Tag Archives: government mind control

I have a lot of secrets

I have a lot of secrets
I can’t tell
because the rulers
threaten me
and tell everyone I’m crazy.

Like all mystics and
strange ones of the world,
I experience life in
a few more dimensions
than most “First World”
Earthlings
who’ve been trained
this is all there is.

Many of us came to Earth
from elsewhere,
to investigate
and help, if possible.

Some of us, like myself,
were captured
by the rulers
we came to watch

Because your rulers
don’t want us here.
But we’re here.
And we’re helped by
our kin
in other dimensions.

In larger numbers than you know.
So take heart.

Because your Earth
is being turned into
an artificial/natural hybrid life
experiment –
which seems to them
a reasonable way
to grow the human resource.

To rule your life by algorithm
may soon become
your only means
of existence –
in a human-robot,
hybrid form,
controlled to someone else’s
thoughts of perfection
and highest utility.

What to do?

Enjoy the entertainment
along the way?

Remember your
multi-dimensional self
and your otherworld Help.

CIA Mind Control

Check this out. My friend, Fred, has done a great deal of research on the subject, and it is very well documented.

Just look for the tab that says mind control, near the center.

https://www.wanttoknow.info/

The Truman Show

“My life has been like The Truman Show, only directed by David Lynch,” I wrote in my memoir.

https://youtu.be/OGFGqVD_dSM?si=UgS4jF8JnzHzULMI

So I enjoyed this review of The Truman Show – though the writer seems not to recognize the obvious (to me) parallels to the way MKUltra mind control subjects are treated. Or maybe he does, and he’s being subtle.

This tragicomedy hero’s journey is not a dark futuristic fiction. This is the dark reality for government mind control subjects right now.

To my surprise, this video mentions the “Truman Show Delusion,“ a “delusional diagnosis” in which people are convinced they are “stars of an imaginary reality show.” I suggest they are subjects of a real reality secret government program.

I suspect these diagnosed people are mind control subjects who’ve begun to figure out their reality, and then accidentally told a doctor in the mind control network, all ready to gaslight them and discourage them from trusting their intuition. 

One of the themes of the movie is how Truman has been in love with a woman he was prohibited from being with, and was instead set up with a different woman and encouraged to marry her, which he did. “Even when it comes to love, he didn’t have a choice, and his entire life’s been forced down this narrow path.” Oh God, I so relate.

I know I have been manipulated into relationships with men who later turned out to be my handlers. I’d look back and see all the signs I’d had, all the evidence, remember my mental resistance, and then all the arguments I’d heard in my head, argued with, then finally accepted about staying with that man. Afterward I also recognized the strange circumstances that had brought us together.

Once I had walked into a bar, saw the man who would become my second husband, saw his bright smile, returned it, pointed at him and made a face as of to say, “just like we agreed,” and he nodded.

For years afterward, I would recall that “second time we met” and ask him, “When was the first time we met?” He seemed to know but always denied it and quickly changed the subject and the final time expressed irritation at me for asking again.

I felt so much anxiety in those relationships, like something was off, nothing was normal, but I couldn’t understand what it was because I’d never experienced normal.

I began therapy, and began the very long journey of remembering. And grieving.

The entire movie, the narrator says, people wear 1950s clothes, a decade associated with “a more wholesome time in America.” Yes, and it’s also the decade that MKUltra technology expanded its practice across the US and Canada to 80 or more institutions, military and educational. I was born onto one in 1952: Student Housing on the campus of UCDavis.

Truman‘s crisis and breakthrough happened rather quickly when Truman was around 30 years old. My crisis simmered through my 30s, then went critical when I was 41.

I just turned 73 this week, and I’m still waiting for my freedom.

Truman’s story, the narrator says, is, “basically being a slave that was born into servitude.”

Totally relate.

….

Didn’t mean to go on so long. Writing these words makes me think I should feel more furious.

But I go numb instead. And try to be philosophical instead of emotional. Anything else feels like more could erupt than I could release without hurting myself. So I keep quiet and still.

Seeing Truman’s success in the ending makes wonder if I’m supposed to fight harder. I’ve tried to. I feel I was born to. And I have amazing spiritual help that comes to my aid so often, it seems wrong to not keep trying, even at my age.

But I have fought – and have been beaten back, most recently by Lyme disease, a remote controlled highway crash, people sabotaging my vehicles and home, a mystery illness that takes me to the edge of death where I feel the reality of skin cells breaking down on their way to soup turning into soil in the earth. I think my helpers on other realms are asking me if this is really what I want. I think so, but I’m not sure. And slowly they help me heal.

Truman‘s lifelong fear of water was “set up,” the writer opines. In other words, a psy op, a psychological operation to help his controllers for the rest of his life keep him on the island.

They set me up too. Someone seemed to have set the goal for me to be a sexual performer, so even though I was very modest, I was repeatedly cast as a stripper, a prostitute, and even a sexual spy – when I only wanted to be a dancer.

When I entered puberty, my mother refused to buy me a bra, and one day she removed all my very nice clothes and replaced them with clothes apparently from the Salvation Army. I suddenly had only three skirts I’d never seen before, all seemingly from the 40s (this was the 60s). And three blouses, all dingy white and sheer.

For three days, I went to school hunched over, in shame. On the third day, I walked alone from the lunch cafeteria toward our classerooms when I was grabbed over my eyes from behind and dragged backward in a circle, flinging my arms out to try to regain my balance, then pulling my arms back in to hide my chest, causing repeated bursts of laughter from, it seemed, about 20 classmates.

Then I was dropped in the dirt. I wonder today how many in that school and my high school, maybe the entire town are involved in some way in the mind control program. Would be convenient.

At home, my mother was ready to take me to go shopping. To my surprise, she bought me two stylish dresses at a department store teen section. Back at home she shaved my very hairy legs, plucked my unibrow into two, and let me begin to use a little makeup. All in one day.

Sounds to me like some psychiatrist had a theory he wanted to test: See if he could make me fear being anything but beautiful. (Curse him.) In the coming year, my mother would spend a great deal of time helping me build a beautiful wardrobe with matching shoes and purses, and encouraging me in makeup and hairstyling.

Then I would discover dance, the easiest means to an altered state of consciousness, and I would be in love with dance ever after. To dance in the high school plays, I had to sing well enough to make the varsity choir, so I took lessons. We also had to audition and accept whatever parts we were cast for. My final play after high school I was cast as a stripper. The next year in two other situations I would be cast as a prostitute and then Mata Hari, the infamous sexual spy during World War I. I chose none of these, resisted every one, then went along, doing as I was told.

