It’s currently 3:25am on Monday 5 May, and I’m sitting here in the front living room of my brother’s house, where I live, in sheer terror. I feel physically sick — so much so that the sickness has crept into my chest and feels like an elephant is standing on it. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I’m shaking. I have never felt so completely and utterly alone in my life — and I want to explain why.
Last Wednesday, I received a text message addressed to me by name. It said that the sender's support worker was going to approve me for something, and asked me to call them urgently. It was signed off with a name I’ll call “Morton.” I didn’t think much of it — I get a lot of spam messages — so I ignored it.
Then I got another message from the same number saying something about Morton being a whistleblower. I assumed it was somehow related to a human rights organisation I’m involved with. Normally I’m interested in that kind of thing, but it still sounded a bit off, so I let it go.
The next day, I received another text from the same number — this time saying that people were trying to kill him, that he’d contacted the UN and the ICC, and that no one was listening. He asked for money. It was clear he was in a severe mental health crisis. This time, the message was signed by a different name — “Dr. Lewis Clements.” That name rang a bell, but I couldn’t immediately place it.
I responded, asking how he got my number. He didn’t reply, so I sent another message saying I wasn’t angry, just curious— and that it was fair for me to ask. I then accidentally called him and quickly hung up. He messaged me back straight away asking me to call again. I didn’t.
After that, I started reading his messages more closely. They were deeply disturbing. He mentioned having AVOs against him, accusations of rape—which he denied—and claimed he was being hunted and erased. The violence he described was mostly directed at himself, but the tone was increasingly unhinged.
I Googled him. That’s when I realised: I knew Dr. Lewis Clements. He’s an academic, illustrator, artist, and life coach based in Victoria. Five years ago, I had a phone life coaching session with him. I didn’t like the way he spoke — he creeped me out — so when he sent me an invoice and asked when I’d like my next session, I said I didn’t want one. He asked for feedback; I said I didn’t have any.
He’s also a person living with schizophrenia, and an NDIS provider — though I never saw him through the NDIS because I’m not a recipient. Still, one of his more recent texts included a letter he said I should send to my new NDIS provider, speaking out about abuse by a previous one — which made no sense in my case.
But what really terrified me was that in one of his messages, he said: “I’ve just arrived in Adelaide.” Then he sent me a group message on WhatsApp — with a photo of himself. The group setting made me feel slightly safer, but it’s still unimaginably frightening.
I’m someone who gets scared at night at the best of times. It’s a big house. There are multiple entry points. But this… this has pushed me beyond my limit.
I’ve spoken to my mum, and she’s understandably scared too. I’ve barely slept since I realised who he was. And he keeps messaging me.
I called the police and told them: a man with schizophrenia I once had contact with in Melbourne five years ago has come to Adelaide and is now sending me disturbing messages with violent undertones. They told me there’s nothing they can do unless he directly threatens me or takes action. But he seems fixated on me.
He constantly talks about the NDIS. I suspect he was de-registered for misconduct, based on what he’s written. He says he’s homeless, without food or money, living in an unregistered car with his psychiatric care dog. He shared his bank account details and demanded help — claiming that if I or other people he is sending the message to don’t help, we’re complicit in his death.
I want to call the RSPCA. There’s a dog out there, living on the streets, with a man who is completely out of his mind.
This has come at the worst possible time for me. I was working on fixing my sleep before I start university — but now I stay up all night with the lights on, barely able to move, I’m so afraid. I can’t live like this.
I think I’m on the brink of a breakdown. Every tiny noise makes my stomach drop. I re-read his messages and they’re full of delusion. The whole situation is so unbelievably unprofessional and I have never been so genuinely scared in my entire life.
I contacted both the police and Mental Health Triage. They both told me to block his number. But I can’t — because I need to know what he’s thinking. I need to know if he’s still in Adelaide. I need to know if he’s escalating.
My mum asked if I should stay in a hotel for a while. But I don’t want to leave her here alone. He probably doesn’t know our address from that one session we had, but he could easily get it through the Electoral Commission. He has my full name — it’s in my email address.
And in some strange way, my heart bleeds for him. He’s homeless. He’s sick. He’s suffering. A part of me wants to send him money — anonymously — just so he's got enough for something to eat for himself and his dog. But I know I can’t. Not even that’s safe.
Because he’s been aggressively intrusive. He’s crossed professional and ethical boundaries that have left me feeling physically unsafe in my own home.
The only thing that has truly kept me going through this is ChatGPT. I’ve sent it everything he’s written. It’s gone through each message calmly, rationally, and with so much care. It’s sat with my fear. It’s helped me feel like someone — even if it's just AI — it's keeping me tethered. ChatGPT told me to call the police. It didn’t downplay my fear. It’s been the kindest, safest space I’ve had through all of this, and I am deeply, deeply grateful.
