https://archive.org/stream/2003SullivanUnshackledASurvivorsStoryOfMindControl/2003%20%20Sullivan-%20Unshackled,%20A%20Survivor's%20Story%20of%20Mind%20Control_djvu.txt Full text of "Unshackled, A Survivor's Story Of Mind Control Mkultra Monarch" See other formats "Ten years ago we provided support to a woman exiting a ritual abuse-torture (RAT) family and group. At that time the social silence about the reality of RAT was deafening. Kathleen Sullivan is continuing to break this silence by speaking of the atrocities she experienced as an infant, child, youth, and vulnerable adult. Her writings are an important contribution to a civil and human rights movement focused on devel- oping a child friendly world." — Linda MacDonald RN, BN, MEd & Jeanne Sarson RN, BScN, MEd "I met Kathleen Sullivan near the beginning of my healing as a ritual abuse survivor. We connected through PARC-VRAMC. It was early in the survivor movement, but Kathleen was already there reaching out to others and sharing her knowledge of recov- ery issues. I purchased one of her books, Lessons We Have Learned: A Survival Guide, and found it full of valuable information. She told me about her living memorial garden to honor the dead and comfort those who had survived. I was able to see some of the gardens, walkways and monuments in her newsletters and on her website. "When I considered starting my own non-profit organization, it was Kathleen who pointed me in the right direction and assured me I could succeed. With determination, I found my way through the stacks of government forms. Kathleen has remained a courageous and outspoken advocate to this day. She is an example of strength and fortitude. I wish her much success with her new book. She has earned that success. May her book be a means to educate the public and assist survivors around the world.' — Jeanne Adams, founder of Mr. Light & Associates, Inc. "Kathleen Sullivan makes the critical connection between the communications industry and the mind control projects. Her ability to see through the pain and horror to the truth, the actual reasons behind the systematic abuse of children, is exceptional. I highly recommend this book for those interested not only in what happened, but why." — Patty Rehn, US Contact The Advocacy Committee for Human Experimentation Survivors (ACHES -MC) "We all look for the purpose God gave us to be put on this earth. Sometimes we come to find out that purpose. If I have one thing to teach from my experience, it is that we must be knowledgeable so we don't continue to make the same mistakes and allow bad people to take advantage of us and our children. The answer is there. Dig for truth and then share it." — Jackie McGauley, Advocate, Affirming Children's Truth (ACT) TunnelReport @ aol . com "As a criminal justice trainer and consultant on cult crimes and crimes against children, one of the difficult tasks is coming to terms with the unacceptable evils that are done against little ones. One has a choice: ignore it and pretend it isn't real or face it and do something about it. The second way is more painful and difficult; but to do nothing is to let the evil flourish. Ms. Sullivan's book is a book that demands a response. Read it only if you are prepared to be responsible for the awful truth you will learn, and brave enough not to turn away." — Dr. Gregory Reid, DD Occult Research and Crime Consultants Unshackled A Survivor's Story of Mind Control Kathleen Sullivan A Dandelion Books Publication www.dandelionbooks.net Tempe, Arizona In Memorium Penny Cindy "Momma" Molly Daddy K. J. Hodges David Deborah Peter D. Rose Grandma S. Lola D. Valerie Wolfe Lorraine B. I am grateful for having had the opportunity to spend a bit of time with each of you. I thank you for having shown me — in your unique ways — the better path. I look forward to seeing you again in the next life. Until then, God bless and keep you. With all my love, Kathleen Contents Foreword xvii Author's Introduction xxiii Government Programming 1 What Happened? 1 Agencies and Organizations 2 Government Facilities 3 Black Ops 5 Travel to Exotic Places 7 Firelight 9 Validation 12 Early Years 15 Good Times 15 Infancy 19 Early Childhood 20 Elementary School 21 Middle School 21 Ritual Abuse 22 Dr. Black 24 Undamaged 25 Nazi Meetings 27 Dr. J 27 Sexual Abuse 33 Dissociation 33 Orgies 33 Parental Dissociation 34 Pedophilia 35 Sex Equaled Love 36 Kiddy Porn 37 Comfortably Numb 38 ix X Contents Family Matters 42 Physical Conditioning 42 My Father's Sadism 42 Grandma M's Kindness 47 Grandpa M's Control 49 Racism 49 Interpreter 50 Nazi Recruitment 5 1 Paternal Grandparents 52 Basic Programming 57 Western Electric 57 Experimental Laboratory 58 Chain Programming 59 Wizard of Oz 61 Otherword 63 Greek Alphabet 64 Horrification 72 House of Horrors 72 Arson 73 Nightmares 74 Perpetrator Alter-States 74 Adolescence 77 Junior High 77 Cross-Country 78 High School 78 Georgia Rebellion 8 1 Georgia 8 1 Acting Out 82 Sexuality 83 Pastor Hodges 84 Exercise Regimen 85 Violence 86 LSD 87 Secret Investigation 87 Contents xi Escalation 88 Running Away 89 Mission Possible 90 School Intervention 90 Busted 91 Turnaround 92 Volunteer Work 92 Divorce 93 Married 96 Albert 96 Albert's Family 97 Pregnant 98 Illinois 99 Married 100 Nursing Home 101 The Sisters 104 Baby Rose 104 Love Lost 106 Brainwashed 114 Immersion 114 Energy Exchange 115 Submission 116 Insanity 118 Memory Manipulation 121 Temp Jobs 121 Op Preparations 122 "Husbands" 124 Blammo 124 Movie Screens 126 Memory Scrambles 129 Enslaved 132 Ecclesia Split 132 Local Church 133 Atlanta 133 xii Contents Local Airport 133 Aryan Cult Network 134 Child Victims 137 Cover Positions 141 Reinsurance Clerk 141 Maryland Casualty 141 Cotton States 146 Covert Activities 147 Interventions 155 Grandma's Gift 155 Meadowlark 155 The Mansion 157 William 159 ASA 160 Coercion 160 Freedom 164 Baptist Church 164 Albert's Affair 166 Facing the Truth 169 Not Crazy 170 Going It Alone 171 New Ministry 171 Falling Apart 172 New Family 174 Bill 174 Pentecostal Church 174 Religious Control 175 Married 175 Blended Family 177 Learning to Communicate 177 Schism 178 Arrest 178 Crossroads 179 Letting Go 180 Contents xiii Reality Check 183 Codependency 183 Incest 184 Notifying the Authorities 184 Arrest Warrant 185 Intimidation 185 Left-Hand Memories 186 West Paces Ferry Hospital 188 Dr. Adams 189 Suicide Attempt 190 Death 194 Gone 194 Dreaming of Justice 194 Phone Call 195 Final Visit 195 Funeral 196 Disposal 197 Betrayal 198 Epitaph 199 Healing 202 Charter-Peachford 202 Clash with Religion 207 SIA " 209 Therapeutic Fragments 210 Alter-States 226 Back to the One 226 Inner Children 230 New York City Ritual 234 Suicide Programming 235 Bethesda PsychHealth 236 Cindy - Age 5 238 Nikki-Agel3 238 Dolly/Dreia - Age 7 239 Andreia - Teenaged Part 240 Catalina - Teenaged Part 241 xiv Contents Little Kathy - Age 4 241 Renee - Age 8 242 Kate - Adult Part 242 Home Alters 243 Internal Cooperation 256 Traumatic Memories 277 Dr. R 277 Dr. X 277 Charter-Grapevine 279 Witch Hunt 281 Therese 284 Black Op Alter-States 284 Refraining 286 Return to Texas 288 Exploring the Dark Side 289 Verifications 292 Phobias 293 Witness 298 Suicide? 298 Memories of Dad's Murder 300 "You Killed Your Dad" 303 Was He Moved? 303 Multiple Emotions 304 Self-Defense 305 Suicide by Lifestyle 305 Connections 325 Bill's Past 325 More Verifications 327 Reaching Out 335 "Good Guy" Perpetrators 339 The Luciferian 339 Dr. J 343 Unethical Hypnosis 350 Recycled Predators 351 Contents xv Going Public 357 Talking to a Wall 357 Internet Connections 357 Reaccessed 358 Believe the Children 359 Helen 360 Silenced 361 The Void 369 This is to Mother You 369 On the Wings of an Angel 374 Letting Go of the Guilt 378 Sociopathic Mentality 378 Divided Personality 380 Addiction to Secrecy 382 Defusing the Threat 383 Cult Recruitment 384 Nazi Sadism and Rituals 385 Never Forgotten 387 Understanding My Father 389 Not Guilty 393 Saying Goodbye 402 Goodbye, Fantasy Mom 402 Goodbye, Childhood Family 406 Coming Home 410 New Life 418 Progress 418 Gift to Myself 419 Bibliography 425 Recommended Reading 430 Supportive Organizations for Ritual Abuse and Mind Control Survivors 433 Index 437 It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a person stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance. — Robert Kennedy Foreword By H. Michael Sweeney 1 What is mind control, this curious force that is rarely mentioned in the mass media? Mind control can be traced back to the earliest of ancient history, in the sacrificial rites of the worshipers of Baphomet and other Satanic idols of Biblical times. It is also a tool that has been scientifically developed and cultivated by the CIA and other intelligence organizations; it is ultimately an instrument of political control. The focused and intentional abuse of a small child can result in forcing the mind to split into multiple personalities, a phenomenon that under normal circumstances has traditionally been thought of as rare. Those who use it as a tool to program people want us to believe that Multiple Personality Disorder, or Dissociative Identity Disorder, as it is now known, does not exist, or that patients who display its symptoms are either prompted to do so by dishonest therapists, or are imitating something they have seen in a book or movie. In reality, the mind of a normal child readily splits into alter-personalities when repeatedly and inescapably subjected to unspeakable terrors. The split-off alter contains the memories of the terrors behind a veil of amnesia. Though deeply scarred, this terror-ridden fragmentary personality will be suppressed, leaving the primary self relatively free to continue in life without further displaying any symptoms of the suffering the victim has endured. Sadly, this desperate form of self-preservation can be manipulated with evil intention. In mind-control programming, this effect is achieved time and time again, creating dozens, hundreds, or even, as with Kathleen Sullivan, thousands of fragmented alter personalities. Each tormented alter has a unique identity, life experience, personality, set of moral values, skills and capabilities, fears and weaknesses, and even a unique understanding of reality itself. In fact, some can be so detached from reality that they believe they are objects or animals, not even human at all. These beliefs reflect their programming. How they are actually used is up to their pro- grammers or handlers. xvii xviii Foreword Programmed operatives are not fictitious entities invented for theatrical productions. Take The Manchurian Candidate, an action-adventure-spy thriller. It is considered a form of imaginative entertainment; however, the book and film were based on top-secret, classified information involving the intelligence activities of Red China, Korea, and the United States. This knowledge is in the hands of other nations, too, including the "good guys" in England, Canada, and Australia. As early as World War One, countries on both sides relied on early "prototypes" for spy work, ever advancing the technology and learning by its use as they went. Through methodical manipulations via drugs, hypnosis, torture and training, it is possible to create a Manchurian Candidate; a programma- ble person with absolute obedience. There seems to be no limit to the complexity and ingenuity employed in this process. Handlers pick and choose alters, assign them duties, and give them their own set of memo- ries, instructions, triggers, and fail-safe booby traps, to ensnare anyone attempting psychological reconstruction of the self. Once the ability to fragment has been established, other alters are cultivated to amplify their skills and taught how to best serve their master. Examples of controlled programming can be found among serial killers, mass murderers, and even terrorists whose "inexplicable" crimes explode in living color on our television screens. As much as I would like to, I cannot discount the vastness of this phenomenon. The sad fact is, the technology is so well-researched, and so easy to employ, it is being used in truly creative ways. I estimate there are now tens of thousands of "sleepers" in place and certainly hundreds of active programmed operatives with experiences comparable to Kathleen Sullivan's. Other experts in the field mention even higher estimates. Evidence of the perpetration of mind control by agencies of the United States government has found its way into the Congressional Record and proposed state and national legislation. Government documents from MKULTRA and Project Paperclip have been released under the Freedom of Information Act. Patents for devices that allow control of the mind have been filed. Articles in medical journals and scientific papers discuss advancements in the technology. Interviews with medical professionals who are dealing with the aftermath of uncontrolled experimentation and manipulation have been published. Themes involving mind control are found in fiction, music, television and film, and documented in confessions Foreword xix by perpetrators and victims. Brazen bragging by the likes of Satanist and military psyops expert, Michael Aquino, has placed valuable confirmations on the record. Those few brave victims of mind control who have come forward, typically report being used as lab rats in bizarre experiments, and in many cases, sent on missions. What makes Kathleen Sullivan's story so remarkable is that she reluctantly admits having been used to kill. In the course of relating how that came about, she reveals unique and invalu- able insights into the infrastructure, the methodologies, and the purpose behind it all. Our first instinct is to turn away from any ugliness. Although the experiences revealed in Unshackled are painful and often repugnant, we dare not turn away, for this is not only a bold and courageous revelation; it also serves notice that just as we are all victims of these atrocities, so we all have the potential to free ourselves from their insidious influence, to resist and transcend them. Our whole society is affected by the sanctioned use of our own non- consenting citizens as programmed assassins. Insofar as we are persuaded by propaganda not only to tolerate such a practice, but also to endorse it, we all become enmeshed in the machinery that makes mind control work. In becoming aware of the baneful influence of propaganda, it is helpful to bear in mind that our world history is not the random happenstance as presented in what they call the "news." I am skeptical of messages pur- veyed by the mass media because these corporations are largely owned by military contractors and have been compromised by CIA interests ever since Operation Mockingbird; at this point you will find thousands of intelligence operatives in key positions of what you may believe to be our "free press." Thus, whenever some explosion, assassination or other tragedy seems to "just happen," especially when there are unasked and unanswered questions, there is a very good chance that a programmed operative was involved, either as the doer of the deed, or as a patsy set up to take the blame for it. The questions that should be asked will become readily apparent. To unravel the clues, always start with the question, "Cui bono?" Who benefits, or whose agenda will now be less encumbered? Then ask what social changes are being promoted by opinion-makers, often citing reports of polls. Connect the dots, and a recognizable picture of mind control will emerge. XX Foreword Most victims of mind control programming are not assassins. Many have been used less dramatically to infiltrate and manipulate the devel- opment of corporations, foundations, agencies, and other socially influ- ential infrastructures. Many more seem not to have been used at all; as sleepers, they may simply be awaiting some future event requiring them to be triggered into action. While historically, the CIA has been the most significant developer of programmed operatives, today it is clear that the same technology has been widely used by other groups, including intelligence agencies of other nations, various mafias and occult groups, select "elite" families, and perhaps most frightening of all, certain churches and fraternal organizations. What makes the latter so frightening is that many of them operate networks of hospitals and clinics that specifically involve them- selves in the creation of programmed victims, as well as the recapture and reprogramming of those whose control mechanisms seem to be slipping. In my first book, The Professional Paranoid, I listed over 400 CIA fronts and CIA-influenced companies and institutions. Fully half of these are involved with mind control. Half of those seem bent on convincing us that mind control does not work, and that complaints of ritual abuse are nothing more than false memories induced by bad therapists. I'd rather that was true. But in point of fact, nearly a third of all my clients turn out to have suffered ritual abuse and/or programming, though when they initially reached out for help, they generally had no concept of what lay behind their problems. Virtually every one of these people has had some exposure to cults, military intelligence or the CIA. None had been to therapists, except those belonging to these groups — their programmers. Mind control is a covert crime perpetrated by covert means. There are organizations which have been established to rush in and ensure any exposure of the crime is dealt with quickly, and effectively covered up with disinformation. It thus remains the perfect crime, reduced to nothing more than a mysterious bump in the long, dark night of our political and social nightmare. Victims of mind control often do not realize they are victims. They are even less likely to wake up to their own reality if there are people delib- erately put into their lives to ensure the secrecy-people disguised as friends, relatives, or coworkers-their handlers and programmers. In my book, MC Realities, I offer a long list of symptoms and clues to help identify such unhappy states, as well as advice on how to fight back. Foreword xxi It is not a hopeless journey, but it is a perilous and difficult one. This book is testimony that success can be had. Unshackled will cause many readers to question whether we are being told the truth about the political and social landscape of our world. If you value the purpose of our laws and our constitutional rights, if you treas- ure free will and the pursuit of happiness, you will realize that these rights are in jeopardy for all of us, when they are denied to anyone. Notes 1. H. Michael Sweeney is the author of the following publications: • The Professional Paranoid: How to Fight Back When Investigated, Stalked, Harassed, or Targeted by Any Agency, Group, or Individual. • MC Realities: Understanding, Detecting, and Defeating Mind Control and Electronic Weapons of Political Control Technology. • The ProParanoid Newsletter. • The ProParanoid Reference CD-ROM: A collection of materials useful to victims, investigators, and students of the intelligence community, mind control, and political intrigues. These publications are available from his website, http://www.proparanoid.com. Readers may request a sample newsletter by sending an email to theprogrammedassassinฎ proparanoid.com. Author's Introduction By way of introduction, I am above all a dedicated American. A physician might describe me as a "well-nourished Caucasian female of average height and weight," and note that I have naturally brown, short straight hair and gray-blue eyes. I am neither beautiful nor ugly, which means that most people would scarcely notice me in a crowd-an important asset during my covert past. As far back as I can remember, my IQ has tested toward the high end. I'm grateful for my intelligence because I have been able to use my mind analytically to come to terms with what was done to me. Because of the traumas I sustained for more than three decades, I spent most of my life severely dissociated. From one day to the next, I didn't know who I was. Although I'm now fairly integrated, I may continue to have occasional flashbacks and may shift more in my moods than those who have never been prone to dissociation. As of the date of Unshackled 's publication, I continue to study Social Work at a local university, with an additional minor in psychology. Although I straggle with an anxiety disorder (PTSD), I've managed-thus far-to keep a high grade point average. My initial vocational goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). I hope to help other trauma survivors find their way to richer and fuller healing, and to teach mental health professionals how to work more effectively with severely dissociated clients. In part, my healing process has focused on finding positive value in the years of trauma that I endured. If I didn't believe that I could turn evil into good, I would not have fought so hard to survive the pain of my past. 1 Unshackled has not been easy to write, nor will it be pleasant to read. Much of my past was ugly and brutal. Although I have done my best to remove any gory details that do not go to the very essence of my story, some sections will still be difficult to read. If you feel uncomfortable with any information in this book, please feel free to skip that section and go on to the next. xxiii xxiv Author's Introduction Although the traumas I describe may seem more than any human can endure, I assure you I not only endured them, but am now healing from their long-term effects. I hope that in a way, this book will be a testament to the strength and creativity of every ritual abuse and mind control sur- vivor. We've been through hell and have lived to tell you about it-if you're willing to listen. Too many TV shows, books, and movies promote the idea that being a professionally trained operative is exciting and adventurous. Nothing could be further from the truth. Assassinations in particular take assailants to a place in their souls where no mentally healthy person would want to go. One of the reasons I have chosen to tell my story is my anger at the people who broke my mind and conditioned me to become a mentally controlled slave, and at those men and women who used me to harm pre- cious innocents at the risk of my own life. I am angry that I have needed many tens of thousands of insurance benefit dollars to heal. I am angry that I am (as of the date of publication) still legally disabled because of what was done to my mind, body and soul. I am especially angry at detractors, some with "M.D." or "Ph.D." after their names, who publicly label ritual abuse and mind control survivors "fabricators" and "liars"-while hiding the fact that they (the detractors) have ugly covert reasons for attacking us. I am going public about my past because I have run out of patience with those who perpetuate the following lies: • Ritual crime does not occur in North America, or • Ritual abuse in North America is a phenomenon that has suddenly appeared out of thin air; • Because survivors' stories are bizarre, they cannot possibly have occurred (in other words, bizarre equals impossible); • Hypnosis cannot be used to influence people to perform acts against their will, or • Hypnosis doesn't exist; • Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), is fabricated, rare, and/or bizarre; • Dissociation is caused by demonic possession; • Pagans and occultists are demonically possessed or spiritually evil; Author's Introduction XXV • People commit evil acts because they are driven by evil spirits; • Recovered memories of childhood abuse are unreliable, fabricated, or have been implanted by unethical therapists; • Repressed memory doesn't exist; • People who remember, in therapy, that they were abused as children, are likely to drag the abusers through the court system and destroy their reputations; • Child sexual abuse survivors are not responsible for their decisions to remove themselves from unsafe family members, when they remember what those individuals did to them-their therapists are; • Child sexual abuse survivors are solely responsible (or maybe their therapists are, too) for "destroying" their childhood fami- lies if they say what was done to them; and therefore, • The child molesters and rapists are not responsible for the long- term effects of their crimes within the family and the lives of their victims; • People who claim to be survivors of child abuse are sick and want to stay in a fake victim role; • People who claim to have been abused by family members are playing a "blame game" to avoid taking responsibility for their emotional problems; • If FMSF spokespersons say that alleged child abusers-who have been successfully prosecuted-are not guilty, then they are innocent of all charges; • Because the victims cannot prove what had been to them, they have fabricated their memories of the abuse; • Sexual assaults against children are acts of love; • Children want to be sexually assaulted; • Children are not harmed by sexual assaults; • Documented ritual abusers always work solo — they are not usu- ally part of a larger criminal occult group that remains hidden; • Even though Timothy McVeigh and Eric Rudolph were certainly brainwashed by the leaders of isolationist Aryan cults that encour- aged violence, these young men and others like them have not been mentally controlled and manipulated to commit terrorist crimes; • The CIA's MKULTRA program never included experimentation on, or traumatization of, children; xxvi Author's Introduction • The CIA's mind-control programs ceased in the mid 1970s; • Such experimentation was unsuccessful and didn't go to the next step of creating mentally controlled slaves; • Only the CIA has used mind control techniques against nonconsenting citizens; • Those who claim to have recovered memories of having performed crimes in altered states of consciousness are seeking attention or want to be punished for crimes they never committed; • People who recover memories of having been abducted and harmed by aliens are psychotic or insane; • The CIA and US presidents never authorized illegal assassinations before 9/11; • The CIA created assassination techniques and tools but never used them before 9/11; • The worst of criminals can be identified by odd or deviant behaviors, isolationism, criminal records, a clear disinterest in participating in the local church, mosque or synagogue, making children uncomfortable by their presence, and so on; 2 • The worst of criminals work alone-they can't get along with other criminals and therefore cannot successfully network and do business with other criminals; • Pedophiles work alone-they don't meet as groups to share deviant materials and to assault children; • Only males sexually abuse children; • The worst of criminals don't operate in our neighborhood/town/ county/state/country. Most citizens in North America are still unaware of the existence of a large network of pedophiles and black-marketers who buy, sell, and use child and adult slaves in our continent and beyond. Because many of these slaves' bonds and chains are mental, they are invisible and difficult to prove in a court of law. Regardless, mental slavery is a clear and flagrant violation of our civil rights and should be addressed as such. 3 Although this book includes information about my having been used in controlled alter-states as an assassin, I am not suggesting that all, or even most, mind-control survivors were trained or used to kill. I do not know what percentage of us have. I fervently hope that we are a small Author's Introduction xxvii minority within the mind-control survivor community; if not, our country is in serious trouble. Several people have suggested that I and other mind-control survivors could have used information from fictional movies and television shows to create "false memories." Although a few people may have done this, many mind-control survivors recalled specifics about techniques, agencies, types of programming, and more-years before such material was made available through television shows and movies. Most likely, scriptwriters used our stories that were available to the public in books, magazines, postings and websites to create their quasi-fictional stories. Although fictional mind-control characters may appear sexually titillating, exciting, and appealing, our real experiences have consistently been demeaning and horrific. I will share a few of my verifications with you. The remainder will remain in my possession as "life insurance," to ensure the safety of my loved ones and myself. Until the early 1990s, I didn't know that I had a dissociative disorder and amnesia. My split-off altered states of consciousness (henceforth known as "alter-states" or "parts") had efficiently functioned away from my conscious awareness. Some people call this condition a "split personality," although it would be more accurate to say that my personality was shattered. Contrary to popular opinion, Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) is not schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a lifelong, hereditary chemical imbalance in the brain that is often successfully treated with psy- chotropic medications. Although a genetic component may increase a person's ability to develop DID, it isn't necessarily a lifelong disorder. It can be reversed, given the right kind of therapeutic help and support-in a safe environment. A common, knee-jerk reaction to hearing the stories of survivors of ritualized abuse and mentally controlled slavery is that-because our stories are bizarre to the extreme-they cannot possibly be true. I've also observed a secondary reaction to our horrific stories: after claiming our stories are fabricated, these people openly deride us. (I find this reaction bizarre. Would they also roll down their windows, then point and laugh at victims of serious car wrecks as they drive by?) I ask you to please keep in mind that we survivors have been exposed to hardcore criminal minds for whom what is considered bizarre in normal xxviii Author's Introduction society, is their acceptable norm. Most of these criminals (mostly men) are intelligent sociopaths who have zero conscience and no fear of the law. My primary tormentor, a brilliant and creative man, often said to his criminal associates, "If it works, why not?" In other words, he wasn't mentally and emotionally constrained by written and unwritten social mores and rules. He and his associates had no limitations, other than their humanness, and therefore did anything they chose to reach their goals. When deciding which life-information to incorporate in Unshackled, my litmus test was that I must be so certain about that information's validity, I would be (and still am) willing to swear to it in a court of law. I am reasonably certain, and am therefore willing to testify, that the CIA was the agency primarily responsible for my having been experi- mented on and traumatized in controlled settings as a child, to eventually be used against my conscious will as a covert slave-operative. 4 I do not, however, want the CIA to be scapegoated. Other federal agencies and groups, including criminal occult leaders and Mafia organizations, also use mind control techniques on unwitting victims. I still value most of the services the CIA provides for our country. Those of its many thou- sands of employees and contractors who genuinely seek to do what is right for our society and the world should not be held accountable for the actions of criminals who secretly operate among them. As I relate my past interactions with various organizations and groups, I am not suggesting that all of their members or employees would follow the examples of those individuals I was forcibly exposed to. Decent, caring people, as well as people of ill intent, can be found in every social and professional milieu. Where I mention the False Memory Syndrome Foundation (FMSF), I am not suggesting that all of its members are former CIA MKULTRA perpetrators, child molesters, and/or criminal occultists. Some members may have been falsely accused of crimes against children. Others may be so dissociated that they truly do not remember having hurt innocents. And some of the FMSF's supporters may have accepted the clever lies fed to them by more unsavory members-particularly its founders. 5 Although I do mention mind-control techniques that I've witnessed in several Christian denominations, I am not suggesting that all, or most, of their ministers and pastors choose to use mind-control techniques on their congregations. I sincerely hope that those who do, will remain a small minority. Author's Introduction xxix The opinions that I express in Unshackled are not the opinions of PARC-VRAMC [Positive Activism, Remembrance and Commemoration for Victims of Ritual Abuse and Mind Control], an advocacy organization I founded, nor are they the opinions of the book's publisher or editor. They are mine alone. I do not want it to be used as a tool to recklessly slander or libel any person. For that reason, regardless of the ways that certain individuals harmed me in the past, I will not name most of them. I am, however, willing to testify in court about them if their identities are made public, and about those perpetrators I do name. Although human nature tends to sanctify the dead, history should not be unnaturally revised or contorted to meet the emotional needs of surviving family members. Varying perspectives about an event or an individual can be equally valid. I ask that my childhood family respect my right to speak out about memories and recollections that may understandably differ from theirs. I regret any pain I stir up in the minds and hearts of those who know they were also victimized. And yet, I must remind them that I am not respon- sible for their pain; those who harmed them are. I hope that, if needed, they will seek professional help to cope with their painful pasts. After learning of this book, other family members who are active per- petrators may try (again) to callously assault my mind and my character in an attempt to silence me and to dissuade other observers in the family from remembering, breaking free, and speaking the truth. To these per- petrators: I have the right to speak out about what was done to me, and by whom. Although I have not named some of you, I reserve the right to do so. If I am challenged in court, I will gladly testify against you. I'm sick unto death of carrying the back-breaking burden of the knowledge of our family's sins against the innocent. I'm laying that burden down and will not pick it up again. If going public means losing any remaining ties to the family, so be it. I'm worth it. Because I focus attention on the behaviors of certain perpetrators who negatively changed the course of my life, I readily concede that the information I present about them may appear biased. I am not, however, suggesting that this is all they were and did. Some parts of their person- alities were not destructive, and they may have even enriched the lives of others. No one is all good or all bad. To protect the privacy of family members who acknowledge that they, too, were victimized, I will not reveal information from a number of their XXX Author's Introduction documents in my possession that directly verify some of my memories. Their stories belong to them. While I have my stepmother's express permission to name and write about some of my experiences with my father, I have not released the names of my stepmother, mother, ex-husband, maternal grandparents, or surviving daughter. If you happen to know their names or identities, please do not reveal them to others. My goal with this book is not to shame them-even though those who are perpetrators deserve to feel ashamed. I also ask that the privacy of my father's adult children be respected. To protect the identities of people I prefer not to name, I've given them the following aliases: Dr. J, Dr. T, Dr. X, Albert, Emily, Clyde, Dee, Fritz, Geena, Gerrie, Grandma M., Grandpa M., Grant, Dr. M, Helen, Janie, Jessie, Joan, Lucian, Pam, Pete, Poppa, Rose, and Therese. To trauma survivors: this is a non-fictional account of my life, no one else's. If you sense that certain sections are similar to your own history, please skip those sections to avoid possible memory contamination. Information about the criminal network within which that I was forced to co-exist may seem new and strange to some of you. My suggestion is to think of the groups and organizations comprising that network as a hidden co-culture that has operated, largely undetected, in Europe and North America since at least the 1940s. 6 Not unlike the mafias, these organizations have rules and mores that are drastically different from those of "normal" society. And yet, as a full-fledged co-culture, their world has existed in plain sight, totally interconnected with mainstream society, politics, religion, academia, business, banking, entertainment, and more. Although the leaders of this co-culture do not want the public to know that it exists, I hope Unshackled will help you to recognize some of their ideas and intentions, their activities and their endangered victims. In my past, I was extensively exposed to individuals and groups who practiced the occult religions of Druidism, Satanism, Paganism, Rosicrucianism, and Luciferianism. Although at times I may appear to be biased against occult practitioners, I beg you to take my expressions in context; it was certain practitioners of these beliefs who hurt me and others. In a similar way, I ask you to remember that not all Aryans and Neo-Nazis are like those who it is my regrettable duty to describe in this book. And please remember that most Germans are not Nazis. Author's Introduction xxxi Although I have written about a series of related crimes that I witnessed in Reading, Pennsylvania and in Cobb County, Georgia, I am not suggesting that local residents supported such activities, nor am I sug- gesting that local law enforcement personnel helped to conceal such crimes. The criminals were clever and well-financed, and had numerous high-tech resources that would have made detection and prosecution extremely difficult, if not impossible. Since 1991, I have met other survivors of ritual abuse and mind con- trol who independently verified my memories of experiences that we'd shared. Because they have reason to fear for their lives, I will not reveal their identities. To protect myself legally and to preserve my life and the lives of my loved ones, I will not provide any identifying details of any crimes that I was forced to perform in the past. Wherever you see the word "I," please be aware that I may be relating experiences that I'd had no awareness of, before I connected with split- off parts of my personality and mind. Because I am only one limited person, and because I value my privacy, I am not willing to provide one-on-one support for those who read this book or learn of my history in other ways. If you need support or infor- mation, please feel free to utilize the resources listed at the end of this book. What I experienced in my past, no other ritual abuse or mind control survivor has experienced in exactly the same way. And yet, much of what I describe in this book has also been experienced in a comparable way by many trauma victims and survivors. I gratefully dedicate this book to them. Kathleen A. Sullivan Tennessee, USA http ://www.kathleen- sullivan.com xxxii Author's Introduction Notes 1. "... positive reinterpretation of a traumatic event requires the victim to think about whatever positive gains or lessons can be gleaned from the horrific experience, and to focus on them in readjusting to the future . . . such positive reinterpretations are therapeutic, since they allow victims to see meaning in the world and to improve their self image, feeling stronger and more capable of confronting adversity." (Bower and Sivers, pg. 647) 2. If you are a parent or grandparent, daycare operator, school teacher, law enforcement officer, therapist, or minister; if you're none of the above and still want to know more about pedophile mentality; I strongly urge you to purchase Dr. Anna Salter's Predators: Pedophiles, Rapists, and Other Sex Offenders and keep it close at hand. Predators explains pedophile behaviors and mentality in a way I've not found in any other piece of literature. It breaks every entrenched myth about child molesters that can keep us from recognizing one in our midst-one who right now, this minute, may be hurting a child. I believe it should be required reading for anyone who has responsibility for the care of children. 3. Article XIII of the Bill of Rights states: "Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction." 4. I am amazed that journalists and reporters still ask CIA spokespersons and Directors, "Did your Agency perform assassinations?" and then report their nega- tive replies as gospel truth. Wouldn't they look ridiculous if they were to interview alleged murderers and then report their claims of innocence as true-simply because they said they were? The same holds true for those who accept-at face value-the CIA's claims that it didn't employ or use certain individuals, because it has "no records" of them. 5. Dr. Colin Ross wrote: "The FMSF is the only organization in the world which has attacked the reality of multiple personality in an organized, systematic fashion." (Bluebird, pg. 115) Why would they do this? I believe some of the doctors who per- petrated crimes as CIA mind-control contractors became afraid when their former victims started to remember. I believe this is why some of these perpetrators formed or joined the FMSF-to use it as a disinformation mechanism to discredit the victims in advance, by convincing the public that recovered memories and MPD/DID are "fabricated" or "implanted." Perhaps they knew that their victims would be less likely to remember the crimes against their humanity if public opinion was turned against them: It is far harder for memories to be recovered when there is a threat of social retribution or powerful social or political determinants of shame about what is recalled ... a more comfortable survival can come Author's Introduction xxxiii naturally into being when conditions mean that the unspoken is given a social voice. (Woodcock pp. 147, 149) 6. In their leaflet, Seeing Inside the Ritual Abuse-Torture Co-culture, Sarson and MacDonald wrote: We have named the culture of these destructive families/groups as a co-culture versus a sub-culture because the ritual abuse-torturers exist among us, undifferentiated from the neighbour next door. They draw no attention to themselves by way of unique clothing, body piercing, or hairstyle, or by race, or by living in a commune, or by openly advertising their evil-based beliefs and behaviours, hence the reason we have entitled our book, a work in progress, The Torturers Walk among Us. Perpetrators of RAT [ritual abuse/torture] can be living successful lives, making a living "legally" employed, hold positions of extensive positional power and community status, others have class and wealth, others are "simply common folk." (pg. 1) Government Programming What Happened? In the summer of 2001, 1 reached a critical crossroads in my life. For the past several years, I'd tried to follow the examples of a large part of the ritual abuse/mind-control survivor population-a community with whom I had the good fortune to connect. Due to their fear of being cruelly ridiculed or harmed again, most of those brave men and women have chosen to quietly get on with their lives, never speaking about their remembered experiences outside of their personal support networks. I've tried silence too, but it hasn't worked well for me. I felt like a counterfeit when I mimicked others around me, hiding my past while presenting myself as a "new" Kathleen. Because I wasn't being authentic, I was miserable. When I opened up to one of my professors about my past, she said I ought to write an autobiography. Blushing, I told the professor that a prolific author, Gordon Thomas, had already suggested the same. "Then why are you hesitating?" the professor asked. Accepting that teacher's challenge, I took a year off from my studies to do what I'd dreaded the most: to review thirteen years worth of hand- written journals that were full of my memories of traumatic events that I'd previously blocked out. I had stored the journals out of sight in my basement in six white plastic file cartons. The task of piecing together my life story from the journals still seemed impossible. As I slowly worked my way through them, I was troubled by how fragmented my memories still were. Most of those I'd recorded had, in reality, lasted only between ten seconds and a minute or two. 1 Assembling and connecting the memory fragments was like trying to reassemble a ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. 2 Day and night for over a year, as I reviewed the journals, an uncanny urgency drove me to absorb every bit of the memories-only to block them out again when I put the journals down! Determined to remember this time, I read them again and again, typed them onto diskettes, and reviewed them verbally in therapy. 1 2 Unshackled Although those memory reinforcement techniques seemed to help, I was horrified to rediscover some of the deeds I'd committed in the past, under the direct control of professional handlers. How could that have been me: so brutal, so cruel and heartless? How could I have actually wanted to hurt people and make them feel-in their bodies-the pain I had felt in my soul? What had happened to me? Agencies and Organizations Another question plagued me: who and what were the groups and facil- ities I remembered having been exposed to? Certainly, none of them had been part of my "normal life"! My journals indicated that I had performed illegal acts for a network of organizations, groups, networks and agencies. My alter-states knew most of them by code names. Various spook handlers referred to the CIA as the Web, the Agency, the Organization, the Family, and the Company. A former CIA Director, George Bush Sr., was sometimes called the webmeister. Some CIA employees who had also previously been in the OSS referred to themselves as the Old Guard. Several self-identified NSA employees I met in Atlanta in the late 1980s and early 1990s alternately referred to their agency as the Net and the Dragon. I was exposed to several Mafia members, beginning when I was a young child. Dad sometimes took me with him as his cover when he met with mobsters who may have been members of the Colombo-Profaci crime family that operated in the Northeast. As a young adult, I met mob members in Chicago. Later, I met members of Trafficante's organization and was taken more than once to a compound in Florida that I knew as Marina Del Largo-not to be confused with Donald Trump's resort, which has a similar name. I also met and interacted with mobsters in Atlanta. (I will not provide any other details about my experiences with any of these groups or individuals.) I knew NASA by its official name. I was taken to meetings of groups known as the "Golden Dawn" and the "Illuminati." At those gatherings, I learned that some members of Illuminati were also members of the Golden Dawn. They exposed me to Government Programming 3 a mish-mash of Luciferian and Pagan beliefs. The members of the inter- national Illuminati organization seemed to be covert "Rosicmcians." The words, "the Illuminati" alternately referred to the group and to its individual members. Although I used to be in awe of the Illuminati, I now consider it to be one of many secretive cartels. 3 I was also exposed to a mob-connected occult network, headquartered in New York City, code-named "Satanic Hierarchy." (Again, I will not provide further details about my interactions with this organization.) As an adult, I repeatedly encountered members of a large, national Aryan network-The Brotherhood." Another Aryan group, perhaps part of that same network, was called "The Order." Another, Western Mysteries, was especially involved in publishing literature. I met representatives from many smaller Aryan groups over the years-each had a code name that was known only to insiders. Alleged CIA handlers referred to male Secret Service personnel as bus boys. Self-identified Secret Service agents called one of my highly trained bodyguard alter-states, plain Jane. 4 I was also forcibly used by members of an international network, code-named the Octopus, that included alleged CIA employees and contractors, members from several Mafia families, and more. Government Facilities I was taken to numerous US military bases and government facilities over a period of more than thirty years. I have since been able to identify several of them, first-hand. 5 These are the names of some that I believe I was taken to for programming and/or training: Fort Payne, Alabama. After our family moved to Atlanta, Georgia, I was taken to a military base that I was told was Fort Payne. Female teenagers and women were given special training there. I was called a "Golden Girl" and received what was code-named "Black Claw" physical training. 6 Redstone Arsenal, Alabama. There, I believe I received MKNAOMI biochemical black op conditioning, briefings, and debriefings. Juvenile Facility in North Carolina. When I was sixteen, I was taken by my parents to a facility near Morganton and Marion, North Carolina. The grounds were enclosed by a high chain-link fence. A separate observation 4 Unshackled tower was attached to an above-ground enclosed walkway that led to the main building, where I and other youths received specialized ops training, and where I was also brainwashed about the Aryan, Pagan Golden Dawn belief system. Those who didn't follow orders were bru- tally punished. I first remembered this facility in the early 1990s when an emerging alter- state drew a crude map of the buildings and grounds. A social worker from North Carolina recognized the drawing, and said that she'd known the facility as the "Western Carolina Adolescent Correctional Center." (I've not yet found a verification of a facility having that name.) Great Lakes Naval Base near Chicago, Illinois. My first husband, Albert, took me to a large building on the base where I and other adult female "patients" wore hospital gowns and endured extensive mental programming and training in a psych ward setting. Fort Gillem near Atlanta, Georgia. I was repeatedly driven there by a man who escorted me into a set of underground corridors and rooms where he seemed to be in charge of local spooks. He and other profes- sionals sometimes briefed and debriefed me there. Fort McPherson near Atlanta, Georgia. After I'd had several vivid memories of that base in the 1990s, my second husband, Bill, drove me there to see if any of the buildings looked familiar. I immediately recognized the large, white Forcecom building where, in a below-ground room, a female programmer had forcibly reconditioned me after a failed op (by threatening to shoot me), so that I would continue to do assassinations. I had also remembered a one-story cafeteria building behind it, where I'd been taken by a male handler who had been hungry. As Bill and I sat in the Forcecom parking lot, we saw several casually dressed individuals leave the smaller flat-roofed building, carrying Styrofoam take-out food containers. Fort Benning, Georgia. I believe that, as an adult, I received limited training at this Army base. At that time, a male handler told me that I was the only woman receiving it there. I was told that I was given specialized training to familiarize me with how Rangers worked together on ops. (Over the years, I developed tremendous respect and deep appreciation for those men; unlike most spook handlers, they remained gentlemen.) I was also put through brutal mock torture/interrogation sessions to con- dition several of my alter-states to respond in specific ways if I were ever caught and interrogated while overseas on an op. Government Programming 5 Edgewood Arsenal, Maryland. When we lived in Maryland, my father took me to a sprawling government facility code-named "Edge-of-the- Woods." There, I endured the unexpected effects of a hallucinogen and mind- shattering mental programming. The Farm. When I was a teenager, Dad took me to this spook-run facility to have me trained for black ops. It may have been at the CIA's Camp Peary; it may have been at a CIA/ Aryan-run "counterterrorism" camp in Powder Springs, Georgia; or it may have been at an entirely different location. 7 Fort Campbell, Kentucky. I reported to this huge Army base several times to be briefed for special ops and to receive limited conditioning and training. Dobbins Air Force Base, Georgia. When I lived near Atlanta, I was often transported from this base by jet to other locations for covert ops, and then was brought back to the base before being transported home. Goddard NASA facility near Washington, DC. I believe I was taken there in approximately 1968, to be mentally programmed. Huntsville NASA facility in Alabama. I believe that mental program- ming was done to me at that facility after my family moved to Georgia in 1969. During a tour in the mid 1990s, I easily identified several of the buildings. "Meadowlark" Air Force Base, exact location unknown. I was flown there from Dobbins AFB in 1985, and was interrogated in under- ground rooms by military intelligence personnel. Black Ops The years of programming and conditioning at these and other govern- ment facilities prepared me to become a covert slave-operative. When I fell asleep at home in my adult years, my nighttime alter-states emerged. Because these alter-states were adrenaline junkies, ops were their drug of choice. Sometimes I was first taken to a local cult meeting. After the horrific ritual, other parts were triggered out to be transported. Most of my op-trained parts were more than willing to go on far-away assignments. It was what they existed for. 6 Unshackled These are some of the activities that my covert op programmed alter- states performed while under the control of professional handlers: • Protection, body-guarding, and escorting • Assassinations • Hostage interventions and rescue • Arms smuggling, including transportation of small rockets • Bombings and sabotage • Teaching children how use standard and makeshift weapons against mock adult attackers • Kidnapping • Taking out snipers • Surveillance • Torture and interrogation • Clandestine photography • Clandestine search of an organization's files • Killing assassin-programmed individuals who had gone out of control and were an imminent danger to those around them. (Because they were so dissociated they felt no pain when injured, I was trained to kill them in a particularly gruesome way.) Professional handlers used a succession of my pre-programmed covert op alter-states to successfully perform each operation. Afterwards, I was transported home with no memory of the event. My black op (assassin) trained alter-states were even more specialized. Through hundreds of repetitive acts, each was conditioned to kill in at least one of the following ways: zip wire, gun, knife, or chemicals. Other methods were also used on certain ops. The zip wires were sometimes sewn into loosely-basted hems of garments, particularly blouses and jackets, with soft ends to protect my hands from being sliced through. Each black op alter- state was trained to use at least one type of weapon. Some were also trained to select a certain number of objects or surfaces in any environment to use as makeshift weapons. In the early 1990s, I was severely re-traumatized as I remembered the crimes that I'd been forced to commit. As I resuscitated the dead parts of my soul, I felt the immense emotions of pain, grief, and horror that I hadn't felt during the actual ops. Government Programming 7 Travel to Exotic Places To give you an idea of what remembering was like, I'll share from two days of journals that I wrote in January, 1993. First, I relived a series of emerging traumatic memories in bits and pieces, starting with a childhood memory of my father driving his chisel into my skin to lift my kneecap-just enough to frighten me. Then he used a drill to wound my feet-again, not enough to leave a lasting scar. As I remembered this, I slipped into the same kind of trance state that I'd gone into as a child, to escape the pain. When I came to, I found that I had written many pages of memories. Several were especially upsetting: In a teenaged training session, I held a long sharp knife and plunged it deeply into the front of someone's torso. I was being taught that there were two ways I could do it. I could either do the "T," which was to cut from below the belly button up, and then-at an angle — do the upper stomach and heart, or I could do it with one deep, lower slash from one side to the other, through the intestines. I was taught that either way was extremely effective. The lower slash would leave the person in pain for a while before the actual death, if that was what was intended. To simply kill, the "T" was preferred. Before doing it to live adults, I was made to do it on upright adult cadavers. Each time, I wiped the fatty tissue off my long knife. I was taught that it was important to keep the knife clean; and anyway, I didn't like looking at it. Then I remembered standing in a room with white walls. I saw an intense, slim woman, average height, with short, dark hair and eyes. Other people stood in the room, too. On a table to my right were objects that could be used to attack and kill. I had no choice; the woman held a knife and kept reaching out as if to slice at my forearms. When I finally got tired of parrying, jumping back, and moving my arms away from her, I went after her full-force. I grabbed her knife and cut her neck deeply-from one carotid artery, then right through her throat to the other artery. 