The first time (that I am conscious of), it was probably inflicted by a mind control agent.
1992, I was being held in jail with a dozen or more activists in Durango, Colorado. We’d been protesting Amoco for claiming the right to drill over 80 natural gas wells in elk migration habitat (when the nation had surpluses of natural gas but Congress had not stopped the subsidies for drilling for it). I’d not intended to get arrested, as I once had done, and as others were intending to that day; I simply didn’t leave the scene soon enough and was arrested for dancing in a corporate drive way.
A female guard called my name, and I was required to change into an orange jumpsuit and ill-fitting flip-flops, and carry a mattress through winding hallways and gates that opened and closed with intercom communication and harsh beeps. While carrying the mattress, I had to pick up along the way a plastic cup, a toothbrush, and other items (all delivered in an order that made it very hard to comply).
I was then led to a new cell with three women who’d been arrested for other causes. Then I was moved again, this time without being required to carry anything.
After a few turns through monotonous hallways of tan glossy paint (easy to clean off blood), we passed through a gate and turned a corner, and for the first time I was aware that we were in a new environment: a stretch of hallway with no gate visible from either end, and no windows.
Then two men emerged around the corner, walking authoritatively, in plainclothes, with military bearing and hair, intense looks, weightlifter physiques.
This was not supposed to be: a woman prisoner in a hallway with two men and no windows. I thought it was someone’s error, and I moved against the left-side wall to minimize the error as I let them pass.
Next thing I knew I was rising from the floor, with my hair in my face, enraged, arms swinging – exactly as I would read years later are the classic responses of a person waking from having been Tasered.
As my vision cleared and I swayed on unsteady, bent legs, one of the men squatted down to snap a close-up photo of my enraged face. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, his grin was wide.
Whatever happened next, I have no idea. It had probably been early afternoon that this had happened (we’d been arrested in the morning), and the next thing I recall, I was being wakened (where I don’t recall) and led to the front desk for processing out. It was after midnight.
Sitting in a hard chair, I was awakened every time I fell asleep for the next four hours. They lied repeatedly that no one had left me any messages, so I had no one to call when they released me, and I was forced to sleep on the indoor-outdoor hard carpet over cold cement in a room for which they seemed to have turned off the heat. I had no jacket.
At 7 am, someone arrived and took me somewhere, but I have no memory of anything, not even thinking about it afterward, not the restaurant where I’m told we all met up for breakfast, nothing.
I knew something had been done to me, but I would only think fleetingly of the event for years.
I also didn’t look for or find any marks, but non-perceiving is a part of mind control.
The second time happened at home – “out of the blue.”
One night, in December 2010 (while working on my first video about mind control), I went to bed feeling fine, but woke feeling as though I’d been hit by the proverbial truck.
My first sensation was of lying in wet sheets, and I soon realized I’d lost control of my bladder. And not recently. It felt as though I’d been lying there for a few hours.
It was difficult to roll out of bed and difficult to walk. I felt like crying but didn’t know why. I shuffled and involuntarily whimpered.
I thought I’d never felt so terrible in my life, and part of it was not knowing why. When I tried to strip the bed, I found it almost more than I could do.
A mess for a couple of days, I was continually on the verge of crying, but when I tried to give myself permission to cry (something I do often, successfully), I felt too afraid to lie down, afraid to be still, totally not willing to cry, as it might evoke a memory some part of me was absolutely certain the rest of me did not want to remember.
So I discharged my anxiety somehow, moving slowly and constantly in easy tasks with which I could occupy my mind until I calmed down. It took days. Each task felt monumental. When I tried to write, my hands shook. When I tried to relax, I felt too agitated to sit still.
I ran my left hand delicately across it, and a triangle of skin slid off, revealing blood-red tissue beneath, and two dark dots I interpreted to be where Taser points landed. (This photo is a couple of days old.)
They say Tasers are sometimes used if perpetrators have any doubt that their subject’s amnesia will hold.
I think these Tasers, plus the electro-shocks of programming in my youth, explain the trouble that I’ve had with my heart for the last 20+ years.
And I wonder what happened that night – that someone wanted to erase inside my mind.
My third Taser
[I was going to check my journals for more on what might have been going on, but I’ve just discovered my box of journals missing! I’m going to try not to panic, hope that I’ve just moved it in my recent furniture changes, but I’m really stumped, having just looked in various closets, etc.
if they’ve developed a new design of electronic weapon with a delivery point similar to a DC plug, which might leave a circle or doughnut shaped bruise.
I’ve also found, for over three years, small bruises,
always on my thighs, about the size you’d expect from being stabbed by a pencil, often, lately, two a week. (But none this week.)
I’ve usually called them “injection bruises,” but I wonder if they might be the result of yet another type of Taser. Don’t know.
(A reader suggested I might be harming myself at night, which is always a good theory to keep in mind for multiples, but that only seems possible for these bruises, not the other stuff. A result of some action by a hidden alter is an interesting idea, but not compelling to me.)
The two-dot designs…
I know are Tasers – and, if I might state the obvious, are not good for my heart.
Since 1993, I’ve had off-and-on periods of serious heart issues (written of here), and many times my heart has pounded so hard I could hardly believe it, and sometimes it would be chaotic – different problems each time – always seemed to stump the doctors. (Different alters?)
Recently I visited my doctor for some unrelated question, and she found my pulse so slow that she did another electrocardiogram and found my second ventricle firing a little late.
If the feds would leave me alone, I might actually live….
If they keep Tasering me, I don’t know….