Earliest memories: Disappointment – as if, in her earliest years, she remembered other lives to compare to this one.
“This can’t work,” she’d thought, looking down the empty hallway where she wasn’t allowed, where her parents were. She remembered more, not of any one thing, but of everything she’d experienced so far in this life. “This can’t make healthy humans,” she’d have said if she’d had the language. It was worse than she’d imagined, and she worried for this era of humanity and thought this lifetime was going to be an especially difficult one.
Indeed, her family in the multiple dimensions retrieved her regularly away to nourish her spirit, revive her, then return her, feeling loved and willing to meet the challenges. She never remembered anything about her family over there, no images, no arrangement of people, nothing but the knowledge that they loved her, things made sense there, but not in this culture at this time, and she had to be strong.
One time, however, when she was perhaps 5, she returned with distressing news: They wouldn’t retrieve her again for “a very long time.” They’d be watching, and helping, but they couldn’t retrieve her, and she’d have to just remember they were there for her. She felt like a rock, immobilized, afraid to be afraid, so she was still. Then she remembered: Be brave. They’re watching and caring, even if it doesn’t feel like it. They just can’t help me all the time.
For a short while, she was comforted and advised by a little angel child she called Cathy, who appeared to her now and then – on her own schedule, never summoned, no matter how much she was requested, and one day even that ended.
In her fifties and sixties, she met psychics, shamans, and medicine people who remarked on the helpers they could see surrounding her, and sometimes she could see others noticing them, but she herself never did.
More times than she could count, they healed her when they could – rarely when she cried out, prayed, or did ritual, but on some schedule of their own she could never discern.
She might be disabled for as many as thirteen days, sunken into the sofa, not a decent meal eaten in weeks because she had no energy, and suddenly a beam would hit the top of her head and flow through her, enlarging every cell, requiring she adjust her body to allow it to expand, and she’d feel as if every cell inside her had been restored to perfection, and she’d suddenly have energy to do all the things she hadn’t been able to do, and she’d be immediately restored in seconds. It was thrilling. She always leaped to her toes and thanked her helpers – whoever they are, she’s never been sure how to visualize them – and began catching up with life, again, happy and grateful.
That’s how most people saw her: happy, friendly, even “popular,” someone said once, which made her laugh. She always felt like such a loner. As a child, she’d been the one standing by the fence, wondering what the other kids were doing that was called “play.” But she watched and copied, eventually learned to act like them, the best version of them, and it worked. As a child, it was wonderful to make people smile with her cleverness. Older, she learned to listen to others, became a student of communication, learned to carefully select her own stories to share, and eventually was surprised to find herself successful as a social individual and business woman.
Inside, though, she was hiding all these experiences that her culture said were not to be discussed, were not real. But they felt real. And there were so many of them. It was stressful to hide these things. Fortunately, books about shamans and mystics of all cultures confirmed these things are reality, only hidden from the masses, denied, and ridiculed by a culture that for some reason doesn’t want to acknowledge a more multi-dimensional world and our being part of it.
Then one day, the mundane facts of her life, real stuff, hard data, seemed to present a framework to explain her most bizarre memories and flashbacks. They emerged from some hidden place she’d shoved them, and assembled themselves into a coherent pattern.
She was born into lineages of Freemasons, military, Mormons, and Hollywood – all groups documented to have been involved in some type of mind control.
She was also born on an auspicious day – July 7, 1952. 07-07-52 “reduces” (numerology term) to 7-7-7, a highly mystical number. It also happened to be a Full Moon under which she was born. Not just within the 24-hour cycle that is the day, but within 8 minutes of the Full Moon’s moment of perfection – that’s within 2/1000ths of a degree. And it was a Monday – Moon-day, originally. And it was in the middle of Cancer, also known as Moon Child, “ruled by the Moon.” Three sevens, and three moons. There are secret societies keenly interested in coincidences like these.
