Tag Archives: healing from 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.

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.

Multiple Personality – not crazy

I wrote this long time ago, but somehow it ended up in my draft folder….

Is Multiple Personality Disorder (Dissociative Identity Disorder) “crazy”?

Actually, it’s considered a creative solution, usually emerging accidentally in childhood, to keep from going crazy when experiencing something beyond what the psyche can handle, like torture.  The vast majority of multiples experienced torture as children in one way or another.

(Today MPD is called Dissociative Identity Disorder, but many of us prefer the old term as more descriptive of our experience.)

How multiple splitting comes about:  Under extreme stress, a person, especially a child, might “leave their body” to psychically escape unbearable pain; the mind, however, keeps recording the body’s experience – now on a blank slate – which then becomes another, separate personality.

The initial separation sets a repeatable pattern in the person called dissociation (dissociating mind from body); with ongoing stress, the pattern is repeated again and again, creating more and more alternate personalities, called “alters.”  Since some of the alters are too afraid to come back into the body and risk torture again, they remain children.  Interestingly, their young psyches may actually help the body stay young-looking – until an older alter comes out.

While the fragmentation of the psyche is not “normal,” each of the fragments, alters, is sane.  They each have a sane perspective on their piece of the world.  If they escaped pain, they have a psychology that never experienced pain and is normal for that experience.  If the alter was one that did experience pain, they may have a neurotic personality, but totally appropriate to and sane for their experience.

Most positive: with all those alters, multiples have potentially more perspective than most – like insects with multiply-faceted eyes.  The trick is coordinating the alters, helping the suffering ones heal, giving disruptive alters appropriate new “jobs” and identities, and if communication is a problem, helping everyone communicate, etc.

In ancient societies, multiples were supported and often honored for their diverse perspectives and skills, usually broad, including a range of skills from the mundane to psychic – as the alters who spent the most time dissociated from the body often develop significant psychic skills.  These individuals were often trained as shamans.

1976 film Sybil, starring Sally Field and Joanne Woodward 1976 film Sybil, starring Sally Field and Joanne Woodward

In modern society, on the other hand, there is little recognition, much less appreciation or caring support for multiples.  Some find good therapists, but many do not, and the cause of their affliction, the torture, is typically ignored by society.  If individuals cannot function well enough to pass as un-fragmented, they live as “disabled” – even though they may have a lot of wisdom with all their perspectives.

Relationships between the alters can be very different from multiple to multiple.  Some alters are entirely unknown to the other alters, which causes tremendous problems for the person.  Sometimes a person has “co-conscious” alters which work together quite successfully (like myself), though there may be disconnected alters as well that cause occasional problems.

Children under torturous conditions who don’t “leave their bodies” and dissociate often become schizophrenic.  So dissociation, MPD, is a blessing in disguise, having saved the child from a far worse possibility.  MPD/DID is fairly easy to heal (unless complicated by mind control); schizophrenia, on the other hand, is considered incurable.

1957 movie starring Joanne Woodward and Lee J Cobb 1957 movie starring Joanne Woodward and Lee J Cobb

Being a multiple personality has not been easy, but it’s been far less difficult than typically depicted in books and movies, and in some ways, it seems to be an advantage:  Many of us discover we have the capacity to manage a wide variety of mental tasks, having a lot of “minds” holographically in our beings.  Managing them all is the trick.

The common perception of “multiples,” as being tragically out of control, is true for some, but many multiples are also very high-functioning, many even testing at genius levels (as I have a few times).  Granted, we also often have severe mental, psychological, social, emotional, and spiritual challenges as well – as readers of my book can appreciate.

As for the torture that causes multiple-ness:  In the past, torture of children usually happened by accident, a child surviving a wild animal attack, for instance.  Unfortunately, their propensity for dissociating was noted by people lacking empathy and any moral code, and they learned to take advantage of them, making literal slaves of the multiples.

In the 1940s, China and the United States, each seeking to protect their wartime secrets from their adversaries, began to experiment on soldiers,  splitting their minds through torture – their own citizens, as well as others around the world.

cia doctorsThe CIA eventually developed at least 123 mind control programs, the CIA Director testified to the Senate.  Researchers have further uncovered evidence that an estimated 20,000 American or Canadian children and many more adults were used 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, assisted in healing, or compensated.

The CIA director testified that they destroyed all the files because they wouldn’t do anyone any good.  As a consequence, no subject can prove they were involved and disabled in this program.)

Few researchers or subjects believe they destroyed our files.  They will never destroy our files, because they have tens or hundreds or thousands of us in some state of useful functionality or dysfunctionality, and no scientist would throw away the product of millions or billions of dollars of research over the decades.  No way.  So we live with ongoing surveillance, “doctoring,” being used as an amnestic agent and/or being used as an experimental test subject for the newest drugs, technology, and/or programming.

It is clearly criminal, the sort of thing that the United States has apologized for in recent decades, usually a century late.  But today everyone is terrified to be the front person for a challenge to this.  And even though we have testimony of the highest caliber, the courts refuse to accept our personal testimony that we know we were, and are still, subjects, and most of us have memories breaking through we’re willing to testify about.

The gravity of the crime of mind control is so great that it terrorizes, entrances, silences, subdues our fellow citizens, also useful.

Ironically, it’s a blessing in this situation to be able to dissociate, though the other alters do sense things and can suffer greatly even if they can’t remember why.

