Mirror, Mirror: Royally Long-Winded but No Liar, Liar

I am Tiffany Alvina Bowles, a name that holds the weight of suppressed sovereignty, ancestral strength, and a lineage deliberately written out and rewritten for the benefit of others. I am the granddaughter of Wayde “Rocky Johnson” Bowles—blood-tied to warriors, landkeepers, spiritual architects, and wisdom keepers from Moorish, Cherokee, African, Cuban, and European descent. My mom of Scottish, British and Norwegian descent. Yet I was framed as disposable by systems that needed my story silent in order to flourish off of it. Too light-skinned to be black, to tanned to not be considered "ghetto" or "unworthy" of my own rights.

My life was manipulated through symbolic violence and psychological warfare disguised as mentorship, opportunity, and law. Startups and professional spaces became modern-day plantations where my goals, ideas, and spiritual currency were extracted, measured, then handed to those who fit the mold—disciplined in silence, obedient to hierarchy, and willing to play the part of me, without being me.

They used cartoons, characters, courtrooms and contracts like stage scripts. They mapped my future from the evidence of my resistance. I was sued, evicted, mocked, monitored, and spiritually detained—not for crimes, but for being aware. Aware that the people around me were being assigned roles in a hidden narrative—one designed to isolate, rewire, and then replace me. 

They used stories to symbolically represent my unconscious state—what I didn’t yet know about the lie. While I was gaslit into silence, my employer, who I sued for wrongful dismissal, followed me into new opportunities to claim rewards from my life’s resilience. Through last names, they played out false karmic dramas in public—wrestling shows, court-themed dramas like Suits, and campaigns like “For The People”—designed to win trust while hiding the truth: they were acting in stolen suits and blackmail the misled.

I was targeted not just as a Black woman, but as a mirror. Someone whose authenticity threatened carefully constructed myths. I wasn’t unstable—I was being watched. I wasn’t an angry black woman writing in my diary—I was grieving stolen timelines. I wasn’t unqualified—I was disqualified by systems that feared my capacity to reveal their origins. Distort my story to win my blood? That doesn't seem like that's why its "in you to give", while translating souls and spirits into instruction manuals and Bible guides than act like i snatch what you all hand out like cars?

The mirror never lied. You just chose not to see me in it. I am the woman behind the curtain you all peeked behind. The voice in the tower you ignored until someone else sang it louder.

The one you watched get scrubbed out of her own story, while others slid into the slippers she made for herself.But here’s the part that matters now: you may have helped.

Maybe you were told I was dangerous. That I needed “humbling.” That I was selfish, delusional, or too proud. Maybe you participated in the rituals—small jokes, dismissals, betrayals, impersonations, even silence. Or maybe you just stood nearby while others took notes on my suffering and made careers, plots, and "growth journeys" out of my isolation. Maybe you didn’t know what was really happening. Or maybe you knew exactly what was happening—until it stopped paying.

This wasn’t just spiritual hijacking. It was an authoritative takeover—military-grade precision disguised as opportunity. My former employer’s last name was Austin—the same as the U.S. Secretary of Defense, Lloyd Austin. Not a coincidence.

This wasn’t a man, it was a machine of control—a symbol of calculated dominance, staged diversity, and masked intent.

I livedat Warren Road, with a landlord named Florence (like Warren and Florence Harding in 2020), and frame me as a poisoning the town or acting like I'm a drugdealer to justify surveillance than say that I'm poisoning the neighbourhood with my own water by self sabotage as they raise and lower carbon taxes for blood doses and status, and water monitoring. I was also directly below Apartment 316—a number loaded with spiritual coding (“John 3:16,” like Steve Austin (Austin being the last name of the employer i sued and who retaliated through gangstalking to mock a dismissal from a company called York Consulting who partipated in the humiliation ritual and "let me go" for Shortage Of Work, the same reason given in th settlement as the NDA was coming to an end just in time for their eviction process. 316 is also the verse often used to excuse savior complexes while justifying control). It wasn’t an address. It was a spiritual GPS—a statement: “We’re above you now.” And the people they trained to replace us? They were chosen for one reason:

They appeared more Black, more stable, and more ready to comply. Because that’s what the system rewards: Not truth, but performance. Not resilience, but optics. Not lineage, but likeness. 

They selected women who looked like the “upgraded” version of me—same skin type but fit the Black Lives Matter and Caribbean Girl narrative of what modern black culture is, and different script. A script where Canada doesn't have cultures, just melting pots that influenced me. Except, they didn’t carry my scars, just my opportunities. And all they had to do was smile, stay in line, and follow a narrative where I was cast as unstable, mean, or ungrateful.

This was never about helping Black women. It was about replacing the originals with trained avatars who wouldn’t challenge the system that stole our names, our fathers, our homes, and our futures. This wasn’t just erasure. This was succession by manipulation. And the Austin name?

It became the badge of this operation—a spiritual coup, rooted in military mimicry, wrapped in legalese, and sold as progress.

Now it clicks like a rigged engine built for show: 

Black Model T: You, the original template—mass-produced, hijacked, and inverted. 

