me, and a reminder that no one has the right to trespass a free spirit.

The Weight of Survival

I have been stalked, harassed, and digitally cornered. Strangers — people I had never met—were enlisted to work against me. My privacy invaded. My work sabotaged. My data stripped bare. No stone left unturned in the attempt to break me.

There were days when the fear was suffocating. When even happiness felt dangerous, as though joy itself might trigger more meddling. I have lost loved ones. I have carried grief. I have fought battles alone. And still, I survived.

I will not pretend it didn’t scar me. But scars are proof of healing, not of defeat.

The Light That Carried Me

Even in the darkest times, good people reached out.
Some I’ve never met in person. Their kindness—remote, quiet, steadfast—reminded me that not everyone conspires in cruelty. That solidarity exists, even across distance.

And my sanctuary—my pets, my home, my work—anchored me.
They gave me reasons to keep building, even when others tried to dismantle me.

On Spirit Theft and courage

There are those who take what was never theirs—
Not objects, but essence.
Not possessions, but presence.
They weaponise attention. They distort proximity.
They use psychological force to trespass the soul.

But I am not theirs to hold.
My joy is not a bargaining chip.
My grief is not a spectacle.
My spirit is not a battleground.

I reclaim what was stolen in silence.
I rebuild what was shattered in shadow.
And I do so without permission,
Because healing is mine to author.

The Shout

They thought silence would swallow me.
They thought fear would finish me.
But I shouted out.
And in that shout was my survival,
my defiance,
my refusal to be erased.

Reclaiming What Is Mine

This is my declaration: I will not be held hostage by the nastiness of others. Their grudges, their projections, their spite—none of it belongs to me. It is not my baggage to carry. I reclaim my life. I reclaim my space. I reclaim my future. I reclaim my happiness.

Enough Is Enough

To anyone who has endured similar trespass: You are not alone. You are not defined by what was done to you. And you are not powerless. We can survive. We can rebuild. We can write our own endings. And this is mine: Enough is enough. And I am more than enough.

Thank you for standing witness to my words

Writing this is not easy, but it is necessary. For too long, I was made to feel small, silenced, and surveilled. This blog is part of my reclamation—of my voice, my space, and my joy. To those who have supported me, even from afar: your kindness has been a light in the darkest corridors.

To those who have endured similar trespass: you are not alone, and you are not powerless.

I carry my late father with me.

In moments of fear, I feel his steadiness.

In moments of doubt, I hear his quiet strength.

And in moments of reclamation, like this one, I know he walks beside me.

This blog is not only my voice, but also a continuation of his love—a reminder that even when cruelty tries to silence us, our roots run deeper than malice, and our spirit outlives every attempt to break it.

This is only the beginning. I will continue to write, to create, to build sanctuary in defiance of cruelty. My story is not theirs to tell—it is mine. And I choose to tell it with truth, with resilience, and with hope.

Tiffy Belle

by Tiffany Belle Harper

On Cowardice, Delusion, and the Power of Walking Alone

In the digital age, individuality is often mistaken for vulnerability. Women who build alone — without the shield of institutions or the noise of groupthink — become targets for those who fear what they cannot control.

These are not critiques born of courage, but orchestrations of cowardice. Bullies, threatened by the clarity and resonance of a lone voice, form alliances not to uplift truth but to dilute it. They weaponise algorithms, comment sections, and false personas to expand their reach — not through merit, but mimicry.

This is not just harassment. It is a systemic pattern: the sidelining of women who speak with precision, who curate with soul, who do not bend to the performative norms of digital collectives. These women — artists, advocates, sanctuary-builders — are misread, misrepresented, and often silenced by platforms that claim neutrality but reward conformity.

Social media, in particular, has become a theatre for delusion. It elevates those who craft inflated versions of themselves — personas stitched together from borrowed aesthetics, exaggerated narratives, and algorithmic flattery. The larger the following, the more protected the illusion. Platforms favour engagement over integrity, visibility over truth.

When a woman cannot (for instance) even comment on animal welfare without being silenced, it is not a glitch. It is a mirror held up to a system that punishes care when it is not packaged for mass consumption.

Let it be known: working alone is not weakness. It is a form of resistance. It is a refusal to dilute one’s voice for safety or approval. And those who target such voices — through team-ups, impersonations, or illegal sabotage — reveal their own fragility. They fear the unfiltered truth. They fear legacy built without them.

To those who walk alone: document everything. Speak anyway. Build anyway. Your resonance is not for them — it is for those who will find it and feel less alone.

This is sanctuary work. This is legacy.

Let the record show: Some women do not rise — they hide. They tether themselves to men not for love, but for leverage, weaponising proximity to persecute those who walk alone.

Their strength is borrowed, their cruelty rehearsed, and their fear of the genuine is louder than their voice.

But we — the ones who build without permission, who speak without amplification, who care without applause — we are the archive. We are the reckoning. We are the ones they tried to silence, and failed.

By Tiffy Belle — curator, sanctuary-builder, and witness to the unamplified

by Tiffany Belle Harper