~

More on American mind control history is in my page “Mind Control Defined.”Candyjones_cover-210

More of my personal experience is in my post “Multiple-ness: What it Feels Like.”

Doing the Work of Healing

And here’s another from Story, perhaps more to the point, reposted from https://wherespiritstops.wordpress.com/2016/06/09/doing-the-work-of-healing/:

One of the most difficult lessons in acceptance lies in the fact that we encounter situations that may not have been our fault (like a car crash) but which have consequences that require us to do painful, difficult work (like physiotherapy for injuries) in order to get through the experience and ultimately overcome it.

Any lack of acceptance of this fact will leave one stranded and stuck in one’s own life journey, asking why me? and protesting that this isn’t fair. Of course, this attitude doesn’t accomplish anything except to prolong and potentially exacerbate the problem at hand.

The work we are required to do in life never ends; in fact, life has a funny way of finding something for us to do if we have too much stagnant time on our hands. But one can easily find ways to avoid doing the work, especially when it comes to healing one’s own soul from past hurts. This is the most important work we can do for ourselves and the potential for growth, renewal, and reward is exhilarating.

Yet all too often we resist. Because it doesn’t seem fair that we should have to do the work, and perhaps because we fear both how hard it will be, and also how much responsibility for our life we will be claiming as our own. After all, if we believe we can’t heal ourselves, then it’s not our own fault that we’re unhappy, right?

No.

It is terrifying to accept full responsibility for our physical and spiritual lives, and many people are devotedly determined to avoid that responsibility. By claiming responsibility for our own lives, we have the potential to create our own present and future selves in ways that, when we were stuck in our pasts, we could not have imagined. Unfortunately, this thrilling truth is overshadowed by our fear of failure, because if we are solely responsible for our own healing and growth, any sense of failure leaves us with nothing to blame but ourselves.

What if I told you – what if I outright promised you – that you have the power to dream yourself into a new state of being simply through faith and doing the work? What if I told you that by surrendering to your own responsibilities you could actuallyguarantee a better, happier, healthier, more fulfilling and infinitely free life for yourself? And, you can’t fail. You’ll make mistakes and life will still throw things at you that you’ll have to figure out how to handle. But if you are doing the work, you can’t actually fail at all. It’s a win-win situation where what you’re really doing is claiming your soul’s purpose and living for it.

The only thing you have to do is surrender to the fact that you are responsible for your own life’s happiness and achievement. After that, you will be comforted to know that there is little else to surrender yourself to.

I am writing to you as a survivor of abuse of every sort, beginning as early as I can possibly remember. As a result of this, I suffered a multitude of symptoms of various mental disorders – PTSD, social anxiety, eating disorders, depression, self-harm, and extreme dissociation. I experienced constant body memories, a type of somatic pain that could be excruciating, as if the past abuse was happening in the present moment. I came to identify as a multiple, meaning that I knew my soul was fractured into countless pieces due to the trauma I experienced. The wounds and consequences of my past gripped me in an iron fist of pain and fear and a complete lack of personal power or hope.

I thought I was broken and couldn’t be fixed. I could not recall a time when I had ever felt whole and sane and strong. But by taking complete responsibility for working my own healing, by definition I also claimed all the power over it and am now achieving more than I could have ever dreamed possible.

In the last six months especially, I have been freed from almost every  debilitating symptom that I used to experience daily. I’ve been doing hard, relentless work, every single day. It’s not an easy road, but it is my road and to give up healing would be to give up my own personal power.

The most instrumental concepts behind my work towards healing can be summed up in two statements: 1) I am not morally responsible for anything that happened during the years of my abuse, due to the young age at which it began and the way I was kept controlled. 2) I am completely responsible (both causally and morally) for my soul’s purpose now.

To me, it is a simple fact that nothing that happened to me throughout my childhood, and even into my adulthood, was my fault. I did not deserve the abuse I suffered. Further, I had no choice and no freedom during that period of my life, being as much a captive as anyone can be. You can’t blame a prisoner of war for things she was forced to do by her captors under threat of death. I did a lot of unpleasant things under force, and those things aren’t my fault either.

Is it fair that these things happened to me, or that the work I have done has been so difficult, even deeply unpleasant? I don’t think in those terms. I might as well ask if it is fair that my heart must continue beating on and on without rest.

The heart beats because it is the work and purpose of the heart’s existence. Likewise, I heal because it is my soul’s purpose to do so, at least in part.

I believe I can achieve a complete transformation of my body, mind and soul — simply because no one else can do it for me.  This is my life’s work, and I accept it with grace and gratitude.

Shamanic Soul Loss and Soul Retrieval

reposted from:  https://wherespiritstops.wordpress.com/2016/06/10/shamanic-soul-loss-and-soul-retrieval/#like-3960

imagesEven though I’ve voiced my occasional discomfort with “shamanism,” it is not (or no longer) with the actual practice and life associated with the term.  My discomfort is mostly with the casual way that some people approach and undertake methodologies (all the colorful tools, for instance) without understanding the intelligence and energies.  

This blog seems to respect the reality better than most – by Story from Where Spirit Stops:

persephone n hades cropLife takes energy from us violently and traumatically at times. Why this happens is a human question that no human answer will really satisfy. Suffice it to say that suffering affects us all, and when it does, a piece of our personal energy – a piece of our soul – can be severed off from us. We experience this as a piece of ourselves going missing. Losing pieces of ourselves chips away at our power and truth, as well as keeping us from any real healing until the parts are recovered.