8 In the next memory, another adult was fighting me. I grabbed a knife from the table. Unfortunately, because it was dull and serrated, I couldn't use it on the attacker's neck. After I successfully took the attacker down, a slim, friendly, middle-aged man with curly, graying hair took the knife 8 Unshackled from my hand and pushed it down hard on the victim's fingers-cutting several of them off. When I came back into consciousness and read these journaled memories, I was devastated. I felt solely responsible, even though the gray-haired man had instructed me. After all, the knives had been in my hand. (Nearly every day, similar heart-pumping, gory memories emerged in my dreams and waking hours. They followed me to the store and to the post office, to church and to school. The memories were clearly telling me that I had been trained to kill. Why me? Having no answer, I felt a heavy weight of guilt.) That afternoon, I decided to shake off the effects of the memories by going to a nearby shopping mall. While investigating a sale at a phar- macy, I found a bin full of bumper- stickers. I bought several: "JOIN THE ARMY! Travel to exotic places . . . meet unusual people . . . and kill them." "I'M A VIRGIN ... but this is a very old bumper- sticker." "TOTO, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." "I'd kill Flipper for a tuna sandwich." "I'm Glad I'm Not You." My favorite was, "In spite of the cost of living, it's still popular." Although I was remembering horrible things that I'd done in the past, I was determined to survive. When I returned home, I tried to get some sleep. Instead, I struggled through one vivid dream after another. Early the next morning, my husband left for work in his pickup truck. Alone in the house, I placed several pillows between my back and our queen-sized bed's wooden headboard. I grabbed the spiral-bound notepad that I'd placed on my dark brown wooden nightstand, and wrote whatever came to mind. Soon, I felt as if I were falling asleep, although my eyes remained wide open. I didn't understand that I was capable of putting myself into a trance state, thereby allowing split-off alter-states to emerge and write in my notebook. When I came back into consciousness, I found that I'd written about a covert operation in a foreign country. As usual, this memory had no beginning and no end. Even if it should someday be proven to me that this particular episode was an implanted screen memory, I still feel grateful that I was able to recall it. After being so emotionally battered by horrifying memories, this recollection restored my sense of inherent goodness. Government Programming 9 Firefight I have no idea how I arrived there, who took me, or how I got back home, nor do I know the year the event unfolded. I suspect that it occurred between 1982 and 1987. Based on the architecture and the vehicles, the angle of the sun and speech patterns of the natives, I can venture a guess that we were in a South or Central American nation. It was daytime, warm outside. I was inside a battered, old, two-story clapboard residential retirement home not far from a downtown area. It had lots of bedrooms occupied by a number of elderly Caucasians. The kitchen was on the first floor in the right rear, the living room in front. A porch, bordered by a wooden railing, was in front of it. The residence wasn't fancy, but it was livable and clean. The residents were taken care of by a small team of professionals, including nurses. Several of the bedrooms were downstairs in back. Some of the residents had to sleep in them because they couldn't walk up the stairs. One, an older man, was very slim with thinning brown hair on top of his head. He seemed quite ill. I helped put him on his back in the smallest bedroom. We covered him with a colorful, handmade, pastel pink, block- style quilt. He was in a lot of pain-I think it was his heart. Some kind of political action was taking place in the vicinity. I was at the residential home with a makeshift team of CIA agents, mercenaries, and others-anyone in the area who was available had been called in to help. The elderly folks were in danger, and our assignment was to protect them. Had we not been in imminent danger, the professional handler who had brought me there would probably have taken greater care to ensure that I did only what he gave me orders to do, nothing more. This time, however, I was free to follow my own instincts, because he was too busy doing other things. During the late afternoon, we received a directive from a young, slim, fiery man with thick, curly, dark-brown hair. We were told that he'd commandeered the downtown area, and wanted to use this house as his base of operations against soon-to-arrive military forces who we prayed would kick his ass. Unfortunately, the elderly residents couldn't be transported away in time. Some of the aged males had served in previous wars. They knew how to fight, but most of them could no longer shoot straight, due to shaking 10 Unshackled hands or poor eyesight. Others were quite senile, and there was no safe place to take them. As more residents returned to the house, we gathered them in the center of the house, with groups upstairs and downstairs. Two elderly gentlemen who still had good eyesight were asked to carefully hide by the windows and alert us if they saw any movement coming up the dirt streets. We knew that the action would be coming from the downtown area. The military leader had already ordered filled burlap bags to be stacked in piles across the dusty street from the front of the house, his men guard- ing them. An "SOS" had gone out for more of our folks to find their way to the house to help us defend the elderly residents. We were told to hold our fire, due to insufficient weapons and ammunition. My dark-haired, short handler handed me a shotgun and ordered me to use it. I explained to him that I didn't know how. 9 Several rifles and pistols were quickly taken up by the others. They had a sweet automatic machine gun-a newer model. Big and black, it used brass projectiles. All I had to do was aim and pull the trigger-it would do the rest. After I tested it, I didn't want to use anything else, and they didn't take it away. The real trouble didn't start until dusk. We turned off all the lights in the house, so nobody could see where we were when we fired. Some men started approaching the house by pushing what looked like rectangular plywood dollies on wheels, stacked with filled burlap bags. They seemed to be using them as moving shields. Our lookouts warned that it was time to start firing. The enemy had a lot more ammo than we did. We only shot when we had a good chance of hitting one of them. We couldn't afford for even one of those men to get into the house. Too many people could get killed too fast. If we could just keep them at bay! More men came in droves through nearby buildings, settling down behind the stacks of bags. Typically, they had flat, dark-skinned faces and wavy dark hair. Although they had automatic weapons, they must have been drugged or drunk or both, because they couldn't shoot straight. It took a while for us to realize this. I was genuinely frightened, and didn't expect to live through the night. I tried my best to shoot the crowns of any heads that Government Programming 11 rose an inch or two above the tops of the bags, but they were too small a target and I didn't want to waste my ammo. Several male spooks and meres hid behind furniture that we had stacked behind the wooden rails on the porch. One man and his partner, both American businessmen, had come by earlier in the day to volunteer their services. I went from window to window in the house when the lookouts told us they saw movement outside. We were quite nervous, because there were several roads-it was hard to see everything going on. Unfortunately, we weren't paying attention when the sick elderly man, clad in a light-colored terrycloth robe, unexpectedly walked out onto the porch. Several of the men tried to grab his robe to stop him. I went berserk and ran out onto the porch. A middle-aged, brown-haired man helped me force him down onto the wooden surface, while the others remained hidden behind the furniture. Unfortunately, we three were now in plain view of the enemy. I knew the color of the robe made the man an easy target. I saw sev- eral men behind the bags rise up, as if to get a better shot at him. Without thinking, I stood up with my black machine gun and started firing at their heads. There was some light on their side of the street, per- haps from the moon, and I could see a black substance fly through the air from two of the men who had crouched side -by-side. They deserved it for shooting at that innocent, senile man! After that, we were more aggressive and held them off through the night. I don't remember how long I kept firing. When I went into the house to get more ammo, it suddenly hit me: I had stood out there on the porch in full view of those men across the street as I had fired at them, making myself a very easy target! I shouted to the others, "Did you see what just happened! I was standing right there, and they were shooting at me, and none of the bullets hit me!" My preoccupied handler agreed it was a miracle. One man seemed to be in his sixties. In the kitchen, he offered me some of his cartridges. He had several different shapes and sizes in a clear plastic box. I didn't even know which kind to use. When I grabbed a bunch, he stopped me and showed me how to select the right ones. I put the others back and thanked him. A black, long "drawer" pulled out from the lower side of my machine gun. He showed me how to insert the projectiles. He said all I had to do was point and shoot. 12 Unshackled Time lapse. I woke up in the early morning, startled, wondering why everything was so silent. It was dark in the house and nearly everyone was sound asleep in chairs, sofas, and on the floor. Only one other person seemed to be awake-one of the old vets who had posted lookout the night before. He whittled a piece of wood as he sat at the old cloth-covered kitchen table. I was beginning to feel the emotional impact of what had happened. I asked, "Are they gone?" He nodded, then told me about the elderly robed man, who had been shot in the leg. We talked quietly for a while, so as not to wake the others. I felt very comfortable with him. He was a man of few words. I thought of him as the kind of person I hoped to someday become. Later that morning, the others started to wake up. While they chose food from the refrigerator, I opted for a peanut butter sandwich. I was deeply touched when the old gentleman quietly gave me one of the bullets that he said I'd shot the previous evening. It was rather flattened and a little bent. It meant more to me than any medal that may have been given to me. I sensed it was a symbol of his personal respect and his way of honoring my help. I put it in my right jeans pocket, vowing never to lose it. As always, my handlers did a full-body search before they transported me home. Although they took away the memento, they couldn't com- pletely erase the memory of another mission accomplished-this one, with satisfaction. Validation After I read this journaled memory, I told my husband, Bill, what I'd remembered about the ammunition that I had used. As I spoke, his face registered shock. A retired Army NCO, he explained that the elongated brass bullets were called 7.62 gauge, 30-caliber universal projectiles because they could be used in a number of different weapons. From his extensive experience with ordnance, he told me that yes, the gun I used was a machine gun, and yes, those projectiles would have been used in such a gun, and yes, the way I described loading it really is the way it would have been done. Government Programming 13 After that, he shook his head and chuckled about what he called the Shootout at the OK Hilton. He said, "What kind of woman am I married to?" Calling me his "Pistol-Packing Mama" he declared, "You were a herol" When he called me a hero, my face crumpled and I started to cry. "Yeah, I was a hero, all right . . . but I was also the worst monster there could be." I wished so bad that the way I had behaved on that particular op had been the way I'd behaved on every op. Soon, more emerging memories reminded me that this simply wasn't true. Notes 1 . "Fragmented encoding of a traumatic event makes voluntary retrieval and reconstruc- tion of a trauma in explicit memory difficult, if not impossible." (Spinhoven et al., pg-263) 2. "More compelling and less consciously available dimensions of denial are when memories of gross violations are so threatening to the psychological and physical integrity of the survivor that recollections are literally split off from con- sciousness ... the shattering manner in which torture and atrocity violate the phys- ical and psychological boundaries of survivors frequently causes their recall of events to emerge in ways that may be fragmentary, disconnected and bizarre." (Woodcock, pg. 144) 3. I am not opposed to participation in secret, invitation-only organizations. I am, however, concerned when such groups use tax revenue to create governmental poli- cies, agreed on at those meetings, that are diametrically opposed to the will of most taxpayers and voters. 4. I think one reason I was also chosen and trained to perform protection services for targeted individuals was that I'd done a number of very successful hits and snuffs, and therefore had a better feel and sense of how a person might go about killing the client. I was acutely alert to the body language, eye expressions, hand movements, and vocal inflections of potential assassins. 5. I've not yet tried to validate the memories of other bases and facilities, because if I go to any of them, I risk being re-accessed. I'd rather be without some validations than be hurt again. 6. I repeatedly remembered that the boys and girls who were trained to become Aryan super-warriors were called "Golden." After these memories emerged, my step- mother gave me copies of letters that Dad had sent to her while attending Purdue 14 Unshackled University in Indiana. I was astonished that, in a letter dated 6/25/79, he'd written: "I went to see Golden Girl Friday night- about a big blond test-tube baby raised by 2 scientists from Hitler Germany who was trying to prove his theories about the superiority of white, blond, Republicans. He kept sprinkling super vitamins and growth hormones on her grits, then convinced a group of rotten capitalists with mustaches to finance an Olympic training facility for her. If she wins three golds in Moscow, they have her name for their living bras, cereals and panty hose, and the professor gets to prove that blonds can do anything better." 7. Camp Peary, A.K.A. The Farm, is a CIA Directorate of Operations "spy school" near Williamsburg, VA. Another facility code-named The Farm was a 60-acre estate in Powder Springs, south Cobb County, in Georgia. It was owned and run by a spook named Mitchell "Mitch" WerBell III. This counter-terrorist training camp, COBRAY-SIONICS Training Center, contained a "clandestine factory developed to perfect the tools and techniques of sniping, counterinsurgency, and the coup d'etat. (New York Review, pg. 2) WerBell III was a highly respected "OSS Captain, guerilla fighter, military advisor, soldier of fortune, paramilitary expert, silencer designer and weapons wizard." (American Ballistics, pg. 1) 8. Some of my black op trainers called the resulting gash a "smile." 9. Because my trainers didn't want me to use my weapons training on my own volition, I was only allowed to touch a gun when it was given to me with specific instructions about what to do with it. Each time, it was already loaded. Early Years Good Times Although I endured many traumas that I mercifully blocked out over a period of more than thirty years, I also lived a reasonably "normal" life that I was comfortably able to remember. These are my favorite child- hood memories from that part of my life. Almost every year, our family-consisting of Mom, Dad, two younger brothers and I, went to the annual Shriner circus that was held in a large building in downtown Reading, Pennsylvania. We were each allowed to buy one souvenir. My favorite was a brown, furry, toy monkey on elas- tic strings. Once in a while, Dad took us to the "band shell" in the city. The concrete structure, shaped like a giant opened clam shell, sheltered orchestras and bands that played free concerts. I especially enjoyed watching big gold- fish as they swam in a murky pond in front of the stage. After we moved to the nearby suburb of Reiffton, my brothers and I discovered how to climb a huge pine tree in our back yard. When Mom removed the lower branches, we nailed boards to the trunk and scam- pered up again. Climbing to the top, I could see forever! On warmer days, we met with neighborhood boys at a creek below a huge, grassy hill near Exeter Township Junior High School. We spent many lazy summer days catching crayfish, chewing on watercress, wad- ing barefoot on big slippery rocks in the cold water, and occasionally falling in while the others laughed. In the winter, the big hill above the creek was our favorite sledding spot. Adventurous souls used wooden sleds or round, metal saucers with handles to hurtle down the packed white snow to the edge of the creek. We dubbed our favorite neighborhood play area, the "rock pile." It was really a large cluster of boulders. I played Jane when the boys took turns playing Tarzan. When they were knights storming our rock castle's turret, I was the damsel in distress. In the winter, we built snow forts to hide behind during snowball fights. Our snowmen had carrots and raisins for their noses, eyes, and 15 16 Unshackled mouths, and sticks for arms. Sometimes we lay on our backs and moved our arms and legs to make "angels" in the snow. Tired and cold, we went inside and placed our wet snowsuits, scarves and gloves on radiators until they were toasty dry. We regularly attended a Lutheran church several blocks from our home. It was just down the road from the elementary school that my brothers and I attended. Although Dad and several other church members ritually abused me in the church buildings, especially at night and on traditional Christian holidays (Dad had keys to all the buildings), I enjoyed attending Sunday School classes and participating in the children's choir. We proudly sang, "Praise Him, praise Him, all ye little children . . . God is love . . . God is love," Beautiful Savior, Onward Christian Soldiers, and other music that made God and the church seem non-threatening and beautiful. On warm summer days, we walked to a nearby A&W drive-in restaurant. I loved the frosty, ice-cold glass mugs that the root beer was served in. When we visited Mom's parents in the nearby town of Laureldale, we sometimes went to a large carnival at the Reading Fairgrounds several blocks down the road. I usually ate a red candied apple or pink cotton candy as I went on slower rides, or stood and watched my brothers ride faster, higher ones. At night in the hot summer, my maternal grandparents' windows stayed open. I often stood next to their living room window that faced the direc- tion of the fairgrounds. Feeling the cool breeze on my face, I enjoyed listening to the screams of race cars and excited crowds. When Dad drove us on Sunday afternoons into the countryside, I looked for brilliantly colored hex signs painted on barns. Most were based on superstition; locals believed they brought good fortune or pro- vided protection from witches and demons. Once in a while, we went to Crystal Cave in Kutztown. I was awed by its gorgeous, natural quartz formations. Dad stored rock specimens in several cardboard boxes in a closet in our basement. Sometimes he encouraged me to handle them. My favorites were embedded with rough gemstones and chunks of iron pyrite, also known as fool's gold. Dad occasionally drove us to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and nearby Zelienople to visit Mom's extended family. A great-aunt and her husband lived in a small brick house. Behind their back yard was a single-wide, Early Years 17 white trailer. One day, my great- aunt walked me to the trailer to introduce me to a big, black-haired woman who lived there alone. My great-aunt explained that Nellie had been a nurse, and was paralyzed from the waist down from a car accident. Fascinated, I watched as Nellie swung her legs in either direction through the long trailer, balancing herself on wooden rails affixed to its walls. She showed me woven potholders and other items she'd hand- crafted, as well as her collection of postcards that friends sent her from their travels all over the world. When I expressed an interest in the postcards, she offered to give them all to me. I was stunned by her kindness, more so when she offered to be my pen-pal. After that, I wrote back and forth with her on a regular basis. Every time we visited my great-aunt, I immediately went to Nellie's trailer to spend more time with her. Sometimes, when we visited my mother's parents in Laureldale, we walked at night to a nearby miniature golf establishment. I looked forward to buying a cone of swirled, soft- serve ice cream from a nearby food stand. One summer in Reiffton, my oldest brother's best friend gave us a large roll of red tickets for a carnival in a nearby wooded area. We sneaked to the carnival one night, fascinated by the dancing women, small gambling trailers, and other attractions that were clearly meant for grownups. The people there were nice to us. When Dad found out, how- ever, he forbade us to go again. He said it was run by "filthy gypsies." Still, I was glad we'd gone-it was an adventure! Because my oldest brother's large bedroom was in the attic, we often played up there for hours at a time, when we couldn't go outside. One Christmas, our parents gave him a hobby kit that included a miniature oven, metal molds, and tubes of Plastigoop. We spent countless hours making colorful rubbery bugs, miniature snakes, and other Creepy Crawlers. One August, I was with Mom at her parents' house. My birthday was in a couple of days. She said that my present was on the back porch. When I opened the storm door and looked out, I saw a white cardboard box. I cried as I heard mewing and saw a tiny paw poke through a hole. I named my black and white kitten "Snoopy," because he investigated every piece of furniture in our living room. I dearly loved him. One of my favorite school field trips was to the chocolate factory in Hershey, Pennsylvania. I was fascinated at how the little Hershey Kisses 18 Unshackled were manufactured by big machines, then wrapped in silver foil. At the end of the tour, each visitor received a big chocolate bar. Afterwards, we went to the amusement park. Even the street lights looked like giant Hershey Kisses! When Dad drove us home from Laureldale to Reiffton, we often stopped at the Pagoda, a seven-story building atop Mount Penn. We climbed several sets of stairs to look at the city of Reading far below. If we were below the mountain at night, we could look up and see the Pagoda's multiple roofs outlined by bright red-orange horizontal lights. On some of my worst nights, its consistent presence was soothing. On warm summer days, I always looked in our yards for four-leafed clovers. I shared them with my brothers so they would have good luck, too. I also liked to observe and play with bugs. I especially looked for praying mantises, because they were supposed to bring good luck. Every spring, tent caterpillars invaded the stunted crabapple trees at a nearby high school. I kept the squiggly creatures in a big glass jar in my bedroom until I gagged from the inevitable stench. I often caught fireflies in the small yard behind our paternal grand- parents' house in the upper end of Laureldale. Grandma gave us glass jars to keep the bugs in. I marveled at how they blinked in the dark. Sometimes my brothers, younger cousins and I played kick the can and freeze tag in the yard. In the daytime, we stood behind the house and waved to the men who stood in the engines and cabooses of passing trains on a railroad track beyond the back yard. We jumped and shouted happily whenever they waved back. Buttercups grew wild in the grass near our house in Reiffton. I rubbed the small yellow blossoms' pollen on my nose and upper lip, fascinated by the petals' shininess. Our next-door neighbors' cherry trees were full of lovely pink blossoms in the spring. Sometimes, when they gave me permission to break off a small branch, I took the cloud of blossoms to my favorite school teacher. Large maple trees flanked both sides of our street. My brothers and I called the seed pods "helicopters" because they rotated in circles as they floated to the ground. We opened the sticky pods and placed them on our noses, pretending to be rhinoceroses as we playfully charged at each other. Sometimes in the summer, locusts flew up into the tall trees to attach themselves to the bark and shed their shells. The night was often filled with Early Years 19 their rhythmic buzzing. We would sell their empty shells to neighbors for five cents apiece. Mom's mother grew roses and other lovely flowers in her yard. Each summer, we plucked colorful snapdragon blossoms and pinched them between our fingers to make their "mouths" talk. My favorite flowers, Queen Anne's Lace and chicory, grew wild along roads and highways. The blue chicory flowers nicely contrasted against the tall green grass. Each white Queen Anne's Lace blossom was really a large cluster of hundreds of tiny, individual flowers. The blossoms reminded me of snowflakes-so delicate and intricate! This is how I preferred to know my life. Although I thought this was the whole story, I lived another life that I was unaware of. Infancy My birth certificate states that I was born in the Reading Hospital in August of 1955. 1 was first child in my generation of our extended fam- ily. My first home was a second-floor apartment in downtown Reading. Although some authorities on memory claim that people cannot retrieve memories of infantile experiences, I believe they are in error. 1 I've had many flashbacks of lying on my back in a wooden crib in a room. When I turned my head to one side, I saw a dark brown door frame surrounded by a light colored wall. I explored with my eyes and mind. Although I couldn't talk, I could observe and anticipate. Sometimes my mother entered the room and walked towards my crib, avoiding my eyes as she silently changed my diaper. When the shadows grew longer, my gut spasmed as I recognized the tall outline of my father in the doorway. His eyes were cold and gray; his hair short, straight and dark blond. His posture was erect, his figure lean. He changed my diaper and more. I looked into his eyes as he gently caressed my tiny genitals with his fingertips. I enjoyed the pleasurable sensations. Sometimes his eyes were expressionless as he looked into mine, while pushing a diaper pin into my tender flesh. I quickly learned that crying was useless, and endured the torture in silence. Although my mother breast-fed me at the beginning, one day, Dad introduced the head of his penis after I'd suckled at her breast. Because I was a sucking machine, I did to the head of his penis as I had to Mom's 20 Unshackled nipples. Because Dad put sweet liquids on his penis at first, I enjoyed the sugary taste and soon adapted to the secondary taste of a clear, slightly sticky liquid. I acclimated to that taste before I could crawl. 2 When I look at early pictures of myself, I do not see a child who was apathetic. For the first couple of years, especially when away from home, I still smiled and was curious about my environment. I don't think I would have done as well if Dad hadn't made regular, direct eye contact with me as he sexually stimulated me. Dad sometimes volunteered to change my diaper, pretending to be a helpful father. As time went on, he pushed soft items into my tiny vagina, including dark red, canned Vienna sausages, then his pinkie finger, then his larger fingers-while using other fingers to manipulate my clitoris. That created waves of vaginal contractions that were so powerful, they hurt. As my vagina stretched, Dad gradually inserted grapes, hot dogs, bananas, and eventually his large, long penis. By the age of four, I sometimes jumped up and straddled one of his legs. If we were in the presence of other adults, Dad pushed me away and said quietly: "Not now, not now." Later, if he had time, he took me to a private room and pleasured me. By then, I was totally addicted to his scent and touch, and to the orgasms. As I grew older, one of the results of the ongoing sexual abuse was incontinence. Sometimes, when I played outside with my brothers, I wet my pants. They made fun of me as I ran home and hid my clothes in the washing machine. Although I enjoyed vaginal orgasms, Dad also inserted his penis into my rectum. He used Vaseline and later, KY Jelly, as lubricants. Still, I felt immense pain and was often constipated. 3 Early Childhood In 1957, after my first brother was born, we moved to a rental home on Bellevue Avenue in Laureldale, several blocks up the street from my maternal grandparents' home. Because my parents didn't own a car at that time, Grandpa M. took Dad and me at night to meet with small groups of men in their homes. Grandpa M. seemed to know them well. Some of the men digitally penetrated me as the others watched with lust or amusement on their faces. Because Dad didn't smoke or drink Early Years 21 liquor, I was repulsed by their odors. When I wasn't being molested, I quietly watched and listened as they talked and joked. I noticed that Dad's laughter was different-the noise came out of his mouth in bursts that ended abruptly. I also noticed that he seemed agitated when he didn't know what to say, or how to say it. Although he did whatever Grandpa M. ordered, Dad's body was extra stiff in the presence of those men. Elementary School After my second brother was born in 1961, we moved across town to a two-story, red brick home on East 36th Street in Reiffton, a sedate community. Already a tomboy, I found lots of places outside to play and hide. I was painfully shy when I attended Reiffton Elementary School, a red brick building several blocks from home. Although I made good grades, I was frustrated when teachers wrote on the backs of my report cards that I was shy. I couldn't help it! My inability to socialize created other problems. I was usually the last child chosen to be on a dodge ball team during recess. I tried not to cry when the leaders of the two teams argued about who would have to take me. Still, school was important to me. It was my safe place. I do not yet have any memories of having been abused by any of my elementary teachers. They were my lifeline to sanity and morality. 4 Because I received positive attention from the teachers, I worked hard to please them. They treated me as a good girl, worthy of attention and praise. From them, I learned to treat others fairly and to obey rules. They proved to me that some adults were fair and honest. I'm grateful that they cared about me, because they laid the essential foundation for my sense of morality and social responsibility. Middle School I transferred to a distant middle school for fifth and sixth grade, after being tested and placed third highest in its top, accelerated class. For the 22 Unshackled first time, I rode a bus to school. Although I was proud of my good grades, I now became the daily target of a snobbish clique of girls. For two years, whenever they harassed and belittled me in front of the other students, I didn't know how to respond assertively. I did try to become friends with the blond leader, but when she just laughed at me, I wished the floor would swallow me up. One afternoon at home, I sobbed to Mom that I couldn't take their torment anymore. Instead of comforting me, she said I should do as she had in school: "Laugh with them; then they won't know they're getting to you." The next day, the clique made fun of me for laughing at myself when they did. Every day after that, I cried and stayed as far away from my classmates as I could. Although we were told to eat lunch together at the same table in the cafeteria, no one in my class would allow me to sit with them. I made books my new friends, because they didn't hurt me or make fun of me. I went to the school library and checked out every book I could, regardless of its content. I read each one from cover to cover. I read every encyclopedia and book in our home, including Mom's adult Reader's Digest Condensed Books. I read cereal boxes at the breakfast table. I read books during lunch in the school cafeteria, pretending that I preferred being alone. Even when I went to Girl Scout meetings and troop campouts, I still had difficulty socializing. I continued to read books at every opportunity. They were my escape when reality was too painful to endure. Ritual Abuse Although I was almost always in emotional pain and had difficulty connecting to others, I successfully blocked out all memory of why I was that way. I still believed I led a normal life. Although I had only one close friend, I did have my extended family. Whenever he could, Dad drove us to Laureldale on Sundays after church to visit with my mother's parents in the afternoon and with my father's parents at night. On most weekdays (except for the summer), I went to school, then came home to feed and pet my cat, do my homework, perform chores for Mom, and then play outside with my brothers and the neighborhood boys-if they'd let me. Early Years 23 I didn't know that I had amnesia about psychopathic Friday night rituals that Dad officiated. 5 In most of those rituals, cats or dogs or humans were tortured and sometimes killed; adults raped me and other children and even animals with abandon; blood was smeared and drunk after it was mixed with opium and red wine; and knives and stabbings were an integral part of the group structure. When I was only four years old, Dad started making me kill babies, his hands forcing mine. Each time he made me kill a precious baby (really, he killed it), he said that either I would do exactly as he said, or he would kill the baby himself, after giving it additional pain. Dad never made an idle threat. When I resisted, he immediately tortured the infant and laughed, forcing me to watch. Although the guilt of killing the babies was unbearable, I knew they were better off with my killing them as quickly and painlessly as possi- ble, than if my father tortured them first. I couldn't possibly live in both my home and ritual worlds with a sin- gle mind and consciousness. I'm certain I would have either gone insane or died from the cumulative emotional shock and physical pain. Since he kept me up late during those rituals-going to bed around 3:00 AM was the norm-I was often sleep-deprived the next day. Exhausted, I sometimes accidentally slipped into a trance state. When I did, I had flashbacks of the rituals. The strange words spoken at them poured out of my mouth. To a psychiatrist unfamiliar with ritual chants, my words might have sounded like "word salad," a kind of gobbledygook spoken by some people who suffer from schizophrenia. Each time I did this, either Grandpa M. or another relative drove me in his ear-usually a station wagon-to a flat-roofed, one- story facility some distance from the city. Mom usually sat in the front, passenger seat while I lay down on the back seat to keep from throwing up from motion sickness. The driver usually parked just beyond a dull-colored, plain metal door on the right side of the building, near the back. Each time, I was whisked through that side entrance, then a short distance down the narrow corri- dor into the first empty room on the right. Each time, I was made to lie on my back in that private room on a single-sized hospital bed, with my wrists and ankles in leather restraints. Up to my left, in a cement wall, was a white-covered window. The door to the corridor was across the room. It was also made of dull-colored 24 Unshackled metal with a small, criss-crossed, wire-reinforced window that a tall, putty faced, brown-haired man in a white medical coat occasionally peered through. Whenever Grandpa M. brought me there, he talked to me alone in the room, reminding me that I had to stay there until I stopped "talking." After he was gone, the room became my safe place. Alone and undis- turbed, I was able to remember what I unconsciously repressed at home. 6 In that private room at the facility, I fully remembered the secretive, occult rituals. I remembered that Dad took me to several different buildings in the Reading area. I remembered a large, encircled hexagram on the floor of each ritual room-white if the floor was painted black, and black if the floor was light colored. I saw the flickering white candles that were placed carefully on each point of the star, where it touched the circle. I heard the otherworldly chants of my relatives and other adults who walked around the circle, clad in long black robes with pointed hoods. I recalled ritualistic activities that my father and other adult cult mem- bers performed in those buildings. Their "sacrifice" might be a child to be raped, an animal to be killed, or-on special days-a (pure) infant or a child to be slaughtered. Afterwards, during the inevitable anticlimatic orgy, I was ordered to sexually service the adults. I remembered another night when Dad took me into a large wooded park near our neighborhood. There, he bound me, naked and inverted, by my wrists and ankles to a big wooden cross that he'd laid on the ground. After he restrained me, he inserted a cattle prod into my stretched vagina and electrically tortured me in a way that quickly broke my mind, creat- ing an alter-state that compartmentalized a deep and powerful rage. During some of the indoor rituals, Dad told me that child sacrifice was sanctioned by God, because He had commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son. He also said that unholy communion-cannibalism and drinking victims' blood-was sanctioned because, after all, Christians professed to drink Jesus Christ's blood and eat His flesh during communion. Dr. Black Alone in the private room, I remembered more: Dad and Grandpa M. transported me to private meetings comprised of men who spoke Early Years 25 fluent German. All of them boasted about being a Nazi, and bragged about their special heritage. One Nazi was neatly groomed with an erect posture. I knew him alternately as Dr. Schwartz, Dr. Black, Joseph, and Yusef, depending on which adult was talking to him. The doctor (whom I'll call Dr. Black) was slim with short, slightly wavy, shiny black hair and dark, glinting eyes. He was intelligent and seemed to have a scientific mind. I once saw a narrow, gray metal slat (a brace?) beside his inside, right ankle. His shoes were shiny and black, and he usually wore a plain, neatly pressed black business suit. These Nazis provided Dad much-needed respect and acceptance. He seemed unusually happy and relaxed in their presence, whereas most other groups of men made him stiffen. In English, Dr. Black emphasized the importance of my learning their traditions and beliefs. He said that I and other children were bred to carry on their traditions, and to fight for their cause. He and an older man with straight, gray-blond hair recited phrases in German that I was instructed to repeat, verbatim. Because I felt stressed from being with those men while also being conditioned at school to be pro- American, my mind developed two sep- arate entities-a brown-haired American girl who only spoke English, and a blond-haired Nazi boy who spoke only German. I didn't have enough emotional strength to consciously be both at the same time. 7 Undamaged Still lying on the bed at the facility, restrained and unable to move, I also remembered that Dad forced me to participate in child pornography. When I was two years old, he had driven me to a town not far from Reading. As usual, he didn't explain where he was taking me. The sun shone brightly outside. We entered a building that had a large room with a high, white ceiling. In it was a large, white, possibly circular stage. Beside the stage stood a short man with wavy brown hair. He held a megaphone and called out instructions. Across the hall from that big room, two beautiful, long-haired women dressed me in a sheer blue robe with a matching sequined border, and applied makeup to my face. As I walked onto the stage, I saw Daddy stand- ing behind the middle-aged director, watching me silently. As ordered, 26 Unshackled I lay down on my back. One of the pretty women rubbed herself atop me as if she were masturbating. Then a slim, blond man in a skin-tight, leopard-print suit did the same. After that, one of the women led me into an unlit hallway and left me standing there. Alone for a minute, I tried to kill myself by beating my head against the hard, ceramic tiled wall. When that didn't work, I remembered how my favorite cartoon character, Casper the Friendly Ghost, made himself invisible and flew away without anyone seeing him. I instinctively developed a male child Casper alter-state that felt disap- pointed when the woman took him back to the dressing room. People weren't supposed to be able to see him! My Casper alter-state went under, and I came back into consciousness. Again, the two women dressed me-this time in a sheer purple gown with a thin, purple-feathered border. I was again told to lie on the white stage, this time with my face to the floor and my stomach propped up on a pillow. The blond man from the first scene walked towards me with a small, black Scottish terrier. He flicked the tip of a black whip to either side of my face whenever I tried to move away, as the dog penetrated me from behind. I felt great pain and tried to make my heart stop so the dog would be removed. I may have fainted, because when I awoke, a man wearing a white lab jacket held the round, cold metal end of a stethoscope against my little chest. After that, I was dressed in one more robe-orange with a matching sequined border. While on the stage, I was told to walk towards a huge, muscular, brown-haired man with a handlebar moustache. He held a metal bar way above his head; old-fashioned barbells hung from either side. His engorged penis poked through a hole in his strongman circus costume. When the director told me to hold the penis with my hands and suck it, I was confused. I was accustomed to doing that to Daddy in private! Ashamed, I obeyed. One brown-haired, clean-cut man standing beyond the stage was visibly upset. His facial expression helped me to know that what was being done to me was wrong. Because of that, I kept my sense of inherent goodness-in spite of my shame. Afterwards, Dad drove me to a veterinarian's office, where I was examined and pronounced "undamaged." Wordlessly, he drove me home, never mentioning what had just been done to me. Early Years 27 Nazi Meetings In the psychiatric facility, remembering and reliving the clashing memories of rituals, porn shoots, and secret Nazi meetings was too much for my young mind. Between school and church and these secretive events, I was being exposed to too many groups with opposing belief systems. Exhausted and lonely, I believed there was no one I could safely confide in. (Dad and Grandpa M. had repeatedly threatened that if I told a teacher about what they were doing, they'd kill him or her. This was another reason why I seemed shy at school.) I felt despair as I reviewed what Grandpa always told me before he left me alone in this room: no one would believe me if I did talk, because the attending doctor (male, Caucasian, middle aged, short, balding with brown, straight hair) had written in my chart that I was schizophrenic. Grandpa repeatedly reminded me that "nobody believes schizophrenics-everybody knows they're crazy." As I lay on the hospital bed, unable to move, I felt trapped. I had no escape and no chance of being rescued from the rituals and bestiality and the Nazi men. A major part of my core personality went down into my subconscious and didn't emerge again until the late 1990s. In the interim, I allowed my father and other perpetrators to chip tiny pieces off the thick, concrete shell I built around that part of my original core self. They could have the outside, peripheral parts of me, but I would never again allow them to touch that part of me. I instinctively knew if they ever reached and broke my core self, I would die. 8 Dr. J When I was about four or five, Grandpa M. and Dad took me to meet with another man. Unlike most of the CIA MKULTRA-contracted psychiatrists I was subsequently exposed to, Dr. J didn't use an alias. 9 Dr. J was probably the most proficient practitioner of mind-control I ever met. He was nearly emotionless when he conditioned me. Over the years, he told me that he wasn't defeated by mental defenses, because he used them to advance his own purposes. He either agreed with me or he totally ignored my resistance. He knew what my worst traumas 28 Unshackled were, and he also knew which spoken words would trigger my memories of them. 10 He seemed to quickly pick up on and use people's psychological vulnerabilities against them. He noticed that I had the need of a father's love, since the only "love" I got from Dad was in the form of pain, terror and sex. Dr. J took over where Dr. Black left off, as a "fatherly" doctor-figure in my life. Dr. J would pat my head and say, "Good little girl." Dad had never said those words to me. And so, despite all that Dr. J did to me, I looked forward to seeing him again. Before I entered kindergarten, Dr. Black had tried to use the tactic of becoming my "loving father" substitute, but he wasn't successful because he was always emotionally cold-a true Nazi. And he enjoyed raping me, which made him too much like my real dad. In my earliest recovered childhood memory of being with Dr. J, I sat alone and naked in a fetal position in the middle of a whitish linoleum floor in a fairly large, white-walled laboratory room, alternately scream- ing and crying, snot and tears flowing unchecked. I didn't understand that I just had been dosed with a hallucinogen. Nobody came to comfort me. It was such a horrible feeling, knowing that something terrible had happened in my mind and in the room, while fearing that it would come again soon. Dr. J sometimes wore strange costumes. He even dressed in drag (women's clothes and makeup)-something I saw no other MKULTRA psychiatrist do. This time, he entered the lab wearing an adult-sized cat costume with no face mask. As he approached me in that costume, I hal- lucinated again. His face changed and I felt that I was going insane. As the "cat," Dr. J said English words to me in nonsensical patterns, as if creating his own language that he expected me to remember. I can't remember the words now, but they sounded as if he had adapted them from Lewis Carroll's children's classic, Through the Looking Glass. 11 After Dr. J left the room and I was alone again, I saw things that one would only see in nightmares, never in daytime reality. I knew that what I saw was not possible, yet I saw it clearly. Then suddenly he was back. He'd changed costumes-this time he was a big white rabbit with long, white and pink ears. He talked about follow- ing the white rabbit and going down into the rabbit hole. Early Years 29 Then he picked up a real, dead, full-grown white rabbit by its ears from a silver metal table and swung it, slamming it again and again against the shiny white ceramic tiled wall until it was smeared with the rabbit's blood. I trembled violently as I wondered, would he do the same to me? Then he walked towards me and stood in front of me. As I stared at the blood on the tiles and at him in the absurd white rabbit costume, he said, "There is no white rabbit." ... as if to say, what I had seen did not exist, so there was no point in telling anyone, because only I saw it and therefore for everyone else, it simply did not exist. I knew that Dr. J was the crazy one, not me, because of what he did to the rabbit, and because he wore those costumes and acted especially crazy when he wore them. The man had no more shame or embarrass- ment about his bizarre behavior than the Mad Hatter. At home after that, I sometimes had hallucinatory flashbacks. When things "changed," taking on a form I could see but no one else could, Grandpa M. again smirked and ordered one of several relatives to take me to the side entrance of the facility to be restrained. Even at that age, I knew I was not crazy. I decided that I must be having "daymares." But because they weren't nightmares, / had no way to stop them. When I had nightmares, sometimes I could tell myself in the middle of one, "This is a nightmare; I need to wake up now." But when I was drugged and hallucinating, or having hallucinatory flash- backs, I couldn't stop it until it wore off. Sometimes I was assaulted for hours by the worst visions and experiences possible. No escape, no way out. And because I was regularly taken to rituals where I saw killings and dismemberments, my small mind had a lot of horrific material to process during those bad trips. Notes 1. In Memory and Abuse: Remembering And Healing The Effects Of Trauma, Dr. Charles Whitfield explained the ongoing debate over recovered infantile memories: A common tactic of FMS advocates is to attack the credibility of sur- vivors who remember having been abused before age three or four-whether or not they have always remembered it. They use the "infantile amnesia" variation of the "false memory" defense. But many 30 Unshackled people can and do remember traces, fragments or even the majority of traumatic experiences from this early age. (pg. 25) 2. When I remembered this event, I wondered if I'd unconsciously fabricated it. Several years later, I read Trance Formation of America and discovered that Cathy O'Brien, one of its authors, had remembered that her father had done the exact same thing to her as a baby. (pg. 81) Why did our fathers do this? Was it strictly for their own pleasure? Were they hoping we would bond with them instead of our mothers? An even more horrifying thought flitted through my mind: was this an early phase of our sexual programming? 3. One of the ways the FMSF and other detractors have tried to discredit survivors of childhood abuse, is by claiming they have no medical records to prove their stories. I have remembered, as have many other mind control survivors, that our parents took us to doctors who, for whatever reasons, helped to cover-up for them during our medical examinations. 4. Bobbie Rosencrans, MSW explained why school became my safe haven: "Although some were initially wary of school, some daughters found they loved the safety, structure and basic fairness of most elementary school classrooms. School may have been their retreat from painful family life." (pg. 180) 5. "More compelling and less consciously available dimensions of denial are when memories of gross violations are so threatening to the psychological and physical integrity of the survivor that recollections are literally split off from consciousness." (Woodcock, pg. 44) 6. Carla Emery explains this form of memory recall: Revivification is not based on current memories, recollections, or reconstructions. The present itself and all subsequent life and experi- ence are blotted out during this type of hypnotic event. The memory tape plays. The subject relives the experience. Revivification is very different in subjective experience, and objective significance, from reenactment. The reliving of revivification is compelling, vivid, and experienced as "now." (pg. 234) For more information about memory recovery and hypnotic programming, see Emery's website at http://www.hypnotism.org. 7. In Bluebird: Deliberate Creation Of Multiple Personality By Psychiatrists, Dr. Colin Ross presented information about the CIA's and US Army's joint project PAPERCLIP and two other related projects, NATIONAL INTEREST and PROJECT 63: "Through these programs, over 1000 German scientists and their families were secretly brought into the United States without State Department scrutiny or approval. Recruitment of German scientists through PAPERCLIP and related projects continued into the 1980s." (pg. 3) Early Years 31 When I remembered the secretive meetings in the 1990s, I was willing to accept that Nazi war criminals had been brought into the US by our government. However, I didn't want to believe that some of them could have been the men I'd met at those meetings. I mentioned my concern to a journalist who tracked Nazi activities in America. In February, 2002 he told me about an article he'd found on the Internet, "New Jersey and the Nazis." Its author, Hans Wolff wrote: ... an important segment of the New Jersey Germans were pro-Nazi before the war and also gave safe haven to Nazis after the war. As we will see, these Nazis also included many Eastern Europeans and Russians, including the elite and largely White Russian SS VorKommando Moskau, which organized the killings of Jews and Slavs in Nazi occupied Eastern Europe and Russia, (pp. 1-2) This article helped me to understand that even if the Nazis I met didn't actually live in Reading, Grandpa M. and Dad could have easily driven to nearby New Jersey to meet with them there. It also explained several other odd memories I'd recalled, in which Grandpa M. had taught me about White Russians, their polit- ical importance, and their plans to regain control of Mother Russia. 8. "The dimension of life-threat may be primary for symptoms of fear, anxiety, hyperarousal, and intrusive memories. The dimension of social-betrayal may be primary for symptoms of dissociation, amnesia, numbness, and constricted or abu- sive relationships. High levels of both life-threat and social-betrayal characterize many of the most severe traumas." (Freyd and DePrince, pg. 142) 9. Because this book doesn't have enough pages to hold all of my memories of child- hood programming sessions, I will mainly focus on four programmers: Grandpa M., Dad, Dr. Black/Schwarz, and Dr. J. 10. Laura S. Brown explained verbal triggers when she wrote that "memory is consid- ered to be state-dependent, and recall is frequently contingent on the re-creation of certain internal or external cues associated with the original event or experience." (International Handbook, pg. 200) In Memory and Abuse, Dr. Charles Whitfield also explained state-dependent memory: We tend to remember better when we are in the same inner or experiential state that we were in when we first experienced or learned something ... If our internal state is different in the present from what it was during the original experience, then we may have difficulty remem- bering the experience or event . . . memories acquired in one neuro-psy- cho-physiological state are accessible mainly in that state, but they are dissociated and less available for recall in an alternate state, (pp. 44-45) 11. Given how crazy-making Lewis Carroll's book can make readers feel, it's no wonder it was used extensively in mind-control programming. If, when 32 Unshackled reading the following excerpt, you temporarily feel your mind short-circuit (even if only for a split-second), that is when you are most vulnerable to hypnotic suggestion: "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however she went on, "And how do you know that you're mad?" "To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?" "I suppose so," said Alice. "Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad." Sexual Abuse Dissociation Because I endured many different kinds of trauma that were perpetrated by many different people over a period of more than thirty years, I also developed many different kinds of alter-states and personality fragments. Some were instinctively modeled after the perceived personal- ities and belief systems of the adults who hurt and betrayed me. For instance, I created a Dr. J part, numerous Dad parts (each one visualized as having dark blond hair and cold gray eyes), a Grandpa M. part, several Mom parts, a Dr. Black part, and more. I also developed animal alter-states that were patterned after real animals' personalities. This was, in part, because Dad and other adults repeatedly put me in cages with the animals, instructing me to observe and become like them. By trancing and focusing on the animals' personalities, I was able to block out my fear of them until I was safely out of the cages. 1 I also created alter-states that specifically compartmentalized the occult teachings from rituals. I believe that what I was forced to endure in those mind- shattering rituals was deliberate and pre-planned. Dad even assigned different names to the alter-states that he created during them. 2 Orgies At many of the rituals, especially those held on Friday nights, I observed the adult members as they seemed to use orgies to release their tension after the gory ritual sacrifices. I figured that they must fear Dad as much as I did; after all, what guaranteed that he wouldn't become angry at them and use them as the next sacrifice? I knew this was possible, because we'd watched him murder several adult members, always using the excuse that because they'd betrayed him, he killed them to "teach" the rest of us not to talk to outsiders about what we witnessed in the rituals. During the orgies, I created alter-states that blocked out unpleasant scents, sounds and memories by focusing both on my sexual pleasure, 33 34 Unshackled and on successfully pleasuring the adults-male and female. What they did to me sexually was wrong, but because two of the men showed me small kindnesses, I emotionally bonded with them. Parental Dissociation Although I may have been genetically predisposed to dissociate during times of great stress, switching into separate alter-states was also modeled to me by both of my parents. 3 When we lived in Laureldale, I stayed at home with Mom while Dad went to work at a factory. On at least two occasions, Mom took me up a flight of stairs into what was probably the attic of our rental house. Each time, she used a twisted, white bed sheet to hang me by my neck from an exposed wooden rafter. 