“Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!” shouldn’t be threatening, but check out this chart, and if you want, read the story below.
Three and a half years ago, seven weeks before (I believe) my truck was remote controlled to crash on the highway, it was the Solar Eclipse / New Moon, when a strange woman interrupted my meditations, hollering up the mountain to me, “Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!”
I ignored her until I saw a man carry heavy equipment toward my truck and disappear behind a bush next to it where I couldn’t see him.
I yelled at him, “Get away from my truck!” at which point the woman began calling out that they were going to town and wanted to know if I needed anything. I repeated my demand, but it accomplished nothing. I thought of running down there, and could have easily, but oddly (except for a mind control subject), I felt immobilized and afraid to confront them more closely.
Six weeks later, my truck and trailer made an “impossible” fish-tail movement on flat highway, then made the same impossible movement again the next time I took the rig out one week later (week seven), and I made a mental note to take it to repair- even though everything had just been checked and maintenanced
Half an hour later, it made the same movement, this time down a hill. I’d experienced mild fish-tailing a couple times on steep hills and knew how to easily pull out of them, but this was not a serious hill and none of the conditions should have caused that.
Quickly, my truck and trailer were overwhelmed by extreme fish-tailing which flipped them, destroying them both, leaving me with a concussion, severe whiplash, homeless, with all my possessions in a mess. It was one year (minus one day) since I’d purchased my rig.
When I awoke in my truck, hanging sideways in the restraint, a trucker came to help, and later another trucker came. Oddly, they both used exactly the same language with me, and I assumed they’d both attended the same class on how to respond to highway accidents.
However, I also watched them both “interfere” with the crash scene, spraying fire retardant under my truck, which it didn’t need, while “checking” the wheels and axles. I now think was a cover for removing the remote device that flipped my rig. They’d also parked their trucks so that no one could drive by them and see my rig. (Later, I came to wonder if one of the truckers had also directed my crash by remote control.)
Recovery (physical, mental and financial) has been slow, and I don’t think about the event much, but today I am because of the “Yoo hoo” woman who visited yesterday.
I’d never realized I’d crashed just a day away from my rig’s one-year anniversary until last night. But I had been aware of the seven-week span between the “Yoo hoo” woman and strange man at my truck and the truck-and-trailer’s crashing.
And now, the “Yoo hoo” woman yesterday made me realize I just passed the seven-week mark before my one-year anniversary of purchasing my current rig. Should I be counting down the next seven weeks until their next harassment?
As I’ve taken care of the annual maintenance this spring, I couldn’t help but wonder now and then whether my Targeters were planning on taking my home away from me again, now that I’ve perfectly maintained it. But I brushed the idea aside – until the “Yoo hoo” woman visited.
To add to the freakishness of this whole thing, she mentioned her son living in Hawaii (I have a son who lives there), and she was wearing her hair exactly like mine at the moment – in a ponytail with an extra band at the bottom! Makes me accept they have cameras to watch us TI’s in our rigs.
Sitting down with paper and pen, I charted out the details roiling in my brain and found all these New Moons and sevens and anniversaries are not random, but perfectly orderly. And so I created the chart above.
I hate to admit I believe I’ve been harassed by Satanists a fair amount all my life. I was born under a Full Moon, not just in the 24-hour period, but within 8 minutes of perfection (2/1000ths of a degree). I was also born on 7-7-52 – which adds up, of course, to 7-7-7, which I’m told Satanists love, along with the fact that my birth date was Monday (Moon day), in the middle of Moon Child, as well as the Full Moon.
My mother’s church that I attended as a child was supposedly respectable, but I believe many churches have Satanic infiltrators. And these last few years on the road, I’ve found myself occasionally traumatically disabled for extended periods of time, and I realize a day or two later it had begun on the Full or New Moon when I’d met unpleasant strangers – with Satanic iconography I’d ignored!
Since I’ve been a nomad, the weirdness has had lots of variety, as I assume my peripatetic wanderings cause the Targeters to have to act on the fly and use whatever secret network is available on short notice, and so I experience a little less harassment, of a varied sort, but including “games” by Satanists.