For this reason, I advocate a “search and rescue” approach. This means actively seeking our lost parts and working to heal them. I believe it is nearly impossible to get through life without some kind of soul loss, and that people can suffer from deep, crippling soul loss even if they haven’t experienced what they would define as a traumatic event. Trauma comes in all shapes and sizes, and our reactions to events vary from person to person. Also, since I believe a traumatic event can cause soul loss, it follows that until that soul part is found, healed, and re-integrated into the self, one’s memory of that part’s trauma may also be obscured or lost.

How can you know the extent of your soul loss? Consider how you relate to the following symptoms:

  • Constant feelings of sorrow, darkness, or fear
  • Emptiness
  • A driving need for distraction (addiction issues, materialism, avoiding alone time)
  • Feelings of having no purpose or reason to live
  • Lingering, haunting pain from old memories
  • Feeling that something is very wrong with you
  • Symptoms of PTSD (anxiety, depression, hyper vigilance, fear, avoidance of life’s activities), even if you don’t remember a past traumatic event

It is likely that the more you relate to these symptoms, the greater your soul loss is.

Shamanic practitioners who practice soul retrieval might offer instant relief from your suffering and require only faith from the sufferer. I believe that healing and other magic require both faith and action. A practitioner ought not to merely tell someone about the soul part(s) they retrieved, but help that person connect with them personally. As I mentioned, my way of healing advocates “search and rescue” first. I believe finding and building a healing relationship with your lost soul parts is more important than trying to integrate them into yourself immediately. Finding a missing part is the first step towards healing, and beyond that, it’s best not to push. You might end up pushing the lost part away without realizing it. Instead, build a relationship with this soul part just as you would with a spirit guide, and strive to be as honest with yourself as possible.

~

cropped-jovelight3.jpgStory is a shamanic practitioner, offering her services.  I have done and do the same occasionally.  I encourage everyone, though, to never put yourself passively into anyone else’s care, even or especially doctors; you are responsible for your own healing – though getting help is often essential – and learning that self-responsibility is not just the most important thing in our lives, but essential to our soul’s development.

Today, I’m stronger than ever for having accepted the responsibility of healing myself from the shit that others did to me when I was an innocent child.  I do believe that even that shit can be the trigger that leads to my soul’s eventual positive evolution.  And much of my work is exactly what Story describes.  She wrote about it better than I ever have.  Thank you, Story.

A Disinformation Story from 2007

sheep-wallpaper-1Disinformation is finally being better understood and acknowledged throughout the culture, but few people understand its full extent. And understanding and reading reality correctly is an important survival skill for all of us.

Therefore, I’d like to share what I’ve learned, as both third-party observer and victim.  I’ll chose an older story rather than a new one, to lessen the chance the guilty will be recognized – which I assume will lessen the repercussions I will experience for telling.

~

Before I tell this 7-year old story, I first want to tell a little about the concept:  I didn’t know the word disinformation until I was involved with Earth First!, and then I witnessed it a great deal, as our expert-witness scientist supporters from around the world were ignored by the Media, and our peaceful protests, humorous skits, and potluck dinners (at my home) were treated like national security threats in FBI reports (I have copies).

car bombWhen Judi Bari, a non-violence activist and mother of two, was car-bombed in 1990, she was maligned in the world-wide Media as a would-be bomber.  But subtler lies are also told for different effects.

I’d become a thorn in the FBI’s side when, in 2002, I wrote or helped write, almost every day for six weeks, media releases for the Judi Bari v FBI trial.  When I returned home to my desert hermitage, I began to be plagued by frightening bouts of amnesia and immobilization, with physical wounds, including lacerations and puncture wounds to the inside of my vagina (also photographed) – to the point that I considered suicide frequently.

inside

My g-spot (descending bulge) was sliced from back to front and twice more (not visible here) from side to side.

Feeling like a sitting duck in the desert, I sold my remote home on 20 acres and, because I didn’t think I could stand a big city anymore, found my way to Silver City, in great need of friends to surround me.

taser cuUnfortunately, frightening events continued to happen, including third-degree Taser burns and biopsy scoops that appeared on my hands and arms and back with no memory of how they happened – and weird events of disinformation that undermined my reputation and sense of community.

IMG_1725Over the nine years I’ve lived here, my wounds have also included scores of injection bruises, two donut bruises, dozens of other weird bruises, sexual mysteries, and even some healed scars, one of which a doctor assumed was from thyroid surgery.  Most I’ve photographed, and many I’ve shown friends, though few want to hear about them – I gather because it’s just too upsetting to their world views.

cia doctorsI totally understand not wanting to hear.  It took me a lot of years of having this actually happen to me before I could adjust my world view to get over the “freedom and justice for all” mythology and accept what was happening.

If you find this hard to believe, I do understand, and hope you can read on, because this is part of our reality – and properly reading reality is essential to our survival.  Following is an account of disinformation against me, undermining my status in my new community.

~

In 2007, I was a week or so away from a trip to Peru, when someone recommended a woman to stay at my home and care for my cat.  Actually, it was a couple, I was told, a man and a woman, about my age, who were hip and “into community,” and had some circumstances that had stranded them in Silver City, needing a place to stay; the husband was working, but hadn’t gotten a paycheck yet.  I agreed to let them stay in my home, even though afterward I realized that I didn’t like the woman at all, and she had talked a solid streak for 90 minutes, essentially wearing me down, and making me feel sorry and embarrassed for her, as if to say No would force her to recognize she had been obnoxious, which would be hurtful to her, so I couldn’t say No.  Not logical, but defininely my sort of neurotic, self-defeating kindness.

