Unshackled 3

(continued from https://johndenugent.com/unshackled-2/)

Unshackled

Turnaround

My friend’s mother was furious that I’d given her daughter the pill.
During a phone conversation with Mom that afternoon, the girl’s mother
accused me of being her drug supplier, and banned me from having fur-
ther contact with her. I was incredulous, because the girl’s much-older
boyfriend had supplied both of us for years ! I was relieved when Mom
believed me.

That night, Dad angrily questioned me and asked who had started me
on drugs. I told him about our lifeguard, Tom. Dad immediately went to
Tom’s house and confronted him. The young man lied and said he’d
never given me marijuana. Because Dad was on the neighborhood’s pool
committee, he immediately fired Tom. That really tore me up, because
I liked Tom and had become friends with his youngest sister. Within a
half a day, I’d already lost three friends.

Later that night, Dad yelled at Mom and blamed her for my becoming
a drug addict. He said if she’d remained at home instead of going to
work, none of it would have happened.

Volunteer Work

To keep me out of trouble during my suspension, Mom and Dad
decided I would do volunteer work away from home.

A neighbor invited me to spend several days a week with her at the
large office of a regional magazine in downtown Atlanta. She was kind
and respectful; I enjoyed riding in her car and talking with her. A huge
room above the office area stored large stacks of magazines. Sometimes
her boss asked me to look through them for defects. I also did small odd
jobs in the office, and felt excited to be in a professional working
environment. Although I looked a mess with my long hair and faded blue
jeans, the young office workers went out of their way to make me feel
welcome. Some of the men even let me bum cigarettes from them when
my neighbor was away.

On my last day there, the editor-in-chief gave permission for her and
another female employee to take me to an expensive French restaurant,
the Fleur-de-lis, for my first fancy meal. They even ordered cherries
flambe! Although I cannot remember the magazine editor’s name,

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I’ll never forget his kindness. My neighbor also put a white carnation in
a vase on my desk. I cried. For the first time in my life, I felt special in a
good way.

My other volunteer job was with the Red Cross in the nearby, old town
of Lawrenceville. A petite, elderly woman was my supervisor. Early each
morning, Mom dropped me off on her way to work. I helped the super-
visor tear donated, well-used bed sheets into bandages for soldiers in
Vietnam-that was my only connection to the war.

During Thanksgiving, I went with her to deliver boxes of food to
elderly shut-ins. I didn’t know that so many older people were lonely!
Back at the office, a local newspaperman took a picture of me in a white
uniform, filling cardboard boxes with canned goods. I laughed when
I saw it in the paper-I certainly didn’t look like a “freak” now!

When I returned to school for the winter semester, my friends were
disappointed that I didn’t want to get high with them anymore. Some
even accused me of being an undercover narcotics agent. That accusation
hurt, but I understood their fear. I focused on doing well in my school-
work and staying out of trouble.

When I met with the guidance counselor to discuss what I’d like to do
after I graduated, she gave me a battery of vocational tests. After review-
ing the results, I decided to go to college and major in either library
science or psychology. When I told my parents what I wanted to do, they
seemed pleased.

Divorce

One month after I’d returned to school, Mom secretly filed for divorce.
She didn’t tell anyone she was having an affair with Dad’s best friend,
a fellow engineer at Western Electric who was also married.

The night Mom arranged to have Dad served with the court summons,
she told my brothers and me that she’d filed for divorce because
Dad never spent time with us anymore. She ordered us to act as if
nothing unusual was going to happen, when Dad came home from
work.

My stomach hurt as I listlessly shoved scrambled eggs around the
inside of a frying pan with a spatula for our dinner. I’d just been sucker
punched; the runny eggs were making me nauseous.

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When Dad entered the kitchen from the carport, he was excited in a
childlike way. He said he’d purchased tickets for all of us to go to Disney
World. Seeing the happiness in his face, I felt guilty for not telling him
what was about to happen. I wanted to rescue him. When the sheriff’s
deputy came to our house in a police car, he handed Dad the summons
and told him to leave. Dad must have been in shock, because he didn’t
argue.

