Twelve years ago, while living rurally as a hermit in Cochise County, Arizona, I realized I was a mind control subject – and I mean in a manner more intense than the ubiquitous birth trauma-television-education-news-political propaganda type of generalized mind control; I mean the MKULTRA-type of trauma-based mind programming done to unwitting adults and children to make them controllable, amnesic super soldiers, spies, couriers, and/or sexual objects for primarily political purposes, but also for personal sexual gratification, perverse entertainment, and blackmail.

It’s possible this practice has ancient roots, resulting in tales of zombies for instance, but it began to be documented in Europe with the advent of popular hypnosis performances, conducted by men like Franz Mesmer, after whom the word mesmerize was coined.

Court records from the 19th century document hypnotic subjects made to empty their bank accounts for their controllers, deny their beloved families, commit crimes for their controllers, and confess to those crimes even when evidence abounded that they were innocent and acting at the command of others.

This criminal enterprise probably began in America when our nation brought Nazi scientists into this country under Operation Paperclip after the Second World War, presumably because our leaders were afraid to fall behind the Chinese in developing the art of the “Manchurian Candidate.”  It was funded and directed through the CIA, with numerous private contractors, as testified to by the CIA Director to the Senate twice in the 1970s.  Today there is evidence it continues to be funded through our government’s black budget.

Subjects are acquired in various ways through military enlistment, secret societies, prisons, orphanages, mental hospitals, churches, summer camps, and more.

The operation requires great secrecy and cooperation between law enforcement, courts, hospitals, and more, including organized crime.

 

It is a shock to have one’s amnesia barrier spring tiny leaks and begin delivering to my consciousness seemingly random scenes – but more than scenes – whole body flashes – of a single place, time, situation, emotion, and meaningful framework and focus of the moment.  Sometimes I experience complex memories of disturbing sexual situations – in childhood and teen years.  Unfortunately, they make a coherent sense of other strange things in my life that I’ve never forgotten.

After decades of believing your life is somewhat confusing (in ways you can’t describe) but fairly “normal,” it is a powerful psychic shock to realize you might not have always had control of your body, and your mind might at any time be overridden and your body used for who knows what.

This shock, unquestionably the most traumatic shock of my life, is what Dr. John Mack calls “ontological shock.”  (Ontology:  the study of the nature of being.)  Mack wrote:

“A worldview… is a source of security and a compass to guide us.  For an individual it holds the psyche together.  To destroy someone’s worldview is virtually to destroy that person….  People who present ideas that seriously challenge a worldview are punished—by death for heresy in the past and now by ridicule, debunking, and efforts to destroy their reputation.”  (Passport to the Cosmos, p. 34)

A worldview is like the ocean to the fish, taken for granted – until it disappears, and then it’s mind blowing, psyche destroying.  Individuals protect their worldviews and themselves as strenuously as cultures do.  But sometimes sanity and cultural healing require that a worldview be replaced.

 

Growing up in European America, I learned at age 50 that I was not really free, as I’d always believed, but was a slave of some unknown other.  This worldview change was so traumatic, I attest to Dr. Mack’s statement:  my psyche blew apart, was virtually destroyed.  And it was – actually – okay.

Others have called these events “spiritual crises” and in earlier decades “nervous break-downs” – for which I would later quip, “I highly recommend them.”  Other cultures call them shamanic initiations.

Why would I recommend an event so traumatic to the human psyche?

Because this “crazy” idea, this idea that destroyed my worldview felt horrifyingly right, and made sense of numerous strange amnesic events of my life, as well as physical, otherwise-unexplainable sexual mutilations.

Years later, my parents appeared to confirm this theory when they became irate at a few of my memories and responded as though they’d rather I accept them as sexual predators (suggested by a sibling) than entertain the possibility that I might have been abused by some unknown military men (two of my memories) – which they immediately presumed meant (though I never said it) that I was holding them responsible (which they would have been if they’d cooperated with the government program, as many parents apparently did in the wonderful 1950s).

Mack’s “ontological shock” is so painful, he explains, that most people avoid it at all costs, choosing instead to maintain congruence with the socially-accepted “reality,” for which they bury their own experience – unless the evidence is overwhelming.