In Tucson, I was supposed to be at the airport at 6 am for an 8 am flight, but I woke at 4 with a severe toothache that made it very difficult to move with any more than a shuffle, so I canceled my flight with a medical excuse.  I would have a root canal later that afternoon.

Mid-morning, when my plane was in the air, I began receiving bizarre emails from my house sitter who assumed I was on the plane to Peru.  She told me my stove was leaking gas, the phone wasn’t working, two crews of repairmen had been in, and my cat was acting ill – all in her first day at the house, and the first day of my 20-day trip.

Even though I immediately suspected this was probably a form of harassing disinformation, it was shocking to think of how very distressing it would have been to be on a plane to a faraway place with this bombardment of distressing news.

Thankfully, I wasn’t gone, and I’d been around enough FBI lies and other tricks that I found it all suspicious.  So I answered her emails without telling her I was still in Tucson.

Her stories continued to hammer on distressing probabilities and were amped up with direct accusations (13 specific, weird accusations against me! in emails still saved) that I was “paranoid” and similar negative assessments – even though I’d been extremely cautious not to say a single inflammatory word, but simply asked calm questions about my home. It was as though she’d intended I become paranoid.

I called a handy woman friend who visited the house and was told by the woman that the phone was repaired.  Since I’d asked my friend to enter and check out the stove and look around, she asked to enter, but the woman refused.  When my friend next called to tell me the phone was supposedly repaired, I was still unable to call home, and was told by the woman via email that the phone was “down again,” working only during the short period my friend had come to the door.

After drilling and filling my tooth, I hit the road immediately to Tucson, calling another friend along the way, who arrived at the house shortly after I did.  The woman was shocked to find me at the door and was barely willing to let me into my own home.  When my friend arrived, we confronted the woman with the crazy contents of her emails, as I wanted to be entirely fair and consider the possibility that perhaps she hadn’t send them, and they were instead sent by disinformation specialists; I reviewed all 13 accusations with her, and she confirmed she’d written them – even as she stammered to explain some of her more bizarre accusations.

We then had to demand she leave, as she was intent on staying in my home as I’d “promised” to let her, and she even had the gall to suggest I leave.  When she continued refusing, we finally threatened to call the police to remove her and she finally accepted our demands.  But as she left, and we realized to our astonishment that she didn’t have anything at the house other than her small purse – no overnight bags, no toothbrush, no food, no nothing, even though she’d supposedly stayed there the night before and her husband was due there shortly and she desperately wanted to stay there again that night.  But the bed hadn’t even been slept in, and the kitchen was unused.  We assumed she wanted us to leave so we wouldn’t discover this, and she was actually there for some other reason.

As we pondered this, my friend’s phone rang, she answered it and heard silence.  After hanging up, she hit the call back button and was greeted with an office name with “Intelligence” in the title.  My friend and I assumed the woman and her husband were functioning as low-level spies, watching the house so that others could come in (under the guise of repairmen?) to do whatever they do to activists and others on federal “watch” lists.  Perhaps they’d used some high technology to identify and call her phone, perhaps to add a bit of warning to our overload of weird information and seeming threats.

The next day, I called the gas company and was told she had called and a repair person had come out, but no gas leak was found, and the stove never did have problems.

I used my cell phone to call the phone company because the home phone still did not work.  When the repairman came out the next day, he worked for two hours and finally concluded, “This is the strangest problem I’ve ever seen in my 20 years of phone repair, and I can’t figure it out.”  And he rewired most of the house.

My cat never showed any signs of illness.

A few days later, another phone repairman appeared at the front door.  I called Qwest to confirm he was legit, and was told something vague I don’t remember, even as I realized the feds certainly have the ability to intercept my call, redirect it to their own office, and have someone pose as a phone company rep, telling me whatever I needed to hear.  I let the guy in.

He checked the phone jacks, then went outside and climbed a ladder to the box attached near the roof line.  I wondered if I’d detect him putting a bug on my line, so I stood beneath and watched.  He talked and seemed to be wasting time, repeating motions, and getting impatient with me standing there looking up constantly.  I smiled and asked him if he was finished.  He looked confused and irritated.  Laughter was close, but I had no desire to mock a fed.  I also knew I couldn’t stop them if they wanted to put a bug on my line, and if he didn’t do it today, they’d do it another day soon, and it might be less fun next time.  So I walked around the corner, gave him a minute, then came back to find him climbing down, looking relieved.  Ever since, my old-style ringer phone makes a little noise a few seconds after every time I hang up, and around 10 pm every night, which I think of as shift-change, and maybe other times I haven’t yet noticed.

The woman and her husband, I later learned, went to live with a young, hip couple out in the Mimbres, whose friends overlapped with mine, but whom I only knew because the husband clerked at a store I frequent, a store central to my community.  Immediately, the man quit being friendly with me and instead acted as though I were a terrible person he could barely be civil to. And in following years, a number of their acquaintances have continued to keep distant even though we have many friends and interests in common.

I assumed the woman had told the young couple poisonous things about me.  But I didn’t know them well enough to try to discover what they’d been told, and my questions might be received as very weird.  It was very weird, and I didn’t trust anyone to accept it at face value without having to reconsider a lot of assumptions and probably wonder also if I was just plain crazy, so I said nothing to anyone except the two friends who each witnessed part of the event.

