I’ve been withholding a lot in the last year or so anyway, feeling there are things I know that I’m just not willing to commit to print, and so I point out details or tell my experiences, and leave readers to connect the pieces. But I’ve been withholding more and more recently.
Besides withholding, I spend so many hours trying to communicate intense, multi-dimensional realities in the language of this 3D world, yet have no idea whether my readers are real and I’m helping them, or if I’m writing for mostly agents – or if my words are published as I actually write them. I’ve seen too many weird things happen on my computer to really want to invest too much more here.
Finally, maybe most important, writing keeps me locked in the past when I could be looking forward and grounding into my present with more attention.
So I’m saying good-bye on this site to spend more time in my garden and art studio, with friends, grounded in my actual world, and better connected to my Helpers.
I’m very tired of this virtual world.
And I recommend my readers also look for what they need inside themselves, in Nature, within their community, and from their Helpers.
I’ll leave this site up for the information it contains, but don’t expect any new blogs here.
No one who doesn’t already understand wants to hear this stuff. They claim their right to not listen because it’s too scary, and their own lives are already filled with more drama than they can handle, or if it’s not, they want to keep it that way, and it’s their right. It’s only natural. It’s survival.
Therefore, this task is futile, and I should find better things to do.
We might think we need others to hear and understand. But after that, there’s really not a lot anyone can do but sympathize. And that gets old and, in a sense, by putting the information in another person’s head, locks us into that picture in another person’s mind. So we communicators get nothing useful, and they get bummed out.
The only enlivening thing, after we’ve learned to develop better skills of perceiving and responding where we’ve been blinded, is to keep on with the cosmic dance of creating as much beauty and goodness as we can in our moment of life here.
I’m on to other things.
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Twenty years ago last summer, I became estranged from my parents for seven years, and then for the next thirteen years only saw them for a few hours usually once a year – until last week. For five nights then, I slept in their house and visited, mostly just them and me.
That summer day, I had a rare talk with my sister on the phone. (I’m close to no one in my family.) (I believe it’s part of mind control disinformation to discredit MK subjects within the family and elsewhere, especially when they begin to show signs of remembering. However, I’ve been subject to discrediting for a very long time.)
I asked my sister if she had any weird memories of our childhood, and she said no. But, she told me, she’d just seen a 20/20 television show on the so-called “false memory syndrome,” which she asserted was my problem.
For the record, there is no “syndrome,” by definition: a group of symptoms that consistently occur together or a condition characterized by a set of associated symptoms. There has never been a set or group of symptoms defined for this supposed syndrome.
However, the supposed “syndrome” serves as a cover story for anyone accused of anything, usually sexual crimes. The “false memory syndrome” asserts that the memory was invented by a person who’s mentally unwell, either unable to tell reality from imagination, or hatefully vengeful – which I’ve been called more than once for privately asking my sister the question I did and then, when confronted, recounting my memories – but not blaming my parents, only asking for help understanding.
The backlash of blame and hysteria, even when I recalled other individuals has continued to this day. (Those other individuals were military men. I thought this would relieve my parents of culpability, but it only made them more enraged and intent on proving me “deluded.” Their reaction never made sense until I learned about the military being involved in mind control experiments.)
Before I ever heard about the “false memory syndrome,” my parents began planting doubts in my mind, and in my siblings’ minds, about my ability to tell fantasy from reality. It began when I was a child and my mother told the doctor I had a tremendous imagination and talked to imaginary friends. He told her it was okay, even common, but she continued to tell other people within my hearing. Once, another mother responded that sometimes genius and insanity were hard to tell apart, and I took heart.
In adulthood, one Christmas holiday when everyone was together and we were sharing old stories, I recalled the earliest memory I have, of reaching up to my mother’s hips – I seemed to be barely able to walk, not understanding that she couldn’t pick me up while she cooked dinner, and I fussed. As I proceeded with my story, I realized that the next part of the memory didn’t put Mom in a very good light, but I’d already begun and didn’t know how to end it other than just continue.
Generally, I can’t invent – regardless that Mom has always contended I have – so I recounted the story as casually as I could, knowing that plenty of us have experienced frustration as parents and haven’t been perfect, but assuming we were all then mature enough to understand and not judge harshly, but today I wish I had not said it:
As I fussed and reached up to her hips, Mom threw down the spatula she was using at the stove and screamed, “I can’t take it anymore! I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back!” Then she stormed out the door and left me standing alone in the quiet tiny kitchen of their student housing dorm. I was terrified.
I knew that I needed a mother, and I thought I’d have to go outside to solicit another one. I imagined an expanse of concrete – common on the campus, of course – and imagined reaching up my arms to other women walking across the expanse, but in my mind’s eyes they were all busy and walking too fast. Only one in my imagination paused and considered me for a moment, then kept on walking.
I wailed and crawled to hide in the space between the red brocade chair and the wall – but when I gasped my next breath with my face in the upholstery, microscopic pieces of fiber and dust burned my nose and I cried harder.
Suddenly someone was pulling me out and I was surprised to see that my mother had returned. She then tried to assure me she’d never leave me, but I was wary. Even at that age, I guarded my heart from being so terrified again. I let her hug me, but recall no feeling of comfort. Only relief that the terror of aloneness was now gone.
