Part II: Overview of a Life with Mind Control

I realize that by hitting the Publish button, I could bring on the controllers’ wrath, but I’ll do it anyway.  Truth feels more important today than my comfort.

(Please read Part I first, as well as the two introductions that precede.)

Mind control is finally becoming an accepted fact in America.

It is a terribly unpleasant subject, but it has been testified to by no less than the Director of the CIA to a Senate Investigative Hearing (twice in the 1970s) – that it has been done to unwitting citizens and non-citizens, prisoners, military recruits, even people in higher positions of respect, adults and children, since the 1940s.  There is tremendous documentation – 20,000 pages the last time I researched it – all of it available online or by requesting it from the government through the Freedom of Information Act – besides the accounts of many victims.

In Cold War America, our intelligence agencies used the threat of other nations developing mind-controlled warriors to justify their conducting this research.  Today, we have new testimony that aliens have also been involved and may have even been the leaders of the project, but I’ll save that idea for later.

Mind control has many manifestations, from subtle and broad scale, as in our education and media, to cruelly coercive and shockingly powerful, including the development of amnesic assassins.  Court records document this crime going back to 19th century European hypnotists, and it is probably the basis for ancient Haitian tales of zombie slaves, and possibly more.

Many books have been written on the subject, some by doctors, such as Collin Ross; others by victims, like myself, Anne Diamond, Carla Emery and many more; and others by researchers and journalists, such as Donald Bain who wrote about the most famous “pin-up girl” in the world in the 1940s, Candy Jones.

Interested or skeptical readers are encouraged to do their research.  There is too much to summarize in this personal account, though I’ll insert information as necessary.

Warning:  This essay will include a great deal of sexual material, as mind controllers often take advantage of their subjects in this way, and that was my experience.

I have known since childhood that I wasn’t like others.  While I’d been identified as “gifted” and maybe a genius from a young age (and would later test at genius levels at various times in my life), I’d been called a “split personality” by my best friend in grade school when I was not able to remember some sexual play that she said I’d participated in in the 5th grade – which should have been significant and memorable.  When I began menses, I squatted over a mirror to put in my first tampon and was shocked to see that I looked terrifically stretched out, but fully believed myself a virgin.

At age 17, still believing myself a virgin, I was on a date which wound up at the boy-man’s apartment.  He was more presumptive than any boy I’d ever dated and began to undress me.  I went into a trance in which I heard myself screaming “NO!” silently inside, while my body went entirely limp and passive, and I did nothing to stop myself from being raped.  I couldn’t speak for an hour or so afterward.

Three years ago, a boy I knew in high school reconnected with me on the Internet and mentioned our having dated, though I only thought of him as having dated my best friend; I had no memory of any date.  We decided to talk on the phone, and he told me, in very concerned tones, that he had always been bothered by an experience we’d had.  He said that we’d gotten very close to having sex in the back seat of his car, when I suddenly began screaming at the top of my lungs, and he was terrified that neighbors would call the police.  He said I went entirely rigid, so that it was extremely, and comically, difficult for him to dress me.  He took me home and we never went out again.  And I have no memory for any of it.

When my son was 6-weeks old and I left him in the church nursery, I forgot entirely that I had a baby – even when an acquaintance asked me where he was; I wondered who had a baby that she was mixing me up with.  When I suddenly came around and remembered that I did indeed have a baby and I had left him in the church nursery – those words, church nursery, were as terrifying to me as Satan’s den.  I ran in terror to retrieve him, with horrible regret that I had done such a dreadful thing as to leave him there.

Mind control is done in a variety of settings, the most common being  government and military installations, hospitals under contract to the CIA, and churches.  Evidence indicates that the organizations using the technology sometimes work together, to procure subjects, to share techniques, and to provide shielding from investigation.