My evidence was overwhelming, but my emotions convinced me to consider the theory anyway.  After all, I had chosen this life as a hermit in the desert, with very little social distraction, in order to learn about myself; to get away from the workaholism that had been earning me awards, getting me news recognition and Board invitations, but also stressing me out severely; and to heal whatever it was that was making life so weird and confusing.  That was the context for my life, the meaning of every first breath I drew when I awoke each morning, grateful to be surrounded by the desert.

Mind control was clearly not a welcome theory, but it was a theory, and it seemed only honest to consider it.

Besides, from the first moment I felt it ripple in gruesome slow-motion across my brain, little child voices arose from great depths, speaking, sighing, crying relief to be out of the deep, dark closet, finally, pleading, Don’t ignore us anymore.

Right behind them were fear, guardedness, neediness, devastating grief, and cynical teen coldness like I’d never felt – consciously, but ooh, it feels sickeningly, terrifyingly familiar, connected to something too sick to remember.  It shook me to my bones from the first moment.

Every day, I questioned myself, hoping to see some other way to interpret these feelings roiling inside me.  I couldn’t push down the hopeful-sounding children, yearning to be cared for, the grieving children who wanted to be heard, and fearful ones needing comfort.  Like Pandora’s box opened, my own swarming voices also included light, congruence, explanation for long-confusing anomalies, and hope for healing and leading a more satisfying future than the previous decades of confusion.

My psyche shifted, and my whole world changed, and I couldn’t change it back, though, believe me, I tried.  Every day, I tried to perceive another way.

But week by week, my sense of clarity, and of somehow having my feet on the ground like they’d never been before, were improving rapidly in ways that seemed obviously related to accepting this horrible reality that also made me cry and want to kill myself.

I made lists of the evidence, and put stars by those that had been or could be witnessed by others, and it all seemed way too much for any sort of coincidence.  I did this exercise or others like it again and again and again, trying desperately to see my world through another lens.  But I couldn’t, and my mental coherence kept improving.

Senses and reason in agreement (though not emotion), it seemed essential to step inside this new reality, but the storyline was absolutely terrifying… disgusting… painful… reviving painful physical memories, making my body jump with sensations I won’t describe, and my mind reel with shame, disgust, and wither with helplessness.

And so I wrestled with the first two major challenges in healing from mind control: ontological shock and the disabling emotions.

Emotions would be hardest to face in the first year, causing me to want to leave this life nearly every day for six months, though after a spiritually-inclined partner moved in with me, those urges became less and less in the decade that followed.

Isolation was the third main challenge.  No one wants to hear this.  It’s pretty much taboo in our culture – which serves well those who perpetrate it.  We victims are on our own, except for whatever circles of support we’re able to create ourselves.

Not knowing the next time you’ll be used is the fourth big challenge.  Trauma therapists know that if you can control the circumstances that led to a distressing event, such as not riding a horse after a fall off of one, a person can at least rest knowing it won’t happen again anytime soon.  But mind control subjects have no such assurance; they can walk out their therapist’s door and be met immediately by a stranger who might have a passcode to a hidden door in their psyche.

Every phone call, every person who visits could be the controller.  Suddenly the phone rings a lot, and I hear nothing – at least nothing that I recall.  If it only happened once, I would get over it, but phone callers delivering “silence” continued for about a year.

Once a man I absolutely didn’t trust came to my home and put me in a trance while I stood there absolutely conscious and aware of what was happening, but obedient, and let him download malware which immediately destroyed my computer.  I felt myself come out of the trance as soon as the door shut behind him.

More than once, I’ve been hit by beams in my home, sometimes shocking and immobilizing, sometimes gentle and searching followed by a powerful amnesia-producing hit, and once I was even bruised in a solid black 2 ¼” perfect circle on my leg.  Another time I was made to do a small but embarassing thing in public that I could, literally, not do under my own control.  And I never had any way to know these things were coming.

Rarely did more than two weeks go by between events – not nearly enough to relax and pretend it wasn’t a major part of my life and maybe if I looked again I could decide it was all a bad, misinterpreted dream, and life could go back to being all about good food, the garden, and being an activist for some good cause again.