My new rig’s anniversary will be June 7 this year. Seven weeks from the events of frozen truck door locks to the “Yoo hoo” woman (April 21-25) will be June 2-6, and the Full Moon will be June 5th. So I’ll be on guard from June 2-7.
I’m posting this in hopes it’ll blow Their cover, expose their Satanic games-playing and save my life (and rig).
If anything should happen to me six or seven weeks from now, especially if it involves my truck and camper, I hope everyone will recognize a crime has been committed.
You can bet I will be parked and go NOWHERE that week. And I’ll be praying for protection, and welcome you to pray along with me and for me. (Put it in your calendars!?) Thanks.
I believe these are spiritual warfare lessons I’ve been failing, and I pray to learn my lesson now and keep myself safe.
Crazy times we live in…. Reminds me:
“And demons will be let loose on the Earth in those days.”
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Research has led me to one site that links Morgellon’s to, not only strange, colorful fibers, but also a fungus-like growth called “biofilm,” with plastic properties, which covers the skin. It is extremely strong, does not look like skin, and I cannot remove it.
One writer called it part of a “cyborgian” evolution the Controllers of the Planet are technologically enforcing on us, with some of their former subjects now being used as first test subjects for this. Crazy, huh?
I was trying to remove the film with dermabrasives, enzymes, baking soda, and vinegar; nothing works. It’s like I have plastic all over me.
Biofilm? – covers my face and seems to be beginning to “shine” all over me, reflecting light when photographing, as if my skin were plastic).
It doesn’t show to the naked eye, and seems to be a matrix for other things growing through it.
Fungus on the skin leads to cancer – according to another author – and some of cancer images I found online look like some of the thousands of weird things I’ve photographed on me, like these little red raspberries, which the site identified as a “fast-growing” cancer, and which I’ve photographed about six times on my scalp. Hmmmm. [A glitch in cyborg design to kill their product?]
I’ve spent lots of money on supplements and herbs and organized it all into a daily routine. I’ve always kept sugar to a tiny fraction of the standard American diet, but – it’s weird – I’ve been craving it. I recall I’d read long ago that microorganisms can actually convince our brains that we need something like sugar, and so I’ve been struggling with that – so yesterday I emptied most of the sugar out of the camper and gave it away.
I’m scrubbing (as much as I have energy for) and sunning (when the weather’s good and I’m feeling well), and praying (when I “can”), but I am not certain I’m getting better.
I can’t get help from the medical establishment because doctors don’t want to talk about this “controversial” disease. Why? Well, history says doctors have often been involved in top-secret experiments, and they certainly act like it now.
Each one who learns I have a digital microscope and can record my photos and watch my progress has seemed a little perturbed, as if now they know they can’t bullshit me in the usual way. No one yet, MD or ND, has acted normal, except for the one who honestly said, “This stuff scares me. I need to refer you out.” So.
Yesterday the News announced that hospitals across the nation are now short-staffed and their space overwhelmed, and so all other medical care will be compromised – and for example they mentioned people with chronic diseases – like cancer.
Is this whole thing designed to execute Kissinger’s prophetic statement about our world needing a 95% die-off?
So they invented something to mostly kill the old and infirm. Strategically, that would make sense and be a good start. Better than war. Plague.
I’m over sixty, so Kissinger would have me die. No doctor will give me a blood test to begin any internal treatment. So, I’m wondering if I’m supposed to go soon.
I’m in the pristine, pure desert though! Only have to spend a couple hours in town, one trip each week, to empty my tanks, shower, get water, buy groceries, maybe visit the library, then back to the desert to relax and watch the birds.
And scrub, prepare good food, take my medicines, rub stuff on me, enjoy camp mates from a distance, enjoy solitude, and wonder if I’m really supposed to try to heal this biofilm and fibers and spirochetes.
