In 1990, I sat in the center of communications for the radical activist group Tucson Earth First! and networked with many other non-profit organizations in town, including People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, domestic violence organizations, homeless advocates, the parent-teacher association, and had been written up in the daily paper along with a couple other women as a “Supermom.” I think I told the reporter, “I don’t recommend it.”
But I had so many ideas, so many solutions to things, could see the coordinated steps it would take to bring a complicated project, like a publication or a conference, to successful completion, usually had most of the skills, and others encouraged me, so I took them all on, and most of them went well, with a few exceptional bombers, a few embarrassing lapses of judgement, but mostly projects that brought very positive responses, and sometimes awards, and then that news article. I was even asked to run for political office and hounded about it for month before my rejection was accepted.
Before I’d gotten so radical, I’d been accepted into the largest PR firm in Arizona, Gladys Sarlat PR, where I’d been let go after I’d told them I thought a new client was a fraud. Soon after, that man would be on the front page of the business section of the daily paper nearly every day for the next 18 months – on trial for fraud.
I co-wrote a couple of editorials for the dailies, one on the Green Party and another on the FBI repression of Earth First! colleagues Judi Bari and Darryl Cherney which resulted in an assassination attempt on Judi, whose trial against the FBI with Darryl, Darryl was traveling the country for, coming through Tucson, singing songs, telling the horrifying story, showing slides of the bombed car, and soliciting help. Of course. I organized his show, did the media work, wrote an editorial for the papers, and helped him find a place to crash that didn’t have kids. I added it to my notebook of tasks and got it done.
Everything in my life was in my notebook. I worked with pages I custom-designed to help me do everything. I had daily sheets, 4-week planning charts in a 2-page spread, and monthly calendars, along with project flowcharts. I had files January through December and “Next Year,” and files numbered 1 through 31, which helped me organize everything. I carried my notebook everywhere.
One Monday a friend asked how was my weekend. I flipped the page back to Saturday and answered that I’d had a houseful of boys because it had been my son’s birthday. Until I’d read it, though, I’d had no memory of the day. My business persona and mom persona didn’t have a lot of memory connection.
I was burning out from doing too much, and realizing it. My husband always encouraged me to take on more, and he’d even volunteer for tasks that he didn’t have the skills to do – like bookkeeping – and then let me do it because he didn’t want to admit he couldn’t do it. So I’d do it. And when he insisted he’d make up the financial difference in the family because some cause was important to him that he wanted me to keep doing, he’d still keep account of the major times he paid more than his share for something, and occasionally would tell me I owed him that much. So we had arguments. A visiting friend one time said, “Do you realize that I every year I come visit you, you’re telling me the same dreadful things? When are you going to change the situation?”
I was afraid to be alone with two teenagers, so I stayed in the situation and advocated for better treatment. We did learn to have a certain amount of fun together, and we always presented a contented face to the world.
When Judi and Darryl were bombed, it was as if a psychic bomb went off in my mind. I was aware of things like FBI harassment of activists, but I’d pretended that an office person, PR person, occasional spokesperson wouldn’t be a target – they’d want the tree-spiker, not me. But Judi was bombed. She was a visionary, PR person, phenomenal spokesperson, but did nothing illegal; in fact, she’s single-handedly gotten the vast majority of California Earth First!ers to renounce tree-spiking. So why was she attacked? No – almost killed.
For the last four years, our dining room had been the hub of action for the Coalition to protect Mount Graham, combining efforts of a number of organizations, Earth First!, San Carlos Apache Tribal Council, individual tribal members, and some international environmental ecology organization, and we’d been part of demonstrations shaming the Smithsonian Institution into backing out of the astrophysical project (though they’d rejoin years later), and we mercilessly hammered on those who forged ahead: the University of Arizona, the Max Planck Institute in Germany, Arcetri in Italy, and the Vatican. Yes, the Vatican. More on that later.
I knew we were like chihuahuas nipping at the heels of a monstrous mastiff, but we did it. We emboldened each other with tales of valor, creative monkey-wrenching, street theater, affinity groups, legal strategy workshops, and all the joy of camaraderie in the face of an enemy worth confronting. I’d gone to jail twice. Both times I’d gone into altered states of consciousness. The second time, I believe I was Tasered, as I have no memory of the rest of the day or much of the next day after two plainclothes men showed up in jail and walked near me, after which I only remember rising from the ground in rage, swinging my arms, my hair in my face. Then only sketchy disturbing memories of being harassed for hours with disturbed sleep, then let go at 4 in the morning with no phone number, though people had left numerous messages for me. I remember someone finding me in the waiting room, curled, freezing on the hard floor, and following, and am told we went out to breakfast, but I can’t remember it. That was Durango, Colorado, 1992. I hadn’t meant to get arrested; I just hadn’t left the scene of a group’s civil disobedience fast enough.