But events didn’t let up a bit for the first nine years, and I lived constantly with not knowing, while also trying to heal my split-off children’s emotions, arising whenever they or my soul help decided I had enough emotional reserves to handle one more healing event.  And I usually was able to do it, though it took everything I had out of me and I often cried for days and revisited the idea of killing myself before I recovered.

And of course, I did it all alone (after asking the previously helpful partner to leave).  And while trying to keep a roof over my head (resulting in three home refinances and one near-foreclosure).  Shock, emotions, isolation, and continued vulnerability.

(It obviously qualifies as post-traumatic shock syndrome, but mind control is a political hot potato, and when I thought to ask for disability payments a couple of years ago, I didn’t think to lie about the cause, and was denied.  The government that caused this doesn’t want the liability.  I could probably get disability for PTSD stemming from mental delusion, but my heart won’t let me lie.)

 

The psychopathology is a fifth challenge.  If I’d been able to imagine, like some “alien experiencers” do, that what might be coming next might have some sort of sense, say, an experiment to save humanity, the pain and the not-knowing might be bearable.  But because the whole of it feels more governmental than alien, the only sense that can be construed is perverted, sadistic, psychopathological, and perhaps demonic or even Satanic.

 ~

My fear is so great, it expands out of my body and into aura parts of me I never knew I had.  Those parts wail and freak at their memories awakened and vaguely lit.

Some, though, are emotionally dead, and others flash with rage or rancid cynicism.  My center personality suddenly has a great deal to manage.  Mundane life becomes irrelevant, surreal at times, and very difficult to attend to.  I only want to write or pray or kill myself.  Terror seems a terribly overused word.  I want it only for myself.  I think I have the most tragic life of anyone on the planet.

These are the memories and meanings I’ve compiled:  My brain was highjacked when I was a child.  To accomplish that, I was electroshocked and raped and had my jaw dislocated and was left hungry and cold, then was rescued by men who fed me and bathed me and I became beholden to them and even thought I loved them.  I was electroshocked more, so that new blank slates of me could be given names and consist of nothing but instructions and commands.  My basic training took two years, from age 6 to 8.  I have been monitored, tested, and updated like computer software over the decades and, I presume, used, though I don’t know for what.  I can guess, but I don’t know anything for sure.

When I first realized all this, I didn’t know who the people were, other than “government agents,” who I assumed were CIA, based on my personal and family history.  I called them “feds.”

I couldn’t stop what was happening, other than by killing myself.  If I do that, whoever “they” are won’t be able to use me against my will.  That would be good.  Their experiment will have ended.  This investment of theirs – my fractured mind – will be gone for good.  Good.

The finality of that, however, gives me pause.  One small misunderstanding could make all the difference in whether there’s any hope for me.  So it seemed my responsibility to stay alive a bit longer to check my perceptions over a little longer timeframe.  And the longer I look, the more interesting things become.

The facts of the situation haven’t changed, but my sense of self has.  I no longer feel entirely outgunned by them.  (Sometimes I wonder if they’re being more coy.  Which is it?)

For a long while, I prayed to be hit by a truck – anything not my fault – or to get cancer.  When I thought I had it, I heaved a big sigh of relief.  Thank God, I can die and no one will feel as bad as they would if I’d off’ed myself.  But I never had real symptoms.

 ~

Various parts of me have acted out (in private mostly, thank Goodness) for twelve years now.  I’ve had days and weeks of debilitating fear sometimes after waking up with unexplainable scars on my body again or being hit by beams and sleeping extremely long nights, requiring long naps, and still being constantly thoroughly exhausted, and wondering what in the Hell had I been doing during those blank nights?

Then nothing would happen for a comfortable while, though a voice of fear might kibbitz throughout the day.  I’d venture out into the world again, and people would treat me like a normal person, and my “normal” (socially-programmed) self would respond and appreciate the friendships.  And I’d think maybe my life is becoming normal…  I do seem to be developing more friends than I’ve ever had in my life…  I like it…  Maybe I’ve experienced the last of this…  I am over 60, after all, and maybe they’re leaving me alone now.