(So daunting! They’re elated to syphilis! – shades of the syphilis experiment they did for a decade on the Black men of Tuskeegee – the experiment for which the government was shamed into finally admitting and paying settlements. At it again, this time with activists.)
And keep on trying to heal myself as a mind control subject too? Sheesh.
Or (that was just one alter talking) heal myself through prayer? Ask Jesus to heal me? (I have been.)
Maybe this is when I’ll be pushed to such absolute lows that I’ll trigger some strength or knowing and transform myself into something new, spiritual, and healed – ?
Seems like a pretty big order for an old lady, which I’m really beginning to feel these days, grunting and huffing sometimes just to move around.
Feels like, if Kissinger wants 95% to die, I can’t think of much of a reason to say it shouldn’t be me. Ya know?
But I’ll definitely ask that friends and family keep me out of the hospitals! Away from doctors! But let my friends with healing talents come sit with me, help me deal with pain.
The deadly part of this disease is the spirochetes. (That’s why I’ve been so focused on getting a blood test.) They invade the brain, nervous system, and heart. I hope the heart is attacked first.
But if it’s my brain, we’ll have other issues, and I pray for everyone’s kindness, and again to be kept away from doctors or anyone who could be pretending to help but really be another targeter.
That’s why, for awhile, I was thinking the coronavirus might be a faster way to go. But I’m not chasing it – and I no longer believe it’s actually a virus causing the problem. And I don’t believe I’ll live or die according to what I do; I believe my controllers will decide.
Further, I am not philosophically persuaded that I understand everything in this multi-dimensional world well enough to make that sort of radical decision, to die or not. When my angels or family and friends over there make themselves known to me and call me over, then maybe.
Till then, I’ll sit in the beautiful desert or forest, greet the trees and flowers and birds each day, and move when the weather persuades me.
My YouTube channel has videos of my Morgellon’s at:
Morgellon’s Disease can be painfully isolating – but I’m used to isolation. I’m a mind control subject, and the controllers have always planned for us to be isolated and discredited – in case we’d ever remember what had been done to us.
Since I was a child, my mother has been telling my siblings not to believe me, and while I witnessed her behavior all my life, I’d been programmed to never object to it or anything else my parents might do.
They were being paid, I believe, to cooperate with the controllers with whom they’d contracted when I was a baby, living with them in student housing on the campus of UC Davis where the Human Ecology Project was launched in my first year, a cover for mind control experiments.
My mother created a lot of disharmony between me and my siblings. When they wouldn’t eat all their vegetables, she’d point to me – cruelly mind controlled to obey regardless of my desire – and say, “Why don’t you just eat your dinner like Jean Ann?” and they’d all scowl at me across the table.
Another phase I heard from her often was, “Oh, I’ve always said you had a vivid imagination, and you mixed up your dreams with memory.” Weirdly, she always said the exact same words, never varied, in a sing-song rhythm, so that one day it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck when I realized she seemed to be going into a trance when she repeated the sentence word-for-word, and in that moment I knew something was very, very weird.
I’d just drawn the floor plan of an apartment in which I had my youngest memory, including details about where the linoleum ended and the carpet began and the glazed tall narrow window by the front door – to which she’d exclaimed, “You couldn’t remember that! You were 14 months old when we left there!” Then her face had trembled at the illogic of her words, and she pushed herself up from the table, walked to the window, and said those same words once more.
The memory I’d described rather thoughtlessly (I’d started enthusiastically before realizing it didn’t put her in a very good light but then I had to continue, so I de-emphasized the difficult part) had been of me fussing for her attention, batting around her hips (I was that small), her frustrated response as she stopped her efforts over the stove, threw the spatula, and screamed, “I can’t take this anymore! I’m leaving!” and walked out the door.
My next youngest memory of my mother was of her “washing my mouth out with soap” for something I’d said. I have no idea what it was, but I suspect the thing that enraged her was talking about some sexual abuse in the night. I was so obedient to my mother that after she left me in the bathroom, I followed her, prodding my tongue over chunks of soap stuck to my teeth and my mouth filling with saliva, to get permission to move the step stool so I could spit it all out.