Before another year was up I ran away from home and college and the secret society I had been persuaded to “check out” after resisting vehemently for months.

I understand now they were meant to be my controllers for the rest of my life. I didn’t know that then, but I sensed it, as if my parents were turning their control over to them.

The whole thing was giving me the creeps, a lot like Truman, and I ran away, quit, broke whatever solemn vows I’d made in that ceremony for which I am entirely amnesic, except for one second when “I” opened my eyes then hid back inside, unknowing. Which mind control alter was out for that I don’t know.

I crashed through one of my walls in the sense that I finally knew there was reality to what I’d always felt but the people around me had always denied, calling me “delusional.” Regardless of their lifelong denial and betrayal, I finally knew and had the proof. But nothing that anyone else would ever be able to see and then agree with.

And Truman was also alone, in a liminal, unfamiliar world with no one there to witness what he sees. But he’s supposedly free?

I don’t feel free yet. And I wonder now how Truman could ever escape fully from the lifelong imprinting he received from the corporation that literally owns him.

I’m still waiting.

And waiting to meet another mind control subject who knows they’re a mind control subject. In my world, I am all alone, just as They planned, and continue to control. I’m the only one I know like me.

Of course, nearly everyone but the most isolated primitive tribes on the planet is somewhat mind controlled, taught to avoid certain subjects, deride and laugh at other subjects, fixate on things, ignore other things.

“But some of us got special treatment.” (As I narrated in my 3-minute video about my memoir, Rattlesnake Fire: a memoir of extra dimensional experience.)

Watching this discussion of the show was very affirming. It’s good to know some recognize our plight.

It’s comforting. Little else is comforting in this world of organized deceit.

Fraud

Our nation is such a fraud.

I’ve “always” known this, but I’ve also always hoped that the masses of people who might have believed the lie and tried to do good would override the minority telling the lie.

This morning my hope no longer sustains me.

Reading the stories of how people are being treated in our prisons and detention camps and even now torturing prisons in foreign countries to which we sent them without due process – has broken me. Especially the story about the Afghan artist who interpreted for our Army before bringing his family here.

In the 1970s, after I and two siblings had graduated from high school, my parents went into the Peace Corps. Who knows what they actually did there. I met a man here in Tucson, serving with me on the food co-op board in 1985, who by great coincidence was with my parents in Afghanistan, and he told me he was sent home for having published an unauthorized newsletter about CIA agents in the Corps, and he told me he thought my parents were them!

I believe it. It fits their personality far more than the other image we have of the peacenik Peace Corps volunteers.

But I didn’t know that in 1974, when my siblings and I accepted their offer to travel halfway around the world to see them there and travel with them a bit in the Middle East.

Afghanistan, my father said, was proudly marching into the 17th century. Their water supply and sewage system seemed to be all one, called jetties, that wound through their cities. And women were rarely seen, covered from head to ankles, scurrying quickly alongside walls when out of their homes for errands. Meanwhile, men squatted in circles, laughing, smoking, sipping thick coffee in tiny cups, seemingly having lots of free time. Others, beggars, were everywhere.

We were young and able to put these things out of our minds and just focus on the beauty we found in their architecture, embroidery and foods.

Our nation’s presence there did nothing to help. All we did was take over the poppy harvest and the profitable heroin trade.

And now I read about how our nation has failed these people again. We promised them asylum, presenting ourselves as a nation of freedom and human rights, only to take off that mask today and show our true brutality.

I said above I “always” knew our nation was a fraud, but how did I know that? I was brought up with many advantages: a stable home, a lovely home, often with my own private bedroom, good food, nice clothes, music lessons, dance lessons, and quiet time to read and practice self-hypnosis, dream interpretation and drawing. And everyone I knew had similar. Everyone seemed to be living the American dream. So why did I have this inner knowing about our fraud?

And why did I spend most of my life asking, “What’s wrong with me?“ I would be almost 50 years old before I would learn that I was a US government mind control subject and had been since birth. Made so by the same organization, the CIA, that sent my parents to Afghanistan after I had run away at age 19 and, I thought for a while, somewhat broke my mind control programming, but only somewhat, if at all.

That’s a very long story I’ve told elsewhere and will probably tell again. And I’ve been dealing emotionally with this horrible truth for 23 years now. Alone.

I sometimes marvel at how well I’m doing at integrating this truth, remaining functional, and trying to do good despite the isolation the controllers have forced me into and the days I wake up and wonder, “What happened to me last night?” Yes, sometimes I marvel.

But not today. Today I’m devastated by the image of that Afghan man, a man who also believed the lie, tried to help our nation, then depended on our nation, and is now betrayed by our nation. I so relate. And I am devastated.

22 Reasons I believe I was/am a Mind Control Subject

1. When a friend sent me an email in June 2002 with a few links and a sentence that read, “I think this might explain our stuff,“ I opened the first one to read a headline that revolted me.

My brain rejected the idea of “mind control,“ but as I read the first sentence, I felt something I had never felt before, but was absolutely real: a chorus of small children inside me, physically panicking. Some were whimpering, others hyperventilating, stifling cries, trying to hide, all a chorus of panic, with a teen girl’s voice suddenly heard trying to comfort and calm them.

Then an adult voice spoke to me, “It’s okay, it’s good for you to know. Now you can begin to heal.“

My mind was blown, having never experienced anything like that – except once when I’d felt myself spread out in three parts, with two of them on either side explaining it was good for me to know I was multiple, and now they were leaving, not needed anymore. I had begged them to stay and explain it all to me, but they had said it would be too long a process, and I didn’t yet have the foundation to understand.

Being multiple was a bad enough realization, though I had gone to the medical library and learned it was not insanity, just a different way for a brain to function, and sometimes it came with great intelligence and other skills, which I knew I had. But this realization of mind control seemed to have nothing good about it, only horror and fear of how I could not control what I might do.

I would spend the next year and a half thinking every day that it would be better to die. I did not believe in suicide, but I reconsidered the idea every day.

2. Researchers often associate mind control with Satanism, and Satanists are given religious freedom in the US, including in the Military. (Sargeant Michael Aquino is a well-known, out-of-the-closet, high-ranking Satanist.) And mind control is practiced widely in the military under the direction of the Central Intelligence Agency.