Back home, to lessen my stress, I backed out of a few volunteer commitments, including most of my work to protect Mount Graham, quit my business, and got a job. I wanted a few well-defined tasks to do each day, not the ever-expanding situation I had with a PR consulting business to environmental, arts, and social justice non-profits – that attracted unending pro bono work, and when they paid I could never charge what people said I was worth, because I didn’t want to take the money out of their accounts.
The job I got was the Customer Relations person for the 3rd largest birdwatching tour company in the world, WINGS. After a few months on the job, the owner told me he’d been looking for years for someone who could take over the business, and he thought I could do it. It grossed millions each year, and he’d let me buy in over time, with an immediate doubling of my pay and opportunities for the rest of my life to travel to exotic natural place all over the world, from Alaska to Antarctica and a hundred or more other places. I would soon have to quit my job.
April 1993, my son was diagnosed with cancer. My husband and I had the final fight of our relationship, and I ended it. The kids and I were going to move out because my husband refused to. My health insurance company went bankrupt. I went down into the basement to cry, and began instead to make an involuntary sound, between a scream and a growl and roar, over and over again, able to stop for just a few seconds before the urge was upon me again, and I could not turn it off. For awhile I thought I’d just let it wear itself out, and continued until I realized that I felt a blood vessel in my throat that felt like it could burst. I felt the real possibility that if I didn’t drown in my own blood, I wasn’t sure how anyone would staunch the blood flow from a vocal cord, and realized I could either drown or bleed to death, and I really tried to stop.
I stopped for ten seconds, then had to emit a small growl-roar, and then another, and another. I headed up the stairs thinking, Oh my God, I’m going to call Helpline. I’m supposed to be someone who would consult to them, not need their services. I’m a Supermom. I’m the business consultant. I’m not someone who needs help. Shakily, I turned to the inside cover of the phonebook and tried a few times with trembling hands – between not-very-well-repressed growls – and finally got the number dialed correctly. Someone talked me down.
The next Monday morning, I walked into a counselor’s office and before I even sat down, I spilled out my litany: My son has cancer, my health insurance company just went bankrupt, my husband and I are divorcing and we have to move and I don’t know where or how, my daughter hates me for making them move…and I could have added that I was in shock to realize that I can’t trust that my children will live, or that they will love me – two monumentally new ideas, two huge shifts in my world…and then another phrase came out of my mouth that had never crossed my conscious mind: and I think I was sexually abused as a child.
It was so bizarre to hear words come of my mouth that never crossed the threshold of my consciousness. For a moment, all reality was suspended, and I tipped my head to the right as if I could peek around a dimensional corner and maybe see my words spelled out there in the air. Anything seemed possible in that moment.
And in that moment I began a struggle that had me falling apart all year long, crying everywhere I went, crying at home, walls breathing, flashbacks of sex from young childhood to teen years, wolf energy entering me, Tarot cards that came up again and again confirming this, and a couple of attempts to commit myself to a mental hospital because I wanted a place to cry and throw myself around and not attract police. For awhile I thought I could go there for the rest of my life so that I didn’t have to make a decision about what was real.
The decision was this: to believe that I was sexually abused and have my whole self change, or believe that was a weird and meaningless string of experiences and all is fine. I wanted to believe the latter, but whenever I told myself that, I felt foggy, hazy, fuzzy, and like I was falling back asleep. Whenever I entertained the former, my brain felt like it was coming out of a fog, like I saw more light – before the psychic pain crept in.
Realizing the difference that clearly, you’d think, would make me to accept the theory that made me feel clearest, but I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want my whole world to change. I didn’t want to think about who did it. I didn’t want to be one of those women scorned in the papers for jumping on the current bandwagon of diagnoses, particularly one which is so disgusting and embarrassing, that certainly means I must have some secret perversion to have picked that bandwagon. No, I was not going there.
But I’d turn back to the other choice, and feel the haze fall over. I felt I was falling back into an oblivion I hadn’t know I’d been in.
And a whole lot of things began to make sense, things I could never think about before, though they did cross my mind like bats in the night, barely seen, only these things had no name, no context, they didn’t make sense. Into the Anomaly file they went – things that made no sense.