Later, when my baby sister was born, I recall being told to keep my two younger siblings from getting into trouble when my mother took the baby in to nap with her. I was only five and felt burdened to keep two little ones from getting into things they shouldn’t. Of course, they didn’t want to listen to me, and things didn’t always go well. But I still have no memories of my mother’s face or her looking at me.
Today, when I describe anything weird to my siblings, they all ignore me in a similar way; they respond to everything “normal” and are absolutely silent about everything else, even the most extreme.
Once, after I’d woken with a Taser burn on my arm, my face looking as bad as I’ve ever seen it, and my physical energy totally drained for days, I crafted a letter to my siblings and edited it for three days until I thought I had something that was as brief as possible, but still well-documented, limited to what I thought they could handle, with a conclusion simply asking for their advice in addressing this common weirdness in my life, of waking with weird injuries and total exhaustion.
Two of my three siblings responded with one sentence each. My brother would pray for me; my older younger sister said she didn’t have any money to lend (I never mentioned money); and my youngest younger sister just didn’t respond.
Years earlier, I’d learned that all my family had met together without me for a special long weekend at the family cabin, and I was never told the nature of the meeting. I assume they all decided to do something like I’ve heard is done in mental health cases: only respond to what’s “real”; ignore what’s “not real.” I understand. Mom did her job well, and my siblings simply believe I’m somewhat crazy.
That’s not really a problem. I could always just live my life without communicating with my siblings. But one sibling will be executing the family estate one day, and my father’s will has some strange language about money NOT going to anyone who can’t care for him- or herself; and if my brother – who has, as a fundamentalist Christian, chosen to act very hostilely to me in the past, including telling me I’m not in touch with reality as he walked away, waving his hand as if to shoo away any words back from me) – actually believes I’m crazy, then I might get ZERO inheritance – unless I go live in an institution!
So I continue to treat my situation like a good scientist, and document, document, document. I have photos, testimonies, medical records, police records, and more. But my siblings want to hear of nothing; they want to continue to pretend I’m crazy, and no sexual abuse or mind control has had anything to do with our family.
Never mind that our family has connections to Masons, Mormons, the Military, and Hollywood. And one sister hired Madonna’s mother to be nanny to her baby daughter!
One other way I could interpret my siblings’ behavior is that they’re more knowledgeable than they let on, and they know our parents were involved and that I was given into mind control, but it’s best to pretend they don’t know, because it has always been in everyone’s best interests to protect our father (and mother, who passed away last year).
Or maybe it’s to protect themselves. Maybe they’re also in on it somehow. Maybe they became Satanists at some point, willfully or accidentally. Or maybe there’s some other reason.
I choose to believe they were simply encouraged from their earliest years by my mother and father to disbelieve me – because the controllers know that their experiments are not fully refined, and their subjects often “glitch” and realize the weirdness or pain of their lives and want to tell someone. So to head off that possibility, their subjects are called crazy or not dependable from their earliest days to everyone close to them.
The world tells me I have a good mind; I’ve scored high on college exams, Air Force exams (I never joined), and MENSA tests (also never joined). I’ve been offered two six-figure salaries; and in college received comments from three professors that my analyses were the most astute and creative that they’d read in their careers.
Last week, one of my sisters learned about the harsh treatment of migrants in our border jails, and I wrote back to say I wasn’t surprised because of how I’d been treated in jail as an activist. It involved being Tasered and losing 24 hours of memory. She ignored me.
The sad part is my family and exes seems to have also convinced my daughter to distrust me too. My son I’ve chosen not to tell much to, so he’s the only positive “real” connection, but I haven’t had the courage to actually be real, lest he turn away also.
So I live with NO acknowledgement of my reality or the pain or anxiety I suffer, except from random friends now and then who’re dealing with something similar.
I worry about my family. I’d like to protect my kids and granddaughter and some of my nieces and nephews, but the mind controllers have been plotting for decades to keep exactly this from happening.