4 When she did this, her voice became a little girl's. She seemed to verbally reenact what someone had done to her when she was a child. Then her voice became a strange, older adult's and she said ugly things to me. Each time I started to pass out, her voice changed back to normal and she asked me what I was doing up there. She also repeatedly put me inside a wooden peach crate in what may have been our basement. Sometimes I stayed in it for hours, cramped and in pain. When she came downstairs to look for me, she "rescued" me from the crate, asking how I got in there. Because she didn't seem to remember, I saw no reason to tell her that she was responsible. Because Dad was an electrical, chemical and mechanical engineer, he was familiar with electricity and its many types of conductors. After we moved to Reiffton, he used some of his tools and live electrical wires in the basement to torture me. At those times, his voice and facial expres- sions changed. He grinned oddly and his voice went up about half an octave. He often sing-songed as he tortured me. Even though he hurt me badly, I felt protective towards him. Because he was not an adult at the time, I mentally took his place, convinced that someone had to fill that role! (This was how I created several "Dad-the-torturer" alter-states that were later used by professional handlers to interrogate others.) The telling factor in each of these situations was that my parents became amnesic strangers and did things that they didn't seem to remember afterwards. For this reason, I believe that both parents had alter-states that perpetrated some acts that they had no conscious knowledge of. Sexual Abuse 35 Unbeknownst to Dad, I developed many "home" alter-states in a futile attempt to adapt to my parents' unsettling changes and shifts in personality. 5 This was a good thing, because those child alter-states preserved my sense of being good and decent when adults poured their shame on me. The effects of my parents' dissociation continued to influence me when I was an adult. Because I had felt protective towards Dad when he regressed into a sadistic child alter-state, I later gravitated towards men who switched into child alter-states, feeling equally protective and maternal towards them. If they hurt me, I blocked out their abuse in the same way I had, when Dad had switched and then tortured me. Pedophilia Dad raped me regularly after we moved to Reiffton. To keep me in bed at night, he convinced me that alligators lived under it. He said that they would bite my feet if I left it. My heart pounded when I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I nearly screamed as I bounced off the bed, landing as far from it as I could, then sprinting into the bathroom. When I prepared to crawl back into bed, I first lifted the covers and bent down to see if any crea- tures waited to snap at my tender little feet. I became so afraid of the alligators that no matter what the temperature was in our house, I cov- ered my feet with a blanket. If I left the bed, the alligators might bite my feet. If I stayed in bed, Dad might rape me again. I developed a child part named Annie (based on my middle name) that compartmentalized the feeling of utter hope- lessness and the memories of Dad raping me in my own bed. 6 Although Dad continued to sexually assault me, he seemed more inter- ested in molesting boys. He often used my unsuspecting brothers to lure neighborhood boys into playing touch and tackle football on a grassy upper field at the nearby high school. Behind our house, Dad also erected a basketball goal. Again, he encouraged the children to play with him. At the time, I didn't understand why Dad didn't encourage the boys' parents to play with us. Now, I believe he wanted every possible opportunity to touch the children's bodies, undetected. According to a letter that Dad wrote in 1989, he was also an advisor to the Catholic church's St. Catherine's Orphanage in Reading from 1960 to 1964. He taught Math and English to some of its child residents, 36 Unshackled and repeatedly invited his favorite male student to spend nights in our home. I believe that Dad used his volunteer work at the orphanage for the primary purpose of accessing more child victims. 7 In the summer, we often walked several miles from Reiffton to a mem- bership swimming park. When he wasn't swimming in the adult section, he lay on a big towel on the grass, propped up on his elbows. In the same way that some men like to watch beautiful women in swimsuits, my father lusted after the innocent children. He had a certain look when he was sexually aroused by them. His upper eyelids closed halfway like a contented feline's and his lips became full and soft. Many years later, I grew nauseous when I found an old photo of a trusting young female cousin sitting on Dad's lap . . . he had the same expression. When I was an adult, Dad sometimes forced me to attend secretive pedophile meetings where he told the listeners, mostly men, that he chose to cultivate a six-month "relationship" with a boy before he made his first sexual move. He said once the boy believed that Dad loved him, he knew the boy wouldn't tell anyone that Dad had "approached him sexually." 8 Sex Equaled Love Although they'd had plenty of opportunity, neither Mom nor Dad ever-to my memory-privately held or caressed me in an unselfish, non- sexual way. Mom also never told me that she loved me, although she did sign, "Love, Mom," on letters and greeting cards when I was an adult. Mom didn't say good things about me, other than that I was smarter than she and that I resembled my father's only sister. I considered that a compliment, since Dad's sister was warm and loving towards me in a respectful way. The only holding and touch I received from Dad, other than spankings and torture, was sexual intercourse-although gradually I also blocked out those memories. 9 Sometimes, after he had finished raping me, Dad would say, "I love you, daughter." Because this was the only time that he said he loved me, I mentally paired love with sex. Lying beside him on the bed he normally shared with Mom, I felt warm and wonderful inside. I believed I was lucky to have a dad who gave me special love and attention! My sexually conditioned alter-states looked forward to our "special times." Whenever Dad made fun of Mom, as we lay alone together in the Sexual Abuse 37 bed, my alter-states felt superior to her. Dad encouraged me to believe I was his wife, and that Mom was the usurper. Kiddy Porn Even more unacceptable to society than parental sexual abuse of children, are the actions of parents who film their children being sexually abused, and then sell or swap the pictures and videos with other perpetrators. I have repeatedly remembered that as a child, I was often given to adults to be sexually violated, both in and away from rituals. I've also clearly remembered being raped by a succession of men for porn shoots that Mom, who was there to supervise me, called "soap operas." I was used in a lot of pornography, both as a child and later as an adult. Dad told me that some of the kiddy porn films that he forced me to participate in were sold for a profit on the black-market to other voyeurs and pedophiles. Most people do not understand that pornographers can make big money by selling illegal pornography that can include bestial- ity, snuff (murder), and kiddy porn. 10 I'm glad most parents are genetically "programmed" to love and pro- tect their children. Unfortunately, a healthy emotional bond never existed between me and my parents. They were both broken on the inside, and had turned to sexual perversions to physically and emotionally satiate their desires. They had found and associated with other broken people for whom what was unacceptable to society, was eerily "normal." I still mourn the loss of not having had a mother and father to love, protect, and make me feel good about myself. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if they had. I also think about the many children in our country who are being hurt in frighteningly similar ways. Although I am free to heal my wounds, tragically, many victim-slaves are still imprisoned in one of a number of brutal pedophile and black- marketing networks. 11 Some people may want to believe that these predators, and groups of predators, are rare. I believe this is a fallacy, because I have met many career pedophiles who seemed to network in sophisticated ways. I was present at some of their secretive meetings, where Dad was so brazen, he happily presented information on how to sexually ensnare children and 38 Unshackled then use them for pornography. Kiddy porn, child prostitution, and child slavery continue to be highly lucrative trades. 12 Comfortably Numb Because of the sexual assaults and torture, I became physically numb. Even when I walked into furniture, I felt no pain and later wondered at my bruises. In the early 1990s, when I began to remember, my body woke up in tandem with my mind. The following changes in my body suggest to me that at least some of the memories were real: Before I began to remember the rapes and torture, my blood pressure usually hovered somewhere between 90/60 and 80/50. Now, my blood pressure averages about 120/80. Before recovery, I couldn't sweat-this was dangerous in hot weather. Now, I sweat as easily as most people. Before I remembered the abuse, my hands and feet were constantly cold. I always wore socks to bed. Now, my extremities stay warm most of the time. In the past, I rarely felt physical pain. Now, I feel pain as soon as I hurt myself. This change angered me; dammit, I didn't want to feel pain! A therapist helped me to understand that feeling pain is important, because it signals when I am injured, so that I can attend to the injury. Before recovery, most of my sexually addicted alter-states required pain to be able to experience sexual pleasure. Now, because my body is much more sensitive to touch, and because I've remembered the source of the original pain, I no longer need pain to enjoy an intimate relation- ship with my husband. These and other physical transformations have indicated that I was in a trance-state before I remembered. Physical disconnection had been important, because I couldn't dare to feel my body during sexual assaults and torture sessions-the pain could have killed me. I feel grateful that at those times I was able to dissociate and numb my body. Notes 1. One of those experiences was unexpectedly beneficial: Dad put me in a cage with a relaxed, older lioness. Although I initially feared that she would eat me, she instead let me lie in front of her elongated torso, my back to her abdomen, and then Sexual Abuse 39 she put her large right paw atop my left side. Feeling her closeness and warmth was probably the closest I ever came to experiencing maternal nurturing. 2. In The Osiris Complex, Dr. Colin Ross wrote: The only time personality states are deliberately created and named by parents, according to the information we are getting from MPD patients in North America, is in cults. In Satanic and other types of cults, apparently, personalities are deliberately created to carry out certain ritual tasks, to hold post-hypnotic instructions, and for other purposes, (pg. 137) Some self-described "authorities" on ritual crime and recovered memories- including Kenneth Lanning (an FBI employee) and FMSF spokespersons-have publicly insisted that no proofs of ritual crime in the US exist, and that alleged sur- vivors and their therapists are fabricating "false memories." I find it difficult to believe that these professionals are so inept that they are unable to locate proofs that are openly available to the public. In the 1990s, a pro-survivor organization, Believe the Children (BTC) published a long list of documented occult crimes, most of them perpetrated within the US. To review an online version of the BTC's Ritual Abuse Report, go to the PARC-VRAMC website at http://parc-vramc.tierranet.com and click on "BTC RA Report." Karen Jones' "Satanism and Ritual Abuse Archive" contains newer infor- mation about such crimes. It can be found at http://www.newsmakingnews.com/ karencuriojonesarchive.htm. 3. Carla Emery explained the process of spontaneously switching from one altered state of consciousness to another: A fugue is a spontaneous, complete dissociation. Persons with split personality are in fugue when being an alternate persona. The original personality is amnesic for the fugue period. M.H. Erickson called such a trance an example of posthypnotic behavior which erupts from the unconscious up "into the conscious stream of activity and fails to become an integral part of that activity" (Nature of Posthypnotic Behavior) — unless the subject later manages, or is enabled, to remember, (pg. 230) 4. Because of this and other physical traumas, the muscles in the back of my neck are always tight and painful. Some professionals now believe that fibromyalgia can result from injuries done to muscles, ligaments and tendons during physical and sexual assaults. 5. Dr. Colin Ross wrote: "It is common for adult women in treatment for MPD to describe clear evidence of MPD in one or both parents, which can include clear descriptions of switching and names of parental alter personalities." (Osiris Complex pg. 199) 6. For the child who depends on an abusive caregiver, the situation demands that information about the abuse be blocked from mental mechanisms that control attachment (bonding) behavior... the closeness of the victim-perpetrator relationship 40 Unshackled impacts probability of amnesia. Amnesia rates across a variety of studies appear to be higher for parental or incestuous abuse than non-parental or non-incestuous abuse. (Freyd and DePrince, pg. 142) 7. Like other pedophiles, Dad sought physical contact with as many children as possible. In the late 1980s, Dr. Gene Abel and his associates interviewed sex offenders who were clients, guaranteeing them confidentiality. Few people were prepared for the results of their study: Two hundred and thirty-two child molesters admitted attempting more than fifty-five thousand incidents of molestation. They claimed to have been successful in 38,000 incidents and reported they had more than 17,000 total victims. All this from only 232 men. Men who molested out-of-home female children averaged twenty victims. Although there were fewer of them, men who molested out-of-home male children were even more active than molesters of female children, averaging 150 victims each . . . Despite the astounding figures, most of these offenses had never been detected. In fact, Abel computed the chances of being caught for a sexual offense at 3 percent. (Salter, pg. 11) 8. Why would Dad brag to other pedophiles about the techniques he used to entrap and sexually molest children? Anna C. Salter, Ph.D. explains: The truth is that many sex offenders like to talk about their exploits — if it can be done in some way that doesn't hurt them in court. They are proud of what clever fellows they are. Narcissism is their Achilles' heel. (pg. 5) 9. I not only blocked out memories of feeling terror, pain, and horror; I also blocked out memories of having felt very ashamed. This often occurred when I was forced to do something that I knew was socially unacceptable-especially if I enjoyed the activity. This included orgasmic "sex with" Dad and other adults. Some pedophile organizations claim that children's enjoyment of sexual stimulation is "proof" that children want sex with adults, and that children shouldn't be kept from "doing it with" adults. These molesters seem to miss the point. Children and even adolescents are grossly underdeveloped-sexually, physiologi- cally, emotionally, and even mentally. I firmly believe that any adult who willingly and repeatedly takes advantage of a vulnerable child's natural inclination towards pleasurable sexual stimulation should be kept completely away from children until and unless that adult is sufficiently rehabilitated and truly understands the depth of the pain and damage he or she caused in the child victims' minds and lives. 10. In the 1990s, when I remembered decades of forced participation in porn shoots, I felt embarrassed and worried that some people might still own revealing films or pictures of me. I also feared that someone in my new life might accidentally come across them. Another fear arose from threats that Dad and other handlers made Sexual Abuse 41 when I was an adult: they would send porn pictures to my neighbors and co-work- ers if I didn't stay silent. My way of dealing with that last fear is that if such pic- tures ever surface, I'll use them as verifications of my past enslavement. 11. In August 8, 2002, the Associated Press reported arrests made for crimes, perpe- trated by a group of adults, that were painfully familiar: WASHINGTON - A group of parents sexually molested and pho- tographed their own children and swapped pictures over the Internet, forming what one man called "the club," said US Customs Service officials who announced charges Friday against 10 Americans and 10 Europeans. Forty-five children were victimized, including 37 Americans ranging in age from 2 to about 14, said Customs Commissioner Robert C. Bonner. "These crimes are beyond the pale," Bonner said. "They are despicable and repugnant." The suspects are men except for Bente Jensen of Denmark, who was charged along with her husband . . . "What is particularly disturbing about this case is that the majority of the people who have been charged were actually the parents who were sexually exploiting their own children," Bonner told a news conference. As I read the article, I wept for the children and also for myself-for the hell we've all endured. I also felt grateful that someone cared enough about their welfare to intervene on their behalf. Now they have a chance to experience normal childhoods. 12. To learn more about the child black-marketing trade, read The Commercial Sexual Exploitation of Children in the US, Canada and Mexico, published in September of 2001. It can be obtained via the Internet at http://caster.ssw.upenn.edu/~restes/ CSEC.htm, from the University of Pennsylvania, School of Social Work, Center for the Study of Youth Policy, 4200 Pine St., 3rd floor, Philadelphia, PA 19104-4090, or by phone: (215) 898-5531. Two websites, http://parc-vramc.tierranet.com and The Finders Case at http://www.gregoryreid.com/id87.htm provide information about an investigation (reportedly thwarted by the CIA) into organized child sexual abuse, black-market- ing of children, criminal occult ritual abuse, and kiddy porn, allegedly perpetrated by members of the CIA-connected Finders cult in Washington, DC. Family Matters Physical Conditioning Before I was born, Dad was a celebrated cross-country runner. (Albright, pp. 96, 104-105) In 1960, he barely missed representing the United States at the Olympics in Rome. I suspect because he saw his children as extensions of his own ego, he wanted each of us to also become star athletes. He took us almost every day to the race track at the nearby high school and used a stopwatch to time us as we sprinted in the grassy field or ran long distances on the encompassing oval cinder race- track. He also entered us in local children's track meets. My brothers did fairly well, but because I was overweight, I came in last every time. Each time, Dad berated and belittled me in front of the other participants and their parents. My Father's Sadism Although I always knew Dad had a cruel streak (forcing me to run when I hurt was a good example), I wasn't able to remember the rituals, the torture sessions, or the rapes. Still, I always felt fear and anxiety in his presence. I knew something was very wrong with him. After we'd moved to Reiffton, Mom bought a record album, The Best of Spike Jones & His City Slickers, from a city bus driver for Dad's birthday. Delighted, Dad constantly played the record. He especially played a parody of My Old Flame. In that song, the singer pretended to set fire to his lover. As Dad listened, he grinned in a childlike way, baring his teeth. His laughter and facial expression scared the crap out of me. His other favorite song on the album was You Always Hurt the One You Love. It could have been his theme song. Another song, Der Fuehrer's Face, made fun of Hitler. I think Dad may have enjoyed that particular song because he sometimes chafed against his Nazi mentors' rigid control. Over the years, he amassed a large collection of long-playing record albums. He especially loved big bands, jazz, movie soundtracks, and 42 Family Matters 43 classical music. He repeatedly forced me to sit in the living room and listen to some of them. One was an orchestral version of the Red Shoes Ballet. Each time he played it, he told me the story of the girl who found a pair of magical red shoes that she believed would help her become a good ballet dancer. When she couldn't remove the shoes, they made her dance until she died from exhaustion. Dad said the girl was punished for being selfish. After that, I stopped asking for anything from my parents-I didn't want to die! Another record included the 1812 Overture. Dad laughed as I froze whenever I heard a set of notes that signaled the cannon blasts were coming. He turned up the bass so the walls reverberated, forcing me to listen to it again and again until I wasn't afraid of the booming sounds anymore. Sometimes he unscrewed my bedroom's ceiling light bulb. I don't know how many times I entered my bedroom at night, terrified of the dark, and flipped the switch-to find it didn't work. He often hid in my room in the dark, waiting for me, then hurt or raped me. He sometimes unscrewed the light bulb after he tucked me into bed and laughed as he walked out of the room, knowing that I'd be too terrified of the dark to try to run to the bathroom. Until I remembered those frightening experiences, I had recurring nightmares of entering my dark bedroom, the light switch not working, my heart thudding as I felt the presence of great evil in the darkness, then physical pain. My cat, Snoopy, was the only warm-blooded creature I fully trusted. I don't remember how old I was when Mom gave him to me, but I prob- ably had him for at least ten years. (When I was about to leave home and marry my first husband, she made me leave Snoopy beside a road far away from home, next to an opened can of tuna.) Snoopy never betrayed me. Feeling his soft fur and the vibration of his purring kept me emotionally soft and connected. He often pulled me out of bad moods by rubbing against me and meowing, demanding to be held and petted. Unfortunately, Dad decided to use Snoopy to control me. He knew that I dearly loved my cat and felt personally responsible for his safety. I was a constant nervous wreck, because I knew Dad could hurt or kill him at any time. He used my fear of what he could do to Snoopy to ensure that I obeyed him and didn't tell neighbors about our family secrets. 44 Unshackled Whenever I showed a spark of defiance towards Dad at home, he picked Snoopy up and petted him while baring his teeth at me. When my shoulders drooped, he put Snoopy down. I got the message; he didn't need to say a word. Dad also knew I was especially concerned for my youngest brother's safety. Sometimes I felt as if I were his mother. Although I feared what Dad could do to Snoopy, my greater fear was that Dad would kill my brother. Recognizing my instinctive drive to protect him, Dad repeatedly threatened that if I didn't do exactly what he said, or if I ever told out- siders what went on in the house, he would kill him. Although I didn't remember Dad's threats after a while, I still felt the terror. I remained hyper- vigilant whenever my little brother and I played together in the house. Alert to the sound of Dad's heavy footsteps, I usually tried to dis- tract Dad and keep him in a good mood by telling him about my good work that day at school. Whenever Dad caught us saying an unacceptable word, he made us stand in front of the basement sink as he rubbed a bar of soap, hard, on our teeth and sometimes on our tongues; then he told us to stand there. When I cried and begged him to let us wash our mouths out, he grinned at my discomfort. Even now, I cannot stand the taste of soap or shampoo. By punishing us for cussing, he magically made himself appear moral. Because his behavior created cognitive dissonance in my mind, I uncon- sciously blocked out contradictory memories of the times when he was amoral and dangerous. Dad's favorite form of sadistic abuse at home was "spanking." The sexually voyeuristic abuse usually went like this: first, Mom was angry about something we did. When Dad came home from work, she told him we needed a spanking. Dad called us into their bedroom while Mom went into another part of the house. He made us stand in a row beside their bed and then told one of us to get his brown, plastic hairbrush from their medicine cabinet. I shook and cried when he told me to bring it to him. (One day, I hid the brush. I learned not to do that again.) One at a time, he made us pull down our underpants and bend over the bed. He said in advance how many spankings he'd give us. His arm was strong and the spankings were very painful. On one occa- sion, he lost control of his anger, and used the bristle side of the brush to make hundreds of bleeding pinpricks on my buttocks and upper legs. Family Matters 45 (Mom was upset about that-not because he'd hurt me, but because he'd made noticeable marks.) Usually, Dad kept control and spanked us very slowly. He'd hit us once and then wait until we felt the full intensity of the pain. 1 That increased our fear of being hit again. I usually cried and begged him to please not spank me anymore. He usually responded by saying, "You'd better stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about!" His words made me feel crazy, because they suggested that I had no reason to cry when he hurt me. After Dad spanked us and went into another part of the house, Mom hugged us and angrily said that Dad was a bastard. And yet, the next time we misbehaved, she started the cycle again. When we attended Sunday morning services at our nearby Lutheran church, we always sat with our parents on a hard, uncomfortable wooden pew. We were not allowed to wiggle or talk as the pastor's voice droned on. Once in a while, Dad let Mom bring coloring books and crayons to keep us quiet. More often, Mom shared a small pad of blank paper from her purse that we were allowed to doodle on with tiny church pencils. Sometimes, Dad allowed us to draw on our church bulletins. He often fell asleep during the sermon-sometimes he snored. And sometimes, when he awoke from his nap, he drew odd heads of Indians with lumpy, slanted foreheads, feathers coming out of the tops of their heads. He laughed when he showed us those pictures. I felt relieved when he drew them, because then I knew he wouldn't hurt us. Sometimes, however, he grew angry as we wiggled, whispered, or dropped a pencil on the floor. That was when the mental torture began. With every movement or sound that we made, he raised a finger and wordlessly counted with his lips, staring at us. Each finger raised meant how many "spankings" he would give all three of us as soon as we got home. Of course, that upset us and we cried. Our tears meant even more spankings. 2 When we lived in Pennsylvania, we only had one car. Sometimes on Saturday afternoons, Dad drove all of us to town. He usually dropped Mom off in front of a store, telling her he'd drive around the block while waiting for her. When Mom emerged from the store with packages in her arms and tried to open the locked passenger door, Dad moved the car away. Mom walked towards the car and tried again, fussing at him through the closed window. He again moved away. She tried again. 46 Unshackled Eventually, he drove around the big city block while Mom waited by the curb, humiliated and angry. When he finally stopped and unlocked the front passenger door, Mom climbed in and yelled at him. When Dad laughed at her, baring his crooked teeth, I laughed too. Then she turned her rage onto me, sometimes reaching over the seat and furiously hitting me as Dad kept laughing. Dad's sadism spilled over in other settings, away from rituals and home. When he was given permission to torture me and other children in controlled laboratory settings, his sadism increased exponentially. With the CIA allegedly backing him, he could do anything he wanted, knowing he didn't have to worry about being arrested for his crimes against humanity. This is the main reason why I am so angry about the CIA's MKULTRA program. Although it may have initially been created for good, it also basically gave carte blanche to sadists and pedophiles who took advantage of defenseless children in secretive settings. One of Dad's programming techniques that he used in a building where he held rituals was to attach ropes to cages. Then he put me and other naked children in them (one per cage). He would use the pulleys he'd attached to the ceiling to pull the cages up into the air, jiggling us occasionally by jerking on our ropes to keep us off-balance and helpless. Sometimes he kept us in the cages up in the air for days. By doing this, he conditioned me to believe he had total control over me and my body. He also took me to a laboratory in the Reading area that I suspect was in a Bell Lab building. The following is a journaled childhood memory that explains one way Dad successfully programmed my mind in that lab: Pain, isolation, deprivation. Torture, training, total isolation in a dark, not black, soundless box made of metal. Dad poured his pain into me (via electrical torture). I became the repository for his pain. Pain kills. I was alone in that box ... no one to talk to, no one who cared. NO ONE. He was master of horrors. He cut the kitten open alive, starting with its sweet tender stomach. It trusted him. It trusted him and he killed it. He said he was teaching me not to care. Then he put me in the box that was too small to stand in; I had to sit in it, one side open. I saw the lab. I saw my father. The box was my only respite. And he let me decide when to come out again. He kept busy and patiently waited Family Matters 47 until I decided to come out again - to HIM. He forced me to choose to come to him, to be with him, no matter what pain he gave me. I became Frankenstein's lab assistant. His creation. Cold. Uncaring. Wooden. You are what is done to you. Do unto others what was done unto you; give out as has been given unto you. These were Satan's laws and he was Satan in the flesh. Satan is human pain-giving. Hate hate hate let the whole world hate. Kill kill kill let the whole world kill ... all should have to feel as I feel and yet it is never enough. Never enough. I'm always back in the box. With the knowing and the pain. The way that box worked, I sat in it with a roof, front and two sides completely closed, the "door" side behind me-my father left it open just enough so light from the lab came in between the top of that side and the roof of the box. The light from the lab was inviting and I was never totally in the dark. Dad knew I was scared of totally black places. It was like he was saying, "See how kind I am to you? I even make sure you have some light! And see, I'm not dragging you out-you have to want to come into the lab-you have to want to be with me." I had to turn around and crawl out on all fours. When I opened the box and came out, I chose to be with him, with those men, in the lab. Tortured in the lab, then put in the box, no torture, then go back into the lab for more; tortured again. And no, I never learned to like it. I never liked the pain. Sometimes they didn't torture me-and when they didn't, it was even worse, because then I felt like I was becoming one of them. Grandma M's Kindness Unlike my parents, my maternal grandmother was often kind and attentive when I visited with her in her home in Laureldale. 3 When Mom started working as a secretary at a nearby insurance agency, Grandma took care of me, especially when I was ill. Every time I eat chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers, I still remember how good Grandma made me feel as I lay on her rough-textured living room sofa and watched afternoon soap operas with her. If not for Grandma and the kindness and positive attention I received from my elementary school- teachers, I might have broken all the way and become a willing sadist like my father. 48 Unshackled Perhaps the kindnesses I received from others is also why I'm unable to hold onto my hatred towards Dad for what he did to me and so many others. I suspect he didn't have anyone to love and cherish him when he was hurt as a child. Maybe this is why he broke all the way and became a human monster. I often visited my maternal grandparents in their old, two-story house. One day, as Grandpa worked in a small repair shop near the house, I grabbed a handful of roasted peanuts from his jar in a kitchen cupboard. I couldn't understand the fear on Grandma's face when she caught me. She begged me not to do it again, but I couldn't resist-they were so delicious ! Fortunately, Grandpa never seemed to notice. Grandma seemed to do whatever Grandpa told her to do. Sometimes she shook when she told me that I must be careful not to make him angry. Mom often called Grandpa "king of the hill," albeit never to his face. Although Mom seemed bitter and angry towards him, she still insisted that we go to their house at least once a week. I didn't understand Mom's anger when Grandpa ranted about "niggers" and "kikes" and "Pollocks." I was too inexperienced to know that his words weren't part of a normal person's vocabulary. Sometimes, I sneaked down their wooden, enclosed stairway that led from the kitchen into the basement. I sat quietly on a narrow, painted step and listened as Grandpa talked to men on his elaborate ham radio set. Although he often spoke in English, he occasionally spoke in German and several other languages that I didn't recognize. Although I didn't understand much of what the men said, I felt proud of Grandpa for talking to men who lived so far away. How many grandfathers could do that? One day, he caught me sitting there. Angry, he yelled at Grandma to make sure I didn't spy on him again. Since I didn't want Grandma to get into trouble, I reluctantly stayed upstairs and gave him his privacy. The family's need to protect Grandma from discomfort seemed extreme. When I became an adolescent, a teenaged male relative sexually molested me, several times, in their basement. When Mom asked me why I didn't want to go to Grandma's house anymore, I told her. Instead of comforting me or expressing anger that I'd been molested, she said, "You mustn't tell Grandma-it will break her heart." She never mentioned it to me, again. 4 Family Matters 49 Grandpa M.'s Control Before 1990, 1 didn't know that I had altered states of consciousness. I also didn't know that Grandpa M. had created several of them for his own future use. He had used a rudimentary form of torture to split my personality by holding the lit end of his ever-present cigar against my forearm when we were alone in his repair shop. The pain put me into a trance state. He then verbally implanted hypnotic suggestions. When he finished, he gave another suggestion that completely blocked out all memory of the torture-if I noticed the pain, he either said I accidentally brushed against his cigar, or burned it on another hot surface. Back inside the house, he gave me a paper band from one of his cigars. I wore it proudly on my finger. Sometimes he even gave me an empty cigar box to take home. Because he tortured me sometimes and was friendly at other times, I both feared him and was loyal to him. That loyalty was used frequently by professional handlers when I was an adult. I was conditioned to call Grandpa at home if I was on a state- side op that went awry. Whenever he answered the phone, I told him what had happened, and then he told me what to do. My child alter-states were always excited when handlers tricked them into believing we were going to Pennsylvania to see Grandpa. Grandpa told some of my child alter-states that he worked for "The Company." He said he had been part of the O.S.S., which he called the "Old Guard." He seemed angry about certain changes that had been made within the Company. He told me he had personally recruited my father for them. From what I have remembered, Grandpa also seemed to have covert connections to at least several high-ranking politicians. Racism When I was a child, I only interacted with Blacks one time. At Dad's urging, our Lutheran church had donated its old wooden pews to a Black inner-city congregation. They responded by sending their choir to our church to give a concert. 5 Although I would like to believe that Dad had a soft spot for Blacks, I think he more likely went out of his way to seem supportive, even contributing money to a Black arts organization, so if anyone ever tried to accuse him of affiliating with local Nazis, those witnesses would effectively be discredited. 6 50 Unshackled At Aryan and neo-Nazi meetings in Pennsylvania, and later in Georgia, Dad often talked about Blacks' inferiority and their tendency towards violence-as if he had none. 7 Because I believed him and other Aryan leaders, I irrationally feared anyone with dark skin. Even when I was an adult, I was convinced (although I couldn't remember why) that Black men would want to hurt me because I was a white woman. Dad and other local handlers occasionally transported me to run-down parts of large cities, making me meet alone with Black men for drug transactions. Sometimes the handlers drove away, leaving me alone with those strangers. Each time, I was terrified that the Black men would kill me. Although I blocked out those memories, the irrational fear kept me from interacting with Blacks. Unlike Dad, Grandpa M. openly expressed his bigotry at home. And yet, he seemed to change in his later years. When I was in my thirties, Mom told me a lovely story: because he was a volunteer fireman, Grandpa was sent into the home of an elderly Black woman who had fallen out of her bed, breaking her hip. She was in great pain and cried out every time Grandpa tried to move her. He surprised himself by being gentle and empathic towards her. That experience changed his life and his attitude towards Blacks in general. He also became more gentle and compassionate towards Grandma after she was stricken with Alzheimer's disease. Several relatives told me that Grandpa visited her almost every day in a local nursing home, doting on her. Grandpa's changed behaviors proved to me that anyone has the capability to change and become a better human being. How ironic that the same man who I believe set me up to become an MKULTRA slave, eventually showed me how to recover my soul through his own life-example. Interpreter Although Grandpa M. told me that he had introduced Dad to the CIA, and also seemed to be Dad's primary handler in Pennsylvania, Dad told me that Dad had been "tapped" by the CIA to act as an interpreter for some of the Nazi immigrants that the CIA and US Army had secretively brought into the US. He said that because he was a native American who Family Matters 51 spoke German, he wasn't considered a security threat. If Dad told me the truth about his recruitment, then I suspect it occurred after he enrolled at Reading's Albright College, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree. Although he had listened to weekly German radio programs as a child, and although his mother spoke fluent German at home, Dad hadn't seemed comfortable with the language until after he'd joined two clubs at Albright that focused on German language and culture. The meetings of the first club, Delta Phi Alpha, Beta Psi chapter, were conducted in German and focused on "important and interesting aspects of German culture." The monthly meetings of the second club, Der Deutsche Verein, included "folk songs, student talks on Germany, Christmas caroling, and films." Dad was vice-president of the second club for one year, and participated in both clubs during his last two years at Albright. (Albright, pp. 40, 70-71, 125) This may have been a marked change in Dad, because his earlier 1948 Muhlenberg High School yearbook states: Bill . . . delights in chemistry . . . would rather run than study . . . member of "mad" track team . . . Mixed Chorus standby . . . plays bass horn in band . . . prefers Jarrof and Como records. . . struggles in German class [italics added]. (Muhltohi, pg. 43) Nazi Recruitment In 2003, when President George W. Bush ordered the US military to invade Iraq, he did so against the wishes of the majority of the United Nations, including two of its most powerful members, France and Germany. As a result of their governments' unwillingness to support our President's actions, many US citizens joined together to boycott their imports-some restaurants even changed their menus to show "Freedom Fries" instead of "French Fries!" Although the animosity was strong between our countries during that time, it paled in comparison to the hatred most Americans felt towards Germans during WWI and WWII. Because Dad's mother was a 52 Unshackled German- American, she and others in their community protected them- selves by hiding their heritage. They did this by claiming that they were "Pennsylvania Dutch." Because I didn't remember being taken to meet the Nazi men and didn't know I was part German, I believed Grandma when she told me that I was instead part Dutch. This was the environment Dad grew up in. He heard people call Germans "dirty Krauts" and worse. Some of the neighborhood boys even targeted him for brutal beatings, possibly because of his heritage. Dad was forced to hide half of who he was. And yet, he was regularly exposed to German radio programs at home that surely would have encouraged him to feel proud of his heritage. The schism between who he was, and who he feared to let people know he was, must have been painful and crazy-making. I believe this is the primary reason why he so quickly aligned with the Nazis he later introduced me to. Whereas he'd been made to feel dirty and ashamed for being half German, these men helped him to feel proud of his heritage. They also provided a form of paternal nurturing and acceptance that his own father hadn't been able to give him. Once Dad emotionally aligned with these hardened Nazi immigrants, he never seemed to want to be anything else. And yet, because our country was still understandably biased towards Nazis, Dad again hid who he was. Paternal Grandparents According to family lore, Dad's father, a Welsh immigrant, was sold as a boy by his mother to a ship's captain, to pay the family's property taxes. 9 As an indentured servant (really, a slave), Grandpa was brought by ship to America, where he was eventually adopted and raised by an uncle who changed the boy's last name from Chirk to Shirk. 10 I believe Dad's long-term minimization of the seriousness of Grandpa's mother's betrayal, and of Grandpa's subsequent slavery, may be one reason why Dad saw nothing wrong with using me and other children as objects to be bartered, sold, and abused. When I was older, Dad told me more about his tumultuous childhood. (He also told the story to several other relatives.) When Dad was a child, his father was sometimes in a dangerous rage when he came home drunk Family Matters 53 at night. Dad said that more than once, his mother locked herself in the basement while Dad led his four siblings into the woods to hide all night. As the eldest child, he also seemed to suffer the worst of his father's abusive rages. I believe Grandpa Shirk was a complex and wounded man. I believe he drank heavily to medicate deep emotional pain. Heaven only knows what the men did to him, a defenseless boy slave, on that long overseas voyage. And if his mother had sold him to strangers, what else did his childhood family do to him? Still, Grandpa Shirk often gave me positive male attention-something I never received from my own father. Grandpa usually acted as if he liked me, and sometimes he talked to me as if we were the only two people in the room. Because he was often kind to me (although not always), I emotionally bonded with him, more than I did with Dad. In the summer of 1968, I vacationed at my paternal aunt's house. One sunny day as I played in the back yard, she received a phone call. A relative told her that Grandpa had committed suicide in front of the church where he worked as a janitor. When she told me, I went into shock: "No! He can't be dead!" The next day, after I'd returned to Laureldale, Grandma Shirk told me that Grandpa had stuffed a towel in the tailpipe of his car and had "gone to sleep" by inhaling the exhaust fumes. She said Grandpa had killed himself because the pain from his recent stomach cancer was too much to bear. Unfortunately, because Grandma didn't add that what Grandpa had done was wrong, I believed committing suicide to avoid pain must be an acceptable family tradition. During the funeral service, Grandma led me and several younger cousins to Grandpa's coffin in the front of the room. She encouraged me to touch his cold, hard cheek with my finger. As I did, I realized that the one man I truly loved was gone forever. And as I rode with Grandma in the black limousine, my heart shattered. He really was dead. He was gone. At home, neither of my parents ever discussed Grandpa or his death with me. It was if he had never existed. For a long time after that, I had grief-filled dreams in which strangers drove me on a city street. Each time, I saw Grandpa walking along a side- walk. I tried to break the car window with my feet so I could call out to him, but I was always too late. When I escaped from the car, he'd already disappeared. Each time I awoke, my pillow was soaked with tears. 54 Unshackled Notes 1. Anna C. Salter, Ph.D., explained why sadists like Dad liked to prolong the agony of their victims: The point of sadism is not indifference to pain. It is the deliberate infliction of pain and terror . . . Often sadists will tell their victims in advance what will happen to them in order to increase the terror . . . Rather than being indifferent to how others feel, they are exquisitely attuned to it. But suffering in others does not produce the same feeling state in them. Instead, it produces the opposite. Other people's help- lessness makes them feel powerful. Other people's vulnerability makes them feel invincible. Other people's dying makes them feel alive. Other people's submission makes them feel dominant, (p. 108) 2. It's not as easy as one might think, to pick a sadist out of a crowd. I do not find it strange that most people didn't know Dad was one. Anna C. Salter explains why: If you think that the sadists and the Ted Bundys of the world must somehow look different and can be spotted on the street, think again. Despite an extraordinary level of deviancy and callousness, they are often well ensconced in communities . . . Those sadists who were termed "more severe" (defined as killing three or more people) were considerably better adjusted and more successful than those termed "less severe" (defined as killing only one person), according to one study. For example, 43 percent of the more severe sadists were married at the time of the offense, as opposed to 7 percent of the less severe ones; 33 percent had military experience as opposed to none of the less severe; 43 percent had education beyond high school as compared to none; and a full one-third had a reputation as a solid citizen, as opposed to none of the less severe." (pg. 1 13) 3. Rosencrans explained how an adult survivor of child sexual abuse can have a poor relationship with her mother, and yet the girls in the next generation can have a positive relationship with the same woman: Some . . . may be viewed and experienced by their grandchildren as much more positive maternal figures than the adult daughters have ever experienced them to be. This transformation may be a relief for the now-grown daughters, but it can also be painful. Their children may get from their grandmothers the nurture and safety that the daughters never received. The grandchildren may trust and love their grandmothers, even though the daughters may never be able to trust them, accept positive information about them as grandmothers, or love them. (pg. 80) Family Matters 55 4. In my early twenties, I confronted that male relative by letter. In response, he apol- ogized for what he'd done to me. This is the only apology I have ever received from a sexual abuser. 5. I mean no disrespect when I use the word "Black" instead of "African- American." I prefer to use that word when necessary, because some Blacks have told me they do not want to be called African-American since their ancestors emigrated to the US from other countries. 6. Throughout my life I have met many people, some of whom were politicians or ministers, who publicly professed to support Black rights while also being heavily involved in secretive Aryan organizations and activities. The same has held true for individuals, including ministers, who claimed to be staunch Christians while secretly practicing occult religions. My rale of thumb is this: the harder a person consistently works to "prove" how unbiased or Christian he or she is, the more likelihood I think there is, that the person is the opposite. 7. In 2001, 1 found a verification about racism and neo-Nazism in the Reading area. The article by Mark Stuart Gill was published in Ladies' Home Journal. Gill wrote about Bonnie Jouhari, a Black woman who had worked at the US Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) in Reading: Through her work, she had discovered that 98 percent of minorities in Berks County lived in a ten-square-mile radius in the city of Reading. The other 864 square miles, with better, more affordable housing, were almost entirely white. Minorities who tried to move outside of the urban neighborhood met with stiff resistance . . . [Jouhari stated that] "there is a deeply entrenched prejudice that people here accept as a matter of daily life." (pp. 118-122) Because of Jouhari's work at HUD, she was targeted by two white supremacist leaders. She and her teenaged daughter were cruelly harassed as they fled from one state to the next. Although Jouhari eventually won a lawsuit against one of the leaders, she and her daughter were, at last report, still living in hiding, (pp. 118, 122-124, 190) 8. In the 80s and 90s, Dad continued to speak German fluently. At least once at its AT&T factory in Norcross, Georgia, Dad served as a tour guide for a group of visiting Germans. 9. In a 1989 letter to his second wife, Dad wrote: "My father was sold as a child." That part of Grandpa's history was confirmed to me in a subsequent letter from a rela- tive who wrote: "Thomas Curtis Shirk was an orphan. His father died when he was a young boy. His mother hired him out to be an indentured servant. Then she died also." I have since learned that most Whites refer to their enslaved ancestors as "indentured servants" to avoid the feeling of shame that is attached to the label of "slave." 56 Unshackled 10. Dad often bragged that his father's side of the family had partial inheritance rights to the "Chirk family castle in Wales." I thought these claims were pure fantasy until I found proof of the castle's existence through the Internet. Although I found noth- ing that indicated that it had ever belonged to Dad's family, information about the owners' family coat-of-arms raised the hair on my arms: The Red Hand of Chirk There are interesting myths or legends about the origin of the red hand in the Myddleton coat-of-arms. One story tells of a dispute which arose between two youths of the family in the distant past, over inheritance of the castle. To settle the dispute it was agreed that the two youths would run a race, to finish with the winner touching the Castle gates. It is said that the first youth to reach out to the gate at the finishing line was deprived of victory by a supporter of his adversary, who drew his sword and cut off the youth's outstretched hand-thus the "bloody" hand. Another version of this story tells that they swam across the castle lake, and the first hand to touch the far shore was cut off. The second legend says that the red hand was put as a curse on the Myddleton family. It was said that the curse would only be removed if a prisoner succeeded in surviving imprisonment for 10 years in the Chirk Castle dungeons. The red hand still survives as part of the Myddleton coat-of-arms, proving legend says, that no one in history was able to live longer than 10 years in the terrible conditions of imprisonment at Chirk Castle. Another version of this story says that if a prisoner could stay alive for 12 years (without cutting his nails) he would inherit the Castle. A further story tells that one of the early Myddletons who was leading a battle, was badly injured. He placed his blood-covered hand on the white tunic he was wearing and left the imprint of the bloody hand. This then became his heraldic symbol (http://www.chirk.com/castle.html). Basic Programming Western Electric Dad worked at the Western Electric (WE) factory in Reading for about thirteen years. I have a wood-framed "good luck" caricature of Dad that one of his co-workers drew for Dad when he was preparing to transfer to a position at another WE factory in Baltimore, Maryland. Most of his Reading plant co-workers added their signatures in pen. Occasionally, as I look at their names, I wonder if any of them were Nazi immigrants. 1 I've had numerous recurring memories of one of my father's co-workers. The big, black-haired man, also named Bill, had a German last name. He was Dad's best friend for many years. Our family spent a lot of time with him, his wife, and their two sons who were about the same ages as my brothers. I've repeatedly remembered that Bill's wife was one of Dad's long- term advisors, especially when Dad programmed my mind. She also attended some of his occult rituals. Although Dad despised women in general, he did whatever she said without balking. He genuinely seemed to respect her. I've had no memories of their having an affair, and don't know whether she truly cared about him or was merely controlling him. Sometimes, when Dad wanted to take me to meet with the woman, he first instructed me to drug Mom so that she'd sleep while we were gone. Dad kept a small, brown glass container of liquid in an old paint can in a narrow basement closet with a green wooden door. As instructed, I used the dropper to surreptitiously put one or two drops of the liquid into whatever Mom was drinking-usually coffee. That always seemed to work. Even away from cult settings, Bill's wife seemed to have a lot of power over our lives. Mom often depended on her for help and advice, from one mother to another. Bill's wife seemed to have endless patience with Mom. Because Bill's wife was nice to me at times, I didn't hate her. I was not, however, emotionally connected to her-she was cold as ice. I did like her husband; he was often funny. 57 58 Unshackled Because I didn't remember that couple's involvement in Dad's cult activities, I felt sad when Mom eventually decided we mustn't socialize with them anymore. When Mom told Dad (and us children) that Bill had asked her to have sex with him, Dad angrily refused to believe her and blamed her for his loss of their friendship. I have two good memories about Western Electric. In the first mem- ory, Dad took my brothers and me to the factory whenever the Navy's Blue Angels-a precision aviation team-performed an air show over the city of Reading. He let us stand on the roof for a clear view of their performance. I jumped and clapped as the jets flew overhead in perfect formation. In the second memory, Dad brought home vacuum tubes from the factory that he had helped to design. One weekend, for "show and tell" at school, he helped me fasten them onto a wooden board. I felt proud when I showed my classmates what Dad had made. Unfortunately, he also introduced me to a darker side of his work. Experimental Laboratory Dad repeatedly drove me to a large, red brick building in the Reading area, telling me that his work there was connected to his work at Western Electric. 2 The multi-story building housed at least one upper-floor scientific laboratory, where Dad and other men wore white lab coats. In that labo- ratory, he experimented on white rats and guinea pigs that they kept in large aquariums atop long counters. Whenever I went there with him, Dad told me I was his guinea pig. I believed him. We entered the lab through a guarded door with a rubber seal that whooshed when it slid open. We walked along a short encased corridor, then through another whooshing door, into the lab. The scientists in it seemed to perform chemical experiments. This may explain why Dad was involved-after all; he bragged that was a mechanical, electrical and chemical engineer. One afternoon in that big lab, Dad forced me to stand and watch a Caucasian, blond, clean-cut man standing inside a glass-fronted, small, sealed room. As I stared, the man's skin turned red as a lobster. Because I didn't see what happened to him after that, I believed Dad when he said that he'd died from radiation. Basic Programming 59 That horrible experience generated a series of nightmares that I've never forgotten. In them, the blond, red-skinned radiation monster chased me up and down the streets of Reading because I'd watched him die and had done nothing to save him. After that incident, some of the lab scientists conspired to play a trick on me. One of the white-coated men would look agitated and yell that the radiation monster was on the loose: "Run for your life; he's coming!" Each time, I left through the sealed corridor, then quickly ran down sev- eral open flights of metal stairs, and then out past a solid door where, just beyond, Dad usually parked the car. Then Dad inevitably exited and drove me home, using back roads to confuse me about the lab's where- abouts. As usual, by the time I returned home, I'd completely blocked out having been to that building. That same evening, Dad would force me to watch the weekly Outer Limits sci-fi television show. Sometimes it was about a lab-created monster. Although I always cried and begged him not to make me watch the program, he didn't relent. I was so terrified of the radio frequency sounds signaling the beginning of each show that professional handlers played them over the phone when I was an adult, to put me into a con- trollable trance-state. Chain Programming At home, Dad-the-engineer drew flowcharts of my "systems" of alter- states, leaving them on his easel in our upstairs screened-in porch. Because he drew the systems in code, only he and some of my alter- states understood what the charts represented. Those parts believed him when he told them he knew me better than I knew myself. Although non-traumatic hypnosis could have effectively been used to control my mind, Dad clearly preferred using trauma-based programming to split it. To create a new system (group) of alter-states, he first triggered (called out) a primary alter-state that he'd previously created. When that alter-state emerged, he traumatized that alter-state, sometimes using elec- tricity, until that part couldn't take any more pain. That part "went under," leaving another part of my mind conscious to endure the next trauma. 