Later the day of her birth, her father’s second cousin, Dwight David Eisenhower, was publicly nominated to the Republican ticket for the Presidential race. Perhaps a secret society also selected that day for his nomination?
Her parents were living in student housing on the campus of the University of California Davis. The next year, perhaps while she was still there or shortly afterward, The Human Ecology Project would be instituted there, which many researchers assert was a cover for mind control projects. Whether she was involved in any early experiments is not known, but it’s an intriguing coincidence.
She would come to believe the foundation for her mind control was overseen by Dr. Louis Jolyon (“Jolly”) West, an “institution” in MKULTRA, and someone she heard her mother and grandmother discuss; her pediatrician (who delivered her), Addison Udall (cousin of Congressman Stewart Udall who would become Secretary of the Interior); and the Mormon Church.
When her son was healing from cancer, the children and she had moved to a new apartment, and she was still working and seeing a therapist, she’d been asked to tell the therapist about her growing up. She’d begun by saying her childhood was “normal.” The following Saturday, with the kids visiting friends, she decided to use the rare private time to “ask inside” whether any “inner children” wanted to tell her anything more about her childhood she might have forgotten.
Suddenly, sitting on the edge of her bed, she re-experienced an event in which she lay on her back, too young yet to roll over. Human hands did things around her, and she felt freedom between her legs. Then touching, poking, then she left her body. First she saw her mother, slumped on the floor, hand over her mouth, eyes in shock and grief, then was looking down on three men in white, facing a pedestal in a white room, ignoring her mother on the floor.
No stainless steel, this wasn’t a medical environment, but a ritual one – making it more shocking to make sense of than otherwise. She’d hold this flashback in suspension for years, then one day learn the Mormons have a room called “The Holy of Holies” (phrase borrowed from the Hebrews’ Bible) in every Temple, in which they conduct secret ceremonies, wherein only certain Mormons are allowed to enter or even know what goes on there.
She’d learn also that Mormons are the largest denomination working for the Central Intelligence Agency, in which mind control has been managed for 60 years. And one of the foundational requirements of mind control is to split the mind, with torture, and the earlier in life, the better.
When she was four or five, she remembered some man, perhaps a Mormon missionary, counseling her father in their den while she played nearby, “Marry a Mormon woman, and you get the children too.” She wasn’t sure she knew what that meant, but suspected it was that stuff she wasn’t supposed to talk about, so she froze the memory, which came back to her one day after the out-of-body flashback. Later, she’d learn from Ann Diamond’s books on her mind control experiences, that one of the ways the CIA procured parental agreement to put and keep their children in the program was to catch (or create?) pedophiles and threaten them with prison. Perhaps the missionary set up her father, recorded a discussion, then police busted him and forced his agreement.
It’s also possible her father was molesting her before that missionary encouragement, because, when she was 3 or 4, she told her mother something that made her mother fly into a rage, hauling her into the bathroom, shoving a bar of soap in her mouth, and screaming that she could never say anything like that again. (What did she say? She can only guess.)
Then her mother told her pediatrician she thought her daughter was “crazy,” and she told her aunt and random people that came to the house. And she continued to discredit her daughter the rest of her life, questioning random memories she might contribute even to happy family story-telling around the table decades later. No matter how inconsequential, her mother was likely to interrupt her and deny whatever it was.
She paraphrased what the daughter had heard the pediatrician say: “I’ve always said you had an active imagination, and you mix up your dreams with memories.” Over and over again she heard those words. Even when she drew a floor plan of the Student Housing apartment at UC Davis, showing the entry room, front window, stove and range hood and sink, where the linoleum turned to carpet, and where an easy chair angled by a wall.
“You couldn’t remember that!” her mother denounced automatically, but with rare vehemence. “You were 14 months old when we moved away from there,” she gestured to the floor plan drawn on a napkin on the table.