One was the sexual nightmares I had as a child. One was the way I went mute and catatonic the first time a boy attempted intercourse. Another was the altered state I went into the first time I was coerced into leaving my baby in the church nursery and literally forgot I had a child, even when another mother asked me where he was and even answered my question “Baby??” with his name – when I snapped out of it, remembered, and went running for him in sheer terror that I’d left him there.
And the sex play my best friend said I participated in in 5th grade, for which I had no memory. So many things began popping back in my mind. I tried to say I was inventing meaningful connections where there were none, but they kept coming and seemed reasonably connected. More and more, never quitting, scraps of memories, images, ideas, sickening.
I did what I think of as silent crying, diverting the tears down inside my sinuses, giving me a constant drip that I knew was all tears. After my nose got all chapped from wiping it for a week, I resorted to scooping the mucous-y tears out with a thumbnail, and wiping it on a hankie always with me, then after a week ditching the handkerchief and slurping the salty pain off my thumbnail, hoping people wouldn’t notice, but unable to care if they did, wearily accepting that I was more a mess than I’d ever thought possible.
I could no longer work, so I accepted entry into the Master’s Program in Creative Writing after winning an award for a story written and submitted before my life fell apart. My kids and I began living on student loans and, for the first time in my life, credit cards, which were skyrocketing with medical bills.
The only bright side: I’d begun praying, and though my son had been identified as being at very high risk, he was suddenly pronounced in remission.
The last night of the school year, I was facing a free summer – the first three months in my adult life, I realized, that I’d ever had. I’d never had nothing to do for that long a period of time.
The evening after my last class, I was feeling very happy, feeling confident that I’d survive this somehow, accept the reality of my past and begin to do the healing others told me I’d be able to do, making me a better person than I could otherwise have ever been if I’d not remembered and integrated it. I imagined a summer of reading, writing, sleeping late, staying in bed, going to support groups, doing the healing exercises in the books, with lots of time to abreact and recover and whatever else would follow. I’d treat myself well.
As it turned out, I’d build a tiny hermitage in the desert that summer and do very little healing work of the sort I’d imagined.
The emptiness I saw ahead was delicious, and I sat down that evening with my current book in a comfortable reading chair, thinking that the world was seeming beautiful again for the first time in over a year. The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot is about reality, perception, multiple dimensions, and much more. I found my place in the book and began to read, but soon was experiencing something very odd.
I finished a sentence, had a reaction of great interest to it, but couldn’t remember anything it was about as soon as I reached the end of it. I re-read the sentence repeatedly with the same physical reaction of great interest and then amnesia for it.
I tried it again, and was face to face with something weird happening in my brain. I balanced between fascination and fear. Then an idea popped up: Read the sentence aloud. And I did.
The sentence was about people with multiple personality disorder looking often decades younger than their biological age – which is still true for me today, sometimes (depending on which alter is out), and was even more true then. At forty-one, I was often mistaken for my teenage children’s sister.
Again, the world shifted, but this time it wasn’t as traumatic. In fact, after the acceptance of the child abuse, it felt real comfortable, as though a confirming piece of a puzzle had dropped into place and made things clear.
Still the rational part of me was horrified. I was already carrying this secret stigma of being a child sexual abuse survivor, which was bad enough. But mental illness!? No way. I did not want this.
A response came from inside: Understanding this is the beginning of everything getting better. I can heal. And I decided I’d go first thing in the morning to the medical library at the university and read all I could about multiple personality.
The next day I was greatly affirmed. Despite multiple personality’s reputation, it’s not always as crippling as some stories they’ve made into movies. And once diagnosed, it’s relatively easy to heal. Created by trauma, it’s actually the most “sane” response, as opposed to going schizophrenic, the other alternative when the mind cannot assimilate what’s dealt to the body. And many “multiples” are actually very high-functioning, even geniuses – not coincidental, but because of their multiple-ness. They have more “minds” to learn things, and many learn to partially integrate their various alters to network and use all those minds to superior levels.
I’d tested at genius levels a few times in my life, so this news helped me not feel like a freak two or three times over, but like I’d just had bad luck, and others have gone before me. We have highly complicated minds, sorta supercharge potential, not working quite right, but healable.
Now I just had to figure out how to do it. By going to the desert, though, while also enrolled in school, I’d make life too complicated to follow through with counseling. Besides, whenever I did visit a counselor over the years, they kept telling me I was “doing great” and I could just continue on my own.
I moved to the desert, fell in love with my solitude, and thought I’d stay there all my life – until my old high school crush and I had a conversation at our 25th high school reunion.
Soon I had abandoned my hermitage, moved to Colorado Springs, and was engaged to be married to my rescuer I believed was my soul mate. (If we can have a few, he is one.) I snapped back into functioning mode and tried not to think about having anything that needed to heal.