Often I’ve written about my experiences, and then suddenly worse things happen than ever before, as if they’re warning me – like waking with a Taser burn on my arm (3rd degree burn, layers of skin sliding off, taking a month to heal) with a lethargy that would take days to recover from.  I photographed the scar and wrote about it, but couldn’t do much more than that for weeks.

Of course, I needed a job, but I couldn’t promise anyone, honestly, that I’d be dependable.  I didn’t know what to do.  I let my house go into foreclosure until my father called at just the right time and asked how things were and I told him and he bailed me out.  I didn’t care.  I was ready to move into my car and live in the forest.  Bailing me out was nice, I thought; or if he had indeed given me to the CIA for their training, for which I’m quite sure they gave him a nice exchange, then I guess maybe it’s okay to accept his help for all my troubles.

 

Twenty years of weird events… some even “alien.”  Believe me, I did not want this.  Everything else was plenty weird enough.  (I’d once ended a friendship with a man who’d talked about aliens in a coffee shop and not kept his voice down.)

Was it mind control making me think I’d passed through the bedroom teepee canvas and been drawn on a beam away from Earth?  Or was I simply insane and couldn’t tell reality from a dream or hallucination?  I’ve solicited this opinion from a few psychotherapists over the years, and they’ve all told me I was perfectly sane, except for one man, whom I have reason to suspect is part of the mind control cabal or otherwise under their persuasion.  He called me deluded, but functional.

One alien researcher says that two of the hundred-some alien races identified in supposedly top-secret documents are involved in mind control – in conjunction with the US government.  I tend to believe it could be true and that I – either soul or body – actually did rise up off this planet, but I don’t object to the possibility that it might have been a mind control illusion.

(Maybe it was my Spirit Help.  I came back from that event feeling very happy, but I’ve heard that the mind controlling aliens have the ability to change emotional states from terror to bliss with the wave of a wand.  Who knows?  We European-Americans have been cut off from our ancestral wise ones for thousands of years, and we’re given no support for any attempt to understand multi-dimensional or spiritual realities even though I know we’re born with the natural aptitude.)

 

This mind control realization began not long after I accepted I was experiencing what’s been called a “shamanic initiation.”  I’ve been warned, of course, this could be a causative connection, and shamanism opened the gates of Hell, giving entrance to these demons of delusion.

I think it’s something else:  I’ve been an activist most of my life and had, just before I’d realized my mind control subjection, done media work for an historic federal trial, “Judi Bari versus the FBI.”  Every day, I had either sat in court or conferred with plaintiff and lawyers, and written media releases to be sent all over the world about the obvious and stupid lies told by agents under oath regarding the assassination attempt on an activist who’d been car-bombed trying to save the old growth forests of California.  During trial breaks, those agents would pass us in the halls and glare down at me malevolently, prolonged, threatening, confident.  (Had they put me on a list for retribution?)

I felt the shamanic powers had entered my life just in time to be a strengthening, protective power that helped me during the trial against the FBI – a 12-year source of fear after they bombed Judi – and now was helping me heal from this second but more deeply held fear of the CIA and their mind control program.

Shamanism, I concluded, was not the precipitation of demonic horrors, but simply the understanding that we live in a cosmos highly populated by spirits, good and evil, and then taking responsibility to perceive, protect oneself and one’s community, and intercede as necessary – no different than what a minister or Pope says they’re about, only the ability is open to everyone (as Yeshua/Christ is said to have said).

So shamanism seemed my best, maybe only, hope for protection.  (I was too shy to use the term though, and no self-respecting shaman uses it; it was becoming popularized, and I neither wanted to offend the spirits by assuming any capacity, and never wanted to follow, or even appear to follow, a trend, even if it was my direction before a trend was perceived.  This latter is a stupid and limiting attitude, but it seemed to be my thinking for many years, and still is to some a degree.  For many years, I’ve avoided the word entirely, but now that it’s come into social parlance, I join the conversation occasionally.)