We remained in the house in Snellville while Dad moved into an apart-
ment with a friend, about twenty minutes away. Mom divorced him for
“mental cruelty.” Because Dad didn’t contest the divorce, it was quickly
finalized. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of his walking into
the house and hurting us. I felt the beginning of freedom and looked for-
ward to a happier future.

And yet, at the same time, their divorce created a deep schism in the
center of my being. As sick as our family had been, I’d felt more secure
when their marriage was intact. Because Mom wouldn’t allow Dad to
have any contact with us, I’d suddenly lost my father. And because
Mom now spent most of her free time away from home, I’d basically lost
her, too.

Since my brothers and I were left to fend for ourselves, I cooked lots
of rice, scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, and tuna noodle
casseroles-the extent of my culinary skills.

After I graduated from high school in the spring of 1973, 1 told Mom
that I planned to go to college the following fall. I was stunned as she
coldly said that since Dad had his own living expenses now, they couldn’t
pay for me to go.

I was hit by a tidal wave of fear. How could I build a new life? Because
of my bad reputation as a former drug user, nobody in town would hire
me. And because I didn’t have a driver’s license or a car, I couldn’t work
anywhere else! I had no viable way to plan for a self-sustaining future,
and didn’t know how to begin.

I couldn’t discuss my fears with Mom, because she was always gone
(secretly spending time with Dad’s friend). Dad wasn’t allowed to con-
tact us. I didn’t think Pastor Hodges could help me. And because I’d
graduated, I didn’t believe I had the right to talk to the school counselor
any more. Feeling completely hopeless, I sank back into depression and
started using drugs again.

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Notes

Although Dad did do a great deal of work for Western Electric, which later merged
with AT&T, he may have also used his position there as a cover for other activities.
In a 1989 letter to his lawyer, he wrote, “In my job, I must travel to all points in the
US and to many foreign countries at a moment’s notice. We are under a company
directive to use our AT&T [credit card] for these reservations.”

Anna C. Salter, Ph.D. interviewed Mr. Woodard, an incarcerated rapist and moles-
ter, who explained how he’d gotten away with so many crimes before he was
finally caught:

I lived the life of a chameleon or salamander, changed colors with the
wind. I didn’t just live a double life. I lived multiple lives. Whatever the
situation called for, I lived it. If I hung around Christian people and I
knew that they were Christian, then my actions and my mannerism
were similar to theirs. And I adapted to whatever the situation required,
(pg. 35)

This was the same behavior I witnessed in Dad. Based on her years of
interviews with sexual offenders, Salter gave a warning to her readers that we
would be wise to heed:

Sex offenders are well aware of our propensity for making assumptions
about private behavior from public presentation. They use that infor-
mation deliberately and carefully to set up a double life. It serves them
well but doesn’t do much for the rest of us. (pg. 38)

Married

Albert

Shortly after graduating from high school, I met Albert. A native of
Miami, Florida, he’d recently moved to the city of Atlanta to stay with an
old friend in a Christian men’s home. Seven years older than me, Albert
was 57″ with wavy, dark brown hair.

When we first met, I was spending the weekend with Cynthia, an older
girl who worked with Albert at a factory in Norcross. She arranged for
him and a male co-worker to go on a double date with us. The first night,
Cynthia dated Albert and I dated his friend.

The four of us drove around in a small car for a while, talking and
listening to the radio. Later that night, we stopped at a small park. While
Cynthia and Albert kissed in the car, his big, shy friend sat next to me on
a picnic table and tried to kiss me. Feeling nauseous, I pushed him away.
We silently sat on the picnic table the rest of that long night, careful not
to touch each other.

The next morning, Cynthia suggested we go out again that night. I said
I would if we switched partners. That evening, as she and Albert’s friend
kissed in the car, Albert and I spent most of the night standing and talk-
ing on a bridge over a wide creek. I felt happy when he didn’t try any-
thing sexual. He encouraged me to share deep, personal thoughts and
feelings. His interest in my life made me feel good.

Early the next morning, on the way back to Cynthia’s house, I sleepily
lay on the back seat with my head on Albert’s knees, facing his stomach.
I awoke to see his bulging zipper rhythmically poking at my face. As tears
slipped out of my eyes, I turned my face away and pretended to still be
asleep. I felt so degraded!