My mother’s mother was a “jack-Mormon,” meaning she wasn’t a regular church-goer anymore, and my own mother followed suit.  When we did go occasionally, I knew we were looked down on.  Once, I recall leaving “children’s church” and looking back over my shoulder at the building with deep hatred, thinking “I’ll never go back there again.”  But I have no memory for why I felt such rage.

My mother’s father was killed when she was eight, and her mother, widowed at the start of the Great Depression, was hard-pressed to support herself and two little girls.  She was an excellent cook and baker, and miraculously (or tragically), she met some wealthy bankers who appreciated her enterprising nature (so the family story goes) and offered to finance her to fill an empty building of theirs with a restaurant, outdoor patio seating, bakery, and conference rooms, which became the meeting point for the powerful people of that city for the next twenty-five years.

Every day of her life for those twenty-five years, my mother says, her mother went for a walk with Mr. H. at lunch time.  “When he showed up at the doorway, she left instantly, no matter what she was doing, and went directly to take a walk with him,” my mother said more than once.  I remember that man; he never gave a glance at anyone else, just coldly at my grandmother.  And my mother says that her mother never told anyone what they talked about, perhaps because she didn’t remember, or maybe she was instructed not to.  I believe he was her mind controller.  And if he’s like most of them, he took advantage of her sexually, and perhaps her daughters too.

My father was a child actor who toured from age 7 to age 9 with a theater troupe, in a non-speaking role, after which he came home to his family a traumatized stutterer.  Trauma is the basis for mind control.

The basis for mind control is splitting the personality – creating multiple personalities – and then programming certain ones to obey commands.  “Multiple” parents tend to raise children who are multiple, I assume because their incoherence demands the children also be incoherent.  I have seen my mother shift from one personality to another, with the second apparently unaware of what the first said just a moment ago.  Once, she told a fun little anecdote about my childhood, and when I asked for a little detail, she bowed her head, then raised it again with seemingly angry suspicion, like someone was trying to corner her, her eyes darting to each side as she spit out, “I never said you’d….” naming the event she’d just happily told a moment ago.

Multiple personality (or dissociative identity disorder) is created with torture.  To put it simply, the personality can’t “take” or integrate the torture and so the personality “goes away.”  The brain keeps recording experience as always, but on a new “fresh slate” of neural tissue, creating a new hologram of being, a new alter which could one day be a full personality, or maybe just a shell for programming.  The mind control practitioner names this new “alter,” tells it who’s boss, reinforces control with a little more torture, and begins to lay in commands for when this hidden personality will “come out” and execute orders.  Then it puts the captive alter to sleep and the basic personality returns.

(This technique was probably developed after someone watched someone else split in an accidental trauma.  So some multiples have been created accidentally.)

Sometimes multiples, under stress, switch personalities accidentally, or create new personalities, since their subconscious has discovered what an easy trick it is to escape discomfort.  Some people create hundreds of personalities this way and really have a difficult time negotiating life.  The subconscious can also create networks to keep the whole system under control, which I seem to have done fairly successfully.  Or a controller can.

Sometimes multiples remember an alter spontaneously, especially when they’re older and brain cells begin to degrade, breaking barriers to memory. Once in my second marriage, in the late 1980s, I was having sex with my husband, when suddenly I flashed back to being a little child on my back on a bed in a small room with wallpaper on my left, a window on my right, and the door beyond my feet.  I was lying naked, and someone was standing looking at me.  I can describe in great detail the wallpaper, the window shade and the bedspread I was lying on, but the person is blanked out in my memory.  I was sick with a desire to flee but had experience with what was coming, so I “did was I always do,” I told myself, and turned my head to the wallpaper and began reciting its design:  the roses are pink, the lines around the roses are wavy…. etc.  I felt proud of myself for escaping, and thought that this was a very smart invention, something I figured out all by myself, that adults hadn’t even taught me, and I thought that they might not even know how to do it, and I praised myself for escaping.  But as soon as I thought that, I almost remembered the thing I had escaped, and almost went back into my body, but caught myself and returned to the wallpaper, telling myself I should never do that again.

