Earliest memories: Disappointment – as if, in her earliest years, she remembered other lives to compare to this one.
“This can’t work,” she’d thought, looking down the empty hallway where she wasn’t allowed, where her parents were. She remembered more, not of any one thing, but of everything she’d experienced so far in this life. “This can’t make healthy humans,” she’d have said if she’d had the language. It was worse than she’d imagined, and she worried for this era of humanity and thought this lifetime was going to be an especially difficult one.
Indeed, her family in the multiple dimensions retrieved her regularly away to nourish her spirit, revive her, then return her, feeling loved and willing to meet the challenges. She never remembered anything about her family over there, no images, no arrangement of people, nothing but the knowledge that they loved her, things made sense there, but not in this culture at this time, and she had to be strong.
One time, however, when she was perhaps 5, she returned with distressing news: They wouldn’t retrieve her again for “a very long time.” They’d be watching, and helping, but they couldn’t retrieve her, and she’d have to just remember they were there for her. She felt like a rock, immobilized, afraid to be afraid, so she was still. Then she remembered: Be brave. They’re watching and caring, even if it doesn’t feel like it. They just can’t help me all the time.
For a short while, she was comforted and advised by a little angel child she called Cathy, who appeared to her now and then – on her own schedule, never summoned, no matter how much she was requested, and one day even that ended.
In her fifties and sixties, she met psychics, shamans, and medicine people who remarked on the helpers they could see surrounding her, and sometimes she could see others noticing them, but she herself never did.
More times than she could count, they healed her when they could – rarely when she cried out, prayed, or did ritual, but on some schedule of their own she could never discern.
She might be disabled for as many as thirteen days, sunken into the sofa, not a decent meal eaten in weeks because she had no energy, and suddenly a beam would hit the top of her head and flow through her, enlarging every cell, requiring she adjust her body to allow it to expand, and she’d feel as if every cell inside her had been restored to perfection, and she’d suddenly have energy to do all the things she hadn’t been able to do, and she’d be immediately restored in seconds. It was thrilling. She always leaped to her toes and thanked her helpers – whoever they are, she’s never been sure how to visualize them – and began catching up with life, again, happy and grateful.
That’s how most people saw her: happy, friendly, even “popular,” someone said once, which made her laugh. She always felt like such a loner. As a child, she’d been the one standing by the fence, wondering what the other kids were doing that was called “play.” But she watched and copied, eventually learned to act like them, the best version of them, and it worked. As a child, it was wonderful to make people smile with her cleverness. Older, she learned to listen to others, became a student of communication, learned to carefully select her own stories to share, and eventually was surprised to find herself successful as a social individual and business woman.
Inside, though, she was hiding all these experiences that her culture said were not to be discussed, were not real. But they felt real. And there were so many of them. It was stressful to hide these things. Fortunately, books about shamans and mystics of all cultures confirmed these things are reality, only hidden from the masses, denied, and ridiculed by a culture that for some reason doesn’t want to acknowledge a more multi-dimensional world and our being part of it.
Then one day, the mundane facts of her life, real stuff, hard data, seemed to present a framework to explain her most bizarre memories and flashbacks. They emerged from some hidden place she’d shoved them, and assembled themselves into a coherent pattern.
She was born into lineages of Freemasons, military, Mormons, and Hollywood – all groups documented to have been involved in some type of mind control.
She was also born on an auspicious day – July 7, 1952. 07-07-52 “reduces” (numerology term) to 7-7-7, a highly mystical number. It also happened to be a Full Moon under which she was born. Not just within the 24-hour cycle that is the day, but within 8 minutes of the Full Moon’s moment of perfection – that’s within 2/1000ths of a degree. And it was a Monday – Moon-day, originally. And it was in the middle of Cancer, also known as Moon Child, “ruled by the Moon.” Three sevens, and three moons. There are secret societies keenly interested in coincidences like these.
Later the day of her birth, her father’s second cousin, Dwight David Eisenhower, was publicly nominated to the Republican ticket for the Presidential race. Perhaps a secret society also selected that day for his nomination?
Her parents were living in student housing on the campus of the University of California Davis. The next year, perhaps while she was still there or shortly afterward, The Human Ecology Project would be instituted there, which many researchers assert was a cover for mind control projects. Whether she was involved in any early experiments is not known, but it’s an intriguing coincidence.
She would come to believe the foundation for her mind control was overseen by Dr. Louis Jolyon (“Jolly”) West, an “institution” in MKULTRA, and someone she heard her mother and grandmother discuss; her pediatrician (who delivered her), Addison Udall (cousin of Congressman Stewart Udall who would become Secretary of the Interior); and the Mormon Church.
When her son was healing from cancer, the children and she had moved to a new apartment, and she was still working and seeing a therapist, she’d been asked to tell the therapist about her growing up. She’d begun by saying her childhood was “normal.” The following Saturday, with the kids visiting friends, she decided to use the rare private time to “ask inside” whether any “inner children” wanted to tell her anything more about her childhood she might have forgotten.
Suddenly, sitting on the edge of her bed, she re-experienced an event in which she lay on her back, too young yet to roll over. Human hands did things around her, and she felt freedom between her legs. Then touching, poking, then she left her body. First she saw her mother, slumped on the floor, hand over her mouth, eyes in shock and grief, then was looking down on three men in white, facing a pedestal in a white room, ignoring her mother on the floor.
No stainless steel, this wasn’t a medical environment, but a ritual one – making it more shocking to make sense of than otherwise. She’d hold this flashback in suspension for years, then one day learn the Mormons have a room called “The Holy of Holies” (phrase borrowed from the Hebrews’ Bible) in every Temple, in which they conduct secret ceremonies, wherein only certain Mormons are allowed to enter or even know what goes on there.
She’d learn also that Mormons are the largest denomination working for the Central Intelligence Agency, in which mind control has been managed for 60 years. And one of the foundational requirements of mind control is to split the mind, with torture, and the earlier in life, the better.
When she was four or five, she remembered some man, perhaps a Mormon missionary, counseling her father in their den while she played nearby, “Marry a Mormon woman, and you get the children too.” She wasn’t sure she knew what that meant, but suspected it was that stuff she wasn’t supposed to talk about, so she froze the memory, which came back to her one day after the out-of-body flashback. Later, she’d learn from Ann Diamond’s books on her mind control experiences, that one of the ways the CIA procured parental agreement to put and keep their children in the program was to catch (or create?) pedophiles and threaten them with prison. Perhaps the missionary set up her father, recorded a discussion, then police busted him and forced his agreement.
It’s also possible her father was molesting her before that missionary encouragement, because, when she was 3 or 4, she told her mother something that made her mother fly into a rage, hauling her into the bathroom, shoving a bar of soap in her mouth, and screaming that she could never say anything like that again. (What did she say? She can only guess.)
Then her mother told her pediatrician she thought her daughter was “crazy,” and she told her aunt and random people that came to the house. And she continued to discredit her daughter the rest of her life, questioning random memories she might contribute even to happy family story-telling around the table decades later. No matter how inconsequential, her mother was likely to interrupt her and deny whatever it was.
She paraphrased what the daughter had heard the pediatrician say: “I’ve always said you had an active imagination, and you mix up your dreams with memories.” Over and over again she heard those words. Even when she drew a floor plan of the Student Housing apartment at UC Davis, showing the entry room, front window, stove and range hood and sink, where the linoleum turned to carpet, and where an easy chair angled by a wall.
“You couldn’t remember that!” her mother denounced automatically, but with rare vehemence. “You were 14 months old when we moved away from there,” she gestured to the floor plan drawn on a napkin on the table.
“But you just confirmed I remember.” Her mother’s face contorted and she pushed her chair back from the dining table and walked toward a nearby picture window and looked out, reciting, “I’ve always said you had an active imagination, and you mix up your dreams with memories.”
Hearing this, the hair rose up on the back of her neck. It was the first time she recognized her mother was using the exact same words and the same sing-song lilt as if she’d practiced saying these words a thousands times to herself. The daughter was struck by her mother’s apparent fear, and felt suddenly terribly sorry for her. She must feel guilty for something. But what? She hadn’t remembered anything weird yet, had only struggled to understand what was wrong with her, and still believed she’d had a “normal,” even fortunate childhood – with lessons, vacations, even a swimming pool in the backyard. What in the world could her mother feel so guilty for?
What was the worst thing she could imagine? Certainly not violence. Sometime, in high frustration, maybe locking her in a closet? That was the worst thing she could imagine. And whatever it was, she shouldn’t feel bad about it all these years later! Too bad she can’t just admit it and say, “Yeah, parenthood can be frustrating!” And they could all agree, No problem, Mom, all’s forgiven. The daughter determined to try to have some sort of conversation with her mother sometime, to ease her mind, let her know she was fine, and her mother didn’t need to feel guilty about anything.
But they never had that conversation, and later the daughter would realize she wasn’t just fine. There were things done to her that hurt her, that caused all those strange gaps in her memory.
Other experiences in the Mormon Church, occasional, sporadic, would result in her vowing to “never go back there again.” But after they moved to Paradise Valley, Arizona, when she came home from school one day to see her mother talking to Mormon missionaries in the living room, she became paralyzed momentarily and thought ominously, “They found us.”
Her mother would occasionally announce they were being taken to church, and she would never object. At age thirteen, she was informed she would attend “MIA,” a Wednesday late afternoon class involving crafts and badges to go on bandelos they’d wear to those classes to show off their accomplishments – and her bandelo was always the most pathetic because she didn’t care. One evening in winter, when the building was dark and spooky, the girls were given lessons on the reality of the devil, Satan. The teacher gave her own testimony of seeing Satan pick up and throw a student at Brigham Young University against a wall. When her mother picked her up that night, asked about the class, and was told about the Satan stories, she asked – for the first time – if her daughter wanted to continue attending, to which she said No. It was the last time she ever walked consciously into a Mormon church.
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Anomalous weirdness seemed to be increasing, so last January I decided to comb through every journal of mine and record the anomalies since I published RattleSnake Fire, and then record all the anomalies in my book and before my book – the entire rest of my life, as much as I could remember. I put them all in a master database, with dates and places and other notations, and they total over 700 events!
Some were flesh-and-bones type of events; other were purely psychic, as if in other realms, but consistent with common theories of mind control and psychic attack.
When I checked to see how many occurred in these recent years, I found that, yes, things are accelerating: I’ve had over half – over 390 anomalous events – since I published my book in January 2008.
Now, anomalous doesn’t mean “bad,” as some anomalies were healing and spiritual insights that made me blissful and came on like a “download.” So, I colored the supposedly “good” anomalies in green and blue, and I colored the shocking, frightening ones in orange and red. Those latter outnumbered the positive by 3 or 4 to 1.
Since there were so many, it was hard to wrap my mind around them, so I made an abbreviated list of the biggies – below.
This is not a comprehensive list, only those I wrote in my journal, sometimes I was too messed up to journal for days and might have forgotten to make a record; sometimes I missed things because I was amnesic; and a few journals seem to have gone missing for much of July 2013-July 2014, so I don’t know how much I missed there. But it’s a good start.
I’ve separated the “challenges” from the “blessings” – and I’ve written with extreme brevity, so they might not sound like much, but in context, believe me, they were.
You’ll notice the few from 2008-2009 (July – July) slowly grow to larger numbers in recent years:
(If anyone finds these familiar, I hope they give you solace that you’re not alone.)
July 2008 –July 2009 Challenges:
a spiritual attachment
Psychic (freak-out) reaction to a stranger
July 2008 – July 2009 Blessings:
magical message from shaman
July 2009 – July 2010 Challenges:
Suspicious lover from teen years called, seducing
experienced conscious MK rape
MK’d to go somewhere, a test
computer weirdness x 3
eyes in mirror not mine
saw demon face over friend’s face
saw etheric safe in my back, and removed it, but not man’s hand also there!
July 2009 – July 2010 Blessings:
multiple self re-knitting
avoid brain balancing “offer” from suspect doctor
“cowboy cataract” healed instantaneously
two alters see each other
July 2010 – July 2011 Challenges:
Weird, amnestic stop on Highway 90
new door lock broken
sleep anomaly x 10+
weird and mysterious obsession over friend
3 puncture cuts
4 scoop marks
other weird bruises x 4
inch-deep puncture up beside clitoris
spine mysetriously hurt
tones in ears
beam follows me around house
next morning: ears ringing badly, never quit
house entered, things moved, hot water in tap on New Years, footsteps in snow
old high school friend reconnects; wrote fiction (of me) as MK assassin
bad energy sensed powerfully from across street
noises in house
etheric Aries sign attacked me and stuck to my forehead in energy realm
woman in house makes toilet overflow x 2
message from dark side:I’m “already in”
Despite documentation and no contrary theories, Dr. calls me delusional
Bad spirit in a basket (blessing: I eject and bring it to heal or depart in garden)
July 2010 – July 2011 Blessings:
blue-green energy healing alters
person inside me helping
another healing x 2
nighttime healings x ?
seeing energy, controlling it
yogi comes in
felt g-spot heal
understanding, writing about the cruel teacher
email warning:new Friend/CIA –
life-threatening email, took to police –
postal mail: I’m an MK slave, may lose my soul – (all 3 in 1 week)
weird sleep and exhaustion x 16+
bruises x 3+
needle bruises x 34
4-5 clear tones
2 scoop marks
injured back/no reason x 2
neck out, rib out- pain
weird neck problems x 3
Wake to find friend whispering/instructing me x 2
realize MK as child on vacations, collapse to floor
iridescent golden mucous glob from sinus
felt severely drugged
weird answering machine message
phone interruption: “record again”
happy drug? too much energy
male friend confirms Archons
shamanic journey:saw programming in Akron, age 19, painful, terrifying
“dream” of waiting obediently
dream: audition, girls lifting skirts
dream of extra-dimensional powers and astral spying
dream of spying
dream of fire under house
dreams of tunnels, transportation
possible abduction dream
intense forgotten dream
dream of pre-school, computer pass codes, remote command hand tools
July 2011-July 2012 Blessings:
dream of friend that comes true
feeling strong despite all weirdness
7 months of nothing significant
strong recovery from spiritual attack
recognized MK command to not have orgasm
shamanic journey: removed hooks from spine and neck
shamanic journey:alters back, bad energy removed, neck fixed
July 2012 – July 2013 Challenges:
exhausted x 18+
wrenched back x 2, displaced C2
neck hurt x 2, headache, out of it
jaw locked, wouldn’t open
red line in eye
anxiety, unable to center self
more weird bruises
ears ringing bad
harassing mental video
computer x 2 and phone weirdness
strange drivers license discovered in my wallet, frightened, called police; afterward no memory of name or face on license
lost time w friend
amnesia, friend no help
email about amnesia – totally forgotten
MK on Christmas Eve
dream of space ship, large marble building, dead body
dream of staircase to other country
dream remote viewing tidal wave, sold on MK
plus events in 2013 – journals missing
July 2012 – July 2013 Blessings:
bolt of healing energy from almond tree
exhaled huge psychic sludge
healing contortions night and morning
July 2013 – July 2014 Challenges:
camping horror: apparent abduction, noro virus, almost died (others went to hospital), people sabotage my sleep
friend scares me
consistent sabotage before my scheduled workshops
many injection bruises, weekly
exhaustion with lots of sleep until I quit my business, then felt better
(journals irregular or lost)
July 2013 – July 2014 Blessings:
none (2013 journals disappeared)
“something done in night” x 6+
long sleep and exhaustion x 46
donut bruises x2
injection bruises x 8, “2x/wk”
other bruises x 10
heart racing/hurting x 11
jaw painful x 6
scoop marks x 5
numb shoulder x 3
hypersensitive hip x 2
missing time x 8
movies in head x 3, sometimes forgotten
strange noises x 2
vaginal, anal irritation x 2
Thanksgiving: vision, drugged, unable to stand, walk, see; friend incongruous; memory of anal “inoculation”
rage x 9
back wrenched x2
new herpes x 2
gouges both forearms
irritation on thigh
woke w busted thumbnail
woke, peed in bed, total exhaustion with other extreme symptoms
woken by Ultra Low Frequency
tones, sometimes waking me
“vampire” scabs on neck, first day of UFO Congress
cut on left finger
itching hands, arms
triangle dots on hand
ringing in ears (always)
huge, bubbly, iridescent gold mucous from sinus
visions amazing, then forgotten
saw red UFO, hard sleep
Disqus (never heard of) has account in my name [never fixed – why?]
My life is exquisitely difficult to talk about. It’s woven with extreme themes – sexual abuse, mind control, aliens, mysticism – and with accomplishments that make me shy, and failures that embarrass me, and critical facts that embarrass other people.
And none of the themes, for simplification, can be hidden or glossed over, because each intertwines and sometimes explains the others.
I can’t begin at the beginning, because it is either boring, or if I tell certain details, it sounds too woo-woo.
Since I almost always get interrupted fairly early with the question, “Why you?”I think I’ll begin there.
It could be any number of things, but is probably all of them together. Plus the fact that I won “the lottery.”
(Remember that classic, creepy short story, “The Lottery”? We read it once in grade school and again in high school, about a community that killed one person every year by stoning, a person drawn by lottery.)
My lottery ticket to this crazy life may have been as simple as my birth date. I was born on a Full Moon, on a Monday (Moon Day), in the middle of Cancer, also known as Moon Child.
And it wasn’t just a Full Moon, somewhere inside that 24-hour window; no, I was born 8 minutes before the Full Moon, 8/(24×60) = 5/1,000ths of a degree of perfection. Moon energy was strong. (Astronomical charts, not astrological, show the coincidence.)
So were the numbers: I was born on July 7, 1952 − 5+2 adding up to 7. Three sevens. Then my mother gave me a name with 7 letters: Jean Ann.
My last name, at birth and now, is Eisenhower. My father was second cousin to Dwight, who was nominated to the Republic ticket for President of the United States later on the day of my birth. The next day, the local paper would give my birth a short column to remark on the coincidence.
Maybe all these coincidences explain my winning/losing lottery ticket. Or maybe mind control was already in the family.
Eisenhower family crest
[I’ll expand on these later: Eisenhowers = Iron hewers (secret society protecting metallurgy secrets for the king). Grandfather Hollywood veterinarian of Rin-Tin-Tin – Mason – money lender. Father Navy CASU 33 – unsolved mystery.
[Petersens – Mormons. Grandmother with her handler. Mother I saw switch alters, in trance. Unexplained terror re Mormons. Flashback of babyhood ritual.]
I seem to have won/lost the lottery and was treated to MK. Then, having developed a bad attitude toward our culture due to MK, I joined the counter-culture and offended my handlers – again and again, beginning with rejecting the invitation of another secret society, calling them “plastic,” accepting their invitation to “try them,” taking the vows, and then de-activating and breaking my vows. I assume my actions resulted in another layer of MK, as they warned us that breaking our vows would have severe consequences (which I didn’t believe, as it was contrary to “American values”).
In my 20s, I became an activist for peace, and later for social justice, and environmental sustainability. Along the way, I insulted the FBI with media releases exposing their most incriminating statements which I sent to 600 major media around the world, nearly every day of the 6-week “Judi Bari v FBI” federal trial – and the FBI was found guilty.
They stared me down in the hallways of the courthouse, damn scary dudes. They might have amped up my treatment then and following the trial, when I lived alone in the desert – things got extremely frightening after the trial, to the point I was ready to give up this life.