When I was dabbling in astrology, I discovered that the numerology (practiced by Satanists) of my birthday (July 7, 1952) can be “reduced” to 7-7-7 (or 7-7-8). In addition, I was born on a full moon; on a Monday (Moonday); in the middle of Cancer, also called Moonchild, ruled by the Moon.

Not only was I born on a day that contained a full moon, but I was born within 2/1000ths of a degree of the Full Moon opposition. Three moons and three sevens – and Satanists love days like this, I learned. So I might have been selected because of my birthdate and time.

It was also the same day Dwight D. Eisenhower’s nomination to the Republican Presidential ticket was announced.

3. My father was in the Navy, in Carrier Aircraft Service Unit 33 (also a favorite satanic number), which has a conspiracy site associated with it, in which relatives of men in that CASU note that the unit has details that do not correspond with any other records of ports, ships, or dates, while every other CASU detail corresponds perfectly. Most suspect that CASU was a secret project subjecting those sailors to some sort of experiments – and I suspect mind control. My father never wanted to talk about his time in the service.

4. My father‘s father was a 33rd° Freemason. He moved the family from Schell city, Missouri, to Hollywood, California, when my father was a child. There my grandfather became veterinarian to the stars and to the famous German Shepherd TV hero, Rin Tin Tin. Freemasons and Hollywood are both associated with mind control.

5. My father‘s mother wanted her youngest son, my father, to be a child movie star, “like little Jackie Coogan,” so she signed him up with an agent, and my father was sent on the road at age 7 for six months, after which my father stuttered for the next two years. He must have been traumatized to be away from his family at that young age, and I can’t help but wonder if he was also sexually abused, as is common in Hollywood child actor histories. When I was 9 or 10, he needed to have surgery on his anus, which I recall him telling my mother was bleeding profusely.

6. My mother‘s mother was a migrant farm worker, widowed during the Great Depression when my mother was eight and my aunt was nine. She was also an excellent baker, and after quitting migrant work and renting a sidewalk stand to sell sandwiches made with her homemade bread, she was fortuitously taken under the wing of some wealthy businessmen who put her in charge of a new restaurant with conference rooms, outdoor patio, and a walk-up bakery window. Every day, one of those men came to visit my grandmother at lunch – when most restauranteurs would naturally be managing their busiest time – but she was obedient to his request. She sat at one booth facing the door, playing gin rummy if we were visiting, and when she saw him in the doorway, she stopped mid-sentence, laid down her cards, and walked directly toward him, and they disappeared down the sidewalk. One time when we visited, my mother wanted to introduce herself and me to him, so she hurriedly pulled me out of the booth and after her as she hurried to interrupt them for an introduction. I’ve always remembered the disbelieving hostility in the man’s face, his refusal to engage, and him turning and walking away with my grandmother at his side.

Back at the booth, my mother stared at the doorway and mused as if she thought it were the most wonderful thing that my grandmother had this mysterious relationship with this wealthy man. She said, “She never says what they talk about.”

Since mind control has been recorded in European history back to the 17th century, I suspect my grandmother may have been an early mind control subject as well – as her restaurant became the gathering place for the “movers and shakers” in Van Nuys for 25 years.

It seems my mother had inadvertently interfered with her mother‘s daily programming. And my grandmother was not allowed to discuss anything about it.

7. Mormons, military, Freemasons, and Hollywood – all have been associated with mind control, and all are in my family lineage.

8. When I was born, my parents were living in married student housing at UC Davis, where my father was finishing his degree in Veterinary Medicine. That year, UC Davis launched the Human Ecology Project, which researchers now associate with CIA mind control.

9. The largest religious denomination in the CIA, by far, are the Mormons. Stuart Udall, Secretary of the interior under Eisenhower, who was at my parents’ Christmas party when I was eight years old, was a Mormon. It’s difficult to explain why he was at our house – except that the party, and our new custom home, both occurred just a few months after my two years of near amnesia, at the same approximate age as other mind control subjects report their two years of amnesia, either proceeded by or followed by a nice new custom home.

These two years are when the CIA takes children (who have been prepared by their parents) and creates the multiple personalities that will be controlled for the rest of their lives.

My mother was also a Mormon, but a “jack Mormon,” one who rarely goes to church. I was occasionally sent or taken to church, which I hated, so, I suspect, I was made accessible to them for program updates. I have disturbing memories of amnesia and hating being there at that church.


10. While I can tell dozens of stories of my life up through kindergarten, I have only a few weird memories of first and second grade, and then my memory comes back fully in third grade.

First, age 6, I remember being thrilled to take a train trip alone with my mother, leaving our father behind to take care of my three younger siblings, the youngest only about 8 months old. I knew this was strange, this image of my dad at the table with my three siblings when we said goodbye, and so I always remembered it, but I was thrilled to feel special, to travel alone with my mother.

My mother said we were going to see her aunt in Albuquerque, but I have no memory of that. I do have a memory of being in something I now recognize as a large military airplane hanger. I was sitting in a party dress on a chair in front of a military man in tan khaki behind a desk. Another military man came past me from behind on my left to talk to the man behind the desk. The man walking, who was shaped like a pear, gave me a quick glance, then said to the man at the desk, “Pretty one,” nodding toward me. Next thing I recall is being in the backseat of a car, being brought home by four men in uniforms and very short haircuts in a sedan with a two-tone interior they called “aquamarine.“ They gave me no attention, so I just stared at the backs of the two heads in front of me, ignored the men on either side of me, and comforted myself with a toy on my lap, a pressed-metal beagle, painted black, white and brown, with a crank on the side that I could turn to make it plink out “How Much is That Doggy in the Window?“ I remember thinking how glad I was for this toy, as if without it I would be in a panic. Suddenly, we parked on the street in front of our house. The man on my right slid out and motioned for me to get out, which I did awkwardly, holding my dog. Then he gestured toward my front door, and I marveled at the strangeness of approaching from the front instead of entering the side door from the driveway as usual. I climbed up on the curb, across the cut lawn on the easement, then onto the sidewalk, up the walkway and finally to the front door. No excitement or happiness, just what was.

Inside, my mother took the dog from me, and the next day she would tell me I had never had a toy dog and that I must have imagined it. I knew she was lying.

I have no other memories of first grade, and I’m only guessing that these belong to first grade and not to second grade.