Needing a new career, I got my real estate license and was soon top-selling agent in my office, and was offered management of my franchise’s cornerstone office, overseeing 60 agents, for which I would likely earn “six figures.”
In the previous four and a half years, my fiancé and I had realized we couldn’t blend our lives, and I was yearning to return to my hermitage, to sit in front of the windows and watch hawks. The real estate biz had helped me pay down a good bit of my credit cards, and business was burning me out again, needing to be at every client’s beck and call 24-7 for their most important financial action of the decade. The excitement was over, I’d proven myself, so I declined and moved back home to the desert.
In my hermitage, I’d never had curtains because I lived far off the road and my nearest neighbor, a woman friend, was a quarter-mile away with barbed wire fence between us. One night, though, I knew someone malevolent was outside my large solar windows in the dark, looking in on my one-room house, me sitting in the middle of it, next to the fireplace, facing out. I set down my book, raised my hands in prayer position and prayed fervently that I’d be protected and maybe the man would be moved by my gesture to remember God and pull himself together and do right.
After awhile, I put down my hands and began to read again, and the feeling of horror came over me again. I retook my prayer pose, prayed a while, then turned out the light, and went to bed.
The next morning I found outside a styrofoam coffee cup in pristine condition sitting on my porch, a cigarette butt thrown a short distance away, and a place on the dirt where he’d relieved himself. I called the sheriff and was told it was all insignificant and, no, he wouldn’t even make a note about my call. In the next four years, I experienced a lot of fear, interspersed by events indicating I was being helped through it all with supernatural assistance.
In April 2002, I sat on my roof, watching a rare phenomenon in the sky: a crescent moon and four planets lined up after sunset. I’d been having lots of experiences I understood were called “shamanic,” which excited me. I’d had a year of snakes making dramatic entries into my life, ravens, owls, hawks, phoebes, lizards, a wild cat, and I’d bought a book of animal spirit meanings.
As I sat on the western edge of the roof of my bathhouse and gazed westward, suddenly a cluster of bats rolled in front of my face like a four-foot high, one-foot wide tire-shape in the air, and I knew it was a sign, but I didn’t know of what.
Next thing I knew, I was in a state of absolute ecstasy, seeing the planets and moon from a different perspective, colorful, and could perceive the rotation of the Earth, the Moon’s orbit around us, and the Earth’s and all the planets’ orbits around the Sun as a sensation in my body. I was totally enraptured, felt myself suspended in space, rising, ecstatic.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the middle of the roof, the sky was perfectly dark except for brilliant stars, the moon and planets were long gone, no light at all in the west. And I was babbling words of gratitude, unable to stop. I did though when two owls began to fly around me, and flew around me again and again until I began to wish I’d counted so I could one day tell the story with precise truth, and soon after my mind went into that rational track, they flew away.
Back in the house, I looked up bats and owls. They are each complex, but the phrases I remembered were: Shamanic initiation and astral travel. Years later, I realized or remembered that a great deal of time had passed for which I have no memory.
Days or weeks later, walking from my reading chair to get a drink of water, I suddenly had the experience of a spirit crashing into me – specifically, the spirit of Judi Bari! She had died five years earlier of breast cancer while trying to sue the FBI for various civil rights abuses related to the bombing. In an instant, with no words passed between us, I realized a whole lot: She knew from the other realm that I felt myself a very tepid activist. She, on the other hand, to my mind, had been a Superwoman activist, a Supermom activist even, someone to go down in history, except that the mainstream media seemed to be cooperating with the FBI to keep the history-worthy event out of awareness and memory. Still, she was a hero to a lot of us for her amazing work to try to save the last of the Redwood forests. I was nobody in comparison.
She scolded me for my attitude and told me (all wordlessly, instantaneously) that her style (bold and sometimes insulting and sarcastic to the Powers that Be) was not the only way to do things, and in fact it had even gotten her killed, and my gentler style could go further, and I should lay off thinking there was nothing more I could do. And then she was gone.
Standing there in front of the counter with an empty glass in my hand, having been thinking of other things before I got up for water, I was completely dumbfounded. Why would I get this message? Why now? I was so far from activism, and had no intentions of getting back into it.
A few weeks after the night on the roof, and not long after Judi’s message, I received a phone call from Darryl – ten years since I’d talked to him last – asking me if I’d come to Oakland to manage media relations for the trial. I said I would, and two days later I took the Amtrak to Oakland, California, to participate in a six-week trial resulting in various agents of the FBI being found guilty of all the charges, for which they’d pay a historic sum of $4.4 million.