So I live philosophically. Each of us has their own lessons to learn, and no one can help another learn them. We can support and encourage and love, but ultimately we can’t help.
We have our own spiritual Helpers though, and so I pray for my children and grandchildren, and even my siblings and father and mother on the other side, and my nieces and nephews – that their Helpers are doing what’s possible, and I don’t need to worry. It’s sad, though, never having had siblings to whom I could relate normally.
I’ve enjoyed that sense of family when I’ve connected with the other side. It’s not very often though, at least that I remember.
I don’t blame anyone. We’re all mind controlled to some degree, and some of us with the worst of it can see it better and sooner; those who can’t see it have every reason not to look: it’s scary. I don’t blame them for looking away.
I’m sure life would be delightful if I could pretend this stuff wasn’t real and “make it real,” and I tried that for ten years. But after a decade of denial, throwing all my life energy into other activities, they were always sabotaged and brought down by mysterious forces, either working in me or working through others.
So I accept that my eyes and ears and good mind are right; I’m mind controlled. And those around me have been mind controlled to ignore what I’d like to tell them.
I respect mind control. It’s next to impossible to combat. At least I can’t, yet. So I can’t blame others for turning their backs on me.
Hopefully, we’ll talk about it in the afterlife.
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Podcasts let us listen on our phone while washing dishes, walking to the mailbox, driving to town. Or we can sit on our sofa – away from the computer – lights off, eyes closed, a fine radio production washing over.
“In the Dark” is a quality production worth this attention. I’m grateful those radio professionals are in the world today. Each episode makes me hungry for the next. And it’s all true investigative journalism, told well.
The series exposes suspiciously negligent police work – something some of us need to be reminded happens sometimes.
Season 2 takes on another case, and I’m in the midst of bingeing through the second season now.
It’s satisfying to hear an example of this widespread horror exposed.
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I have quite a few memories of past lives, from a young sensual woman during a period of ease and abundance on the African savanna, to a teen girl in romance in Scotland, a young girl child on a farm somewhere in feudal Europe, a woman burned at the stake, a just-deceased Euro-American pioneer mother wife to a Native man hated by her parents who tortured him to death, a woman in Cochise’s tribe at the time they were told they’d be removed from their land by train and taken away, and more.
Some say “past lives” are not our past lives necessarily, perhaps just anyone’s, and I won’t argue, because I don’t know. I’ll only say these all felt like a past life, a memory, complete with emotions and contextual knowledge that I’d not known before but seemed to feel throughout my body and which were familiar and somehow part of me. But I’m willing to agree they could all be someone else’s life, never mine in any strict sense, thought for some reason I connected with them and felt a flash of their life. In any case, they are instructive.
In one life, I was a sex priestess in a temple of white marble, flowing with wonderfully heated waters. I knew I was very fortunate, one of the most fortunate in all the land. I lived in luxury. I consorted with only the most refined of men. I experienced ecstasy constantly. I may have also had the responsibility to heal men returned from war, as some have recounted – and it seems right – but at the moment of my flashback, I was impressed only by the beauty and technique we’d developed in raising our art to higher and higher refinements. It was a day of perfection in an environment of every sort of beauty and delight. Daylight fell through open spaces above, naturally lighting the walls and floor of white wet marble crossed by a long steaming pool.
There was enough texture on the marble for me to walk comfortably across it to a doorway where I turned and found myself nearly face-to-face with two men in conversation. I knew them. They’d both been entertained as consorts at one time but had not been chosen, because their ways didn’t adapt to our refinements. They were secretly, quietly enraged, I realized as I met their eyes, and I was instantly shocked and afraid. They were plotting to force huge changes on our world.
They planned to upset the entire system, take it out of the hands of women, and get sex whenever they wanted. They were stronger, after all, and there was no reason why they couldn’t. They only had to demonstrate to other men the power that could be had if they’d only take it. Far more men had been rejected than accepted, therefore they were the majority. They would spread the word, convince men the women could not longer tell them no. They could do it. They would do it. They would pump their seed into as many women as they wanted.
