One evening on my way to sing with friends, I noticed I was unusually thrilled by the sight of the simplest things – the beauty of greenery beside a brick building, stone wall or window ledge over a garden.  I wondered if I would share this ecstasy when my friends asked casually “How are you tonight?” or if I should keep the thrill to myself.  I thought I should do the latter, as they might think I was manic-depressive.  Then, for the first time in many years, I wondered, Am I manic-depressive? (I don’t think I am.)

       Next I thought:  If I am, I don’t think there’s anything actually wrong with that.  It would probably be a natural thing, maybe a healthy way to deal with the trauma of having been born to parents who, for whatever reason, didn’t have the insight or intuition in their twenties to know better than to give their daughter to the CIA for mind control experiments. 

       Suddenly, I had to turn my car around and drive home, too depressed to speak to anyone, much less sing.

       I’m certain my parents were told the training I’d receive would make me smart, obedient, disciplined (all of which would improve the quality of my entire life), and was an opportunity to serve their country.  They were patriotic young Americans, bearing the proud surname Eisenhower, enthused about the good life after the Second World War, and probably seduced to think they’d have regular contact with important people in government.  After all, my father’s father was second cousin to Ike.  And Stewart Udall, soon to become Secretary of the Interior, had a home in town, and maybe he was the one who offered my parents this “opportunity.”  He had a cousin, Addison, who was my pediatrician.  Yes, my parents were perfectly poised to rub shoulders with powerful people.  Indeed, by the time I was eight, we had moved into an exclusive neighborhood, in a new custom home very near Mr. Udall.  He came to our Christmas party that year.

       In 1993, I realized that I’d been sexually abused as a child, which was such a shock that I became totally unable to work.  (My boss had just offered me the ownership of his $3-4-million-grossing, international, environmental tour company, but I kept “passing out” multiple times every day after this new awareness.)  I became so dysfunctional that I tried to commit myself to two mental institutions, then used credit cards to build a house in the desert and became a hermit.

       Accepting the reality of my memories made my world miserable, but intensely clear.  My past made sense as it never had before.  I felt more like a living person in a living body than I’d ever experienced.  Even my eyes tested better at the optometrist’s.  I chose the clarity, even with its excruciating pain, over the vagueness which had been my old life – with its story that I’d had a happy childhood.

       I don’t remember many details of the abuse, and those memories I do have, have strange blank spots where I know there are people.  I don’t actually want to remember, because what I do recall disgusts me and debilitates me for days or weeks or months after a memory.  So, I put no visuals or any particular people into this idea and have chosen the least sickening possibility that I can think of, which is that my parents gave me to others who did the deeds, my parents unconscious of what they were doing, or believing that it was a good thing. 

       First memory:  I am a baby on my back, naked legs before me in the air, something happening inside me, then pricks, pinches, pulling, then pain so great I leave my body, float up high, and look down on my mother, slumped on the floor near the wall as though she’d just slid down.  One hand supports her while the other covers her anguished mouth, and her eyes bulge with horror.

       In my book (see the second link at the top of the column to the right), I published a photo of the slice in my g-spot from front to back, but there are two other sideways slices that can’t be seen, and the characteristic ribbed skin of my g-spot has been removed and perhaps more of the organ.

       Maybe it was because I learned to leave my body in that instant that I developed the ability to regularly meet with help in other dimensions, with whom I loved to visit.  Sometimes at night, I’d be thrilled to feel the other dimension drop over me, knowing I’d momentarily be with my help again.  One night they told me that it would be a long time before I could be with them next, during which time I was supposed to become stronger in myself.  I remember the sadness of that message and the loneliness that followed.

       As scraps of memories have come back over the years, I’ve put together this understanding:

       The sexual mutilation ritual was probably performed by mind control experimenters to deeply shock my mind, just as all baby boys who are circumcised today are traumatically shocked a day after their births.  I assume this is to intentionally create passivity in our culture, much as we create it in domestic animals, lopping off their ears, tails, toes and testicles, which might simplify our caring for them, but at the same time makes them more docile – knowing who it is who can inflict great pain.

       While we know this is done to many little boys, I suspect other girls are also selected for genital mutilation.  Since female mutilation can’t be easily justified as it is for boys (though I don’t think it’s justified either), it must be done in secret; and in the event of bleeding, someone came up with the cover story about baby girls sometimes bleeding because their mother’s hormones cause them to menstruate.  I don’t think so.