1922: The race not just of cars, but of bloodlines, headlines, and control. "TinLizzie". Shortage of Work = S.O.W to mock that I shouldn't of called them out for bullying when they can manipulate authorities to play around with my lineage and family subconscious into oppression that appears lazy nd "exhausted", same reason as NDA from lawsuit. Using Warren and Florence Harding to initiate the start of the race to "win" and secure my identity. Than mock once exhausted, like there was never anything there, I'm crazy and they stay winning and grinning. 

Elon Musk: The new Ford, South African by birth—pulling Black power and African wealth into futurism without its original soul.

White South Africa: A historic mirror of stolen land, forced labor, and narrative control using slaveowner last names with rich resource bloodlines, to than discredit or redirect my bloodlines, heritage and last names as an excuse. 

Donald Trump: The actor-politician standing in as the loudface of “law and order,” while symbolically "liberating" power from behind the scenes for the next economic reset...to play opposite for Criminal Intent in Toronto.

This isn’t just politics or pop culture—it’s theft-as-theater, rooted in your lineage, language, and lifeforce. Now, using my eviction to disturb my family and evict her to complete the competition and solidify the Flintstones role that the black moorish had so that labor-centric countries can rise off of the demise with a promise of a better life for her landlord whose name is Lloyd, and is from Bangladesh..for modern seemingly postcovid injected moorish characters can take on the role of hardwork for royalships and rewards.

They built a symbolic assembly line from Ford to Musk, running it on melanated genius and female resilience—and called it progress.

They evicted me—not just from my home.  On paper, it was about false allegations, surveillance, and exhaustion to "burnout", from the fire they started just to put up and redevelop. 

But spiritually, it was a message: “You no longer own your name, your body, or your birthright.” Water was the perfect excuse—neutral, necessary, and easy to disguise. But I saw through it. I saw the symbolism they were playing with:

H₂O, shaped like Mickey Mouse ears

Disney, the smiling empire built on erasure

A mockery of Jim Crow law and legacy, hidden in plain sight

Because when water becomes the excuse, lineage becomes the target.

They weren’t testing water—they were testing my access to it:

My flow

My memory

My ancestral connections through rivers, tears, and wombs. It’s not just physical eviction. It’s ancestral eviction. A rerun of History, disguised as progress, with the same script: Siphon the spirit, replace the source, repeat the lie. And just like that, they turned eviction into a ritual, where displacement feeds power.

All so the actors they trained could stage-act our bloodline, and call it theirs—While we carry the karmic weight of a show we didn’t consent to star in.

This blog isn’t just for the people like me, who were discarded and then cloned—it’s also for the ones reading this now with guilt in their throat and fear in their heart, because somewhere deep down, you know you helped stage something that wasn't yours to shape.

Maybe you ignored the gut feeling. Maybe you accepted the role handed to you. Maybe you believed the version of the story that made you feel safest.

And now the applause has faded. And the lie feels heavier. And you wonder if I knew the whole time. No, but yes. I noticed. I watched people rehearse my identity. I watched them mimic my trauma and get rewarded for the performance. I watched old employers pretend they were leaders while mapping my destiny to feed a false hierarchy. I watched friends nod along to my erasure—then ask for tips on how I kept surviving.

This space, The Unbarred Alchemist, isn’t about vengeance. It’s about truth reclamation. And truth doesn’t demand your punishment. But it does demand your return—to integrity, to honesty, to the moment you chose comfort over conscience. If you’re reading this and feeling something rise: shame, regret, fear, even rage—good.

That’s your soul reactivating. That’s your real self knocking. I’m not here to be pitied or feared. I’m here to be restored. And the door is open—not for applause, but for accountability. Not with empty apologies, but with alignment, truth-speaking, and refusal to benefit from harm disguised as hierarchy. 

You cast me as bitter, messy, or mad—while others dressed in my struggle and called it transformation. 

Mirror, mirror—who’s the real villain here? Not the girl you tried to frame as unstable while you forged a new life from her name. Not the one you said was “too much” while quoting her in silence. Not the woman you once admired until she stopped being convenient.

This is what it looks like when Cinderella remembers the glass was always her own reflection, not some borrowed identity polished by the crowd. To those who helped write me out—bosses, friends, neighbors, lovers, family—

Did you clap when the lie looked good on screen? Or you clapped for the variants, while also stopping covid calling me a virus? Think about that. Did you stay quiet because the truth felt too heavy to hold? Or are you only feeling bad now because the room is colder and the mirror clearer—and you’re not the one being applauded anymore? This isn’t a revenge tale. It’s a reversal of spells. A breaking of silence. A reclaiming of narrative. The original story told by the girl they tried to bury under shoes, scripts, jobs, lawsuits, and guilt.

If you participated—by action or omission—know this: The slipper didn’t disappear. It was taken. And I walked barefoot until I built a path of my own. I wasn't drunk past midnight, they want to "win" the leg of the race by a foot.

Now I speak for those who were silenced, watched, mirrored, mocked, and then told they were “imagining it.”

