Tag Archives: healing from trauma

Pleiadian Starseed?

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I’ve never used that phrase before, but I’m feeling more confident that it fits. (I welcome your responses.)

I just watched a few videos on Gaia TV, interviews with Sebastian Martin that inspired me to write my memories of my connections to the Pleiades, in context with other important aspects of my spiritual life on planet Earth. While my life experience has been quite different from what he describes, it seems they both fit into a coherent overall design.

In November 1999, I had a sudden and shocking remembrance of leaving my home in the Pleiades. I felt like a young adult, only very well educated, going on a mission with fellow Pleiadeans, watching the star cluster recede from a rear window, wondering what it would be like to be gone for a very long time. I experienced no Earthly emotions.

We joined a convention of other races in space concerned about things happening on Earth, also concerned because one faction thought the Earth should be destroyed to protect the larger cosmos, while we were in a group agreeing we couldn’t decide whether or how to intervene at all until we had more information.

A group of us volunteered to incarnate here to gather that info. And, while we’re here, if we thought Earth was worth saving, we’d try to introduce positive ideas into the social consciousness.

I did not know what I was getting into when I agreed to be born into the heart of mind control. The first time I was tortured, about one day old, I left my body, looked down briefly at the room, then shot up over the clouds to call out to my colleagues, whom I assumed had witnessed my experience because it was so intense and we were still very psychically connected. I assumed they would agree with me that we should all leave, because we had agreed to stay together or leave together, and this was far worse than any of us had expected Earth life would be.

But my colleagues said the families they were born into were worth staying for, and they assured me they believed that was true for most of the planet’s inhabitants.

I was momentarily stunned at their majority opinion, but our colleagues who did not incarnate were also psychically connected and agreed to provide me extra support, which I accepted, though with grave trepidation.

For some years, I left my body a lot to visit with colleagues on other dimensions, until one day they told me I needed to slow down the frequency. They somehow closed the portal I had been using, and I got used to simply waiting for them to open it again. I sometimes tried to will it to open, but never could.

I was always extremely happy when the portal appeared above me in bed, then I would suddenly plop back into bed, with no memories of what had occurred, but with deep gratitude, confidence and assurance that everything was going to be okay, and I knew I was cared for.

One day, when I was still fairly young, I landed back in bed with a new feeling of huge disappointment. They had told me I had to be patient for an even longer time now, but they would be watching and helping me always, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to them for a very long time. And it would even be best if I would forget about them in my Earthly personality. And eventually I did.

Through the rest of my childhood and into my 30s, I had no particular beliefs about the other realms. In my 30s, I met environmentalist pagans and was invited to their ceremonies in the forest, but I tip-toed away, not sure what I believed.

Years later, I found myself saying that if something we call Spirit existed, It would let me know. And soon I had a healing involving trees talking to me, encouraging me to hug one of them, and then an incredible frequency of energy pouring down through me that I described as feeling as though I’d had a radio inside me tuned to static all my life, and suddenly, with the cascade of energy, the static had been turned off. I would never be the same again.

When my son got cancer (later healed), and I realized I had to divorce my abusive second husband (whom I did not know then was my mind control handler), I had a nervous breakdown (highly recommended), and had my first realizations that I had been sexually abused as a child.

The next year I realized I was a “multiple personality,” and moved out to the desert to build a small strawbale home off grid. There, I began to have years of experiences others called shamanic perception.

All those previous years of wondering if something called Spirit existed, I had refused to read “spiritual” books. I did not want anyone else’s ideas to frame my experiences and possibly distort them. And I was flatly disinterested in the subject of aliens.

One weekend, I joined environmentalist friends camping in the desert, where one man insisted I look at the Pleiades through his binoculars. I was talking to someone else and didn’t want to look at little sparkly things in the sky. He insisted further, and with much irritation, I looked.

To my absolute astonishment I was shocked to feel powerful sensations of home and longing that made me want to cry. I couldn’t hold back and blurted out that I thought I was from there, then immediately slapped my hand over my mouth in embarrassment. I had been programmed by our culture to make fun of people who believed in things like this. I continued confused and silent about the experience for years.

As Y2K approached, I became concerned that I wanted to be a more careful documentarian about my strange experiences, so I decided to change my journaling style into something closer to a science journal.

Instead of bemoaning my distressing situation of being a victim of sexual abuse, divorced from abusive men, alone and confused, with weird things continuously happening that seemed too much for one person’s life, I decided to simply document precisely what I had experienced, separate from what I assumed it meant, and separate from my emotions. Sometimes I would write about unusual experiences with animals. And I would write about this new category of spiritual events, where the 3-D world would suddenly be shot through with the revelation of other dimensions and beings – and aliens and spaceships.