       Some people say the experimenters are Nazis, brought to the US under Operation Paperclip, helping the CIA continue their development of mind control techniques;  others say they are Satanists, who essentially subcontract dirty work from the CIA; others say all these elements – Nazis, Satanists, secret societies, and other “rogue elements,” especially in our governments – are all in a secret global Network, keeping the majority of humans enslaved or disempowered with control through education, Media, entertainment, etc. and hard-core mind control for certain individuals.  Certain churches and their clergy were brought into the Network to provide a place for female mutilation to be done in secret rituals.

       How are children chosen?  Probably, there are many ways.  Satanists, like many occultists, take an interest in astrology and numerology.  I happen to have been born on July 7, ‘52, a date that reduces to 7-7-7.  This date was also a Monday (“moon day”), sits in the center of Cancer, also known as “Moon Child,” and was also a full moon – and I was born within eight minutes of the perfection of the fullness – within 2/1,000ths of a degree.  Three sevens and three powerful moons.  Finally, it was also the day that Dwight D. Eisenhower was nominated to the Republican Presidential ticket.  This seemed mundane to me until I read that Satanists also like historical dates.

       Eight years after I moved to my hermitage (with a four-year-long break taken in the middle), I learned about CIA mind control and how it requires the psychological creation of a “multiple personality” – created by the induction of extreme trauma – in order to create programmed “alters” hidden inside an unwitting subject.  This process is very  well documented, with CIA Director testimony to a Senate Special Hearing in 1973, 18,000 pages of mind control financial files discovered not to have been destroyed as the CIA believed, and testimony of mind control subjects collected using the best scientific standards – all confirming a network of underground organizations cooperating to create controllable human pawns, sometimes called “Manchurian Candidates” (because the supposed Chinese research was our nation’s excuse for pursuing it too – “for national security”).

       There were 20,000 children, it is estimated, who were brought into the program through eighty military and hospital facilities in the United States and Canada.  The children were taken in at around age six and returned to their homes two years later.  I have almost total amnesia for the two years of my life between ages six and eight during which I remember not a single face, room, or scene, but one:

       I am standing before an easel watching my fellow students busily painting away, while I just stand.  I can’t understand how my classmates can work with such abandon.  I wonder, How can they paint?  How can they do that?  Then my teacher commands me to “Paint!”

       “I don’t know what to paint,” I say, and she tells me, “Paint a tree.”

       Okay, I think.  I can take direction.

       I turn to my easel and paint a tree bent diagonally in the wind, then dip my brush into black and smear that all over the tree, then paint black leaves blowing by in black wind, then blacken the ground from side to side.  I am satisfied.

       In another flashback that hit me once, when I happened to be sitting on my bed reveling in a moment’s beauty, I felt a helmet put on my child’s head and a chin strap abruptly fastened.  On one side of the interior of the strap, which fit fully around my jaw, a half a tennis ball had been adhered which, when the strap was locked into place, pushed my jaw sideways out of joint, blinding me with pain.  My hands flew up and flapped over the imaginary helmet, seeking its release.  Saliva flowed copiously, and I couldn’t swallow with my jaw out of joint.  Almost choking on the fluid, I fell forward on my bed to drain my mouth, and still couldn’t stop my arms from flapping frantically while my face, planted down into the bedspread, became a pivot point for my thrashing body, my grunts and gasps interspersed with breathy screams.  Then the imagined helmet was released, and I felt my child agree to obedience to whatever those adults would tell me.  Later, I read that others have also testified about having joints dislocated as a method of control that leaves no evidence of torture.

       I also believe I was sometimes left cold and hungry, as I often feel inexplicable panic over being just a little bit hungry or a few degrees too cool.  I can also become enraged when awakened from sleep, because I was often awakened to be raped – I remember this clearly.

       Another flashback that came on me once, unbidden (I was simply walking through my home when this scene hit me):  A brilliant light flashes, then a crowd of men in white moves back, while one of them moves in to put his face near mine and say three short phrases very clearly.  He repeats them then withdraws, and someone else with things in his hands reaches them toward either side of my head.  Again, blinding light.  I believe this was an electroshock induction of mind control.