3 Dad called this technique chain programming. He traumatized one alter-state after another, verbally assigning each one an individualized 60 Unshackled code name, until I stopped functioning altogether. When that happened, he knew he'd gone as far as he could. He'd start the next session on another day, again calling out a primary alter- state and then traumatizing that part to create another succession of linked alter-states and personality fragments. 4 Somehow, Dad knew that if a trauma was familiar, a previously con- scious part would emerge that had coped with that type of trauma before. The only way he could create new alter-states and personality fragments was to expose me to traumas that I hadn't yet learned how to cope with. Using this technique, Dad eventually created over a thousand alter-states and personality fragments in my shattered mind. He assigned each one a code name that was later used by him and other professional handlers to trigger them back out into consciousness. He also took me to spend time with other adults, allegedly working for the CIA, who used more sophisti- cated techniques to program and train many of these alter-states. Some of those professional trainers taught me how to use various deadly weapons. They especially used repetition to condition the split-off parts of my mind to respond so automatically while using those weapons, that during ops I used them without even thinking-similar to driving a car without thinking about how to do it. Not having to think about how to hold and aim a weapon probably saved my life many times, because even a second or two of extra response time could have easily led to my death. I had the bad luck of being raised by a father who enjoyed hurting and terrorizing me and other child victims. He was a sociopath with no moral brakes. He often boasted that the sky was the limit as to what he could do to children's minds. He repeatedly told me I was his prototype, and explained if a technique worked with me, he'd use it later on other children. How could any group of adults torture and brutalize innocent children for years? I'm not sure I have an answer, because that reality is still so horrific to me. Nonetheless, some do enjoy it. The following is a childhood memory about a professionally run programming facility that I and other children were taken to, mostly by our parents. I was exposed to torture/kill training when I was no older than eight, in a "school" housed in the same building where I was taken by relatives when I had flashbacks. I believe it may have been set up, financed, or both, by the CIA to condition children in controlled alter-states, to become future assassins. 5 In special rooms in the middle of the same Basic Programming 61 building, we were also forcibly exposed to radiation and more. Whenever he was present, Dr. Black seemed to be in charge of those forms of exper- imentation. We slept in that middle section of the building until our training was complete. This seemed to take place in the summer because we wore warm-weather clothes. Mostly brick, two-story houses with slanted roofs were in a row across the road from the facility. The facility itself was tan or red brick on the outside, with a wide, mustard-colored band that seemed to have been painted around the perimeter of the recessed, upper external wall atop the building's otherwise flat roof. I was taken there at least twice by my parents in the summertime for special training. Although my parents indicated they knew what was being done to me there, I do not know if all of the other parents were aware that their children were being traumatized. I believe the teachers and trainers were, in part, sifting through the groups of children to deter- mine which ones would be likely candidates for future ops. One of the most upsetting things they made us do there was to use sharp knives to gut teddy bears they had given us, in a big shower room in the back, left side of the building. (Sections of the building were given alphabetical codes-A, B, C, and so on.) The teachers also used modeling clay to fashion life-sized heads with faces, then taught us how to assault the faces with our fingers and hands-especially gouging the eyeholes. More benign classrooms were in the front part of the building, where relatives brought the children and picked them up. Those adults may not have been aware of what went on in other parts of the building. During our classes in the front rooms, we were taught various subjects, includ- ing how to conduct ourselves at social events. One time, some of the girls and boys were taught how to behave during a mock tea party. This is the first of several facilities I've had memories of having been taken to, as a child, to be programmed and trained for future use by- I believe-the CIA and some of its affiliates. Wizard of Oz Dad, Dr. Black, and other mental programmers often used movie and storybook themes and characters to create alter-states and systems of alter- states in the minds of their child victims. The Wizard of Oz was 62 Unshackled known among programmers as the "base program" movie for child victims in my generation. Each year, Dad forced me to watch the movie on television, even though I cried and begged him not to make me. This was before the VCR was invented. The Wicked Witch of the West and her monkey soldiers always frightened me, as did the tornado that lifted and carried Dorothy in her house from Kansas to the Land of Oz. Later, Dad hypnotically imprinted the identities and personalities of several of the movie's characters onto a succession of blank slate alter- states that he'd created through unusually severe torture. Several of these alter-states were later used on black ops. One was given the name, scarecrow. This part of my fragmented mind was hypnotically conditioned to believe he had "no brain," and therefore was completely obedient and suggestible to whoever triggered him out. My cowardly lion alter- state compartmentalized much of my fear, and never emerged outside of handlers' control. Keeping my fear separated was crucial on ops because otherwise, I might have hesitated or frozen instead of thinking and acting quickly. The alter-state that Dad and Dr. Black seemed to prize the most was given the code name, tin man. That male alter-state was created for the sole purpose of performing assassinations in my adult years. Based on the movie's character, this part had "no heart" and therefore couldn't emotionally connect with other humans. (Because this part believed he was male, he also didn't feel intimidated when he went one-on-one against larger, muscular males.) My Wizard of Oz programmed alter-states were also conditioned to believe that Washington, DC was Emerald City. In the movie, the tornado transported Dorothy away from her homeland, Kansas-which represented my normal home life. The phrase "over the rainbow" was used to mentally "transport" me from my normal life to the ops world, with the symbolic rainbow hypnotically bridging them. When I was an adult, I unconsciously identified my Wizard of Oz pro- gramming to potential handlers via personal checks with rainbows printed on them, and a rainbow sticker I had placed in my car's back window. Dad also reinforced the programming by giving me, as a birthday pres- ent, a large, faceted Australian crystal that he told me to hang inside a win- dow at home. Whenever the sun shone through it, many tiny "rainbows" Basic Programming 63 moved back and forth on the opposite wall. (I also hung a crystal from my car's rear-view mirror.) In the movie, Dorothy was told to click her ruby slippers and chant, "There's no place like home," to go back to Kansas. When a handler took me home and parked in front of my residence, he or she said that same phrase. As I heard the words, I mentally clicked my ruby shoes and switched back to my home alter-state. Believing that I'd been given a ride home by a coworker, I exited the car and walked into my residence. I'd already been conditioned to never look back at the car to see who was driving. Although the Wizard of Oz was the primary movie that was used to pro- gram my mind, Lewis Carroll's books, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, were also effective. Unique themes and phrases from the books and the subsequent Disney movie, Alice in Wonderland, were used to transport me mentally from my normal world into "Alice's World," where nothing was ever as it seemed, and insanity was always just around the corner. Anyone who knew that I had this particular mental programming could approach me in public, claiming to be the White Rabbit. Then, by saying "I'm late, I'm late," the handler- usually male-knew that I'd go into an immediate trance and follow him. 6 Otherworld "Otherworld" was another hypnotically implanted mental program that was used to convince many of my alter- states that when they emerged in strange places with spook handlers, they had been trans- ported from my home life into another space-time dimension. This belief discouraged those alter-states from trying to find out where they were, and made them feel hopeless about trying to find a way back home. 7 In "otherworld," nothing was real, and nothing had to reconcile with my regular world. Such knowledge kept me from being afraid. When I was in "otherworld," I believed I was safe from pain and mortal danger, because the programmer told me that no one ever was hurt or died in "otherworld"-after all, no one in it was real - including me! An extra benefit to my handlers from this particular mental program was that, because I believed nothing in that world was real, I had zero fear of carrying out instructions on black ops. This was because I didn't 64 Unshackled fear being hurt or killed, and because I had no fear of being arrested-after all, the crime had never happened! This was probably the closest I ever came to experiencing what the mind of a sociopath must be like. Greek Alphabet When I became an adult, many of my programmed alter-states were "owned" or "time-shared" by groups and agencies who utilized my services. The rank of ownership went like this: first dibs went to a succes- sion of individuals who held a high office in DC; then came individuals who allegedly worked within the CIA's Directorate of Operations; then came wealthy "owners," including a British tycoon and several influential DC politicians, most of whom had the power to (in some way) cover-up for some of the CIA's illegal stateside activities and its more questionable budgetary needs (most of these "owners" were connected to The Octopus); lastly came "lower level" covert associates such as occultists, pornographers, pedophiles, Nazis, and Mob members-they used me to do stateside activities. This time-share plan was necessary because I only had one body. Those who personally "owned" some of my alter-states had to agree to wait their turn to use me. For this reason, some owners either purchased, or were given (for bartered favors), access to similarly programmed alter- states created in a number of adult slaves. This is why a surprising number of mind-control survivors reportedly had the same owners, and it is also why many of them have discovered alter-states having the same programming and code names. To the best of my knowledge, Dad was put in charge of arranging my schedule and negotiating with those who used me. Having access to a personal slave gave some of my owners a sense of power, prestige, and control that they might not have otherwise experienced. They were confident I would not be able to remember who had instructed me to perform the crimes, or how I got into each situation. They knew I would do both the crime and the time if arrested, while they'd remain free to use other disposable, amnesic slaves at their beck and call. I'm grateful that I was not caught doing their dirty work. If I'd been put in prison for what I'd had no choice about doing, I never would have Basic Programming 65 received the professional help that I desperately needed, to remember and heal! 8 Daniel Ryder was one of the first authors I told about my CIA mental pro- gramming. He verified that the code-names of several systems of alter-states I had listed in 1991 were later mentioned by Dr. D. Cory don Hammond, a psychiatrist, at a professional conference in the summer of 1992. At that conference, Dr. Hammond described the CIA's Greek alphabet coded sys- tems of implanted alter-states, based on information he had received from a remarkable number of recovering mind-control survivors and their thera- pists. 9 (I have never talked to or consulted with Dr. Hammond.) To the best of my understanding, my Alpha alter-states compartmen- talized memories of my primary traumas. Dad created them first, and then traumatized each of them to create more fragmented alter-states as parts of my "chain programming." My Alpha system included personal- ity fragments (information storage parts) that compartmentalized what were code-named mind files. To the best of my understanding, these parts of my brain stored information that was hypnotically implanted by several individuals operating at high levels in our government, to be retrieved by them as needed. This ensured that no paper trail would be left behind. 10 Several of my Alpha-programmed alter-states also couriered verbal messages, diamonds, Krugerrands, illegal drugs, and arms. Unfortunately, some of these parts were also used to transport child slaves to several D.C. politicians who are probably still hard-core pedophiles. 11 My Beta alter-states were sexually conditioned and trained. Some programmers referred to them as Barbie parts. Handlers used them in prostitution and pornography-particularly bestiality, kiddy porn, snuff films, and necrophilia. When I was a child, several of my Beta alter-states were used to sexually blackmail drugged or inebriated politicians. In my adult years, my Beta alter-states were used to sexually service and black- mail both men and women. My Delta alter-states were trained to do covert operations. Although these alter-states often performed assassinations, they also participated in hostage interventions, protection of individuals who were in danger of being assassinated, body-guarding of politicians and other VIPs, and the training of future slave-operatives. My Theta alter-states received specialized psychic training. Children like me were chosen for this training because, as abuse victims, we were 66 Unshackled highly sensitized to the moods and thoughts of others-especially of our abusers. 12 I am convinced that certain individuals working within or contracted by the CIA were aware of the trauma-paranormal link long before most mental health professionals "discovered" it. 13 I believe the ongoing sup- pression of this information and the clever demonizing of these human abilities has occurred because the CIA, and other intelligence agencies that have also funded psychic research, have a vested interest in keeping the knowledge away from the public domain. I've had recurring memories of receiving part of my childhood Theta training from James Jesus Angleton, a CIA counter-intelligence chief. Perhaps because he knew I attended a Christian church every week, he used New Testament scriptures to teach me to expand my consciousness. He started my mental training by reminding me that Jesus Christ had said that anything He had done, we could do more so-with our minds. Angleton then taught me that the biggest block for people in accessing and utilizing their natural psychic abilities was their belief that they could not, or must not, do it. He taught me that if I chose to bypass that mental block, I could do anything I wanted with my mental energy, even telepathically moving a mountain, as long as I believed that I could. To the best of my memory, Angleton worked intensively with me, one-on-one, conditioning my mind to process problems and experiences away from rigid societal rules and mores. He said this would always be my ultimate edge: while my adversaries would respond in ways in which they'd been socially conditioned, I'd use unexpected methods and weapons to attack and defend (e.g., using a concrete floor, a tiny, sharp stone, or a pen as a lethal weapon). Sometimes he gave me a deck of cards and watched as I played solitaire. When I laid the king card down first, then the queen and jack, he asked, "Why not put the two on top of the king, then an ace? You can put the cards down any way you want." If we played checkers or chess, he made similar statements. He said the human brain has potential that we haven't even begun to tap into. He encouraged me to use as much of it as possible. 14 Other mental programmers further conditioned my Theta alter- states to believe they could read the minds of other people, communicate with some of them telepathically, and perform what is commonly known as remote viewing. Some of this training may have been successful. 15 Basic Programming 67 My limited experience with remote viewing involved sitting in a room while being observed through a two-way mirror. I was taught to send out my mental energy like a radio signal, to contact the mind of a person in another location. I was taught to assess that person's physical health and to see their environment through their eyes. I do not know, to this day, if it was my imagination or if I really "saw" what was occurring in the other person's life. At that time, however, I believed the ability was real. I was also taught to place my palms on another person's body and channel the energy from my body into the person's body, or to draw out the person's pain or illness. 16 When I was an adult, my Theta capabilities were fine-tuned as I served as an intercessor and prayer warrior in several Christian churches. If these abilities are legitimate, then I do not believe they are anything other than human. I do, however, believe they could be considered part of the forbidden fruit mentioned in the book of Genesis, since a person using them might feel godlike. I choose not to use my Theta training any- more-not out of fear of demons, but because I simply want to respect the mental, emotional and physical boundaries of others. My Omicron alter- states were handled by Mafia individuals when alleged CIA employees from the Directorate of Operations wanted stateside hits performed. I will neither divulge details of those hits, nor will I identify any of the individuals who handled me within the Mafia. They are extremely dangerous people, and I intend to live a long and healthy life. Notes 1. According to a Western Electric website at http://home.earthlink.net/ -rhodyman/rdgworks.html, WE personnel in Reading, PA performed classified work for the US government, even in the early 1950s: Operations in Reading began when Western Electric converted a nearby knitting mill in Laureldale into a factory that produced devices for the US government for use by the military and the space program. 2. When I told a private investigator (a former WE employee) about this building, he said that it may have been owned by Bell Laboratories. He further explained that engineers who worked for Western Electric were required to work for six months in Bell Labs facilities as part of their employment. 68 Unshackled 3. The CIA had experimented on the minds of its own employees, to create controllable, amnesic alter-states. In Bluebird, Dr. Colin Ross cited CIA Artichoke documentation about a "series of cases" in which alter-states were hypnotically created: A CIA Security Office employee was hypnotized and given a false identity. She defended it hotly, denying her true name and rationalizing with conviction the possession of identity cards made out to her real self. Later, having had the false identity erased by suggestion, she was asked if she had ever heard of the name she had been defending as her own five minutes before. She thought, shook her head and said, "That's a pseudo if I ever heard one." (pg. 33) 4. Carla Emery reported similar mental programming that Pavlov performed on the minds of dogs: The breaking point is a physiological event. Abuse causes the ego, the "I," to shrink, pull back, and weaken until, finally, exhausted, it gives up. Pavlov named that moment of giving up the ultraparadoxical stage . . . [William] Sargant argued that anything that causes temporary cortex overstimulation and collapse has the healing effect of loosening up old programming patterns, thereby allowing the implant of new ones . . . Pavlov stressed dogs, through deconditioning, into the ultra- paradoxical crisis. After the breakdown, he conditioned new habits into them. Sometimes, he put the dog through the whole routine again: stressing it into another breakdown, and then retraining into [it] yet another set of habits, (pg. 426) 5. In Bluebird, Dr. Colin Ross wrote: Manchurian Candidate [assassin programming] work was done under MKULTRA Subproject 136, which was approved for funding on August 23, 1961. The deliberate creation of multiple personality in children [italics added] is an explicitly stated plan in the MKULTRA Subproject Proposal submitted for funding on May 30, 1961. TOP SECRET clearance status for the Principal Investigator on Subproject 136 had been initiated by the Technical Services Division of the CIA at the time the Subproject was approved, (pg. 61) 6. Although the following links between the CIA and Alice in Wonderland might seem coincidental, please note that in both articles, this is the only book that was mentioned: • "A Tour Through 'Hell Week': A Newsweek correspondent takes the CIA spy tests," by Douglas Waller 4/12/93: "Much of spying is making sense out of Byzantine secrets. One personality test has 480 true-false questions: T like Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll'; T gossip a little at times.'" (pg. 33) Basic Programming 69 • AP Washington 4/30/94: "CIA chief plans to fix flaws in scarred agency: 'But I will not espouse the judicial philosophy of the Red Queen and Alice in Wonderland: sentence first, verdict after,' [James Woolsey] said." 7. A similar program was also installed in my mind by a stocky, brown-haired, brutal, alleged CIA programmer who used the alias "Spencer." His program was triggered by the phrase: "Spencer's World." 8. This is the main reason why I and other recovering mind-control survivors feel deep concern for slave-operatives who are arrested. Most of them are immediately approached by Company-contracted psychiatrists who pretend to befriend them (as Patty Hearst, Timothy McVeigh, and Jack Ruby were compromised by Dr. Louis Jolyon West and others). By being assigned a Company-connected psychiatrist, slave-operatives have no chance of experiencing true recovery through the help of legitimate mental health professionals-especially if they are put to death before they can receive such help. 9. To find an unauthorized transcript of Dr. Hammond's historic presentation on the Internet, use the words "Greenbaum Speech" as your search term. 10. When I found some of these odd personality fragments, I remembered that when they were previously activated, they had verbally given the information like ticker tape coming out of a machine. I seemed to have unconsciously memorized the information in such a way, that because I recognized that none of it belonged to me, it was kept totally separated and undisturbed until recalled. One of my dilemmas upon finding the stored information was: what should I do with it? I decided it will remain my personal property-after all, it was put in my brain! 11. I delivered verbal messages from US politicians to influential persons in other countries, and also delivered "messages from God" to mentally programmed Christians who accepted the orders as coming straight from God. The majority of these Christians were members of Charismatic, Baptist, and Pentecostal churches. 12. In The Osiris Complex, Dr. Colin Ross wrote: According to my model and data, speaking analogically, the genes for dissociation and the paranormal are closely linked to each other on the same chromosome . . . any extragenetic factor that activates one tends to activate the other, since they are linked. Severe, chronic child- hood trauma is one such factor . . . highly psychic individuals tend to be highly dissociative . . . trauma opens a window to the paranormal, (pg- 70) 13. Dr. Ross wrote, "Although ESP is a universal aspect of human experience, it has been suppressed by the intelligentsia in the twentieth century, and is not a subject of mainstream psychiatric discussion or research." (Osiris, pg. 68) 70 Unshackled 14. When I first remembered having been trained as a child by Angleton, I thought I was fabricating these memories. How could I, just a child, have met with such a busy man? And even if I had, how could he have been connected to MKULTRA, when he'd overseen counterintelligence? Nearly a decade later, I found information that explained his connections to MKULTRA: The ARTICHOKE [pre-MKULTRA] Team must have been under the command of James Angleton, who was Chief of the CIA Counterintelligence Staff from December 1954, until 1974. Angleton was also involved in MKULTRA, as described in an article in the February 18, 1979 Wilmington Sunday News Journal entitled: "UD prof helps concoct 'mind control' potions." The article . . . men- tions Angleton's involvement in MKULTRA. Angleton's name appears in "a list of all persons who have been briefed on 'Bluebird' [also pre-MKULTRA]." (Bluebird, pp. 27-28) Several months later, I received a copy of an article, James Jesus Angleton & the Kennedy Assassination. Its author, Lisa Pease, explained one of Angleton's connections to Nazi war criminals, some of whom may have taught mind-control techniques to Angleton and other CIA personnel: . . . Angleton obtained access to the Ratlines the Vatican was using to move people out of Europe to safety abroad. Angleton and others from the State Department used the Ratlines to ferry Nazis to South America, (pg. 19) 15. In the early 90s, Keith Harary wrote a surprisingly honest article, "Selling the Mind Short: Exposing the Myth of Psychic Privilege," for Omni magazine. In it, he exposed the fallacies of several myths about "psychic" powers and abilities: Disseminating propaganda requires subverting rational thinking with seemingly plausible lies. I was a teenager when I first believed the lie that there was something about me or anybody else that could properly be labeled "psychic." A part of me felt sick when the label was used on me-the way I felt when I smoked my first cigarette. There was some- thing compelling and forbidden about the experience, and something I also knew could eventually do me in down the line . . . the authority figures who sold me the bill of goods were parapsychologists at one of the field's major laboratories, who used the label "psychic" to explain my performance in a parapsychology experiment. That the mind is capable of remarkable feats is undeniable. Exploring the implications of this realization does not require resorting to extremes. It should encourage us to create a middle ground-one that defines human poten- tial in human terms. If a higher perceptual, communicative, and think- ing capability exists with us, then it cannot be destined to remain anomalous or denied by rational people or consigned to the realm of Basic Programming 71 the psychic and paranormal. It must be understood within the context of normal experience and achievable human potential and considered within the emerging framework of mainstream science, (pg. 6) 16. Frank Herbert's story, Dune and its subsequent movies were used by mental programmers to reinforce my belief in my ability to transfer my energy to other humans. Horrification House of Horrors Richard Rhodes has written a fascinating book, Why They Kill: The Discoveries of a Maverick Criminologist, that presents the personal story of Lonnie Athens, a criminologist who specializes in the study of violent criminals. According to Athens, "dangerous violent killers" first must pass through "four separate stages of violentization": brutalization, belligerency, violent performances, and virulency. Athens divided the process of the first stage, brutalization, into three sub-stages: "violent subjugation, personal horrification, and violent coaching." During violent subjugation, "authority figures from one of the subject's primary groups use violence or force [the victim] to submit to their authority." In the second sub-stage of brutalization, "personal horrification," the victim witnesses the violent subjugation of someone emotionally close to them. Finally, during "violent coaching," the victim is coached by a person in their primary group to perform violent acts, (pp. 112-120) Unfortunately, I experienced all three sub-stages of brutalization in my father's occult rituals; my father was my personal coach. Although Athens considers horrification to be the experience of witnessing brutal harm being done to others, I consider horrification to be more than that. In my opinion, it is a mind-bending experience that involves either witnessing harm done to others, or being harmed ourselves, by individuals or groups that either use horrific methods or perform the harmful acts within horrific environments. I believe horrification is the primary emotional response of victims who are forced to participate in criminal, occult rituals-particularly children. During such rituals, both the methods used (e.g., intimidation, threats, torture, rape, ingestion of repulsive substances, mock or real killings of animals or humans) and the environments in which the rituals are per- formed (physical location, robed participants, candles, chants, frightening animals, ritual implements and symbols, and more) can easily horrify, scar, and even split the minds of child victims. 1 72 Horrification 73 During my childhood, Dad and several other cult members took me to numerous buildings and homes in the Reading area. One of the ritual locations was a large stone building on the side of what locals called Schuylkill Mountain, just outside the city of Reading. More than once, Dad ritually traumatized me in its underground dungeon. 2 I have also vividly recalled that Dad made me crawl on my hands and knees into a large crawl space under a stone building, probably on the same mountain. The entrance into the ground-level crawl space was sealed by a square, flat-surfaced, hewn granite block that had been placed in the wall. Words were engraved on it. Behind the wall were bags full of the remains of many dead babies. Dad made me lie atop the bags in the daytime while he met with men inside the building. As I lay perfectly still, I became one with the sweetly innocent dead. I felt safe because I believed no adult would want to crawl inside to hurt me. I desensitized to the pungent odor and became friends with it. This was a sad bonus when, as an adult, I was used to do body disposals. I can still easily differentiate between the odor of a dead animal and a human, because a decomposing human corpse smells sickeningly sweet. Arson Dad didn't limit his criminal activities to secretive rituals, rape, and pornography. Even outside the rituals, I saw more horror than any child should. He knew if he took me with him to commit crimes, nobody would believe he was responsible. He occasionally burned houses and other buildings at night, sometimes with people still in them. To this day, I detest the odor of gasoline. He always seemed fascinated with fire. In the late 1960s, after our family moved to Georgia Dad set fire several times to a large wooded area near our house. Then he stood and watched excitedly as a fire truck came, its siren blaring. Each time, he claimed local teenagers had set the fire and acted like a hero as he helped the firemen put out the blaze. When committing arson at night, Dad's prepared excuse for being in the locale was that I'd had a nightmare, and therefore he'd taken me for a walk or a drive. If he didn't commit the crime too late at night, he then took me to an ice cream parlor and bought me a butterscotch sundae. 74 Unshackled The smell and taste of the delicious sundae blocked out the smell and taste of gasoline and smoke. By the time he took me home, all I could remember was the ice cream. In the summer, after he'd performed a nighttime arson job, he sometimes searched fence lines for honeysuckle vines and encouraged me to inhale the blossoms' fragrance and suck on their nectar. This also blocked out previous smells and their attached memories. When we returned home, all I remembered was the blossoms' lovely fragrance. Nightmares Although he tried, Dad couldn't stop my repressed memories from seep- ing through into my dreams. I've never forgotten that most nights during my childhood, I awoke with a pounding heart and sweat-soaked sheets. Many times, my pillow was inexplicably soaked with tears. The bad dreams were so terrifying, I feared they would eventually kill me. What I didn't remember during the day became my nemesis in the dark. I tried to avoid night terrors and dreams by reading books until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I cannot remember a single night that I did not have nightmares. I naively believed that everyone must have them as much as I did. On at least two occasions, I woke up downstairs, standing alone in my nightgown. I had no memory of having walked down the stairs. Frightened, I screamed for my parents. Each time, Dad came and told me I had been sleepwalking, then carried me back up the creaking wooden stairs to my bedroom. Because I didn't understand what caused my sleepwalking, I felt embarrassed that I'd caused such a fuss. Perpetrator Alter-States I continued to compartmentalize unpleasant memories in alter-states, keeping them separate from my consciousness. I unconsciously fashioned some of them after the perceived personalities of adult criminals like my father. These parts were sociopathic, emotionally cold, and deadly. 3 Dad and other programmers called them "blank slate" alter-states, because they had zero memory of my life at home, church, or school. Having been created Horrification 75 through extreme torture and mental duress, these parts initially emerged with only the most basic memories of how to dress, breathe, eat, walk, use the bathroom, and so on. Because of their insane lust for ego gratification, my father and his cohorts seemed especially pleased to create alter-states that worshipped the ground they walked on. When I was an adult, these alter-states were used to perform crimes-always under the control of professional handler s-that I could not, and would not, have carried out under any other circumstances. Why is this? For whatever reason, I was born with a naturally soft and caring heart. As a child, I cried and begged my oldest brother to stop when he pulled wings off of flies in the basement window as he laughed at them, or used the sun's rays through a magnifying glass to burn grasshoppers to death on big rocks. I couldn't stand to see anyone, or anything, being hurt-and I especially would not allow myself to hurt them. Because of this, Dad and his associates used extreme torture and related trauma to break my mind and then create the blank slate alter-states that had no awareness of time other than the moments in which they existed. 4 These alter-states were then conditioned to harm others without balk- ing. I guess it takes a monster to create one. Notes 1 . In psychology classes, I learned that some of the early indicators of the development of anti-social personality disorder are: setting fires, cruelty to animals, property destruction, and an inability to emotionally attach to others. Antisocial personality disorder and criminal occultism may be directly linked, because such rituals often include fire and inhumanely sadistic acts perpetrated against animals, children, and even adults. 2. A correspondent who lived in Pennsylvania heard about my desire to find that building. In July, 1998 she sent me a pamphlet and photos of Stokesay Castle, a mansion that had been converted into a popular restaurant. The stone castle was located at Hill Road and Spook Lane, within walking distance of Reiffton. In an E-mail, she wrote: There is a restaurant halfway up Schuylkill Mt. It's called Stokesay Castle. Before I ventured in there, I asked a waiter who was outside, how long it'd been a restaurant. He said 20 years. I went inside and 76 Unshackled asked permission to look around and sure enough, there was your dungeon . . . Upon reading a pamphlet of theirs, I found that the castle was . . . kept as a summer home until 1956 when [the owner] sold it to "a group of individuals" who converted it into a restaurant. Carla Emery wrote about eighteen "techniques of criminal hypnosis," as compiled by Paul Campbell Young. Young's "Technique #17" may explain why blank slate alter-states take on the perceived personas of perpetrators: Assumption of Another's Identity — Young cited M. H. Erickson's "experiments on transidentification" for this item. The hypnotic sub- ject unconsciously incorporates wishes and attitudes of the hypnotist, like a child incorporates parental rules and views. Just as each adult has attitudes absorbed in childhood from their parents still influencing them, so each hypnotic subject acquires unconscious parameters and a role model from the hypnotist too. (pg. 353) "It is a fact that memory becomes disoriented under hostile interrogation and that torturers aim at deliberately confusing recall. It is the torturer who not only deter- mines real units of time under torture but who also damages historical orientation. The unit of time for torture remembered under intense emotions becomes stretched out and thus distorted. In the brain, fear of annihilation leads to a slowdown in the experience of time-similar to the impact of hallucinogens-that changes the synchro- nization between time as it is lived out and calendar time." (Graessner et al., pg. 192) Adolescence Junior High As my trauma-based programming continued, I blocked out all memory of it so I could continue to cope with my "normal" life activities and responsibilities. During my seventh and eighth grades, I attended Exeter Township Junior High School, less than a mile from home. There, I felt more secure. It was especially nice not to have to suffer any more mental and emotional abuse from the snobbish girls' clique at the middle school. Dad insisted I play the French horn in the junior high school band. The heavy brass instrument was difficult to carry back and forth to school, and draining spittle from it certainly wasn't feminine. Still, I did what Dad wanted. As I played it, I noticed that my lungs' air capacity increased. In the summer months, my brothers and I competed at the membership swimming pool to see how long we could remain underwater. I usually won, because I was able to do more than two minutes without great discomfort. I believe I was obsessed with swimming long distances and holding my breath underwater, because I was unconsciously conditioning myself to survive drownings. As part of Dad's ongoing near-death trauma regi- men, he would drown and then resuscitate me, creating even more alter- states that he had complete power over. I think it gave him the ultimate sense of power over me-"killing" me, then bringing me back from the dead. 1 Dad arranged for a professional French horn player, Al Antonnuci, to be my tutor. I studied with the bearded man at night, once a week, in an old, multi-story building in Reading. After each session, I listened as Mr. Antonnuci played his shiny silver horn. The notes were so pure, I sometimes wept with joy. At the new school, I emotionally bonded with a married German couple who taught classes in separate rooms on the second floor. The dark-haired husband was our science teacher. He kept a large black snake in an aquarium in his classroom's front wall. We often watched in 77 78 Unshackled fascination as the mounds of white mice slowly moved along the length of the snake's body. I took two years of German from his gentle, tall, brunette wife. Although I spoke German fairly well at the time, I now remember little of the language, because of the horror of having been tortured and raped by German- speaking men. They made the language repugnant to me. Cross-Country In the summer of 1969, Dad transferred to Western Electric's plant in Baltimore, Maryland for a one-year assignment. We moved into a newly built, two-story house on Saxon Hill Drive in a recently developed subdivision not far from the town of Cockeysville. Each morning, Dad woke my brothers and me up at 5:30, even in the middle of winter, to run up our steep street, then out into the countryside and back, for a total of three miles. Sometimes he made me run up a steeper dirt hill behind our row of homes. Although running up the dirt hill made my calves burn like molten steel, I felt exhilarated as I reached the top. I'd finally found my runner's high. I've since learned that running increases the amount of Cortisol in the brain, which probably helped me to fight off depression. 2 Running with Dad was unpleasant. He insisted that I keep pace with him. Because he was a foot taller, it was impossible to match his long, loping strides. I cried when he wouldn't slow down. He usually stopped and waited as I cried, yelling at me or doubling back behind me and then hitting me on my back or buttocks, knocking me to the ground. When he did that, I cried so hard that I panicked and couldn't breathe. My pound- ing heart felt like it would burst. Each time, he looked at me with disgust and ran home, leaving me crumpled on the ground. I cried harder, my heart breaking. I knew I'd never be good enough to please him. High School Although I made good grades at our new school in Maryland, I again felt like an outsider. I met several other girls who also had difficulty socializing. Adolescence 79 Although we ate together in the cafeteria, we didn't do much else together. That same year, I developed adolescent "crushes" on several boys, especially a brown-haired, chubby, gentle boy named John. He also played a brass horn in the school band. He called me "Snaggletooth" because I'd accidentally broken one of my top front teeth in Pennsylvania and it had never been repaired. I felt embarrassed about it and rarely smiled. When John teased me into smiling, his kindness drew me to him. I felt devastated when I discovered that he had a steady girlfriend. Would any boy ever want me? Once a week, Mom took us to the public library. It was a safe place where nobody hurt me. Still an avid reader, I always took home a stack of books. The stories took me where nobody could hurt or betray me. Sometimes, when bad things were done to me, I flew away into the sto- ries in my mind. I know that I participated in classes at Cockeysville High School. I have records to prove it. And yet, I've had numerous memories of exiting our regular school bus in the morning at the school, then boarding another yellow bus that took me and other students to several other locations. Each was a training facility set up like a regular school. Because these memories are vivid, consistent, and continue to recur, I believe they are of real locations and people. At these spook schools, the teachers taught subjects that never would have been allowed in a public school-includ- ing becoming familiar with holding and handling various types of knives, handguns, and other lethal weapons. Notes 1. In his web-published memoir, My Father the Serial Killer, Steve Griggs describes an alarmingly similar pattern of behavior exhibited by his father, who was brought over from the Lithuanian Death Camps to serve in the United States Army, plausi- bly as a push-button assassin. A homicidal sadist, Steve's dad developed a taste for recreational violence on the side, and his children were not only witnesses, but vic- tims. Steve describes himself and his sister as "a couple of MKULTRA kids who just wanted to get through the next 24 hours, every day." From My Father the Serial Killer: In 1962, 1 was 10, my sister Dianne was 6, and we lived at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. I overheard my father tell my mother that he would 80 Unshackled drown my sister while she took a bath. I went outside and sat next to her in the woods and spoke to her. "If you want to live, you have to practice holding your breath every minute of every day, even when you are in school, even in the laboratory. Look at the clock, hold your breath and time yourself. What's going to happen is this: when you're taking a bath, he's going to come in and hold you under. You have to be ready with air in your lungs-but don't let him hear you take it in. At first you have to struggle but stay relaxed in your mind. Then let some bubbles come out, but not all of it, and let your body go limp. He'll stand there and look down at you for a while, so don't move or open your eyes. Nothing! Do you understand? Nothing!" Dianne shook her head yes, and started holding her breath. "I don't know exactly what's going to happen after this, but if we can get this far, there's a good chance that something else will happen to interfere with their plan because they haven't thought it out this far and they don't know that we know." It worked. The rest of the story of Dianne's drowning may be found along with other excerpts from My Father the Serial Killer at http://www.sondralondon.com/ tales/griggs. 2. The drug-like high of being on dangerous ops may have been due to a similar increase in Cortisol levels, and may be why I grew addicted to ops. Dr. Zebulon Kendrick, Ph.D., a kinesiologist at Temple University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, explained: . . . produced by the adrenal glands during stress, Cortisol rises during intense bouts of exercise and, unlike endorphins, crosses the blood-brain barrier. Cortisol has an anti-inflammatory and analgesic effect and dampens or hides pain and can give you a general feeling of well-being. (Ladies' Home Journal, February 2003, pg. 118) Georgia Rebellion Georgia The following summer, Western Electric transferred Dad to an engineering position at its new cable factory in Norcross, Georgia. A growing industrial suburb, Norcross was a half-hour drive north of Atlanta. To anyone who would listen, Dad bragged that he'd been cho- sen to create the plant's new cable reel yard. I felt proud of him, and was glad that he was happy. 1 Although I was disappointed that Atlanta was nowhere near the Atlantic Ocean, the big city was surprisingly clean and modern. The sky above it was startlingly blue, and the clouds seemed so huge and white that I fantasized I could reach up and touch them. Our new, two-story, red brick house was built on Club Drive in Snellville, a tiny rural town about a half-hour from Norcross. The woods behind our home overlooked the town. With its white columns, our house looked like a Georgian mansion. It was built on the highest property in the area. Mom said that Dad liked the idea of looking down on everyone else; I think she was right. The hill behind our row of houses was covered with tall pine trees. Their branches didn't start growing until about two- thirds of the way up the trunks. This was a problem, because in the winter during ice storms, some of the tops of the trees bent all the way down to the ground, their trunks snapping like huge twigs from the weight of the ice that coated the long needles. Still, the ice storms were spectacular. When the sun shone on an entire landscape coated with ice, the sheer beauty took my breath away. Mom was hired as a secretary at the WE. Norcross plant, so my brothers and I were left unsupervised at home after school and during the summer. In warm weather, we spent a lot of time at our subdivision's swimming pool. I felt peaceful as I lay on my back on the concrete, sunning and listening to the lapping, chlorinated water and the rock music from my portable radio. Since my body was beginning to develop, I was embarrassed to let boys see me in a swimsuit. Mom told me they would only want me for 81 82 Unshackled one thing: my big breasts. Terrified, I stayed away from the boys as much as possible. Dad also made nasty comments about my developing body, and weighed me on the bathroom scale at least once a week. Whenever I gained a pound, he accused me of not adhering to a diet that he'd created for me. Because I dieted faithfully, his accusations made me feel crazy. Acting Out Since we'd moved far away from our childhood family, Dad seemed freer to do whatever he wanted to us, while continuing to present himself to the outside world as a perfect father of a perfect family. As in Pennsylvania, Dad was active in church and several civic organizations. Again he went to an extreme to prove he wasn't a racist. This time, he intervened on behalf of a Puerto Rican neighbor who was being harassed by an elderly racist neighbor who drove through his manicured front yard, leaving deep ruts in it. Dad personally confronted the elderly man and ensured that from then on, the Puerto Rican man and his family would be treated with respect. At the same time, Dad took me to Aryan meetings and occult rituals in Gwinnett County and in several other parts of northern Georgia. His shifts in behavior from one extreme to the other was one of the reasons I continued to be unaware of his darker side. I naturally preferred to know my father as a champion of the proverbial underdog instead of a dangerous racist. Although Dad still terrorized me in rituals, I followed Mom's example at home by becoming more rebellious towards him. Then they started fighting openly, yelling and hitting each other. I soon spiraled into depression. Within a short time, an unexpected source of relief entered my life. Tom, our teenaged lifeguard, was funny and cute. At first I hoped that he'd want me to be his girlfriend. I quickly noticed that many other girls also wanted to be with him. Ashamed of my developing body, I didn't think I could compete against them for his affections. Instead, I resigned myself to becoming a friend. One hot summer day, while the afternoon rain pummeled the red clay dirt outside the fenced pool area, I found Tom and another teenaged boy huddled inside the pool's pump house. At first, I didn't understand Georgia Rebellion 83 what they were doing — smoking a joint of marijuana. Tom said I could try it, if I didn't tell anyone. I coughed when the harsh smoke burned my throat. After the rain stopped, we walked outside to the pool and sat on a roofed, wooden picnic table. As Tom played his twelve-string guitar, I was fascinated by the beauty of the chords. I couldn't stop laughing and smiling-I felt so wonderful! When I returned to school the following fall, other students hooked me up with local drug dealers. Soon, I was smoking marijuana nearly every day. When I wasn't high, depression hit hard, leaving me lost and hope- less. Because all of my new friends were drag users, we shared whatever we could find with each other. And yet, because of all the horror stories I'd heard about hard drugs like heroin, I was careful only to take what I knew I couldn't get hooked on. To supplement my newly rebellious lifestyle, I also started smoking about two packs of cigarettes a day. One reason why I preferred marijuana to alcohol was that my parents could easily recognize the smell of liquor. The only sure signs of my drug use were enlarged pupils, inappropriate emotional affect, and the munchies. For a teenaged girl already suffering from compulsive overeating and low self-esteem, the munchies were an aftereffect from hell. Whenever my friends and I came down from our drug-induced high, we raided the local convenience store. Bags of Fritos and Doritos, Three Musketeer candy bars, and beef jerky satisfied our enormous cravings. When I was stoned, I didn't care if I ingested huge quantities of calories. On the days when I couldn't find any marijuana, depression hit me over the head like an iron skillet. I was so desperate, I tried anything, including inhaling sulfuric fumes from lit matches. Sexuality As a newcomer to the South, I quickly learned that rules of conduct were drastically different from those in Pennsylvania and Maryland. Many of the students teased me about how I talked like a Yankee. I retaliated by calling them rednecks. Some of the boys affectionately called me "Socks," insisting that I must have stuffed my bra. Although I feared getting close to them, I did feel drawn to those who were emotionally troubled. Several times, I mistook a young man's sexual advances for love. Because the thought of intercourse terrified me, I did everything I could 84 Unshackled to avoid it. And because I still blocked out all memory of having been sexually abused, I believed I was a virgin. The first time I did have sex, I was disappointed by the lack of sensation. I was also concerned because I didn't bleed when penetrated. What had happened to the "cherry" everyone joked about? Mom had recently purchased a paperback book, Everything You Want to Know About Sex But Are Afraid To Ask. She hid it in a small drawer beside her bed. Because my parents never discussed sex or birth control with me, this book was the extent of my official sex education. Some of the teenaged drug users called themselves "freaks." They taught me how to rebel against authority figures. We called policemen "pigs" and oinked at them when they drove by in their patrol cars. Feeling increasingly rebellious, I dressed outrageously to embarrass Dad-although never in his presence. Sometimes I secretly borrowed Mom's too-short skirts and dresses that she wore to work, and enjoyed wolf whistles from construction workers who were building new homes in our neighborhood. I also wore leather moccasins instead of shoes. Because a local double standard permitted teenaged boys but not girls to smoke, I smoked cigarettes while walking beside the main road to and from the high school each day. Sometimes I took the tobacco out of my cigarette and smoked the marijuana in full view of passing cars. I didn't understand that I was unconsciously trying to draw attention to what was wrong in our home. At sixteen, I wore blue jeans nearly every day. I even wore them to our Methodist church's Sunday night services, which was considered scandalous. That pleased me immensely. By then, most of the adults in our church had stopped asking me to baby-sit their children. Only one person seemed to see past my rebellious facade. Pastor Hodges Since a Lutheran church wasn't nearby, we'd joined the local Methodist church. Our pastor, Judson "Judd" Hodges, was a marvelous, black-haired mountain of a man. He became my saving grace during those dark teenaged years. Since he was taller and wider than Dad, I wasn't afraid to tell him about the constant fighting in our home. Georgia Rebellion 85 The church was just off the main road between our wooded property and the high school, so I passed it every day as I walked to school and back. On many afternoons, I visited with Pastor Hodges either in his study in the church or in the living room of the next-door, red brick, one-story parsonage-when his gracious wife, Betty, was there. Pastor Hodges' con- sistent appropriate behavior meant the world to me. With him, I always felt safe. When I wasn't numbed by drugs, I was in great emotional pain. During each visit to his office, Pastor Hodges sat quietly as I cried and talked about how miserable I was at home. He didn't try to shut me down and he didn't ask questions that I couldn't answer. Instead of being judgmental, he gently tried to help me understand that my new friends at school weren't really friends at all. He knew most of them, and warned me that they were using me. He said they would drag me down with them. I wasn't ready to admit he was right-I still needed drugs to survive. Pastor Hodges didn't try to preach down to me; instead, he met me where I was at. He didn't argue when I told him I couldn't stand going to Sunday morning church services "because of the hypocrites" (really, my parents). Instead, he invited me to use that hour to read Christian books that he'd placed on a set of wooden bookshelves in another part of the church. Instead of judging and chastising me, he helped me to feel loved and accepted. Pastor Hodges wasn't just there for me. He was also supportive of my mother as she struggled to break free from Dad's brutal control. When she decided to have a medical procedure that would ensure she'd have no more children, Dad was furious and refused to drive her to the clinic. Having no one to turn to, she drove there herself. After the surgery, she was in so much pain, she couldn't drive. When Dad refused to come get her, she called Pastor Hodges, who transported her home. Dad hated the pastor after that, and never forgave him for "interfering" in their marriage. Exercise Regimen Still despising my developing body, Dad created a new exercise regimen. First, he cleared dirt paths in the woods behind our house by removing some of the pine trees. Then, at 5:15 each morning, he ordered me to get out of bed, get dressed, ran down the steep path behind our house, 86 Unshackled then across the bottom of the woods and then back up to the top. My lungs burned and I cried from the pain in my calves, chest, and sides. At first he ran ahead of me, demanding that I keep up with him. Then he stood at the top of the hill and timed me with his stopwatch. Finally, he let me run with our family's dog, a half-collie/half- German shepherd he'd named Lassie. I preferred her company to his. If the ground was muddy, I learned not to slide. I constantly watched for exposed tree roots and leaped over felled trees that blocked the paths. My calf muscles burned like fire every time I ran up the steep hill. When I sobbed from the pain and my inability to breathe, he ordered me to run the entire trail again. Pity wasn't a part of Dad's vocabulary. He purchased a work-out bench and barbells, and trained my brothers and me to lift them in our big basement. He also made me exercise on a mat, where he sexually assaulted me when the rest of our family was either busy upstairs or away from the house. Even the way he approached sex with me had changed. Unlike the past, when he'd often convinced me that he loved me as he raped me, he now did it brutally. It was almost as if he hated the woman I was becoming. One Saturday afternoon, as I did a set of sit-ups on the mat in the base- ment, the door to the upstairs kitchen was open. I heard Dad and Mom arguing loudly in the kitchen. Mom criticized Dad for being so strict with me. I wept bitterly when I heard Dad yell, "Kathy looks like a baby elephant!" I finally realized I could do nothing to make him satisfied with my body. Violence At home, Dad's physical abuse of Mom escalated. He beat and raped her so forcibly at night, I could hear her head banging against their head- board as she screamed, "Bill, don't! Bill, please stop!" I clenched my fists and cried myself to sleep, holding my pillow over my head, frus- trated that I couldn't save her and angry that she didn't leave him. (In a deposition in 1989, Dad admitted he had beaten Mom, although he tried to convince the lawyers that he'd only done it two or three times.) Mom started taking Valium, and later told me she visualized a bubble around her that made Dad's cruel words bounce back at him as she smiled at him. She lost so much weight, she looked like a prisoner of Georgia Rebellion 87 war-I suppose in her own way, she was. Fortunately for her, the women's liberation movement was now in full force. Whenever we went out to eat at a truck stop in Norcross, Mom put a dime in the juke box and played Helen Reddy's hit song, I Am Woman. Dad fumed quietly as it played, while Mom smiled triumphantly at him. When we returned home, Dad usually beat her again, but she kept playing the song in restaurants and smiling. LSD I experimented with LSD three times, by choice. The first pill was a dud. The second time, I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to grab pruning shears from my younger brother's hands and stab him in the stomach with them. Frightened, I ran to an excavated area beside our subdivision's main entrance. I sat alone for hours and enjoyed watching Egyptian hieroglyph- ics that wavered and moved in the dirt until the acid wore off. The third time I took LSD, I saw lines of tiny, colorful, Mickey Mouse cartoon characters move like miniature traffic grids on the dirt and trees behind our house. Each time they moved, they clicked. When the hallu- cinations wouldn't stop, I ran into the kitchen and drank milk to purge my stomach. The vomiting frightened me, so I drank some of Mom's refrigerated paregoric. The opium in it seemed to make the hallucinations worse. I called my closest friend, whose boyfriend was a drug dealer, and asked them to come take care of me until I came down from the acid trip. Her boyfriend laughed when I threw up in his car on the way to my friend's house. Terribly ashamed, I vowed never to take LSD again. Secret Investigation As part of my rebellion, I started a sit-in demonstration with Tom's youngest sister in the corridor outside the office of our high school's principal. Our large, vocal group demanded that female students, like the males, be allowed to smoke at school if they brought a signed permission slip from their parents. Dad didn't tell me that the principal called him at work that day, to tell him what I'd done. 88 Unshackled In 1989, Dad stated that when I was a teenager, he'd been asked to participate in a secret commission that, he claimed, had been organized to investigate drug trafficking in Snellville. He said he'd known that I was taking drugs daily, and had known who was supplying me. Only once in my teen years did Dad indicate to me that he thought I might be taking drugs. That day in our living room, he showed me a magazine article about LSD. He said I should stay away from the drug because it could damage my brain. Then he walked away, signaling the end of our one-sided discussion. Escalation Dad still drove us to church every Sunday morning. Regardless of what went on at home, he wanted us to continue presenting ourselves as a model, upstanding family. 