The next summer, when I was seven, the whole family went to visit our grandmother Mimi and our aunt Doris, who lived together in Van Nuys, California. Then one day my mother announced to us kids that I was going to visit longer with Mimi and Doris, and the rest of the family would come get me later. I asked why, and got no answer that I recall.

I didn’t mind, as I liked my grandmother and aunt. But today it makes no sense because they were both single working women, my aunt was a single mother, they worked full-time at Mimi’s restaurant, and this – leaving anyone alone there – was nothing we had ever done or would ever do again.

I went to the restaurant with them for a day or a few, where my aunt taught me how to use the cash register and make change. I stood on a stool and enjoyed the compliments I got from the customers who seemed amazed I could make change at my age.

I have only one memory of second grade (or first), and that is of standing in front of an easel with an apron on and four pots of paint: blue, green, red (or yellow?), and black. Everyone else in the room seemed to be painting excitedly, but I just stood and looked at my blank paper.

A woman’s voice nearby commanded me to “Paint.“ I answered that I didn’t know what to paint. “Paint a tree,” she responded. I dipped my paintbrush in black and drew a black tree on black earth with black wind streaming by with black leaves in the wind. I put down my brush and remember thinking, “There. A tree.”

Later, I remember waking up at home, thrilled to be back where things were familiar, then running to find my mother to tell her, “I’m awake! And I’ve been asleep for a long, long time!” She shared none of my enthusiasm, and I watched the side of her head as she told me dismissively, “No you just slept one night. It only felt long.”


11. My father worked very long hours, sometimes 70 hours a week, he said. But then he treated himself and us to three vacations a year, including very long summer vacations. I always thought those summer vacations were two weeks long, but my brother now tells me they were four weeks long! And sometimes I had amnesic events.

We often traveled with or met up with other families, of which I was one of the oldest children, so I was not being mistaken when one of the other mothers referred to my directing the other children in an abbreviated performance of the Wizard of Oz. I had directed plays before with neighborhood kids, but I had absolutely no memory of directing that play when I was a teenager.

I also have no memory of going to the Chiricahua Mountains, which my siblings talked about as one of our very best times, but I could never remember it at all. These “memory problems” used to seriously disturb me, because it wasn’t a common occurrence, something I had come to expect, but the strangest sort of surprise that completely confounded me.

And now I’ve learned that the mind controllers need to check in with their subjects and spend extensive time with them, refining their programming, which I now theorize was occasionally done on family vacations.


12. After high school graduation, I secretly looked forward to finding friends involved in the hippie movement. I had always had a hard time making friends, and was raped that summer, so I related to those people who seemed willing to break social norms.

So I was confused when the daughter of one of my mother‘s distant acquaintances called me repeatedly, wanting to tell me about “the Greek system“ and her sorority house. I was polite until her third call when I decided she deserved to know that I did not consider myself “their type.“ To my surprise, she answered, “What type do you think we are?“ There was a long pause where I searched for words that were not insulting (as I’d been trained), and finally I decided she deserved the truth since she kept bothering me, and I responded, “Plastic” (a late 60’s insult). Immediately she replied, “Don’t you think you’re judging us without knowing us?“ That was a phrase I’d only heard attributed to hippies! So she was calling me on my own barely adopted ethos! She was calling me a fraud, and I had to prove I was more open-minded than that. So I agreed begrudgingly to attend sorority Rush, not wanting to do anything except prove I was open minded.

Suddenly, one of my friends from fourth grade became my best friend, sharing constantly with me her intense desire to get into this same sorority, her anxiety that she might not, and all the reasons why it was the most important thing in her life.

Elsewhere, I have written a very long story explaining the intense gaslighting I got that year to “pledge,” and then join at the end of the year – as well as to enter two local run-ups to the national Miss America Pageant – which I had always thought were terribly embarrassing, and I continued to think so then. But my childhood had given me very little experience in making my own decisions, so I was easy to manipulate to do things I did not want to do.

At the very end of the year, after making my coerced vows, I was secretly told that I had been recommended by the state president, the highest recommendation one could get. I was shocked and hurt.

I had thought all of their overtures toward me had seemed pretended, not real friendship, but I have been told by my friend that I just didn’t know what real friendship was. And now it had been made perfectly clear that my intuitions had been correct, and I had accepted their pretenses as truth. I felt humiliated, tricked, lied to, angry, and ashamed for not having acted on my own intuitions instead of following everyone else’s judgments.

That summer, I would break my vows (despite their warnings of how doing so would be “really, really, really, really, really, really, really bad”), and early the next year I would return my Miss U of A crown (I’d been such a bad, uncaring representative anyway, they’d quit calling me for any publicity events), drop out of school, throw away all my make-up and hair products, and “run away,“ hitchhiking across the United States with the first boy-man who thought it was a good idea. And things did get really, really, really, really, really, really, really bad.


13. Between marriage to that boy-man and having children, my husband and I woke up one morning to find our wooden bed frame broken, side rails disconnected from the corner posts, the slats in disarray, and no memory of how it had gotten that way while we “slept.”

My husband had been born on a Navy base (Groton, Connecticut, also associated with mind control), and his mother had been committed twice to a mental hospital – another circumstance common to mind control subjects, so his parents may also both have been in the program, along with him.

In the shower that morning, I discovered that my vagina was extremely painful, swollen, and in a mirror, I could see that the skin had been pulled apart in a manner I could only describe as looking like patterns on a giraffe, which I reported to my mother when I called her to ask what it could mean, but she had no theory.

I understand now this is a typical result of gang rape, but I could not consider that possibility then. Today, I wonder whether some mind controllers had made both of us amnesic for a gang rape, and in the process, broke the bed.


14. In therapy in my 30s, I tried to imagine the stream of my life, but all I saw was something like disconnected, cut-up pieces of yarn, scattered, no history with any coherence, causing me to wonder what was wrong with me. (This is actually more pertinent to Multiple Personality/Dissociation, but it is also a major feature of Mind Control.)


15. After I divorced my first husband, I met a man in a bar and immediately recognized him as someone I was supposed to meet, but I could not remember why. After we became a couple, I asked him a few times why did we both think we were supposed to meet, but he seemed to not want to discuss it. I believe now that he is another mind control subject, and we were amnestically programmed to meet and fall in love.