After the men left Cynthia’s house, I felt so dirty and ashamed that I
lied and said Albert had been a perfect gentleman. She said she knew I
was lying, and warned that he was “nothing but trouble.”

That afternoon, Albert called Cynthia and cried for at least an hour.
He said he was depressed because his live-in girlfriend in Miami had
broken up with him. As I listened, Cynthia told him he should forget

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97

about the past. I was drawn to the intensity of his emotions as he wept
almost non-stop. Against Cynthia’s stern advice, I agreed to go out with
him on a real date.

When Albert learned that I was using illegal drugs, he said it was sin-
ful and insisted that I stop. I did. Then he took me on “dates” to shoddy
bars in the outskirts of Atlanta. I didn’t drink to get a buzz or have a good
time; I drank until all the sounds and lights and faces merged together.
Drinking made my problems go away-until the next morning.

After several weeks of driving from the factory to our house late at
night, Albert asked Mom if he could sleep in our living room on a pull-
out sofa bed instead of going home. She readily agreed. Years later, she
admitted to me that night after night, she’d heard me tiptoe down the
stairs, and had heard us having sex on the pull-out sofa in the living room,
leaving deep grooves in the wooden floor. She never indicated that she
knew what we were doing, nor did she ever mention birth control to me.

The first time we had sex, Albert pushed my head down hard against
him. I gagged and felt like I was suffocating. I went away for a while.
When I came back into my body, I didn’t know that I’d switched to a sex-
ually experienced alter- state.

Albert probably thought that I’d remembered the entire experience,
and was pleased with my skills. Soon, he spent almost all his free time at
our home.

Albert’s Family

Albert’s English father had abandoned his wife and five children when
Albert was very young. His mother, Virginia, eventually married Paul, a
dark-haired, slim, short man who claimed to be a Nazi who had immi-
grated to the US via Spain.

Albert expressed hatred whenever he talked about Paul. His stepfather
was a radio minister and blue-collar worker. Albert and one of his three
sisters hinted that Paul had done terrible things to them and their mother,
although they never shared any details with me.

When Albert drove me to Miami the first time to meet his parents,
I was horrified that his mother wasn’t allowed to drive several blocks to
the grocery store or to church without Paul’s express permission. Like
Albert, Virginia had large dark circles under her eyes.

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I was even more appalled when, upon Paul’s command, their large
black dog crawled across the small wooden living room floor to where
he stood. For hours at a time, the dog lay on the wooden floor, not
moving until Paul gave it permission. Huge calluses were on its legs.

Although going to Miami helped me to recognize that Albert’s stepfather
was overly controlling, I didn’t understand how the horror that Albert had
endured as his stepson had affected his mind and poisoned his soul.

Pregnant

Since Dad had conditioned me to be a sexual machine, when I was
alone with Albert, I was like a sexual robot with no “off” switch. I felt
secretly ashamed of my lack of control and wished Mom would inter-
vene, but she never indicated that she knew what we were doing.

We also had sex in my bedroom during the day while Mom and my
brothers were away. It was easier than trying to find something to talk
about. When he was there at night and my family was still awake, we sat
outside on the cool cement floor of our family’s large screened-in porch.
A Pentecostal, Albert played his Spanish guitar (he was tone deaf) while
insisting that we sing Christian songs together. Sometimes he tape-
recorded our songs to send to his older brother, Richard, in Illinois.
Afterwards, Albert would lead me in prayer, then give me “prophecies
from God.” Because I believed that God was really speaking through him
to me, I felt special and became dependent on Albert to facilitate a deeper
relationship between me and God.

One night, Albert called from the factory. He said he had something
important to discuss with me when he came to the house. When I told a
friend, she suggested that he planned to give me an engagement ring.
Believing her, I was excited as Albert drove up the cement driveway and
parked in our brick- walled carport.

Mom and my brothers had driven to Pennsylvania, so Albert and I sat
alone in the living room. We played my radio in the dark as candles
illuminated the wood-paneled walls. I was disappointed when Albert
frowned and said that we were sinning against God by having sex out-
side of marriage. He said that because I was causing him to sin, he
didn’t want to see me anymore. I was stunned and deeply hurt-all along,
I’d believed that he loved me and wanted to be with me!