I was mystified by this, but didn’t have the time and energy to think about it, so I put the memory away.

In 2002, when I was in Oakland for the Judi Bari v FBI trial, I was walking downtown to visit the bank and suddenly found myself feeling weird and walking west instead of south, completely confused, though I’d traveled this way before.  I had never recalled turning west, and was momentarily, quietly terrified by the strange feeling.

I had recognized I was multiple in 1994 and had begun to try to heal myself, but I had never given a thought to mind control.  I did know, though, that the FBI was ruthless, capable of murder, and might do anything to people sending out media releases about them to the world.  I wondered if they had somehow subconsciously done something to me, made me lose time, and now I was wandering around lost downtown.  A few weeks later, the whole picture would dawn on me.

When I returned home after the trial, I was a little nervous about being alone after writing such scathing material about the feds, but my concern was for the FBI.  The CIA had never crossed my mind.

One of my best friends lived nearby and we’d visited frequently over the past couple years and confided to each other our problems, including deeply personal ones.  A few days after coming home, I received an email from her saying, “Check out these websites.  I think they might explain everything we’ve been dealing with.”  (Later she would tell me how her mother had been recruited to work in the office of a famous CIA director.)

To my horror, I began reading about mind control, and instead of being turned off by the appalling subject, I experienced feelings of dread and horror, but also sickening familiarity and even – disconcertingly, twisting my mind – relief – that finally something that had needed expression was able to surface at long last.

This was horrible!  My rational mind, of course, was arguing to reject it.  My emotional body was hurting, certainly, while some deeper place in me was saying, “Yes, it’s horrible, and it’s sad, but you must look at it.”

I continued to read for days and came across much material that helped me make further sense of my life.  I was partially elated to be on the path to further knowledge and self-understanding, but I was also terrified of the people who might try to keep me, their asset, under their control.  I spent the next few years contemplating suicide nearly every day.  Even when I wasn’t in total despair, it seemed a very logical practical action to remove myself from their clutches, to keep from being their tool to do other terrible things in this world.

One weekend, I attended a women’s spiritual gathering a few hours from home.  On the way home in the dark, on the Interstate, my headlights went out shortly after getting gas.  I decided, logically, to walk back to the gas station and call my boyfriend to come get me.  Instead, I sat in the van and tried to talk myself into going, while a voice in my head told me to just wait.  I argued with the voice for what seemed like a half-hour, and sometimes sat passively thinking, “This is strange, just sitting here.”  Intermittently, I would command myself to go, but I’d just sit there.  Finally, I had the idea to turn the key, unlock the steering wheel, and coast backwards down the slight slope and shorten the distance I had to walk.  I did that, but the lights came on, so I drove home.

The next morning, trying to make love with my partner, I discovered I had such pain inside my vagina that this would be impossible.  We tried to locate the pain, but there wasn’t an obvious wound.  I could only recreate the pain if I tried to stretch the tissue.  We used a mirror and saw a puncture wound in my g-spot.  (It would take years for me to stretch the scar tissue enough to have sex again.)

Starting to get anxious, we talked about my drive home, and it was then that I learned that I had not been a half-hour late getting home, as I’d assumed, but two hours late!  We associated this with alien abduction, for reasons I’ll go into in the next part.  Later that day, I blew a blood clot out of my nose – something that had never happened to me before – and we began to grapple with the idea that I might have had a classic “alien abduction” on the highway.

We’d been reading a little about aliens, including books by Dr. John E. Mack, the Harvard psychiatrist who researched alien contacts for years before his untimely death.  They included many accounts of his hypnosis or relaxation sessions, including descriptions of his techniques.  They seemed simple enough, and I thought I could probably hypnotize myself, as I’d once discovered myself to be easily hypnotizable (a characteristic of mind control subjects).  I gave my partner some cue cards and explained what sorts of things I wanted him to say to help me if I became distressed and needed help.