16. When we both became involved with the radical activist group, Earth First, I hadn’t wanted to spend much time with it because I was a single mother, I had just launched a business, and I didn’t want to divide my time further. But my partner badgered me constantly with intense encouragement, promising to make up for my financial losses (which he never did), so I relented and gave part-time pro bono media work to the group for four years. Later, certain members of the group would accuse me of being a spy, “badjacketing” me, isolating me. And many years later, after my 2002 introduction to mind control, I would realize that was absolutely a possibility.


17. When that marriage ended, and I moved to Colorado Springs to be with my high school crush from 25 years earlier, we experienced someone trying to break into our home in the middle of the night.

Suddenly, another personality came to the fore. I felt shrunken to the right side of my frontal lobe, witnessing somebody else take over the rest of my body. She told my boyfriend to call 911 while she grabbed a large knife, then positioned herself in front of the door, bouncing on her toes while testing the balance of the knife in her hand, and thinking to herself how happy she was to have this chance to kill someone, as it had been a long time. She had absolute confidence in what she was doing as she listened to him throw himself against the door and imagined different responses if he crashed through in one direction or another, with one physique or another, all while “I“ was marveling at her.


18. When I lived in Silver City, I attended an art gallery opening, and as I was leaving, needing to return my wine glass to the table, a new acquaintance and a stranger were conversing in my pathway. So as I walked toward them, intending to turn sideways and slip through, instead I again retreated to the right side of my frontal lobe while I witnessed some part of me do a provocative walk toward them – an exaggerated sexy walk I have not been able to imitate the few times I tried – years after I grieved the humiliation of it.

I wanted very badly to regain control of my body and stop it, but I could not. The new acquaintance looked at me in shock, and there was nothing I could do. I went home and cried that evening, and could do little but weep the next day – and think about ending things.


19. When I was a nomad living in my RV, I volunteered at a UFO conference and was requested for an emergency to work at a table handling money and tickets. I didn’t want to do that, so I chose the safest method of immediately handing every bit of money to a paid employee beside me after each sale. At the very end, I felt some alter take over my body again, take two or three tickets, then turn and slip them into a pocket of my backpack behind me, then turn back around before I regained control.

It only took 10 seconds, but the whole time I was horrified, but could not stop it. I cried all afternoon and evening until 2 AM, when I wrote an email to my supervisor to please meet me in the morning, when I would tell her what had happened. Interestingly, and fortunately, I had told her in my application that I was a mind control subject “in healing.”

And I’ve always thought it was good policy to warn people, even though others suggest it isn’t good for making friends. I know. But I want others to have fair warning in the event they notice something strange in my behavior. And hopefully they’ll tell me, so I might have a chance to learn more about myself.


20. After that, I remembered two other earlier events in which some altar in me took over my body when a camera came out. She posed my body in a manner I thought stupid and even cheesy cliché, but I could not regain control of my body to face the camera more naturally. One time was for a newsletter article about strawbale construction. The other was for a video documentary about the “Judi Bari versus FBI” trial. Broke my heart again, to feel myself taken over, and scared me.

21. Nearing the end of my media work for that trial, we had a very important media release to go out, for which we had set the fax machine to send it at a particular time for maximum impact. But the next morning, it was discovered that the fax machine had been unplugged. As soon as I was told about it, I had a dreadful feeling like a body memory of my right shoulder dragging under the fax machine table while I imagined someone reaching for the plug. 


22. A friend from high school, whom I now believe is also a mind control subject, published a book in which his female lead character is named Jean Ann (my name) and is an amnesic Mormon assassin.

There’s probably more. These are just off the top of my head. I’ll add more as I remember them or have time to go through my database.

15 Reasons Why I Believe I was Sexually Abused as a Child

1. A very early childhood nightmare of a cartoon character exposing himself on stage, exposing his girl’s pudendum. I felt horrified and afraid. (Why would a young child create that sort of dream if she hadn’t experienced it herself?)

2. A very early childhood nightmare of my father sitting in the driver’s position on front carriage of an old-fashioned circus carriage train, in a nighttime storm, dressed in black with a tall black hat, whipping a black horse that took us too fast down a bumpy mountain road. Suddenly the train crashed and all the carriages fell over, and I feared the wild animals had gotten out of their cages. I was alone in the dark night, terrified I would be found by a wild animal and ripped apart. (Obviously not sexual, but shows a fear of the night.)

3. When I was 3 or 4, Mom responded hysterically to something I had said, and dragged me into the bathroom, screaming that I should never say anything like that ever again, and knocked a bar of soap around in my mouth, then left me there and went into the kitchen.

I was terrified of her, so waited in the bathroom, but soon my mouth was full of saliva, and I needed to spit it out, but the top of the bathroom sink was at my forehead and I knew I wasn’t allowed to drag a chair in there without permission (and it never occurred to me to spit into the toilet or the tub). Fearful but desperate, I went to the doorway of the kitchen and saw my mother standing there in fury, then tipped my head back to hold in the saliva and asked if I could move a chair. She nodded, and I was able to move the chair to the sink and begin to clean the chunks off of my teeth.

(Obviously not sexual, but I can’t imagine anything other than the possibility of a sexual scandal in the event I would say those words publicly that would make a mother get so hysterical and brutal to her daughter.)

Cropped from photo of me on Mom’s lap

4. A memory of Mom taking me to the doctor and telling him she thought I was crazy because I said “crazy things.” He told her, laughing gently, “No, children just have active imaginations, and sometimes they mix up their dreams with memories.“ But soon she told my aunt, who also laughed and told her no. And I remember when she also told a small group of women who had visited the house and were now in their car getting ready to drive away, and they also laughed and told her no.

All these people telling Mom she was wrong gave me confidence that I didn’t need to take her words to heart.

5. About age 4, I remember being in the den, squatting down and studying the smeared patterns in the linoleum, listening to a man talk to my father, saying, “You marry a Mormon woman, and you get the children too.“ In later reflection, it seemed he was encouraging my father either to engage with me sexually or not feel bad about it if he already was. Much later, I learned that sexual abuse (and mind control) are very common in Mormon families.

6. When I was 8, and we had just moved into our new custom home on in Merced, I heard Dad call my name and came out of the den to find him squatting down to my height, smiling, with Mom standing to the side behind him. I was mesmerized by his smile because I so rarely saw it while making eye contact with me. When I arrived in front of him, he pulled out a steel hypodermic needle from behind his back, held upright, and I stepped back in shock, but he held me there, and I knew not to disobey him. He continued to smile while telling me that it was time for my booster, and he “gave the best shots in town.” He went on to say that I wouldn’t even feel it because he had a special technique. All I had to do was hold my arm really soft and limp, and he patted my arm to help me relax and told me to look away. I followed his instructions and soon he said, “That’s it.“ I was amazed, because I had not felt anything, just like he said.