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Just then, we heard Diana Ross’s hit song, Touch Me In The Morning.
Believing it must be a message from God, I told Albert, “Just this one
more night. Give me this one more night.” For the first time, we made
love so gently, it squeezed the breath out of me. By morning, he decided
to continue dating me.

Although birth control pills were available, I knew nothing about
them. Instead, Albert used a less reliable method-condoms. He con-
vinced me that as long as he used them, I couldn’t get pregnant. One
night in September, a condom was defective. Although Albert freaked
out, I privately thought that God had caused it to happen, because He
wanted me to become pregnant and marry Albert.

Within weeks, I felt more full inside than normal. Mom took me to a
medical clinic in Snellville for a pregnancy test. The doctor smiled and
said, “The rabbit died.” Mom later explained that I was pregnant.

When I told Albert over the phone, he accused me of trying to get preg-
nant so he’d have to marry me. Then he tried to talk me into “shacking
up” with him in Florida, as he’d done with his rich, blond ex-girlfriend.
He said he’d even paid for a wedding announcement in a Florida newspa-
per, to con her parents into thinking he’d married her! That bothered me-I
didn’t want to marry a dishonest man. I was also troubled by his refusal
to remove her picture from his wallet, no matter how much I cried and
begged him to. I didn’t understand that he was still on the rebound from
their broken relationship.

All I wanted to know was that he loved me and would be happy with
me as his wife-later, if not now. If having his baby was what it would
take to rope him into marrying me, then I was glad I was pregnant. 1

A year earlier, Mom had told me that if I should ever become pregnant,
she’d fly me to New York to get an abortion. But now, she didn’t make
that offer. Instead, she encouraged me to marry Albert.

At the time, I wasn’t aware that Dad had quit paying child support for
me. I also didn’t know that Mom was preparing to sell the house and
move into a smaller rental home with her still-married lover-leaving no
room for me in her life.

Illinois

Albert’s older brother, Richard, was thin and lanky with red hair
and a full beard. He was an elder of a small Charismatic church in

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Waukegan, a sprawling, large, old city on Lake Michigan, about an hour
north of Chicago. Waukegan was usually hot and humid in the summer
and bone-freezing cold in the winter. Far above, its sky was almost
always a dull color.

Richard’s pastor, Bob, had perfectly styled white hair and a neatly
groomed moustache. Bob’s wife, Barbara, was large with a strong operatic
voice and long, straight, thick blond hair.

Bob, Richard, and several other men were in the process of develop-
ing a new church that would be under the direct authority of Apostle John
Robert Stevens, the leader of the Church of the Living Word in Anaheim,
California. Members called the church network The Walk, signifying
their unique walk, or relationship, with God.

When Albert told Richard that I was pregnant, Richard insisted that
Albert bring me to Waukegan to be married before God. Albert decided
that if he cooperated with Bob and Richard, he could convince them to
help us financially. First, he sent me to Illinois for one week to spend
time with the church members. He wanted to be sure that I’d be happy
living there.

During a church service that week, Pastor Bob, Richard and other
elders laid their hands on my head and shoulders and “prophesied God’s
word” to me. Bob, Richard, and one other man said they “saw” me coming
back there to serve God, but not with Albert.

When I returned to Atlanta and told Albert what they’d said, he was
furious. He reminded me that he was God’s mantle of authority over me.
Hadn’t God given him many prophecies for me when we prayed
together? Because Bob and other elders had also told me that God had
revealed to them that Albert was a “chosen prophet,” I continued to
believe that Albert’s prophecies were from God.

Married

In late November 1973, Albert drove us in his rickety old sedan to
Waukegan. On December 2, we were married in the church’s ranch style,
one-story house that doubled as a residence for Bob, Barbara, and their
two young sons. I felt excited that I was joining a community of
Christians who would become my new family. Half a country away from
Dad, I felt safe.

Married

101

Mom and Dad traveled there separately for our small wedding. I wore
a tight- fitting, long, yellow dress that a female church member had
quickly sewn for me. Albert and I had written our own vows. In mine,
I promised to follow Albert as Ruth had followed her mother-in-law,
Naomi: “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God.”