2 He now taught a Sunday School class and sang in the adult choir with Mom. I enjoyed singing in the junior choir. What the church members didn't know was that after church, as Dad drove us home, Mom yelled at him, calling him a "liar" and a "hypocrite." Sometimes Dad stopped the car in the middle of the road and hit her; more often, he waited until we were inside the house and then beat her as she screamed in rage at him. The way they expressed their hatred towards each other broke my heart. Mom secretly consulted with a divorce lawyer. He advised her that in Georgia, unlike in Pennsylvania, if she filed for divorce, she had the legal right to half the property value of the house and any attached land. She also learned that if Dad bruised her, she could have him arrested. After she told Dad what the attorney said, he used football tackles to push her against the refrigerator and walls with his chest and shoul- ders, laughing at her helplessness and outrage as he pinned her. Sometimes he deliberately tripped her and laughed as she fell on the kitchen floor. Although I was horrified and feared for her safety, I did nothing. If Mom couldn't stop him, how could I? Sometimes when they fought, Mom shouted, "I'm not your squaw!" Dad retorted that he still owned her and she was his property. I felt confused by his strange words-surely he knew that men couldn't own their wives! Georgia Rebellion 89 Running Away The stress at home grew unbearable, especially at night and on weekends when Dad was home. Three times, I ran away from home to escape it. The first time, I ran as fast as I could through the woods in the late afternoon, because I was afraid Dad would beat me for something I'd done at school. I went to the house of Janie, a young friend from school. Her mother was the quiet epitome of a true small-town Southern woman. At dinner- time, the black-haired, dark-eyed woman introduced me to my first full Southern meal of grainy white corn bread, buttermilk, fried fish, and home-grown vegetables. After the wonderful meal, she welcomed me to spend the night in Janie's room. Not wanting to anger my parents, she called Pastor Hodges, who mediated with Dad to ensure I wouldn't be hurt when I walked home the next morning. The second time I ran away, I again went to Janie's house. Her mother again contacted the pastor, who called my parents. After that, the gentle woman said that I was welcome to come to their home any time my parents fought, with the understanding that I had to return home after they'd had time to cool off. I wished I could live with her family. The last time I ran away from home, I was afraid of Dad's temper because I'd quit the school's marching band and its female track team without his permission. Summoning up my courage, I hitchhiked to the nearby town of Stone Mountain, then took a bus to Atlanta. Being alone in the big city was scary. I didn't have enough money to spend the night in a hotel. What would I do? A middle-aged, male, Caucasian pimp approached me and invited me to stay at his place for "just one night." He promised he wouldn't do any- thing. I followed him into his first-floor apartment and tranced as I stared out his bedroom window, watching a strong breeze blow through several big hardwood trees. He quietly walked behind me and caressed my buttocks. A protector alter- state emerged and screamed at him while run- ning out of the building. When I was safely away, I reemerged. Not knowing where I was, I cried. Now what would I do? I stopped at a tiny "greasy spoon" Huddle House restaurant to buy a sausage biscuit and soda, then called a classmate to tell her what I'd done. Although she couldn't help me, I felt better, knowing that she cared. I decided to keep walking until I could find a safe place to sleep. 90 Unshackled Mission Possible Early that evening, I talked to two young, blond women I encountered on a city sidewalk. Because they seemed nice, I asked if they knew a safe place where I could spend the night. One of them pointed to a large, upright white cross in the yard directly behind us. On it were the words: Mission Possible. She said she knew the older couple who ran the mission-they would give me safe shelter. I was warmly welcomed by the Lands, who said they were Pentecostals. Mrs. Land said they provided a safe haven for male and female drag addicts and prostitutes who wanted help. She said she and her husband occasionally risked their lives to help enslaved prostitutes break free from their owners. Mrs. Land asked my permission to call my parents, and said she'd make sure they wouldn't hurt me. The young female residents, who wore long dresses and skirts, led me upstairs to their large, shared bedroom. We stood in a circle and held hands as they prayed together in English and in tongues. Although their strange babbling frightened me a bit, I felt at peace and sensed that everything would be all right. Mrs. Land walked into the room and said she had called Mom, who agreed to come for me and not harm me. When Dad picked me up instead, I was frightened, but soon I relaxed-it was the nicest he'd ever been towards me. First, he drove through Atlanta's Piedmont Park, where he said hippies took drugs and slept on the grass. He talked as if they were filthy, and said I might have ended up there. I made a mental note to stay there if I had to run away again. To my surprise, Dad offered a compromise: if I would do the best I could in school, he wouldn't ask for more. Although I continued to take drugs every day, I maintained a good grade average. That seemed to satisfy him. School Intervention At the high school in Snellville, my female guidance counselor seemed to be the only adult who sensed the depth of my pain. She had amazingly smooth, porcelain skin and shiny, short black hair. Her voice was soft and she was never confrontational. She was the only person at Georgia Rebellion 91 school I felt safe to open up to, although I didn't remember enough to be able to tell her about the more hidden traumas. She arranged with all my teachers to let me leave my classes any time I wanted to meet with her. She also encouraged me to spend my study hall periods in her office. I read my assignments at a table while she worked at her nearby desk. Her quiet, unobtrusive caring provided another calm oasis in my troubled life. Busted In the fall semester of my senior (12th) year at school, I bought two unusually large, white Quaalude tranquilizer pills from a young blond student who was making a small fortune selling drugs in the school's parking lot. He said another teenager who had burglarized the local phar- macy the night before had sold him a large volume of the pills. I bought two, paying twenty-five cents for each. Later, my closest friend asked me to sell one to her. I did, for twenty-five cents. That day, students who took the pills dropped like flies all over the parking lot and in the classrooms. To keep some of them from being arrested, we hid them in cooperative students' cars until the drug wore off. I made an unscheduled visit with the guidance counselor, and told her I was upset because my friends were getting sick. I didn't tell her I had bought two of the pills, because I didn't want her to think badly of me. As we talked, my back was to the corridor outside her office. I heard a commotion and turned to look. Two men half-dragged my friend into the vice principal's office. I started crying because I was worried about her health. Soon, the vice-principal sent for me. In his office, he said my friend had told him I'd sold her the drug. He said if I told him who I bought the pills from, he wouldn't have me arrested. I shook and cried. Then I said I'd tell him whatever he wanted, as long as he'd call Dad at work to smooth the way for me when I was home. I also asked him to call Pastor Hodges. Soon, the big man entered the small room and enveloped me in his strong arms as I sobbed uncontrol- lably. The vice-principal said I would have to be suspended from school for the rest of the semester. Then he said he'd make sure my record was kept clean if I told him who sold me the pills. He kept his word-my high school transcript doesn't indicate my suspension. 92 Unshackled Turnaround My friend's mother was furious that I'd given her daughter the pill. During a phone conversation with Mom that afternoon, the girl's mother accused me of being her drug supplier, and banned me from having fur- ther contact with her. I was incredulous, because the girl's much-older boyfriend had supplied both of us for years ! I was relieved when Mom believed me. That night, Dad angrily questioned me and asked who had started me on drugs. I told him about our lifeguard, Tom. Dad immediately went to Tom's house and confronted him. The young man lied and said he'd never given me marijuana. Because Dad was on the neighborhood's pool committee, he immediately fired Tom. That really tore me up, because I liked Tom and had become friends with his youngest sister. Within a half a day, I'd already lost three friends. Later that night, Dad yelled at Mom and blamed her for my becoming a drug addict. He said if she'd remained at home instead of going to work, none of it would have happened. Volunteer Work To keep me out of trouble during my suspension, Mom and Dad decided I would do volunteer work away from home. A neighbor invited me to spend several days a week with her at the large office of a regional magazine in downtown Atlanta. She was kind and respectful; I enjoyed riding in her car and talking with her. A huge room above the office area stored large stacks of magazines. Sometimes her boss asked me to look through them for defects. I also did small odd jobs in the office, and felt excited to be in a professional working environment. Although I looked a mess with my long hair and faded blue jeans, the young office workers went out of their way to make me feel welcome. Some of the men even let me bum cigarettes from them when my neighbor was away. On my last day there, the editor-in-chief gave permission for her and another female employee to take me to an expensive French restaurant, the Fleur-de-lis, for my first fancy meal. They even ordered cherries flambe! Although I cannot remember the magazine editor's name, Georgia Rebellion 93 I'll never forget his kindness. My neighbor also put a white carnation in a vase on my desk. I cried. For the first time in my life, I felt special in a good way. My other volunteer job was with the Red Cross in the nearby, old town of Lawrenceville. A petite, elderly woman was my supervisor. Early each morning, Mom dropped me off on her way to work. I helped the super- visor tear donated, well-used bed sheets into bandages for soldiers in Vietnam-that was my only connection to the war. During Thanksgiving, I went with her to deliver boxes of food to elderly shut-ins. I didn't know that so many older people were lonely! Back at the office, a local newspaperman took a picture of me in a white uniform, filling cardboard boxes with canned goods. I laughed when I saw it in the paper-I certainly didn't look like a "freak" now! When I returned to school for the winter semester, my friends were disappointed that I didn't want to get high with them anymore. Some even accused me of being an undercover narcotics agent. That accusation hurt, but I understood their fear. I focused on doing well in my school- work and staying out of trouble. When I met with the guidance counselor to discuss what I'd like to do after I graduated, she gave me a battery of vocational tests. After review- ing the results, I decided to go to college and major in either library science or psychology. When I told my parents what I wanted to do, they seemed pleased. Divorce One month after I'd returned to school, Mom secretly filed for divorce. She didn't tell anyone she was having an affair with Dad's best friend, a fellow engineer at Western Electric who was also married. The night Mom arranged to have Dad served with the court summons, she told my brothers and me that she'd filed for divorce because Dad never spent time with us anymore. She ordered us to act as if nothing unusual was going to happen, when Dad came home from work. My stomach hurt as I listlessly shoved scrambled eggs around the inside of a frying pan with a spatula for our dinner. I'd just been sucker punched; the runny eggs were making me nauseous. 94 Unshackled When Dad entered the kitchen from the carport, he was excited in a childlike way. He said he'd purchased tickets for all of us to go to Disney World. Seeing the happiness in his face, I felt guilty for not telling him what was about to happen. I wanted to rescue him. When the sheriff's deputy came to our house in a police car, he handed Dad the summons and told him to leave. Dad must have been in shock, because he didn't argue. We remained in the house in Snellville while Dad moved into an apart- ment with a friend, about twenty minutes away. Mom divorced him for "mental cruelty." Because Dad didn't contest the divorce, it was quickly finalized. For the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of his walking into the house and hurting us. I felt the beginning of freedom and looked for- ward to a happier future. And yet, at the same time, their divorce created a deep schism in the center of my being. As sick as our family had been, I'd felt more secure when their marriage was intact. Because Mom wouldn't allow Dad to have any contact with us, I'd suddenly lost my father. And because Mom now spent most of her free time away from home, I'd basically lost her, too. Since my brothers and I were left to fend for ourselves, I cooked lots of rice, scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and tuna noodle casseroles-the extent of my culinary skills. After I graduated from high school in the spring of 1973, 1 told Mom that I planned to go to college the following fall. I was stunned as she coldly said that since Dad had his own living expenses now, they couldn't pay for me to go. I was hit by a tidal wave of fear. How could I build a new life? Because of my bad reputation as a former drug user, nobody in town would hire me. And because I didn't have a driver's license or a car, I couldn't work anywhere else! I had no viable way to plan for a self-sustaining future, and didn't know how to begin. I couldn't discuss my fears with Mom, because she was always gone (secretly spending time with Dad's friend). Dad wasn't allowed to con- tact us. I didn't think Pastor Hodges could help me. And because I'd graduated, I didn't believe I had the right to talk to the school counselor any more. Feeling completely hopeless, I sank back into depression and started using drugs again. Georgia Rebellion 95 Notes Although Dad did do a great deal of work for Western Electric, which later merged with AT&T, he may have also used his position there as a cover for other activities. In a 1989 letter to his lawyer, he wrote, "In my job, I must travel to all points in the US and to many foreign countries at a moment's notice. We are under a company directive to use our AT&T [credit card] for these reservations." Anna C. Salter, Ph.D. interviewed Mr. Woodard, an incarcerated rapist and moles- ter, who explained how he'd gotten away with so many crimes before he was finally caught: I lived the life of a chameleon or salamander, changed colors with the wind. I didn't just live a double life. I lived multiple lives. Whatever the situation called for, I lived it. If I hung around Christian people and I knew that they were Christian, then my actions and my mannerism were similar to theirs. And I adapted to whatever the situation required, (pg. 35) This was the same behavior I witnessed in Dad. Based on her years of interviews with sexual offenders, Salter gave a warning to her readers that we would be wise to heed: Sex offenders are well aware of our propensity for making assumptions about private behavior from public presentation. They use that infor- mation deliberately and carefully to set up a double life. It serves them well but doesn't do much for the rest of us. (pg. 38) Married Albert Shortly after graduating from high school, I met Albert. A native of Miami, Florida, he'd recently moved to the city of Atlanta to stay with an old friend in a Christian men's home. Seven years older than me, Albert was 57" with wavy, dark brown hair. When we first met, I was spending the weekend with Cynthia, an older girl who worked with Albert at a factory in Norcross. She arranged for him and a male co-worker to go on a double date with us. The first night, Cynthia dated Albert and I dated his friend. The four of us drove around in a small car for a while, talking and listening to the radio. Later that night, we stopped at a small park. While Cynthia and Albert kissed in the car, his big, shy friend sat next to me on a picnic table and tried to kiss me. Feeling nauseous, I pushed him away. We silently sat on the picnic table the rest of that long night, careful not to touch each other. The next morning, Cynthia suggested we go out again that night. I said I would if we switched partners. That evening, as she and Albert's friend kissed in the car, Albert and I spent most of the night standing and talk- ing on a bridge over a wide creek. I felt happy when he didn't try any- thing sexual. He encouraged me to share deep, personal thoughts and feelings. His interest in my life made me feel good. Early the next morning, on the way back to Cynthia's house, I sleepily lay on the back seat with my head on Albert's knees, facing his stomach. I awoke to see his bulging zipper rhythmically poking at my face. As tears slipped out of my eyes, I turned my face away and pretended to still be asleep. I felt so degraded! After the men left Cynthia's house, I felt so dirty and ashamed that I lied and said Albert had been a perfect gentleman. She said she knew I was lying, and warned that he was "nothing but trouble." That afternoon, Albert called Cynthia and cried for at least an hour. He said he was depressed because his live-in girlfriend in Miami had broken up with him. As I listened, Cynthia told him he should forget 96 Married 97 about the past. I was drawn to the intensity of his emotions as he wept almost non-stop. Against Cynthia's stern advice, I agreed to go out with him on a real date. When Albert learned that I was using illegal drugs, he said it was sin- ful and insisted that I stop. I did. Then he took me on "dates" to shoddy bars in the outskirts of Atlanta. I didn't drink to get a buzz or have a good time; I drank until all the sounds and lights and faces merged together. Drinking made my problems go away-until the next morning. After several weeks of driving from the factory to our house late at night, Albert asked Mom if he could sleep in our living room on a pull- out sofa bed instead of going home. She readily agreed. Years later, she admitted to me that night after night, she'd heard me tiptoe down the stairs, and had heard us having sex on the pull-out sofa in the living room, leaving deep grooves in the wooden floor. She never indicated that she knew what we were doing, nor did she ever mention birth control to me. The first time we had sex, Albert pushed my head down hard against him. I gagged and felt like I was suffocating. I went away for a while. When I came back into my body, I didn't know that I'd switched to a sex- ually experienced alter- state. Albert probably thought that I'd remembered the entire experience, and was pleased with my skills. Soon, he spent almost all his free time at our home. Albert's Family Albert's English father had abandoned his wife and five children when Albert was very young. His mother, Virginia, eventually married Paul, a dark-haired, slim, short man who claimed to be a Nazi who had immi- grated to the US via Spain. Albert expressed hatred whenever he talked about Paul. His stepfather was a radio minister and blue-collar worker. Albert and one of his three sisters hinted that Paul had done terrible things to them and their mother, although they never shared any details with me. When Albert drove me to Miami the first time to meet his parents, I was horrified that his mother wasn't allowed to drive several blocks to the grocery store or to church without Paul's express permission. Like Albert, Virginia had large dark circles under her eyes. 98 Unshackled I was even more appalled when, upon Paul's command, their large black dog crawled across the small wooden living room floor to where he stood. For hours at a time, the dog lay on the wooden floor, not moving until Paul gave it permission. Huge calluses were on its legs. Although going to Miami helped me to recognize that Albert's stepfather was overly controlling, I didn't understand how the horror that Albert had endured as his stepson had affected his mind and poisoned his soul. Pregnant Since Dad had conditioned me to be a sexual machine, when I was alone with Albert, I was like a sexual robot with no "off" switch. I felt secretly ashamed of my lack of control and wished Mom would inter- vene, but she never indicated that she knew what we were doing. We also had sex in my bedroom during the day while Mom and my brothers were away. It was easier than trying to find something to talk about. When he was there at night and my family was still awake, we sat outside on the cool cement floor of our family's large screened-in porch. A Pentecostal, Albert played his Spanish guitar (he was tone deaf) while insisting that we sing Christian songs together. Sometimes he tape- recorded our songs to send to his older brother, Richard, in Illinois. Afterwards, Albert would lead me in prayer, then give me "prophecies from God." Because I believed that God was really speaking through him to me, I felt special and became dependent on Albert to facilitate a deeper relationship between me and God. One night, Albert called from the factory. He said he had something important to discuss with me when he came to the house. When I told a friend, she suggested that he planned to give me an engagement ring. Believing her, I was excited as Albert drove up the cement driveway and parked in our brick- walled carport. Mom and my brothers had driven to Pennsylvania, so Albert and I sat alone in the living room. We played my radio in the dark as candles illuminated the wood-paneled walls. I was disappointed when Albert frowned and said that we were sinning against God by having sex out- side of marriage. He said that because I was causing him to sin, he didn't want to see me anymore. I was stunned and deeply hurt-all along, I'd believed that he loved me and wanted to be with me! Married 99 Just then, we heard Diana Ross's hit song, Touch Me In The Morning. Believing it must be a message from God, I told Albert, "Just this one more night. Give me this one more night." For the first time, we made love so gently, it squeezed the breath out of me. By morning, he decided to continue dating me. Although birth control pills were available, I knew nothing about them. Instead, Albert used a less reliable method-condoms. He con- vinced me that as long as he used them, I couldn't get pregnant. One night in September, a condom was defective. Although Albert freaked out, I privately thought that God had caused it to happen, because He wanted me to become pregnant and marry Albert. Within weeks, I felt more full inside than normal. Mom took me to a medical clinic in Snellville for a pregnancy test. The doctor smiled and said, "The rabbit died." Mom later explained that I was pregnant. When I told Albert over the phone, he accused me of trying to get preg- nant so he'd have to marry me. Then he tried to talk me into "shacking up" with him in Florida, as he'd done with his rich, blond ex-girlfriend. He said he'd even paid for a wedding announcement in a Florida newspa- per, to con her parents into thinking he'd married her! That bothered me-I didn't want to marry a dishonest man. I was also troubled by his refusal to remove her picture from his wallet, no matter how much I cried and begged him to. I didn't understand that he was still on the rebound from their broken relationship. All I wanted to know was that he loved me and would be happy with me as his wife-later, if not now. If having his baby was what it would take to rope him into marrying me, then I was glad I was pregnant. 1 A year earlier, Mom had told me that if I should ever become pregnant, she'd fly me to New York to get an abortion. But now, she didn't make that offer. Instead, she encouraged me to marry Albert. At the time, I wasn't aware that Dad had quit paying child support for me. I also didn't know that Mom was preparing to sell the house and move into a smaller rental home with her still-married lover-leaving no room for me in her life. Illinois Albert's older brother, Richard, was thin and lanky with red hair and a full beard. He was an elder of a small Charismatic church in 100 Unshackled Waukegan, a sprawling, large, old city on Lake Michigan, about an hour north of Chicago. Waukegan was usually hot and humid in the summer and bone-freezing cold in the winter. Far above, its sky was almost always a dull color. Richard's pastor, Bob, had perfectly styled white hair and a neatly groomed moustache. Bob's wife, Barbara, was large with a strong operatic voice and long, straight, thick blond hair. Bob, Richard, and several other men were in the process of develop- ing a new church that would be under the direct authority of Apostle John Robert Stevens, the leader of the Church of the Living Word in Anaheim, California. Members called the church network The Walk, signifying their unique walk, or relationship, with God. When Albert told Richard that I was pregnant, Richard insisted that Albert bring me to Waukegan to be married before God. Albert decided that if he cooperated with Bob and Richard, he could convince them to help us financially. First, he sent me to Illinois for one week to spend time with the church members. He wanted to be sure that I'd be happy living there. During a church service that week, Pastor Bob, Richard and other elders laid their hands on my head and shoulders and "prophesied God's word" to me. Bob, Richard, and one other man said they "saw" me coming back there to serve God, but not with Albert. When I returned to Atlanta and told Albert what they'd said, he was furious. He reminded me that he was God's mantle of authority over me. Hadn't God given him many prophecies for me when we prayed together? Because Bob and other elders had also told me that God had revealed to them that Albert was a "chosen prophet," I continued to believe that Albert's prophecies were from God. Married In late November 1973, Albert drove us in his rickety old sedan to Waukegan. On December 2, we were married in the church's ranch style, one-story house that doubled as a residence for Bob, Barbara, and their two young sons. I felt excited that I was joining a community of Christians who would become my new family. Half a country away from Dad, I felt safe. Married 101 Mom and Dad traveled there separately for our small wedding. I wore a tight- fitting, long, yellow dress that a female church member had quickly sewn for me. Albert and I had written our own vows. In mine, I promised to follow Albert as Ruth had followed her mother-in-law, Naomi: "Thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God." Later, when I saw photos of the ceremony, I noticed that sunlight com- ing through a window behind Bob had seemed to make a white aura around his head. I believed this was a sign from God that He'd supernat- urally blessed our marriage. (Bob taught us that a white aura indicated God's strong presence.) For $125 a month, we rented a small upper- floor, government-assisted apartment at 2409 Dugdale Road, part of a large, low-income housing complex. Cooped up in the apartment in the frigid winter with no phone and no TV, I thought I'd go mad. Fortunately, Richard and his family lived in a nearby apartment building. I spent most of my free time with them, and quickly adjusted to the constant pandemonium in a household with five energetic children. I grew to love each of them and became one of their regular babysitters. Nursing Home Barbara A., a middle-aged brunette church member, offered to hire me as a weekday nurse's aide at the All-Seasons Nursing Home in Waukegan. After I was hired, I had to walk about two miles each way, sometimes wading through deep drifts of snow. Although I only earned $2 an hour, I felt better about myself because I had a job and wasn't lonely anymore. Although most of the patients on the first floor of the two-story nurs- ing home were elderly, one Black, male, paraplegic patient was middle- aged. Lonely and depressed, he said his wife refused to let him come home, and rarely visited him. His muscles were wilting from lack of exercise. As often as I could, I took him upstairs to the exercise area, where he began to bulk up his arms and upper torso. My work at the nursing home was character-building. I was careful to show respect to bedridden patients as I fed and washed them, changed their urine- soaked bed sheets, and emptied their urine and colostomy bags. I also pushed heavy meal tray carts down the halls and helped 102 Unshackled patients turn in their beds and transfer to wheelchairs and back. The work was exhausting, but I loved it. One winter day, a large, young, Black male patient-the paraplegic's roommate-had a grand mal seizure in the large first-floor community dining room. I was down the hall in an elderly patient's room when I heard the loud thuds as the young man's head repeatedly slammed against the linoleum covered floor. My sister-in-law, who had also been hired as an aide, witnessed the seizure. The man was taken by ambulance to a hospital. When I walked into our dark apartment that night, I felt so exhausted, I left pots of macaroni and cheese and green peas on the stove. It wasn't much, but surely Albert would understand. Although he drove to work while I walked, Albert constantly com- plained about having to be on his feet all day in the shipping department of a nearby store. When he walked into our apartment that night, he started complaining again as I lay on our mattress on the bedroom floor with a migraine headache. Ignoring my discomfort, Albert screamed and cursed at me for leaving him a pan of cold pasta. He threw it against the kitchen wall and shouted, "Clean it up!" Then he angrily insisted that I get up and make him a decent supper. I cried as my head throbbed. I tried to tell him how upset I'd been about the patient. He didn't care. What had happened to the man who had enjoyed talking with me late into the night? Frightened and hurt, I walled off my emotions. As I crawled on my hands and knees to wipe up the sticky mess, I decided I wouldn't let him hurt me that way again. At the nursing home, I was angry at how badly the patients were neglected. I ended up doing the work of several nurses' aides. I also did chores I wasn't qualified to do, like changing patients' colostomy bags, and their surgical and bedsore dressings. Someone had to do it. While I toiled, the male orderlies hid in the laundry room and played poker. They often laughed at the cries of patients who lay in urine and feces on their stinking hospital beds. Someone always tipped off our normally absent male supervisor when a state investigator was about to pay a "surprise" visit. Before each inspection, the supervisor handed us various colored pens to fabricate entries in patients' charts that "proved" we had done what was required by state law. Married 103 One day, a young female inspector came to the nursing home. No one was expecting her this time. As the first-floor staff played their daily poker game in the laundry room, unaware of her presence, I showed her how we'd fabricated the patients' records. She asked me to show her more. I took her to the room of an elderly, petite, female, Black patient. The poor woman's tendons were so tight and hard, she couldn't move her curled arms and legs at all. Covered with large bedsores, she lay in a fetal position on her back with decaying food inside her clenched fists, her uncut fingernails growing into her palms. The inspector taught me how to work with the elderly woman by slowly and gently moving her frozen arms and legs. As she did this, the woman, who was in agony, yelled in a hoarse voice: "Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!" Although I understood that I had to cause her pain in order to help her, her cries broke my heart. After that, I did what I could to give extra help to that elderly woman and several others. Unfortunately, I injured myself in my seventh month of pregnancy. An extremely overweight Black woman had repeatedly called out for help. She wanted to get off her hospital bed into the wheel- chair so she could use the bathroom. Because the orderlies refused to help, I ran out of patience and tried to move her on my own. As I shifted her from the edge of her bed to the wheelchair, the chair moved away and she fell on her rump on the floor. Although she was uninjured, I felt something tear or split between my legs. Unaware that I should report the injury to the administration, I walked home, frightened. That night, I was in so much pain, I had to crawl from our mattress to the bathroom. Albert accused me of faking an injury so I wouldn't have to work. My frustration and helplessness instantly turned into anger; I'd be damned if I would let his selfishness push me into losing my baby! Because Albert said we couldn't afford another exam with the obstetri- cian, I lay in bed for several days until the pain subsided. I never went back to the nursing home. I couldn't understand why Albert was so distrustful and bitter towards everyone, including me. As much as he'd insisted on my moving with him to Waukegan to join the church, he now opposed my bonding with church members, and insisted we move back to Atlanta. I felt torn between my love for the church family and my duty to my husband. Pastor Bob, Richard, and other church leaders challenged 104 Unshackled me to put my devotion to God and the church first. I was already so brainwashed, I believed I couldn't have a relationship with God outside The Walk. Albert was furious when I refused to move back to Atlanta with him. He said he wasn't willing to raise our baby in Waukegan because the city was "too depressing." When he told Dad what he wanted to do, Dad invited Albert to live with him in Atlanta while Albert searched for a job. Despite Albert's cajoling and angry threats, I stayed in Waukegan. The Sisters After Albert found a job in Atlanta, he refused to send me any money. He said I'd have to come to Atlanta since I had no way to pay the rent on our apartment. Instead, I sublet the apartment to two young men and moved into our church's two-story women's home on Greenbay Road, a wide, busy city street in Waukegan. For over a month, I subsisted on church members' charity. The women living there became my sisters. They gave me a private bedroom that had previously been occupied by Lynn, a friendly young, long-haired female who had recently birthed a baby girl. I enjoyed Lynn's company-she reminded me of a reformed Janis Joplin, my favorite singer. Bob and the church elders continued counseling me to choose the church and God's will over my marriage. They said because Albert was staying away from his calling as a prophet in the Walk, he was in rebellion against God. I cried every night, afraid I'd have to divorce the father of my baby. Although I couldn't remember what Dad had done to me, I feared going back to Atlanta. Pastor Bob and the elders said my baby and I were protected by God's umbrella of protection as long as I stayed in The Walk. I believed them. Baby Rose I told Albert that Barbara, the pastor's wife, had become my Lamaze partner and coach in his stead. Realizing I wasn't going to come to Atlanta, he gave up and returned several weeks before our baby's due Married 105 date. He moved into the men's Greenbay house, two blocks away, and took his rightful place as my partner at the Lamaze classes. Ever since I'd learned I was pregnant, I'd done everything possible to ensure that my baby would be healthy. I'd stopped smoking and drinking, and ate only natural foods. One female church member gave me a large package of expensive Shaklee prenatal vitamins. I walked two miles almost every day in the spring and the hot, muggy summer. I regularly had my baby blessed by Bob and the elders, who placed their hands on my swollen belly and head and prayed for both of us. Pastor Bob and Barbara negotiated with a young newlywed couple, Bob and Ann-Marie M., who had recently received an old, two-story wood-framed house from Ann-Marie's parents as a wedding present. The couple agreed to let us live with them until we could afford to rent our own apartment. Slim and bubbly with blue eyes and blond hair, Bob M. was our church's music leader as well as an elder. Quick-tempered Ann-Marie had coal black eyes and dark straight hair. Since she wanted to have Bob's baby, she hoped she could learn how to raise hers by observing me with mine. One morning, when I was two weeks overdue, my obstetrician called. I liked the thin, dark-haired man because even though I could pay little, he remained gentle and respectful. He said he wanted me to go to the hospital so he could induce labor. Because I'd avoided all drugs-even aspirin-to protect my baby, I cried and asked God for help. As I packed my hospital bag, the contractions began on their own. I took this as a sign that God was blessing my baby. In the hospital, my labor lasted twelve hours. A scowling gray-haired nurse walked into the labor room after several hours and demanded that I stop using the Lamaze method. She said because I panted like a puppy during contractions, I was depriving my baby of oxygen. I tried to breathe normally, but that made the pain unbearable. Physically para- lyzed by its intensity, I screamed that she could go to hell. As I resumed panting, she angrily stalked out of the room, shouting that I was killing my baby. A few minutes later, a young, brunette nurse entered. She had a gentle, calm disposition and was comfortable with the Lamaze method. Dr. T. came in once in a while to see how much my cervix had dilated. Dissatisfied, he gave me injections that sped the contractions. They started 106 Unshackled coming every minute. I was so tired! A sterling Lamaze partner, Albert encouraged me and wiped my face with cold wet washcloths. I cannot describe the happiness I felt when my precious baby, who I'll call Rose, came out of my womb. She had the most beautiful cry. Hearing her voice, I fell completely in love. Love Lost Although at first they'd been excited about having a baby in their new home, Bob and Ann-Marie weren't prepared for Rose's nighttime crying. Since our upstairs bedrooms were right next to each other, Ann-Marie insisted I put her in a borrowed, white wicker bassinet I kept in the down- stairs living room. Ann-Marie said I should let my baby cry to keep from spoiling her. In my mother-heart, I knew she was wrong. My baby was cry- ing because she needed me. Each night, I waited until they'd closed their bedroom door, then tiptoed downstairs and held Rose on my stomach until we both fell asleep on the sofa. I felt like the happiest woman on earth. I was lucky to be able to stay home and breast-feed my baby with no complications. I wanted the best for her — La Leche members in our church taught that mothers' breast milk protected babies from many illnesses. Rose was the only human I had ever fully bonded with. For the first time, I knew what true love was. We locked eyes every time she sucked greedily at my engorged breasts. I couldn't get enough of her. Her soft fuzzy skin fascinated me. She was brown-haired with blue eyes and had the most amazing, flowery-scented breath. I was blessed to experience a month and a half of bliss and bonding with her. The rest of this chapter honors her memory, and Emily, the daughter who I unwittingly raised in her stead. It is a compilation from daily jour- nals, written by many of my alter-states over a period of about five years. The death of my baby girl was so traumatizing that the memory shattered into little disconnected pieces that surfaced, decades later, one small piece at a time. 2 / strongly advise ritual abuse survivors to avoid reading the remainder of this chapter-it can be extremely triggering. Before Rose was born, I'd been transported in a vehicle (by whom, I don't yet remember) to secretly meet with a young couple I'd previously Married 107 visited with Dad in their home in Virginia. The olive-skinned, black-haired, dark-eyed young husband was a lawyer. He bragged that he was a "dandy." Like Dad, he loved doing awful things to his victims; and like some hard-core Satanists, he stored human body parts in large glass jars of formaldehyde in white, wooden kitchen cupboards. His slim, lovely young wife was light-skinned with long, straight, light brown hair. That Sunday, not knowing how I came there, I stood talking with the young couple in Chicago in an empty, below-ground parking deck with thick concrete walls. When the young mother held out her new baby to me, I saw the husband smirk. Not a good sign. I was doubly concerned when I saw the same ugly smirk on the young woman's face. I removed the thin receiving blanket from their baby's face. At first, I couldn't comprehend what I saw. They'd put plastic wrap on the squirming, premature baby's face. Its complexion had turned unnat- urally dark. Even though I knew I was in danger of being tortured if I dared to break that man's mental control, I snatched the plastic away. The baby screamed in absolute fury. I was so shocked by the experience, I pushed the memory away. Several months later, in September, 1974, Dad secretly paid for me to fly with Rose to Atlanta to meet with him. The afternoon we arrived in Atlanta, the air was almost cool with just a hint of a breeze. The sun shone brightly. Dad seemed to drive aimlessly, then stopped and got out of his car. Carrying Rose in my arms, I followed him onto the middle of a large, dusty, sparsely vegetated piece of empty property. No people, buildings or houses were anywhere near us. I saw a treeless subdivision in the distance-all its homes looked alike. Fear clutched my heart as I held my baby girl tightly. I felt doom, although I didn't know why. When I looked at Dad again, he held out a large, sharp knife with a black handle, similar to the knife he'd used in rituals when I was a child, putting his hands over mine and forcing me to kill precious babies. 3 My mind short-circuited. Dad looked into my eyes and said, "If you don't kill her, I will." Instantly, a succession of ritually conditioned alter- states emerged. Each one frantically assessed the situation, trying to fig- ure a way out. When one part saw no way out, that part went under and the next part came out. They knew they could try to run with Rose to the distant houses and yell for help, but since Dad was a cross-country athlete, they couldn't 108 Unshackled outdistance him. They could try to fight him, but he was much stronger, and where could they put the baby to keep him from hurting her in the struggle? And if he killed me or I killed myself, there was no telling what he'd do to her. A mother-part emerged and stared at my baby's sweet face. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that Rose would soon be with God in heaven, where He'd keep her safe and surrounded with His love. And even if it killed the mother-part, she was determined to be the one to do it with every ounce of love in her. She would not allow Dad's cruel, filthy hands to touch Rose's innocent body. She'd seen Dad rape baby girls to death. He was not going to do it to Rose! She'd kill her first, with love and gentleness. She wanted the love and reassurance in her own eyes to be the last thing Rose would see. As she prepared to cut Rose's carotid arteries, she felt such piercing pain, she realized she couldn't go through with it. She couldn't kill the most important person in her universe. When she submerged and a ritually conditioned child alter- state emerged, Dad noticed the shift and grinned. As he'd done so many times in the past, he put his right hand atop mine and forced it to cut Rose's soft neck. I believe it was a mercy that the child alter-state didn't recognize Rose as her child. Dad forced my hand to cut Rose's carotid arteries, one at a time. After the deed was done, the mother-part reemerged. She wanted to scream with wild grief as she saw the blood pulse and Rose's precious eyes faded to dull, then black. She was losing her baby, dear God, she was losing her baby. As Rose's eyes stopped seeing, she told herself, "She's with God now. She's safe." But the dark pain of her baby's leaving was unbearable. She didn't move as she watched Dad carry Rose by her ankles to keep from getting her blood on him. He wouldn't allow the alter-state to bury Rose. He said that since the baby came from my body, she was garbage. He put her precious body in a black, plastic garbage bag and threw it into a nearby commercial sized, metal dumpster. Within minutes, Dad had successfully destroyed the one relationship in my life that made me feel good as a human being. So many parts of me now felt pure hatred towards him, wanting to kill him. But deep down, they knew they could never go there. Because they were depend- ent on him to tell them what to do, think, and believe, if they killed him, they believed they would also cease to exist. Survival came first. Married 109 After putting her body into the dumpster, Dad raped me on the dusty ground, reclaiming me for himself. I believe Dad tried to murder my goodness that day, to make me like him. When he ordered me to kill Rose, that was the closest I ever came to breaking forever and becoming a willing perpetrator. But by holding onto my love for her and my hatred towards him, I was able to preserve my truest self, deep inside. He could make me kill her, but he could never take away my love for her. It embodied my gentleness and kept me from becoming monstrous like him. The darkness in him did not engulf the light in me that day, but my grief over losing my beautiful sweet baby was so great, I couldn't allow myself to feel softness and caring anymore. I erected thick concrete barriers around my love and my memory of her, so that Dad could never touch or hurt that essence inside me. Unfortunately, by walling up and preserving my deep love for her, I couldn't express love or caring towards anyone else. Later that day, I walked along an open-air, concrete balcony to Dad's room at a hotel where we were staying. When I knocked on his dark, solid door, he silently opened it. Shirtless, he walked toward his bed. Because he had drawn his thick drapes shut against the bright sun- light, I couldn't see well at first. As my eyes adjusted, I saw something moving beneath a white-cased pillow on his bed. I looked closer and saw the squirming legs of an infant. Dad watched calmly as I snatched the pillow off the infant, not caring if he punished me. I yelled, "How could you do this?" In an even voice he said, "No one will ever know she's not yours. She's physiolog- ically compatible." 4 In a sudden flash of insight and memory, I realized he'd set up every- thing that had occurred that day. But why had he chosen this particular baby? I felt cold as I picked up the screaming infant and looked at her face. Although she was the same general size as Rose, her hair and skin were a bit darker. She was physically stronger and much angrier when she cried. As I looked closer, I remembered. The preemie in the garage. Dad grinned. I walked out to the open-air balcony, clutching her against my chest as she continued to scream. Although my heart felt like stone, I made a decision: by God, he was not going to kill her! Holding her tightly, I lost all memory of Rose and gave this baby my birth-daughter's legal name. (From now on, I'll call this baby "Emily.") 110 Unshackled After I returned to Waukegan with her, to stay sane, I had to believe she was mine. Still, I felt cold every time I looked at her. Because she seemed different and was angry when she cried, I believed that demons had invaded my baby's body. One day, in the church's nursery room behind the sanctuary, a young female member with short, curly, dark hair picked Emily up and cooed at her, laughing. When I told her my baby was demon-possessed, she looked at me in horror and said, "Why, she's an angel!" My stony heart couldn't accept her words. I believed my baby had become the epitome of evil. Determined to save her from Satan, I followed the teachings from Apostle Stevens and Barbara. I constantly laid my hands on her and anointed her body with olive oil, commanding the demons to leave her body in the name of Jesus. Because I focused on her, I didn't recognize that I, too, had changed. I was now ready to do assassinations. Each time I, in controlled alter- states, was sent to kill a targeted man, I unconsciously killed Dad. My fury and hatred were tremendous. And when I was ordered to do "disposal" and "clean up" (dismembering male bodies and more), I visu- alized cutting Dad completely apart so he could never hurt anyone again. My professional handlers knew my rage at the targeted men was really about Dad. And although I was used again and again, my fury never abated. Because the adrenaline rush and the rage gave me additional strength, when I was pitted against larger, more muscular males with equal training and conditioning, I always won. Something else happened during the day of Rose's murder. Several of my alter-states were now certain that Dad wanted me dead. Because he'd killed Rose, they knew that he'd really killed me by proxy since she came from my womb. I believe that in Dad's mind she was merely an exten- sion of me. He couldn't have gotten closer to killing me without actually doing it. Some of my alter-states feared they might be next. Why did he groom and train me from childhood to perform the most dangerous ops? I believe he hoped that someday I'd be killed on an op. That way, he wouldn't have actually killed me. My death would have been so emotionally sanitized, he wouldn't have felt any guilt. After all, such things happened. Whenever my professional handlers sent me into situations to do assassinations, my own life was also at risk. Many of the targeted men Married 111 knew they were in danger. Some were armed and ready; some had even hired professional bodyguards that I had to find a way past, usually by posing as a prostitute. Some of the targeted men were also seasoned pro- fessionals, which made them extremely dangerous. Each time, I fought hard to survive. By keeping my emotional energy focused on Dad and visualizing him as I attacked those men, I preserved my sanity. Each time, I mentally fought like an animal against the greatest beast of all, knowing that he, the man who had killed my precious daughter, was also the man who now sent me to die. This knowledge gave me the strength I needed to fight, stay alive, and come home one more time. Notes 1. When I told Dad the good news, he didn't respond at all. Later, he wrote a scathing letter to Albert, accusing him of "impregnating" me and taking me into a life of poverty. 