In preparation for our Christmas party that year, Mom had been calling all the guests, telling them that Stuart Udall (then Secretary of the Interior) would be there. I remember thinking she was bragging, which was something she had told me not to do. At the party, we were supposed to stay in the den and not come out, and I was intent on helping the little ones follow that rule. However, when my littlest siblings tried to sneak out, some woman guest encouraged Mom to let us come out for five minutes, so the little girls burst ahead, winding their way through the crowd, followed by my brother, followed by me.

I was overwhelmed by the crowd of tall people, uncertain whether I really wanted to be there or what to do, so I just followed the other kids and soon saw my doctor talking to my father. The two of them together made me think of shots, so when my doctor had greeted me, and I knew I was supposed to respond with something, I cheerfully said, and loudly over the noise of the crowd,“My daddy gives the best shots in town. He gives me my boosters.“

My doctor looked shocked and immediately swiveled his head around and up toward my father, and I followed, and saw my father look as though he were in deep trouble. There was a third man there also, and the three men all exchanged glances, and the expressions of extreme concern did not go away. Because my doctor was second cousin to Stuart Udall, I assume that the Secretary of the Interior was the third man there.

A few months later, I came home from school to find my mother emptying the kitchen cabinets and packing dishes into boxes. When I asked her why, she answered angrily that we had to move. After we had moved to Paradise Valley, I asked her why we had moved and, while keeping her back to me, she answered that the people in Merced were very snobby and they didn’t want to be a part of that group.

(See 15 below for follow-up.)

7. When I put in my first tampon while squatting over a mirror (as suggested by the instruction sheet), I was shocked to see my inner labia looking very unlike the sketch in the instruction sheet, as mine were long, as if stretched out, and brown, hanging significantly outside the outer labia. I was stunned, but didn’t have the confidence to ever ask anyone about it.

8. Years later, when my sisters and I were swimming naked in the pool and my youngest sister inadvertently exposed herself while hanging on the diving board by her knees, I embarrassed myself by laughing a little hysterically at the sight of her peach-like anatomy, I assume because mine looked so different, but I couldn’t think about it consciously until decades later.

9. When I was date raped the summer of 1970, age 18, I went into an altered state of consciousness in which I could only scream silently in my head, but could not move my body or make any vocalizations.

10. After I was raped, in shock and horrified that I was no longer a virgin (or so I thought), I decided I might as well engage in sex of my own choice, and I wanted to think of it as “my first.” But afterward when I said that to my boyfriend, he repeatedly told me it was OK that I wasn’t and not to keep lying about it.

11. In my mid-30s, having sex with my boyfriend, I suddenly had a flashback in which I was a young child, lying naked on a cotton bedspread with an interesting weave, with a wall to my left, and a few feet away on my right a window with a shade pulled down and bright sunlight coming in thin lines around the edges, and a door in the direction of my feet, and a large blank where I knew a person was standing, looking down at my pudendum.

I felt a sickening dread, but knew I could not leave or stop what was coming, and so I turned my head toward the wall and began a recitation I had previously invented: the wallpaper is gray-green, the flowers are pink with green leaves, in rows that go across and up to the side, and each rose has a frame around it made of white wavy lines, two on each side, and the paint is not laid down evenly, but is thick in some places and thin in others, so the gray-green paper shows through, and I wonder if the workers got in trouble for that.

Then I decided to praise myself, and told myself, “I invented this. No adult taught me.” But that made me almost remember why I had invented this, and I almost came back into my body, so I quickly told myself I had to always stay exactly with the routine and never stop to think about my invention, and I began again at the beginning, “The wallpaper is gray green, the flowers are pink with green leaves….“

Then I was back in my mid-30s body having sex with my partner, extremely shocked by what I had just remembered.

I didn’t know what to call this event, but thought it would be the sort of thing to ask a counselor, but I didn’t want to talk to a counselor about it because I was afraid of what it might mean, afraid that I did not have the time and emotional energy to process it, and also afraid that someone might convince me it meant something that it didn’t mean.

The next day I reviewed my options, again certain I did not have the time or energy or money to deal with this while my children were so young, and I was trying to make a living. So I decided it was important to not think about it, because I might inadvertently change the memory, but I also did not want to forget it. An idea came to me to put the memory into a box and put it on the top shelf of a closet until later when I had time. Oddly, the box I chose was an old-fashioned (50’s?) round, striped hat box.

12. In my late 30s, in the days after the family had gathered for Christmas, a few of us were sitting around the dining table telling stories, while others stood nearby. My brother had just told a story that someone remarked was from a very young age, and I knew I also had a memory from a very young age, so I grabbed a paper napkin and drew while describing the married student housing apartment at UC Davis where my parents lived when I was born:

“The front door was here, and it had a tall, narrow window right next to it with circle-textured glass so you couldn’t see through. The kitchen was right here, and Mom was standing at the stove, and the hood light was on, shining brightly when I looked up. The living room was here to the left, and the linoleum changed to carpet at an angle here. The red leather chair was here.”

At that, my mother said accusingly, “You can’t remember that. You were 14 months old when we left there.“

To which I replied, “But you just acknowledged that I did remember it.“

Mom‘s face was in silent shock, as she pushed away from the table, walked calmly to a window, stood there looking outside, and finally said in a trance-like, singsong voice, “I’ve always said you had an active imagination and you mix up your dreams with memories” - as if she’d said those words a thousand times.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I realized she’d said that phrase in those exact same words every time I had ever remembered anything from my childhood, and she’d never said anything similar regarding the other kids.

Mentally scrambling for a reason, I assumed she had done something for which she felt very guilty, and I needed to tell her sometime that my childhood was fine, and she had nothing to feel bad about.

However, driving home from that Christmas visit, I pulled off to the side of the interstate and sobbed over the steering wheel, feeling incredibly sad that my mother had been diminishing me all my life for something she felt guilty about, and my siblings had been hearing these diminishments for their entire lives, and I felt so isolated, so unfairly accused.

Later, I learned this is consistent in families with one abused child.

13. Sometime around age 40, while beginning to cook dinner, I realized I had some memory of someone saying something that I couldn’t understand, but clearly had a distinct cadence that repeated. It came through as a pattern of beats that I had the odd impression had been repeating in my head for at least three days and was associated with a little home in Merced before our custom home.