Later, when I saw photos of the ceremony, I noticed that sunlight com-
ing through a window behind Bob had seemed to make a white aura
around his head. I believed this was a sign from God that He’d supernat-
urally blessed our marriage. (Bob taught us that a white aura indicated
God’s strong presence.)

For $125 a month, we rented a small upper- floor, government-assisted
apartment at 2409 Dugdale Road, part of a large, low-income housing
complex. Cooped up in the apartment in the frigid winter with no phone
and no TV, I thought I’d go mad. Fortunately, Richard and his family
lived in a nearby apartment building. I spent most of my free time with
them, and quickly adjusted to the constant pandemonium in a household
with five energetic children. I grew to love each of them and became one
of their regular babysitters.

Nursing Home

Barbara A., a middle-aged brunette church member, offered to hire me
as a weekday nurse’s aide at the All-Seasons Nursing Home in
Waukegan. After I was hired, I had to walk about two miles each way,
sometimes wading through deep drifts of snow. Although I only earned
$2 an hour, I felt better about myself because I had a job and wasn’t
lonely anymore.

Although most of the patients on the first floor of the two-story nurs-
ing home were elderly, one Black, male, paraplegic patient was middle-
aged. Lonely and depressed, he said his wife refused to let him come
home, and rarely visited him. His muscles were wilting from lack of
exercise. As often as I could, I took him upstairs to the exercise area,
where he began to bulk up his arms and upper torso.

My work at the nursing home was character-building. I was careful to
show respect to bedridden patients as I fed and washed them, changed
their urine- soaked bed sheets, and emptied their urine and colostomy
bags. I also pushed heavy meal tray carts down the halls and helped

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patients turn in their beds and transfer to wheelchairs and back. The work
was exhausting, but I loved it.

One winter day, a large, young, Black male patient-the paraplegic’s
roommate-had a grand mal seizure in the large first-floor community
dining room. I was down the hall in an elderly patient’s room when
I heard the loud thuds as the young man’s head repeatedly slammed
against the linoleum covered floor. My sister-in-law, who had also been
hired as an aide, witnessed the seizure. The man was taken by ambulance
to a hospital.

When I walked into our dark apartment that night, I felt so exhausted,
I left pots of macaroni and cheese and green peas on the stove. It wasn’t
much, but surely Albert would understand.

Although he drove to work while I walked, Albert constantly com-
plained about having to be on his feet all day in the shipping department
of a nearby store. When he walked into our apartment that night, he
started complaining again as I lay on our mattress on the bedroom floor
with a migraine headache.

Ignoring my discomfort, Albert screamed and cursed at me for leaving
him a pan of cold pasta. He threw it against the kitchen wall and shouted,
“Clean it up!” Then he angrily insisted that I get up and make him a
decent supper. I cried as my head throbbed. I tried to tell him how upset
I’d been about the patient. He didn’t care.

What had happened to the man who had enjoyed talking with me late
into the night? Frightened and hurt, I walled off my emotions. As
I crawled on my hands and knees to wipe up the sticky mess, I decided
I wouldn’t let him hurt me that way again.

At the nursing home, I was angry at how badly the patients were
neglected. I ended up doing the work of several nurses’ aides. I also did
chores I wasn’t qualified to do, like changing patients’ colostomy bags,
and their surgical and bedsore dressings. Someone had to do it. While
I toiled, the male orderlies hid in the laundry room and played poker.
They often laughed at the cries of patients who lay in urine and feces on
their stinking hospital beds.

Someone always tipped off our normally absent male supervisor when
a state investigator was about to pay a “surprise” visit. Before each
inspection, the supervisor handed us various colored pens to fabricate
entries in patients’ charts that “proved” we had done what was required
by state law.

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103

One day, a young female inspector came to the nursing home. No one
was expecting her this time. As the first-floor staff played their daily
poker game in the laundry room, unaware of her presence, I showed her
how we’d fabricated the patients’ records. She asked me to show her
more.

I took her to the room of an elderly, petite, female, Black patient. The
poor woman’s tendons were so tight and hard, she couldn’t move her
curled arms and legs at all. Covered with large bedsores, she lay in a fetal
position on her back with decaying food inside her clenched fists, her
uncut fingernails growing into her palms.