“But you just confirmed I remember.” Her mother’s face contorted and she pushed her chair back from the dining table and walked toward a nearby picture window and looked out, reciting, “I’ve always said you had an active imagination, and you mix up your dreams with memories.”
Hearing this, the hair rose up on the back of her neck. It was the first time she recognized her mother was using the exact same words and the same sing-song lilt as if she’d practiced saying these words a thousands times to herself. The daughter was struck by her mother’s apparent fear, and felt suddenly terribly sorry for her. She must feel guilty for something. But what? She hadn’t remembered anything weird yet, had only struggled to understand what was wrong with her, and still believed she’d had a “normal,” even fortunate childhood – with lessons, vacations, even a swimming pool in the backyard. What in the world could her mother feel so guilty for?
What was the worst thing she could imagine? Certainly not violence. Sometime, in high frustration, maybe locking her in a closet? That was the worst thing she could imagine. And whatever it was, she shouldn’t feel bad about it all these years later! Too bad she can’t just admit it and say, “Yeah, parenthood can be frustrating!” And they could all agree, No problem, Mom, all’s forgiven. The daughter determined to try to have some sort of conversation with her mother sometime, to ease her mind, let her know she was fine, and her mother didn’t need to feel guilty about anything.
But they never had that conversation, and later the daughter would realize she wasn’t just fine. There were things done to her that hurt her, that caused all those strange gaps in her memory.
Other experiences in the Mormon Church, occasional, sporadic, would result in her vowing to “never go back there again.” But after they moved to Paradise Valley, Arizona, when she came home from school one day to see her mother talking to Mormon missionaries in the living room, she became paralyzed momentarily and thought ominously, “They found us.”
Her mother would occasionally announce they were being taken to church, and she would never object. At age thirteen, she was informed she would attend “MIA,” a Wednesday late afternoon class involving crafts and badges to go on bandelos they’d wear to those classes to show off their accomplishments – and her bandelo was always the most pathetic because she didn’t care. One evening in winter, when the building was dark and spooky, the girls were given lessons on the reality of the devil, Satan. The teacher gave her own testimony of seeing Satan pick up and throw a student at Brigham Young University against a wall. When her mother picked her up that night, asked about the class, and was told about the Satan stories, she asked – for the first time – if her daughter wanted to continue attending, to which she said No. It was the last time she ever walked consciously into a Mormon church.
Back of back-right-lower tooth appears to have four items stored in geometric order, three vertically, one left of the bottom one, plus a porcelain cap seen in the back, not flush with the tooth. (Also, tooth above, top right, appears very unhealthy at its base.)
Implant in side of tooth, lower left, second from back, with porcelain button cap, videotaped signs of transmitting: patch of white inside stain to right, patch of tiny bubbles in front of mysterious stain dots on porcelain cap, the porcelain cap always curious to hygienists. Also another porcelain cap between this tooth and the tooth behind, gold-colored in this photo with a layer of tooth cement on top of it. (And for the record, the tooth above also appears very unhealthy at its base.) (And I stopped one dentist from placing another implant in a tooth when I discovered the extra hole he’d drilled, and he prompted destroyed the evidence by destroying and removing my tooth.)
In me for over a year. Bruise showed within two weeks, went away within two weeks after it was removed Oct 26, 2014 (resulting tunnel is shown in photo with bruise beside). Tickled a lot.
Inside my g-spot, where I have a puncture wound (at arrow, above the obvious laceration – a different harassment) – indicating an implant that some researchers claim is placed in people explicitly to torture their subjects sexually. Arrived in November 2004 and was activated once (before the clitoral cut happened in 2011), lifting me off the bed when I was reading. (I would like this implant removed first.)
Found silver two-layer button in nose, videotaped it; tried unsuccessfully to remove it with a q-tip, disappeared two days later. Also, suspected an implant arrived November 2004, causing nosebleed.
You’d think that if you were watching a movie, and the camera zoomed in on the watch that the main character wore and kept checking, so tight a zoom that the watch face more than filled the screen, you’d notice the time.