Perhaps they amped up my MK again when I published my book. And maybe they amped it up again each time I published a particularly hard-hitting blog or video. There seem to be correlations.
So now that I’ve given you an overview of my story, maybe answered the Why?, and I’ve gotten my paranoia out of the way – or demonstrated and acknowledged it at least – let me tell you my story….
To help me wrap my brain around it all – my fractured, fragmented mind full of experiences is often difficult to remember as a whole – I created a database to record all my anomalous experiences, from sublime to terrifying, everything out of the normal. My list is nearly 700 items long, and the last half of them have occurred in the last 5 years. Things are accelerating.
[to be continued]
Feedback? How’s this to open an update to my story?
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Approach: Imagine my True Self a still vessel watching all the thoughts.
(I’ve always known I was supposed to watch my thoughts, but I’d never thought of the part of me who is the still vessel watching – except once. I did a meditation by Stephen LaBerge that blew my mind in a delightful way: at the end of his 15-minute recorded meditation, he asked, Who is aware? – which surprised me so much, I printed a bunch of little slips of paper with the question on it, and posted them on all the mirrors. But, over the years, some other part of me has continued resisting sitting down to meditate.)
New experience! I see a child rolling around in place at an impossible rate, super-human speed, just round and round and round endlessly like a swarm of gnats. She could not be touched, and I knew she was the part of me that had been tortured and was still running from her fears.
My writer self would, of course, want to observe, feel, think, and carefully document. My part that’s been given instructions on how to meditate says, “Just observe and let it go.” My healer self says, We’ve never seen this before. It is a blessed opportunity. This child is in pain. Let’s step in. This is even the point of this meditation: this awareness.
The little girl could not be touched or calmed at first. Any approach, and she rolled away, always away. We wanted to calm and assure her, but she could not be touched.
A ray of calming energy was shot into her, allowing us to put our hands gently on her upper arms. She could feel us, and she relaxed.
Two other meditation techniques used at the same time: To relax each part of the body, one at a time, and to recognize the part of me that is the witness. While relaxing my face and beginning to relax my throat, that was when I saw the little girl rolling, and it led that quickly to its resolution. Thank Goodness.
Thank All You who read this blog.
Blessings on your meditations. May they be healing to you.
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Reposted from: http://warisacrime.org/content/defeating-violence-psychiatry By Robert J. Burrowes – Posted on 12 September 2014
As the movement to abolish psychiatry continues to gather momentum – see ‘On Antipsychiatry’ – it is worth reviewing its delusional foundation, the history of its violence and its function as a weapon of elite social control.
Psychiatry is based on a delusional conception of how the human mind works and what is needed in order to assist it to function optimally when it is not doing so. This is because the purpose of psychiatry, with the complicity of other professions in the ‘mental health’ field and the incredibly profitable pharmaceutical industry, as well as the support of the legal system and the corporate media in promoting this violence, has always been about profits and elite social control, not restoring the health of the ailing individual.
The human mind consists of many interacting components. These include sensory capacities (such as sight, hearing and touch), feelings (such as thirst, hunger, nausea and physical pain), memory, ‘truth register’, intuition, conscience, more feelings (such as fear, happiness, emotional pain, joy, anger, satisfaction, sadness and sexual arousal), and intellect.
Each of these capacities is separately important but, in a healthy individual, it is their integrated functioning that is used to crystallize the appropriately precise behavioral option in any given circumstance. If any one of these capacities is not functioning as evolution intended, the individual will suffer accordingly and this might result in a dysfunctional behavioral outcome as well.
Dysfunctional behavior is caused by terrorizing an individual during childhood so that the integrated functioning of their mind is impeded. This occurs when you inflict ‘visible’, ‘invisible’ and ‘utterly invisible’ violence on a child in order to make them do what you want. This violence forces the child to suppress their awareness of the mental processes, especially the feelings, that generated the original and functional behavior so that they can comply with your violence. But their obedience comes at the price of their increased dysfunctionality in the future. For a full explanation of this, see ‘Why Violence?’ and ‘Fearless Psychology and Fearful Psychology: Principles and Practice’.
According to the ‘bible’ of the American Psychiatric Association (APA), the ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders’ (the DSM), there are roughly 300 officially certified and distinct ‘mental disorders’. But there are no defining physical tests to diagnose any of them. However, given the publication of the DSM is worth over $5 million a year to the APA, historically totalling over $100 million, there is little organisational interest in validity. See ‘Not Diseases, but Categories of Suffering’ .
In fact, as Dr Bonnie Burstow has pointed out: ‘while psychiatry has been claiming for a very long time that people who are “disordered” have chemical imbalances and frequently reiterate that imbalances have been found, the reality is that no imbalances have ever been established for a single “mental illness”. By contrast, the various treatments of psychiatry (e.g., the drugs, electroshock) have been demonstrated to create illness.’ See ‘On Antipsychiatry’.
In short, there is no scientific basis for psychiatry and this is occasionally admitted even by prominent psychiatrists. See, for example, ‘Psychiatry Now Admits It’s Been Wrong in Big Ways – But Can It Change?’ In fact, on 29 April 2013, the highest ranking federal ‘mental health’ official in the USA, Thomas Insel, stated that ‘While DSM has been described as a “Bible” for the field, it is, at best, a dictionary, creating a set of labels and defining each…. The weakness is its lack of validity. Unlike our definitions of ischemic heart disease, lymphoma, or AIDS, the DSM diagnoses are based on a consensus about clusters of clinical symptoms, not any objective laboratory measure.’ And in a candid moment some years earlier, Allen Frances, the lead editor of the fourth edition of the DSM, highlighted the real depth of the problem: ‘there is no definition of a mental disorder. It’s bullshit. I mean, you just can’t define it’. See ‘Inside the Battle to Define Mental Illness’.
But such occasional candid admissions do not lead to change for several reasons: many individual psychiatrists are ignorant of their own ignorance (simply believing, as most people have been terrorised into believing, what they were taught at school and in subsequent training courses) and, of course, institutional forces and profits ensure that such comments are suppressed by the psychiatric, pharmaceutical and media industries ensuring that they do not get through to the public.
Of course, pregnant women and nursing mothers don’t escape psychiatric violence either although groups such as ‘Moms & Meds’campaign to raise awareness of the health and death risks from psychiatric ‘medication’ to the mother and unborn child. And, as you no doubt expect by now, older people, predominantly women, aren’t spared drugging and electroshocking either. Fortunately, in the USA, once a person reaches 65 their electroshocking is paid for by the government which means that, at this age, the number of people diagnosed as requiring electroshocking jumps enormously! See The Necessity of Madness and Unproductivity: Psychiatric Oppression or Human Transformation.
And, of course, psychosurgery, in which ‘a small piece of brain is destroyed or removed’ – ‘irreversible brain mutilation’ as it has been called – is still performed in many countries despite the very long campaign to get it stopped. See, for example, the 1982 article ‘The Return of Lobotomy and Psychosurgery’. ‘In lobotomy and psychosurgery parts of the brain that show no demonstrable disease are nonetheless mutilated or cut out in order to affect the individual’s emotions and personal conduct.’ Despite its horror history, recent ‘justifications’ for ‘irreversible brain mutilation’ are readily found.
The bottom line is this: Most psychiatrists, like most people, are terrified of listening to your feelings (and especially when they are driving dysfunctional behaviour and might need considerable time for healing to occur). This is the inevitable outcome of being terrified of feeling their own feelings. Feelings won’t hurt you; suppressing your awareness of them with drugs, electroshocking or other violence will. Feelings are a vital part of the information your body gives you; feeling these feelings is the way you heal from traumas (great or small) and a vital source of information about what you need to do.
If, like me, you are nauseated by the cowardice and violence of the psychiatrists, doctors, other ‘mental health professionals’ and the pharmaceutical industry personnel who so readily damage our emotional health for the sake of elite social control and personal profit, then you have a simple choice: you can choose to never consult a psychiatrist or other ‘mental health professional’ and you can choose to never subject your child to their violence either. And if you are forced into involuntary psychiatric ‘care’, you can choose to remain silent and pursue avenues for being released.
Some people have argued that psychiatry should be reformed. But any experienced nonviolent activist knows that psychiatry, like other manifestations of violence (such as domestic violence, economic exploitation, slavery, ecological destruction and war) cannot be ‘reformed’. We must work for abolition.
Finally, value your emotional health extremely highly. An empathic listener can help you feel your way through those times when you need to feel the sadness, pain, fear, anger and other valuable feelings that evolution gave you to enable a full recovery from the inevitable traumas of life. (Although the information is directed at soldiers who have been traumatised by war, the process as outlined in this article applies to anyone who needs emotional support to recover from difficult life experiences, however ‘trivial’: see ‘An Open Letter to Soldiers with “Mental Health” Issues’.)
If you don’t allow yourself to feel and express the so-called ‘negative’ feelings, you will soon find that your emotional responses to the joys of life will be unconsciously suppressed too.
And life without feelings is not life: it is ‘flatlining’.
Biodata: Robert has a lifetime commitment to understanding and ending human violence. He has done extensive research since 1966 in an effort to understand why human beings are violent and has been a nonviolent activist since 1981. He is the author of‘Why Violence?’ His email address is firstname.lastname@example.org and his website is here.
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Saturday 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.
I’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!
Something 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.
I 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.
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, 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.
It 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 Brown, Neil Young, and so many others who write explicitly or hint about travel and beings in the multi-dimensional cosmos.
Of 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.
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For subscribers who haven’t visited in awhile, I’m posting the contents of my new Home page. The entire site has been recently reorganized, rewritten, and become, I hope, a more useful, and “friendly,” resource for those needing to learn about this subject. I invite you to visit.
To that end, I offer these pages of information – non-academic, easy-to-read – which touch on folklore, history, religion, spirituality, cosmos, and culture as they relate to mind control and multiple personality — along with my personal, on-going reports on the path to healing. Below is a 3-minute video, produced in 2010:
Is Multiple Personality Disorder “crazy”? Actually, it’s considered a creative solution, usually emerging accidentally in childhood, tokeep from going crazy when experiencing something like torture. The vast majority of us experienced torture as children in one way or another.
Children under torturous conditions who don’t “leave their bodies” and dissociate, and the torture is repeated, usually become schizophrenic. So dissociation, MPD, is a blessing in disguise, as it’s fairly easy to heal (unless complicated by mind control); whereas, schizophrenia is considered incurable.
How it comes about, in simple terms: Under extreme stress, a person, especially a child, might “leave their body” to escape unbearable pain; the mind, however, keeps recording – now on a blank slate – which then becomes another personality. This creates a pattern in the person called dissociation; with ongoing stress, the pattern is repeated. (Today MPD is called Dissociative Identity Disorder, but many of us prefer the old term.)
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: I have the capacity to manage a wide variety of mental tasks, as I seem to have a lot of “minds” holographically in my being. Managing them is the trick, and I have always done pretty well, most of the time. (At the bottom of this post are some of my accomplishments.)
The common perception of “multiples,” as being tragically out of their own control, is true for some, but many multiples are also very high-functioning, even testing at genius levels (as I have a few times), though they often have severe mental, psychological, emotional, and spiritual challenges — as readers of my book can appreciate.
Mind Control There’s also, obviously, a very serious downside to “multipleness,” which is that the people or groups who created my alters probably still have access to my programming and may continue to re-program me to use at will. When they do, I have bizarre perceptions, find wounds on my body, and afterward usually am severely depressed and sometimes emotionally incapacitated for extended periods of time.
Despite the foregoing, I must acknowledge the positive aspect of multiple-ness because it masks my disability. In other words, I look not only “sane” and “normal” nearly all the time, but sometimes exceptional; therefore, a person might ask, how could my crazy theory be true?
I also mention the positive aspect because it contains my hope for full recovery: Having the perspective of many minds, I have, since 1993, been working with my alters, untangling messes, and removing unwanted programs. It has taken time and emotional stamina, sometimes incapacitating me for mundane things, at which times, I have not appeared “exceptional” at all, but severely messed up. And I’m still not “one.” But, I’m working on it.
Friends and acquaintances who know my story often don’t know what to make of it, because they rarely see the symptoms or don’t recognize them, so I’m accepted well enough in my community to be employed (when I want and am able) and have a wide circle of friends. Besides, so many people are struggling with something.
My hidden disability, though, makes it very hard to make a living, and I’ve been bailed out by my parents many times. Good therapists seem to be rare and hard to find, or else I’ve been controlled to avoid them, or they’ve been threatened by my controllers into avoiding treating me (commonly reported by others).
The worst of my experiencesinvolving apparent mind control – that I recall – happened in 2010: I woke up extremely debilitated after a ten-hour sleep and found a third-degree Taser burn on my arm.
2014 This bruise showed up ten days after another very similar showed up on the back of my leg. No explanation except…
Much more is documented on this site, including weird bruises, apparent injection bruises (most common), a broken door lock, deep vaginal lacerations, biopsy “scoop marks,” and more.
Why am I not terrified? Well, I have been, and suicidal more times than I can count. But I’ve talked myself out of it. I’ve worked and prayed to try to understand our world, Good and Evil, the psyche and our power to navigate treacherous waters. And here I am.
Life has been moving on an upward course since I’ve been focusing my spiritual practice. I have a wonderful home and garden, lots of friends and friendly acquaintances, a supportive partner, enough work to pay the bills, and a satisfying artist’s life.
After 38 years of never singing in public (stage phobia related to mind control), in 2009 I began to sing publicly again – a most amazing breakthrough for my mind and psyche. And I’ve regained my ability to participate in life and see what Goodness I can add to our amazing human drama here.
And as a life-long activist for a variety of causes (saving mountains and downtown inner city schools, for instance), I now feel called to shine light on this criminal enterprise which steals people’s free will. I thank you very much for reading this far. I applaud your courage.
How do I really know I was a mind control subject? Check this page for a little bit more of my personal and family history.
I pray the content here and in my book helps others trying to understand their own stories and heal.
My best advice after gathering information: Remember fear and anger are natural, but a stage to go through and to move beyond. Remember that everything Good in this world is stronger, eventually, than the Dark, and focus on that Good. And check out my pages on Healing!
If you believe in a benevolent Higher Power, by whatever name, connect, hold fast, communicate, listen, and keep the best possible vision in mind in order to generate a vibration sympathetic with the energies of the Higher Power.
Today I believe these experiences have blessed me with one other thing: greater awareness than I would ever have had of the larger realities of this world. Therefore, they are extremely important to my life. We do believe we have the power to survive, understand, and help things improve for each other.
I have no idea exactly how. I feel that everyone on this planet, though, is facing a huge cataclysm very soon, and our world will change in ways we are probably not prepared for, and our minds are probably not prepared for.
So it will require an especially flexible mind to survive the ontological shock I believe is coming. And those of us who’ve already been shocked out of our shoes – who knows? – we might find it easier to adapt and see and respond to what’s going on.
Ontological shock is the disorientation a person endures when deep foundations of their mental framework become shaken. It will change our entire meaning of life – and who we think we are as humans. (Sort of like many lifelong Catholics have been experiencing for a decade or more, or a married person feels when they discover their spouse is cheating, or a parent feels when a baby is born with a problem, or anyone feels when someone near them suddenly dies – but much bigger.)
Our current structure of thought will not survive the changes. Words will truly fail us. So it’s imperative we get our energies, our vibrations clear, to be able to trust our perceptions.
Blessings on you ~
(p.s. All these photos were taken in the last couple of years, though I often look decades different in age.)
And please remember to “Join/Listen!” (Button’s up top in the right corner.)
Off this site, WantToKnow.info has an excellent site with mainstream documentation on many controversial topics, including mind control.
Author: RattleSnake Fire: a memoir of extra-dimensional experience; The 2013 or Year One Almanac, Datebook, and Journal;
the 2004 Almanac/Datebook/Journal for Southern Arizona;
the 2003 Almanac, Datebook and Journal for Tucson and Southern Arizona;
the international Permaculture Drylands Journal (associate editor, 1989-91);
and numerous articles and newsletters, including international publications. Praise: “great literature….tour de force!….important historical document,” and more.
Awards in journalism (UPI First Place, Arizona-Utah region), creative writing, art, theater, videography, real estate, Permaculture, and national recognition for non-profit fundraising. Others: served in Leaders Circle of Tucson Resources for Women. Invited to Leadership Tucson and Mensa. Served on numerous local boards, twice as president.
Thanks for visiting ~
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In my Blogging 201 seminar, I’ve had requests for basic information on both Mind Control and Multiple Personality – so I’ve created two new pages. The second one is copied here, as well as in a new page at the top of the site under “Multiple. The first is also right up top of the site under “Mind Control.“
For all the multiples….
Is Multiple Personality Disorder (Dissociative Identity Disorder) “crazy”? Actually, it’s considered a creative solution, usually discovered in childhood, tokeep 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
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
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, people lacking empathy and any moral code recognized that multiples have a propensity for amnesia and learned to take advantage of this, sometimes making literal slaves of the multiples.
In the 1940s, China and the United States each sought to protect their secrets from adversaries at war and began experimenting on soldiers, inducing split minds through intentional torture on their own citizens and others. In the United States, the CIA began intensive studies, now called MKULTRA, and experimented on an estimated 20,000 children and many more adults 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 or assisted in healing. (The CIA director testified that they destroyed all files. As a consequence, no subject can prove they were involved and disabled in this program.) More on American mind control history is in my page “Mind Control Defined.”
In 1990, I sat in the center of communications for the radical activist group Tucson Earth First! and networked with many other non-profit organizations in town, including People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, domestic violence organizations, homeless advocates, the parent-teacher association, and had been written up in the daily paper along with a couple other women as a “Supermom.” I think I told the reporter, “I don’t recommend it.”
But I had so many ideas, so many solutions to things, could see the coordinated steps it would take to bring a complicated project, like a publication or a conference, to successful completion, usually had most of the skills, and others encouraged me, so I took them all on, and most of them went well, with a few exceptional bombers, a few embarrassing lapses of judgement, but mostly projects that brought very positive responses, and sometimes awards, and then that news article. I was even asked to run for political office and hounded about it for month before my rejection was accepted.
Before I’d gotten so radical, I’d been accepted into the largest PR firm in Arizona, Gladys Sarlat PR, where I’d been let go after I’d told them I thought a new client was a fraud. Soon after, that man would be on the front page of the business section of the daily paper nearly every day for the next 18 months – on trial for fraud.
I co-wrote a couple of editorials for the dailies, one on the Green Party and another on the FBI repression of Earth First! colleagues Judi Bari and Darryl Cherney which resulted in an assassination attempt on Judi, whose trial against the FBI with Darryl, Darryl was traveling the country for, coming through Tucson, singing songs, telling the horrifying story, showing slides of the bombed car, and soliciting help. Of course. I organized his show, did the media work, wrote an editorial for the papers, and helped him find a place to crash that didn’t have kids. I added it to my notebook of tasks and got it done.
Everything in my life was in my notebook. I worked with pages I custom-designed to help me do everything. I had daily sheets, 4-week planning charts in a 2-page spread, and monthly calendars, along with project flowcharts. I had files January through December and “Next Year,” and files numbered 1 through 31, which helped me organize everything. I carried my notebook everywhere.