The inspector taught me how to work with the elderly woman by
slowly and gently moving her frozen arms and legs. As she did this, the
woman, who was in agony, yelled in a hoarse voice: “Lord have mercy!
Lord have mercy!” Although I understood that I had to cause her pain in
order to help her, her cries broke my heart.

After that, I did what I could to give extra help to that elderly woman
and several others. Unfortunately, I injured myself in my seventh month
of pregnancy. An extremely overweight Black woman had repeatedly
called out for help. She wanted to get off her hospital bed into the wheel-
chair so she could use the bathroom. Because the orderlies refused to
help, I ran out of patience and tried to move her on my own. As I shifted
her from the edge of her bed to the wheelchair, the chair moved away and
she fell on her rump on the floor. Although she was uninjured, I felt
something tear or split between my legs. Unaware that I should report the
injury to the administration, I walked home, frightened.

That night, I was in so much pain, I had to crawl from our mattress to
the bathroom. Albert accused me of faking an injury so I wouldn’t have
to work. My frustration and helplessness instantly turned into anger; I’d
be damned if I would let his selfishness push me into losing my baby!
Because Albert said we couldn’t afford another exam with the obstetri-
cian, I lay in bed for several days until the pain subsided. I never went
back to the nursing home.

I couldn’t understand why Albert was so distrustful and bitter towards
everyone, including me. As much as he’d insisted on my moving with
him to Waukegan to join the church, he now opposed my bonding with
church members, and insisted we move back to Atlanta. I felt
torn between my love for the church family and my duty to my
husband. Pastor Bob, Richard, and other church leaders challenged

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me to put my devotion to God and the church first. I was already so
brainwashed, I believed I couldn’t have a relationship with God outside
The Walk.

Albert was furious when I refused to move back to Atlanta with him.
He said he wasn’t willing to raise our baby in Waukegan because the city
was “too depressing.” When he told Dad what he wanted to do, Dad
invited Albert to live with him in Atlanta while Albert searched for a job.
Despite Albert’s cajoling and angry threats, I stayed in Waukegan.

The Sisters

After Albert found a job in Atlanta, he refused to send me any money.
He said I’d have to come to Atlanta since I had no way to pay the rent on
our apartment. Instead, I sublet the apartment to two young men and
moved into our church’s two-story women’s home on Greenbay Road, a
wide, busy city street in Waukegan. For over a month, I subsisted on
church members’ charity. The women living there became my sisters.
They gave me a private bedroom that had previously been occupied by
Lynn, a friendly young, long-haired female who had recently birthed a
baby girl. I enjoyed Lynn’s company-she reminded me of a reformed
Janis Joplin, my favorite singer.

Bob and the church elders continued counseling me to choose the
church and God’s will over my marriage. They said because Albert was
staying away from his calling as a prophet in the Walk, he was in rebellion
against God.

I cried every night, afraid I’d have to divorce the father of my baby.
Although I couldn’t remember what Dad had done to me, I feared going
back to Atlanta. Pastor Bob and the elders said my baby and I were
protected by God’s umbrella of protection as long as I stayed in The
Walk. I believed them.

Baby Rose

I told Albert that Barbara, the pastor’s wife, had become my Lamaze
partner and coach in his stead. Realizing I wasn’t going to come to
Atlanta, he gave up and returned several weeks before our baby’s due

Married

105

date. He moved into the men’s Greenbay house, two blocks away, and
took his rightful place as my partner at the Lamaze classes.

Ever since I’d learned I was pregnant, I’d done everything possible to
ensure that my baby would be healthy. I’d stopped smoking and drinking,
and ate only natural foods. One female church member gave me a large
package of expensive Shaklee prenatal vitamins. I walked two miles
almost every day in the spring and the hot, muggy summer. I regularly had
my baby blessed by Bob and the elders, who placed their hands on my
swollen belly and head and prayed for both of us.

Pastor Bob and Barbara negotiated with a young newlywed couple,
Bob and Ann-Marie M., who had recently received an old, two-story
wood-framed house from Ann-Marie’s parents as a wedding present. The
couple agreed to let us live with them until we could afford to rent our
own apartment.