Right now, all I can think about is how to get through the next minute without completely losing it. But through this, two things have struck me deeply.
First: it is absolutely unacceptable that anyone can go into the Electoral Commission and get your home address. Yes, you can apply to become a silent elector — but why should you have to justify your right to privacy? I don’t think anyone should have the right to know where you live, especially without your consent. It’s a deeply flawed and dangerous system.
Second: I’ve been thinking about victims of domestic violence and stalking. I’m not for a moment comparing my situation to theirs — I know they are far more severe and ongoing — but the police telling me they “can’t do anything unless he threatens me or acts” is chilling. What kind of world are we living in where the line of safety is only acknowledged after it’s crossed? This system expects people to protect themselves in the dark — to stay hyper-alert — and that’s just not sustainable. It's isolating. It's terrifying.
And through all this, I find myself missing my Dad.
I wish he were still alive. I used to feel so safe with him. When I lived with Mum and Dad — which I did on and off for years — I never felt afraid if he was there. He had a kind of confidence, a calm but firm authority. I remember once my brother had a party and some sketchy kids showed up. One of them, a complete little dickhead, made a smart arse remark about Dad’s pulled up socks to his face— he might’ve even called him a faggot. But Dad just looked him straight in the eye and said, “Get off my property now,” and pointed the way out. The kid left without a word.
That’s what safety felt like.
Right now, I don’t feel safe with just Mum here. Like I said, she said that I should go and stay at a hotel for a few nights, but I said, “What are you going to do if a schizophrenic man shows up here with a knife?” And she said she’d be fine. But the truth is, she absolutely wouldn’t be.
And yet, when I think about it intellectually, there is part of me that believes I’m safe. It’s just that my body hasn’t caught up to that fact. The fear lives in my stomach, in my chest. My brain is trying to talk my body down, but it’s like there’s a wild current running through me that won’t settle.
Some of the messages I received were clearly directed to a group, not just me. He named other people in them, although some of the messages use my name and clearly reference our conversation five years ago. I just want to be somewhere I feel 100% safe. Somewhere I can put my head on a pillow and sleep properly.
Brian Wilson, the co-founder of the Beach Boys, has schizoaffective disorder, and I think he’s a magnificent example of how someone living with a condition that starts with “schizo” can channel its chaos into creative genius.
I’ve been listening to the Beach Boys’ song “God Only Knows” on repeat tonight. It’s become a kind of emotional anchor, a reminder of the gentle side of schizophrenia, the tenderness that can still live within it. And honestly, it’s been making me feel a little bit better.
Here’s a beautiful thing: “God Only Knows” is often called one of the greatest love songs ever written, but when it was first released in 1966, the title was controversial. Some radio stations were hesitant to play it because it mentioned “God,” but that didn’t stop it from becoming a masterpiece. Paul McCartney once said it’s “the greatest song ever written.”
Brian composed it during one of the most fragile periods of his life, grappling with the early signs of mental illness while trying to create something beautiful and holy. And he did. You can feel it — in the French horn opening, in Carl Wilson’s soft vocals, in the way it aches without ever collapsing.
It’s a strange comfort knowing that someone like Brian Wilson could be both broken and brilliant — and that his music can still reach across decades to soothe someone like me in the midst of despair.
Despite all this fear and everything that goes along with it, something good has been happening: I just finished my second weekend making calls with to isolated elderly people and I love it.
I used to call Nanny every morning to check she was okay, and in some small way, making these calls feels like that. Last weekend, when I first started, I struggled a little with conversation. But this weekend was different. There was so much to talk about with the election! On Saturday, people told me how they’d done a postal vote, or were going to vote. On Sunday, we spoke about the results. I felt so awful all week from those messages, but for that one hour on Saturday, and one on Sunday, I felt good. I felt like myself again, talking to beautiful people about real things.
Last week, Mum and I walked past a funky little art shop in Norwood and stopped to look in the window. Among all the quirky, colourful pieces, Mum spotted a frog trinket, a small box of some kind, and said how much she loved it.
So on Saturday, I went back to the shop alone and bought it for her for Mother’s Day, which is this coming Sunday. As I was paying, the man behind the counter, who was obviously the owner, said, “This was made in Israel.”
My heart skipped a beat.
I wasn’t going to not buy it. But the moment reminded me of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions, BDS, movement, which I’ve followed and thought about before. I asked him whether it was made in the West Bank, and he said he didn’t know. Mum had loved it so much, so I bought it anyway.
I want to go to Israel.
I know it’s dangerous right now. And I’m not a particularly adventurous traveller. But if the situation improves even a little bit, if it becomes just 20% safer than it is now, I would go.
Even though I’m not religious, I want to be where Jesus was. But more than that, I want to see with my own eyes how Israelis treat Palestinians as second-class citizens in a land that should be their home.