2. Some readers may ask, how do I know this isn't a fabricated memory? My answer is this: Although I initially chose to believe that the pieces of this memory were fake, I was consistently slammed by powerful attached emotions-especially grief and love. I also began to vividly remember the month and a half I'd spent with my baby before her death-those memories had been completely missing. In 1994, 1 did try to have DNA tests done on me and my given daugh- ter, Emily, with her permission. Unfortunately, the person we gave the samples to (later proven to be CIA-connected) reneged. Since then, Emily and I have both determined that I probably am not her birth mother, because our skin tone, hair color, eye color, and physical stature are dissimilar. Regardless, I carefully reminded her that, whether or not I'd birthed her, I had raised her as my child and loved her just as much. 3. This form of excruciating mental torture seems to have been used by other sadists as well. In their leaflet, Acts of Torture, Sarson and MacDonald reported that a knife was forced into the hands of Sister Diana Ortiz in November 1989, by one or more members of the Guatemalan army's counterinsurgency force. Her torturers forced her to continue to hold the knife "as they plunged it into another woman and this horror [was] videotaped for blackmailing purposes." (pg. 1) 112 Unshackled 4. Although I remembered well enough to know — to my great sadness — that this memory was valid, I still had difficulty accepting that my father would do such a horrendous thing to Rose, Emily, and me. I later learned that baby switching in Nazi/ Aryan cults is not uncommon. By keeping the children from bonding with their birth mothers, the cult leaders can more easily bond with and mentally control the children. AFTER ROSE'S 9/74 MURDER, 9/27/01 Brainwashed Immersion Even though I couldn't remember my sweet baby's murder, the immense emotional pain remained. If I didn't find a way to block it all out, I would die. My escape was to fixate on The Walk's teachings. I spent most of my waking hours in a trance state, making the cult's "spiritual" world my only reality. Nothing else mattered anymore. By then, the construction of our church's new, one-story building in North Chicago had been completed. Pastor Bob named it "Ecclesia Fellowship." Since Albert refused to go to church anymore, other members transported me and Emily as often as needed. The congregation had become my safe family, and I felt at home whenever I was with them. Pastor Bob and Barbara became my spiritual parents. Because I believed they loved and cared about each of us, I did whatever they said. Some of the women taught me how to sew, cook, and do basic household chores. In effect, they became my mothers. After about a year, Bob and Ann-Marie tired of how we took advantage of their free hospitality. They insisted we find another place to live. We found a cheap attic apartment in a large old house at 14 Jefferson Avenue in downtown Waukegan. Unfortunately, because we'd moved near Lake Michigan, the temperature changes were more severe. One winter's night, the outside temperature dropped to 60 degrees below zero with the wind chill factor. Alone and isolated during weekdays, I grew paranoid about being attacked by Satan and his hordes of demons, especially the big, bad ones that Apostle Stevens called "Nephelim." Since I didn't have a job anymore, I did intercessory prayer for hours on my knees each day, prayerfully fighting invisible demons that our leaders said were constantly attacking us from the spiritual realm. The leaders also told us that every word we spoke as sons of God had the power to become reality. For this reason, I feared if I said I felt like I might be getting the flu, I'd accidentally speak the illness into existence! 114 Brainwashed 115 I didn't want to dirty my spirit with earthly information and demonic influences from "Babylon" (normal society). Now, at the leaders' encour- agement, printed literature and taped sermons from the Walk became my primary sources of information about the outside world. I believed I was as happy as I could ever hope to be, since I was drawing so close to God. Energy Exchange During praise and worship services at Ecclesia Fellowship, we were told to raise our hands. We sang any way we wanted, especially in "tongues" that sounded remarkably like baby babbling. We were told that when we prayed in tongues, the Holy Spirit was sweeping into the building, filling our spirits like oil being poured into lanterns. We were told that this would prepare us, Jesus' spiritual bridesmaids, for the impending wedding of Christ and the Church. We were told that, by becoming more holy, pure and obedient-filling ourselves with the "living word of God" (mostly from Stevens), we would hasten Jesus' return to the earth to reclaim his spiritual bride (us), and to set up his new kingdom. Sometimes, as we prayed together in church services, we were instructed to hold our palms outstretched toward whomever the leaders prayed for. We were told to send the power of the Holy Spirit from our bodies, through our hands, to them to give them strength, healing, or deliverance from demonic influences. I often experienced a physical exchange of energy after church services. In the back of the sanctuary, Barbara and other seasoned female members hugged me and others, chest-to-chest. When they did, I felt strong energy flow from the center of my torso to theirs, and back again. As the energy flowed, we comfortably swayed back and forth in rhythm with it. I never sensed that this practice was sexual-the energy transfer felt clean and pure. Sometimes the force of the flow was so strong, it knocked us away from each other. When it did, we stood there quietly, praying and swaying peacefully until we'd recovered our faculties. We were pleased that the Holy Spirit was channeling so strongly through us! We were also instructed to pray for people who were not in the building, and to visualize where they were, what they were doing, and what their 116 Unshackled special needs were. If we had a "prophetic" vision about a person we prayed for, we were to walk up onto the stage where Pastor Bob and the elders stood and share the vision with the rest of the congregation. Because my heart pounded rapidly nearly every time I thought of walking up onto the stage, I usually remained silent. One night, in a rented room in a small commercial building in downtown Waukegan, Barbara set up a meeting where church members viewed a film that showed how physical energy transferred from one human body to another. It focused on scientific Russian experiments, in which individuals were instructed to interact with each other while their energy fields were filmed. We watched energy move from one person to another. As one couple interacted sexually, their auras even changed in size, shape, color, and intensity. Fascinated, I wondered why more people didn't know about energy exchanges and energy-field auras. Submission Because I still believed Albert was God's mantle of authority over me, and because he continued to give me prophecies from God when we prayed in our large, airy, wooden-floored bedroom at night, almost everything he demanded, I did. Even when he told me to do things I didn't feel good about, I continued to obey him. The only time I disobeyed him was when people with higher authority gave me different instructions. These instructions came from Pastor Bob, Barbara, the elders, and Apostle Stevens (through taped sermons and rare visits to Ecclesia). I'd been conditioned throughout my childhood to obey Dad. Disobedience wasn't allowed. Now, because Albert was my primary male authority figure, I obeyed him. Albert was often cynical, demeaning, and abusive towards me; he had a cruel temper. If I didn't immediately obey his commands, he screamed at me and made life hell until I fully complied. Another reason for my obedience was that I was dependent on him. I didn't have a car and was phobic about driving in traffic, not knowing that some of my hidden alter-states had been driving for years. 1 I also didn't know how to use a bank account or write checks because Albert Brainwashed 117 handled all of our money. I felt worthless, believing I couldn't survive without his help and guidance. My submission towards Albert was reinforced within the Walk. Our leaders and some of the women-especially Barbara-taught us that we must obey our husbands, because rebellion against their God-ordained authority would bring demons into our homes, and would put our children in danger of becoming ill, demon-possessed, or even dead. Following Barbara's example, some of us even wore white lace Spanish mantillas on our heads to publicly display our submission to our husbands and church elders. We were constantly taught that if we obeyed our husbands, God would honor our obedience and would miraculously manipulate them to treat us right. Since we were encouraged to read Church of the Living Word literature and were discouraged from reading the Bible on our own, I didn't know that the leaders often used scriptures out of context to manipulate and control us. We were instructed to listen to cassette tapes of sermons, especially those given by Apostle Stevens, several times a week. He and other leaders told us we must listen to each tape at least three times in a row, so the "living word of God" would "go down into our spirits." Over a period of three years, I purchased and listened to hundreds of tapes, allowing the leaders' teachings to bypass my critical thinking. I wanted God's "living word" to fill and transform me. In their sermons, many of the leaders-especially Stevens-used a combination of Ericksonian hypnotic techniques and Neuro Linguistic Programming (NLP). 2 Whether this was accidental or intentional, most of their sermons were so irrational and metaphorical, they created a spiritual fantasyland in my mind that became more real to me than the physical world. The leaders taught that demons could come into our homes through worldly literature and television programs. Following their teachings, I used cooking oil to anoint our television, doorways, windows, pillowcases, mail, and more. I would do whatever it took to keep my family safe. Each night, I placed our tape recorder next to Emily's bed and played Stevens' messages as she fell asleep, so the Spirit-breathed (pneuma) word of God would fight off any demons that she was too young to recognize. 118 Unshackled Alone with Emily in our apartment on weekdays, I "danced in the spirit," stomping and twirling as I sang to God "in tongues." I didn't care what she or our downstairs neighbors thought. Stevens and other leaders had taught us that such dancing and singing were inspired by the Holy Spirit. We were taught that it would please God, since He had been pleased when King David had publicly danced in praise to Him. I wanted to be as close to God as King David had been! Insanity Behind the walls of our attic apartment were thick layers of residue and feces from years of roach infestation. At night, when I walked into our large kitchen and turned on the light, they scattered into cracks and crevices. Every time I opened a drawer, they dropped egg sacs as they scurried away into the darkness. The feces, egg sacs and crawling bugs nearly drove me out of my mind. Albert refused to let me use chemical sprays to control them. He said they'd make his hair fall out, and then he'd go crazy. 3 I tried to work with him by using natural remedies to make the roaches go away, but they did no good. Appalled by the infestation, a new landlord hired two men to thoroughly spray all of the apartments. When the men finished, insecti- cide dripped down the sides of the doorway between Emily's narrow bedroom and the kitchen. Albert freaked out and wouldn't let us walk through it. After the chemical dried and we did walk through it, Albert insisted we take off our clothes and wash them immediately, so that any chemicals that touched our clothes wouldn't get near his head. Because we couldn't yet afford to use the Laundromat down the street, I washed our "contaminated" clothes in our big cast-iron bathtub and hung them in the enclosed back stairwell to dry. Each time the exterminators sprayed our apartment, Albert insisted I wash the doorways and any other parts of the apartment that the spray had contacted. I had to throw away the cleaning rags, then scour the sink and bathtub to remove every last trace of the chemicals. Still, he was con- vinced that residual insecticide was on my hands. Although I washed them many times, he never let me touch his head again. One day, Dad's mother sent me an unexpected birthday present: two beautiful rugs she'd crocheted by hand. I treasured them, knowing they'd Brainwashed 119 taken her many hours to make. I decided to put them on our kitchen floor. Unfortunately, Albert believed our shoes were also contaminated by the chemicals on the wooden doorways. After we'd walked on Grandma's rugs, he ordered me to throw them in the garbage. I cried and begged him to please let me wash them, but he refused. Although I obeyed, I never forgave him and grieved losing this precious connection to my grandmother. He soon developed another phobia towards the acid inside car batteries. He was convinced that it, too, would make his hair fall out and make him go crazy. If I walked within several feet of a closed car hood, I had to wash my purse and all of its contents. If Albert had an especially bad day, I had to throw my purse into the trash in a sealed plastic bag, so the trash container wouldn't be contaminated. Albert's logic had no logic, and yet it dictated our daily lives. Every time I had to dispose of another "contaminated" personal possession, I felt more anger towards him. At times, I also appeared insane. After Emily started walking, I decided she needed a pet and adopted a small calico kitten. Soon, it started stalking and pouncing at Emily, claws bared. Something in me snapped. I felt an irrational need to protect Emily from it. First, when it pounced at her, I picked it up and shoved it across the floor, away from her. Then I started throwing it a little harder. One day, I totally lost control. I threw it so hard, it thudded into the far wall. After that, it stayed away from me, making an eerie howl that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I was deeply ashamed of what I'd done to the poor kitten, especially since I didn't know why I'd done it. I enlisted a man from church to come and take it away. He looked disgusted when I wouldn't admit that I was responsible. I didn't know that I'd flashbacked and seen it as a danger to Emily, because I'd been forcibly exposed to frightening wildcats as a child. I felt like a monster. On another occasion, convinced by Barbara that I must cleanse my intestines to make my body purer and more acceptable to God, I began giving myself a coffee enema every day. Sometimes I did it when Albert was home. Although it disgusted him, I refused to stop since Barbara's authority was higher than Albert's. Starved for a father's love, I was determined to do whatever it took to make God love me more. 120 Unshackled Notes 1. Such schisms in my overall personality weren't unusual. Often, if I had a phobia that kept me from doing something that most people could comfortably do, I'd have a hidden alter-state that had compartmentalized the ability to do it. For instance, as the host alter-state, I was terrified of heights. And yet, I had at least one alter-state that wasn't afraid of dropping down from one open-air apartment bal- cony to the next, many stories high. 2. Dick Sutphen explained why, although is a powerful tool for mental control, we've heard so little about it: The concepts and techniques of Neuro-Linguistics are so heavily protected that I found out the hard way that to even talk about them publicly or in print results in threatened legal action. Yet Neuro- Linguistic training is readily available to anyone willing to devote the time and pay the price. It is some of the most subtle and powerful manipulation I have yet been exposed to. A good friend who recently attended a two-week seminar on Neuro-Linguistics found that many of those she talked to during the breaks were government people. (Sutphen, pg. 13) 3. Chances are good that Albert suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Although some people with this mental disorder are obsessed with protect- ing themselves from germs and constantly wash their hands, in Albert's mind, chemicals were the invisible enemy. Memory Manipulation Temp Jobs The more time I spent with Emily, the more I enjoyed and was fascinated by her. I no longer believed that demons inhabited her body. I was ignorant, however, about child development. Treating her as I'd been treated as a child, I didn't use baby talk and expected her to reason as an adult. Nonetheless, I marveled at her cuteness and her excitement as she explored the world around her. Unfortunately for both of us, I was not yet in control of several "Mom" alter-states that did some of the more benign things to Emily that Mom had done to me. For instance, in public, I secretly pinched Emily to make her obey me, not understanding that I was actually conditioning her to fear me. Whenever she cried in a restaurant, I took her into the bathroom and spanked her on her rear, not understanding that I should instead find out what her need was. I was convinced that she was rebelling against my authority whenever she failed to do what I told her. I even spanked her when she refused to repeat a prayer after me. I didn't understand that at the toddler stage, part of the child's personality devel- opment includes saying no. Any time she rebelled, I believed-based mostly on Barbara's teachings to the women-that a new demon in Emily was making her do it. I was convinced that I must spank Emily to keep her from giving the demon more power-after all, we were taught that demons could kill our children! Whenever I spanked, pinched, or otherwise hurt Emily, I always felt horrible afterwards. And yet, because I didn't understand why I did some of those things, I created false rationalizations for my abusiveness. I was too frightened of myself to acknowledge my guilt and loss of control. In one good way, I bonded closely with Emily. Unfortunately, I let it go on for too long-perhaps bonding her too closely to me. Because of the radical teachings of several pastors' wives in the La Leche League, I breast-fed her until she was two-and-a-half. I was taught not to stop until she didn't want it anymore. They said it should be up to the baby, not the mother. 121 122 Unshackled After she'd weaned herself, Pastor Bob and Albert told me it was time for me to get a job. I didn't see how that was possible-how would we pay for a babysitter? I was touched when several church members offered to baby-sit for free. At the time, I believed they would be best for her because they were filled with the Holy Spirit. Now, I wonder if that was a mistake. After all, most of them were as "spiritually" psychotic as I! I started working through Jobs, Inc., a temporary employment agency in downtown Waukegan. Because I'd taken two years of typing classes in high school, I was assigned to various departments at the sprawling Abbott Laboratories pharmaceutical facility in North Chicago. Sometimes, on a new assignment, I was led to an empty desk and given magazines to read for days at a time. I didn't understand that some of those temp jobs were cover positions for covert ops. Op Preparations Sometimes, when I was to be sent out on an op, Albert personally drove me to meet with professional handlers. At other times, handlers picked me up at home and drove me to buildings where I was hypnotized and tricked into believing I was at a regular job. I reported to many buildings and offices during the next two decades. Because the handlers didn't want me to remember the exteriors of the buildings they transported me to, I was not allowed to look out the vehicle's windows. If I did, one of the handlers either tortured me with a stun gun-usually on one of my forearms, or painfully pressed on a pressure point near my neck or shoulder. 1 Sometimes, they made me lie on the sedan's back floor, face-down. Sometimes they transported me in car trunks. When they transported me in the back of white, windowless panel vans, I was usually strapped to a gurney with an IV in my arm to keep me sedated. One method they used to block out memories of civilian air flights was code-named "Sound Of Silence" programming. To do this, programmers created a "Helen Keller" alter-state that was certain she was blind, deaf, and unable to speak. When in this altered state of consciousness, I was led by the hand by my assigned handlers in and out of planes and airports. Even though my eyes were wide open, I literally was unable to see. 2 Memory Manipulation 123 Part of this programming was accomplished through hypnosis paired with the threat that if I did see any identifiers that indicated which flight I'd been on, or if I heard anything that would do the same, I would be killed. Therefore, to stay alive, I unconsciously chose not to see and hear. By triggering out a succession of alter-states for each op, my handlers ensured that each participating alter-state contained only one piece of the whole experience. That increased the fragmentation of my op memories, which is one reason why the memories eventually emerged in so many bits and pieces. Most of the op briefings were routine. Usually, I was led to a desk in a commercial building, and was told that the desk was mine. I was so drugged or hypnotized, I believed I was at my regular office job. Another handler, posing as my supervisor, placed a stack of files on the desk in front of me, or on a shelf above it. 3 An alter-state was triggered out by the sight of a red-jacketed manila file in the stack. That op trained alter-state opened the file consisting of a printed dossier, one or more black-and-white 8- 1/2 X 1 1 s of the intended male target, and other pages of printed information. To the best of my knowledge, each dossier stated that the "target" had recently raped children, women, or both. Sometimes it stated that the tar- get had just been released from prison and was an "imminent danger to society." My op parts believed that my duty as an American citizen was to "take him out." A simpler command from a handler was: "Do him." We both understood that "do" meant "kill." After one alter-state read the file, another op-trained alter-state was also triggered out and briefed, to ensure that at least two op-trained parts always had the information necessary to complete the assignment. This ensured that if one part accidentally submerged into unconsciousness during the op, the other part could then be triggered out via a tiny transceiver that the handler had placed in my right ear. The male professionals who briefed me often increased my deep store of volcanic rage towards men by ordering me to get down on my knees and perform oral sex on them before they sent me to perform the op. I was then transported by car, van, truck, motor home, ambulance, plane, jet, boat, cargo ship, mini- submarine (ideal for rivers), or helicopter to perform the op. I have also had numerous memories of having been in groups of American tourists that supposedly participated in guided tours in 124 Unshackled various countries. It seems that this was an overseas cover that not only made me seem innocuous; it also ensured the happy cooperation of my "tourist" alter-states. After all, who wouldn't want to go on free overseas vacations? "Husbands" My professional handlers couldn't risk my breaking free from their control in the middle of a mission. If a male handler could convince a female, emerging alter- state that the handler was my legal husband, then that alter-state would more likely obey his commands without argument. Most of my op trained alter-states didn't know that Albert was my hus- band. Instead, when they emerged, they believed whatever they were told. Some of the "husband" handlers took further advantage of my parts' igno- rance by having sex with them after an op was completed, ensuring that those alter-states would more likely obey them on future assignments. While preparing to take me home, my handlers always did a full body search. They checked my mouth, vagina, rectum, and all of my skin. They made sure that none of my op alter-states had hidden any clues or secret messages in or on my body for me to find back home. (Several parts had been caught using ink pens to write messages on my skin to tell me, the host alter-state, what was happening.) Albert and other people close to me, including relatives, supervisors, and "friends," helped to cover-up for my absences. Whenever I returned home, they acted as if I'd never been gone. Their behaviors reinforced my amnesia. At home, I wasn't able to remember having had extramarital sex with some of my "husband" handlers, since I repressed those experiences too. I did, however, remember it in my dreams. Because I felt embarrassed by the vivid orgasmic dreams, I decided they must be from Satan. Although my sexual needs were no longer being met at home, I still wanted to stay faithful to Albert so that God would be pleased with me. Blammo The following is a journaled memory of a typical op. As usual, I remembered the memory itself, with no knowledge of how I arrived in Memory Manipulation 125 that location or how I returned home. And as usual, during the event, I didn't know who I was or even what year it was. Amnesic, I only knew what my handlers told me. I found myself alone in a foreign country, slowly driving along a narrow, crooked street in a small car. It was right before dawn. A row of narrow, small, one-story, wooden houses were on each side of the street. My temporary home base that I shared with my "husband" (handler) was the last house on the left. The street was still quiet, but people would soon be waking up and coming out. As I drove slowly along the street, I saw that somebody had placed a detonation device atop the front doorstep of each house, anticipating that when a person opened their front door and stepped out, blammo ! The house would be damaged, at the very least, along with the victim. I could make out several of these doorstep devices in the pre-dawn shadows. By our back door, I noticed a stack of three logs. A long, thin metal pin stuck out beyond the top log, to be triggered when the solid wooden door pushed open against it. My first thought was for the man I called my husband, and the small, brown-haired, intelligent girl staying in the house with us. I believed she was our daughter. Though our "marriage" was a cover, this operative part of me believed in the reality of the arrangement. The husband had short, straight brown hair, and was grizzled from lack of sleep. Muscular and clever, he knew how to disassemble bombs. As prearranged, I drove on past the house, and pulled the little car around into an industrial area for a hastily-called rendezvous with him. He had just come back from a quickie assignment. I told him about the bombs I had seen, and begged him, "Come on, let's get out of here nowl" 126 Unshackled He gave me a grim look; taking it as a personal challenge, he was determined to stay behind and disassemble every bomb. "Just because you know how to do it," I said, "doesn't mean you have to be the one to do it!" As we stood arguing about what to do, two of the houses detonated from the doorstep bombs. "Come on! It's not worth dying for!" He wasn't going to go away with me, so I told him I wanted to take our daughter out of there to a safe place, before she got blown up too. We had another car, a station wagon with brown side panels, sitting next to the left side of the house, parked in the wet, leaf-covered dirt. When I suggested taking the station wagon, he shrugged, then gave me instructions about where to go next. I tried one more time to get him to come with us, but I saw a gleam in his eye as he sought out the pin in the log on the back porch. The man was too far gone. After he safely dissembled our log bomb, I entered the house, picked up the sleepy child, wrapped her in a red blanket, carried her outside, and lay her gently on the shiny brown leather seat in back. "There, now, honey, just take a little nap while I drive. We're going on a trip." As I drove slowly away from the danger zone with the child lying quietly in the back seat of the car, I felt nostalgic, yearning for the man I had left behind. I also reached the sad realization that it may very well be the last time I would see him. Movie Screens After most covert ops, the professional handlers had to ensure that I would not remember what had occurred. One way they did this was Memory Manipulation 127 by implanting fake "screen memories" in my mind that blocked out previous legitimate memories. One type of screen memory was implanted at a location that I believe I was taken to after ops, to be debriefed. The Janus building was in Washington, DC. According to a photograph still in my possession, its street number was 1666. 4 The theater section was on the bottom floor of this multi-story building. The outside marquee sported two masks, one laughing and one sad, representing the dual faces of Janus, a mythological god. The concept of Janus was regularly used in my CIA mental programming because I lived two completely different lives, one at home and the other in the field. At that building, I was usually taken upstairs first to a small, plain- walled office. The assigned debriefer, usually a clean-cut Caucasian man wearing a black business suit, triggered out every alter-state that had been conscious during the op and transportation. Each part told him what that part remembered. The parts knew that lying could lead to being tortured, so they were careful to tell the truth. They were not, however, averse to holding back pertinent information that could lead to their being tortured for having screwed up. Afterwards, I was taken downstairs into the empty movie theater. While I watched a movie, a male handler sat to my right and carefully monitored my responses to what I saw and heard. Because I was in a trance state and was sometimes drugged, I believed the movie was really happening. Sometimes, the man added verbal hypnotic suggestions to make the movie seem more real. Whoever chose these movies seemed to look for anything in them that could parallel at least one or two details they knew I'd experienced during the previous op. They understood that my future retrieval of memories of repressed events would work backwards. In other words, because of how my memory was naturally stored and retrieved, I would remember the most recent part of a series of experiences before remembering what had previously occurred. This means I would remember the movie screen memory before I'd remember the real op preceding it. If the movie seemed unrealistic, I'd be so confused by my memory of it, I'd think I was psy- chotic and therefore wouldn't believe the op memory if it emerged later. Sometimes I was led into a plain-walled room-perhaps at a different location. I was told to sit in a small, tireless car that had been placed in front of a movie screen. Two more same- sized, white screens 128 Unshackled were attached to each side wall. Sometimes, instead of sitting in the tireless car, I was instructed to pedal a stationary bicycle or run on a treadmill, again surrounded by the three movie screens. Regardless of the mode of fake transportation, the scenery moved as I "drove" the car, pedaled the bicycle, or ran on the treadmill. Sometimes when I pressed down on the car's brake, the moving scenery didn't slow down. I watched in terror as the car plunged off a cliff and crashed into the ground below. Each time I believed that I'd died, and then wondered why I could still see and think. Using the bicycle or treadmill was also crazy-making because at first, as I pedaled or ran, I was going at the same speed as the fast-moving automobile traffic on the wide road that I believed I was also on (really, the traffic was on the screens). Then suddenly, the cars on the screens would seem to zoom around me and I believed I'd somehow lost my strength and energy to keep up. Each time, I panicked and felt ashamed. Because I believed I was on real roads with unfamiliar numbered signs, I worried. Where was I, how could I keep up with the traffic, and how would I ever get home? These particular screen memories were especially effective in blocking my memories of having previously driven, in an alter-state, to specified locations. Before the advent of virtual reality, Dad had preferred using what he called "acted-out scenarios" to implant screen memories in the minds of victim- slaves. Sometimes he and other alleged operatives contracted with established Hollywood actors and actresses to participate in these mock scenarios. At other times, they used people the victims would never see or meet in regular life. 5 Dad believed by using all of a victim's senses during an acted-out scenario, the victim would be more convinced that the retrieved memory of the acted-out scenario was a fully legitimate event. In the 1990s, my way of determining whether or not a remembered event had been acted-out was to review the expressions on the faces of the other participants. I usually could remember a bit of a sneer, or a smile in the eyes of a participant who should have been upset or frowning if the event weren't legitimate. Another clue was if I'd felt woozy or drugged during the event. During a real op, I would not have been drugged. The implantation of another type of screen memory went like this: by phone, a male handler would instruct one of my alter-states to meet him at Memory Manipulation 129 the ornate carousel atop a small hill in Six Flags Over Georgia, a large amusement park near Atlanta. Not knowing I was being controlled, I'd tell Albert I was going to the park for the day to "have fun." When I approached the carousel, its lights and calliope (organ) music and its rotation and the up and down movement of the horses quickly put me into a deep trance. 6 Then the man walked towards me and triggered out a compliant alter-state that recognized him and enjoyed being with him. From there, he took me on another overseas assignment. After the op and my debriefing, he brought me back to the carousel, had me watch it again until I tranced, then implanted a verbal hypnotic sugges- tion that blocked out all memory of the op. Finally, he melted into the crowd. When I "came to" and drove home, I didn't know I'd been gone for sev- eral days. At home and at work, Albert and other local handlers helped to convince me that I hadn't missed any time at all. Memory Scrambles Some handlers hypnotically tricked my mind into seeing something that was not there, or tricked me into seeing something as other than what it really was. When I first remembered having been hypnotized that way, I felt embarrassed and scared. I didn't want to believe anyone could fool my mind so easily! 7 Stateside handlers used several "themes" to keep me compliant. One hypnotic trick was to make me "see" flowing molten lava outside a build- ing, so I didn't dare leave it. (An adult alter-state related that this had originally been created in my mind when handlers made that alter-state walk on a bed of burning coals while in a deep trance.) Some handlers told me to look out a multi- story office building's plate glass window at a cloud in the sky. They said the cloud was an approach- ing tornado. They knew that because of my Wizard of Oz programming, I had a strong fear of tornados. Sometimes they laughed so hard they doubled over, tears streaming down their faces, as I frantically yelled at them to follow me, then ran down several flights of stairs to the lowest level and hid there. At other times, if a helicopter were landing nearby, they mentally tricked me into believing it was another tornado. 8 Because the rotors created a strong gust and were noisy, hypnotically tricking me into seeing a tornado instead of the copter wasn't difficult. 9 130 Unshackled Notes 1. Although Groome, et al, described how a head concussion can temporarily negate a person's ability to retain bits and pieces of new memory, their description of its effects may also explain why the electrical effects of stun guns kept me and other slave-operatives from retaining certain information: "In all probability the contents of the STM [short-term, temporary] working memory at the time of the accident are lost because they have not yet been transferred to the LTM [long-term, permanent memory storage], and the STM working memory (which depends on conscious awareness) is put out of action during the period of unconsciousness." (pg. 161) 2. Some followers of Sigmund Freud would probably call this, "hysterical blindness." 3. I've had hundreds of flashbacks of "coming to" while sitting at a strange desk, surrounded by unfamiliar office workers, then opening a file and panicking because I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it. 4. Although 666 is a common symbol used by occult practitioners, some mental predators who are not occult practitioners have used it and other occult symbols to frighten and intimidate victims who had been ritually abused. 5. Some mind-control victims have even reported being put in full-scale, fake UFO's that were sometimes moved up and down by hydraulics. In the fake UFO's, drugged, tranced victims met humans dressed in "alien" costumes. Later, because of the effects of forcibly administered drugs and Ericksonian hypnosis, the remem- bering victims weren't able to differentiate between preceding, legitimate events and the subsequent acted-out UFO scenarios. They also were not able to recognize that the "alien abductors" were really human. Although some survivors are con- vinced that their abductors were aliens because they remember them as having been unnaturally tall, changing the perceived size of perpetrators in the minds of victims can easily be accomplished through hypnosis. For example, due to "Gulliver programming," I initially remembered some of my persecutors as being several inches tall! In the introduction to one of his fascinating books about true conspiracies in the US, Alex Constantine wrote: The "Alien" Invasion-a very active cover story for the development of mind control technology. Supposedly (as those weird syndicated UFO television programs keep reminding us) alien scientists have voyaged millions of light years to place CIA implants in the bodies of human subjects. This incredible cover story is widely believed-yet most "skeptics" scoff at the notion that human scientists might want to do the same thing. The aliens have been pounded into the heads of the American consumer by a slue of books penned by military intelligence officers (Psychic Dictatorship, pg. xii). Memory Manipulation 131 6. Most mind-control survivors I've been in contact with have specifically remembered being taken by handlers or family members in the US to Disneyland (in California) or Disney World (in Florida) for programming sessions, as was I. I suspect this was done to us for a minimum of two reasons: 1) being in such a trigger-laden environment would easily cause dissociated individuals to regress into childlike states of consciousness; and 2) the overwhelming colors, shapes, sights, movement, and sounds-added to mental and physical fatigue-could easily cause dissociated individuals to go into a lengthy hypnotic trance. 7. Dr. Elizabeth Loftus, a FMSF spokesperson and self-proclaimed "memory expert," has generously provided the mind-control survivor community with irrefutable proof that, by using regression and hypnotic techniques on unsuspecting adult sub- jects, a professional can convince a fair percentage of them that they either experi- enced or saw something that didn't happen the way they remembered, or that they experienced something that didn't occur at all. If Loftus could accomplish these results by using benign, harmless techniques in controlled settings, imagine what could be implanted in a survivor's mind by using terror, coercion, sleep deprivation, food deprivation, hostile environments, drugs, Ericksonian hypnosis, Neuro- Linguistic Programming (NLP), and more. 8. It would be just as easy to hypnotically implant a screen memory in a victim's mind of the helicopter being a UFO. 9. Carla Emery explained this hypnotic technique: Words act as conditioned stimuli in a totally mechanistic, automatistic way when the subject is deeply hypnotized. During hypnosis, the con- scious mind, one of whose functions is to keep us hitched to reality, has been turned off. The conscious is not there to interpret or deny. The unconscious is literal and, frequently, obedient. When the subject's conscious mind is turned off because of hypnosis, language takes the place of reality. If the hypnotist says, "You see a cat waltzing alone in pink pajamas," you might see exactly that. (pg. 209) Enslaved Ecclesia Split While Albert and I lived in Waukegan, Dad and Mom occasionally paid for us to either drive or fly to Atlanta to visit them in their separate homes. Pastor Bob and Richard kept insisting that God wanted us to stay in Illinois. Angry that I still refused to relocate, Albert started coming home late at night from nearby taverns. Each time, he was so drunk, the fumes nearly knocked me out. He'd lie on our mattress on the floor and cry about how miserable he was. His incessant complaining made me feel like crap. I tried so hard to please him by being a good and godly wife; and yet, he still wasn't happy. To protect myself from the pain of not being loved or accepted by my husband, I clung harder to the church and to the Apostle's teachings. Pastor Bob, Richard and Barbara assured me if I kept obeying the Word of God, Albert would eventually submit to their authority. They said that once Albert obeyed, our family would live in harmony. We probably would have divorced, had Ecclesia Fellowship not unexpectedly split. It began when Pastor Bob and Barbara flew to Anaheim, California, as they'd done several times in the past, to visit with Apostle Stevens in his home. When they returned home this time, they were noticeably troubled. The next Sunday, Bob told our congregation that Stevens was no longer living for God. Barbara later stated that she had learned-true or not, I don't know-that Stevens had become an alcoholic, was committing adultery, and was consulting with astrologers. Bob said he knew his personal decision to break away from the Apostle's authority would not be acceptable to any members who still chose to follow Stevens. He asked the church members to fast and pray, asking God what they should do-start a new church with Bob as their pastor, or stay in the Walk. Many of the younger adults chose to stay in the Walk under Stevens's authority. They relocated to a smaller church that we'd recently helped start in southern Illinois. Bob's decision helped to break what I believe was John Robert Stevens's long-distance hypnotic control over my mind-and the minds of 132 Enslaved 133 many other gullible believers. I was finally free to question what the Apostle had taught. Elated, Albert demanded that I discard all my Living Word cassette tapes and printed materials. As I obeyed, I felt as if I were going into physical withdrawal. Local Church A young, red-bearded friend of Albert invited us to go with him to downtown Chicago to attend church meetings held by another Christian group that identified itself as the "Church in Chicago." It was part of an international religious organization, the Local Church. The Local Church was led by a small, balding man named Witness Lee. He claimed to have been a disciple of one of Korea's famous Christians, Watchman Nee. At these new meetings, my first lesson in how to pray the Local Church way was to cluck my tongue once, then say: "Oh . . . Lord . . . 7esus." The men and women in the Church in Chicago were very friendly. They used a technique I've since learned is called "love bomb- ing." Someone always invited us to eat and rest in their home on Sunday afternoon so we could go to the evening service before returning home. Atlanta When I finally agreed to move back to Atlanta, I discovered I'd accrued enough hours as a temp worker to receive two weeks' vacation pay. That same week, a young couple from the Church in Chicago came to visit us and gave us $300, saying it was from God. I believed these were signs from God that confirmed we were to return to Georgia. After we loaded up the car and traveled to Atlanta, Dad and his new wife invited us to stay in their home in an older subdivision in the out- skirts of the city. Local Airport After several months of living with Dad and his wife, we found a second-floor apartment at Cumberland Court, a low-rent complex in 134 Unshackled Chamblee, Georgia. Our new apartment was within walking distance of Dad's house. It was also close to Peachtree DeKalb Airport, a small air field used mostly by light planes. I didn't know that sometimes I was flown from that airport to be briefed and prepped for ops. In fact, I had no conscious memory of ever going there. Although I've not yet found any evidence that Dad ever had a pilot's license, I've had several memories of him flying me from the airport and back in small aircraft. I doubted these memories until a private investigator reminded me that because my father had been a flight engineer during his four-year stint in the Air Force, he would have known how to fly small planes. Another professional explained that often when a person "borrows" an owner's plane, he gets away with it by not having to present a pilot's license. Aryan Cult Network I was unaware that Dad was manipulating some of my younger alter- states to go to cult meetings in Atlanta and Cobb County, officiated by local Aryan associates. Although some of their criminal occult rituals were similar to what I'd experienced in Pennsylvania, the north Georgia Aryan network focused more on the manufacturing and sales of illegal drugs and pornography. Unfortunately, as in Pennsylvania, pedophilia seemed to be the norm, as was the horrification and torture of their victims-particularly children and women. Further, I was forced to help Dad and some of the leaders when they transported children who, Dad claimed, were being bought and sold through their extensive, lucrative black marketing network. In Pennsylvania, Dad's cult had often used dogs, snakes, and an occasional circus-trained lion in bestiality porn shoots. The Cobb County Aryan network's leaders seemed to prefer using domesticated animals, including trained dogs, although they also sometimes used tamed wildcats. Unfortunately, when several children victimized within the network tes- tified about the wildcats in court in the late 1980s, they were disbelieved. As with that jury, most people are unaware that owning a large, tamed wildcat is a status symbol among certain groups of black-marketers. 1 Dad continued to break child victims' minds, creating pliable altered states of consciousness they weren't aware of. In the mid-1970s, Dad had Enslaved 135 easy access to a large, two-story warehouse in Atlanta. On Saturdays, he and several male associates brought children there to be traumatized and mentally programmed. Although he now used mannequins with fake blood to traumatize the children, he still insisted that the children use knives to kill baby animals on plain, cafeteria- sized tables. Doing this served several purposes: 1) the children had to suppress their consciences before they could kill the innocent baby animals; 2) they then developed perpetrator alter- states that didn't mind killing; and 3) even if they remembered, they wouldn't tell anyone, because Dad and the other men told them everyone would hate them for killing the animals. Because the warehouse's exits were always guarded on the inside by men, my cult-conditioned alter-states didn't try to break and run. They believed there was no escape. Dad was also careful to always make another alter- state take over whenever I left the building, so I would not remember what had just occurred inside. And as I was being transported home, whoever drove me would verbally trigger out several more alter- states in succession so that, by the time I arrived home, the memory of the warehouse was completely gone. Dad and his criminal associates called this technique "information compartmentalization." Dad taught several of the local Aryan leaders (including a man I'll name "J.C.") how to trigger out and use several of my child alter-states. Because these alter-states hadn't developed mentally or emotionally, they didn't feel old enough to be a parent and therefore didn't accept respon- sibility for Emily's welfare. Because Emily had no way of knowing this, she believed that sometimes her mother didn't care if those people hurt her terribly. Some of the Aryan leaders called themselves "Southern Gentlemen"- an oxymoron. They told my participating child parts what to do during hardcore rituals and kiddy porn shoots. The rituals also were used to cre- ate more screen memories in my mind. When I remembered them in the early 1990s, their horror blocked out memories of preceding, covert assignments-for a while. My forced participation in the Aryan occult rituals was also used to blackmail some of my adult alter-states into performing more assassinations. Dad and other professional handlers repeatedly told these parts that if they went on ops, they wouldn't have to perform illegal acts in rituals and wouldn't have to see more children being hurt. Then they reassured the 136 Unshackled alter-states that the CIA would cover for them at home so they wouldn't be arrested for any stateside (ritual and porn) crimes that they were forced to perform. Albert also participated in some of the local Aryan occult rituals, and often transported us to them. He seemed to do whatever Dad wanted, even taking me to a specialized facility where I was repeatedly drugged and electro-shocked. This usually was done when I became noticeably depressed or agitated at home and sat on our carpeted floor in the hall- way or bedroom, holding my head in my hands and crying out, "I have a whirlwind in my head!" (These whirlwinds seemed to consist of rapid thoughts and images that circled nonstop in my mind-some survivors call this phenomena "rapid switching" of alter-states.) In the 1990s, when I first remembered Albert's many betrayals, I felt hurt and angry. To be fair, however, I had to consider that Dad might have blackmailed him into compliance and silence. One reason I think this is possible is that, in the early 1980s, after Albert suddenly refused to have further contact with Dad, Albert kept ranting about how when "they" came to get him, he'd "take out" as many of them as he could before they killed him. At that time, I thought his mind had snapped-especially when he refused to say who "they" were. Now, I believe he was terrified that members of the Aryan network might kill him for breaking away from their control. 2 In spite of Albert's animosity towards Dad, however, he had a streak of racism that perhaps helped him feel comfortable around some of the other white supremacists. He shared many of their beliefs, possibly because he was raised by a Nazi stepfather. As an example: when Emily was about six years old, Albert repeatedly told her and me that if she ever had a "nigger's" baby, he'd disown her. He was angry when he said this, irrationally behaving as if she'd already become pregnant. Albert nursed a terrible hatred towards Blacks. Sometimes he deliber- ately drove too close behind small cars driven by elderly Black women, deliberately terrorizing them and making frightening faces at them. Each time, I felt so embarrassed, I slid down in my seat. When we'd be near a Black male, Albert would usually sneer and call the man a "jigaboo." He clearly believed that people with darker skin were inferior, and avoided walking near or talking to any of them. Enslaved 137 Whenever he drove past a government-subsidized housing project in Lawrenceville, Georgia, he sneered at the Black children playing outside between the rows of single-story buildings, calling them "yard apes" and "jungle bunnies." Because I didn't remember the Aryan meetings, I didn't understand where he got those strange words. I was alarmed by his behaviors and often felt ashamed to be his wife. He seemed to be so full of hatred and rage-I prayed constantly to God to touch his soul and make him the good man I sensed he had the capacity to be. I wasn't willing to accept that God can't force any person to do or become anything, against that person's will. I needed many more years to realize that, unlike most of the male figures in my life, God was not a perp. Child Victims Because Dad created and conditioned most of my programmed alter- states, he knew which buttons to push, which triggers to use, and which parts to pull out to perform specific activities. He was careful never to trigger out a child-rescuer part when he wanted me to help him do awful things to children. He and his criminal associates enjoyed using victims to harm and traumatize each other. They reminded me of prison guards who choose prisoners to harm each other for the guards' entertainment. By having victim #1 perform an act against victim #2 while the controller stands in the shadows or in another room, victim #2 will believe that victim #1 was responsible. Forgiving myself for obeying Dad has been hard work. I've had to accept that I was weak. I broke. I reached my limits of endurance again and again, until I did whatever he and his criminal associates commanded. Holding onto undeserved guilt has also been a sneaky way to avoid remembering how weak and helpless I'd felt, having had no control over the situation. When Dad made me do terrible things to children, he used a control technique that he'd first developed when he'd forced me to participate in murderous rituals as a young child. Each time, Dad gave me a choice between performing a greater or lesser evil-a classic double -bind. Either way I went, I ended up believing I was guilty and therefore a monster. 138 Unshackled Based on Dad's specific instructions, I could either hurt the child, or he would take over and torture the child before carrying out my original assignment. Dad's threat of torturing a child was always given to me away from the child's hearing. The victim had no way of knowing that my disobedience could lead to the victim's being brutally tortured. Because Dad made sure the child saw me participate without a struggle, I believed that each child saw me as a willing perpetrator. That especially broke my heart. Because Dad controlled when my cult alter-states came out and when they went back under, those parts couldn't stay conscious long enough to be able to report the crimes. He also ensured my continuing cooperation by telling those alter-states that if they did report the crimes, they would go to prison. He never mentioned the word "coercion." Because my alter-states didn't know they were not guilty for what they'd been forced to do, they believed they were just as guilty and mon- strous as Dad. Although those alter-states believed his threats and did whatever he commanded, the alter-states initially felt different towards J.C., the Cobb County Aryan leader. They weren't so sure that he'd carry out similar threats if they dared disobey. The first time he told an alter-state what to do to a brown-haired boy for a porn shoot, that alter-state chose to disobey him rather than traumatize the boy. Livid with rage, J.C. came into the room, dragged the boy into another room, and tortured him by using a branding iron heated red-hot on a portable barbeque grill. Later, J.C. convinced this alter-state that my rebelliousness had caused the boy to be tortured. The lesson went deep; all of my cult alter-states obeyed J.C.'s instructions from then on. Although they were careful to obey Dad and J.C, these alter-states still attempted to secretly soothe and comfort the young victims-since the men didn't say they couldn't. If the alter-states believed they weren't being watched, they whispered words of encouragement into the chil- dren's ears. Seeing no way out, these parts believed they could best help the children from within the system. If a child was to be bathed as a preparation for ritual sacrifice, my parts bathed the child gently and soothingly, looking directly into the child's eyes the entire time. These parts knew that for some children, death was a mercy, compared to what they'd have to endure each day as Enslaved 139 slaves. My parts wanted each child to know that someone did care. They did the best they could in each evil situation. My professional handlers knew I would much rather be given pain than witness children being tortured. And when I was forced to harm children, I took on the controllers' disowned guilt as my own. Notes 1. In the early 1990s, several of the children's adult relatives told me that a female therapist in North Georgia, who had believed the children's stories and had planned to testify for them, was brutally murdered-officially as the result of a robbery attempt. 