During the trial, I felt made subject to more experimentation. I felt as though I’d been hit by immobilizing beams on at least two occasions. Then, I’d also felt twice taken into another dimension, and upon return it took a minute or more to remember who I was in this Earth life, as if my consciousness was of a higher self who was just dropping in with the Earth-life me to make sure I re-entered and remembered properly before removing herself.
She worried about nothing, found my slow memory mildly humorous, but was fond in her judgement, and left me with a sense that all was well. It sure didn’t seem like all was well, with our FBI overseeing the bombing of activists trying to save the last 3 percent of the native forest of California, but the soul part who seemed to be there with me for a minute felt confident and calm, as though everything was as it should be. It comforted me for a while. Then I worried it might have been a technological mind trick, maybe messing with my mind, but leaving a false memory that all was okay.
I told no one because we all had enough on our hands, working with lawyers every day to craft messages out to the world’s media; no one needed my drama, so I kept my worries to myself, and focused on the job.
My first day home from the trial, catching up on email, I was directed to some websites by one of my most important confidants. She said, “I think these will explain a lot that we have in common.” I began to read, for the first time in my life, about something that causes multiple personality: mind control.
It was horrifying. Mesmerizing. Disgusting. Repellent. And familiar in a way that made me feel that old ghosts were stirring, old memories, little children’s voices whispering, It’s true. And: We’re scared. And: Maybe you’ll recognize us now?
Making this connection between mind control and multiple-ness would explain even more of my life and be both as promising and terrifying as it was to accept that I’d been sexually abused. Promising, because it explained things that had never made sense before. Terrifying, because it implied that I might be being watched and maybe controlled even now. And maybe all my activism had been playing into the hands of my controllers, and maybe I’d done things to betray activists without knowing. I felt like a living time bomb. I thought I should kill myself.
At the same time, I felt I had a chance again to know myself better than ever, and could free myself from it, maybe. That bit of hope, though, was greatly overshadowed by fear so great, that I did not get better any time soon, but went into another deep dark hole for a good length of time, during which I became paranoid that my home was not only bugged, but someone was video recording my every move. I was afraid to speak of critical topics aloud except whispered in a noisy outdoor space.
My efforts to use shamanism to protect myself went awry, and I felt ganged up on from the other side, as if aliens had joined the CIA (the department that has always overseen mind control – according to their own documents and director testimony to the Senate) in harassing me, or the CIA was giving me “screen memories” of aliens.
For five years, I had bizarre experiences, for example, being immobilized in my vehicle stopped on the highway and losing hours of time, and more often, weirdness at home, seeing at least a dozen UFO’s over the years, feeling myself pulled up through the canvas of my bedroom teepee into another dimension, perceptions of people who’d just unexpectedly passed over (before many knew they’d died), and more – a mix of things shamanic and things that could have been technological harassment, including being hit by beams of laser energy, once right between the eyes.
And I never did I do much healing work on my multiple-ness.
My multiple-ness is easy to ignore, and some people might think I’m over-exaggerating or slapping on a diagnosis that’s unnecessary. But Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) – now called Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) – manifests in a variety of ways, some of which occur after natural trauma or the trauma of random abuse, and others which are the result of intentional trauma inflicted to make the person dissociate so that the perpetrator can embed behaviors triggered by secret commands, called “programming,” into the victim who will then be the subject, controlled, without the subject’s awareness, by the person who knows the secret passwords.
The “work on my healing” I’d hope to do had suddenly become something much more complicated, and something for which I knew I was going to be attacked by those who didn’t want me to heal. Would I even have a chance?
I read books on the subject, from medical library material to popular and therapeutic literature. Therapists claimed healing could be done, but it took money. And it seemed every time I tried to get a job, someone had been there before me, saying something about me – perhaps a federal agent would simply walk in and ask to be notified if I should come in – and then the secretary would stare at me, stricken, as if I were a ghost and she didn’t know what to do. After a few times, I quit looking and decided eventually to leave my home when my computer was suspiciously destroyed, my vehicle quit running, and I began to borrow money again with no idea how I was going to repay it. I sold my land, sad to go, and moved to Silver City, New Mexico. I wondered if they forced me to town to make my programming easier and my potential for use much greater.
As I said, my condition is easy to hide. My alters seem to coordinate fairly well enough, but remembering things like events and people’s names is slow. Expressing opinions is an interesting exercise. I see things, usually, from at least a few different perspectives, see the validity in all of them, compare them, revisit the person’s question to determine which of these viewpoints I want to share to best respond to their question, and usually by then, someone else has moved the conversation along, my opportunity passed, and I appear slow. I, though, feel like I’ve done ten times the work on the idea as anyone else and really only took a few seconds longer, but opening my mouth was too slow for social custom – unless I am in an ultra-high-functioning mode, and then I might be too speedy for some people.