Every so often, about once a year, people on the edges of my community suddenly act cold or confused around me, as if they’d heard something terrible and didn’t know whether they should even acknowledge me.  I notice quite a few people all change at once and continue in the pattern for some weeks or months, until slowly the awkwardness fades a little, but doesn’t go entirely away.  I just stay away from them, to lessen their discomfort and mine.

I sometimes review the experiences of friendly acquaintances turning away or looking fearful and try to convince myself the events are not significant, but they seem to display a consistent pattern.  And then there’s the other parallel evidence:  the woman at my house with no personal possessions, her emails full of lies and inflammatory accusations, and my phone line mysteriously wired.  And mysterious Taser burns and similar wounds on my very own body keep me from dismissing my total experience as imagination – as some friends, family, and doctors would like me to.

See-no-evil-hear-no-evil-speak-no-evil-monkeys-14750406-1600-1200I’d love to dismiss it as imagination and believe in a different America, but that’s not my experience.  For 8 years now, I’ve been asking my online readers, and no one has come up with any explanation better than the one that’s supported by government documents:  federal agents practice disinformation, harass, encourage divisiveness, and more, under the rubric of COINTELPRO (Counter Intelligence Program).

Recently I learned there’s a name for people like me: “targeted individuals” – abbreviated TI’s, with multiple websites documenting experiences of many others who describe things similar to mine.

Beware of lies.  If you hear something bad about a person, check it with the person it’s about.

Only once in these nine years has a friend checked a rumor about me with me; it was a lie, and she’d believed it for six months (it sounded reasonable) and even passed it on to others herself during that time.  I told her the truth as I understood it and asked her to pass it back onto the grapevine.  I don’t know if she did or how well it traveled.

Disinformation is usually planted in such a way and with people removed from the target just enough that it’s very difficult (and no likely to be successful) for the TI to confront the perpetrator.  Only the people in the middle – those told the lie – can do anything about it – by wising up, and checking.  Thanks for doing that.

A Petition to: BAN ELECTRONIC WARFARE ON CIVILIANS

First published at GardenHealingChurch.org.  (I keep thinking this is the last post on this site, but here’s one more.)

This petition, http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/synergy, and all the people commenting on it – inspired me to comment too, and I ended up writing a short essay that presents my story briefly, so I’ll share it here with a few photos added:

Bombed car sm

After doing media work for the historic “Judi Bari vs FBI” federal trial, in which the feds were found guilty of charges related to an assassination attempt on Judi Bari, my lifelong mind control torment has been seriously amped up.

IMG_1725I’ve woken with Taser burns, a burn on the back of my neck – both third-degree with skin burned off – scoop marks, injection bruises, “donut” bruises, lacerations and punctures in my vagina, healed scars including one my doctor thought was a thyroid surgery scar, total exhaustion, and occasionally dealings that seemed to be with aliens (which could be induced hallucinations or real).   

After 13 years of freaking out and being suicidal about my mind control, I’m beginning to see that it’s not a simple horror – it’s actually everything and everywhere.  And it may not be human.  Everything in nature is under control of many things.  Mind control begins with DNA and the elements like weather, then language and our calendar, then economics, laws, education, government, etc.  And eventually science did to people what it’s done to the Earth – turned everything into a resource.  We are human resources; they’ve been honest in calling us that!  We’ve heard it and shrugged.  Now we’re realizing it’s full implications, and it’s shocking.  One more major trauma in the history of humanity.  (Think back:  much of history is trauma.)

Without hope in the other realms, we on Earth have been reduced to resources, regardless that we’ve been led along with lies about freedom, human rights, etc.  If we only have this Earth life in which to hope, then we must toe Their line or be seriously punished.

[Can we tell them (since they’re spying and listening all the time), “Hey, I change my mind.  I’ll quit whistle blowing [or whatever] and join you”? if we’re willing to sacrifice our beliefs for relief (as it seems others must be doing)?  I don’t know.  I’ve gone to that edge and wondered, but haven’t crossed it.]

Mostly, I believe I have Helpers in other realms who rescue or resuscitate me now and then, though I do have to suffer indignities and pain and loss of will to live and sheer energy to live – way more often than I sometimes think I have the spirit to sustain, but then my Helpers bring me back.  (Or might it be the controllers, keeping me alive for another day? I don’t know. I think I’ll chose the more palatable option, my Helpers.)

It’s a weird life to live.  Good thing I know we have other lifetimes, so I can feel less attached to this one.  It helps to step into the role of Witness.  We are witnesses of an incredible time in human history – from the deepest darkest inside, which few see and fully understand, but we do.  There’s something important in our role, as witnesses regarding human evolution.  It’s incredibly lonely because no one wants to hear, but it’s important.  And one day, maybe on another realm, we’ll help others understand how this came about, so maybe we can help protect the future.  Don’t know.  Playing with ideas.  Imagining from a higher height….

As far as this world right now, though, I’ve quit believing we can change anything through political action, like this petition – BUT, I know I could be wrong, so I hedge my bets and support causes like this one that encourage us – but I don’t see the possibility in America anymore.  On the other hand, I KNOW we get help from Other Realms – rarely when we think it’s due, but enough.