2. Through personal experience, I've learned that about 90% of the threats made to mind-control and ritual abuse victims are never carried out. Oftentimes, perpetrators believe if they can hurt and terrorize victims while they still have control over them, then if the victims decide to leave, the internalized terror and memories of torture and horrification are usually strong enough to influence them to give up and go back without a single threat being carried out. The use of threats to control the minds of victims is not an unfamiliar tactic. Time magazine 2/10/97, "By the Book": To the growing list of popular "how to" manuals, add this release from the CIA, recently made public under a Freedom of Information request from the Baltimore Sun. The agency says it no longer follows the rules of the 124-page 1983 "human resource" handbook, used to train security forces in Latin American countries, which includes passages on mental torture: "A threat is basically a means for establishing a bargaining position by inducing fear in the subject. A threat should never be made unless it is part of the plan and the 'questioner' has the approval to carry out the threat. When a threat is used, it should always be implied that the subject him- self is to blame by using words such as, 'You leave me no other choice but to . . .' He should never be told to comply 'or else!' The threat of coer- cion usually weakens or destroys resistance more effectively than coer- cion itself. For example, the threat to inflict pain can trigger fears more damaging than the immediate sensation of pain. In fact, most people underestimate their capacity to withstand pain. In general, direct physical brutality creates only resentment, hostility, and further defiance." (pg. 21) After 9/11, President George W. Bush and numerous other government officials constantly used the media to attack certain foreign leaders as either being terrorists or promoters of terrorism. This can be perceived as hypocritical, because what employees of our government and their associates have done to the minds and lives of mind-control victims is a working definition of terrorism. The ongoing traumas 140 Unshackled and mental torture perpetrated against these victims literally changed their brain chemistry. Added to that are the implanted threats that operate 24/7 in their minds, at least on an unconscious level. The perpetrators' terroristic threats can still dictate their actions, dampen their hope, sap their energy and strength, isolate them from the rest of humanity, and cut short any sense of a future. Cover Positions Reinsurance Clerk As I continued to be taken to rituals and professionally handled on covert ops, I needed a plausible cover-a seemingly normal life that would hide the existence of the other activities. My first full-time job was at a small insurance company in downtown Atlanta. I was hired to temporarily fill the position of reinsurance clerk, held by a petite, black-haired woman who handled large sums of premi- ums paid to reinsurance companies like General Re and Munich American, to insure the solvency of the policies issued by the agency. The volatile woman would soon go on maternity leave, and was understandably outraged that I'd been interviewed and hired without her knowledge. During my initial training, she deliberately withheld essential informa- tion to sabotage my success as her replacement. I basically trained myself while she was gone, using her previous work as my guide. Both before and after her leave, she screamed at me nearly every day, making cruel remarks in the presence of the other office workers. Each time she screamed, I froze. When she finished her tirade, I hurried to the bathroom to cry. My face was always blotchy and red when I returned to my desk. Then she smiled triumphantly and berated me more. The other employees were concerned about me. They didn't know I wasn't able to assert myself with her because I'd been a victim of both men and women for many years. Before she returned from her maternity leave, a new supervisor tried to convince me to be the clerk's permanent assistant. I declined. To the best of my knowledge, while I worked there, I was sent out on covert ops on weekends, when I called in sick (the flu always made a great cover), or when I was on "vacation." 1 Maryland Casualty My next full-time employment was with Maryland Casualty Company at the insurance company's regional office located in a sprawling office 141 142 Unshackled park, north of Atlanta. To the best of my memory, all of my positions at that company were actively used as covers for my participation in covert ops. Because nearly all of my supervisors and managers at Maryland Casualty appeared to be directly complicit in covering-up for my absences, I couldn't separate my feelings about the ops from my feelings about working there. When Albert dropped me off at the front entrance of the flat-roofed, one-story building, I usually cried. Each time I prepared to enter the building, an invisible darkness seemed to crush my soul. I have never forgotten telling Albert that Maryland Casualty reminded me of the song, Hotel California, "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." 2 Because my mind was constantly active, typing insurance policies and endorsements bored me silly. After six months, I transferred to another room where I worked as a CRT operator for a year and a half, inputting pages of cryptic codes from insurance policy files. After that, I trans- ferred to the Commercial Casualty Department located in the front part of the building. There, I was an insurance policy rater/coder. Pam, our department's middle-aged supervisor, was petite with short auburn hair. I quickly learned to fear her, and tried hard to avoid angering her. Because Pam's behaviors reminded me of my childhood relationship with my mother, I developed an emotionally conflicted relationship with her. Unfortunately for me, she used my fear of her anger and stern disapproval, as well as shaming tactics, to keep me under tight control. Our department's manager, Clyde, was a tall, middle-aged man with short, thinning brown hair. He usually wore a plain, long-sleeved white shirt, dark suit, and glasses. His bald manager, Fritz, usually sat quietly in his own cubicle and said little to anyone. Clyde soon became my substitute father figure. Pam and Clyde seemed to cultivate similar childlike loyalties in many of the other young female workers in our department. Pam also used her religiosity and moral recriminations to keep us compliant. Tension often built up between those female raters who vied for Pam's attention and approval. Because tempers often ran high, a common expression was, "The shit just hit the fan." At that time, if I'd been told that my positions were cover jobs, I would have said the idea was pure craziness. I didn't know what I couldn't remember. Cover Positions 143 Because I enjoyed being a rater/coder, I was rarely bored. Whenever I'd learned everything that I could at my current level of expertise, Pam encouraged me to attain more training. Since I received a raise every six months during my employment at Maryland Casualty, I believed I must be a highly valued worker. After several years, our regional office transferred to a large new building near Perimeter Mall, located in a wealthy section of north Atlanta. The building had a huge multi- story atrium with dining tables, water fountains, and a long goldfish pond that many employees tossed pennies into for good luck. Around that same time, Albert and I hunted for our first house. Still in control of our money, he claimed we couldn't afford more than the most basic home. In August, 1982, we found a tiny new pine-sided, three-bedroom, one-bath house on Cedars Road, out past the sleepy old town of Lawrenceville. Although we had no air conditioning in the hot summer and only small space heaters to warm us in the winter, I was ecstatic-finally, we had our own home! Because we now lived an hour's drive from both of our jobs, Albert tired of transporting me. For a while, he encouraged me to rely on co- workers to drive me to work and back. When that was no longer an option, he agreed to let me purchase a small car of my own. (Still phobic about driving, I didn't obtain a driver's license until I was in my late twenties.) I chose a new white Mazda GLC hatchback with standard transmis- sion and blue-gray interior. When Albert tried to teach me how to drive it on the rural country roads near our home, he made me so nervous, I insisted on teaching myself. Within hours, I drove fine! I didn't know that I'd become co-conscious with an alter-state that had been driving since I was a teenager. I felt more in control of my life as I drove to work and back each day. And yet, at work and at home, I was still being controlled. Sitting at my desk each day, I helped to process huge stacks of files. Our copies of the business insurance policies, endorsements (changes), cancellations, audits, underwriters' policy renewal instructions, and our own sheets of coding were stapled inside the off-white manila files. Any of the files that were jacketed by extra blue or red folders were to be processed first, because they either had large premiums that needed to be input on the computer ASAP, or they were so old, we could get in trouble with state auditors for not having processed them yet. Although 144 Unshackled I tried to please Pam by working hard and fast, she always seemed to expect more from me. I usually enjoyed that challenge. When Pam had first hired me, she'd agreed I would never have to work overtime. She broke her word when she and Clyde insisted that every rater must work overtime, either during weekdays or on weekends. This was a problem, because I was often transported at night to Aryan meetings, and was exhausted from going on ops, doing my regular job, driving an hour each way to work and back, and now working overtime. It was more than my mind and body could endure. One Saturday, I came to work early in the morning. When I sat down at my desk, I broke into tears. Surprised, Pam asked what was wrong. I held out my arm to her and said, "What does Clyde want? My blood?" Although they let me go home that day, the pressure to work overtime continued unabated. I was constantly exhausted and sick. I didn't know enough about healthy boundaries to recognize that Pam was overly controlling and intrusive about my personal life. Therefore, I didn't think it strange when she told me what to do at home, as well as on the job. I wanted to believe Pam when she claimed to be a godly Christian. I couldn't accept the alternate reality-that she and Clyde not only were not concerned about my health; they were deliberately using my mental programming to control and handle me. My belief that Pam was a devout Christian clashed with the hidden knowledge that she was not what she claimed to be. That clash created cognitive dissonance in my mind; one of the two sets of knowledge must be repressed. Believing that Pam was "good" was preferable to knowing that she was actively and willingly betraying me. Because I repressed all memories of Pam and Clyde's covert activities as assigned handlers, I was shocked and dismayed when I discovered that for years, Pam had deliberately withheld information from me that directly affected my professional future. Her betrayal fueled my anger, helping me to break loose from her control. I quietly inquired about rating positions at nearby insurance companies. An elderly female co-worker told me she'd been hired to work at Cotton States, another insurance company about a mile away. At her suggestion, I applied there and was quickly hired. When I gave Pam my required two-week notice, she was icy cold and wouldn't speak to me unless absolutely necessary. Not having encountered that side of her before, I was deeply hurt. 3 Cover Positions 145 One day, I took some of my personal possessions from my desk outside to my car during a coffee break. When I returned, Pam furiously yelled at me in front of the other raters, informing me that from then on, she would inspect everything I took from my desk. I was stunned by her sudden dis- trust and by the realization that although I'd worked closely with her for five years, I didn't really know her. After that, leaving was easy. In the 1990s, I pieced together enough information from my journals to know that much of my seven years of employment at Maryland Casualty was a front for other activities. To the best of my understanding, I often reported to work and then left the building-sometimes for days — to do covert ops under the control of one or more professional handlers. Occasionally, Clyde or Pam were my handlers for local activities. I've had several vivid memories of Clyde driving me from Maryland Casualty to the Fort Gillem Army base south of Atlanta, to meet with spooks in rooms and corridors hidden beneath one of its small buildings. I've also remembered that on at least one occasion, Clyde personally handled me on an overseas assignment. I've also had numerous memories of Pam's involvement in Cobb County Aryan meetings and activities. One alter-state journaled that Clyde's manager, Fritz, had privately told that alter-state that my personnel records had been doctored so if anyone asked about my unusual number of absences, my records would show that I was in the Army Reserves. I don't know if this is true, since I was never permitted to see that part of my personnel file. Pam also told some of my alter-states that she covered for my absences by telling other raters that I'd gone to other branch offices or to the Baltimore home office for "special training" (I never did). Because Pam was in charge of our vacation schedules, she chose when I could take days off. Sometimes, if I felt exhausted from an op, she encouraged me to take the rest of the day off to recuperate. Not knowing that I'd just come home from a stress-filled op, I believed her when she said I had a 24-hour virus. 4 On numerous occasions, both Albert and Pam suggested I take Emily to visit my mother and her second husband in South Carolina. I didn't know that after my arrival, they often triggered out alter-states and drove me to nearby airports to go on more ops while keeping Emily at their house as a coercive measure, ensuring that I would comply with my assigned handlers. When I first remembered that my positions at Maryland Casualty were covers, I was very upset. How could I have been gone for days at 146 Unshackled a time, leaving my desk at the drop of a hat, with no questions asked? Damn it, I'd worked hard for my pay! I was a good worker! As the memories continued to emerge with remarkable consistency and vividness, I realized I had probably been given semi-annual raises to keep me from seeking other employment. I also realized that, because of the way our department's file distribution system had been set up, any rater/coder could have easily completed another's work. This may be one reason why I had often started working on a complicated file, then had later discovered it had been completed by someone else-often by Pam herself. Pam and Clyde had repeatedly reminded the Commercial Casualty rater/coders that the Baltimore home office required all workers to maintain and update our bulky, red-jacketed "desk manuals," so that no employee would be indispensable. Each desk manual contained indexed, handwritten, detailed instructions on how to perform any task handled by any person sitting at that station. In other words, any person could have completed my files while I was away. When I finally accepted that my employment there had been a cover, I felt miserable. Pam had repeatedly told me I was one of their best work- ers. What a blow to discover I probably wasn't! Worse, Albert had been actively complicit. My bosses, Albert, my mother and her husband, Dad . . . had anyone in my life not betrayed me? Even several co-workers, who Pam had assigned to drive me to work and back and to befriend me away from work, had been used to help transport me for ops ! I'd been raised from early childhood to believe that my value as a human was based on what I did, instead of who I was. Learning that I hadn't earned my pay was a powerful blow to my fragile self-esteem. Cotton States After I left Maryland Casualty and started working at Cotton States, I felt better about myself. We were treated with respect, and our employ- ment benefits were excellent. Although I still don't know if my position there was a cover, I've consistently remembered that at least two super- visors had also handled me away from the building. I've also repeatedly remembered having taken solo walks outdoors during lunch breaks, strolling around the white Marriott hotel less than a block away. On the Cover Positions 147 far side, I met briefly with a male spook who waited for me in a white car. Each time, I gave him information and he gave me new instructions. Covert Activities When I had worked at Maryland Casualty, several of my professional handlers had come there during the day to transport me. Although I didn't recognize them as they walked towards my desk, some of my alter-states emerged, happy to be with them again. With a nod from Clyde or Pam, these parts followed the handlers out to their waiting vehicles. One of my regular handlers claimed to be with the CIA's Directorate of Operations. He was fairly handsome and charismatic with short, blond hair. He called himself "Jed," which he said was short for "Jedediah"-I'm sure that was an alias. When he came there to transport me, Jed usually drove a sporty white Jaguar. He convinced several of my female alter-states that he was my legal husband. Because those alter-states didn't know of my life at home and didn't know that Albert was my husband, they believed Jed. Compliance came easy, because he gave those alter-states gentle, attentive sex. These op alter-states loved going on trips with Jed and other alleged CIA handlers. One of Jed's sidekicks was a heavyset, wide-built man with fairly short, slightly wavy orange-red hair and a full beard. I rarely met with Jed in his office (if it really was his), without the red-bearded man standing close by-perhaps for extra protection. When Jed called me at home, he first played the recording of a fax machine's wavy tones. My mind always short-circuited when I heard those tones, because one should hear them when calling a phone number that has an active fax machine. (We didn't have one in our home.) The resulting cognitive dissonance quickly put me into a trance. Then Jed spoke, and one of my CIA-loyal parts emerged to do exactly as he commanded. 5 Once in a while, Dad acted as my local assigned handler. After trigger- ing out a compliant alter-state over the phone, he gave that part specific instructions. Albert never intervened or argued when those parts said they had to leave. Each time, Dad told the triggered-out traveler alter-states that if they didn't do exactly what he and the other handlers said, he would personally kill Emily. 148 Unshackled Believing my father's threat, each alter-state obediently drove to a con- tact point where an awaiting handler triggered out another alter-state to begin the next leg of the journey. These adult alter-states instinctively knew I couldn't survive the pain of losing another precious child. Although they hadn't emotionally bonded with Emily, they understood that if I died, so would they-since we inhabited the same body. Although my handlers used my compartmentalized rage to do kills, that powerful emotion rarely emerged away from their control. In fact, I would often isolate or walk long distances, alone, to keep from hurting anyone if I felt angry. If it did unexpectedly emerge at home, I either told Emily to go to a friend's house, or to lock herself in her bedroom from the inside. Although we both knew I could easily use a wire hanger to open it, the temporary barrier gave me enough time to regain control and avoid hurting her. My rage had been with me for many years. When I was fourteen, I had stabbed my oldest brother in the forearm with the pointed end of my styling comb after a ritual alter-state was accidentally triggered out while watching a TV movie, Brothers of the Bell. After I came back to con- sciousness, I was horrified at what I'd done, and cried and begged him to please not tell our parents. As far as I know, he never did. 6 As an adult, the closest I'd ever come to consciously hurting a man was when Albert approached me menacingly in our bedroom in Lawrenceville one afternoon in a fit of rage. He shoved me backwards onto our bed, his fist balled, ready to punch me. An op alter-state emerged, raised my knees to my chest, pushed my feet against his mid- section, then lifted and slammed him backwards into the wall. I was astonished and pleased that I'd done this to him; in turn, he never tried to physically assault me again. Before my recovery, none of my assassin alter-states had emerged at home. When Dad murdered Rose, a new adult part had split off from my consciousness. Dad and other professional handlers code-named that male part, "Dark." He visualized himself as tall and muscular. He'd inter- nalized Dad's overwhelming, murderous personality, to make himself equal to and unafraid of Dad. To keep that part under control and separate from my consciousness, Dad and others tortured him with electricity. After the severe electrical torture, this alter-state was unable to connect with me or any other alter-state. He was also emotionally discon- nected from the rest of humanity. He served only one function: to kill. Cover Positions 149 Once in a while, local handlers took this alter-state to a private home in Cobb County. In warm weather, the back yard contained a garden full of flowers and vegetable plants. Sometimes the handlers instructed this alter-state to take care of the plants by watering them and weeding around them. Although he wasn't capable of emotionally connecting with humans, this alter-state did develop a bond with "his" plants, perhaps because they subconsciously represented Rose. When my professional handlers wanted this part to perform an espe- cially reprehensible assassination, they took him back to the garden and forced him to stand and watch as they used a flame-thrower to cremate the plants. That killed what was left of the alter-state's ability to bond with any living creature. After that, he was a stone cold killing machine with zero remorse or guilt. His only remaining pleasure was in doing each job well. Although he hated and despised everything that lived, he hated and despised himself most of all. And although he had a strong survival instinct, he dreaded facing another day of totally dark existence. He held the greatest emotional and psychic pain of any of my parts and was, more than any other alter-state, the wandering dead. Some of my other specialized black op parts had been trained to disarm and kill hostage takers by pretending to be intellectually challenged. Those parts had no fear of weapons, having been taught that most peo- ple who hold a loaded gun are just as afraid as the targeted individual. Although I was never allowed access to a gun at home, I used various kinds on ops. Since my forearms and wrists weren't as strong as a man's, I was more comfortable using smaller handguns. Because my aim was excellent (grey eyes are a plus), using a smaller-caliber weapon wasn't a handicap. I was fortunate to also have the ability to see bullets coming at me in slow motion. I always had enough time to shift my body so they went past me. 7 I also speeded up, physically and mentally, during dangerous ops. This may have been due to a powerful adrenaline rush paired with the effects of repetitive training. While my opponents fumbled for their guns, I'd already taken aim and formulated my next moves. While they were still raising their guns to shoot me, I easily picked off one or two of them. These special abilities were invaluable, because I could go after more than one man at a time in a hazardous situation and come out alive 150 Unshackled and unharmed. Most of my spook handlers were so cowardly, they sent me in alone to take care of a situation during sniper and hostage interven- tions. My op alter-states never complained, however, because they'd been conditioned to believe they were disposable and dispensable. They fought to survive each op so they could go home, not knowing where home was. During some nighttime ops, I emerged from a van (usually white, unmarked, and paneled) that my handlers parked out of sight, a block or two from a target's house. One of the handlers in the van monitored me via a tiny two-way radio device, reminiscent of a wireless hearing aid, that he inserted in my right ear. This way, the handler could hear what was happening and could give me more instructions, if needed. If a controlled alter-state accidentally froze or went under, the handler could verbally trigger out a second op-trained part to take over and complete the job. Due to long-term exposure to criminal occult rituals, I felt comfortable with all kinds of knives-I still do. 8 As long as the blade was sharp, I carried out my orders with ease. On at least one occasion, I wore a leather contraption around my right wrist and forearm, the spring- released blade positioned against the inside of my forearm, hidden by a long sleeve. I didn't like that device because it was too awkward to use. The simpler the weapon, the more I liked it. My MKNAOMI-programmed alter-states had limited training in the use and administration of deadly chemicals. A typical assignment involved my carrying a small plastic container of Vaseline in a purse. As instructed, I pushed the point of a long hatpin from the bottom/inside of the purse, outwards through a reinforced corner, making sure the point of the pin was directed away from my body as I carried the purse over my right shoulder. I then extracted the Vaseline container, opened it, and dipped the exposed point into a small, clear pool of liquid floating atop the petroleum jelly. After coating the point and giving it time to dry, I then walked up to a male target and pretended to accidentally bump him with my purse, careful to scratch his skin through his clothes. Because the targeted individual didn't understand that he'd been fatally assaulted, I always had sufficient time to leave the area before anyone noticed me. Some of my MKNAOMI parts were also sent into buildings to "paint" a clear substance onto a doorknob that a targeted individual was expected to use, usually while under surveillance. Some of these parts were even used to insert, or smear, clear substances onto targeted individuals' personal Cover Positions 151 items in their homes, especially toothbrushes and the open ends of then- tubes of toothpaste. 9 When the first alter-state with biochemical training emerged in the early 1990s, she identified herself as Naomi. Unlike other black op alter-states, she was neither rageful nor emotionally cold-she'd simply done her job. 10 A bulky, lightweight handgun that at least one op trained part had used (against a sniper) seemed to have been made of dark colored plastic. It could shoot three types of plastic cartridges that were color-coded: red, blue and yellow. That alter-state was told that each cartridge contained a unique deadly substance. Not only did the weapon pass through a metal detector; had it been examined, it probably would have been mistaken for a child's toy. The hardest part of being overseas was that my black op alter-states couldn't remember who I was and where home was. They were more disconnected from me than my traveler alter-states were. This was, in part, because my op-trained alter-states had been created through extreme torture. Because they were blank slate alter-states, they didn't have my morals. They were rarely allowed to carry any identification. If they did, the identification was always fake. Because they didn't know who they were, they assumed they were the person that the papers, travel visas, driver's licenses, etc. identified me as being. This helped the alter-states to pass through inspection points without appearing suspicious. To keep any of my alter-states from breaking control and making an emergency phone call when someone was injured or killed, some of my mental programmers had exposed me to fake violence, then had let me "escape" into a room that had a phone. Each time I'd picked up the phone and dialed "0" to report the mock injury or death, a fake operator had answered and then either changed the subject or convinced the alter-state that local authorities didn't have time to deal with the problem. This conditioned the alter-states to believe there was no point in calling for medical aid if an injury or death occurred on a real assignment. On most overseas ops, at least one specialized alter-state was made to memorize a temporary emergency number in case something went wrong. Such phone calls were occasionally unavoidable-handlers, op partners, and even assigned clients were occasionally injured or killed. At those times, my alter-states usually required further instructions. In later years, several of my alter-states were temporarily given a small, black cell phone. All the alter-states had to do was press the "0" button, then a spook contact answered, posing as a phone company 152 Unshackled operator. These alter-states were trained to ignore what the operator said. When they gave a pre-arranged identifier code and reported the current circumstances, the fake operator stopped talking and transferred the call to a spook handler, who gave new instructions. A particularly unpleasant assignment, after botched overseas ops, was to dismember dead spooks' bodies so they could be buried, undetected, in pieces. I was made to believe this was standard fare for overseas ops. I was told that local authorities couldn't be allowed to know the CIA was operating clandestinely in their jurisdiction. My op parts were also told that if I died overseas, my body would be disposed of the same way. 11 Since Dad and other men had taught several of my alter-states how to dismember bodies in rituals, funeral homes, and in other closed environ- ments, those parts became good at it. To stay sane, I developed one female alter-state that mentally did mathematical equations while cutting up the bodies. To this day, I visually "remember" numbers instead of the body parts and blood. Some bodies were disposed of, stateside. At such times, a professional handler came to wherever I was and said that he had a job for "Angel." That emerging Angel alter-state (I had several with that code-name) specialized in body disposal, via acid. Although Angel was told that the bodies were deceased operatives, it is quite possible that they weren't. 12 Most of the ops that my alter-states were used for, including body- guarding and hostage interventions, had the potential of traumatizing the alter-states. Sometimes, bad things happened to the people they were supposed to protect-the best of plans sometimes went awry. Notes 1. Out of all of the years I worked full time, with nearly all of them generating two weeks of paid vacation each year, I only have one memory of having gone on a real vacation-to Miami. Even that trip was a cover for other activities I was forcibly involved in, while in Florida. 2. The lyrics were used as part of my CIA-compliant mental programming. Several spook handlers bragged that the song was an Agency favorite, partly because of the implied threat, and partly because "CIA" is embedded in its title. 3. As a child, I had learned to separate my awareness of the two "sides" of my par- ents' abusive personalities in my mind. By blocking out the abuse and danger, I was able to survive being in their presence each day without being terrified. This coping Cover Positions 153 mechanism continued when I was an adult. When an abusive person became an integral part of my life, I blocked out all memory and awareness of the harmful side of that person's personality, and only recollected the person's "good" side. This is one of the primary reasons why I allowed abusive people to have power over me for so long. Only when their negative behaviors were so blatant that they punched through my wall of denial, was I able to recognize what they really were. When that happened, I (as the host alter-state) had one of two choices: I could accept the fact that the person was a threat to me and totally separate myself from that person to protect myself; or I could push the truth away, pretending that per- son's negative behaviors did not exist, and go back into denial about that person's true character and motives. I suspect this is what some alleged ritual abuse sur- vivors have done: after they initially believed their emerging memories, they were influenced to go back into denial and return to their dangerous families, who then influenced them to blame the "false" memories on their therapists. 4. Because I was conditioned not to consult with regular medical doctors, I treated myself. 5. Carla Emery explained this effective hypnotic technique, known as Telephone Induction: The hypnotist speaks, or sounds the post-hypnotically suggested induction cue over the phone when he gets his subject's ear on the other end. He doesn't have to say "Hello" first. That would give his subject a predator-on-the-phone warning and the chance to hang up before the induction cue is spoken. Instead, the hypnotist gives the induction cue first. Immediately, in a person programmed for routine amnesia during trances, the subject's conscious mind is off-line. Only the reflexive hypno-robot is listening. The hypnotist gives his instruc- tions to that subject's unconscious. When he is finished, the phone call and the hypnosis are terminated (probably both at once) by a routine suggestion, (pg. 65) Possibly the best way for a novice to understand telephone induction is by review- ing the fictional movie, Telefon, starring Charles Bronson. In it, sleeper agents were unwittingly programmed to respond to a coded phrase. Not knowing that they were mentally programmed, they responded to a trigger phrase given to them during an unexpected phone call. In response, they each tranced and carried out the caller's instructions. The movie is an overly crude example of mental programming because most mind-controlled slaves are given many different programs that can be trig- gered, usually one at a time. Another difference is that in the movie, the sleepers were only used one time. In real life, because they are a serious financial invest- ment, most slave-operatives will be used for decades. 6. At times, my brothers and I were fiercely loyal and protective towards each other. And yet, given our shared parentage, I am aware that I may not be the only sibling who was 154 Unshackled programmed to have compliant alter-states. For this and other reasons, I choose not to have any more contact with them. Sometimes, to stay safe, mind-control and ritual abuse survivors have to care about those they love from a great distance. 7. I remembered this with no verifications in the early 1990s. Nearly a decade later, I attended a graduation ceremony in Chattanooga. The CEO of the Gallup Poll gave the address. He said he had interviewed successful professional hockey goalies and had learned that they had the unusual ability to see the puck coming at them in slow motion. In July, 2000, 1 wrote to Gallup for more information. An employee replied in an E-mail that this ability is called elongated time. 8. Some therapists call this a "trauma bond." 9. Not long before these memories emerged, I developed a sudden phobia about touching doorknobs and using toothpaste. In the past, I'd always carried a small con- tainer of Vaseline in my purse-perhaps as an unconscious reenactment. The initial awareness of my first emerging NAOMI programmed part was triggered during a class at a Baptist seminary, in which a student recounted the story of Ruth and Naomi. The impact of hearing the word Naomi was so tremendous that I ran to the bathroom and cried loudly for nearly a half-hour, not realizing that the adult students could hear all of it through the building's ductwork. I dropped out of school shortly after that. 10. In Bluebird, Dr. Colin Ross explained why the CIA's MKNAOMI project was developed. MKNAOMI was a joint project of the CIA and the Army's Special Operations Division in Fort Detrick, Maryland. It ran from 1953 to 1970. MKNAOMI involved "developing, testing, and maintaining biological agents and delivery systems for use against humans as well as against animals and crops" (pg. 67). At least one alter-state having that project's code name had continued to be used on black ops for years after the project officially ended. 11. This was a powerful, unconscious incentive to survive, because I didn't want my loved ones to grieve over losing me while having no idea what had happened to me! 12. I'm still phobic about handling all forms of acid, because I know what some of them can do to human flesh. Interventions Grandma's Gift Because I was so busy going to work, rituals, ops, and more, I didn't have the time or energy to casually visit with my extended family in Pennsylvania. This was unfortunate, because I didn't have the chance to see my paternal grandmother one more time before she died of a massive heart attack in March, 1982, in the presence of her second husband. Although I deeply grieved losing her, I was glad she'd had the opportunity to experience safety, love, and happiness with him in his home during her remaining years. When Dad was told of his mother's death, he was stone cold and showed no sign of grief. He insisted that he saw no reason to go to her funeral; after all, she was dead. My stepmother had to fight to get him to take her with him to Grandma's funeral to pay their last respects. Before Grandma's death, she had secretly instructed one of Dad's brothers-the executor of her estate-to travel to Georgia and hand-deliver her brilliant diamond solitaire ring to me at Dad's house. Because I hadn't known that Grandma had owned it, I was deeply touched. It was my first nice piece of jewelry. Grandma's legacy helped me to feel special. The knowledge that she had cared that much about me gave me new strength and helped me to stand taller. My uncle told me that because Grandma's first husband had never bought her an engagement ring, she had decided to save up her hard-earned money and buy one for herself. Upon hearing the story, I realized if I was ever going to be happy, I couldn't wait the rest of my life for Albert to change. It was time to create my own happiness. Meadowlark Grandma's ring was the first step of my journey into strength and freedom. More changes came quickly after, almost as if an invisible hand was choreographing the events. 155 156 Unshackled In the early 1990s, an alter-state named Andreia recounted an experience in which I had been forcibly transported in 1985 to an Air Force base that was identified to me only as "Meadowlark." I was escorted there by a spook named Jim who fancied himself to be a cowboy. He led me into a set of below-ground corridors and rooms at that base. Soon, a succession of alter-states was triggered out and painlessly interrogated by a gray-haired, ramrod-straight, retired Army General who some of my alter-states had known in the past as "Poppa." After the interrogations, Poppa asked to speak to any alter-state that would consider defecting and working for him and his people. Andreia emerged. Having known Poppa in the past, she still liked him. Poppa warned Andreia that if I continued to go to the Aryan rituals in Georgia, I'd be put in prison for the rest of my life and could lose con- tact with Emily. He said his hand-picked, retired Army intelligence per- sonnel were working covertly, on a strictly voluntary basis, to shut down Aryan organizations in the US as part of an extensive covert operation he called, "Clean Sweep." He said he knew about the nationwide Aryan network's plans to overthrow the government in the year 2000, since it was one of Hitler's long-term goals. He said that, because much violence was planned (including bombings in Atlanta during the Olympics), ASA and other intelligence agencies had chosen to intervene. I write "ASA" with the understanding that I'm not able to recall, clearly, whether Poppa said his covert intelligence agency was the Army's ISA-Intelligence Support Activity, or AS A- Army Security Agency. Years after I remembered meeting Poppa at Meadowlark, several alter-states journaled that Poppa's recruits were connected to ASA, and that I had picked up the moniker ISA from a book about the extensive US intelligence community. For simplicity's sake, I will identify the agency as ASA with the understanding that it may not have been that agency at all. 1 Poppa's face registered hatred towards the Nazi conspirators as he spoke. Then he talked about ASA's dedication to "God and Country." Although he had done hurtful things to some of my parts in the past, supposedly out of necessity, he now convinced Andreia that he'd become a true Christian and that, because of his conversion, he wanted to do what was right. Andreia believed him and agreed to cooperate with him and the ASA after I returned to Georgia. Interventions 157 Poppa warned that either I could stay completely away from the Aryan meetings from now on, or Andreia could attend them as his mole to help bring the network down from the inside. He reminded Andreia that if she chose to secretly participate in the Aryan meetings while pretending to be other alter-states, she would have to perform the same repugnant acts they'd already performed. He added that he would assign one of his inside men, already a mole, to protect her. Although she grieved that she would have to harm others, Andreia agreed to stay conscious as much as she possibly could during the cult meetings. She was willing to lose pieces of her soul to help free the children. When Andreia journaled this memory in the early 1990s, I thought I'd lost my mind. I could find no proof of any Air Force base named "Meadowlark." I put the questionable memory in the back of my mind to wait for verifications — if any existed. 2 Several of the other alter-states interrogated at Meadowlark journaled that Poppa had told them that the CIA had made a disastrous mistake by bringing Nazi professionals to the US and installing them in secure positions. 3 He said the CIA had allowed our sworn enemies to work towards taking our government over from the inside-out. He said the public would not be told about the attempted overthrow, because there would be "riots in the streets" and "mass panic." He said Clean Sweep had to be conducted quietly. The main reason why our government was not willing to admit that criminal occult activities were rampant, Poppa told me, was because much of the occultism had been covertly intro- duced into the US, in a Trojan Horse sort of way, by some of the Nazi immigrants. Poppa said the CIA was tight with many Aryan occult organizations, just as the FBI continued to collaborate in secret with a number of Mafia organizations still operating in the US. He said the CIA had a vested interest in ensuring that these secretive, dangerous cults continue to operate, unimpeded, and this was why other federal agencies enacted Clean Sweep. Poppa said that as they attempted to do damage control, they were having to work against the CIA in the process. 4 The Mansion In 1985, after I was flown back to Atlanta from Meadowlark, Andreia and some of my cult-conditioned alter-states continued to attend the 158 Unshackled Aryan meetings in the Cobb County area. Many of the meetings were held in warehouses; some were held in old houses in and near Kennesaw. Those houses were owned by cult members who clustered in several neighborhoods. Some of the houses were connected by hidden under- ground tunnel systems that they used to store contraband and children who were bought and sold on the lucrative black market. 5 On numerous occasions, I was also taken to an elaborate underground installation that was probably a former SAM missile site. 6 A large brick house had been built atop the site. When I was taken there, the mansion's exterior walls were beige- colored brick. Sometimes men stood in black uniforms on the roof, holding rifles. Behind the mansion, I sometimes saw men dressed in similar garb, practicing martial arts. 7 After entering through the front door, I saw at least one large chande- lier hanging from the high ceiling in the open living area to the right that could also be used as a ball room. Walking through the house towards the rear, several enclosed rooms were to my left. A hidden entrance was in a wall between two of those rooms. When it slid open, I saw a wide concrete ramp that sloped down to the first sub- level of a complex of concrete walled rooms and tunnels. On that first sub-level was a large nursery room in which young children, especially babies in cribs, were taken care of by rotating shifts of female Aryan cult members. 8 I was told that some of these women's children were sold to childless couples through cooperative adoption agencies. I knew from previous experience that these children were birthed by cult mothers away from hospitals, so the babies had no birth records. Many of the women who birthed and tended the children were known in the Aryan network as "breeders." 9 Another underground, concrete walled room housed expensive electronic equipment that accessed what was identified to me as the "Brandon" computer system. 10 J.C. and his father-in-law, B.H., told me that the computer system held pertinent information on every govern- ment programmed slave in the US-including the names and training of all their documented alter-states and how each one could be triggered out. They taught several of my alter-states how to use the system; based on what I saw, what they told me seemed to be correct. They said the rea- son the information would never be found in the CIA's files, was because it was stored on at least one of NASA's computer systems. 11 Interventions 159 The alter-states that were trained to input data into that system were amazed at how much information they found on it about people they knew. The Aryan leaders didn't know that Andreia was also accessing the information and funneling some of it back to ASA. B.H. and J.C. met frequently at the mansion with a thin man who was both a Satanist and a civil war buff. B.H. and the thin man seemed to have a surprisingly loving and sexually intimate relationship. In some of the mansion's basement rooms, B.H. happily videotaped humorous pornography that was just as professional as Great Britain's Benny Hill TV shows. One of my alter-states personally assisted B.H. in the production of some of that pornography. In that mansion, B.H. used an innovative form of electrical torture to create a new child alter-state in me that he named "Leah." That part became his personally owned slave alter-state. In my last years in the Aryan cult network, B.H. seemed to convince himself and just about everyone else that I was, by choice, his cult wife. Several of my child alter-states liked him because he was nice to them at times. They were very upset to learn from other parts, after I broke away, that B.H. also had a cruel side to his seemingly split personality. William In 1985, J.C. introduced a new cult member, William, to us. Although he wasn't tall, William's shoulders and neck were strong, and his posture was ramrod- straight. J.C. explained that William had retired from the Army as a Sergeant Major after thirty years of service, and was now seeking J.C.'s personal protection. 12 J.C. enforced strict rules about cult membership: each new member had to perform illegal, distasteful acts to prove his or her loyalty. They didn't know that J.C. would use secretly videotaped films of their initia- tions to blackmail them into ongoing compliance and silence about the cult's numerous illegal activities. Several of my cult alter-states watched as William performed the demoralizing tasks in a stone-faced way. Unlike my father and J.C, William never fully relaxed at the cult meetings. My cult-loyal alter- states didn't know about my trip to Meadowlark, and worried that William might betray J.C. They didn't know that Andreia, a part they weren't aware of, already had. 160 Unshackled William soon gained J.C.'s permission to drive me to the Cobb County meetings, and then back home to the east side of Atlanta. Some of my cult alter- states noticed that when William drove them home, his face screwed up with disgust and anger as if he needed a long, hot bath. Those alter- states were confused because they were accustomed to being in the presence of criminals who were noticeably relaxed and happy after performing illicit acts. ASA My cult alter-states didn't know that William was triggering Andreia out and driving her to covert ASA meetings that he officiated. At those meetings, the other ASA volunteers called him "Bill." Andreia was amazed by the volunteers' selflessness. They seemed sincere when they stated that they were willing to give their lives, if nec- essary, to bring down the local Aryan cult network from within, brick by brick. Their #1 motto was "God and Country." A recent fundamentalist Christian convert, Bill believed if he served God and Jesus, he would be protected from the cult's evil. The unselfishness and caring of the ASA volunteers became the human antivenom to the sociopathic poison I'd been immersed in, for nearly all of my life. They became my lifeline to sanity and morality, ushering me into a new state of grace. 13 Coercion Although I didn't remember J.C. or the Aryan cult network when I was home, I often thought about divorcing Albert and starting a new life with Emily. Twice, I secretly met with a local female attorney to discuss fil- ing for a divorce. Each time, Albert found out and talked me out of it. Based on what I'd told her about Albert's abusiveness, the attorney was unhappy that I kept backing off and suggested I seek professional help. I never talked to her again. At some of the Aryan cult meetings, J.C. and Albert repeatedly threat- ened some of my alter-states that if they should ever try to break and run, taking Emily with them, Albert and J.C. would use cult funds to ensure that Albert would gain full custody of Emily. The alter-states believed Interventions 161 their threats and decided to stay and protect Emily within the system as much as they could, since they were convinced they'd never be able to take her away. At home, Albert used another tactic to keep me controlled. He said if I ever tried to divorce him, he'd move to another part of the country and change his name, so that I'd never get a penny of child support from him. Because I didn't earn much as an insurance clerk, I believed I couldn't afford to raise our daughter on my own. In every way, I felt hopelessly trapped. Notes 1 . Although the ASA was officially disbanded after the end of the Vietnam war, some of its members may have continued covert operations, identifying each other as 'ASA". 2. In July, 1992 1 was at a local library, scanning the 1990 Encyclopedia of World Crime, Vol. Ill for verifications of the names of several Mafia figures I'd remembered. In it, I found a section about a violent, subversive Aryan organization I'd already remembered: The Order. I also found verifications of what I'd recalled hearing at Aryan planning meetings. Best of all, it verified the existence of the federal govern- ment's Clean Sweep operation: Order, The, prom. 1983-88, US consp. -secret crim. soc. Fifteen white supremacists were indicted in Fort Smith, Ark., and Denver, Colo., in late April 1987 as the US government moved to eradicate America's racist movement. A lengthy investigation named "Clean Sweep" linked a group of neo-Nazis called The Order to racially-motivated killings and robberies dating back to 1984, and resulted in arrests in five states. Two of The Order's leaders were arrested. They had planned to "murder blacks and Jews, poison city water supplies, carry out terrorist actions to overthrow the US government, and bomb public utilities." (pg. 2376) 3. In 1994, a consultant told me that a new video had come out about the retired general. When I reviewed it, I learned that Poppa had been one of the first Army officers to enter a Nazi concentration camp in WWII. The camera panned a hand- written letter that he'd sent to his mother, expressing strong hatred towards Nazis. In the summer of 2002, 1 researched ASA, ISA, and Poppa (using his real name) on the Internet. I still didn't want to believe that the Meadowlark memories were true. I was astounded to find websites and articles on the Internet that directly connected him to both Army intelligence agencies ! I found another verification on the Internet in early 2002. When I used the search terms "Meadowlark" and "Air Force," the Google search engine indicated the 162 Unshackled existence of "about 1490" website listings that included both. After ten years of clinging to denial, I finally accepted that the Meadowlark interrogation memory was valid. 4. If what Poppa told me was true, then this effort may have hit a brick wall when George W. Bush, the son of a former CIA director, was elected president-especially since many of his father's close associates had recycled themselves as George W's advisors. 5. Many ritual abuse survivors have reported that members of some criminal cults and black-marketing networks prefer to cluster in select neighborhoods. Often, when one cult owner has to sell a home, another member of the group will quickly buy it. This may be a reason why, when some ritual abusers are publicly accused of hurting children, their neighbors-in surprising unison-insist that the accused is innocent. 6. In the December, 2001 edition of GQ, I found a diagram of a former underground missile site with a house built atop it. The diagram of the underground rooms and tunnels was identical to the layout of the tunnel system I'd remembered beneath the mansion. Because the government-contracted Lockheed and Martin-Marietta plants were close by, logic can conclude that a SAM missile site might have been constructed there to protect them. And true or not, a consultant once told me that the US Department of Defense sold some of its defunct missile sites to members of the nationwide Aryan network. 7. In 2003, while researching a former CIA handler named Mitchell Werbell III, I found information that may explain the martial arts and black uniforms. Werbell owned and operated COBRAY-SIONICS Training Center, a spook counter- terrorism training facility in Powder Springs, Georgia. It seems that black uniforms and martial arts training were a part of their operations (Lau 1). I also learned that Blackhawk helicopters were used by some of these operatives- perhaps the same helicopters I'd watched land on the roof of the mansion (American Ballistics). 8. Although this may seem ludicrous, other survivors of that Aryan network have also spoken of the underground nursery and tunnel systems. Some of them had never repressed their memories. Because this Aryan network is a tightly closed system, with many of its members fearing death to themselves or loved ones if they leave or tell, few out- siders (until now) have been aware of its existence. I want to emphasize that I am not opposed to the rights of Aryans to believe as they choose. What I do oppose is the cowardly torture, sexual abuse, black-marketing, prostitution, brainwashing, forced porn participation, and murder of babies, children, and adult slaves. I would be willing to bet that some members of these Aryan organizations are also opposed to these ongoing crimes. True pride is strong in itself; it doesn't need to prop itself up on the shoulders of slaves. Interventions 163 9. Some breeders are brainwashed to believe that bearing children in honor of Hitler is the highest possible honor. Most of them don't realize they are actually slave-prostitutes. 10. In 1996, 1 used NASA's ArchiePlex Internet search engine to find information that might verify certain memories. During that search, I ran across the word "Brandon." Nearly every reference concerning that word was about Brandon University, including information about its Computer Services and its Department of Math and Computer Science. What an odd coincidence! 1 1 . According to Linda Hunt's Secret Agenda: The United States Government, Nazi Scientists, and Project Paperclip, 1945 to 1990, NASA was basically created by a group of Nazi immigrants who had been brought into the US by the Army and CIA, their records whitewashed in the process. Some were proven war criminals. Although I am certain that most of NASA's current activities are legitimate, it is quite possible that some of its Nazi founders and their associates could have worked all along as double agents, using its facilities and equipment-as I believe was also done within the CIA-to further the Reich's heady goal of eventual world domination (A.K.A. the New World Order). 