Of course, I only told the bare bones of the story, omitting my imagination and tears, very sorry I hadn’t thought ahead and cut it shorter.
“Oh, I would never do that!” my mother huffed.
I tried to redirect attention from this aspect and turn it back to what I’d meant to be my point – that we can remember things from our very young years – which for some reason I was then absolutely fascinated by.
I grabbed a paper napkin and sketched. “The front door was here, almost directly behind someone standing at the stove. The wall next to the front door had glass you can’t see through. And just left of the stove began the carpet, and the red chair was here, at an angle.”
“You couldn’t remember that! You were only 14 months old when we moved away from there,” she countered, gesturing at my map, as if she’d proven me wrong.
But her face and her gesture told me I’d mapped those items correctly. “Mom, you just indicated that I drew the floor plan correctly.”
Her face went slack as if horrified. She rose from the table, mute, walked to a window where she stared out and said something, I realized with a shock, that I’d heard her say a few times before, and always in the same lilting, trance-like, sing-song voice, as if she’d said it to herself a thousand times, maybe to comfort herself, or maybe to practice saying it casually, “I’ve always said… you had a vivid imagination… and you mixed up your dreams… with memories.”
A sensation of memory was triggered somewhere deep inside me. Something was disturbed. Something felt a little sick. My mother had just sounded like a person in a trance. Why? Why would she go into a trance like that? Did she have a terrible memory herself of those times?
I felt terrible for hurting her feelings. And at the time, I thought it was impossible that my mother would do anything to hurt any of us, so I assumed she was beating herself up unnecessarily for something that couldn’t have been all that bad. Certainly not just walking out on me that day. Was there something else?
I tried to imagine the worst that could have happened if she were totally pushed over the edge with multiple stresses – and imagined locking me in a closet for awhile – that was as bad as I could imagine – and I thought, “Forgiven!” No problem. See, I’m fine now. I’m totally fine.
I know how terribly hard life can be, and can imagine it was infinitely worse back in the 50s when wives took a vow before God and all to obey their husbands. And I know I’ve hurt my kids in ways I didn’t mean to when I was exhausted and ran out of patience. I understand imperfection. And I understand forgiveness. Whatever it was that she was so haunted by, I thought, It’s okay, and I wanted her to forgive herself.
I hoped I’d find some private time to tell her, but I never did. We all went on with our lives for years, decades now, and those words were never spoken.
Decades later, I would learn that the campus on which I’d lived the first year-plus of my life was the home of the Society for Investigation of Human Ecology, a front for CIA mind control experiments.
Of course, a generic type of mind control is nearly impossible to avoid in America, but there’s also an intense, Above-Top-Secret version, the subject of two Senate hearings in the 1970s, which resulted in the program being strongly criticized, after which it was not ended, as promised, but simply shifted further outside government accountability into the world of Special Access Projects, part of the nation’s Black Budget.
The subjects of these experiments have been mostly American and Canadian children and adults in certain demographic groups, including military recruits, members of certain churches, orphans, children in Indian schools, members of secret societies, and special bloodlines, among others.
I fit into at least four demographics that come up frequently among other former subjects who remember their mind control. I’m an Eisenhower; my father had done his tour in the Navy; my mother was a “fallen away” Mormon; and my father’s father was a 33rd degree Mason.
I imagine now my mother reacting, not to a fussy child, but to a child that, through coercion, had been recruited into a government program that she must then cooperate with. Maybe they paid my parents. Maybe they blackmailed them somehow. Maybe they said I’d be serving my nation, and as a benefit I’d be made disciplined, obedient, smart, and successful. Maybe my parents had regrets, but I imagine they had no power to change the course of their agreement with this secret network.
Later, I’d realize something else that might have made me of interest to mind controllers. I was born on July 7, 1952, the seventh day of the seventh month of the year ’52, which adds up to seven. It was a Monday (Moon Day), in the middle of Cancer, also known as Moon Child, on the Full Moon. Not only that, but the time was 4:25 a.m., just 8 minutes before the precise moment of the Full Moon, at 4:33 a.m. That’s within 2/1,000ths of a degree of perfection. I’ve been told these elements are extremely attractive to Satanists, who are supposedly also involved with secret societies.
I assume my parents were innocent victims, like me. I lost two years of my life in amnesia and a lifetime of mental coherence – in exchange for obedience, discipline, and certain sorts of high-level intelligence. And my parents lost their natural relationship with their little daughter.
Virtually no one knew about mind control in America back then. It was a time of great optimism. America was riding high.
I imagine my mother was given the repeated phrase, much like Ewen Cameron gave his MK subjects in the true story and movie, “The Sleep Room“*: “Just tell her: ‘I’ve always said you had a vivid imagination. And you mixed up your dreams with memories.'”
And she said it to herself so many times, it became part of the sing-song trance that kept her going. It was cruel, cruel, cruel, to her and my father, and to me.
* (Entire movie free on YouTube at the link. Hard to watch at points, but important history.)
Be strong. And practice compassion for all of the parents who were coerced.