And that’s another silver lining:  having lost all hope in this Earth insanity, we are forced to cut our emotional connections to Earth life and look beyond.  Atheists, I know, will hate this, but I do appreciate that this pain does send me into other realms where I believe it is important to connect, and I don’t otherwise, as least not as often as would probably be good for me, because Earth happenings and all the entertainment is way too entrancing.  It’s almost like our mind control tortures us so badly that we are saved from the mainstream soul-deadening delusions of the masses, slowly boiling like frogs in a pot; whereas, we are the frogs that jumped out of our mesmerized complacency, thanks to the extra-high heat.

rf-2nd-ed-front-cover-20[I write and video blog about my life and struggles on Paradigm Salon.net, my other sites, and in my book, RattleSnake Fire, called “not only great literature, but an important historical document.”]

Blessings on us all.  Peace, friends.  Please don’t give up too easily.  Remember this world is bigger and more complicated than we can know; and the bully in our life might be about to get whumped by someone bigger.  We don’t know, but we shouldn’t discount it when the stakes are so high – our life.

Also, leaving this life (as many people entertain, including me) may not be an escape, if the other dimensions are extensions of this, as I believe they are.  So it behooves us to develop our extra-dimensional minds, as the only way to see a bigger picture and have a chance.

At the moment, we are in trauma at the hands of the most Powerful people on Earth; therefore our only salvation is beyond this Earth, where we can’t go, or beyond this dimension, which we can.  I conclude: it’s time to develop our extra-dimensional minds.

pablo amaringo Llullon Llaki Supai

I hope this helps someone.  Compassion for all.

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:  “Experiment in Sound Healing”

Song-of-the-New-Earth-5Saturday afternoon, after a mild and satisfying week, I watched a video about Tom Kenyon“Song of the New Earth” – then turned off the computer and sat back to try to “tone” for the first time in years.

didgeridooI’ve had amazing experiences with sound before, most notably when I went to hear Tuvan “throat singers” (shamans from Tuva, Siberia).  I was seated directly in front of one of the didgeridoos, it’s base angled slightly away from me, and throughout the performance I experienced energy knots in my aura explode and dissipate away with the shamans’ sounds.  Subtly, I turned, twisted, and bent to present different aspects of my energy field to the healing vibrations.

At one point in the video, Tom said something like:

“All can learn to use sound to be healers for ourselves and others.”

This, I knew, but I also knew immediately it was for me to embrace now.

When the video ended, I sat, intending to make sounds that simply felt good to me – a welcome change from “simple” meditation, which sometimes is so difficult, trying to keep a half-dozen minds quiet.

Immediately, a tone emerging from me felt like “it,” and I intuitively worked to “send it around” to different places in my head.  On my second toning, I was surprised but pleased, to hear an overtone – the thing that had seemed next to impossible for me, since I’d tried this once many years ago.  But now, my dozens of tonings resulted in two or three overtones every time after the first, and sending sounds to different places in my skull and aura around my head and throat and heart.

A few times, I experienced serious pain in my head and around my eyes, but didn’t think it was necessarily a bad thing.  It lasted a short while, then seemed to “break through” something – an energy block from some old wound, I assumed – and I immediately began exploring new areas, always on the left side of my head.  (The right side always felt open to sound; it’s the left side that’s always where “my stuff” is.)

Eventually, I found I’d not only made three tones at once, but I’d learned to move them around, make them break through blockages, and become more attractively harmonic!

This morning, I practiced toning again with Greg present, and maybe because I felt shy, I didn’t practice long and could only produce a single overtone – but he heard it!  This thing I thought impossible I can do!

stone peopleSomething else in the video excited me immensely!  In “Song for a New Earth,” Tom recounts a story from young adulthood in which he was mystically drawn into another dimension where he encountered strange beings who asked him if he will “sing the song of the new Earth.”

Being whisked into another dimension is a favorite theme of mine, of course – I love it when others share something that helps me understand my own similar “crazy” stuff.  But I was totally unprepared to see an image – drawn by artists, presumably with Tom’s direction – that nearly perfectly depicts the environment of an extra-dimensional encounter I had in 1999.

I was still healing from the shock of remembering, five years earlier, childhood sexual abuse, but I’d not yet understood I’d also been a mind control subject.  I prayed constantly for information that would help me understand my torment, and one day I was offered the opportunity to go into a terrifying place.

red caveI was suddenly at the mouth of a cave that looked nearly identical to the one drawn for Tom Kenyon!  He met an aboriginal man there twirling a fire stick.  In a similar environment,  I spoke with huge bats that seemed to be part of the cave’s dripstone, which in my vision were thicker so that they blocked more of the view inside than this depiction.  One other difference is that the cave felt like the mouth of a living thing.

The bat people emerged from the living columns near the front where they encouraged me to enter and learn everything I wanted to know about what had happened to me – just what I’d been praying for for years.  In wheedling, syrupy tones, they encouraged and terrified me.  18910-050-28F62F41

Inside the cave I imagined – no, felt – a torture chamber or something equally repugnant, from which I might not find it easy or swift to return.  One part of me tested the idea to “be brave” and enter the passage – but I decided to wait for knowledge and turned away.*

Tom-Kenyon-with-Angels-Animation-Drew-ChristieTom, in his vision of the red cave with the aborigine, when asked whether he would sing the Song of the New Earth, answered he didn’t know.  In this life, of course, his answer has been affirmative.

Watching the video, each time he answered that he didn’t know, I answered aloud, excitedly, “Yes!” and “I will!”  Now, I’m curious to learn what it might mean.  