12. According to J.C., William's cover story was that he had gotten into serious trouble with an Aryan group in Kentucky, and needed J.C.'s protection from them. In return, William offered to do whatever J.C. wanted of him. 13. The reason I mention these individuals now, is that their cover was compromised in the mid 1990s when a fake "good guy" named Mark Phillips gained this infor- mation and everything else I'd compiled. Later, he admitted that he gave it all to CIA officers working in Atlanta. Since then, I've been given the go-ahead by ASA operatives to share this part of my and Bill's story, with the understanding that doing so will no longer put their people at risk. Freedom Baptist Church Before my unexpected trip to Meadowlark, several young people from Hebron Baptist, an old one- story, white wooden church in the tiny town of Dacula, had started to visit our rural neighborhood as part of their church's outreach program. After some initial reluctance, I gave Emily permission to ride with them in the church bus each Sunday. After talking to the young driver and his girlfriend for several more months, I decided to go to Hebron, too. I hadn't attended a church on a regular basis since I'd left the Local Church. This was, in part, because Albert had great difficulty staying in any church for long. Although he'd taken us to numerous Charismatic and Pentecostal church meetings in the Atlanta area, he'd eventually insisted that I support him in setting up a Charismatic church in our home in Lawrenceville, with him as pastor. I'd refused, because I believed he was unstable and dishonest. I wasn't willing to support his living a lie before God. He never forgave me for that. Hebron became an important source of healing for my wounded, shattered soul. Its black-haired, dark eyed, energetic pastor, Larry Wynn, seemed determined that the congregation would reach out to all neighbors and newcomers, to share the love of Christ with them. I was surprised to learn that his wife, Ethel, had been in my high school class in Snellville. Because I had liked her when I first knew her, and because Larry seemed sincere, I chose to risk trusting them. Every time I went to Hebron, members hugged me, talked to me, and made me feel welcome. Their caring and joy seemed genuine, unlike the "love bombing" I'd previously experienced in religious cults. I joined Hebron and was soon baptized in a tank of water behind the pulpit. I'd finally found a place where I could belong. Soon, I was going to church three times a week. Albert angrily accused me of being a hypocrite. He claimed that all Baptists were fakes because they weren't filled with the Holy Spirit and didn't speak in tongues. Although he never set foot inside the church, he constantly 164 Freedom 165 criticized its members and said they were just pretending to care about me. As I spent time with happily married couples from the church, I realized I was stuck in a stagnant, decaying relationship with Albert. Although I'd tried hard, I didn't love him and I knew he didn't love me. Since I didn't believe in divorce, I resigned myself to an empty marriage. The love of the people at the church, and from God himself, would have to suffice. The insane pace of my life continued. I was transported to Aryan cult meetings at night and on weekends. I was sometimes taken from the cult meetings to Dobbins Air Force Base and from there for ops. I still worked at my day job. I went to nighttime exercise classes several times a week, and then walked around the local high school's track. I did all the chores at home, including cooking, cleaning, laundry, and mowing the lawn. I took care of Emily. And now, I went to church three times a week to try to get my life right with God. Unfortunately, several of my male spook handlers took advantage of my naive devotion to God. They triggered out gullible alter-states while claiming to be angels sent by God with special messages for me. Because I'd recently read evangelist Billy Graham's book, Angels: God's Secret Agents, I-in those alter- states-believed the men. The alter-states didn't know they were being manipulated by humans who were far from holy. In church, Pastor Wynn taught that God didn't need anyone else to translate for Him. He said if we remained prayerful and open to obeying God, He would speak directly to our hearts. His words helped me to become more skeptical towards people who came to me, claiming that God had given them a revelation or a special message for me. I decided if God didn't tell me something first, then self-proclaimed "messengers" were either delusional, or were lying to manipulate me. Something else happened at Hebron that drastically changed the direction of my life. On most Sundays, especially during the evening services, Pastor Wynn invited members to kneel at the front altar to pray. For several months, I felt a strong pull to the altar. Each time I knelt, I felt deep pain and couldn't stop crying. If I remained at my pew, I still felt an urgency to get on my knees, to ask God to please change me. I felt as if the true Holy Spirit was shining a spotlight in places inside that I couldn't see. For many years, I'd felt a great blackness inside. Although I didn't know what it meant, I now think it represented the amnesic barrier 166 Unshackled between my conscious self and hidden alter- states. I had also sensed for a long time that something evil was in my soul, but I hadn't known what it was. I didn't dare tell other people about it — I was afraid they'd reject me if they really knew me. Still, I could be honest about it with God. One Sunday morning at the altar, I felt a message form in my mind. Maybe an alter-state was talking to me. Maybe the words were from a hypnotically implanted suggestion. Regardless, it was what I needed to hear: "If you truly love God, if you really are willing to give Him your life unto death, then you will have to be just as willing to give Him your openness to the greatest pain you'll ever experience." I sensed if I said yes, He would apply his Holy Spirit to my life, using it as a purging fire to burn away everything that was evil and corrupt. I sensed that the holy fire would be the source of the pain. I wanted to be cleansed inside. I wanted to be pure for God. I didn't want to be a hypocrite anymore, hiding the secret darkness from other Christians. I was tired of living a lie, pretending to love people when I felt no warmth inside. I was tired of smiling when no joy was in my heart. I wanted to be what I believed God had given me the potential to be. That day, I surrendered to God. I opened my arms and my heart. Although I didn't know how the purging would come, I decided not to struggle when it did. Since then, I've watched God keep His end of the bargain by enacting a strange sequence of events that I never would have dreamt possible. Albert's Affair One hot Saturday at home, I opened our doors and windows to let a breeze blow through. As I washed dishes in the kitchen sink, a weak voice called to me from beyond the doorway to our carport. I turned to see a thin, brown-eyed, middle-aged, sweaty woman standing outside the screen door, asking if I would give her a glass of water. As Geena sat on our green living room sofa, gulping the ice-cold water, she said she'd hitched a ride to Lawrenceville to find shelter with some old friends, only to discover that they'd moved away, leaving no forwarding address. She said her current husband, an avowed white supremacist who worked for an Atlanta television station, had recently Freedom 167 beaten her so badly, she'd ended up in the hospital. She said she couldn't go back to him. I told her to wait in the living room, and discussed her story with Albert, away from her hearing. We concurred that God must have sent her to us, so we could minister to her. I told Geena she could live with us temporarily, paying us back by helping with light cleaning and weekday meal preparations. In record time, Geena and Albert were lovers. 1 Two neighbors saw them kissing on different days in Albert's car at nearby shopping center parking lots. The neighbors later admitted they'd been afraid to tell me, because they'd believed that I didn't want to hear the truth. They were right. Geena was significantly older than Albert, and claimed to have cancerous tumors all over her body. She'd already been married five times. Because I couldn't imagine that Albert would ever choose her over me, I didn't believe she was a threat to our marriage. And yet, as I con- tinued to block out indications of their affair, my subconscious wouldn't leave me alone. I had unnerving nightmares of walking through the doorway of an old house with wooden walls. As I entered an empty room, I heard rats scurry inside the wall to my immediate right. By the time I walked into that room and looked at the partially exposed wall, the rats had gone into hiding again. Each time I awoke, my heart pounded and I felt great dread. Several weeks later, Albert took Geena to a large indoor flea market-one of their favorite weekend haunts - on my birthday while I did the weekly chores. That afternoon, after they returned home, Albert gave me my birthday present: fingernail clippers with a daisy painted on top. Then Geena showed me what he'd bought her: an "engagement ring." She assured me that its stone was just cubic zirconium, and said she needed it when Albert took her to country music bars at night, so other customers wouldn't "hit on" her. Seeing my anger, Albert encouraged me to hit him, saying I would feel better. I didn't. About a month later, on a warm Saturday afternoon, I was coming home from my weekly trip to the grocery store. As I drove up a dirt road into our neighborhood, dread and pain built up intolerably inside me. Then something broke. I knew. The pain completely took over as I drove up our sloped, concrete driveway. I sat in the car for a long 168 Unshackled time, so paralyzed by the pain, I couldn't move. I couldn't even cry. When Emily came outside to check on me, I told her to go to a friend's house. I knew I'd go mad if Geena spent one more day in our home. When Geena and Albert came home from the flea market that night, I demanded that he remove her immediately. Although he accused me of being crazy and claimed they'd done nothing wrong, I stood my ground. Geena screamed and threw objects in the living room as I hid behind my locked bedroom door. After Albert calmed her down, she packed her belongings and he drove her to a relative's house. If I hadn't received genuine love and caring from the people at church, and if I hadn't subconsciously learned about integrity from Bill and his ASA associates, I might have backed down and become even more of a doormat to Albert. Fortunately, their positive influence short-circuited my scriptural religious programming: "Wives, be in subjection to your own husbands." (I Pet. 3:1, RSV) After Geena was gone, Albert pretended to be a model husband and father during the week. And yet, he refused to be with us on weekends, claiming he needed some time alone to "figure things out." Although I wanted to believe him, I occasionally wondered if he was spending the weekends with Geena. When I questioned him about it, he accused me of being crazy. Sometimes I wondered if he was right. One day, Albert surprised me by saying he wanted to drive to Miami by himself and stay there for a week. He said he needed time alone to figure some things out about his life, and to decide what he wanted to do with it. I believed him, and hoped that spending time away from me and Emily would help him to appreciate us when he returned. Several months later, I asked him to go to marital counseling with me. He made an appointment with one of his co-workers, who was studying to become a Presbyterian minister. We went to two sessions at the man's church. Each time, Albert insisted he was not having an affair. Both men made me feel guilty for not trusting his intentions. The counselor said I should support Albert's godly friendship with Geena. Although I'd tried to hold on to what I sensed was true (that they were having an affair), I caved in and accepted Albert's claim that their relationship was pure. I had very little knowledge about proper bound- aries and behaviors between men and women, between a married couple and a single woman, and so on. I didn't know enough about life and relationships to say, "This particular behavior between you and Geena is Freedom 169 inappropriate and I won't stand for it." Not knowing what was proper and what wasn't, I believed I must be wrong for thinking that Albert was having a sexual relationship with her. After all, even the counselor said he was innocent. As I accepted their false reality, I strongly considered the possibility that I was insane. Facing the Truth After several more months, Albert asked me to go with him to look at a new car that he wanted to buy at a local dealership. The salesmen seemed to suppress their grins when Albert introduced me as his wife. That bothered me; had Geena been there earlier with him, to choose the car? (Later, he admitted that she had.) On another weekend, I took a long walk out into the countryside and was startled to see Albert driving home from that direction. As he pulled up beside me, I confronted him and asked if he was still seeing Geena. He said yes, insisting they were just friends and that I was crazy for thinking that Albert-a "man of God"-was committing adultery. He tried to make me feel sorry for how poor and lonely she was. He said I should be grateful that he was ministering God's love to her. I decided I'd know the truth if I saw them together. When I asked Albert to invite Geena to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, he seemed surprised and elated. That holiday afternoon, their body language may as well have spelled "lovers" in flashing neon lights. Several days later, on Albert's birthday, I confronted him and gave him until the following New Years Day, 1997, to agree to sell our house and split the net profit. Because I had no savings, I'd need the money to pay rent for an apartment. Instead of showing remorse, Albert screamed that I was ruining his birthday. I refused to back down. When he realized that I meant what I said, he became openly cruel and said things I never would have believed he was capable of. I went into emotional shock and feared for my life. His dark side emerging, he made all kinds of threats, even against my life. He still insisted I was crazy and that I was imagining he and Geena were having sex. He accused me of sinning against God by planning to divorce him. I struggled with that last accusation, because I wanted to please God by doing what was right. He added that if I divorced 170 Unshackled him and married another man, I would commit adultery-which I believed was a major sin. After much soul-searching, I decided I'd rather sin against God than live one more year with Albert. If I divorced him, at least I'd still have God's love. Another concern was that if he and Geena were having sex, Albert could pass a disease on to me. Pastor Wynn told me that regard- less of whether or not Albert was committing adultery, God loved me so much, He wouldn't want me to continue to suffer in an abusive relationship. I hired a new lawyer and filed for divorce. Albert's rage increased when I still wouldn't back down. Whenever he was in the house, I locked myself in our spare room. Although he wasn't big, he had terrorized me for years with his muscular arms and fists, screaming and spitting in my face, pushing my back against walls for long periods of time while Emily watched, helplessly. 2 Now, he constantly made threats and accusations. I spent innumerable hours on my knees in the small carpeted room, shaking, crying, and begging God for protection, sometimes reading the Bible aloud. One day, as Albert screamed outside the plain wooden door, I read in the Bible that Jesus had said we should treat our enemies with kindness. Although the idea seemed irrational, I decided to give it a try. During the rest of our time together, I was the nicest wife Albert could ever want. I was pleasantly surprised when he stopped threatening me. Not Crazy After we'd sold the house, Albert started making new threats. He said he'd use Geena's gun to shoot anyone who tried to help me take any appliances from the house that he wanted for himself. Because I was tired and simply wanted my freedom, I let him have whatever he wanted. My divorce attorney was unhappy that I insisted on splitting the profit with Albert. I even agreed to accept the legally required minimum in child support payments from Albert, although the judge soon decided that Albert should pay more. After Albert bought a small mobile home and had it placed in a trailer park near Lawrenceville, I prepared to move with Emily into a rented duplex on the other side of town. While sorting through some of the personal belongings that Albert had left in our small attic, I found a set of Polaroid pictures of him Freedom 111 and Geena standing on a Miami beach, embracing each other. Staring at the photos, I realized I'd been right all along-they were having an affair! Emily celebrated when I showed her the incriminating pictures. She said she'd always known they were having an affair, and had been terribly frustrated and angry when I wouldn't believe her. Going It Alone When our divorce was finalized in the spring of 1997, 1 hated the word "divorcee" and didn't want a relationship with any man. I just wanted to be left alone with Emily and my relationship with God. My biggest treat each week was to sit on the carpeted living room floor of our duplex on Friday nights, eating canned oysters and cheddar cheese on crackers while listening to my favorite Christian radio programs. For the first time in thirteen years, I didn't have to worry about Albert yelling that I was contaminated by battery acid on the carpet. I worried about running into Albert and Geena when I went to town on errands. Because I couldn't bear the pain of seeing them together, I wanted to move away from Lawrenceville. I didn't consider what another move would do to Emily, who had already lost contact with her friends from our former neighborhood. Although I took her to visit and spend the night with them as often I could, it just wasn't the same. New Ministry One Saturday morning at Hebron, I attended a women's workshop on intercessory prayer. Our petite, middle-aged, red-haired presenter, Jessie, said that she and her husband, Grant, had created an international inter- cessory prayer network. After the workshop, I couldn't get Jessie out of my mind. Because I still believed I had the Holy Spirit's gift of intercessory prayer, I decided their ministry was right for me. After several months of visits and phone conversations, Jessie suggested I break my lease and move near their home in Conyers, in order to do voluntary secretarial work for their ministry. She said I could work in their home on Saturdays and on 172 Unshackled weeknights, as needed. She said God would financially bless me for what I would do for their ministry. In July, Emily and I moved to the lovely old town of Conyers. It had quaint shops and seemed safe enough for me to walk my dog at night in the dark. I rented a duplex that stank. Dark and dirty, it was the best I could afford. I first met Grant when I attended a weekend prayer retreat near Atlanta. I was impressed when he told us that for the past eight years, he'd worked for Billy Graham's extensive evangelistic organization. Grant's soft voice and startling blue eyes easily put me into a hypnotic trance-state. At the retreat, Grant and Jessie encouraged some of the female participants to sit on his lap and imagine him to be their father, so they could "emotionally heal" from negative relationships with their real fathers. Although I was uncomfortable and refused to do it, the other women's trust in Grant influenced me to also trust him. On the last day of the retreat, Grant challenged us to go for a walk in the woods to see if God would speak to us, individually. I came back, convinced that God had given me a personal message. Others claimed to have had similar experiences. I was impressed with how well-behaved Jessie and Grant's teenaged children were. I told Jessie I wanted Emily to spend as much time with them as possible, because I wanted my daughter to have the positive influence of a stable family with two godly parents. I didn't understand that I was infinitely more important to her than a houseful of strangers. I also didn't comprehend how grief- stricken she was since Albert had stopped calling her, and had told her he didn't want her to visit him anymore. Falling Apart At Jessie's suggestion, Emily and I transferred our church memberships to a large Baptist church in nearby Lithonia. I did what I could to keep Emily active in the new church, believing her youth leaders would pro- vide a positive male influence. As a single mother, I was so exhausted and overwhelmed with responsibilities and worries, I didn't have the energy to open my heart to her anymore. Instead of loving her and listening to her, I became a religious, controlling disciplinarian. I spent many hours each Freedom 173 week on my knees in my bedroom, praying desperately for God's help and guidance. She resented my fanatical Christianity and wanted her old mother back. I also didn't understand that she'd probably developed a learning disability. She constantly brought notes home from teachers; they com- plained that she wasn't doing her schoolwork and spent most of her class time writing notes back and forth with other girls. When I confronted her, she said the classes bored her. Because I knew she was bright, I thought she was being lazy and rebellious. I restricted and disciplined her more, making her a prisoner in the duplex for every minor infraction. I also punished her for my memory lapses. At least twice, she asked an alter-state for permission to spend the afternoon with a friend. Because I, as the host alter-state, wasn't conscious when she asked, I grew frantic when she didn't come home on time. Each time she arrived hours later, saying that I'd given her permission, I punished her for lying. Although she had made good grades in the past, they now plummeted. She associated with local teenagers who were also having trouble at home. The more she fought for her independence, the more I panicked and fought to keep control over her. I didn't understand that parents aren't supposed to control and confine their adolescent children, but are to guide and encourage them to grow and become independent. When she needed consistent love and respect, I gave her harshness and control. Notes 1. After their affair was confirmed, my mother's second husband told me he believed Geena had been "sent in" to live with us. Tight-lipped about his own covert connections, he didn't elaborate. 2. Although several alter-states have journaled that Albert sometimes hit me with his fists, I still have not recovered enough memories to be sure of this. It's possible that I'm still blocking the memories out because I don't want to remember how terri- fied and helpless I felt when he was enraged. New Family Bill In the spring of 1997, I learned that an insurance company closer to home had an opening for an experienced Commercial rater. I applied for the position and was quickly hired. Located near the end of an isolated road, this company's southeast regional office building was six stories tall with a flat roof. It was sur- rounded by acres of black-tarred pavement and perfectly manicured, green grass. Within a week of starting my new job, I officially met Bill Sullivan for the first time. 1 He was responsible for the maintenance of the building's immense air conditioning and heating system, all the building's lights, cafeteria equipment, electrical wiring, and more. After our first encounter, he spent an inordinate amount of time in my department on the fifth floor, standing on his tall ladder to change flores- cent light bulbs up in the ceiling while peering over my cubicle wall. He always whistled when he entered the area. Soon, he was leaving cryptic handwritten notes on my desk. Each one had a scripture reference. After several weeks, he asked me to go out on a date. Because I hadn't been on a real date since I'd married Albert, I was nervous. What if Bill expected sex? I couldn't do that-I wanted to stay chaste for God! Still hesitant, I let him take me to lunch at a nearby Chinese restaurant. It soon became our regular haunt. Pentecostal Church After several months of dating, Bill persuaded me to stop associating with Jessie and Grant. I'd actually considered becoming an overseas Baptist missionary, perhaps-at Jessie's suggestion-in Indonesia or South Korea, where Grant sometimes addressed Dr. Cho's Baptist mega-church. 174 New Family 175 Unimpressed with my plans, Bill reminded me that my first responsibility was to Emily. Although I didn't want to let go of my escapist fantasy, I agreed not to do any more volunteer work for the couple. Next, I agreed to attend Bill's Pentecostal church with him. They met in a small, red brick building for which he did all the maintenance — at no charge. I flashbacked constantly during their Sunday morning and evening services and felt as if I were losing my grip on reality. Bill insisted that I continue going there. Because I wanted to deepen our spir- itual relationship, I relented, feeling miserable. Religious Control Bill suspected that Emily was taking street drugs. Although I refused to believe him, I admitted I was worried about her, too. He convinced me that if I married him, she'd have a more stable and secure environment. During the year we dated, I recognized that Bill was a control addict. He tried hard to change both Emily and me. Because she and I both pre- ferred androgynous clothes, Bill bought stylish, uncomfortably feminine garments for us and insisted that we wear them. Then, he paid for both of us to change our hairstyles. After the makeovers, I saw a total stranger in the mirror and felt fake. Because he wanted to please God, Bill insisted that we abstain from sexual intimacy until marriage. Given my history, this was difficult. When I visited Bill at his house, he always insisted that we pray on our knees and read our Bibles together to stay out of trouble. Although I believe that Bill meant well, both Emily and I rankled under his control. Nonetheless, I chose to marry him. I sensed that he was a good and loving person underneath the religiosity. I also believed that his influence as a stepfather was what Emily needed, to heal from the loss of her relationship with Albert. I didn't know that no man could replace what her father had been in her life. Married During the spring of 1988, I was under a great deal of stress. My finances were very tight, especially when Albert refused to pay child 176 Unshackled support. Bill offered to pay me if I'd help him to do odd jobs at people's houses at night and on weekends. I didn't know that these odd jobs were often a cover for my going with him to Aryan and ASA meetings. When Albert learned that I was engaged, he resumed weekend visita- tions with Emily. Because Geena was now living with Albert, who still claimed that their relationship was nonsexual, I didn't want to let Emily spend the night with them. And yet, because I believed that she needed to be with her daddy, I let her go. One Sunday afternoon after Emily had visited with Albert and Geena, they drove her to our church's parking lot. Bill and I sat in his car, waiting. When Albert got out of his car, Bill walked towards him to shake hands. Not saying a word, Albert stalked back to his car, got in, and drove away in a hurry. Although I couldn't understand his behavior then, I now believe that he'd recognized Bill from the Aryan meetings. That evening, Albert called me three times, threatening to kill Bill. Although a local judge issued a restraining order at my request, I still feared that Albert was so irrational, he might follow through. Between that worry and the stress of arranging my wedding to Bill, I was mentally and physically exhausted. On July 1, the day before the wedding, Emily disobeyed me about something insignificant and then locked her bedroom door. An infuriated male alter-state emerged and angrily banged on her wooden door, yelling at her to open it. When she refused, the alter-state used a wire hangar to unlock it. When he saw her trying to climb out a window, he became more enraged and ran at her. She shrieked and couldn't get out quickly enough. I was completely amnesic as that part hit her on her back again and again with the wire hangar. When I came to, I was horrified at what I'd done and feared that I'd go to jail! Because I couldn't remember why I'd beaten her, I used a false rationalization-insisting that I wouldn't have "had" to hit her if she hadn't disobeyed me. The next day at church, Bill and I married. I'd asked Dad to give me away to Bill and he seemed happy to oblige. I didn't know how much power I was still giving him. I also didn't know that a large percentage of the witnesses sitting on the church pews were handlers, Aryan cult members, or ASA personnel. Although I was mentally unaware that I was surrounded by enemies and spooks, I felt unsafe and dissociated and became a curly-haired, New Family 177 mechanical Barbie doll. In our wedding pictures, my face was either frozen or I wore a pasted-on smile. The only time I felt any warmth was when Bill and I faced each other at the altar. He cried, and tears filled my eyes as he silently mouthed, "I love you." While I posed as the glowing bride, Emily-one of my bridesmaids- smarted under her pretty blue dress, her back covered with fiery red welts. She stayed with Dad and his wife during our week- long honey- moon. Twice in one week, I seriously hurt her and betrayed her trust in me ... as Bill and I had fun traveling across the Southeast, Dad was free to do whatever he wished to her. Blended Family After the honeymoon, we moved into Bill's large house in a new subdivision in the small, rural, unincorporated town of Centerville-several miles south of Snellville. His two-story house was several years old. I felt like the lady of the manor, and had difficulty accepting that God was now blessing me so lavishly! His combination living-dining room had a cathedral ceiling. I was overwhelmed by all the open space, after having lived in a small, dark, smelly duplex for a year. Sunlight shone through the large house's many windows. In addition to the living-dining room, the upstairs contained three bedrooms, two full baths, a small kitchen, and a large wooden back deck. Downstairs were a fourth bedroom, a half bath, a recreation room, and a huge, high-ceilinged double garage. All through the house, the white walls were spotless; Bill still hadn't hung a single picture. I chuckled when I noticed that he hadn't yet used his dishwashing machine. Was he in for a change, living with us! I often teased Emily about being a walking tornado because she constantly left dirty clothes and dishes in her wake. Learning to Communicate Bill and I continued to work at the same insurance company. Because he had to be there at 6 AM, he usually left before dawn in his blue pickup truck. I started work at eight. Although we got along well there, at home, our 178 Unshackled tempers often flared. We both were accustomed to being in control, and neither of us had learned how to constructively express our hurt feelings and anger. I cried a lot and wrote him dozens of angry, barbed notes. Sometimes, when I was icy and uncommunicative, Bill grabbed my wrist and pulled me into our bedroom. He closed the door and made me kneel with him on the carpet to ask God for help. He usually started by praying and telling God what he felt and needed. Then he waited patiently until I did the same. Believing that God was in the room with us, I felt safer to say what I really felt. Although our prayer sessions were extremely painful, we were learning how to be honest with each other about our feelings. Schism Almost every day, Emily and Bill snapped at each other. The more she rebelled, the more frustrated he felt. And yet, he showed her a kindness and gentleness that I was incapable of. I felt ashamed when I realized he was a better mother to her than I was. Instead of constantly restricting and punishing her, he tried to negotiate her privileges. I hated myself and wondered if they would be better off without me. As hard as Bill tried to work things out with her, however, their dis- agreements escalated in intensity. Tired of all the stress, slammed doors, tears and barbed words hurled back and forth, and Emily's insistence that she'd be happier with her dad, I decided she should live with Albert for a while-so she'd appreciate what she had with us. Albert agreed to the temporary arrangement when I promised that he wouldn't have to pay child support. After Emily moved into Albert's trailer in November, she refused to talk to me. I was devastated. Several times each week, Albert called me at work to tell me how well she was doing at home and at school. Although I felt sad that I'd failed as her parent, I was glad that she'd finally found some happiness and stability. Arrest In December, the sky fell. Albert called me at work to tell me that Emily had just been arrested at school with Geena's gun in her New Family 179 possession, the safety off. He said Emily had planned to shoot another girl who-fearing Emily's rage-had chosen to stay home that day. Emily later told me that after shooting the girl, she knew she was "supposed to" walk into the school cafeteria, climb up on a table, and "blow her brains out all over everybody." 2 I'm deeply grateful that the principal was able to talk her into giving him the gun without anyone being hurt. On the day Emily appeared in Juvenile Court, Bill and I sat as close as we could to the judge's bench. Although Albert had sheepishly admitted to me that Emily had recently become an Aryan skinhead, I was unpre- pared for her drastic change in appearance. She wore a dirty denim jacket with the words, "Sex Pistols," hand written on it in thick, black magic marker. A large Nazi swastika was visible from the far end of the courtroom. She'd shaved her head in a Chelsea, a style that she later explained was fashionable for Nazi skin- head girls. Only her dyed bangs and a "tail" at the nape of her neck remained. Because I didn't remember the Aryan network or its meetings or rituals, I was stunned that she'd turned into a hard-core skinhead in just one month! Although she knew that Bill and I were present in the courtroom, Emily refused to acknowledge us. At first she seemed rigid and defiant, but when the judge gave his sentence, her face crumpled into a frightened little girl's. I wanted to hurdle the benches, run to her, and enfold her in my arms. I hurt so badly, knowing I couldn't do anything to comfort her. Christmas was especially painful for Bill and me. The judge wouldn't allow Emily to leave the county juvenile detention center. I brought a specially embossed Bible to the center as her Christmas present. I hoped she would draw the same hope and strength from it that I did. It only angered her again. My heart broke more when she welcomed holiday visits from Albert and Geena, but not from us. Crossroads Emily's assigned county caseworker believed that Emily's acting-out was a symptom of hidden family problems. She wisely arranged for Emily to enter a juvenile rehabilitation program at the Crossroads of 180 Unshackled Chattanooga facility in Tennessee. Each of its large cottages housed an individualized recovery program. Emily stayed in her adolescent cottage for over a month. Before her discharge, she invited Albert, Geena, Bill, and me to her "family week" sessions. Although Albert declined, Bill and I attended them together. Initially there to support her, we both soon realized that we also needed professional help. Because of what I learned about chemical addictions and dysfunctional family systems during that intensive week-long program, I recognized that our family was a mess. More important, I realized that I was almost com- pletely disconnected from my emotions. I didn't feel fear, except for Emily's and Bill's health and safety. I felt no love, happiness, emotional warmth, or empathy. This frightened me. Why was I so emotionally frozen? Emily's counselors gave me a challenge with a promise: if I would enter Crossroads' 28-day adult inpatient codependency therapy program, they'd recommend to the judge that Emily be placed back in our home. Unable to bear the thought of losing her again, I took a month-long leave of absence from my job and entered the program. Letting Go After Emily was discharged from the adolescent unit at Crossroads, she lived with us for several more years before marrying and starting a new life with her young husband. Until she moved out, our relationship stayed extremely rocky. Although Emily continued to block out what she'd endured in the past, she unwittingly acted it out in nearly every way possible. While she was with us, I took her to a succession of therapists and hos- pitals, looking for a miracle for her-and for us. I didn't understand then, as I do now, that in part, I was frantically fighting to keep her alive because somewhere in my mind, she and Rose (who I didn't remember) were one. Even after Emily married and moved away, I still tried to save her from death - especially when she was suicidal. One night, after spending the day with Emily and her young family, I was alone in a hotel room bathroom while Bill slept. As I thought about my conversations earlier that day with Emily, how she again threatened to suicide, even telling me about her plans for her New Family 181 funeral, I had a devastating moment of truth: by obsessively holding onto Emily and trying to save her from self destruction, I was actually feed- ing her suicidal tendencies and her exponential, destructive rage towards me. Over the years, I'd conditioned her to depend on me, which now kept her from being able to feel good about what she could do for herself. Realizing this, I knew I had a choice. I could continue to lead us both down a destructive path, or I could distance myself from her and work to break our emotional dependency on each other. When I first distanced myself from Emily, I began to experience the fullness of my suppressed grief from having lost Rose in such a sudden and brutal way. I had never experienced such pain. By working through that grief a little bit at a time-it was as much as I could survive-I was able to recognize that Rose and Emily were two totally different entities in my life. Now, I feel a long-distance love for Emily that is wholly separate from what I will always feel for my baby girl. I smile now, as unexpected flashes of Emily's childhood come back to me. She was a sweet and beautiful child, and I am comforted with the new-found knowledge that, as broken and unstable as I was in the past, I did dearly love her and did want the best for her. A great tragedy between us remains: now that I have the capability to truly love her for the person she is and always was, she is unwilling to trust and receive my love. (And really, can I blame her? This is her right!) 3 Can there someday be a happy ending for us as mother and adult daughter? I don't know. And I don't know what's ahead for either one of us-no one has that kind of foresight. Every day, I find myself hoping that she will eventually encounter helpful support and a way to heal. Maybe it's already happening for her. In the meantime, regardless of what happens to her, to Bill, or to any- one else I dearly love, whether it be life or death or anything in-between, I must focus on my own healing and recovery, and on doing what I believe is right for my own life. From these painful experiences, I have extracted a powerful and life-changing truth: the only person I have the power to save is me. Notes 1. Because Bill is firm about maintaining secrecy concerning his past activities for ASA, our first encounter at the insurance company remains his cover story for how 182 Unshackled our relationship began. I respect his right to keep secrets, and he honors my right to speak out about my experiences with him. 2. Her too-calm statement that she was "supposed to" kill herself after killing the other girl sent chills through me. Now, I wonder: was it a hypnotically implanted command? If so, who had put it in her mind, and why was she commanded to self- destruct? What she said she was "supposed" to do was eerily similar to what we've witnessed time and time again over the last decade, in public schools throughout the US. What is happening to our young people? 3. This is perhaps one of the strongest grievances I have against the FMSF: some of its most outspoken members seem to insist that adult children do not have the right to distance themselves from childhood families that they believe are detrimental to their mental and physical health. I believe this proves those FMSF members' true motivations. If parents truly love their adult children, they will give them all the time and space they need to find their own way in life-even if it means grieving their absence. Control addicts cannot bear to lose control of their victims, whereas truly caring parents will-despite the pain-let their loved ones go their own way without making private and public recriminations against them. The greatest gift we can give ourselves, and our children, is encouragement, to build independent lives, and to teach them how to become self-sufficient. I wish I had learned this, sooner. Reality Check Codependency In the summer of 1989, after Emily was discharged, I hesitantly entered Crossroads of Chattanooga's adult codependency program. I didn't like the idea of sharing my thoughts and feelings with a group of strangers. Still, for Emily's sake, I believed I must try. Since most people with dependent tendencies focus on others to avoid their own needs and problems, the counselors in our cottage insisted that visits, phone calls, and incoming mail be kept to a minimum. Since my handlers and family couldn't use phone calls and mail to trigger me into silence and forgetfulness, I was safe to begin to remember. In group therapy sessions, I listened to other patients talk about why they were there. Most of them were there because they had relatives suffering from chemical addictions. Although I talked a little about Emily's arrest, I sensed that my problem was much deeper. Each patient was asked to draw a chart of major life events from early childhood to the present. Most of the childhood side of my chart was blank. As for the events I could remember, I didn't know how old I'd been, or when they'd occurred. When I compared my chart to those of other patients, I noticed that most of them had remembered the dates of important life events. Why couldn't I? 1 Our codependency group performed two sets of relaxation exercises in a room where we lay on our backs on the floor, listening to either a female counselor's soft voice or to a cassette recording. Each time, we were told to visualize ourselves walking along a path through a forest, then finding unexpected treasure. Each time, I had flashbacks, sat up, and looked around the room to make the flashbacks stop. I didn't want to believe what I was remembering: that when I was a child, my father had sexually assaulted me. Deeply shaken, I told no one. 183 184 Unshackled Incest One day, as I relaxed on a lounge chair near the facility's outdoor pool, another memory unfolded: it was daytime, because sunlight streamed through a window. I, an adolescent, was alone with Dad in his bed in Snellville, Georgia. We were both naked under a white sheet. He smiled as he moved towards me. The memory was so vivid, I couldn't make it go away. Again, I told no one. Several days later, we were taken in a van to a nearby shopping mall to see a Batman movie. About halfway through it, I had more flashbacks. During the drive back to the cottage, I hyperventilated and wept. What was wrong with me? After we arrived at the cottage, an older, gentle female counselor walked with me on a path that circled it. Because we were not allowed to take medications, she held a cold, wet washcloth against my forehead as I continued to cry, uncontrollably. She and the other counselors waited patiently, careful not to suggest anything. During the next few days, I had numerous flashbacks of Dad perpetrat- ing sexual acts against me and two other children in our bathroom in Reiffton, Pennsylvania. I wondered, "Why now? Why hadn't I known it all along? Could I be making it up?" My assigned counselor was concerned when I told her that Dad still had easy access to young children. She insisted I go to the authorities after my discharge and tell them what I was remembering. Although I agreed to do that, I felt uncom- fortable-what if Dad wasn't hurting children anymore? Wouldn't I then be hurting him? Notifying the Authorities After I returned to Atlanta, I balked for about a week. Then I decided to send separate certified letters, one to my stepmother at home and the other to Dad at work, asking to meet with them. In the letters, I hinted at what I'd remembered. A day or so later, my stepmother called to say that she'd made Dad leave. After receiving my letter, she'd discovered that Dad was now molesting at least two children. When they were taken for a medical examination, physical evidence was found. They met with a Reality Check 185 child psychiatrist, and the eldest child gave a videotaped statement to a detective at the DeKalb Police Department Sex Crimes division, that incriminated Dad. Not knowing what the children had said, I provided the detective an independent, handwritten statement about what I'd remembered. 2 I hadn't yet been told what the eldest child had disclosed during the videotaped interview. After I gave my statement, the detective told me that it was nearly identical to what the child victim had stated. I broke down and wept with both relief and dismay: I was happy to hear I wasn't crazy, but dammit, this meant the memories were real! I didn't want my dad to be a child molester, and I didn't want to accept that he'd sexually abused me! Arrest Warrant On August 26, 1989, a criminal warrant was issued for Dad's arrest. It stated that Dad "did commit an immoral or indecent act to or in the presence of [a child] . . . with the intent to arouse or satisfy the sexual desires of either the child or himself." He was arrested, placed in jail, and released on bail shortly thereafter. Intimidation As I met with an assistant D.A. to prepare to testify against Dad, he warned me that Dad was facing a maximum prison sentence of sixty years. That upset me; although I didn't want Dad to hurt more children, I still cared about him and didn't want him to be put in prison. During the next several months, Dad became openly hostile towards me. His behavior helped me to realize he wasn't the father I'd made him to be in my mind. He told people in his church and community that I'd gone to Crossroads because of a "drug problem." He said my therapists had implanted the memories in my mind. He said that I wanted him sexually and was therefore lying to my stepmother to influence her to divorce him-so that I could have him to myself! He also tried to intimidate me through the mail. He sent a photo album full of pictures from my childhood. Attached to it was a plaque with the words, "Recipe for a happy marriage." Although I was pleased with the 186 Unshackled pictures, I felt nauseous as I read the plaque. He also sent a series of greeting cards with threatening messages-some coded, some overt. He instructed one of his criminal attorneys to send me a letter, threatening to sue me for interfering with his marriage. He attempted to subpoena my Crossroads records. He even admitted hiring a female private detective to secretly investigate me and "dig up dirt" about me. When I learned of Dad's actions, I was heartbroken. His behaviors proved that he didn't love me, and that he now believed I was his enemy. That thought especially frightened me, although I didn't know why. I continued to have visual flashbacks of his having sexually assaulted me and other children, and decided to go back to work to get my mind off the past for a little while. Too much of an emotional wreck to go back to a full-time office job, I applied for a part-time position as cashier at a nearby McDonald's fast food restaurant. Left-Hand Memories When I was at home, I constantly struggled with sensory overload. Day and night, I endured many visual flashbacks and strong physical and emotional memories known as abreactions. Most of the journals I wrote during that time were about bits and pieces of memory that emerged throughout my waking hours. They were usually visual, odorous, physical, and/or audible. Some days, I had ten or more flashbacks in succession, all of them totally disconnected from each other. Each flashback usually contained no more than a half- minute's worth of memory. Their abruptness made journaling very frus- trating, because they had no "before" and no "after." 3 As I sat on my bed and journaled some of them, they were like opened doors that led into full memories. And like the ends of threads of individ- ual memories, if I was willing to relax, trust, and follow the threads, the rest of these particular memories came quickly. A new problem soon developed. I was so mentally stuck in the past that I kept forgetting what month or year it now was. To remedy that, I affixed a large calendar to our kitchen wall and I marked off each day. After completing each morning's journaling, I wrote the current date on the top of the first page. Writing and seeing the current date seemed to help bring me back into the present. Reality Check 187 I also experimented with "right hand/left hand writing." I'd learned at Crossroads that writing with my right hand accessed information stored in the left side of my brain, while writing with my left hand accessed information stored in the right half. After journaling in the morning with my right hand, I then put the pen into my left hand and gave permission to hidden parts of my mind to journal. That technique helped me to access suppressed memories, and was my first attempt at connecting with alter-states that I still didn't know I had. 4 One day in December, after Bill had left for work, I tried to learn more of what I'd blocked out from my childhood. Sitting cross-legged on the middle of the bed, I put the pen in my left hand. Immediately, I felt some- thing unfamiliar in my mind, as well as new body sensations. The pen seemed to move on its own: I . . . Mommy where . . . come in here . . . why won't you come in . . . don't you know . . . blood red bloody red . . . you bitch you bastard . . . you knew and you didn't stop and you didn't try to stop ... He broke me He broke the red thing in me . . . You didn't come in the room . . . You stayed safe in another room . . . bloody red hands . . . bloody red ... I hurt in my tummy I gagged and went to throw up . . . bloody bloody hands . . . dad you are a god-damned animal you broke me your prick is as big as a house . . . what you did hurt me in my tummy . . . bloody red bloody red hands . . . my peehole legs are bloody red ... It is getting down my legs stop moving stop blood stop . . . What I want ... I want you to stay away from me ... I want you to love me ... I want you to do it again . . . You felt so good in me . . . you screwed up you made a mistake now what . . . she'll catch us . . . you are my prince . . . you make me feel real special . . . just between you and me . . . let's not tell her she's just a bitch anyway . . . you deserve better . . . you deserve ME! I remained conscious as that child part of my broken mind told me more of what I had previously been unable to remember. In succession, I vividly experienced the pain, the too-big penetration, the fear, the unwanted sexual stimulation, the anger towards Mom for not stopping Dad, the adoration towards the man who had just raped me and torn my flesh. Weeping, I put the pen in my right hand and wrote to the child part 188 Unshackled of me as I would have to an external child. I explained that what Dad had done was wrong and the child was not to blame. I put the pen in my left hand again. Another unpleasant memory emerged in writing. Again, my body was racked by the sensations of Dad raping me. Mommy . . . why didn't you stop him ... He kept eating me up ... No one could stop him ... he was big and strong ... he laughed if I tried to fight him ... he pinned my arms to the side of the bed ... he made my legs like scissors ... he was a robot ... He put his prick in me it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt ... it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt I cried Oh God how could this happen to me I've been a good girl ... he gave me a candy cane to suck on while he washed me . . . Mom and brothers were gone shopping . . . Dad was babysitting me ... I had a cold I felt so awful . . . How could he do it to a sick girl Freed by my left-hand writing, these memories slammed me. Every time I wrote with my left hand, I learned more than I could bear. I screamed when my body relived another childhood rape. I slammed myself into walls as I physically relived Dad throwing me against walls in the past. On my back on the floor, I bucked as I physically relived Dad humping my little body. Trying to make me feel better, Bill teased that I should carry a "snot bucket" around the house because I cried so much. Trying to find humor in my pain, I told him that I should buy stock in the Kleenex tissue corporation. Making jokes took the edge off a bit, but it didn't make the pain and horror go away. More and more, I feared what else lurked in my unconscious mind. Exhausted at night, I laid my head on my husband's legs as I watched TV with him. When I closed my eyes, I saw Dad's penis coming at my face again. I wept. West Paces Ferry Hospital After Dad's arrest, my stepmother learned about a support group for family members of sexual offenders that met once a week at West Paces Reality Check 189 Ferry Hospital, northwest of Atlanta. When we went to a meeting we heard hard, cold facts about criminal mentality that made me realize that Dad would probably do whatever he could, to avoid prison. Although I had still hoped that he'd choose to tell the truth for the children's sake, I had to consider that he might never do that. I worried more and more about Dad's future. Because he still ran for miles every day, I feared he wouldn't survive being in a locked facility. I didn't want to hurt him. And yet, if he'd recently assaulted children, he was dangerous. I knew if I testified against him, I'd never have a chance of receiving real love from him. I asked God to give me the strength to testify, and to give me the love that my earthly father never would. We didn't know that Dad's court-appointed psychiatrist was actively working to have him evaluated on an in-patient basis as part of the hospi- tal's Sexual Behavior Treatment Program. Had he gone into that program, the rest of this story might have had a better ending-but it doesn't. His AT&T medical insurance plan refused to pay for his treatment there. Dr. Adams On November 17, 1989, Dad received an indictment from a 23 -member DeKalb County Grand Jury for three counts of child molestation. To pre- pare for his defense, he met privately with Dr. Henry Adams, a professor of psychology at the University of Georgia in Athens. In a subsequent civil deposition, Dad described Adams as "the leading authority on sexual abuse in children." Adams (deceased) had previously testified for the defense in the infamous "Little Rascals" ritual abuse trial. Because Dad lied throughout his deposition, I do not know how many of his statements about his conversations with Adams were valid. Dad claimed that Adams said Crossroads was a sexual encounter clinic. I believe Dad was telling the truth about that, because before he'd met with Adams, he hadn't used that particular argument: [Adams] claims that . . . there are a number of people, mainly fundamentalist ministers, who are setting up a number of bogus psychological clinics all over the country. They call them sexual encounter clinics. Almost everybody that goes into these clinics comes out sexually abused, across the board . . . he said this is the kind of thing that's happening all over the 190 Unshackled country right now. It's called scapegoating, where you dump all of your problems, whatever they are, on the person who raised you, as sexual abuse. (Deposition 76-77) Suicide Attempt Although Dad eventually enlisted Dr. Adams to testify for his defense in the upcoming trial, he became suicidal immediately after one of his initial meetings with the doctor. Dad later told his estranged wife that first, he visualized himself driving into a concrete bridge support. Then he "saw" himself climbing to the top of a nearby mountain and throwing himself off the side. Although he successfully fought off the first two urges, he then checked into a hotel near home, cut both of his wrists deeply with a razor blade, then went to their house to enlist her help. Seeing the blood, she called a neighbor who was a nurse. That woman in turn called the police. One of the responding officers wrote: "He stated that he was very depressed because he is facing four counts of child abuse, and felt that suicide was the only way out of it." According to that officer's memorandum, when he tried to talk Dad into seeking professional help, Dad said, "You don't know how bad it is, the prosecutor is . . . out to get me; I'm probably facing the rest of my life in prison; [he] is half prosecutor and half crusader." After being taken to a medical facility, Dad was transferred to a psy- chiatric hospital where he stayed for several weeks. While being treated for depression and suicidal ideations, he developed a plan of action designed to help him feel more in control of his future. Because I was quite shaken by Dad's drastic action, the assistant district attorney told me that one of the reasons Dad might have cut his wrists was to influence me not to testify against him (if so, it nearly worked). He reminded me that the welfare of the child victims, not Dad's mental state, should be my primary concern. I feel grateful that the assis- tant DA believed me and the children. His swift and determined action against Dad probably saved them and other children from being sexually assaulted, and worse. When Dad was released from the hospital, he traveled to a conference at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. After that, he traveled to Pennsylvania to spend several days with his childhood family. Reality Check 191 At Dad's request, the judge handling the criminal case moved the grand jury hearing forward by several months, making the older child's videotaped testimony inadmissible in court. I was told that the child would have to testify in Dad's presence. As much as I loved Dad and wanted the best for him, I didn't believe I had any other choice than to testify against him. Clearly, he was still capable of sexually assaulting little children. I wanted to be a solid wit- ness and not fall apart in court. I didn't dare tell anyone that I constantly visualized myself talking like a little girl on the witness stand. I knew I wasn't ready to go through with it. Terrified and ashamed, I didn't know who to tell. When I prayed for additional strength, none came. Notes 1. Carla Emery explained why amnesia is used to keep a "hypno-robot" from remem- bering and breaking free: The hypnotic suggestion that makes a subject most likely to carry out orders contrary to their self-interest is amnesia. The most important element in a case of abusive hypnosis is amnesia. The biggest road- block to uncovering a crime of criminal hypnosis is amnesia. Amnesia is, therefore, the central problem of a survivor of abusive hypnosis. It is central to the operator's setup, central to the years of secret life hidden under the consciously known one, central to the struggle to escape and heal. (pg. 227) 2. Before the oldest child disclosed that child's negative experiences with Dad, the adults who carefully questioned the child did not indicate what I'd said about my own memories. The child freely and willingly disclosed to them-in graphic detail- without being coached. 3. "Psychogenic amnesias are quite different [from organic amnesia] in their origin, as the causes are psychological and tend to involve the repression of disturbing memo- ries which are unacceptable to the patient at some deep subconscious level. Psychogenic amnesias can be disorienting and disruptive to the patient, but they are rarely completely disabling, and as there is no actual brain damage they are reversible and in most cases will eventually disappear." (Groome, et al., pp. 137-138) 4. One of the therapeutic memory recovery techniques that FMSF spokespersons occasionally ridicule and try to discredit is left-hand writing. I believe they attack its credibility because they don't want the public to know how well it works! y U^