One Monday a friend asked how was my weekend. I flipped the page back to Saturday and answered that I’d had a houseful of boys because it had been my son’s birthday. Until I’d read it, though, I’d had no memory of the day. My business persona and mom persona didn’t have a lot of memory connection.
I was burning out from doing too much, and realizing it. My husband always encouraged me to take on more, and he’d even volunteer for tasks that he didn’t have the skills to do – like bookkeeping – and then let me do it because he didn’t want to admit he couldn’t do it. So I’d do it. And when he insisted he’d make up the financial difference in the family because some cause was important to him that he wanted me to keep doing, he’d still keep account of the major times he paid more than his share for something, and occasionally would tell me I owed him that much. So we had arguments. A visiting friend one time said, “Do you realize that I every year I come visit you, you’re telling me the same dreadful things? When are you going to change the situation?”
I was afraid to be alone with two teenagers, so I stayed in the situation and advocated for better treatment. We did learn to have a certain amount of fun together, and we always presented a contented face to the world.
When Judi and Darryl were bombed, it was as if a psychic bomb went off in my mind. I was aware of things like FBI harassment of activists, but I’d pretended that an office person, PR person, occasional spokesperson wouldn’t be a target – they’d want the tree-spiker, not me. But Judi was bombed. She was a visionary, PR person, phenomenal spokesperson, but did nothing illegal; in fact, she’s single-handedly gotten the vast majority of California Earth First!ers to renounce tree-spiking. So why was she attacked? No – almost killed.
For the last four years, our dining room had been the hub of action for the Coalition to protect Mount Graham, combining efforts of a number of organizations, Earth First!, San Carlos Apache Tribal Council, individual tribal members, and some international environmental ecology organization, and we’d been part of demonstrations shaming the Smithsonian Institution into backing out of the astrophysical project (though they’d rejoin years later), and we mercilessly hammered on those who forged ahead: the University of Arizona, the Max Planck Institute in Germany, Arcetri in Italy, and the Vatican. Yes, the Vatican. More on that later.
I knew we were like chihuahuas nipping at the heels of a monstrous mastiff, but we did it. We emboldened each other with tales of valor, creative monkey-wrenching, street theater, affinity groups, legal strategy workshops, and all the joy of camaraderie in the face of an enemy worth confronting. I’d gone to jail twice. Both times I’d gone into altered states of consciousness. The second time, I believe I was Tasered, as I have no memory of the rest of the day or much of the next day after two plainclothes men showed up in jail and walked near me, after which I only remember rising from the ground in rage, swinging my arms, my hair in my face. Then only sketchy disturbing memories of being harassed for hours with disturbed sleep, then let go at 4 in the morning with no phone number, though people had left numerous messages for me. I remember someone finding me in the waiting room, curled, freezing on the hard floor, and following, and am told we went out to breakfast, but I can’t remember it. That was Durango, Colorado, 1992. I hadn’t meant to get arrested; I just hadn’t left the scene of a group’s civil disobedience fast enough.
Back home, to lessen my stress, I backed out of a few volunteer commitments, including most of my work to protect Mount Graham, quit my business, and got a job. I wanted a few well-defined tasks to do each day, not the ever-expanding situation I had with a PR consulting business to environmental, arts, and social justice non-profits – that attracted unending pro bono work, and when they paid I could never charge what people said I was worth, because I didn’t want to take the money out of their accounts.
The job I got was the Customer Relations person for the 3rd largest birdwatching tour company in the world, WINGS. After a few months on the job, the owner told me he’d been looking for years for someone who could take over the business, and he thought I could do it. It grossed millions each year, and he’d let me buy in over time, with an immediate doubling of my pay and opportunities for the rest of my life to travel to exotic natural place all over the world, from Alaska to Antarctica and a hundred or more other places. I would soon have to quit my job.
April 1993, my son was diagnosed with cancer. My husband and I had the final fight of our relationship, and I ended it. The kids and I were going to move out because my husband refused to. My health insurance company went bankrupt. I went down into the basement to cry, and began instead to make an involuntary sound, between a scream and a growl and roar, over and over again, able to stop for just a few seconds before the urge was upon me again, and I could not turn it off. For awhile I thought I’d just let it wear itself out, and continued until I realized that I felt a blood vessel in my throat that felt like it could burst. I felt the real possibility that if I didn’t drown in my own blood, I wasn’t sure how anyone would staunch the blood flow from a vocal cord, and realized I could either drown or bleed to death, and I really tried to stop.
I stopped for ten seconds, then had to emit a small growl-roar, and then another, and another. I headed up the stairs thinking, Oh my God, I’m going to call Helpline. I’m supposed to be someone who would consult to them, not need their services. I’m a Supermom. I’m the business consultant. I’m not someone who needs help. Shakily, I turned to the inside cover of the phonebook and tried a few times with trembling hands – between not-very-well-repressed growls – and finally got the number dialed correctly. Someone talked me down.
The next Monday morning, I walked into a counselor’s office and before I even sat down, I spilled out my litany: My son has cancer, my health insurance company just went bankrupt, my husband and I are divorcing and we have to move and I don’t know where or how, my daughter hates me for making them move…and I could have added that I was in shock to realize that I can’t trust that my children will live, or that they will love me – two monumentally new ideas, two huge shifts in my world…and then another phrase came out of my mouth that had never crossed my conscious mind: and I think I was sexually abused as a child.
It was so bizarre to hear words come of my mouth that never crossed the threshold of my consciousness. For a moment, all reality was suspended, and I tipped my head to the right as if I could peek around a dimensional corner and maybe see my words spelled out there in the air. Anything seemed possible in that moment.
And in that moment I began a struggle that had me falling apart all year long, crying everywhere I went, crying at home, walls breathing, flashbacks of sex from young childhood to teen years, wolf energy entering me, Tarot cards that came up again and again confirming this, and a couple of attempts to commit myself to a mental hospital because I wanted a place to cry and throw myself around and not attract police. For awhile I thought I could go there for the rest of my life so that I didn’t have to make a decision about what was real.
The decision was this: to believe that I was sexually abused and have my whole self change, or believe that was a weird and meaningless string of experiences and all is fine. I wanted to believe the latter, but whenever I told myself that, I felt foggy, hazy, fuzzy, and like I was falling back asleep. Whenever I entertained the former, my brain felt like it was coming out of a fog, like I saw more light – before the psychic pain crept in.
Realizing the difference that clearly, you’d think, would make me to accept the theory that made me feel clearest, but I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want my whole world to change. I didn’t want to think about who did it. I didn’t want to be one of those women scorned in the papers for jumping on the current bandwagon of diagnoses, particularly one which is so disgusting and embarrassing, that certainly means I must have some secret perversion to have picked that bandwagon. No, I was not going there.
But I’d turn back to the other choice, and feel the haze fall over. I felt I was falling back into an oblivion I hadn’t know I’d been in.
And a whole lot of things began to make sense, things I could never think about before, though they did cross my mind like bats in the night, barely seen, only these things had no name, no context, they didn’t make sense. Into the Anomaly file they went – things that made no sense.
One was the sexual nightmares I had as a child. One was the way I went mute and catatonic the first time a boy attempted intercourse. Another was the altered state I went into the first time I was coerced into leaving my baby in the church nursery and literally forgot I had a child, even when another mother asked me where he was and even answered my question “Baby??” with his name – when I snapped out of it, remembered, and went running for him in sheer terror that I’d left him there.
And the sex play my best friend said I participated in in 5th grade, for which I had no memory. So many things began popping back in my mind. I tried to say I was inventing meaningful connections where there were none, but they kept coming and seemed reasonably connected. More and more, never quitting, scraps of memories, images, ideas, sickening.
I did what I think of as silent crying, diverting the tears down inside my sinuses, giving me a constant drip that I knew was all tears. After my nose got all chapped from wiping it for a week, I resorted to scooping the mucous-y tears out with a thumbnail, and wiping it on a hankie always with me, then after a week ditching the handkerchief and slurping the salty pain off my thumbnail, hoping people wouldn’t notice, but unable to care if they did, wearily accepting that I was more a mess than I’d ever thought possible.
I could no longer work, so I accepted entry into the Master’s Program in Creative Writing after winning an award for a story written and submitted before my life fell apart. My kids and I began living on student loans and, for the first time in my life, credit cards, which were skyrocketing with medical bills.
The only bright side: I’d begun praying, and though my son had been identified as being at very high risk, he was suddenly pronounced in remission.
The last night of the school year, I was facing a free summer – the first three months in my adult life, I realized, that I’d ever had. I’d never had nothing to do for that long a period of time.
The evening after my last class, I was feeling very happy, feeling confident that I’d survive this somehow, accept the reality of my past and begin to do the healing others told me I’d be able to do, making me a better person than I could otherwise have ever been if I’d not remembered and integrated it. I imagined a summer of reading, writing, sleeping late, staying in bed, going to support groups, doing the healing exercises in the books, with lots of time to abreact and recover and whatever else would follow. I’d treat myself well.
As it turned out, I’d build a tiny hermitage in the desert that summer and do very little healing work of the sort I’d imagined.
The emptiness I saw ahead was delicious, and I sat down that evening with my current book in a comfortable reading chair, thinking that the world was seeming beautiful again for the first time in over a year. The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot is about reality, perception, multiple dimensions, and much more. I found my place in the book and began to read, but soon was experiencing something very odd.
I finished a sentence, had a reaction of great interest to it, but couldn’t remember anything it was about as soon as I reached the end of it. I re-read the sentence repeatedly with the same physical reaction of great interest and then amnesia for it.
I tried it again, and was face to face with something weird happening in my brain. I balanced between fascination and fear. Then an idea popped up: Read the sentence aloud. And I did.
The sentence was about people with multiple personality disorder looking often decades younger than their biological age – which is still true for me today, sometimes (depending on which alter is out), and was even more true then. At forty-one, I was often mistaken for my teenage children’s sister.
Again, the world shifted, but this time it wasn’t as traumatic. In fact, after the acceptance of the child abuse, it felt real comfortable, as though a confirming piece of a puzzle had dropped into place and made things clear.
Still the rational part of me was horrified. I was already carrying this secret stigma of being a child sexual abuse survivor, which was bad enough. But mental illness!? No way. I did not want this.
A response came from inside: Understanding this is the beginning of everything getting better. I can heal. And I decided I’d go first thing in the morning to the medical library at the university and read all I could about multiple personality.
The next day I was greatly affirmed. Despite multiple personality’s reputation, it’s not always as crippling as some stories they’ve made into movies. And once diagnosed, it’s relatively easy to heal. Created by trauma, it’s actually the most “sane” response, as opposed to going schizophrenic, the other alternative when the mind cannot assimilate what’s dealt to the body. And many “multiples” are actually very high-functioning, even geniuses – not coincidental, but because of their multiple-ness. They have more “minds” to learn things, and many learn to partially integrate their various alters to network and use all those minds to superior levels.
I’d tested at genius levels a few times in my life, so this news helped me not feel like a freak two or three times over, but like I’d just had bad luck, and others have gone before me. We have highly complicated minds, sorta supercharge potential, not working quite right, but healable.
Now I just had to figure out how to do it. By going to the desert, though, while also enrolled in school, I’d make life too complicated to follow through with counseling. Besides, whenever I did visit a counselor over the years, they kept telling me I was “doing great” and I could just continue on my own.
I moved to the desert, fell in love with my solitude, and thought I’d stay there all my life – until my old high school crush and I had a conversation at our 25th high school reunion.
Soon I had abandoned my hermitage, moved to Colorado Springs, and was engaged to be married to my rescuer I believed was my soul mate. (If we can have a few, he is one.) I snapped back into functioning mode and tried not to think about having anything that needed to heal.
Needing a new career, I got my real estate license and was soon top-selling agent in my office, and was offered management of my franchise’s cornerstone office, overseeing 60 agents, for which I would likely earn “six figures.”
In the previous four and a half years, my fiancé and I had realized we couldn’t blend our lives, and I was yearning to return to my hermitage, to sit in front of the windows and watch hawks. The real estate biz had helped me pay down a good bit of my credit cards, and business was burning me out again, needing to be at every client’s beck and call 24-7 for their most important financial action of the decade. The excitement was over, I’d proven myself, so I declined and moved back home to the desert.
In my hermitage, I’d never had curtains because I lived far off the road and my nearest neighbor, a woman friend, was a quarter-mile away with barbed wire fence between us. One night, though, I knew someone malevolent was outside my large solar windows in the dark, looking in on my one-room house, me sitting in the middle of it, next to the fireplace, facing out. I set down my book, raised my hands in prayer position and prayed fervently that I’d be protected and maybe the man would be moved by my gesture to remember God and pull himself together and do right.
After awhile, I put down my hands and began to read again, and the feeling of horror came over me again. I retook my prayer pose, prayed a while, then turned out the light, and went to bed.
The next morning I found outside a styrofoam coffee cup in pristine condition sitting on my porch, a cigarette butt thrown a short distance away, and a place on the dirt where he’d relieved himself. I called the sheriff and was told it was all insignificant and, no, he wouldn’t even make a note about my call. In the next four years, I experienced a lot of fear, interspersed by events indicating I was being helped through it all with supernatural assistance.
In April 2002, I sat on my roof, watching a rare phenomenon in the sky: a crescent moon and four planets lined up after sunset. I’d been having lots of experiences I understood were called “shamanic,” which excited me. I’d had a year of snakes making dramatic entries into my life, ravens, owls, hawks, phoebes, lizards, a wild cat, and I’d bought a book of animal spirit meanings.
As I sat on the western edge of the roof of my bathhouse and gazed westward, suddenly a cluster of bats rolled in front of my face like a four-foot high, one-foot wide tire-shape in the air, and I knew it was a sign, but I didn’t know of what.
Next thing I knew, I was in a state of absolute ecstasy, seeing the planets and moon from a different perspective, colorful, and could perceive the rotation of the Earth, the Moon’s orbit around us, and the Earth’s and all the planets’ orbits around the Sun as a sensation in my body. I was totally enraptured, felt myself suspended in space, rising, ecstatic.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the middle of the roof, the sky was perfectly dark except for brilliant stars, the moon and planets were long gone, no light at all in the west. And I was babbling words of gratitude, unable to stop. I did though when two owls began to fly around me, and flew around me again and again until I began to wish I’d counted so I could one day tell the story with precise truth, and soon after my mind went into that rational track, they flew away.
Back in the house, I looked up bats and owls. They are each complex, but the phrases I remembered were: Shamanic initiation and astral travel. Years later, I realized or remembered that a great deal of time had passed for which I have no memory.
Days or weeks later, walking from my reading chair to get a drink of water, I suddenly had the experience of a spirit crashing into me – specifically, the spirit of Judi Bari! She had died five years earlier of breast cancer while trying to sue the FBI for various civil rights abuses related to the bombing. In an instant, with no words passed between us, I realized a whole lot: She knew from the other realm that I felt myself a very tepid activist. She, on the other hand, to my mind, had been a Superwoman activist, a Supermom activist even, someone to go down in history, except that the mainstream media seemed to be cooperating with the FBI to keep the history-worthy event out of awareness and memory. Still, she was a hero to a lot of us for her amazing work to try to save the last of the Redwood forests. I was nobody in comparison.
She scolded me for my attitude and told me (all wordlessly, instantaneously) that her style (bold and sometimes insulting and sarcastic to the Powers that Be) was not the only way to do things, and in fact it had even gotten her killed, and my gentler style could go further, and I should lay off thinking there was nothing more I could do. And then she was gone.
Standing there in front of the counter with an empty glass in my hand, having been thinking of other things before I got up for water, I was completely dumbfounded. Why would I get this message? Why now? I was so far from activism, and had no intentions of getting back into it.
A few weeks after the night on the roof, and not long after Judi’s message, I received a phone call from Darryl – ten years since I’d talked to him last – asking me if I’d come to Oakland to manage media relations for the trial. I said I would, and two days later I took the Amtrak to Oakland, California, to participate in a six-week trial resulting in various agents of the FBI being found guilty of all the charges, for which they’d pay a historic sum of $4.4 million.
During the trial, I felt made subject to more experimentation. I felt as though I’d been hit by immobilizing beams on at least two occasions. Then, I’d also felt twice taken into another dimension, and upon return it took a minute or more to remember who I was in this Earth life, as if my consciousness was of a higher self who was just dropping in with the Earth-life me to make sure I re-entered and remembered properly before removing herself.
She worried about nothing, found my slow memory mildly humorous, but was fond in her judgement, and left me with a sense that all was well. It sure didn’t seem like all was well, with our FBI overseeing the bombing of activists trying to save the last 3 percent of the native forest of California, but the soul part who seemed to be there with me for a minute felt confident and calm, as though everything was as it should be. It comforted me for a while. Then I worried it might have been a technological mind trick, maybe messing with my mind, but leaving a false memory that all was okay.
I told no one because we all had enough on our hands, working with lawyers every day to craft messages out to the world’s media; no one needed my drama, so I kept my worries to myself, and focused on the job.
My first day home from the trial, catching up on email, I was directed to some websites by one of my most important confidants. She said, “I think these will explain a lot that we have in common.” I began to read, for the first time in my life, about something that causes multiple personality: mind control.
It was horrifying. Mesmerizing. Disgusting. Repellent. And familiar in a way that made me feel that old ghosts were stirring, old memories, little children’s voices whispering, It’s true. And: We’re scared. And: Maybe you’ll recognize us now?
Making this connection between mind control and multiple-ness would explain even more of my life and be both as promising and terrifying as it was to accept that I’d been sexually abused. Promising, because it explained things that had never made sense before. Terrifying, because it implied that I might be being watched and maybe controlled even now. And maybe all my activism had been playing into the hands of my controllers, and maybe I’d done things to betray activists without knowing. I felt like a living time bomb. I thought I should kill myself.
At the same time, I felt I had a chance again to know myself better than ever, and could free myself from it, maybe. That bit of hope, though, was greatly overshadowed by fear so great, that I did not get better any time soon, but went into another deep dark hole for a good length of time, during which I became paranoid that my home was not only bugged, but someone was video recording my every move. I was afraid to speak of critical topics aloud except whispered in a noisy outdoor space.
My efforts to use shamanism to protect myself went awry, and I felt ganged up on from the other side, as if aliens had joined the CIA (the department that has always overseen mind control – according to their own documents and director testimony to the Senate) in harassing me, or the CIA was giving me “screen memories” of aliens.
For five years, I had bizarre experiences, for example, being immobilized in my vehicle stopped on the highway and losing hours of time, and more often, weirdness at home, seeing at least a dozen UFO’s over the years, feeling myself pulled up through the canvas of my bedroom teepee into another dimension, perceptions of people who’d just unexpectedly passed over (before many knew they’d died), and more – a mix of things shamanic and things that could have been technological harassment, including being hit by beams of laser energy, once right between the eyes.
And I never did I do much healing work on my multiple-ness.
My multiple-ness is easy to ignore, and some people might think I’m over-exaggerating or slapping on a diagnosis that’s unnecessary. But Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) – now called Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) – manifests in a variety of ways, some of which occur after natural trauma or the trauma of random abuse, and others which are the result of intentional trauma inflicted to make the person dissociate so that the perpetrator can embed behaviors triggered by secret commands, called “programming,” into the victim who will then be the subject, controlled, without the subject’s awareness, by the person who knows the secret passwords.