Greg and Jean photoIt may – for me – mean simply more of what Greg and I already do – sing “good” songs – about love, friendship, home, community, nature, and cosmic mysteries, or the song-and-story sets we’re developing, especially my favorite “cosmic” set with songs of extra-dimensional travel and mystery by Bob Dylan, Jackson BrowJacksonBrowne276n, Neil Young, and so many others who write explicitly or hint about  travel and beings in the multi-dimensional cosmos.

gaiajosephinewallOf course, it’s more too.

I’ve long resonated with a vision I once read, of Earth’s humans, cooperative and aggressive, dividing into two dimensions of future Earth, divided according to their vibrations.

Not divided by doctrine, words, which have been used since the beginning of civilization to tell lies, but in vibrations.  Each of us, human, mountain, and star, singing, harmonizing, creating the vibrating river of Song to the New Earth.

~

The rest of my week has been almost uneventful, except for one set of small suspicious wounds where the sun don’t shine and one unhappy personal encounter.  We hosted friends for a small potluck-fire-music party one evening, which I love even though I usually get overwhelmed by the numbers of people and then unsure about myself in bouts, even among friends if there are a few, and more overwhelmed if there are a dozen.  Worse, a stranger arrived with a friend I thought knew better and set off my alarms, distracting me off and on for the entirety of the party.  Despite that, we’re feeling blessed and grateful for the gathering in our home!

I’ve decided to tell guests more clearly not to bring others.  (Help?)

~

* I believe I’ve received enough of that information – in bits and pieces – over the years and, even so, it has often been nearly too much to handle.  Everyone in healing:  We really do need to be careful what we pray for, qualify our prayers [“Thy will be done”], and not push the river.  Psychotic break-downs and suicide can result.  Trust your Helping Spirit Family to guide and pace you in uncovering repressed information.

Friday Random Beauty: Pregnant Preying Mantis waves at me ~

IMG_2018While I was sitting in the sunroom the other day, a very pregnant-looking preying mantis came to the window and tapped on it repeatedly – as if trying to get my attention – maybe to let her in.

preying mantis cu

From outside, you can see her swollen abdomen – babies for next season’s help in the garden?

I chose to let her stay outside, but enjoyed taking a few photos.

IMG_2029

Cat, Peaches, enjoys the dappled-light of the sunroom too.

I also enjoyed making a few improvements to the narrow sunroom – only 3 1/2 feet wide, but functional as both a sitting space and a passive solar addition to the house!  I hung artwork, covered the tattered cushion with a forgotten piece of fabric, brought the basil in pots inside for the winter, blocked a distracting view with a screen I had stored, and splurged on a pretty carpet runner.

IMG_2065

A late-season zinnia greets us near the front door. What brilliant and long-lasting color!

These simple pleasures also remind me (again) of something very important:  When I’m happiest, I write the least.  That means readers of this blog usually hear the worst and I need to remember to keep it in balance.

This “Friday Random Beauty” series will help me correct that.

“They” may occasionally use my mind (or one hologram of it) and body, but they do not touch my spirit.

Second Sunday Summary: Surprising Spiritual Healing

The week’s highlights:
~ a powerful (and surprising!) heart-healing experience
~ discovered and rediscovered reading and videos
~ cleaned and cleared energy in house and yard
~ decision to limit computer use

skeleton-hand-holding-anatomical-red-heart-free-tee-design-sMost amazing first:  It began with a massage.  Greg thought he was being intuitive, but I experienced it as being gouged in that soft spot just below the heart at the highest point beneath the ribs.  It was so shocking that I ended the massage and was physically ill for two days afterward.

Greg felt terrible to have caused me pain and was confused because he didn’t think he’d gouged me at all.  I went through bouts of serious fear that he’s multiple too and had subconsciously (in another alter) tried to hurt me.  I freaked out quietly and practiced being calm and open-minded that maybe something else had happened that I just couldn’t understand yet.  As my friend Darlene often says, “More will be revealed.”

As soon as Greg left for work the next morning, I called a healer friend.  After asking me a few questions to eliminate more serious possibilities, she told me to treat myself very gently that day, hold that place, send it love, and give myself permission to cry.  I did all those things, cried, then refocused on the work I wanted to do that day.  But I also read a bit online and became convinced that Greg had bruised my liver.

For two days I moved slowly, skipped exercise, and the second day called a Nurse Hotline to make sure there wasn’t something else I should know about a possibly bruised liver, and was encouraged to go to Urgent Care – which I thought I’d do, but decided to keep doctors out of it.

My journaling was full of hate and despair for two days, though I could always turn my attention back to working on this site.  (I had signed up for a WordPress blogging course, so it was helpful to keep my mind otherwise occupied.)  I also slept two long 10-hour nights.

The second morning, my journal says, we talked in bed from 4:45 − 8:45 — four hours! – after which I wrote in the margin, “Really??” – meaning that I wondered if there was some amnesic time in there – more stuff I might have worried about, but I didn’t.

Instead, I felt inspired to do yoga for the first time in many, many months.  I continued to upgrade my website, deciding it was worth spending the money on to be able to load videos onto.  That was immensely satisfying.

Later, I went to exercise and worked the machines with more power and conscious sensation of my physical body than I usually have – of muscles exerting and relaxing, exerting and relaxing – fascinating and very satisfying.  I marveled at this and was happy to tell Greg when I got home.

That evening when I finished my website work, Greg was playing music in the living room, songs I like to harmonize with, so I sat down and I joined him in a few.