I used the techniques and went back to that time when I sat in the van, unable to move.  I was not looking forward to it (the idea of aliens embarrassed me), but I was fully expecting to experience a traumatic scene in which aliens took me from the van, but that’s not what I saw.  Instead, I heard the van door slide open and heard a human male voice command me to come to the back of the van where my bed was still open after camping, and I turned to obey.  The leader had sat in a seat behind me, and two others were standing outside the van, leaning into and toward the door.  They were all dressed in tan auto mechanics’ uniforms, but I knew they were CIA agents.  Instantly terrified by the meaning of this, I brought myself out of the hypnosis, deeply panicked, and never tried that again.  But I had the explanation I needed.

Another day, walking across my one-room house, I suddenly had a flashback of being in my child’s body, regaining my vision after a flash of white, seeing a half-dozen men in white coats closely crowding around me, then they pulled away, and another man leaned forward and said three short commands to me, then put his hands, holding the ends of some appliance in each, to my temples.  I reeled with emotion and sat down to recover from the shock.

I remembered going with my mother on a train to New Mexico when I was about five, but I don’t remember the train ride back.  I also remember waking up at home one afternoon with the sensation that I’d been asleep “for a very long time,” and I told this to my family who seemed suspiciously interested in the fact that I was awake, though denying that it had been anything but overnight.  I finally gave up my assertions, but knew they were lying to me.  Years later, I asked my mother why we’d gone to New Mexico – a very odd thing, as our family never split up like that, but did everything together – and she said we’d visited my aunt, which still doesn’t make sense, and I don’t remember any visit.

I have almost total amnesia for first and second grade, though I remember scores of events from preschool and memories come back fully in third grade.  The only memories I have in first grade are of painting a tree – as instructed by my teacher – and rimming it with black, with black wind blowing by, forcing the tree over 45 degrees, with black leaves blowing by.  Any art therapist would have a heyday with that.  I also recall showing it to my mother at Open House.  All the rest of those two years are a total blank, and those are the years documented as being the most common years that the two-year mind control programs were run on children by the CIA.

I began to have nightmares at some young age, of running from someone across a plowed field toward a tarmac with airplanes in the distance, with someone pursuing me.  I felt drugged and hardly able to lift my legs, but I was trying, terrified that the person would catch me.  I continued to have the same nightmare throughout my life until the day I accepted that I might have been a mind control subject; then the nightmares ceased for good.

More old memories began to make sense.  I remembered, in my 30s, when I saw a cartoon in the paper of a 1950’s woman at the stove, wearing high heels, a bouffant hairdo, and apron, with a spatula in her hand.  A man in a black suit and tie with a clipboard and pen in his hand is saying to her, “Well, this concludes a 20-year experiment.  You’re now free to go.”  For some reason, this struck me as hysterically funny.  I had always thought my second husband (and first) had “control issues.”  But I thought I was laughing (cynically) for all the women in the world, especially of generations before ours, depicting these controlling men in an exaggerated manner.  My husband asked coldly, “What are you saying?”  I was disappointed he had taken it personally, but later it gave me chills.

We had always remembered the second time we met, but I could never remember the first time.  Whenever I had asked him and expressed such curiosity that we knew it was our second meeting, and there was a sense that we’d planned to meet the second time, I asked more than once, “Isn’t it strange that we can’t remember our first meeting?”  Instead of agreeing this was curious, he always seemed irritated and changed the subject abruptly, never sharing my intrigue.  Today, I believe he was another of my controllers, perhaps controlled himself.

My first husband was born on a naval base (Navy also deeply involved in mind control) to a mother who had spent a bit of time in mental hospitals, which were notoriously used for mind control.  So he may have been a subject as well as her.

My dad was in the Navy and never answered me when I asked about his time there, and so I quit asking.

Twice when I was a child, I’d had an experience of echolalia – where voices in one’s head echo back one’s thoughts, only these voices were screaming back at me; it was extremely upsetting, but I only tried once to tell anyone.  I quietly told my father one evening, “Dad, sometimes I think I’m going crazy.”  He ignored me.