The “work on my healing” I’d hope to do had suddenly become something much more complicated, and something for which I knew I was going to be attacked by those who didn’t want me to heal. Would I even have a chance?
I read books on the subject, from medical library material to popular and therapeutic literature. Therapists claimed healing could be done, but it took money. And it seemed every time I tried to get a job, someone had been there before me, saying something about me – perhaps a federal agent would simply walk in and ask to be notified if I should come in – and then the secretary would stare at me, stricken, as if I were a ghost and she didn’t know what to do. After a few times, I quit looking and decided eventually to leave my home when my computer was suspiciously destroyed, my vehicle quit running, and I began to borrow money again with no idea how I was going to repay it. I sold my land, sad to go, and moved to Silver City, New Mexico. I wondered if they forced me to town to make my programming easier and my potential for use much greater.
As I said, my condition is easy to hide. My alters seem to coordinate fairly well enough, but remembering things like events and people’s names is slow. Expressing opinions is an interesting exercise. I see things, usually, from at least a few different perspectives, see the validity in all of them, compare them, revisit the person’s question to determine which of these viewpoints I want to share to best respond to their question, and usually by then, someone else has moved the conversation along, my opportunity passed, and I appear slow. I, though, feel like I’ve done ten times the work on the idea as anyone else and really only took a few seconds longer, but opening my mouth was too slow for social custom – unless I am in an ultra-high-functioning mode, and then I might be too speedy for some people.
Let me be alone in my office, though, working on a project, and I do better than fine. I win awards. Just don’t bother me.
So I work alone, and limit my social life. And people treat me like I’m normal – I think. Hard to know from this vantage. I’m usually wrapped up in my own mind: observing, comparing perceptions, keeping steady, and lately I’ve been doing better than ever in my social skills. I even hosted my first party ever in my adult life in my current home shortly after I moved here, and have hosted parties regularly since then. And I’ve made a lot of friendly acquaintances. And held jobs successfully, for as long as I’ve wanted them, which often isn’t long. I get tired of the strain of managing my personalities and moods, and all the extra compensation time I need to take to keep up, and usually need to take breaks every few months, which made teaching in the local college a good gig for a while.
The government-military style of mind control (there are others, Satanic, for instance) was probably responsible for my being high-functioning. I’m not sure how many programs they have, but I know they create super-soldiers, super-spies, and sexual entertainers for rewards and blackmail. I know I was trained in the latter. I suspect I might have also been trained as a spy, though I have no hard evidence, only a lifetime aversion to the color blue and an article on mind control (MK) programming linking blue to spies – and the fact that I got myself right in the heart of all the activists in Tucson, which would have been useful to the government which has been spying on and repressing groups like these for decades.
What irony. I suspected others of being spies (and maybe they were), but I never considered myself. My world reeled again.
It’s twenty years now since I first realized I was multiple and was inspired to be on a healing path, grounded with information from the medical library, supported by other women dealing with the same sort of shock and challenge, but in all these years, I haven’t done much. I’ve had lots of memories and alters (alternate personalities) present themselves, but I haven’t worked with that information, regardless of my strongest intentions. I’ve begun to realize there’s probably truth in the literature about programming installed for the express purpose of sabotaging all efforts to heal.
The first thing I might have worked with was the Integrating Woman (I spontaneously felt that was who she was). In the moment I first connected the idea of a multiple personality with myself, I saw/felt, as if seeing in another dimensional space that shares reality with us here, a woman slip herself over me like a glove, holding all my parts together. She didn’t feel anything like an angel, and she didn’t feel like me. Rather, she felt like a calm being, who could help me integrate. I was bothered though that she seemed to avert her face from me, and I never saw it. My vantage point seemed to be from behind her and to the left, although I seemed to be included in her. I felt safe, though I was bothered that she didn’t feel nicer. She seemed functional, mild, and perhaps kind, but not in any heart-felt way, just as if she was a good person doing a job, and she knew better than to expend a lot of energy, or maybe she was just beyond emotions, and way beyond my trembling volcano full. So she kept her distance, blue-green light she seemed to be made of, and left me to deal with my emotions alone, or actually with other help, Wolf to begin with.
Wolf came into me one night and rose up in all her power, ready to rip up the apartment. Quickly I negotiated for her to restrain herself and I’d get emotional help for us the very next day if she could hang tight. The next day, I kept my promise – I didn’t want her tearing up the apartment as I’d felt she was fully ready to use my body to do – and first called two mental hospitals who determined over the phone that I was too sane to admit myself. Then I called an astrologer-psychic I respected and asked for an appointment private enough that if I began raging, no one would hear it and call police. We met in a friend’s vacant office building, and I didn’t make any noise but weeping.
I never experienced Wolf again, but she was good for me, got me back into therapy, let me know there was big stuff that needed to get out. Thank you, Wolf. But somehow I never did any “work” with the Integrating Woman.
I accept that I have programming against healing work, but why have none of my therapists led me to work with any of my many alters or the Integrating Woman? Some, I’ve realized, later were part of the system of managing my programming. But all of them? Why no proper help?
Since 2002, I’ve probably read close to a dozen books on mind control, not a lot (it’s exhausting) from personal accounts to therapy manuals to history. In general what I understand is that I was enrolled into a program, perhaps MKULTRA, but likely one of the others, MKDELTA, MKNAOMI, or some other, now all lumped together under MKULTRA as a generic term for government-sponsored mind control.
There are many different programs for different purposes, and children come into the programs in different manners. Some, more dispensable, come from kidnappers and similar sources. Some children come from the upper-class or upper-middle-class hoping to climb in status by participating in this new program that will make their daughter very smart and disciplined, plus it would support the country.
There is also reported to be families that have been subjected to mind control for centuries, maybe millennia. I sense all the secret societies are involved. Eisenhower is a lineage associated with a very old secret society, that of iron hewers – sworn to keep the secrets of metallurgy for the king alone.
Other children get recruited when their parents are discovered to be sexually abusing them. The CIA knows that the traumatized child is already dissociative, or multiple, so they threaten the family with someone gone to prison and the shame of that – and give the option to put the child into a mind control program instead. Of course, the parents cave.
They also pay cash to the parents for their kids’ recruitment – in the form of employment checks for certain services rendered, such as denying that the child had been asleep for two years and other reinforcement of the program – all in the name of science and the betterment of mankind. If the parents ever think of breaking their contract, the fact that they took money would silence most of them. If that didn’t, then threats to kill the child would.
Many of us recall our families moving into much larger homes about the time we began or ended our two years of amnesia.
Other adult subjects report things that I have no visceral reaction to, but some reports make me feel as though I can remember – and I jump in my chair at the first reading and cringe or cry.
Once my daughter and boyfriend came to visit me on my birthday and one brought along a movie, in their minds, “a classic” of its genre – but a genre I had chosen to never watch any more and had told both of them that for years. They both thought I should watch it anyway, because it was “a classic.” They seemed so certain that we should all watch this movie that I relented. In an early scene, a Mafia underling is being upbraided and threatened by his superior in a brightly lit room, defending himself with poor attempts at lies and bluster. He wears a knit shirt that I associated with the late 1950s/early 60s. The man’s bluster and his shirt felt familiar, as though I knew that sort of man too well, and he scared the shit out of me.
In a panic, I asked them to turn it off, and when they ignored me, felt myself rise like a zombie and walk for the door, trying to keep one foot going in front of another and my mind in my body and not screaming. Outside, I sat down and burst into sobbing, feeling real terror about that ignorant, fearful, blustering man, as if he could do things to me, and my body shook and jumped and jolted for hours afterward, and I continued crying and criticizing them for not listening to me and believing that I do not want to watch movies portraying Mafiosa – it terrifies me, and they should have respected it.
Instead, I’ve had to respect that others simply do not want to believe this is true. They want to believe I’m being dramatic, and they are being tolerant and doing the right thing, encouraging me off your sick fantasy.
The government doesn’t work alone on this. They subcontract out jobs to the Mafia, various churches, law enforcement, medical groups, and any others that are needed. They get their connections through secret societies, which demand loyalty of their members and may entrap or blackmail their recruits into compliance under threat of having some misdeed exposed. A favorite, powerful entrapment is sexual, for which they need to train lots of children in sexual behaviors. The children, though, are usually given more than one type of programming.
The mind control was done “scientifically,” noting what sorts of drugs or hypnosis, or torture evoked what response. Some were experimental, others had passed that phase and become protocol.
Torture was not done strictly because the perpetrators were insane psychopaths, though they probably are; it was done because it is effective. Torture a young child, and their mind leaves their body at some point, a point they were becoming adept at finding quickly by using extreme measures. Therefore, we were drugged, hypnotized, caged, tortured with cold, hunger, dislocated joints, lose-lose psychological games, electroshock, physical and sexual torture, and being forced to witness other disobedient children being murdered.
We went out of our minds. And that was the point. As soon as “we” were gone, the brain, still recording life experience, had a fresh, blank slate, and the researcher told it its name and its function, terrified it into obedience, and sent it away with its only existence being to respond properly so as not to be tortured or murdered as we know very well they will do.
My g-spot (descending bulge) was sliced from back to front and twice more (not visible here) from side to side.
For comparison, here’s a normal g-spot. The photograph was supplied by a friend in sex education. You can see it is ribbed and round.
I’ve been punished for disobedience, I assume, fairly recently. One day in 2004, I realized I’d been cut inside my vagina fairly deeply, my g-spot sliced neatly through, right down to the main trunk of the nerve, so that now I can’t stand to be touched there, making sex a rather hazardous enterprise ever since.
Throughout it all, meticulous records are kept on every alter created and what programming command is programmed to evoke which response. Some programming was foundational and dealt with amnesia, pass codes, and obedience to particular individuals, while other programming built on that and involved specific tasks. At the end of two years, we’d been made obedient and disciplined, with amnesic alters who were glad to be in the real world and not be tortured, who would follow the program of acting like everything was normal.
Many of us have bad hearts from all the electroshock, or extreme reactions to pharmaceuticals, not to mention neurotic, disabling reactions to things like a movie with a blustering man in an old-style T-shirt, and alters that come and go and leave us with missing time and the fear that we’ve been used again and we don’t know what for.
Since there’s no honor among thieves, sometimes the pass codes get shared with people who aren’t supposed to have them – someone giving someone a gift of a mind control fuck, for instance – and someone calls us on the phone and says, Open your door tonight at 10 – and the subject does and provides sex and wonders why she’s sore and tired after what she thinks was an 8-hour night’s sleep.
Since they have such high technology, it seems there would be no reason for anyone to use a Taser on me, but I woke up one morning with severe weakness and a third-degree burn on my arm with two bright red dots in the middle. Maybe these were interlopers who didn’t quite manage my pass codes correctly and they had to Taser me to erase my memory. I don’t know. And I was Tasered a second time, I assume, though I wasn’t burned as badly, because the two dots were there again.
Last night, I drafted a post for Paradigm Salon in which I wrote that since removing all my shamanic paraphernalia and putting my focus on Yeshua alone that I hadn’t had any more hypodermic bruises on my thighs. But the next day, I found another one. What does it mean? Someone in my house again? [The day after that, I had two more!]
Back to my alters I haven’t worked with –and why has no psychologist or other counselor supported me in working with them?
A few days after I experienced the Integrating Woman, I lay down in the afternoon and suddenly experienced myself as three, fanned out like a small hand of cards. I was intrigued and thought I’d talk to them and see if they had clues for helping me understand things, and they read my mind and said, “No. It’s too complicated to explain how we came about, would take to long, and you wouldn’t understand it anyway, but we aren’t needed any more, so we’re outa here,” and they “folded” – that fast. I felt them melt into me and disappear.
Later that year, I sensed that some children wanted to come out and be known, but they were afraid. They wanted to know that I was nice. So I bought two stuffed animals and put them inside a shawl, wrapped it around me with them in the sling and carried them with me everywhere I went all day every day for two weeks, taking them off only to sleep, and then I cared for them as though they were real babies in bed with me, talking to them, loving them, really feeling like they were my children and I cared so very much to encourage them that I was strong and competent, could keep them safe, could listen, wouldn’t be afraid of their stories, and would love them.
After two weeks, I set the stuffed animals on the window seat and talked to them throughout my day, demonstrating that I thought they were capable and I was going to respect them and trust them to be strong too, to sit there and not need to be carried constantly. One day, sitting on my bed, a little girl appeared in another dimension a few feet away and a few feet up, sitting in a tree with a leg hanging down. I was so surprised to see her there, and so very happy that she’d presented herself to me, that I reached up my hand to touch her leg. This scared her and she kicked her leg in panic, but laughed a little too, as she indicated she wasn’t yet ready to be touched. I accepted that and told her that whenever she was ready, I’d be ready.
One night, reading a book, she slipped into me. When our hearts connected, I felt her, remembered her, knew that little girl was me, a part of me lost a long time ago. It was amazing to feel her again, so sudden, a surprise, but so familiar too. She was very sweet, and said about my hands, as if surprised by their wrinkled appearance but finding them comforting: Just like Grandma’s. And then she expressed a second judgement about having come into an old body when she was only 6: It’s not so bad.
Her innocence and sweetness, and my sense of the courage it required to come back into this body after what had driven her out, touched my heart and made it hurt so that my hands came up and my face dropped down and I sobbed and sobbed a mix of happiness, sorrow, grief for the child, and grief for me, all of it warmed though by love for the child’s openness and courage.
Over these twenty years, I’ve had lots of alters merge or emerge, and each has been an experience that wrenched my heart and caused me to spend days at home, crying, writing, combing the experience for meaning, making myself strong enough again to go out of the house.
I haven’t kept track of them though. I don’t know if I’ve learned what I should have. Most times I think I have, but sometime I worry that I’ve been letting things slip away. And I hear others report that whenever we heal an alter and erase some programming, they have alternate pass codes or entryways to replace whatever was lost, so our programming never gets broken. And we remain their subjects.
Sometimes it’s a challenge to remember why I think I can heal, or why I should stay if I can’t. But I play philosophical games with myself and invent possible reasons for an unexpected reality to unfold soon that’ll make everything worth it. And sometimes angels pick me up. And I keep on, trying to do some good here.
Amazingly, I have more days that I feel grateful to be alive than days that I want out. But I have to write about this. I am pretty sure they don’t want me to. But I have to.
This bruise showed up ten days after another very similar showed up on the back of my leg. No explanation except…
I often am amazed to think about the “Apocalypse” – which means “unveiling,” “revealing” – a time for us to see! Are we seeing yet?
It’ll be very healing for a lot of us when others choose to look.
Please share if you find this information important!
Imagine that you have periods of “lost time.” You may find writings or drawings which you must have done, but do not remember producing. Perhaps you find child-sized clothing or toys in your home but have no children. You might also hear voices or babies crying in your head.
Imagine that you can never predict when you will be able to have certain knowledge or social skills, and your emotions and your energy level seem to change at the drop of a hat, and for no apparent reason.
You cannot understand why you feel what you feel, and, if you are in therapy, you cannot explore those feelings when asked. Your life feels disjointed and often confusing. It is a frightening experience. It feels out of control, and you probably think you are going crazy. That is what it is like to be multiple, and all of it is experienced by the ANPs. [Alternate Personality]
A multiple may also experience very concrete problems, even life-threatening ones.”
“Since the 1980s, therapists have reported encountering clients or patients who had experienced extreme abuses featuring physical, sexual, emotional, spiritual, and cognitive aspects, along with a premeditated structure of torture-enforced lessons. The phenomena was first labeled “ritual abuse,” and, later, as our understanding developed, “mind control.”
“Those who are aware of their condition and experience themselves as “multiple” might refer to themselves as “we” rather than “I.” I shall use the term “multiple” at times, in respect for their internal experience. It is important to point out, however, that I recognize that someone who is multiple is actually a single fragmented person rather than many people. On the outside, a multiple is probably not visibly different from anyone else. But that image is only an imitation: people who are multiple cannot think like the rest of us, and we cannot think like them. (In fact, since it is difficult for the multiple to understand how singletons think, some of them might think that is is you who are strange).
Just as a singleton cannot become a multiple at will, a multiple cannot become a singleton until and unless the barriers between the parts of the self are removed. Those barriers were put up to enable the child to tolerate, and so survive, unavoidable abuse.
[Multiple: a person with dissociative identity disorder (DID) or DDNOS.
Singleton: a person without DID or DDNOS, i.e with a single, unified personality]”
“Programming is the act of installing internal, pre-established reactions to external stimuli so that a person will automatically react in a predetermined manner to things like an auditory, visual or tactile signal or perform a specific set of actions according to a date and/or time.”
“The first generation of therapists doing this work were told by their clients that the one massive cult was everywhere, knew everything, had access to state-of-the-art technology, and was willing to kill both clients and therapists to stop the information from getting out.”
“The reality is that even before stories of ritual abuse and mind control began coming out to therapists, the groups had agreed on what kind of disinformation to spread, so that clients would be afraid to tell their therapists what had happened to them, and therapists would be afraid to work with these clients.”
“Because the problem of ritual abuse and mind control has not gone away – the survivors are still there – many more therapists have learnt about it. Survivors have spoken out and written their stories, and therapists have learnt a great deal from those brave survivors who have discovered what was done to them. There is a large special interest group on Ritual Abuse and Mind Control within the International Society for the Study of Dissociation. Those therapists who have learnt in isolation or in small private online forums are once again sharing their knowledge widely, and books such as this one are beginning to be published again. The work is still very difficult and challenging, but we now know so much more than we did. We know that there is not one massive Satanic cult, but many different interrelated groups, including religious, military/political, and organized crime, using mind control on children and adult survivors. We know that there are effective treatments. We know that many of the paralyzing beliefs our clients lived by are the results of lies and tricks perpetrated by their abusers. And we know that, as therapists, we can combat this evil with wise and compassionate therapy.”
“A child who is being abused on an ongoing basis needs to be able to function despite the trauma that dominates his or her daily life. That becomes the job of at least one ANP [alternate personality], whom the child creates to be unaware of the abuse and also of the multiplicity, and to “pass as normal” in the real world. The ANP is just an alter specialized for handling the adult world—in other words, the “front person” for the system.”
“In fact, rather than being “more” than the others, the ANP is generally one that is very limited, with little power in the system, little memory of what happened, and limited energy or emotions.”
“It is unlikely that one ANP will serve as a constant throughout the person’s life. Your client is, therefore, likely to have others besides the ones you know, or several who you might think of as “the host”. Adults with dissociative disorders often have several ANPs from earlier stages of life inside. They usually have the same name but are of different ages. Sometimes, there are several current ANPs, each of whom assumes she or he is the “real” person and is amnesiac for the existence of the others. Their current knowledge and experience may overlap, while their other characteristics differ somewhat. This makes them glide easily from one to the other, and the therapist can easily miss the switch.”
“I remember one of my first ritually abused clients confessing to me that for a long time she had remembered being abducted by aliens, but had not told me because she did not want me to disbelieve her other memories because of it. We worked through the “alien abduction” memory and discovered that the “spaceship” was parked in the courtyard of the cult training center.”
“Besides stage magic props and settings, ritually abusing groups use technology, such as that described by Katz and Fotheringham. Military/political groups have the most sophisticated technologies, and much training or programming is now done with virtual reality equipment. Movies and holograms are used to deceive a child into believing in things that are unreal.