Suddenly, I became aware that the area around my heart and liver felt different.  The writer in me sought for the descriptive word, so I focused my attention there, and seemed to perceive a hole, an opening – something through which energy was moving!  Energy was flowing, breathing in this place – so central to singing, obviously – so that now I could perceive – after the fact – the blockage that I’d always known was there but couldn’t feel or address, and now the blockage was gone. 

I thought to test whether this was the blockage that had dogged my singing all these years, see whether I could sing with more power now, and I did notice a little new energy flowing up and into my voice.  It was exciting.  But I was tired.  It had been a difficult couple of days, and I’d expended a lot of energy already in exercise, and it was late, so I’m looking forward to the next practice.

Apparently, Greg had pushed a trigger in me, probably something that has existed locked up in me for decades, hurting me for a few days, but ultimately releasing an old knot of something that had been clenched in my chest for who-knows-how-long.

I’ve heard more than once that sometimes in spiritual healing, you don’t need to re-experience all the horrors to clear them; sometimes, you can just feel the general essence of them, acknowledge them consciously, and “let them go,” bless them for whatever learning or wisdom they brought, however difficult, and let them go.  

Sometimes they’re biggies and might take lifetimes to heal.  However long we carry them, eventually, when we understand enough and accept enough, they can be released.  And we feel the release in our bodies, and our bodies becomes freer, our minds become freer, our emotions become freer.

And I’m so grateful.  (And grateful that I didn’t waste much time in “Oh, my God, this is horrible” mode.  That would have been a big waste of time.)

“More will be revealed.”  Yes, sometimes it makes the best sense to just suspend judgement and wait for that more.  Thanks, Dar.

And thanks, Greg!  And Elizabeth.

Not to say that some of those dark things that had me in their spell for a few decades doesn’t represent some important truth worth knowing.  They are very worth knowing; they just aren’t the whole truth.  

Even when we think they’re the most controlling energies in our lives, we need to remember they’re not All.  There are also wonderful energies dancing all around us all the time.

We must experience both, but we don’t need to go down the drain just because some of the energies seem to want to pull us there.  Our job is to keep rediscovering our relationship and learning new skills.  (Hmmm, sounds like my old definition of shamanism.)

(Ironically, the last accomplishment I’d noted in my journal before the massage that kicked off my heart disturbance and healing was the creation of a new Spiritual Healing page, “Healing Help,” in which I compiled my best offerings.)

From teacherweb.com

From teacherweb.com

My other favorite writing this week:  My first “Friday Foundation” series, “Mind Control in World History,” my first “Friday Random Beauty” post, a few new paragraphs at the end of my Home page, and a draft, “Scribe for our times” post that isn’t up yet.

century of the selfRediscovered writing and videos:  The transcript of DC Hammond’s “Greenbaum Speech,” offering the psychotherapist community help in healing multiples, and The Century of the Self video series – we’ll be rewatching all four hours of these over the next weeks – they’re that good, and that important.

culture highJust discovered last night:  The Culture High:….”is the riveting story that tears into the very fiber of modern day marijuana prohibition to reveal the truth behind the arguments and motives governing both those who support and oppose the existing pot laws. … incredibly moving testimonials from both sides of the spectrum.  Top celebrities, former undercover agents, university professors and a slew of unforgettable characters from all points of view come together for an amusing yet insightful portrait of cannabis prohibition and the grasp it has on society as a whole.”

CCHSAnd the Citizens Commission on Human Rights videos – regarding the abuse that psychiatry has become – in a series of engaging, entertaining, and scary videos.  Maybe a little heavy-handed at times, but I’ll be watching more and reporting back.

One more accomplishment is both negative and positive:  I collected a huge to-do list from my last weeks’ journals.  So I gotta ask my muses – or multiples with so many great ideas:  You/we gotta slow down.”  Breathe.  They’re all on a list.  Nothing bad will happen if any don’t get done.  Relax.

rock creek houseSo, I decided I want to limit my computer work.  When I was a hermit on the land, I always kept a commitment to turn off the computer before sunset and to be out on the west patio every evening, whatever the weather, watching the sun set and the light change from day to night.  It was a wonderful practice.

Not a normal New Mexico sunset, this sky was made dramatic by smoke from a nearby forest fire, 2012.

Not a normal New Mexico sunset, this sky was made dramatic by smoke from a nearby forest fire, 2012.

My new home here is nestled into a hill on the eastern slope of the southern Rocky Mountains, which block the dramatic views that were the daily staple of my previous life.  Now, to the west, there’s just small-town neighborhood rising up the hillside toward the Continental Divide.  So I lost my daily sunset habit, and sometimes now I write all night long.

So, to support my healing, I want to write and otherwise be on the computer only part-time, and so I plan to experiment, and see whether I can turn off the computer at noon or early afternoon each day, leave behind the world of ideas in bits and bytes, and make it a joyful ritual to go into the garden (or the sunroom if the weather is unpleasant outside) and see how the plants are doing, reconnect with the living world.

bathroom art

This alter-like art was created in the flow of clearing energy recently!

Healing comes in lots of forms.  The most recent I’ve encountered and written about are:  accidental (thanks to spirit helpers guiding us), clearing space in our physical environment (a biggie!), spending wordless time in the garden, exercise, and eating excellent, tasty, healing food.

Wishing you, my readers, many healing blessings,
And very grateful for mine ~

Jean

Jean Eisenhower
Silver City, NM
November 3, 2014