Today I have three large boxes of journals, which I’ve summarized into a database with over 1,100 lines describing events that do not fit in “normal life” as described by most people.

One day, I finally went to the library and brought home the maximum number of books allowed, all about aliens and the supernatural, and finally began to read what others have experienced.

Powerful experiences came upon me unbidden in the coming years, with spirit animals, natural animals, angels, Jesus, Isis, orbs, UFOs, angels, demons, “aliens,” and people I assume were government agents. It seemed too much to share with anyone.

It would be years before I recognized I probably had this ability to perceive and interact with other dimensions because I had become familiar with other realms by regularly leaving my body during childhood abuse.

One morning I woke with a surgical incision on my neck that seemed to have been done with technology beyond anything I thought humans had, and it reminded me of a scene in Star Wars when Luke Skywalker was beautifully healed in a machine. I took a photograph of the scar, unfortunately lost. Five years later a nurse practitioner noticed my faint scar, and asked when I’d had my thyroid surgery.

Eight years after realizing I was a multiple personality (high functioning, nothing dramatic), I would realize I was also a mind control subject.

It shook my world, and I wrestled every day with my life purpose, wondering whether it would be better to not be alive, so as not to be an asset to those government people abusing other people like me.

By happenstance, I reconnected with an environmentalist-pagan acquaintance, who came to live with me, and help me believe I had a purpose in staying alive.

When we were deciding whether or not he would come live with me, multiple signs delighted us, including us waking throughout the night in our camp and me repeatedly seeing the Pleiades over his head as we moved and the stars moved.

Over the years, I came to realize this man, as much as he had helped me and I had helped him, was continuously distracting me from my spiritual and meditative life, so I wondered whether he was yet another handler, and I asked him to leave, and he did.

He had also impacted my spending, I was in debt, and it suddenly seemed someone was actively sabotaging my efforts to find local work. Besides that, I was feeling like a sitting duck for alien and government harassment, so I sold my home and fled (as if I could escape them).

The alien beings I had experienced in that home had included small grays coming through my window;a tall one who immobilized me in my bed; ones I don’t remember seeing but who took me up in a beam and moved me through portals; others I also didn’t see but who took me and my partner up into a huge triangle ship, returning us amnesic for what had happened: and one Draco who immobilized me then made me unconscious with some tool put to the back of my head.

I had also been stopped on the highway, lost two hours of time, and had something implanted in my vagina. Once, with two guests visiting my partner and I, we witnessed a UFO shot down fairly nearby and later listened to the reconnaissance mission as it passed by on the highway and back. (My home was not too distant from Fort Huachuca, a major Air Force intelligence base. Later I would have two friends from different social circles each tell me their shocking experiences with Dracos at that base – both of them unbelievers until their experiences, like me.)

I had no context for understanding these experiences, and was afraid to tell anyone. As a child, after I had complained about my nighttime treatment, I had been continuously called a liar by my mother, so I was always careful to tell the precise truth and now was afraid to tell a truth that no one would believe.

However, when I read Whitley Strieber’s book Secret School, about being in some sort of training on another dimension and I kept finding myself going into altered states while reading, I decided to write him. After a year he wrote me back with an odd and emotional account about having intended to contact me immediately, but some sort of mind control seemed to be stopping him. Soon after, I was interviewed by him and Jim Marrs (but I asked them both not to air our interviews as I felt too embarrassed by my disclosures).

I had met and worked with a European shaman and esteemed consciousness researcher, Ralph Metzner, who encouraged me to write a book about my experiences, and offered to write the Foreword, so I did, and he did. (My book was well praised, but has been “shadow banned” on Amazon, and all the reviews of my book have disappeared. A video about my book went viral briefly, then the numbers began running backward, and it too seems to now be also shadow banned.

A local Native shaman I had never met, but seemed to have heard about me, visited me with his wife and offered himself as a teacher by way of a gift of a white eagle tail feather. But my mind control seemed to freeze me so that I could not say a word, and he and his wife eventually drove away. I was left with the conviction I still hold that I missed an opportunity of a lifetime.

After I sold my home and had money, I would attend consciousness conferences for years and be surprised to have Native people approach me and tell me things I had been wondering for years and needed to know. I eventually became aware that many Native tribes claim to have come from the Pleiades.

In one event a group of Native women seemed delighted to see some other-dimensional beings traveling with me over my head as I made my way down a wide, crowded hallway.

In my mundane life, I occasionally experienced a Native woman from another dimension drop into me (or emerge from me?) and simply experience my life on that land I had a short while, and I understood this was their former land for harvesting acorns each year, and they just wanted to experience it again.