Let me be alone in my office, though, working on a project, and I do better than fine. I win awards. Just don’t bother me.
So I work alone, and limit my social life. And people treat me like I’m normal – I think. Hard to know from this vantage. I’m usually wrapped up in my own mind: observing, comparing perceptions, keeping steady, and lately I’ve been doing better than ever in my social skills. I even hosted my first party ever in my adult life in my current home shortly after I moved here, and have hosted parties regularly since then. And I’ve made a lot of friendly acquaintances. And held jobs successfully, for as long as I’ve wanted them, which often isn’t long. I get tired of the strain of managing my personalities and moods, and all the extra compensation time I need to take to keep up, and usually need to take breaks every few months, which made teaching in the local college a good gig for a while.
The government-military style of mind control (there are others, Satanic, for instance) was probably responsible for my being high-functioning. I’m not sure how many programs they have, but I know they create super-soldiers, super-spies, and sexual entertainers for rewards and blackmail. I know I was trained in the latter. I suspect I might have also been trained as a spy, though I have no hard evidence, only a lifetime aversion to the color blue and an article on mind control (MK) programming linking blue to spies – and the fact that I got myself right in the heart of all the activists in Tucson, which would have been useful to the government which has been spying on and repressing groups like these for decades.
What irony. I suspected others of being spies (and maybe they were), but I never considered myself. My world reeled again.
It’s twenty years now since I first realized I was multiple and was inspired to be on a healing path, grounded with information from the medical library, supported by other women dealing with the same sort of shock and challenge, but in all these years, I haven’t done much. I’ve had lots of memories and alters (alternate personalities) present themselves, but I haven’t worked with that information, regardless of my strongest intentions. I’ve begun to realize there’s probably truth in the literature about programming installed for the express purpose of sabotaging all efforts to heal.
The first thing I might have worked with was the Integrating Woman (I spontaneously felt that was who she was). In the moment I first connected the idea of a multiple personality with myself, I saw/felt, as if seeing in another dimensional space that shares reality with us here, a woman slip herself over me like a glove, holding all my parts together. She didn’t feel anything like an angel, and she didn’t feel like me. Rather, she felt like a calm being, who could help me integrate. I was bothered though that she seemed to avert her face from me, and I never saw it. My vantage point seemed to be from behind her and to the left, although I seemed to be included in her. I felt safe, though I was bothered that she didn’t feel nicer. She seemed functional, mild, and perhaps kind, but not in any heart-felt way, just as if she was a good person doing a job, and she knew better than to expend a lot of energy, or maybe she was just beyond emotions, and way beyond my trembling volcano full. So she kept her distance, blue-green light she seemed to be made of, and left me to deal with my emotions alone, or actually with other help, Wolf to begin with.
Wolf came into me one night and rose up in all her power, ready to rip up the apartment. Quickly I negotiated for her to restrain herself and I’d get emotional help for us the very next day if she could hang tight. The next day, I kept my promise – I didn’t want her tearing up the apartment as I’d felt she was fully ready to use my body to do – and first called two mental hospitals who determined over the phone that I was too sane to admit myself. Then I called an astrologer-psychic I respected and asked for an appointment private enough that if I began raging, no one would hear it and call police. We met in a friend’s vacant office building, and I didn’t make any noise but weeping.
I never experienced Wolf again, but she was good for me, got me back into therapy, let me know there was big stuff that needed to get out. Thank you, Wolf. But somehow I never did any “work” with the Integrating Woman.
I accept that I have programming against healing work, but why have none of my therapists led me to work with any of my many alters or the Integrating Woman? Some, I’ve realized, later were part of the system of managing my programming. But all of them? Why no proper help?
Since 2002, I’ve probably read close to a dozen books on mind control, not a lot (it’s exhausting) from personal accounts to therapy manuals to history. In general what I understand is that I was enrolled into a program, perhaps MKULTRA, but likely one of the others, MKDELTA, MKNAOMI, or some other, now all lumped together under MKULTRA as a generic term for government-sponsored mind control.
There are many different programs for different purposes, and children come into the programs in different manners. Some, more dispensable, come from kidnappers and similar sources. Some children come from the upper-class or upper-middle-class hoping to climb in status by participating in this new program that will make their daughter very smart and disciplined, plus it would support the country.
