Unshackled 2 – John de Nugent

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(continued from https://johndenugent.com/english/unshackled-a-survivors-story-of-mind-control-mk-ultra-monarch/)

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Matters

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.

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

(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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.”

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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.

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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

¢ 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)

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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

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

Horrification

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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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

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

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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

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,

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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

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.

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

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.

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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

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.

(Continued at

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