One summer, we went on vacation to the Chiricahua Mountains, near where I would one day build my hermitage.  I was a teenager, but I have no memories of the time there.  One of the other parents told me that I was directing the other kids in plays with scenes from the Wizard of Oz.  I have absolutely no memory of this.

In recent years, I have experienced a number of creepy events of feeling someone has entered my house and done something to me after having written about my mind control experiences.  Following a friend’s advice, I purchased a “portable door lock,” and planned to install it every night.  Two days later, though, I found it broken the same day that I woke with a bloody Taser burn on my forearm, lying in a bed of cold urine, feeling like I had the flu, hardly able to drag myself out of bed, though I recovered in a couple of days and never really had the flu, and felt terrible for days.

Another day, I attended an art opening and was having a wonderful time not only looking at the art but visiting with friends.  Toward the end of the opening, I had been looking at the last piece of art and turned to realized there were only two other people in the gallery.  One was a male friend with whom I have a collegial friendship, and he was talking to a woman I didn’t recognize.  They were standing between me and the table where I needed to return my wine glass, so I walked toward them, intended to briefly say hi and pass by, when suddenly my body began to do a walk that I have no idea how to do:  it was a seductive walk, which would have embarrassed me enough, but it was greatly exaggerated, and the two people looked at me with eyebrows raised, and even though I was horrified, I couldn’t stop it until after I’d taken a few steps.  My brain went into hyper-drive, terrified that someone seemed to have control over my body to make me do something I really don’t knowhow to do – in this conscious mind anyway.  I don’t know who that woman was, and I wonder if she was a controller.

Another time, I attended a groundbreaking event that a friend had raised funds for and was being introduced to various people by my partner, who’s been in town longer than me and been more social as well.  One of those people was a psychiatrist in a director position.  I missed his name, so I asked it again, and he mumbled, put down his sunglasses and looked over my partner’s shoulder, as if to get away.  It was crowded, and he didn’t move fast enough, so I told him that his name tag was turned over, and asked again his name.  My partner then flipped over the man’s name tag, and I read his name aloud.  With that, he looked extremely upset, and pushed past us and away.  I made a silly comment and forgot about it for a while.

After the event, I went to teach an English class, and when I got home, I got sick to my stomach and began crying uncontrollably. I suddenly realized how odd his behavior had been and it made sense then that, as a mind control subject, there must be someone in town in charge of my control, and as a high-level psychiatric director, it is most likely him, as he had done everything he could to keep me from remembering him, including putting on his sunglasses, reversing his name tag, ignoring my request to tell me his name, and finally fleeing.

Whatever I’ve done as a mind control subject, I’m not supposed to know, and don’t know, but these scraps have come through.  

As we age, as the brain tissue literally breaks down and memory breaks down, and so do our blocks to memory and our programming.  When my grandmother was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, when she could still speak, my mother came home from visiting her one day, bemoaning the horrors of this disease.  “It’s terrible, it’s just terrible, the things that she is saying.”  “Like what?” I asked.  “Horrible, horrible,” she said, “I will never speak a word of them to anyone!”  I suspect that my grandmother’s memories of mind control were breaking through and she was trying to tell my mom about it, and my mother didn’t want to hear.

Over these last few years, I’ve had vague concerns that I might have been controlled to do something, but I haven’t been sure.  I do know that I have done a tremendous amount of healing, which I’ll write about in a later blog.  I hope and pray that because I have done so much healing, that the controllers have given up on me.  It seems that they have, as the evidence of their activities in my life, so common before, has ceased, for which I’m very grateful.  And my life is becoming productive again.

There are probably more memories, but these are what I can recall easily without dragging out my journals and book.  I’ll add more later, if I remember them, in the Comments or another blog.

In a later blog, I’ll talk about healing in detail.

Next:  An Overview of “Aliens” in my Life.

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