       One day when I was eight, my father, a veterinarian, came home from work unusually early, shortly after I’d gotten home from school.  He held a hypodermic needle upward, in the manner that doctors do, and told me that he had my booster shot to give me.  The strange thing was that he was smiling so intently into my eyes that I was mesmerized.  I came toward that smile like a thirsty animal toward water.

       He told me he gave “the best shots in the world,” and that I wouldn’t even feel it, because he had the perfect technique.  He said, “Look away, and you won’t even feel it.”  I did, and he was right:  I didn’t feel it. 

        Clearly, it wasn’t my booster, so what was it?  Years later, he would become “spitting mad” (his language) and nearly speechless with rage when I mentioned hypnosis or psychotherapy.

       We had recently moved into our new, custom, ranch-style home, where my parents hosted a Christmas party attended by Stewart Udall, who would become Secretary of the Interior the next year.  His cousin, Addison Udall, my pediatrician, was also there, and in the few short minutes that we children were allowed to mingle with the adults, I told him the only thing I could think of that he might relate to:  “My father gives the best shots in the world.  He gives me my boosters.”  My father was standing there, and I saw him blanche.  The looks that shot between the two of them let me know I’d said something I shouldn’t have.

       Not only did my parents say very little to me, but I have not a single memory of either of them ever smiling at me when I was young, except for the hypodermic memory and holiday events.  Withholding smiles may have been part of my training, or it may have simply been because I reminded them of what they’d done.

       One other flashback came from my teenage years – with a firestorm of emotion:  I was in the shower, forty-two years old, when suddenly I felt myself a teenager, fiercely anguished, arms crossed over my youthful breasts, fists in knots, face to the ceiling, screaming inside without words, because words weren’t enough, and it seemed that my skin burned red with blood at its surface.

       I had just been handed a white, beaded satin bodice, which soon would be all I’d wear onstage.  I feel poisoned to my core and want to burst from my body.  My forty-two-year-old self is in shock, as I wonder, How?!  How can this be?  This couldn’t happen when I was a teen!  I accepted that it happened when I was a child, but please not this!  But I felt it in all my being.

       I’d had tiny hints a time or two that putting me on stage might have been something they would have done, but I’d brushed it aside and never considered it.  Then this memory burst upon me.  I see my young self as a thin green tree with smooth bark and few limbs, my thoughts simple and few, my questions daunting:  Why is so much unknown to me?  When will I know?  How will it come about?  Then my skin is screaming with the memory of white beaded satin laid in my hands.  My pain is too much and the young one blinks out.

       It was nine more years before I realized I’d not only been a sexual abuse victim, but a mind control subject as well.  The other memories had been plenty to deal with; but then the mind control information rang true, made everything snap into focus, and sent me into a mental tailspin. 

       First, the world became clear, though it was also extremely painful.  I sought alternative ideas, including returning to my previous reality, in which I’d never considered things like this, but that old world, I now realized, had always been strangely vague, and I’d spent most of my life foggy and numb.

       These new memories were not only painful, but accompanied by fear:  Somebody might still want to mess with my mind, and maybe I’m still programmable.  If this were the case, I’d rather die.  I had evidence that I was still being programmed and used, and it caused me so much grief that I could barely function some days.  For years, I considered suicide daily, not as a release from psychological pain, which was great, but as a logical way to thwart my controllers.  Somehow I talked myself out of this.

       I’ve been integrating my multiple personalities now for over seventeen years, working to understand the mind control for eight years, and my work continues.  I credit my healing to interactions with helpers on other realms.  (More on this in another essay.)

       Perhaps the promises given my parents were partially true.  I was a very smart child, not very social and not highly motivated toward school, but able to score in the top ninety-eight percentile in the nation on a number of exams, and I’ve been invited into MENSA a few times.  While I’ve owned my own businesses for most of the last twenty-five years, whenever I ventured near the mainstream, people opened doors for me with a frequency and enthusiasm that made me nervous; I never knew why, but the mainstream was not attractive. 

          For the last few years, I’ve focused on learning to socialize, trying to make up for what I missed as a frightened child.  I’m also trying to moderate my discipline, learning the joy of letting chores go while I enjoy writing or some other art.  I spend most evenings quietly (never watching television, not since 1974), just reading, journaling, putting my life in a context beyond this Earth and all its horrors.  And I’m learning how to sing.  It makes me happy.

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