No one had ever treated women like that, at least not that we knew of in our refined world. It was a shocking and abhorrent idea – men being violent to women! But in that moment, seeing those eyes, I knew how badly their souls hurt from the rejection we’d been inconsiderate of. In that moment, I knew we’d failed. Our refinements had not included sensitivity to their disappointment, and it had been graver than we’d imagined. It had seriously wounded at least one and turned into something vile. He hated all women because of us. And now he wanted to hurt very badly all the women of the world.
I felt great sorrow for him in that first moment, to realize and feel his pain – that we’d neglected – but I also felt real fear, to see that he’d transformed his pain into active, righteous, empowering anger which he had every intention of carrying out, to prove his manhood. Not right there and then, but later, in a more far-reaching way. I had no skills in dealing with courseness, and I shrunk back.
This memory came back just now – probably triggered by the wounds I’m currently experiencing. And it caused me to count, for the first time, all the wounds I’ve suffered to my womb throughout my life.
First, I was sexually abused repeatedly as a child and put on stage in sex shows by a psychopathic conspiracy that practiced mind control. I saw my stretched-out genitals at age thirteen and have never forgotten the image or my dumb shock. I never looked at myself again for my years, or thought about it; my brain simply froze in a variation of “This does not compute” and then reset my attention onto something else.
When I was a young married woman, I became very worried for a couple of weeks when my husband and brother decided to drive across the country and return with a kilo of marijuana to supply our currently dry county. The night before they were to leave, I became so sick that their plants were cancelled. We ended up in the Emergency Room where I had emergency exploratory surgery. My ailment turned out, not surprisingly, to be “nothing.” But when the surgeon removed my stitches one week later, my incision gaped open, which he taped back with bandaids. They didn’t work well and left me with a long, warbling, wide vertical scar down my belly.
When I gave birth to my son, my first child, the doctors did something wrong with the pitocin they used to induce my labor (unnecessarily) and put my baby into shock, slowing his heart rate, then they gave me another drug which stopped my labor after they’d broken my water – all this when I knew I wasn’t even overdue. I’d told them I wasn’t due for another few weeks, but in the end I submitted – as I’ve been programmed to do.
I was in danger. All day I labored futilely because, not due yet, my hormones had not yet cued the chemicals to make the plates of my pelvis spread and become flexible, so my son’s head got stuck. They couldn’t push or pull him back, because it would break his neck. That ruled out a Caesarian. They tried all their techniques, and I was fatiguing. To “help,” they put a gas mask on my face (and soon tied my hands out to my sides to keep me from trying to remove it), gave me extra oxygen, and forced me to sleep between contractions with some sort of short-acting gas. (What this did to my baby, I wonder.) Then, a minute or so later when another contraction came on, they woke me up with a different gas when it was time to push again.
I tried to get natural air by scrunching up my face to make a gap in the side of the mask, which worked just once, and then someone came to hold it on my face, hard.
The next time I was awake, they told me they were going to use a vacuum extractor. In all my Lamaze classes, I’d never heard of it used for birth, only as a tool for doing abortions, so I thought they were going to pull my baby out in pieces to save my life. But, of course, I couldn’t ask any questions.
The doctors’ hands were too big, so they stopped and he explained he was going to cut the wall between my vagina and my rectum, so the he could get his hands around my son’s head. My life was being saved. At the sound and numb sensation of scissors cutting through my intimate flesh, I fell unconscious again.
I might have realized then that I was giving birth, but with uppers and downers flashing through my bloodstream every few minutes (and my baby’s!), I didn’t process information well, and still thought they were performing tough-decision, rescue-a-life surgery – as I pushed and they cut and gave orders and worked frantically under bright lights while I struggled on my back with limbs spread to the four directions.
When a nurse tapped me on the arm and said, “You have a baby boy,” I answered, “I have a baby?”
He was in a coma, but would come out of it in 30 minutes, and immediately yank the wires and sensors off his chest and, thankfully, begin a normal life.