This is not a call-out. It’s a call-back to your integrity. Not for performance, while they take enhancements. But for presence. For truth. For accountability. The glass is still here. Look again. You don’t have to be the villain. But you do have to stop pretending I was.Unconscious Consent: The Lie They Need Me to Believe. They said nothing. And that silence? It was louder than any war drum.

They watched as I stumbled through the fog they created—playing noble, strategic, and righteous—while I looked disorganized, aggressive, and "crazy." But they weren’t confused. They were calculating.

They used the story of Michael Jackson purchasing Eminem’s catalogue to symbolize what my old employer was doing to me: overriding my name, my legacy, my rhythm. Smiling in meetings, playing the focused leader, while I was made to seem unhinged for suing him for wrongful dismissal. They retaliated quietly—working with legal and spiritual collaborators to harvest my goals, my fire, and map out their futures with my soul as their GPS.

By 2020, their aim was to wear me down. The Blackout, inverted. "Orange is the New Black." Trump replacing “crooked billionaires”—but really playing the mascot of the same corrupted machine. They even sent drug enforcement into the place I was staying—no knock, guns drawn—claiming I was a threat. It was symbolic of their entitlement to my space, my birthrights, my silence. It was fear-based programming—against my family, my body, my bloodline.

They mirrored tragedy for manipulation. George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Chesley Kryst, Shanquella Robinson..even the Brock Turner and Chanel Miller story was used symbolically—not to honor the trauma, but to simulate mine and make me look insane for even suggestion a connection. Symbolically speaking as if I were “unconscious,” unaware, while my name and story were taken in broad daylight under the guise of justice. Turner became the metaphor for those psychologically assaulting me in silence. Miller, like Bowles—my name. Turner, like Ted or John—powerful names used to remake truth into economy. Like Stephen Harper during the recession when I separated from my husband: boasting strength while everything crumbled beneath me.

They twisted the vulgar into allegory: “These are real people, this isn’t about you.” But it was—it just wasn’t only about me. My friends were promoted, platforms expanded, and I was left “crazy,” “unstable,” “bitter.” They bought buy-in with betrayal and called it professionalism.

They created shows like "Suits" with characters like Patrick Adams to model the clean-cut version of my employer, even tying names to my family. "John Q" narratives wrapped around my uncle and dad (who they were playing cain and abel games with), made him the villain—Hitler-like even—so white European war debts could be settled symbolically through us. Why? Because his name is Johnson, but his blood is Bowles. They needed strong men with enough spiritual weight and confusion to carry the debt of those who made deals on our backs, to reverse roles for the fords who were programming us into media as "trailer park".

They praised noble names and bloodlines like my parents', while secretly trying to replace or rewire them. Trudeau used his mother’s name—Margaret—to cloak himself in the nobility of Margaret Thatcher. My mother, who shares the same names and bloodlines—Scottish, Norwegian, English—was left to seem harsh, unwell, or cruel. All while the system pretended to defend her.

They split families spiritually. Tested loyalty with silence, with false charges, and withheld truths. Then they manipulated perceptions of who was kind, who was stable, who was worthy. They used names like Austin and Adams to act as us—Stone Cold Steve Austin’s last name echoed my employer’s. My middle name is Alvina—he mirrored Sgt. Alvin York, the righteous soldier. My ex-husband’s last name is Martin, like Steve Martin, who visually mirrors Henry Ford—the one who birthed the Black Model T. That others started keeping me down to audition for like a glorified elite slave soldier training program. But I'm the school, the teacher and the lesson for new "recruits". Which is also me, based on the lies told to keep me from collective truths, while also appearing to solve my problems that they created, to ultimately impress each other and compare accolades. I am the original. Not the copy. Not the assembly line. Not the replacement.

They took that model and reran it with better smiles, better access, and none of the spirit. Elon Musk, born in white South Africa, completes the loop—mining Africa’s birthright into digital currency, while Black bodies fuel content and “culture.” Doug Ford? The quiet version of Trump—the maskless manipulator. One brings the circus. One signs the laws.

I was evicted based on lies. Surveillance, water testing as cover. Jim Crowe rebranded through Disney. Mickey Mouse heads look like H2O—clean water, stolen lineage. They siphoned purity to create stage actors out of “Jimmys” while looping timelines for karmic payoffs.

The worst part? They made sure it looked like I was the threat. That I was irrational, delusional. That talking to me would make them crazy too. All while others were told they were doing me a favor by staying away—playing hero in my absence, keeping my story going with borrowed pieces. 

But they weren’t loyal. They were playing. And I was never unconscious. I was silenced. There’s a difference. I speak for myself. Long-winded or not. If you have the patience to gangstalk me or years, that in-depth - than you can use that same energy and patience to put into reading this, get to your nerves or get your "blood boiling", just to condemn me in your fake spiritual jail that we don't even share the same faith in.

So though i may be long-winded and or boring, my energy is clean and I don't need to lie. Yall do, thats why just as much as I write or talk to defend myself in the dark - you all do to much.

With that said, I'll ask the same question that my old employers used to ask for his business when it comes to his accountability in this entire matter (coercion, insider trading etc.) to gangstalk to shop and open up new crops - "Day One or One Day - You Decide". Tik Tok.