I perceive our world from what I recognize now is a shamanic perspective, intelligences and energies dancing, sometimes in conflict, resolving, conflicting again.  And I deal with my healing first like a psychotherapist might encourage me, feeling and identifying lost and returning alters, talking to them, learning their needs, helping them integrate, leave for healing, or change their “job description” within me.  Later I clear the energy with some ritual I guess we’ll call shamanic; it’s just what comes to me.  It has always been amazing, seeing and feeling the world anew each time one of my alters returns or integrates,  giving me a greater sense of harmony and clearer energy.

Of course, I never know whether I’ve healed the last alter, or whether there are still more available for control, but I keep on, hoping it will all be worth it.

Of the last twelve years, the first four were all about coming to terms with the ontological shock, my “flight response” kicked into suicidal high gear, helplessness, and social isolation.

Eight years ago, I had become so financially impoverished that I couldn’t repair my truck or computer, therefore couldn’t earn income, and my relationship was ending.  Seeing no other option, I decided to sell my home and land and move to some small town.  I’d realized I’d been feeling like a sitting duck out there, and returning to “society” felt very attractive.  Maybe in a more populated area I’d find others who also had experience with weird stuff like this.

Once settled, I created the Paradigm Salon as a local film and discussion event, but within the year I realized that I trusted almost no one and had to drop the idea.

In regular socializing, when people asked me about myself, I didn’t know what to say.  I was still terribly shy about coming out of the closet as either an alien experiencer or mind control subject or shamanic practitioner.  Any of those could end a friendship (as I knew from being on the other side of this), but all three?

No, I would just have to reach back a decade or so and identify myself as a writer and activist.  But what was I writing about?  Or being an activist about?  I didn’t want to say.  Understandably, I was very awkward socially.

I lived in town, in walking distance to everything, but I continued to act like a hermit as much as I could.  Besides my memory was bad – or rather, my alters weren’t well-enough integrated – and I often couldn’t remember people’s names quickly enough for normal social interactions.  But when I was quick, I still didn’t want to disclose too much about myself.

Besides, the unspoken message I got from almost everyone when I did eventually try to explain my life was that people really didn’t want to hear about this.  It felt like my responsibility to keep everyone else comfortable, and that would keep me comfortable – unknown, hiding, but more comfortable than if I told my truth.  A social life that was a lie seemed next thing to pointless, but it was better than self-annihilation.

So I tried to pretend that it wasn’t a burning issue in my life that I’d go to bed at night with prayers for protection (or getting lax and forgetting to pray), waking relieved that nothing happened, or sometimes waking with a dreadful sense that “something did happen in the night,” maybe scoop marks on my finger or scapula or – when I posted photos of those on my website – then scoop marks just above my anus the very next night, as if to say, “Here, post these!”  Ha ha.  And then I’d spend days or weeks psychologically recovering from the hit.  And I’d continue to try to smile and act like things are normal, because no one wants to hear.

I’ve worked for respected organizations off and on for years, holding myself together for short-term work of a few weeks or months, just long enough to get a good paycheck, then make it last as long as I can, to get some rest.

Occasionally, I decide, F*** it, I quit being everyone’s protector!  I quit pretending everything’s fine.  I’m talking about this shit, whether people want to hear it or not!  And I write.

Local people ignore it, “unfriend me,” and occasionally quit acknowledging me on the street.  So I quit writing and speaking about it locally, but I blog, interact with others internationally (even though I strongly believe it’s most important to relate to our own local communities) and resign myself to being an activist on the Internet only (and I hate the computer!), hoping that real people, not just feds, will read and be helped.  Thousands seem to read and watch my videos and dozens have written me about their similar experiences, and we console each other.

A writer and journalist for decades, one with first-hand experience in our nation’s Heart of Darkness, I survived.  I developed an activist heart at a young age and didn’t quite go insane when I leaned about this and all the thousands of other subjects who’ve corroborated my experiences.

But I have something, maybe, evolutionary to offer: a glimpse of the ancient ways of seeing our multi-dimensional world, and protecting ourselves with the Help there.

If there is any purpose for my still being here on Earth, I believe it’s to tell everyone about mind control.  I got the ugly version, while everyone else has been mildly but well-subjected.  My treatment blew my blinders off, and I’m here to say it’s time for us all to wake up.

I will keep writing about it.  Like it or not.