My life is exquisitely difficult to talk about. It’s woven with extreme themes – sexual abuse, mind control, aliens, mysticism – and with accomplishments that make me shy, and failures that embarrass me, and critical facts that embarrass other people.
My lottery ticket to this crazy life may have been as simple as my birth date. I was born on a Full Moon, on a Monday (Moon Day), in the middle of Cancer, also known as Moon Child.
So were the numbers: I was born on July 7, 1952 − 5+2 adding up to 7. Three sevens. Then my mother gave me a name with 7 letters: Jean Ann.
on the day of my birth. The next day, the local paper would give my birth a short column to remark on the coincidence.
In my 20s, I became an activist for peace, and later for social justice, and environmental sustainability. Along the way, I insulted the FBI with media releases exposing their most incriminating statements which I sent to 600 major media around the world, nearly every day of the 6-week “Judi Bari v FBI” federal trial – and the FBI was found guilty.
psychically attacked, suddenly aware of life-long mind control subjection, relieved that life makes sense, terrified, near-suicidal, partnered with teepee-dwelling artist, budding artist in pencil and fiber, repeatedly terrified, mysteriously vaginally cut, heart attack, spiritually healed and encouraged, environmental activist again, solar oven educator, passive solar designer, single again, driven from hermitage by poverty, moved to small town, student of consciousness, Transpersonal Hypnotherapist™, author, mind control activist
Some people have theorized – and this is one of the “more comforting” ideas – that one of my alternate personalities is creating the wounds on myself at night. I can imagine this being the case for something simple like what I’ve called “injection bruises” which always appeared on one of my thighs, usually the front.
But I can’t figure out how anyone could create the scoop marks – on my right hand.
Impressed by the incredible actor Laura Prepon, of Orange is the New Black, I looked her up on Wikipedia and read:
– Her husband is also a psychopath, but has features of a “multiple personality” as I understand it — even though the movie never makes a point of that, and he does no dramatic switching of alters. He’s charming in his social self, but he eventually is taken over by the desire to act out horrific sexual abuse on women, which he uses his adult intelligence to carry out, but when frustrated in any way, he reverts to behaviors that are what a six year old might do: scream, abuse, and yell incessant profanity – and rarely cry – all while otherwise appearing and conversing as an (immature) adult. And it’s clear to me that he was sexually brutalized around the age of six, much like many of us. Some go psycho. Some split. I’m so glad I split.-large-picture.jpg?resize=464%2C371)
t’s top-notch acting, directing, everything.
photographed (and posted) an amazing thing Greg found a couple of days before our friend passed: a dragonfly emerging from its cocoon, into a new life!
2nd half of August: 2 “donut” bruises, 1 injection bruise, 2 scratches similar to biopsy scoops, another injection bruise and other bruise.
(“hypodermic”? or Taser?), one day so speedy I thought they’d given me some pharmaceutical to compensate for something that might have made me tired otherwise, missing time, feeling “out of it” and struggling to do simple things, another bruise. (I know the bruise photos sometimes don’t look like much, but they are so consistent and unexplained.)
Why am I not terrified? Well, I have been, and suicidal more times than I can count. But I’ve talked myself out of it. I’ve worked and prayed to try to understand our world, Good and Evil, the psyche and our power to navigate treacherous waters. And here I am.
In the 1940s, China and the United States each sought to protect their secrets from adversaries at war and began experimenting on soldiers, inducing split minds through intentional torture on their own citizens and others. In the United States, the CIA began intensive studies, now called MKULTRA, and experimented on an estimated 20,000 children and many more adults between the late 1940s and the mid 1970s – individuals who had no idea they were experimental subjects, did not give their consent, and have never been acknowledged or assisted in healing. (The CIA director testified that they destroyed all files. As a consequence, no subject can prove they were involved and disabled in this program.) More on American mind control history is in my page “