When a client says to you “I don’t know if it’s real; how can it be real?” remember that there are several options, not just two: (1) It happened just as s/he remembers; (2) it did not happen at all; (3) something happened, but due to technology and/or trickery it was not what s/he thinks it was; (4) the thought that the memory must be unreal is itself a program, as described in Chapter Twelve, “Maybe I made it up.”
“In my client who had confessed her “alien abduction” experience, an alter had been instructed that if she began to remember the ritual abuse she was to remember the alien abduction, so that nobody would believe her account of the ritual abuse. This program did not work with us, but you can imagine the larger consequences of such a ruse.”
― Alison Miller, Healing the Unimaginable: Treating Ritual Abuse and Mind Control
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I’ll explain the practice in a moment. But first let me share my journal entry – written just now – about it:
I love this timer and this practice!! I LOVE knowing what I’ve done all day. I used to have to ask Greg, or struggle to remember, and feel guilty because I was never sure if I was being lazy or not taking care of myself.
This is GREAT!!
I feel like living, like it’s worth it, and like I’m NOT running to catch up because I’m not sure if I’m working hard enough or getting anything accomplished. I’m working with more energy, but not pushing myself. I feel self-possessed, and strong.
What a feeling to know.
I’ve needed this book for SO LONG!!
What did I do? I went back to doing what I used to do as a business person – what helped me handle things with quite a bit of skill: I kept a somewhat complicated datebook of my own design, made to manage exactly what I needed to manage in a manner that took into consideration my particular brain and its quirks.
To develop it, I thought a lot about how my mind works. (I didn’t know I was multiple then, but I knew I absolutely needed my unique calendar or was lost.)
Since 1993, though, I haven’t wanted to use a datebook of any design unless I had to. It represented rigidity and someone who might not be open to possibly-blessing serendipities. So, for the last 21 years, I’ve only used calendars as often as I’ve needed them.
I tried to keep them away from me, as if they’d end the intense spiritual phase of my life which had amplified amazingly when I’d moved to the desert, gotten rid of my calendar, and opened my mind to immediate experiences of sunrises, sunsets, birds, insects, wild animals, weather, light, dark, hunger, food, thirst, water, walking, resting, waking.
While that triggered the most powerful time of my life, very healing, it also triggered some understanding of things very frightening, but important – for understanding simple reality. It helped me begin a long hard struggle toward healing.
So I didn’t want to return to the calendar-mind. No way. I was proud to be oblivious of time.
But I also lost of sense of knowing where I was, what I’d experienced, and what needs to be done. I’d acted as though vision and inspiration were enough.
(What irony, as the work I’ve always done has been teaming up with visionaries to “put legs on the vision and make it walk.”)
But no one was my manager to put the legs on. I tried, but without help with self-discipline, I have too many selves to keep things moving in a productive direction. I’ve been staggering around directionless for a pathetically long time.
A few days ago, after I read about this Full Moon today, I became motivated to prepare myself to catch the wave of this powerful energy. I thought more about my mind and what help I need. I decided to design a notebook for a new sort of business: the business of healing myself.
I – a manager at heart – finally, after 21 years trying and failing to do too much in my head, have designed a system for myself.
First, I made daily check sheets that remind me of all the things that are important for me to do each day, that I want to do, that support this most important thing in my life – my healing – but that I often forget to do, maybe because I’m mind controlled to forget, but in any case, I forget way too often.
They’re simple things:
– Write dreams or first thoughts
– Note the time
– Take supplements
– Eat lots of vegetables
– Eat lots of fruit
– Drink herbal medicine tea
– Track use and reaction to herbal medicine to assure correct dose
– Be aware of physical and emotional energy
– Walk, exercise, or do yoga
– Time in garden
– Summarize highlights of the day before
(and the week on Sunday, the month on the New Moon, and the year on the Winter Solstice)
The check sheets also include places to remember things thought of that day:
– Things to do
– New goals and reiteration of goals – Day’s accomplishments
At the top of each page is the date, day of the week, and phase of the moon, which I like to attend to (part of my research).
And one more, most important, item: Under “Write dreams or first thoughts”: “Set timer.”
Yes. It’s not crazy-making. It’s the opposite.
First I chose a lovely chime on my phone. Every morning now, I set it for 30 minutes, and reset it constantly throughout the day. (I even did it yesterday when visiting friends. I kept it in the next room, so I could do my record-keeping discretely when it went off, let others think I was checking on an important call, made my notes, and returned to the group.)
Here’s why it’s important: The most important thing I need to do, as a multiple, is track my thoughts, remember them, and notice if I have lost time.
Every time I hear the chime, I reset it immediately, notice that I’m aware (or not) of the last half-hour, and write a word (or more) about what has happened in the last 30 minutes. Takes less than a minute, but it makes me feel in charge.
It doesn’t feel burdensome because it was my decision. I was expecting it to be helpful, but it has also given me a major boost in my confidence – and I feel happy every time it chimes because it reminds me that I created this way to cope, and I’m proud.
I even caught a bit of “missing time” on my very first day, and said to the alter who must have been out during the chime, “Wanna talk? I’m strong enough to listen. I would love to help and will do anything you need.” I’m still waiting, but I haven’t had any missing time since then.
And at the end of the first day, I could see all I’d accomplished – exercise, supplements, energy work, good food, everything I wanted – and I felt great.
I’ve also been noting when I use my herbal medicine, so I can keep perfectly disciplined about how much I use, how often, and notice any corresponding reactions. Any course correction I want to make is informed by clear memory.
(Why did no therapist ever suggest this??)
So, that’s the routine. Every thirty minutes, the chime reminds me to breathe, relax, remember what I’ve been doing for 30 minutes, and record it. I re-set the time, write what I’ve done for the last 30 minutes (sometimes a single word), how I feel, and anything else I want.
How the notebook is organized with a journal:
The current daily check sheet is right on top – best place – when I open the notebook, with previous daily check sheets behind. Each day, a new one goes on top.
Behind those pages is a divider followed by my journal pages. Since I write many pages a day, I refill it frequently with thirty or more blanks at a time. To easily find the current page, I have a sticky-note attached to the back of the page before it, hanging out like a tab, so I can easily grab it and turn all the used pages at once.
Since I needed a way to record my thoughts, but also want to be able to look separately at dreams, accomplishments, and meditation/prayer, apart from my stream-of-consciousness journaling, I created a template that lets me record everything chronologically, but lets me see easily which category things fall into.
I hand-drew the template page (hand-drawing feels better, less rigid). The pages, copied from the template, are filled mostly with lines for writing, with a space at the top for the page number – to keep this record of my life in careful order, hopefully with fewer and fewer missing gaps.
On the left are columns for noting date, day of week, phase of moon, and category of writing (A = Accomplishments, D = Dreams, J = Journal, M = Meditation/Self-Inquiry/Prayer.)
On the right is a column for the time I begin and end any passage, and I also record the time at the beginning and end of each page. Right of that is a column for “notes” to point out things I don’t want missed.
If I am so into my writing when I begin or end a new page that I forget to note the time and don’t realize it until I am not sure of it, I write “oops” – to not reinforce the word forget – but to cheerfully encourage myself to do it next time.
So that’s the full Practice: Daily check sheet of everything I want to do. Daily summary of accomplishments and goals for the next day. I’m reminded to breathe and relax every 30 minutes. I feel in control of my life, in a very positive endeavor, which is showing results already. The minutes it takes is not a hassle, but a joy.
I’ll soon sew a cloth cover for this notebook, with pockets for pens, phone, and paper things that make me happy, right now a collection of birthday cards given me a couple of months ago. It’s good to be reminded every day that there are people who love us. No reason not to carry those things around!
It’s my compensation package – what I need to compensate for my fractured mind – designed perfectly for me. It makes me feel like I’ve given myself back to myself.
Extras: A section for “scribbles” – I use when my mind is going too fast (or too many alters want to talk at once), where I can quickly jot brief notes to write about when the current subject is complete. Art pages (and maybe a pocket for potential collage items for those art pages). And even a page for my current best “talk to myself” for when I don’t feel like meditating!
Whenever I might take on a big project with multiple steps, I’ll add a section for planning pages that can be consulted or added to, perhaps in public, without searching through personal stuff.
And as soon as I figure out some other quirk of my mind, for which I need compensatory help, I’ll design a solution.
When the notebook is filled, I’ll remove all the pages at once, drop them in a file, and begin again.
I will post on how this continues.
Hope it’s helpful to someone out there.
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The videos in my last blog were those I’ve “liked” at some point (recently “weeded out” for those most pertinent to the subjects here).
I also have 35 videos specifically chosen to be on my website, which I’d also like to share with you.
If you want to sit back with popcorn some evening, like we sometimes do, and educate yourself on a subject with a variety of different starting places and assumptions, you might try this collection, which can play one-after-the-other while you relax:
There are 10 hours worth of viewing. And please jump ahead whenever you need to be picked up by something inspiring or fun – please!
If you want to select your videos, I’ve re-grouped them below according to subject, putting mind control last and starting with videos that might help some stretch and exercise the “rational” and programmed mind, if needed. Enjoy!
I just reviewed all the videos I’ve included on my site produced by others, and realize there is some wonderful information her (and very good production quality), on subjects of Inspiration, mind control, spiritual/psychic healing, politics, and other world views. Hope this list is useful to you.
In addition, I just uploaded an almost-3 year old video, “Healing Event 2011,” I made of an extemporaneous pouring out of my heart after I’d had a spontaneous catharsis (or “healing event”) when we’d just set up a video camera to record a music practice. Instead, I recorded this (and edited it not a bit):
* explanation of the cathartic event (remembering mind control in childhood)
* explanation and description of the physical effects of the catharsis
* an attack of jaw pain, repression of remembering, knowing there’s more
* why and how I recorded myself now
* terrorism and suicide
* others are worse than me
* circumcision, as example of culture’s willingness to torture even children
* death of partner’s ex
* death threats and other weird communications recently
* cultural “purpose” of mind control
* death of people who publish on this subject
* no one wants to hear, and how I came to remember
* what it’s like to be MP
* reason to live, belief in transformation
* need for others to face this, even though some won’t
* gratitude for those who can hear
* culture’s need for compassion and speaking truth
* appreciation for activism, others and mine
* warning: need to be aware of environment to survive
I hope this video helps others recovering from intense mind control feel not so alone. And I hope it encourages others who haven’t suffered like this to understand that mind control is a very powerful force in our world and shouldn’t be ignored the way it is.
I realize that by hitting the Publish button, I could bring on the controllers’ wrath, but I’ll do it anyway. Truth feels more important today than my comfort.
(Please read Part I first, as well as the two introductions that precede.)
Mind control is finally becoming an accepted fact in America.
It is a terribly unpleasant subject, but it has been testified to by no less than the Director of the CIA to a Senate Investigative Hearing (twice in the 1970s) – that it has been done to unwitting citizens and non-citizens, prisoners, military recruits, even people in higher positions of respect, adults and children, since the 1940s. There is tremendous documentation – 20,000 pages the last time I researched it – all of it available online or by requesting it from the government through the Freedom of Information Act – besides the accounts of many victims.
In Cold War America, our intelligence agencies used the threat of other nations developing mind-controlled warriors to justify their conducting this research. Today, we have new testimony that aliens have also been involved and may have even been the leaders of the project, but I’ll save that idea for later.
Mind control has many manifestations, from subtle and broad scale, as in our education and media, to cruelly coercive and shockingly powerful, including the development of amnesic assassins. Court records document this crime going back to 19th century European hypnotists, and it is probably the basis for ancient Haitian tales of zombie slaves, and possibly more.
Many books have been written on the subject, some by doctors, such as Collin Ross; others by victims, like myself, Anne Diamond, Carla Emery and many more; and others by researchers and journalists, such as Donald Bain who wrote about the most famous “pin-up girl” in the world in the 1940s, Candy Jones.
Interested or skeptical readers are encouraged to do their research. There is too much to summarize in this personal account, though I’ll insert information as necessary.
Warning: This essay will include a great deal of sexual material, as mind controllers often take advantage of their subjects in this way, and that was my experience.
I have known since childhood that I wasn’t like others. While I’d been identified as “gifted” and maybe a genius from a young age (and would later test at genius levels at various times in my life), I’d been called a “split personality” by my best friend in grade school when I was not able to remember some sexual play that she said I’d participated in in the 5th grade – which should have been significant and memorable. When I began menses, I squatted over a mirror to put in my first tampon and was shocked to see that I looked terrifically stretched out, but fully believed myself a virgin.
At age 17, still believing myself a virgin, I was on a date which wound up at the boy-man’s apartment. He was more presumptive than any boy I’d ever dated and began to undress me. I went into a trance in which I heard myself screaming “NO!” silently inside, while my body went entirely limp and passive, and I did nothing to stop myself from being raped. I couldn’t speak for an hour or so afterward.
Three years ago, a boy I knew in high school reconnected with me on the Internet and mentioned our having dated, though I only thought of him as having dated my best friend; I had no memory of any date. We decided to talk on the phone, and he told me, in very concerned tones, that he had always been bothered by an experience we’d had. He said that we’d gotten very close to having sex in the back seat of his car, when I suddenly began screaming at the top of my lungs, and he was terrified that neighbors would call the police. He said I went entirely rigid, so that it was extremely, and comically, difficult for him to dress me. He took me home and we never went out again. And I have no memory for any of it.
When my son was 6-weeks old and I left him in the church nursery, I forgot entirely that I had a baby – even when an acquaintance asked me where he was; I wondered who had a baby that she was mixing me up with. When I suddenly came around and remembered that I did indeed have a baby and I had left him in the church nursery – those words, church nursery, were as terrifying to me as Satan’s den. I ran in terror to retrieve him, with horrible regret that I had done such a dreadful thing as to leave him there.
Mind control is done in a variety of settings, the most common being government and military installations, hospitals under contract to the CIA, and churches. Evidence indicates that the organizations using the technology sometimes work together, to procure subjects, to share techniques, and to provide shielding from investigation.
My mother’s mother was a “jack-Mormon,” meaning she wasn’t a regular church-goer anymore, and my own mother followed suit. When we did go occasionally, I knew we were looked down on. Once, I recall leaving “children’s church” and looking back over my shoulder at the building with deep hatred, thinking “I’ll never go back there again.” But I have no memory for why I felt such rage.
My mother’s father was killed when she was eight, and her mother, widowed at the start of the Great Depression, was hard-pressed to support herself and two little girls. She was an excellent cook and baker, and miraculously (or tragically), she met some wealthy bankers who appreciated her enterprising nature (so the family story goes) and offered to finance her to fill an empty building of theirs with a restaurant, outdoor patio seating, bakery, and conference rooms, which became the meeting point for the powerful people of that city for the next twenty-five years.
Every day of her life for those twenty-five years, my mother says, her mother went for a walk with Mr. H. at lunch time. “When he showed up at the doorway, she left instantly, no matter what she was doing, and went directly to take a walk with him,” my mother said more than once. I remember that man; he never gave a glance at anyone else, just coldly at my grandmother. And my mother says that her mother never told anyone what they talked about, perhaps because she didn’t remember, or maybe she was instructed not to. I believe he was her mind controller. And if he’s like most of them, he took advantage of her sexually, and perhaps her daughters too.
My father was a child actor who toured from age 7 to age 9 with a theater troupe, in a non-speaking role, after which he came home to his family a traumatized stutterer. Trauma is the basis for mind control.
The basis for mind control is splitting the personality – creating multiple personalities – and then programming certain ones to obey commands. “Multiple” parents tend to raise children who are multiple, I assume because their incoherence demands the children also be incoherent. I have seen my mother shift from one personality to another, with the second apparently unaware of what the first said just a moment ago. Once, she told a fun little anecdote about my childhood, and when I asked for a little detail, she bowed her head, then raised it again with seemingly angry suspicion, like someone was trying to corner her, her eyes darting to each side as she spit out, “I never said you’d….” naming the event she’d just happily told a moment ago.
Multiple personality (or dissociative identity disorder) is created with torture. To put it simply, the personality can’t “take” or integrate the torture and so the personality “goes away.” The brain keeps recording experience as always, but on a new “fresh slate” of neural tissue, creating a new hologram of being, a new alter which could one day be a full personality, or maybe just a shell for programming. The mind control practitioner names this new “alter,” tells it who’s boss, reinforces control with a little more torture, and begins to lay in commands for when this hidden personality will “come out” and execute orders. Then it puts the captive alter to sleep and the basic personality returns.
(This technique was probably developed after someone watched someone else split in an accidental trauma. So some multiples have been created accidentally.)
Sometimes multiples, under stress, switch personalities accidentally, or create new personalities, since their subconscious has discovered what an easy trick it is to escape discomfort. Some people create hundreds of personalities this way and really have a difficult time negotiating life. The subconscious can also create networks to keep the whole system under control, which I seem to have done fairly successfully. Or a controller can.
Sometimes multiples remember an alter spontaneously, especially when they’re older and brain cells begin to degrade, breaking barriers to memory. Once in my second marriage, in the late 1980s, I was having sex with my husband, when suddenly I flashed back to being a little child on my back on a bed in a small room with wallpaper on my left, a window on my right, and the door beyond my feet. I was lying naked, and someone was standing looking at me. I can describe in great detail the wallpaper, the window shade and the bedspread I was lying on, but the person is blanked out in my memory. I was sick with a desire to flee but had experience with what was coming, so I “did was I always do,” I told myself, and turned my head to the wallpaper and began reciting its design: the roses are pink, the lines around the roses are wavy…. etc. I felt proud of myself for escaping, and thought that this was a very smart invention, something I figured out all by myself, that adults hadn’t even taught me, and I thought that they might not even know how to do it, and I praised myself for escaping. But as soon as I thought that, I almost remembered the thing I had escaped, and almost went back into my body, but caught myself and returned to the wallpaper, telling myself I should never do that again.
I was mystified by this, but didn’t have the time and energy to think about it, so I put the memory away.
In 2002, when I was in Oakland for the Judi Bari v FBI trial, I was walking downtown to visit the bank and suddenly found myself feeling weird and walking west instead of south, completely confused, though I’d traveled this way before. I had never recalled turning west, and was momentarily, quietly terrified by the strange feeling.
I had recognized I was multiple in 1994 and had begun to try to heal myself, but I had never given a thought to mind control. I did know, though, that the FBI was ruthless, capable of murder, and might do anything to people sending out media releases about them to the world. I wondered if they had somehow subconsciously done something to me, made me lose time, and now I was wandering around lost downtown. A few weeks later, the whole picture would dawn on me.
When I returned home after the trial, I was a little nervous about being alone after writing such scathing material about the feds, but my concern was for the FBI. The CIA had never crossed my mind.
One of my best friends lived nearby and we’d visited frequently over the past couple years and confided to each other our problems, including deeply personal ones. A few days after coming home, I received an email from her saying, “Check out these websites. I think they might explain everything we’ve been dealing with.” (Later she would tell me how her mother had been recruited to work in the office of a famous CIA director.)
To my horror, I began reading about mind control, and instead of being turned off by the appalling subject, I experienced feelings of dread and horror, but also sickening familiarity and even – disconcertingly, twisting my mind – relief – that finally something that had needed expression was able to surface at long last.