Slim and bubbly with blue eyes and blond hair, Bob M. was our
church’s music leader as well as an elder. Quick-tempered Ann-Marie
had coal black eyes and dark straight hair. Since she wanted to have
Bob’s baby, she hoped she could learn how to raise hers by observing
me with mine.

One morning, when I was two weeks overdue, my obstetrician called.
I liked the thin, dark-haired man because even though I could pay little,
he remained gentle and respectful. He said he wanted me to go to the
hospital so he could induce labor. Because I’d avoided all drugs-even
aspirin-to protect my baby, I cried and asked God for help. As I packed
my hospital bag, the contractions began on their own. I took this as a sign
that God was blessing my baby.

In the hospital, my labor lasted twelve hours. A scowling gray-haired
nurse walked into the labor room after several hours and demanded that
I stop using the Lamaze method. She said because I panted like a puppy
during contractions, I was depriving my baby of oxygen. I tried to
breathe normally, but that made the pain unbearable. Physically para-
lyzed by its intensity, I screamed that she could go to hell. As I resumed
panting, she angrily stalked out of the room, shouting that I was killing
my baby.

A few minutes later, a young, brunette nurse entered. She had a gentle,
calm disposition and was comfortable with the Lamaze method. Dr. T.
came in once in a while to see how much my cervix had dilated.
Dissatisfied, he gave me injections that sped the contractions. They started

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coming every minute. I was so tired! A sterling Lamaze partner, Albert
encouraged me and wiped my face with cold wet washcloths.

I cannot describe the happiness I felt when my precious baby, who I’ll
call Rose, came out of my womb. She had the most beautiful cry. Hearing
her voice, I fell completely in love.

Love Lost

Although at first they’d been excited about having a baby in their new
home, Bob and Ann-Marie weren’t prepared for Rose’s nighttime crying.
Since our upstairs bedrooms were right next to each other, Ann-Marie
insisted I put her in a borrowed, white wicker bassinet I kept in the down-
stairs living room. Ann-Marie said I should let my baby cry to keep from
spoiling her. In my mother-heart, I knew she was wrong. My baby was cry-
ing because she needed me. Each night, I waited until they’d closed their
bedroom door, then tiptoed downstairs and held Rose on my stomach until
we both fell asleep on the sofa. I felt like the happiest woman on earth.

I was lucky to be able to stay home and breast-feed my baby with no
complications. I wanted the best for her ” La Leche members in our
church taught that mothers’ breast milk protected babies from many
illnesses.

Rose was the only human I had ever fully bonded with. For the first
time, I knew what true love was. We locked eyes every time she sucked
greedily at my engorged breasts. I couldn’t get enough of her. Her soft
fuzzy skin fascinated me. She was brown-haired with blue eyes and had
the most amazing, flowery-scented breath. I was blessed to experience a
month and a half of bliss and bonding with her.

The rest of this chapter honors her memory, and Emily, the daughter
who I unwittingly raised in her stead. It is a compilation from daily jour-
nals, written by many of my alter-states over a period of about five years.
The death of my baby girl was so traumatizing that the memory shattered
into little disconnected pieces that surfaced, decades later, one small
piece at a time. 2

/ strongly advise ritual abuse survivors to avoid reading the remainder
of this chapter-it can be extremely triggering.

Before Rose was born, I’d been transported in a vehicle (by whom,
I don’t yet remember) to secretly meet with a young couple I’d previously

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visited with Dad in their home in Virginia. The olive-skinned,
black-haired, dark-eyed young husband was a lawyer. He bragged that he
was a “dandy.” Like Dad, he loved doing awful things to his victims; and
like some hard-core Satanists, he stored human body parts in large glass
jars of formaldehyde in white, wooden kitchen cupboards. His slim,
lovely young wife was light-skinned with long, straight, light brown hair.

That Sunday, not knowing how I came there, I stood talking with the
young couple in Chicago in an empty, below-ground parking deck with
thick concrete walls. When the young mother held out her new baby to
me, I saw the husband smirk. Not a good sign. I was doubly concerned
when I saw the same ugly smirk on the young woman’s face. I removed
the thin receiving blanket from their baby’s face.