My mother worried that I’d have problems from the surgery but, miraculously, I healed perfectly. My second womb wound, invisible to all but my gynecologists.
In my second marriage, I had an ectopic pregnancy and needed emergency surgery again. The doctors “saved my life” once more, but left me with a horizontal scar, which healed weirdly. Three. Those are the explainable ones.
Around the age of 50, during an era when I was experiencing strange events that seemed like “alien abductions,” my partner and I were beginning intercourse when I realized I could not stand to be touched inside. I investigated and found my g-spot had been sliced deeply from back to front and twice from side to side, cutting it into six squarish pieces which hung where one normal half-spherical g-spot had been. And the gaps between them – including the slice right up the middle where a partner’s finger would naturally curl – could not be touched. The cuts were deep and, it seemed, down to major nerves. Three more cuts makes six.
One night, driving home from a women’s spirituality gathering, my Volkswagen van’s lights went out and I coasted to a stop. It seemed like a half-hour that I sat at the wheel, telling myself to walk back to the gas station to call my partner, but I couldn’t move. When I snapped out of my trance and drove home, I thought I was a half-hour late, but my partner was nearly frantic because I was over two hours late returning.
When we tried to have intercourse the next morning, I experienced a new sort of pain – not painful to the touch, but when either of us tried to stretch my tissues even a bit. It felt as though I had something inside my g-spot, above the cut. It would make sex impossible for years. Seven womb wounds.
(That afternoon, I blew a large blot clot out of my nose, something I’ve never done before or since. The malfunctioning lights, immobilization, missing time, and nasal blood clot are all classic symptoms of “alien abduction,” which some people think is a cover memory for CIA abduction.)
Years later, in relationship with a photographer, I would convince him to take a photograph of my insides, and I saw for myself – and am now able to prove to others – that I’ve been both cut and punctured – by someone with the power to make me amnesic.
These days, I sometimes wake up with what seem to be injection bruises on my thighs, other bruises, healed scars, Taser burns, and even biopsy scoop marks – all making me quite sure I’m still being used at night as an amnesic subject for who-knows-what.
And every now and then I also wake up with irritations I don’t think I should have, given my habits: I wake with a sensation that I’ve been inoculated with something, and the inoculators chose to do their work on my anus – where I’m far less likely to photograph it for posting online! Other times I get reactions there as if I’ve been inoculated with a new strain of herpes. (The first strain I got by my own promiscuity, so I know the difference between my original strain, which faded away long ago, and the new ones (which swell badly) which I suddenly get “out of the blue,” even when I’ve been abstinent – at least in my conscious life.)
It’s tough to be an experimental subject of mind controllers and/or aliens. It’s’ too flippin’ weird to think about very much, and too weird to tell others. They don’t want to hear. Or sometimes they laugh, and I know they been influenced by cultural cartoons. So I keep it all to myself, socially. I live a lie. Unnecessarily.
Because, it’s not really weird at all. It makes perfect sense if we can get over the alien cartoons we’ve all been subjected to.
Extra-dimensional beings – recognized in every culture except modern America (the most mind-controlled nation on Earth) – have always been involved with humans, according to every ancient history and religion of every culture on the planet.
Just as humans have always domesticated animals and today abduct wild ones from the forest to tag and study, so do aliens do the same to us. Just as the CIA and military and other elements experiment on unwitting soldiers, orphans, and other less-regarded groups, so do certain aliens (and CIA and military, most likely with them) experiment on us. It’s really not strange at all. It’s what humans do. We have no grounds to call it strange or impossible.
And those of us who give them trouble? Even if we think we have every right to object, they re-assign us to worse experiments.
I was thinking about all this tonight, reflecting that I’m in very good health – with a few exceptions. My weaknesses are my heart – probably a result of all the electroshock used on me as a child in mind control programming. My jaw is extremely tight – probably a result of living with a command all my life to not tell – which affects my neck and upper back. And then there’s my intimate areas – all hacked up.