There is also reported to be families that have been subjected to mind control for centuries, maybe millennia. I sense all the secret societies are involved. Eisenhower is a lineage associated with a very old secret society, that of iron hewers – sworn to keep the secrets of metallurgy for the king alone.
Other children get recruited when their parents are discovered to be sexually abusing them. The CIA knows that the traumatized child is already dissociative, or multiple, so they threaten the family with someone gone to prison and the shame of that – and give the option to put the child into a mind control program instead. Of course, the parents cave.
They also pay cash to the parents for their kids’ recruitment – in the form of employment checks for certain services rendered, such as denying that the child had been asleep for two years and other reinforcement of the program – all in the name of science and the betterment of mankind. If the parents ever think of breaking their contract, the fact that they took money would silence most of them. If that didn’t, then threats to kill the child would.
Many of us recall our families moving into much larger homes about the time we began or ended our two years of amnesia.
Other adult subjects report things that I have no visceral reaction to, but some reports make me feel as though I can remember – and I jump in my chair at the first reading and cringe or cry.
Once my daughter and boyfriend came to visit me on my birthday and one brought along a movie, in their minds, “a classic” of its genre – but a genre I had chosen to never watch any more and had told both of them that for years. They both thought I should watch it anyway, because it was “a classic.” They seemed so certain that we should all watch this movie that I relented. In an early scene, a Mafia underling is being upbraided and threatened by his superior in a brightly lit room, defending himself with poor attempts at lies and bluster. He wears a knit shirt that I associated with the late 1950s/early 60s. The man’s bluster and his shirt felt familiar, as though I knew that sort of man too well, and he scared the shit out of me.
In a panic, I asked them to turn it off, and when they ignored me, felt myself rise like a zombie and walk for the door, trying to keep one foot going in front of another and my mind in my body and not screaming. Outside, I sat down and burst into sobbing, feeling real terror about that ignorant, fearful, blustering man, as if he could do things to me, and my body shook and jumped and jolted for hours afterward, and I continued crying and criticizing them for not listening to me and believing that I do not want to watch movies portraying Mafiosa – it terrifies me, and they should have respected it.
Instead, I’ve had to respect that others simply do not want to believe this is true. They want to believe I’m being dramatic, and they are being tolerant and doing the right thing, encouraging me off your sick fantasy.
The government doesn’t work alone on this. They subcontract out jobs to the Mafia, various churches, law enforcement, medical groups, and any others that are needed. They get their connections through secret societies, which demand loyalty of their members and may entrap or blackmail their recruits into compliance under threat of having some misdeed exposed. A favorite, powerful entrapment is sexual, for which they need to train lots of children in sexual behaviors. The children, though, are usually given more than one type of programming.
The mind control was done “scientifically,” noting what sorts of drugs or hypnosis, or torture evoked what response. Some were experimental, others had passed that phase and become protocol.
Torture was not done strictly because the perpetrators were insane psychopaths, though they probably are; it was done because it is effective. Torture a young child, and their mind leaves their body at some point, a point they were becoming adept at finding quickly by using extreme measures. Therefore, we were drugged, hypnotized, caged, tortured with cold, hunger, dislocated joints, lose-lose psychological games, electroshock, physical and sexual torture, and being forced to witness other disobedient children being murdered.
We went out of our minds. And that was the point. As soon as “we” were gone, the brain, still recording life experience, had a fresh, blank slate, and the researcher told it its name and its function, terrified it into obedience, and sent it away with its only existence being to respond properly so as not to be tortured or murdered as we know very well they will do.
My g-spot (descending bulge) was sliced from back to front and twice more (not visible here) from side to side.
For comparison, here’s a normal g-spot. The photograph was supplied by a friend in sex education. You can see it is ribbed and round.
I’ve been punished for disobedience, I assume, fairly recently. One day in 2004, I realized I’d been cut inside my vagina fairly deeply, my g-spot sliced neatly through, right down to the main trunk of the nerve, so that now I can’t stand to be touched there, making sex a rather hazardous enterprise ever since.
Throughout it all, meticulous records are kept on every alter created and what programming command is programmed to evoke which response. Some programming was foundational and dealt with amnesia, pass codes, and obedience to particular individuals, while other programming built on that and involved specific tasks. At the end of two years, we’d been made obedient and disciplined, with amnesic alters who were glad to be in the real world and not be tortured, who would follow the program of acting like everything was normal.
Many of us have bad hearts from all the electroshock, or extreme reactions to pharmaceuticals, not to mention neurotic, disabling reactions to things like a movie with a blustering man in an old-style T-shirt, and alters that come and go and leave us with missing time and the fear that we’ve been used again and we don’t know what for.