I told myself I was probably like a “word on the tip of the tongue“ and I’d remember it if I quit focusing on it, so I took down a sauce pan and turned toward the sink to fill it with water, when suddenly those beats turned into someone saying, “You’ve got to stop that soon. She’s getting old enough to remember.“

I had the sickening feeling it was my mother speaking, and whatever it was she didn’t want me to remember was probably not good, probably sexual. I was in so much shock, I couldn’t breathe, and I staggered a few steps to the sink and struggled to hold the pan in my hand because I didn’t want to hear it clatter, but didn’t have the energy in my arms to set it down. I held myself up by my forearms on the front of the sink, and struggled to take in a breath.

14. When I was in therapy, age 41, in 1993, my therapist asked me about my family and what my upbringing had been like, to which I had replied confidently that it was “normal, nothing wrong.” He then asked me to describe some typical interactions with my parents.

To my surprise, I couldn’t think of anything that was nice. All I could remember of my young childhood was of talking to the back or side of my mother’s head,or her being angry at me, or cold and rejecting, like making me stay in my bedroom and not bother her unless it was really, really necessary, and if it was necessary to first figure out how to say what I needed in the fewest words possible, or me sneaking out to sit in the hallway around the corner to listen to her interacting with other people.

The only young memory of interacting with my father was of him being extremely angry at Christmas when he presented me with a wooden child-size stove he had made himself, and I had given it a little attention before being distracted by all the other presents. When I asked about it later, my mother told me he had given it away.

I also remember him taking family photos, and all of us smiling giddily.

I’ve since learned that mothers often emotionally abuse the children who are sexually abused by their father. And calling them liars or delusional is an important tactic to discredit them in the event they ever tell the truth.

15. A few years ago, taking on my mother‘s genealogy work, using ancestors.com, I was prompted to look at “hints” that might be found on their associate site, newspapers.com. I had followed the categories in order, and when I came to “police records,” I expected to find nothing, but clicked anyway, following my habit of orderly progress, and was surprised to see a photograph of my mother, looking very threatened, with narrow window blinds behind her, like those I might have seen in police interrogation rooms on television.

From Police Records, Newspapers.com

I had been efficiently taking screenshots, then clicking for the next item, intending to read everything later, but after I captured her photograph, before I could click on the article, the article and photograph both disappeared.

Because I have documented many events of apparent surveillance on my phone and computer, I assumed someone did not want me to see this and interrupted my access. (I wonder if someone else can.)

I can only guess why her photo was in a police record, wearing her flowered bed jacket and a hairdo like she wore that year in Merced, and wearing such a cornered, silent expression.

Today, my siblings have never spoken to me about any of my writing, thoughts, assumptions, or proof, but I’ve learned that they have spoken to my daughter, and possibly my son, about my “mental illness.”

Even though I have openly described myself as a “multiple personality,” I do not consider this a mental illness. When I first realized that I was multiple, I went to the medical library and read everything they had there, and I learned that it should not be considered a disorder or illness. It is simply a creative adaptation to great trauma, and each alternate personality is sane.

But no one in my family wants to discuss this, or hear my opinions on anything. 

I’m 72 now, with a son and daughter who choose not to speak to me any more than necessary, choose not to visit me, even when I tell them I need help, and do not believe I have Lyme Disease or any reason to not to have been cheerful for all of our visits the last decade, or any reason to have skipped some holidays and planned visits.

They seem ready to write me off as “crazy” – just like my mother intended. (And probably just as the mind controllers intended.)

Facing end of life with no strong family connections, but with family ready to discredit my ability to make my own life (and financial and housing) decisions feels like a rather dangerous situation.

And I’m sad, disappointed, scared, and sometimes furious at them for believing what my mother told them all their lives.

Next; Reasons I believe I was a US government mind control subject …

My Last Blog Here

This idea has been coming on for a long time.

There’s no reason to write anymore here.

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.

If you want to know what I’m doing beyond this, I’ll probably continue to blog every week or so on my other sites – Home & Garden Inspiration, Garden Healing Church, and Jean Eisenhower.com, and the other sites near the bottom of the right column.

~

A bit more on Why:

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.

Sunday Summary: Highs and (Forgotten) Shocking Lows

– impression that all has been fine, but….
– journals report incredible list of weirdness – almost forgotten!
– accomplishments of 2014 impressive, despite experiences

Well, the life of a mind controlled multiple personality is not boring!  For one thing, all my alters want expression, and that keeps me busy.  And the multiple-ness keeps me “forgetting” the disturbing things, at least in my day-to-day consciousness, which keeps me functional;  when I read disturbing things I’ve written and remember them, I become less functional – like today.

Hmmm….  Memory or function?  Which do we want?

October is not that long ago, but I’m blown away by how many weird things happened in the last few months that I simply forgot!

But first, let’s do something different:  I’ll lead with the good stuff instead of the bad.  Here are some of the highlights of our year, which I find quite impressive every time I read it!

It’s a long list, so just skim if you want, using my asterisks to read the most important (then I’ll list the weird stuff):

Performances

cosmic-folkrock* I performed a dozen times with Greg this year (his collection of folk-rock covers and original Americana – with themes of love, friendship, and home), sometimes out of town, or at our Farmers Market, and at a favorite coffee house, where a few times we presented music by Dylan, Browne, and Young with themes of apocalypse and strange, extra-dimensional events – tied together with my commentary.  Much fun!

We attracted two new musical friendships and call our foursome the Southern Rocky Mountain Band.  We played a single song (Greg’s original) at the historic Pinos Altos Opera House (a fundraiser for the Wild Gila:  Forever Free CD/DVD release party), and we hope to begin playing out and recording more next year.

* In June, I quit everything (the most important thing I did all year) – home and garden design, singing, and more – and determined to do nothing but heal my mind and write about it.  (More, below, under Health.)

I accepted my Social Security.  When asked why I didn’t wait til I was older and would receive more, I said, “All the world’s financiers are making short term decisions.  I’m making short-term decisions.”  (I didn’t tell the other truth:  because I’m damn tired of trying to hold my life together while also working.)

* During six weeks of never singing with Greg or the band, I healed some significant energy blocks, freed my voice significantly, and picked up singing again, then took some voice lessons and made more improvements.

lying here video still lighterWe recorded our original “Lying Here with You” on video, and received great feedback.