This was horrible! My rational mind, of course, was arguing to reject it. My emotional body was hurting, certainly, while some deeper place in me was saying, “Yes, it’s horrible, and it’s sad, but you must look at it.”
I continued to read for days and came across much material that helped me make further sense of my life. I was partially elated to be on the path to further knowledge and self-understanding, but I was also terrified of the people who might try to keep me, their asset, under their control. I spent the next few years contemplating suicide nearly every day. Even when I wasn’t in total despair, it seemed a very logical practical action to remove myself from their clutches, to keep from being their tool to do other terrible things in this world.
One weekend, I attended a women’s spiritual gathering a few hours from home. On the way home in the dark, on the Interstate, my headlights went out shortly after getting gas. I decided, logically, to walk back to the gas station and call my boyfriend to come get me. Instead, I sat in the van and tried to talk myself into going, while a voice in my head told me to just wait. I argued with the voice for what seemed like a half-hour, and sometimes sat passively thinking, “This is strange, just sitting here.” Intermittently, I would command myself to go, but I’d just sit there. Finally, I had the idea to turn the key, unlock the steering wheel, and coast backwards down the slight slope and shorten the distance I had to walk. I did that, but the lights came on, so I drove home.
The next morning, trying to make love with my partner, I discovered I had such pain inside my vagina that this would be impossible. We tried to locate the pain, but there wasn’t an obvious wound. I could only recreate the pain if I tried to stretch the tissue. We used a mirror and saw a puncture wound in my g-spot. (It would take years for me to stretch the scar tissue enough to have sex again.)
Starting to get anxious, we talked about my drive home, and it was then that I learned that I had not been a half-hour late getting home, as I’d assumed, but two hours late! We associated this with alien abduction, for reasons I’ll go into in the next part. Later that day, I blew a blood clot out of my nose – something that had never happened to me before – and we began to grapple with the idea that I might have had a classic “alien abduction” on the highway.
We’d been reading a little about aliens, including books by Dr. John E. Mack, the Harvard psychiatrist who researched alien contacts for years before his untimely death. They included many accounts of his hypnosis or relaxation sessions, including descriptions of his techniques. They seemed simple enough, and I thought I could probably hypnotize myself, as I’d once discovered myself to be easily hypnotizable (a characteristic of mind control subjects). I gave my partner some cue cards and explained what sorts of things I wanted him to say to help me if I became distressed and needed help.
I used the techniques and went back to that time when I sat in the van, unable to move. I was not looking forward to it (the idea of aliens embarrassed me), but I was fully expecting to experience a traumatic scene in which aliens took me from the van, but that’s not what I saw. Instead, I heard the van door slide open and heard a human male voice command me to come to the back of the van where my bed was still open after camping, and I turned to obey. The leader had sat in a seat behind me, and two others were standing outside the van, leaning into and toward the door. They were all dressed in tan auto mechanics’ uniforms, but I knew they were CIA agents. Instantly terrified by the meaning of this, I brought myself out of the hypnosis, deeply panicked, and never tried that again. But I had the explanation I needed.
Another day, walking across my one-room house, I suddenly had a flashback of being in my child’s body, regaining my vision after a flash of white, seeing a half-dozen men in white coats closely crowding around me, then they pulled away, and another man leaned forward and said three short commands to me, then put his hands, holding the ends of some appliance in each, to my temples. I reeled with emotion and sat down to recover from the shock.
I remembered going with my mother on a train to New Mexico when I was about five, but I don’t remember the train ride back. I also remember waking up at home one afternoon with the sensation that I’d been asleep “for a very long time,” and I told this to my family who seemed suspiciously interested in the fact that I was awake, though denying that it had been anything but overnight. I finally gave up my assertions, but knew they were lying to me. Years later, I asked my mother why we’d gone to New Mexico – a very odd thing, as our family never split up like that, but did everything together – and she said we’d visited my aunt, which still doesn’t make sense, and I don’t remember any visit.
I have almost total amnesia for first and second grade, though I remember scores of events from preschool and memories come back fully in third grade. The only memories I have in first grade are of painting a tree – as instructed by my teacher – and rimming it with black, with black wind blowing by, forcing the tree over 45 degrees, with black leaves blowing by. Any art therapist would have a heyday with that. I also recall showing it to my mother at Open House. All the rest of those two years are a total blank, and those are the years documented as being the most common years that the two-year mind control programs were run on children by the CIA.
I began to have nightmares at some young age, of running from someone across a plowed field toward a tarmac with airplanes in the distance, with someone pursuing me. I felt drugged and hardly able to lift my legs, but I was trying, terrified that the person would catch me. I continued to have the same nightmare throughout my life until the day I accepted that I might have been a mind control subject; then the nightmares ceased for good.
More old memories began to make sense. I remembered, in my 30s, when I saw a cartoon in the paper of a 1950’s woman at the stove, wearing high heels, a bouffant hairdo, and apron, with a spatula in her hand. A man in a black suit and tie with a clipboard and pen in his hand is saying to her, “Well, this concludes a 20-year experiment. You’re now free to go.” For some reason, this struck me as hysterically funny. I had always thought my second husband (and first) had “control issues.” But I thought I was laughing (cynically) for all the women in the world, especially of generations before ours, depicting these controlling men in an exaggerated manner. My husband asked coldly, “What are you saying?” I was disappointed he had taken it personally, but later it gave me chills.
We had always remembered the second time we met, but I could never remember the first time. Whenever I had asked him and expressed such curiosity that we knew it was our second meeting, and there was a sense that we’d planned to meet the second time, I asked more than once, “Isn’t it strange that we can’t remember our first meeting?” Instead of agreeing this was curious, he always seemed irritated and changed the subject abruptly, never sharing my intrigue. Today, I believe he was another of my controllers, perhaps controlled himself.
My first husband was born on a naval base (Navy also deeply involved in mind control) to a mother who had spent a bit of time in mental hospitals, which were notoriously used for mind control. So he may have been a subject as well as her.
My dad was in the Navy and never answered me when I asked about his time there, and so I quit asking.
Twice when I was a child, I’d had an experience of echolalia – where voices in one’s head echo back one’s thoughts, only these voices were screaming back at me; it was extremely upsetting, but I only tried once to tell anyone. I quietly told my father one evening, “Dad, sometimes I think I’m going crazy.” He ignored me.
One summer, we went on vacation to the Chiricahua Mountains, near where I would one day build my hermitage. I was a teenager, but I have no memories of the time there. One of the other parents told me that I was directing the other kids in plays with scenes from the Wizard of Oz. I have absolutely no memory of this.
In recent years, I have experienced a number of creepy events of feeling someone has entered my house and done something to me after having written about my mind control experiences. Following a friend’s advice, I purchased a “portable door lock,” and planned to install it every night. Two days later, though, I found it broken the same day that I woke with a bloody Taser burn on my forearm, lying in a bed of cold urine, feeling like I had the flu, hardly able to drag myself out of bed, though I recovered in a couple of days and never really had the flu, and felt terrible for days.
Another day, I attended an art opening and was having a wonderful time not only looking at the art but visiting with friends. Toward the end of the opening, I had been looking at the last piece of art and turned to realized there were only two other people in the gallery. One was a male friend with whom I have a collegial friendship, and he was talking to a woman I didn’t recognize. They were standing between me and the table where I needed to return my wine glass, so I walked toward them, intended to briefly say hi and pass by, when suddenly my body began to do a walk that I have no idea how to do: it was a seductive walk, which would have embarrassed me enough, but it was greatly exaggerated, and the two people looked at me with eyebrows raised, and even though I was horrified, I couldn’t stop it until after I’d taken a few steps. My brain went into hyper-drive, terrified that someone seemed to have control over my body to make me do something I really don’t knowhow to do – in this conscious mind anyway. I don’t know who that woman was, and I wonder if she was a controller.
Another time, I attended a groundbreaking event that a friend had raised funds for and was being introduced to various people by my partner, who’s been in town longer than me and been more social as well. One of those people was a psychiatrist in a director position. I missed his name, so I asked it again, and he mumbled, put down his sunglasses and looked over my partner’s shoulder, as if to get away. It was crowded, and he didn’t move fast enough, so I told him that his name tag was turned over, and asked again his name. My partner then flipped over the man’s name tag, and I read his name aloud. With that, he looked extremely upset, and pushed past us and away. I made a silly comment and forgot about it for a while.
After the event, I went to teach an English class, and when I got home, I got sick to my stomach and began crying uncontrollably. I suddenly realized how odd his behavior had been and it made sense then that, as a mind control subject, there must be someone in town in charge of my control, and as a high-level psychiatric director, it is most likely him, as he had done everything he could to keep me from remembering him, including putting on his sunglasses, reversing his name tag, ignoring my request to tell me his name, and finally fleeing.
Whatever I’ve done as a mind control subject, I’m not supposed to know, and don’t know, but these scraps have come through.
As we age, as the brain tissue literally breaks down and memory breaks down, and so do our blocks to memory and our programming. When my grandmother was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, when she could still speak, my mother came home from visiting her one day, bemoaning the horrors of this disease. “It’s terrible, it’s just terrible, the things that she is saying.” “Like what?” I asked. “Horrible, horrible,” she said, “I will never speak a word of them to anyone!” I suspect that my grandmother’s memories of mind control were breaking through and she was trying to tell my mom about it, and my mother didn’t want to hear.
Over these last few years, I’ve had vague concerns that I might have been controlled to do something, but I haven’t been sure. I do know that I have done a tremendous amount of healing, which I’ll write about in a later blog. I hope and pray that because I have done so much healing, that the controllers have given up on me. It seems that they have, as the evidence of their activities in my life, so common before, has ceased, for which I’m very grateful. And my life is becoming productive again.
There are probably more memories, but these are what I can recall easily without dragging out my journals and book. I’ll add more later, if I remember them, in the Comments or another blog.
In a later blog, I’ll talk about healing in detail.
Next: An Overview of “Aliens” in my Life.
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Being multiple = being fractured into multiple holograms of oneself, each with very different approaches to life. Parts can been coordinated, but they’re not always graceful.
Only sometimes, now, do I think of being multiple as necessarily a disability. It can be that. But it also often feels like a super-ability, though not as comfortable, socially. But that’s okay. Being me is very interesting. It’s like having seven sets of eyes on the world, from a lot of perspectives.
I have lots of conversations with myself, about everything. In social settings, I’m often “slow,” because I had seven different responses to the last thing said hit my brain, and I was thinking about each, weighing their merits, comparing practicality versus economy, recognizing ironies, wondering which streams of thought might be interesting to share with others, and then the subject changed and I hadn’t weighed in. Or I was stunned to feel compelled to say something but wasn’t sure which part of my thoughts to share. Sometimes I try to summarize – to be brief – and it often doesn’t quite fit with where everyone else was going. I have pretty much gotten over my humiliation at times like those.
Other times, if I know I’m facing a social event that will be demanding, I get ready, I sleep well, I pray and do yoga regularly, I eat well, I go slow, I dedicate myself to the responsibility, I put in the work. And lately I’ve begun accomplishing my goals. Feeling very strong.
Off and on throughout my life, I’ve been very proud of my work. Off and on throughout my life, I’ve experienced the most pathetic failures, including the failure of the will to live.
But so have many people. We’re living in a time when personal crisis should happen to everyone.
Most people can’t hear the next person’s story. It’s too intense. And so we live in a culture where everyone is under stress, but no one can talk about it, further stressing ourselves with isolation. A huge percentage of Americans are medicating themselves. We can’t take our own stories.
But, with drugs, hope, news control, entertainment, and other forms of mind control, we compel ourselves to do what we hardly can believe sometimes that we have within us: we create beauty, we fight for just causes, we love and sacrifice. We create beauty. And so do I.
As a multiple, my sense of time is terribly fractured. I start out each day knowing what day it is, but when the days flow behind me, they are in a jumble. I have feelings about something being a few days ago, or longer or closer, but I’m often not sure if an event happened three days ago or seven, yesterday morning or the morning before.
There’s just no single flow. Different parts of my day are handled by different parts of me. One comes out in the morning to keep me slowed down so I can do yoga before I begin flying around being German-ly productive. The business woman gets on the phone. Someone else cooks, someone else socializes. They are all pretty aware of what each other does, but they don’t seem to have a system that allows any of the conscious me to know what order things happened in. And if the one who sees someone in the food coop isn’t the one who interacted with that person at a workshop, then I will be disappointingly awkward when we pass; the shopping part of me will remember vaguely. Within a minute or two, another part of me could be having pangs of regret that I didn’t remember soon enough because I’d had a deep conversation with the woman and had looked forward to seeing her again. That can be very disappointing.
I used to get depressed about myself, and embarrassed, but also confused. Why? Why? Why? Why did this happen? And what’s happening? I feel weird, but I can’t explain it. And for decades I didn’t know.
Then in 1994, at age 42, one year after I slid dramatically into a serious spiritual crisis of bigger Why’s?, essentially anervous breakdown, I was reading Michael Talbot’s The Holographic Universe, and came upon a description of people with multiple personality disorder. The funny thing was: as soon as I read the sentence, I couldn’t remember what I’d read. The blankness in my mind was shocking. I read the sentence again and again, and every time I reached the period, I had no idea what I’d read. Then I had a bright idea and tried to trick myself, and succeeded: I read it aloud. Somehow, the extra perceptual input, both eyes and ears involved, got past some gate, and I realized I was reading symptoms that suddenly seemed to be a perfect description of me – but not what I wanted to consider. The description was of a person with multiple personality, or as they call it today dissociative identity disorder.
As usual, I had a range of responses: some children screaming No!, others dreading the humiliation of mental illness, others dreading the loss of pretending to feel normal, the defeat, the crushing defeat, the loss of dreams, the loss of respect, of self-respect, of my children’s respect, or anyone’s. And one part of me said, very practically, Or this could be the first step to healing – which you have been craving for a long time – the solution, the understanding, the answer. Accept it and get to work studying it first thing tomorrow. The whole of me said, Okay. There was nothing else to do.
We went to the medical library the next day, and within a week I had decided to leave the city and, using credit cards, build a small hermitage on some land I’d gotten in my recent divorce. My son had just recovered from cancer, and he and his sister didn’t need me and my breakdown emotions around any more, and they were barely or almost old enough to be left alone, so I moved – with apologies to them reasserted for years – to the desert and began to heal myself – with spiritual assistance.
I healed myself with the input of all my parts. Together, I have a lot of wisdom – that’s the up-side of multiple-ness. But it wasn’t fast.
And it’s been painful. I’ve fallen on the floor at home, unable to stand, and wept my heart empty on the cold, hard floor.
I’ve felt parts of me see each other, recognize each other, and come together.
I’ve heard parts of me speak brilliance from somewhere inside me that seems beyond this dimension of me.
I’ve sent healing, and received goodbye’s from friends and acquaintances just passing over.
I’ve read people’s vibes, accidentally, and know that they knew I’d read their vibes.
Steps forward and backward. Side trips. Or so it seems, and then I realize it was an amazing spiral upward. And I keep going.
Socializing is the most difficult. I prepare, and then take it in small doses. Otherwise, I hit the wall and am exhausted.
I’m like herding cats. Imagine at least seven of me inside (it seems), well-connected for some purposes, but not socializing so much. Sometimes I just have to go home.
I am less self-recriminatory, and more often philosophical. Life on planet Earth is crazy now. I’m what they call “a sensitive.” I have a lot of sensory organs when you multiply me in this one body.
But people seem to forget. And forgive. So I forgive myself too, and keep on keeping on. Creating beauty. Don’t know what else to do.
I trust it’s all for a good purpose: the beauty, the fights, even the multiple-ness and things that caused it, definitely the healing. I think we’re creating a new world, a new ourselves. It’s okay if it’s not always graceful. Birth can be messy.
At least that’s what it seems to this person who feels multiple.
How do I seem to you? I’d love knowing. It might help me check my perceptions, and get even better. …if it’s something we can talk about. Can we talk? Can we get past our isolating culture, and discuss what it feels like?
Next: healing events, and our Relations.
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It’s been 7 1/2 years since I left my 7-year hermitage on the western slope of the Chiricahua Mountains in southeastern Arizona and moved to the town of Silver City, New Mexico, to recreate my life.
I’d been experiencing bizarre, confusing, and sublime events for years, some seeming like alien and UFO contact, some that felt shamanic and promising, and others that seemed to involve government agents who could immobilize me and leave marks on my body that terrified me with my helplessness.
I’d been drawn in different directions: to bravely face the Mystery, strengthen my spirit, and open myself to teachings from the Unknown, and alternately cower in fear and even consider killing myself rather than let some unknown agents use me against my will.
Ultimately, I’d become afraid I was “a sitting duck” out there in the country alone, so I left the home I’d lovingly crafted over all those years out of straw, mud, and stone in natural shapes, and returned to society in rectangles of space and time, seeking new experiences to help me understand.
One of the first things I did was look for a UFO/alien conference that might frame my questions in terms of spiritual awakening. I was thrilled to find this very conference was taking place within weeks of being paid for selling my home – and the conference was in Hawaii, with extra events available for those who wanted to swim with dolphins and discuss experiences – for ten days! – with others who believed in the spiritual potential of understanding the UFO/alien connection.
There is no unanimous theory among this subset of people experiencing what has been called “alien.” Some seem to me to be terribly naive, others I distrust as manipulators, and liars, masquerading as exactly opposite of who they profess to be.
Of course, I’ve also considered that I could be paranoid. And, alternately, that I could be naively hopeful myself, and my safety might lie in taking my fears more seriously. So many conflicting theories; so many possible contexts in which to reevaluate my scores of experiences over my lifetime; so difficult, at times, to know what to believe about my own mind.
But I’ve tried: I meditated. I was hypnotized. I prayed. I did ritual. I talked with others. I attended shamanic conferences and events. I refused to read books on the subject in order to keep my perceptions pure and untainted. Then one day I decided to read books to compare my experiences with others’. And I ignored the stuff, testing the theory that it was all in my head, and I could make it go away if I gave it less energy. I tried to live a normal life.
But animals and even plants kept communicating. I saw things. I participated in healings. I tested theories, and other people played out the results.
I kept records of my memories and anomalous events. I studied and collated those events; then I went for years without looking at them, to frame them against the “normal world.” I exercised my rational mind to assure myself that I had looked at these experiences from every vantage point possible. And I worked to plant myself humbly within the mundane world for “grounding” and waited patiently for the big picture to come into view.
Ultimately, I accepted that I’d been invited by multi-dimensional beings to expand my consciousness and see more than the limited dimensions of this mundane world.
Eventually I traveled distances to talk to others who’d experienced events similar to mine.
I became a certified Transpersonal Hypnotherapist™.
I prayed for a teacher to lead me, and none came. Or maybe many came.
For awhile I partnered with a Native American man who’d been invited by his grandfather, a Tewa medicine man, to learn the practices of a shaman. He had accepted the training, then chose the option to not go forward and left the training. It was a comfort to have affirmed the truism that the shaman’s is not an easy path, is indeed hazardous, and must be undertaken with clear sight, and is not for everyone.
It’s okay to say, This is not for me – so it’s said, but it seems that the spirits sometimes insist.
I wondered why I had found myself invited in the first place.
Was I like the man in the medieval woodcut peeking under the veil to see the many layers of reality? Or was I failing my destiny for having not taken up the challenge with my total heart and soul?