At one consciousness conference, I seemed to have been also recognized by people involved in mind control. They never initiated contact, but when we passed in a hallway, they stared briefly, looked away nervously, and I could psychically hear their mental wrestling with how to act as if they didn’t know and hadn’t recognized me.

In September 2009, I had a vision of a translucent egg-shaped ship approaching Earth, just letting me know it was nearby and wanting me to know that. Soon, a number of other women around the world were sharing their psychic vision of a massive UFO that would come to Earth and everyone would see it for three whole days, and I wondered if we had shared the same vision, but I did not have the convictions they had, so I kept quiet, thinking this coincidence was probably not meaningful. Either I was only getting part of the message, or they were assuming too much, or it was purely a coincidence, as nothing like that happened. So I held this vision in a place of wonder ever since.

Soon, it seems someone wanted to punish me for my book and video, as I seemed to have been put on a list for a variety of punishments in the form of government experiments, especially in frequency weapons. I experienced buzzing, tones that woke me up, tones that put me to sleep, tones that heralded an audiovisual experience beamed into my head, movies played in my head, movies played upside down, movies played double time, and movies played one on top of another, all short, no more than 10 seconds long – all of which I knew were induced and not generated by me.

Sometimes I woke up with taser burns, biopsy scoop marks, strange bruises, joints out of place, and eventually an inoculation with Lyme Disease – an event from which I came back to consciousness earlier than the doctors expected, and I heard one man tell another that whatever they were doing to me would kill me slowly. This latter memory was only triggered when I stood up and felt the rough memory of the inoculation in my body.

I soon became disabled, for many days at a time, quit my job, took early Social Security, sold yet another home, and moved into an old RV for five years, camping in Nature.

As a nomad, I realized I was still being targeted with various experiments and harassments wherever I went.

Nevertheless, living in Nature, on Social Security, I had time to think about my life, and remember the positive parts about it, including the mystery of why I should accept that I might be from the Pleiades – as crazy as that sounds.

My mind control had included suggestions to never believe anything good about myself, and to never try to attract attention, so it was a huge struggle to believe these experiences had any reality to them.

Coming here to do good and relay information to others – I could believe that, but I didn’t want to talk overtly about it.

Having spontaneous healing and channeling flow through – I was grateful for, but again didn’t want to talk about it, as it felt like spiritual bragging.

Having been healed myself when in despair and not expecting help – again, I was always astounded and extremely grateful, but I didn’t want to talk about it.

Some of my experiences I’ve never known for sure whether they were from my helpers or my controllers – experiences like downloads that forced me to stagger to the nearest chair to sit and feel information flow into a part of my brain that “I” could not access but only wonder about, dreams about spaceships, beams of healing energy, and the emergence of an inner warrior who can immediately and easily dismiss an evil spirit that jumped out to threaten me.

None of these things did I seek. Possibly because of mind control, I wanted only to be normal, not to be associated with extraordinary things.

Because my mind control and punishments for publishing have included being socially sabotaged, isolated, and lied about for decades by family and handler-husbands and members of the control network, I’ve been very uncertain about how I’m supposed to accomplish anything.

Because “my angels,” as I call them (Pleiadian colleagues?), keep healing me, I believe there must be something I’m still supposed to accomplish here, but I do not understand how to accomplish anything, given my isolated situation.

Currently, I have defined my strange life online on a few sites: my professional/activist website; my book website; my mind control website; and my Garden Healing Church website, which I just sat down one day and wrote in its entirety as if channeled, and haven’t done much with ever since.

I have tried over the years to keep my mind control stuff and my spiritual stuff separate from the rest of me. Fearful, I assume, of driving away the few “normal” friends and acquaintances I have.

I did finally put links between my sites a few years ago, but I never tell anyone in my “normal” group of friends and acquaintances anything about what I post on the other sites.

Why? Having been isolated and sabotaged and discredited, it’s very hard to be vulnerable with information other people don’t want to believe.

Also, my efforts to communicate so often result in government punishment.

Also, I hesitate to state anything with certainty when we live in such an environment of lies. I don’t want to tell others anything wrong.

Finally, these experiences are multidimensional, and our language is wholly insufficient to describe it well, and the concepts have been culturally mocked and tied to silly cartoons.

But I’ve been encouraged by a recent spiritual healing to feel that it’s time.

(The videos I watched were part of Gaia TV’s Cosmic Disclosure: Pleiadian Agenda with Josh Golembeske.)

JeanEisenhower.com

RattlesnakeFire.com

ParadigmSalon.net

GardenHealingChurch.org

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cropped from photo of me on Mom’s lap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(See 15 below for follow-up.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Police Records, Newspapers.com

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing the Work of Healing

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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

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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.