Radio Show

In January, I helped Greg launch Silver City Acoustic, showcasing local and touring musicians on our local community radio station.  I ran the board and eventually participated in the interviews.  We aired the live, 2-hour show for 20-some weeks, interviewing 40-some local and touring musicians and bands.  (When the station went off the air for an extended time, we lost momentum.)

J smI quit my weekly Back to the Garden radio show after 40 weeks – seeing that I’d taken on too much again, and this was not my forte anyway.  I like to think I inspired others to say, “I can do that!”  Or “I can do better than that!” so they’ll volunteer to fill those airwaves in my place.   (It was fun, but I had too much on my plate.)

Home and Garden

We emptied our storage room, sold the last “big stuff,” and cleared a lot of stuck energy.  Then we renovated the little 11×20 building into a functional and cheery guest house and studio retreat.

DSC05441 cuWe built a cedar fence around the last of the yard (in front of our next guest house), sporting a curved corner which has garnered very nice compliments, and crafted two beautiful handles for our two front gates.

We turned the also-cluttered sun room into a beautiful sitting space on one side and a functional tool storage on the other.

My Writing and the Cyber World

reunion crop* I redesigned JeanEisenhower.com to no longer hide my mind control work – and I put it on my business card, and on both I used a photo of me that I’ve avoided using for years because it seemed “too happy.”  It’s been a huge psychological shift, though I still worry sometimes when handing out a  card.

I renovated my Paradigm Salon website, consolidated pages, made them more accessible, filled in gaps in the information (and increased readership).

I started the Garden Healing Church, addressing natural healing and activism against enforced medicine – as spiritual necessity. The site continues to attract followers, even though I don’t post often.

I got my old laptop repaired and almost functioning with its own modem – for use by the fireplace!  Yeah!  What a nice way to treat myself!

Family and Friends

* We both reconnected with our parents and families in powerful ways.  I even spent 6 days with my parents over the holiday!  (First time to spend more than a few hours with them in over 20 years.)

We hosted a few garden parties, and stayed connected with long-distance friends.

greg jean kelly color crop* We helped an elderly friend die consciously, working with a wonderful group of volunteers, including nurses, doctors, chaplains, and shamans, making new friends – and supporting his wife.  I monster birthphotographed (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!

I attended my first women’s gathering in years.

Other Art

Besides designing the guest house, our new fence, two gate handles, our many web sites, photography, videography, audio recording and mixing, and writing, I started knitting again – most satisfying.

Health

* Again:  In June, I “quit everything,” and began focusing each day on what I needed to keep myself calm and able to handle life, and instituted new habits and changes to ensure I had what I needed.  After six weeks, I came back to singing.

* In October, I created a Notebook/Journal to help me remember and track everything I need to remember on a daily basis, but often forget.  I also used a timer every 30 minutes to help me note my activities and improve my time awareness.  After a couple of months, I felt I didn’t need that intense reminder every thirty minutes, so I stopped using the timer, but knew it had been an important exercise in becoming more conscious.

I wrote over 300 pages of journal entries over a few short months, rich with new awareness, particularly about mind control and my relationship to it.  I expect to post about it soon.

* I just created a new system of reminders to be awake on my iPhone:  I created a series of lovely-sounding “alarms” to go off every hour every day (easier than the timer system).  They’re all named “Breathe, Gratitude, and Note,” to remind me to breathe, remember what I’m grateful for, ask for guidance, and note it all, with either a journal note, voice memo, or mental note.

I started up at “Curves” again, started drinking daily turmeric tea, and got back to my supplements.

I invented “sludge cake”! – a gluten-free cake made from the precipitate (sludge) from turmeric tea – even when we eat it plain, we crave it – our cells tell us it’s great medicine.  My recipe is here.

~

So, I was feeling like life had turned an important corner toward goodness and freedom – as I couldn’t remember any recent weirdness – until I skimmed over my journals, which I’d designed to make easy to find things by category.  But when I looked, I found in my “anomalies” category, a lot of unexplainable experiences, which I’ll group by month:

IMG_17252nd half of August:  2 “donut” bruises, 1 injection bruise, 2 scratches similar to biopsy scoops, another injection bruise and other bruise.

hip bruise 1 cropSeptember: twice “lost time,” extreme energy issues, worsened ringing in ears, flood of  “mental movies” (random things like family home movies of people I don’t know) that seem beamed in, big bruise on inner arm, scoop mark, time problem, dark bruise on left leg, hypersensitive patches of skin, 5 more days of severe energy issues, forgetful days, very tired.

October:  worsened ringing in ears, movies in head again, heart problems (palpitations, stress, slow heartbeat [61 pbm], extreme weakness, days I thought I was dying), weird sleep cycles, 2 more bruises, one a double two bruises(“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.)

IMG_2099November:  Very bizarre experience of seeing my hand, while I was writing, as if through a yellow glass, but as if video’d from above my head, then run back into my mind (so I watched my hand writing in this second-person state), felt an “intrusion” of another being into my being, with a sense of goodness and reconnection (or maybe it was just “electronic heroin”), then I lost time and could barely put myself to bed (all one evening with my partner beside me), and my partner had to help me get to bed; another bruise; remembered things too vague to describe and was sick with fear.

DSC05453December:  Another bruise, dreams of medical procedures; energy “download” followed by no memory; dreams of aliens “all night.”

And who knows what happened the first part of the year?  I haven’t the energy to look through my journals.

~

Okay, so I’ve got a problemWhat to do?  What to do when I recognize stuff is going on that is beyond my ability to consciously control or even remember?

This is my ongoing “Do something drastic? or what?” dilemma.

I like life when I have I seem to control my own part of it, but not when I get these hints that someone is highjacking parts of me.  Not fun at all.

child not smilingAnd I just found this old photo of myself with my mother on a train.  It seems I’m about 5 or 6.

(It’s the only sad photo of me I’ve seen from childhood. All the rest are “super-cheerful.”)

Are we on the train to New Mexico?  (That strange trip my mother took me on which seems so out-of-custom for our family?)  For my mind control?  After which I have no memories until age 8?

Ugh.  How do I keep on?  I feel sick.  Have been experiencing nausea and anxiety all day now….

How can I keep putting it away as if it didn’t happen?  Where is there to hide?  Nowhere.

Recently I wrote in my journal about generating the power to control our own minds, thereby wresting control away from “Them.”

Is that even possible?  My new million-dollar question….