Or was it more mundane than that? Had I simply been taken as a child by government mind-controllers (evil demons or their human minions?) whose programming had exposed me to multi-dimensional reality, of which I was not developed spiritually enough to comprehend, so it was right for me to pull back from experiences I couldn’t yet negotiate safely?
I spent years in the mental tug of war, pulled between spiritual desire and utter terror of those who seemed able to enter my home at any time and leave me sick with mysterious wounds – or I found a tenuous balance between those ideas, which I tried to maintain, but never for long.
I certainly couldn’t focus too seriously on making a living, developing a new career, impressing clients that I really cared about their events I was hired to plan. There were days when I laid in bed and wondered what options did I have to protect myself beside suicide.
I knew others who hosted weekly or monthly groups for “experiencers,” and I tried the same, showing movies and hosting discussions that I hoped would help me find others with whom I could share more honestly the full range of my experiences, but too often my groups attracted people whom I didn’t fully trust. I spent thousands of dollars I couldn’t afford and gave myself the reputation in this new community as – I can only guess – another weird person with weird ideas.
I continued to experience strange intrusions in my life. More than once I woke up to discover perfect (surgically-created?) half-spherical “scoops” removed from my right finger, left scapula, and when I posted about that, a line of scoops across my anus. Another time, I suffered for more than a day with extreme fear and nausea after waking on a urine-soaked mattress with a Taser-burn on my right forearm. Once I drove into a strange fog on a remote section of highway, experienced a flood of strange sensations as my perceptions of time, space, sound, and visuals failed to correspond with each other, ending with the sight of the Continental Divide sign (at the top of the mountain ridge, of course) approaching me from below. And that is just one of three weird highway events.
Today, I do not have a conceptual framework I’m willing to share, except vaguely. I believe the larger framework, the larger Realty, is simply beyond what we humans have language for, or at least beyond what English-speaking Americans have language for. Like all wise ones have said. We see through a glass darkly. The Tao that can be spoken is not the Tao. Reality is far bigger and more complex than our words.
Since childhood, many of us have been told that spiritual realities are not real, and most of us have been forced into compulsory eduction, in which we’re forced to spend our days focused on the material world, and forced to see it the way our teachers tell us it is. Eventually, we forget how to perceive other realities, all the other dimensions and wavelengths of energy beyond the narrow bands of human-perceived light and human-perceived sound. And there’s so much more. And then we interpret those narrow bands of vibrational information according to the rules that the teachers relay to us, and only decades later we learn that those rules are in no way certain, but our minds have been trained to work within their limits.
I admit: so much of this game feels “evil” in every sense of the word: So much of it is contrary to Life. The rules of economics, for one example, murder countless people, decimate nations, and destroy the health of the very planet we depend on for all life.
Still, it seems wrong to call all this death “evil,” and it’s my garden that gives me pause in using that word. Underneath the most lovely rose – and everything else alive in the garden – is a mix of life and death at its darkest complexity.
I’m no longer sure the terms “Evil” and “Good” hold significant meaning. While Christians and other faiths find great importance in these concepts, I have begun to doubt them.
In my garden, for example, death is an essential component of life. At the roots of the rose are an infinite number of dead things. All the plants grow because they are fed with dead, dying, and rotting things. The volvox, reputedly the first sexually-reproducing life form on Earth, requires – and probably introduced the requirement for – death eventually of all sexually-reproducing life.
Children commonly misinterpret the well-intentioned actions of their parents as “mean” and only decades later understand the need for those actions.
Children and adults seem to need to hurt themselves in order to learn about the consequences of our actions. Simple things like learning to be conscious and pick up our feet are only learned by tripping and falling down.
Shamans and healers commonly recount terrifying ordeals in alternate realities that they must experience in order to learn their skills.
Many adults credit very tough life experiences for their maturity and even their greatest qualities.
Social movements gain momentum by sacrifices, sometimes human ones.
Et cetera. So I conclude that just because I have physical scars and mental ones does not mean that I have been treated cruelly by evil beings. It may simply be Life. Or even my Creator. I don’t know.
But I do know this: I have become less afraid and less resentful. And less certain that our Creator or “God” or “the gods” are necessarily “kind” or “evil” according to our way of judging.
I perceive a lot of truth in all the religions of the world, and most philosophies. I also perceive a lot of lies and manipulation in religion and politics, education/academia, media/entertainment/news, society, etc. But I feel less judgement toward it, less concerned with condemning it, more ready to compare our society to that of ants: just getting their job done, maybe enslaving smaller ants if they themselves are large.
Even my sweet cat, Peaches, is a killer and tormentor of helpless lizards, birds, and mice.
Finally, the condemnation directed so commonly toward aliens, or human mind controllers, or alien mind-controllers, for the ways they treat their human subjects is no different from the ways we humans treat the other living beings around us. I can imagine my indignation if I was treated the way I treat my cat – which I think is excellent: fed high-end “pet” food, with little variety (a lot for a cat, I think, but far less than I give myself), perhaps missing vital nutrients (how can I know for sure?), confinement, and more. And the way other humans treat animals in their homes, labs, and ranches – the aliens probably compare quite well to many human scientists. And so I feel silly getting too upset about the things that I have experienced.
(And I wonder if we humans might be treated better if we treated our animals better? As above, so below? As below, so above?)
I conclude that I have really suffered little. I’ve been afraid mostly, and most of my fear was around strange perceptions and the loneliness of having so little social support. And memories of events that might still terrorize me but are long past.
Ultimately, those discomforts have done something good for me. Simply, I now know (by experience, not by theory) that we live in a multi-dimensional universe, and I am a multi-dimensional being with an existence far beyond this one. I know that I have assistance on other realms. And more, but this is enough to share now.
In short: Don’t get stuck in fear. Don’t get stuck in black and white. Be true to yourself. Look inside. And look beyond this world. Don’t get stuck in the limiting mindset of this culture. Dream. Connect to your soul family. Be your best self. Have faith.
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A few years back, I read about how one tribe supported any members who’d experienced traumatic events. The people traumatized would tell their stories to the entire tribe at night around the campfire. Later they would tell their stories again, remembering more details, describing them as fully as needed. Finally, they would tell their stories a third and last time, making whatever conclusions had become apparent, and afterward no one would ever speak of the traumas again.
The people could leave their traumatic stories behind forever. They would be given new names, indicating the strengths of character they had gained.
Since reading that, I’ve often reflected on how trauma is handled in our culture. We have too fluid a culture, no campfire, no way to share our stories. The result is that we can’t let our stories go, and have to live through telling them again and again.
Or if we quit telling them, then in a fluid society, we can never be known for the fullness of what weíve experienced.
And with storytelling lost, the generations lose powerful wisdom.
I yearn for a tribe to hear my story, then support me in letting it go. I hope, as I publish this for others to read, maybe I’ll have found the best solution for our modern, tribe-less times.
On one of the last days before printing this book, I picked up Carlos Castaneda’s The Art of Dreaming, which I hadn’t opened in seven years. In the early pages, I read what don Juan said about the old sorcerers and the new.
“Sorcery,” as he used the term, is not the evil that common “Western culture” says it is; it is seeing and working with the multi-dimensional world, the same as many of the prophets have tried to wake us up to see.
He said the old sorcerers invented the structures of working with other dimensions, but focused too much on technique and took advantage of their influence over others (which is why we consider sorcerers evil). Castaneda wrote,
“Modern sorcerers, by contrast, don Juan portrayed as men [and women] renowned for their sound minds and their capacity to rectify the course of sorcery if they deemed it necessary. [My italics]
Don Juan went on to say, “I personally detest the darkness and morbidity of the mind.”
As Iíve researched government mind control and related topics, I often come across theories that the underground, renegade Network, the cabal, is not simply slipping over the edge of good judgment, politics gone too far, but has been aligned for eons with the dark side of spirit.
If the evil of the underground Network is sorcery of a sort – and I’ll argue it is (the evil type our culture believes, only not ascribed to the correct people) – then our work at this time on this planet is to rectify its course.
Many religions tell of the cycle of evil having its time, which will end, and is predicted by many to be soon.
And many spiritual traditions say it will require some effort from us. So it feels timely to hear this call now and to believe we can work miracles. We obviously need to end torture, wars, and thoughtless materialism stripping and poisoning the planet.
We need to do nothing less than rectify the course of this sorcery.
To do this, I believe we must reclaim our vision and power as a species existing in multiple dimensions. Many species on our planet have evolved and disappeared when they couldn’t meet a challenge, and that’s a real, and natural, possibility for us.
Each challenge of evolution requires a new response, usually attended by a refreshed worldview . We humans are facing such a challenge now, and we need to revisit our worldviews to see if they actually represent our reality, as Terrence KcKenna challenged: If our worldview doesn’t match our reality, we must be prepared to change our worldviews, and see anew.
Opening our eyes to another world is difficult, I know because I stayed blind to parts of it, at least, for most of my life. Even after I thought I was aware, I continued to think it was a meaningless coincidence that I’d had ET contact and was also harassed by elements within the government, I thought, for being an environmental activist.
It seemed unfortunate and embarrassing because both were ridiculed (contact called impossible and government harassment paranoid), so I kept both mostly to myself and was thereby effectively silenced. It took me until the final day I was completing this book to realize consciously that, not only were political activists being monitored, but so were contactees, and both were subject to well-organized ridicule campaigns.
While I knew contactees were ridiculed, I hadn’t realized it was an organized campaign until I read Michael Salla’s article on “Galactic COINTELPRO.”
While I’d known contactees conveyed messages about our environmental situation and the dangers of nuclear war, both of which threaten our corporations and their minions in the government, I’d naively failed to draw a connection between that and the monitoring and harassment I’d experienced.
Just as the decades of ET/UFO ridicule had made me believe the subject of contact was silly before it happened to me, after it happened to me I still thought it too silly to interest the government – even though I knew some of the aliens’ messages of environmental responsibility impinged on our government’s ideas of national security and corporate freedom, and even though I’d seen a similar pattern up close, in the lies told about Judi Bari.
I didn’t want to see the pattern again, just as I suspect most of my environmental activist colleagues won’t want to hear about this. They won’t want to degrade their noble causes with something so “ridiculous” as alien contact, just as I was offended when the MKULTRA activist brought her fliers to the Judi Bari rally at the courthouse. “Divide and conquer” remains a powerful strategy.
Even in the ET/UFO community, some UFO researchers refuse to consider the claims of contactees, not wanting to be aligned with what they fear will lose them credibility. But if UFO researchers understood fully that the media is thoroughly controlled by the underground cabal, theyíd realize their research will never be accepted, no matter how narrowly present their cases, so their withdrawal from contactees only hurts those with messages that might actually contribute to all our understanding.
According to polls, a high percentage of American people know they are being told lies about this and other related subjects; they just don’t understand why. With the Why unanswered, people return their attention to their TVs and working to pay off their credit cards, as the underground cabal hopes they will.
I believe we can compellingly answer Why would the government lie about this? with the messages offered by contactees.
The fact that the messages are mixed shouldn’t deter, as we need to remember that the message senders are a mix – and that’s an important reality of our world to understand. We live in a cosmic ocean, and the delight of dolphins doesn’t negate the danger of sharks, and visa versa.
The messages weíve received, particularly those encouraging us to be environmentally responsible and end the nuclear arms race, will not only help open people’s eyes to a wider reality, but prompt actions of responsibility, none too soon. Only after that, can the implementation of clean “ET” technology possibly be utilized.
Whereas UFO research, sans abductee testimony, will not likely pave the way, regardless that it’s considered an easier media sell.
Contactee messages, on the other hand, speak to the human heart, of human responsibility, and they answer the Why: Responsible citizenry and total corporate control over our culture are mutually exclusive, and the people from other dimensions have been trying to tell us something like this for thousands of years.
C.B. Scott Jones told the Hawaii conference, in so many words, that he, as a Christian, wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus returned in a spacecraft. Many people laughed, and I understood their reaction.
I’m not sure all extra-dimensional beings require ships to enter this realm. but I think I know what he’s aiming at. As I adjust my attitudes toward the prophets of all religions (though I’m most familiar with Jesus/Yeshua), their teachings have taken on new meaning.
Today I suspect that what some people call shamanic is simply the activities of those conversant with a multi-dimensional world, like the miracles Yeshua said we’d perform (“all these things and more”).
It’s probably unfortunate that we in the “First World” use this word shamanic, as it implies these skills are exotic and rare, rather than our human destiny.
On the other hand, he also said, “The first shall be last” – and we’re living in the First World. So it no longer surprises me that we’re the last to know about extra-dimensional life.
Yeshua also said “heaven” was not assured by correct doctrine, but by having one’s heart connect with Spirit. How we can connect with Spirit when our days are filled with false experiences provided by the media, I don’t know.
How we can survive as a species when we choose to perceive our own environment through the lens of corporate entertainment is a deeply disturbing question, of cosmic proportions, one that many contactees have tried to weigh in on.
(John Mack’s work has the most condensed and powerful accounts.)
Mack noted in Passport to the Cosmos that researchers Norman S. Don and Gilda Moura reported in the Journal of Scientific Exploration that
“when an abduction is being relived or remembered, a frontal-lobe hyperarousal pattern is found by electroencephalogram (EEG) similar to that seen only in advanced spiritual meditators.”
Obviously something unusual is going on, beyond anyone’s imagination or fantasy, which warrants our respectful attention.
Since contactees speak passionately of Spirit and responsibility, it behooves us not to dismiss them in favor of debunking and corporate hypnotism.
(It encourages me that all the TVs of the world could be turned off tomorrow, ending this spiritual pollution without any infrastructure change or a single act of civil disobedience.)
As for the Network, even it has potential for transformation. Inside are people who’ve been trapped, the minions whose intention may never have been to be part of the darkness, who don’t know how to free themselves. They are a majority (though they may not know it) and as such, they sit in key places to do good.
They’re already doing it, judging by the useful paperwork leaked out and other paperwork disappeared (according to activists Iíve known). They only need to act when it’s their time.
And they will, because it’s in their best interests. If they don’t, they know they’ll be the next food; so they’ll act.
Whatever our connection to the minions, though it might sometimes be painful, it’s a wondrous dance: They make us see. We learn, and awaken.
And we go on, finding strength wherever it lies for us.
Rob Brezsny writes in Pronoia: An antidote to Paranoia:
This is a perfect moment – because you and I are waking up from our sleepwalking, thumb-sucking, dumb-clucking collusion with the masters of illusion and destruction.
Thanks to them, from whom the painful blessings flow, we are waking up.
As heaven and earth come together, as the dreamtime and daytime merge, we register the shockingly exhilarating fact that we are in charge of creating a brand new world.
As we stand on this brink, as we dance on this verge, we can’t let the ruling fools of the dying world sustain their curses. We have to rise up and fight their insane logic; defy, resist, and prevent their tragic magic; unleash our sacred rage and supercharge it.
In the new world we’re gestating, we need to be suffused with lusty compassion and ecstatic duty, ingenious love and insurrectionary beauty.
So what will it be? The fearful paradigms of post-apocalyptic Hollywood? They’re only caricatures of what we have already.
How about, when things crash, you simply chose your contribution to your community? Do you want to be a carpenter? A gardener? A baker? A tailor? An innkeeper? A sailor? A fisher? A butcher? A forager or herbalist? A home builder?
Go to your heart, and choose.
Then barter for everything you can, to create a local economy.
A little afraid? Turn up the dial on your intuition, and remember that the past does not determine the future.
Give yourself permission to move away from those who make you nervous. Then move, blessing yourself and them.
All the dance is purposeful.
Thank you for being part of my campfire. It heals me. And I pray it will help to heal others.
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Ah, meditation today began with the vision of a blue and white energetic stream, the color of crystalline mountain water and bands of white clouds, flowing upward from my heart like a twisting waft of smoke, curling next downward, and looping like a playful thing – such a surprise after my intense effort yesterday to repair my aura.
Last night, I wrote “my story” in super-short form, telling who I believe I am, based on experiences I’ve had which did not at all fit my construct of reality, but which I could never, over the course of decades, convince myself were not real.
So I think it’s time to publicly admit my beliefs, regardless that they embarrass me somewhat – embarrass me because I’ve sneered at others who’ve written or spoken things like these. But I must tell this story, as information for others trying to assess the nature of reality and as a step in my process of becoming a more-coherent human being.
I’ve had at least six lives on Earth that I can recall and a long life, or series of lives, somewhere in the Pleiades, which when I left was the only life I knew or at least had been familiar with for a long time. It quieted me to see the star cluster withdraw and know it would be another “long time” (if ever) before I would see the place again. (And now, my heart feels as though it is absolutely not in my chest when I remember this.)
On Earth I remember lives only as women: a sensuous tree-dwelling pygmy, a frightened three-year-old in some feudal state, a European country girl in love, a gypsy with a friend in traditional bangles and scarves, a recently deceased Anglo pioneer hovering on the Earth plane near her Native husband as he was drug to his death behind a wagon so that our daughter would not be raised by him or his tribe, a member of Cochise’s tribe when we lost our land and freedom, and a Native American college student arriving home to spend time with her loving family.
I am also connected to beings in a nearby dimension who feel like family – far more than my parents or siblings do. A few of these beings seem like people I’ve read about or heard of in our history, and I’ve had a very strange aversion to reading certain books, as though I already know the history and reading this version might upset me. Some of the figures I’ve met in other dimensions I realize later seem like mythological characters often depicted as cartoons in our culture or in some other limiting way, so I hesitate to identify them as such.
There are also beings on the other realms whom I work to avoid, though it most often feels that my life’s current destiny is to be engaged with them for some reason I assume is either good for me or good for all. Those other unpleasant entities seem the result of my having been a mind control subject as a child. (Documentation is elsewhere.)
I was born into a family on the edge (I assume) of the Elites: Eisenhower means iron hewer, a metal worker. These people were masters of a craft kept secret in a guild society controlled by royalty. Members of this lineage are tested for loyalty, given many advantages, and groomed for service in secret societies still. I was seduced to the door, walked in, was initiated, then changed my mind a month later and bailed. Mysteriously, my memory of the initiation ceremony has disappeared except for a one-second peek. Then I ran away from home (at age nineteen), broke some of my programming (how much I don’t know), and have been struggling ever after to fully free my mind. Sometimes I seem to do very well in life, often when I’m engaged in mainstream business. Most often, I struggle.
Ever since my nervous breakdown (essential for healing, and in my case probably part of my programming break-down) in 1993, I’ve been increasingly aware of things going on behind the mediated scenes. I’ve twice consciously experienced my own body’s in-the-moment manipulation for a few minutes while my consciousness screamed No.
I also sometimes experience healing events and other Carlos Castaneda-type events which I can’t yet judge as good or bad. Sometimes I feel as though I just returned from somewhere else, sometimes I feel like I’m encased in a healing vibrational cocoon, and sometimes I feel hit by an energetic something with which I struggle mightily. Sometimes, mysterious things leave bruises or scars on me, which I sometimes photograph and post.
Did I choose this life? (It used to piss me off royally when people told me that we all chose our lives or, worse, that I have created this through my own thinking it, and I could make it disappear if I would quit.) We could say it was just the luck of the draw – someone had to be born into the heart of darkness – and maybe that was it. Perhaps it’s karma; I hate to think I earned this….