I wondered aloud to my partner whether I had any karma to clear – or whether I was being tracked by some malevolent spirit who’d somehow, maybe accidentally, attached to me in some past life. Perhaps my mind control programmers – some with Satanic bents, I’ve read – drew in an evil and particularly vicious spirit which attached to me.
Of course, it could also just be an unfortunate coincidence that happened to fall to me. Things do happen in clusters sometimes….
Then I thought of the sex priestess.
I wondered if the man in the temple might even be following me through lifetimes, controlling the minds and hands of doctors and others, and these seven wounds are his handiwork? Or maybe he’s long gone, but his activism set a course of history, and I’m just one of many still suffering.
My response? Hatred? Sure, I’ve felt hatred sometimes for whomever it is dogging me, making my life so very difficult to live at times, driving me to the edge of absolute despair time and again.
Then I remembered my ancient sorrow for the man, and I wondered if, in all my lifetimes, I ever said I’m sorry to him. Having only the fleetingest scraps of remembrance, I don’t know, so I’ll assume I didn’t and say it now: I’m so very sorry.
Perhaps this is why I’ve been so concerned with men all of my life. I feel strongly for their pain in this culture which won’t let boys cry, and tells men they must always be strong. I feel like I’ve always had an intuition about their secret wounds and a lot of compassion for men, even when other women love to criticize, laugh at, and even hate them.
Once, in grade school, I made a boy cry, and I’ve never forgotten the pain in his eyes, and I deeply regret it. (Blessings on your now.)
This bruise showed up ten days after another very similar showed up on the back of my leg. No explanation except: ongoing violence by my controllers done while I’m made amnesic.
I’m getting very tired of life, and, at 62, with occasional spells of heart problems that make me so weak, I can’t do much, I’ve often thought I was certainly close to passing over.
But I keep living, and I wonder what I am supposed to do. Fight the torturing controllers? Make things difficult for them? Document them? Submit to them? (crosses my mind now and then) Or say I’m sorry?
Is there anything that makes sense for me to do, that has something to do with the fact that I’ve seen the darkest underbelly of civilization?
My body tells me something my mind could never grok when I went to church and studied theology in college: Satan and his demons are loose on this Earth. We’ve been lied to about it, and tricked with cute cartoons to make us not see, so the evil does unacknowledged.
This is not a religious belief.
It is carved into my body.
Last week I was “up,” and I’ll be up again in a day or two, but really: What is there to do at this point in my life that makes sense?
Ah! …I have another past-lifetime flashback – just recalled! It’s a connection (described fully here), with Anais Nin, a writer.
Oh! And she was also (how could I forget?) a sexual scandal in her day, but for the purpose of appreciating the parallel, I’ll call her as a sex priestess of a sort. Ex-patriot in Paris in the 40s, lover of Henry Miller and others, pornographer when she needed money.
Anais and I write a lot alike – self-indulgent some might say, I say introspective and useful. But, actually, I can’t read her writing! I’ve read a lot about her and have a few books that include her writing, but when I’ve tried to read her (one paragraph is as far as I’ve ever gotten, even in a book I loved and read every other word of, voraciously), I literally shivered in humiliation and had to quit. (One day I hope to read more, but I’m tired of trying for now.)
So, given I am a writer, somehow connected to another powerful writer, born into this Darkness, what am I to do? I must write. So I do, and I speak when invited. Few want to hear it. Still, it’s my job.
So, there you go, Friends. I’m very sorry to bring you a reminder of this Darkness. But because I have, we now have a chance to deal with it, right? That’s the good part. It’s our greatest survival need: to see properly our surroundings. Right?
Then what? Fight? Dance? I say: “Aikido!” Or maybe all three.
And call on Cosmic Help – whomever that is for you. (I feel deep connection with Christ, though not Christianity.)
If we see our world clearly together – despite their efforts to keep us in the dark, we can act in greater unison and power.
And so I share these difficult things with you – for our communal enlightenment.
Thank you for being courageous enough to hear.
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