Since there’s no honor among thieves, sometimes the pass codes get shared with people who aren’t supposed to have them – someone giving someone a gift of a mind control fuck, for instance – and someone calls us on the phone and says, Open your door tonight at 10 – and the subject does and provides sex and wonders why she’s sore and tired after what she thinks was an 8-hour night’s sleep.
Since they have such high technology, it seems there would be no reason for anyone to use a Taser on me, but I woke up one morning with severe weakness and a third-degree burn on my arm with two bright red dots in the middle. Maybe these were interlopers who didn’t quite manage my pass codes correctly and they had to Taser me to erase my memory. I don’t know. And I was Tasered a second time, I assume, though I wasn’t burned as badly, because the two dots were there again.
Last night, I drafted a post for Paradigm Salon in which I wrote that since removing all my shamanic paraphernalia and putting my focus on Yeshua alone that I hadn’t had any more hypodermic bruises on my thighs. But the next day, I found another one. What does it mean? Someone in my house again? [The day after that, I had two more!]
Back to my alters I haven’t worked with – and why has no psychologist or other counselor supported me in working with them?
A few days after I experienced the Integrating Woman, I lay down in the afternoon and suddenly experienced myself as three, fanned out like a small hand of cards. I was intrigued and thought I’d talk to them and see if they had clues for helping me understand things, and they read my mind and said, “No. It’s too complicated to explain how we came about, would take to long, and you wouldn’t understand it anyway, but we aren’t needed any more, so we’re outa here,” and they “folded” – that fast. I felt them melt into me and disappear.
Later that year, I sensed that some children wanted to come out and be known, but they were afraid. They wanted to know that I was nice. So I bought two stuffed animals and put them inside a shawl, wrapped it around me with them in the sling and carried them with me everywhere I went all day every day for two weeks, taking them off only to sleep, and then I cared for them as though they were real babies in bed with me, talking to them, loving them, really feeling like they were my children and I cared so very much to encourage them that I was strong and competent, could keep them safe, could listen, wouldn’t be afraid of their stories, and would love them.
After two weeks, I set the stuffed animals on the window seat and talked to them throughout my day, demonstrating that I thought they were capable and I was going to respect them and trust them to be strong too, to sit there and not need to be carried constantly. One day, sitting on my bed, a little girl appeared in another dimension a few feet away and a few feet up, sitting in a tree with a leg hanging down. I was so surprised to see her there, and so very happy that she’d presented herself to me, that I reached up my hand to touch her leg. This scared her and she kicked her leg in panic, but laughed a little too, as she indicated she wasn’t yet ready to be touched. I accepted that and told her that whenever she was ready, I’d be ready.
One night, reading a book, she slipped into me. When our hearts connected, I felt her, remembered her, knew that little girl was me, a part of me lost a long time ago. It was amazing to feel her again, so sudden, a surprise, but so familiar too. She was very sweet, and said about my hands, as if surprised by their wrinkled appearance but finding them comforting: Just like Grandma’s. And then she expressed a second judgement about having come into an old body when she was only 6: It’s not so bad.
Her innocence and sweetness, and my sense of the courage it required to come back into this body after what had driven her out, touched my heart and made it hurt so that my hands came up and my face dropped down and I sobbed and sobbed a mix of happiness, sorrow, grief for the child, and grief for me, all of it warmed though by love for the child’s openness and courage.
Over these twenty years, I’ve had lots of alters merge or emerge, and each has been an experience that wrenched my heart and caused me to spend days at home, crying, writing, combing the experience for meaning, making myself strong enough again to go out of the house.
I haven’t kept track of them though. I don’t know if I’ve learned what I should have. Most times I think I have, but sometime I worry that I’ve been letting things slip away. And I hear others report that whenever we heal an alter and erase some programming, they have alternate pass codes or entryways to replace whatever was lost, so our programming never gets broken. And we remain their subjects.
Sometimes it’s a challenge to remember why I think I can heal, or why I should stay if I can’t. But I play philosophical games with myself and invent possible reasons for an unexpected reality to unfold soon that’ll make everything worth it. And sometimes angels pick me up. And I keep on, trying to do some good here.
Amazingly, I have more days that I feel grateful to be alive than days that I want out. But I have to write about this. I am pretty sure they don’t want me to. But I have to.
This bruise showed up ten days after another very similar showed up on the back of my leg. No explanation except…
I often am amazed to think about the “Apocalypse” – which means “unveiling,” “revealing” – a time for us to see! Are we seeing yet?
It’ll be very healing for a lot of us when others choose to look.