My choice of explanation is that I was strong enough to do this, and someone had to go in, like a cosmic spy, and relay back to the rest of my warrior tribe reports on the psyches of the Elites who have created our war-making, children-torturing, money-driven System, so that it could be disabled. My birth into the darkest heart gave my tribe an inside view to help it more fully understand the System and help devise a plan to transform it.
While I’ve gone through my spasms of pain and paranoia, fear, grief, terror, despair and suicidal urges, my tribe on the other dimensions has been regularly healing me, energizing me, blocking my awareness when I was too young to understand, and basically helping me get through, while also using what they learned to help turn the tide or execute some other plan for Earth.
And if that’s not the case, and if this is all just a story (an amazingly grandiose story, it might be called), then at least it offers me hope for my soul and hope for our transformation.
Both the light and the dark have been very active in my life – and up to fairly recently. Every day I hope to never confront the dark ones again, but it’s clear that the polarity on Earth is still active, and someone has to be in the interface – the space between the white and black paisleys of the yin-yang symbol. And even though I often feel that the energy pouring down on me is so positive and strong that I think we’ve already turned the corner and entered Heaven, I assume nothing. Activists are those on the interface; I’m an activist, so here I am.
I’m here to testify that we Earth humans are not alone, either in the cosmos or here on Earth. There are many, many technologies employed by the Elites to keep us passive and, yes, mind controlled. A few people see it; far fewer, I fear, act in ways that will serve their survival when mind control is increased.
I struggle regularly with this apparent destiny, which seems to be to live in awareness of the darkness and to shine light on it. Few live through the experience of it and maintain the ability to speak. How am able? I assume it’s my help on the other dimensions, as I’m not that personally strong. (Ask anyone who knows me.)
Also, I think they don’t crush me because I do such a lousy job. I sabotage my work frequently.
Sometimes I wonder if the existence of this soul-enslaving system is a figment of my imagination, but I believe this enslavement has been the number-one fact of human history, from ancient Sumer until this day, and it’s time we woke up to the fact that our luxury comes at the enslavement of others, many others. Some, like Ayn Rand, will justify that; others might want to decide, but we can’t if we don’t acknowledge it.
And now our destiny hangs in the balance while the prophesies talk about the end of an age. I’m putting my stock there, in change, in which I believe we must participate consciously. Toward that end, I remind myself of these things:
* Change has always happened, and big change is prophesied.
* Powerful systems are often brought down from within.
* Earth’s powerful system today depends on the cooperation of minions who have little loyalty to it.
* The minions know that at some point they’ll be expendable, and at some point they can change the game.
* It is in their ultimate best interest to help change it.
Besides changing things on Earth, I also have hope in other realms as an escape. Perhaps some of us will disappear like the Anasazi. Or the others will disappear as in the Hopi prediction (told to their children, so I’ve heard) that “one day, the bad people will all just be gone” – opposite the Christian story, in which the righteous will be the ones “raptured.” This apparent contradiction might be reconciled by another prediction with which I’ve resonated, that there’ll be a dimensional/vibrational rift, in which the Earth will move into two or more different future time-lines, where leaving and staying have no meaning.
Every year, the river of my life brings me amazing experiences of bliss, challenge, and everything in between. As a child, tortured, I was pushed through the veil, where I saw that this realm was not the only one. Today, I am sometimes granted healing and visions, and sometimes I dance with the devil. I’ve written a lot about the latter, so it’s only proper now that I tell more of my story.
One of my demons has been the fact that my mind has been fractured by trauma-based mind control. There are actually, sometimes, advantages to being multiple (psychological survival, for one, and a “diversified portfolio” of skills), and I hope to learn more ways to consciously make my condition more useful, but so far it’s often been a disability.
For instance, I go to the store, and an alter (alternate personality) comes out who’s great at making small talk, but she has little to do with the rest of me. Some other part of me might have shared a personal story with someone the day before, who’s now at the store, but the alter yesterday is not out now, and the one who’s shopping doesn’t remember much about this friend when she says hi. I struggle to cycle though a few “files” of personalities before I can retrieve the memory, but often the critical moment is lost and I might never have the chance to explain my struggle to the friend – very disappointing and often almost convinces me that I should remain a hermit.
But my destiny doesn’t seem to be in hermitage, and my extra-dimensional help keeps coming to my rescue – sometimes not soon enough, I think – but I keep on going anyway.
When my extra-dimensional help does take care of me, it’s beyond anything I could have imagined. It clears me to my very soul and convinces me that I will not die and I don’t want to.
Because I’ve written a lot about the dark events, and people remember those best, I am probably known to a lot of people as the woman who’s all about “that stuff.” When I occasionally write about the Light, I imagine it is difficult for many to reconcile in our culturally encouraged, black-and-white thinking.
So something moved me to summarize my whole complex story and remind folks that things are rarely static black or white: I was born into a very dark situation, my mind became fractured, I’ve healed with extra-dimensional help, and I’m in a sometimes-daily battle to keep steady and nurture my dreams for myself and the whole of us.
I’ve seen the enemy, and it is not only us. It’s partly us, but it’s also way beyond us. It’s our ancestor’s patterns of abuse, which have been hidden from us, and which we’re called to transform. The task is huge, but we’re not alone. Everyone with a concept of Self as a sentient being connected to the powers of Creation needs to be sure to tap into those Other Powers and see what they need to be doing right now. I’m here to testify that this is not a picnic.
If my life and my teetering on the edge of it, suffering sometimes beyond what I thought I could bear, has had any purpose, I think it’s to say this: Our place in history is not meant to be a picnic, an indulgence in whatever we might enjoy. Enjoyment is lovely, and I want more of it also, but we have work to do.
For over a year (am I right?) Bradley Manning suffered in solitary confinement for trying to get you the information you now get over Facebook and in your email; Congress is right now trying to take that freedom from you. Many activists, like Leonard Peltier, Mumia Abu Jamal, and Judi Bari, are in prison for life, or dead, for telling truths that someone desperately needed for them to expose but the Elites wanted to repress. Some like me are waking up with their bodies Taser-burned and no memory of what happened to them, but a dreadful feeling.
This battle is not a civilized one; it is brutal and involves far worse than what I’ve written here today. If you have the liberty to visit your Congress person to talk about American human rights, please do. If you can feed someone who is hungry, please do. If you can give energy to any project that serves your community, please do, and thank you. And if you can offer compassion to someone like me who seems sometimes to be crazy, please do. We’ve all got stories, and I do believe we’re, most of us, trying our best to make sense of a world that is for the most part hidden from nice people like you.
If the Earth does go through any cataclysms, from environmental poisoning to pole shift, I know that we, as souls, will eventually continue on somewhere, learning, evolving, transforming. But I believe the next life will be easier if we do this work now to transform what we can of this situation here on Earth, particularly to work for justice.
Some say the coming Earth changes will trigger our transformation to the next new evolutionary state. I don’t know. But I’m open to the possibility of expanding my soul into something less trapped on this plane. My experiences in the other dimensions have been so much nicer than most of what I experience here.
In any case, I’m inspired by the possibilities – which are infinite. We have help on other realms, but we also need to do the work today.
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One evening on my way to sing with friends, I noticed I was unusually thrilled by the sight of the simplest things – the beauty of greenery beside a brick building, stone wall or window ledge over a garden. I wondered if I would share this ecstasy when my friends asked casually “How are you tonight?” or if I should keep the thrill to myself. I thought I should do the latter, as they might think I was manic-depressive. Then, for the first time in many years, I wondered, Am I manic-depressive? (I don’t think I am.)
Next I thought: If I am, I don’t think there’s anything actuallywrong with that. It would probably be a natural thing, maybe a healthy way to deal with the trauma of having been born to parents who, for whatever reason, didn’t have the insight or intuition in their twenties to know better than to give their daughter to the CIA for mind control experiments.
Suddenly, I had to turn my car around and drive home, too depressed to speak to anyone, much less sing.
I’m certain my parents were told the training I’d receive would make me smart, obedient, disciplined (all of which would improve the quality of my entire life), and was an opportunity to serve their country. They were patriotic young Americans, bearing the proud surname Eisenhower, enthused about the good life after the Second World War, and probably seduced to think they’d have regular contact with important people in government. After all, my father’s father was second cousin to Ike. And Stewart Udall, soon to become Secretary of the Interior, had a home in town, and maybe he was the one who offered my parents this “opportunity.” He had a cousin, Addison, who was my pediatrician. Yes, my parents were perfectly poised to rub shoulders with powerful people. Indeed, by the time I was eight, we had moved into an exclusive neighborhood, in a new custom home very near Mr. Udall. He came to our Christmas party that year.
In 1993, I realized that I’d been sexually abused as a child, which was such a shock that I became totally unable to work. (My boss had just offered me the ownership of his $3-4-million-grossing, international, environmental tour company, but I kept “passing out” multiple times every day after this new awareness.) I became so dysfunctional that I tried to commit myself to two mental institutions, then used credit cards to build a house in the desert and became a hermit.
Accepting the reality of my memories made my world miserable, but intensely clear. My past made sense as it never had before. I felt more like a living person in a living body than I’d ever experienced. Even my eyes tested better at the optometrist’s. I chose the clarity, even with its excruciating pain, over the vagueness which had been my old life – with its story that I’d had a happy childhood.
I don’t remember many details of the abuse, and those memories I do have, have strange blank spots where I know there are people. I don’t actually want to remember, because what I do recall disgusts me and debilitates me for days or weeks or months after a memory. So, I put no visuals or any particular people into this idea and have chosen the least sickening possibility that I can think of, which is that my parents gave me to others who did the deeds, my parents unconscious of what they were doing, or believing that it was a good thing.
First memory: I am a baby on my back, naked legs before me in the air, something happening inside me, then pricks, pinches, pulling, then pain so great I leave my body, float up high, and look down on my mother, slumped on the floor near the wall as though she’d just slid down. One hand supports her while the other covers her anguished mouth, and her eyes bulge with horror.
In my book (see the second link at the top of the column to the right), I published a photo of the slice in my g-spot from front to back, but there are two other sideways slices that can’t be seen, and the characteristic ribbed skin of my g-spot has been removed and perhaps more of the organ.
Maybe it was because I learned to leave my body in that instant that I developed the ability to regularly meet with help in other dimensions, with whom I loved to visit. Sometimes at night, I’d be thrilled to feel the other dimension drop over me, knowing I’d momentarily be with my help again. One night they told me that it would be a long time before I could be with them next, during which time I was supposed to become stronger in myself. I remember the sadness of that message and the loneliness that followed.
As scraps of memories have come back over the years, I’ve put together this understanding:
The sexual mutilation ritual was probably performed by mind control experimenters to deeply shock my mind, just as all baby boys who are circumcised today are traumatically shocked a day after their births. I assume this is to intentionally create passivity in our culture, much as we create it in domestic animals, lopping off their ears, tails, toes and testicles, which might simplify our caring for them, but at the same time makes them more docile – knowing who it is who can inflict great pain.
While we know this is done to many little boys, I suspect other girls are also selected for genital mutilation. Since female mutilation can’t be easily justified as it is for boys (though I don’t think it’s justified either), it must be done in secret; and in the event of bleeding, someone came up with the cover story about baby girls sometimes bleeding because their mother’s hormones cause them to menstruate. I don’t think so.
Some people say the experimenters are Nazis, brought to the US under Operation Paperclip, helping the CIA continue their development of mind control techniques; others say they are Satanists, who essentially subcontract dirty work from the CIA; others say all these elements – Nazis, Satanists, secret societies, and other “rogue elements,” especially in our governments – are all in a secret global Network, keeping the majority of humans enslaved or disempowered with control through education, Media, entertainment, etc. and hard-core mind control for certain individuals. Certain churches and their clergy were brought into the Network to provide a place for female mutilation to be done in secret rituals.
How are children chosen? Probably, there are many ways. Satanists, like many occultists, take an interest in astrology and numerology. I happen to have been born on July 7, ‘52, a date that reduces to 7-7-7. This date was also a Monday (“moon day”), sits in the center of Cancer, also known as “Moon Child,” and was also a full moon – and I was born within eight minutes of the perfection of the fullness – within 2/1,000ths of a degree. Three sevens and three powerful moons. Finally, it was also the day that Dwight D. Eisenhower was nominated to the Republican Presidential ticket. This seemed mundane to me until I read that Satanists also like historical dates.
Eight years after I moved to my hermitage (with a four-year-long break taken in the middle), I learned about CIA mind control and how it requires the psychological creation of a “multiple personality” – created by the induction of extreme trauma – in order to create programmed “alters” hidden inside an unwitting subject. This process is very well documented, with CIA Director testimony to a Senate Special Hearing in 1973, 18,000 pages of mind control financial files discovered not to have been destroyed as the CIA believed, and testimony of mind control subjects collected using the best scientific standards – all confirming a network of underground organizations cooperating to create controllable human pawns, sometimes called “Manchurian Candidates” (because the supposed Chinese research was our nation’s excuse for pursuing it too – “for national security”).
There were 20,000 children, it is estimated, who were brought into the program through eighty military and hospital facilities in the United States and Canada. The children were taken in at around age six and returned to their homes two years later. I have almost total amnesia for the two years of my life between ages six and eight during which I remember not a single face, room, or scene, but one:
I am standing before an easel watching my fellow students busily painting away, while I just stand. I can’t understand how my classmates can work with such abandon. I wonder, How can they paint? How can they do that? Then my teacher commands me to “Paint!”
“I don’t know what to paint,” I say, and she tells me, “Paint a tree.”
Okay, I think. I can take direction.
I turn to my easel and paint a tree bent diagonally in the wind, then dip my brush into black and smear that all over the tree, then paint black leaves blowing by in black wind, then blacken the ground from side to side. I am satisfied.
In another flashback that hit me once, when I happened to be sitting on my bed reveling in a moment’s beauty, I felt a helmet put on my child’s head and a chin strap abruptly fastened. On one side of the interior of the strap, which fit fully around my jaw, a half a tennis ball had been adhered which, when the strap was locked into place, pushed my jaw sideways out of joint, blinding me with pain. My hands flew up and flapped over the imaginary helmet, seeking its release. Saliva flowed copiously, and I couldn’t swallow with my jaw out of joint. Almost choking on the fluid, I fell forward on my bed to drain my mouth, and still couldn’t stop my arms from flapping frantically while my face, planted down into the bedspread, became a pivot point for my thrashing body, my grunts and gasps interspersed with breathy screams. Then the imagined helmet was released, and I felt my child agree to obedience to whatever those adults would tell me. Later, I read that others have also testified about having joints dislocated as a method of control that leaves no evidence of torture.
I also believe I was sometimes left cold and hungry, as I often feel inexplicable panic over being just a little bit hungry or a few degrees too cool. I can also become enraged when awakened from sleep, because I was often awakened to be raped – I remember this clearly.
Another flashback that came on me once, unbidden (I was simply walking through my home when this scene hit me): A brilliant light flashes, then a crowd of men in white moves back, while one of them moves in to put his face near mine and say three short phrases very clearly. He repeats them then withdraws, and someone else with things in his hands reaches them toward either side of my head. Again, blinding light. I believe this was an electroshock induction of mind control.
One day when I was eight, my father, a veterinarian, came home from work unusually early, shortly after I’d gotten home from school. He held a hypodermic needle upward, in the manner that doctors do, and told me that he had my booster shot to give me. The strange thing was that he was smiling so intently into my eyes that I was mesmerized. I came toward that smile like a thirsty animal toward water.
He told me he gave “the best shots in the world,” and that I wouldn’t even feel it, because he had the perfect technique. He said, “Look away, and you won’t even feel it.” I did, and he was right: I didn’t feel it.
Clearly, it wasn’t my booster, so what was it? Years later, he would become “spitting mad” (his language) and nearly speechless with rage when I mentioned hypnosis or psychotherapy.
We had recently moved into our new, custom, ranch-style home, where my parents hosted a Christmas party attended by Stewart Udall, who would become Secretary of the Interior the next year. His cousin, Addison Udall, my pediatrician, was also there, and in the few short minutes that we children were allowed to mingle with the adults, I told him the only thing I could think of that he might relate to: “My father gives the best shots in the world. He gives me my boosters.” My father was standing there, and I saw him blanche. The looks that shot between the two of them let me know I’d said something I shouldn’t have.
Not only did my parents say very little to me, but I have not a single memory of either of them ever smiling at me when I was young, except for the hypodermic memory and holiday events. Withholding smiles may have been part of my training, or it may have simply been because I reminded them of what they’d done.
One other flashback came from my teenage years – with a firestorm of emotion: I was in the shower, forty-two years old, when suddenly I felt myself a teenager, fiercely anguished, arms crossed over my youthful breasts, fists in knots, face to the ceiling, screaming inside without words, because words weren’t enough, and it seemed that my skin burned red with blood at its surface.
I had just been handed a white, beaded satin bodice, which soon would be all I’d wear onstage. I feel poisoned to my core and want to burst from my body. My forty-two-year-old self is in shock, as I wonder, How?! How can this be? This couldn’t happen when I was a teen! I accepted that it happened when I was a child, but please not this! But I felt it in all my being.
I’d had tiny hints a time or two that putting me on stage might have been something they would have done, but I’d brushed it aside and never considered it. Then this memory burst upon me. I see my young self as a thin green tree with smooth bark and few limbs, my thoughts simple and few, my questions daunting: Why is so much unknown to me? When will I know? How will it come about? Then my skin is screaming with the memory of white beaded satin laid in my hands. My pain is too much and the young one blinks out.
It was nine more years before I realized I’d not only been a sexual abuse victim, but a mind control subject as well. The other memories had been plenty to deal with; but then the mind control information rang true, made everything snap into focus, and sent me into a mental tailspin.
First, the world became clear, though it was also extremely painful. I sought alternative ideas, including returning to my previous reality, in which I’d never considered things like this, but that old world, I now realized, had always been strangely vague, and I’d spent most of my life foggy and numb.
These new memories were not only painful, but accompanied by fear: Somebody might still want to mess with my mind, and maybe I’m still programmable. If this were the case, I’d rather die. I had evidence that I was still being programmed and used, and it caused me so much grief that I could barely function some days. For years, I considered suicide daily, not as a release from psychological pain, which was great, but as a logical way to thwart my controllers. Somehow I talked myself out of this.
I’ve been integrating my multiple personalities now for over seventeen years, working to understand the mind control for eight years, and my work continues. I credit my healing to interactions with helpers on other realms. (More on this in another essay.)
Perhaps the promises given my parents were partially true. I was a very smart child, not very social and not highly motivated toward school, but able to score in the top ninety-eight percentile in the nation on a number of exams, and I’ve been invited into MENSA a few times. While I’ve owned my own businesses for most of the last twenty-five years, whenever I ventured near the mainstream, people opened doors for me with a frequency and enthusiasm that made me nervous; I never knew why, but the mainstream was not attractive.
For the last few years, I’ve focused on learning to socialize, trying to make up for what I missed as a frightened child. I’m also trying to moderate my discipline, learning the joy of letting chores go while I enjoy writing or some other art. I spend most evenings quietly (never watching television, not since 1974), just reading, journaling, putting my life in a context beyond this Earth and all its horrors. And I’m learning how to sing. It makes me happy.
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