At first, I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. They’d put plastic wrap on
the squirming, premature baby’s face. Its complexion had turned unnat-
urally dark. Even though I knew I was in danger of being tortured if
I dared to break that man’s mental control, I snatched the plastic away.
The baby screamed in absolute fury. I was so shocked by the experience,
I pushed the memory away.

Several months later, in September, 1974, Dad secretly paid for me to
fly with Rose to Atlanta to meet with him. The afternoon we arrived in
Atlanta, the air was almost cool with just a hint of a breeze. The sun
shone brightly. Dad seemed to drive aimlessly, then stopped and got out
of his car. Carrying Rose in my arms, I followed him onto the middle of
a large, dusty, sparsely vegetated piece of empty property. No people,
buildings or houses were anywhere near us. I saw a treeless subdivision
in the distance-all its homes looked alike.

Fear clutched my heart as I held my baby girl tightly. I felt doom,
although I didn’t know why. When I looked at Dad again, he held out a
large, sharp knife with a black handle, similar to the knife he’d used in
rituals when I was a child, putting his hands over mine and forcing me to
kill precious babies. 3

My mind short-circuited. Dad looked into my eyes and said, “If you
don’t kill her, I will.” Instantly, a succession of ritually conditioned alter-
states emerged. Each one frantically assessed the situation, trying to fig-
ure a way out. When one part saw no way out, that part went under and
the next part came out.

They knew they could try to run with Rose to the distant houses and
yell for help, but since Dad was a cross-country athlete, they couldn’t

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outdistance him. They could try to fight him, but he was much stronger,
and where could they put the baby to keep him from hurting her in the
struggle? And if he killed me or I killed myself, there was no telling what
he’d do to her.

A mother-part emerged and stared at my baby’s sweet face. She tried
to comfort herself with the knowledge that Rose would soon be with
God in heaven, where He’d keep her safe and surrounded with His love.
And even if it killed the mother-part, she was determined to be the one
to do it with every ounce of love in her. She would not allow Dad’s cruel,
filthy hands to touch Rose’s innocent body. She’d seen Dad rape baby
girls to death. He was not going to do it to Rose! She’d kill her first, with
love and gentleness. She wanted the love and reassurance in her own
eyes to be the last thing Rose would see.

As she prepared to cut Rose’s carotid arteries, she felt such piercing
pain, she realized she couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t kill the
most important person in her universe. When she submerged and a
ritually conditioned child alter- state emerged, Dad noticed the shift and
grinned. As he’d done so many times in the past, he put his right hand
atop mine and forced it to cut Rose’s soft neck. I believe it was a mercy
that the child alter-state didn’t recognize Rose as her child. Dad forced
my hand to cut Rose’s carotid arteries, one at a time.

After the deed was done, the mother-part reemerged. She wanted to
scream with wild grief as she saw the blood pulse and Rose’s precious
eyes faded to dull, then black. She was losing her baby, dear God, she
was losing her baby. As Rose’s eyes stopped seeing, she told herself,
“She’s with God now. She’s safe.” But the dark pain of her baby’s leaving
was unbearable.

She didn’t move as she watched Dad carry Rose by her ankles to keep
from getting her blood on him. He wouldn’t allow the alter-state to bury
Rose. He said that since the baby came from my body, she was garbage.
He put her precious body in a black, plastic garbage bag and threw it into
a nearby commercial sized, metal dumpster.

Within minutes, Dad had successfully destroyed the one relationship
in my life that made me feel good as a human being. So many parts of
me now felt pure hatred towards him, wanting to kill him. But deep
down, they knew they could never go there. Because they were depend-
ent on him to tell them what to do, think, and believe, if they killed him,
they believed they would also cease to exist. Survival came first.

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After putting her body into the dumpster, Dad raped me on the dusty
ground, reclaiming me for himself.

I believe Dad tried to murder my goodness that day, to make me like
him. When he ordered me to kill Rose, that was the closest I ever came
to breaking forever and becoming a willing perpetrator. But by holding
onto my love for her and my hatred towards him, I was able to preserve
my truest self, deep inside. He could make me kill her, but he could never
take away my love for her. It embodied my gentleness and kept me from
becoming monstrous like him.

The darkness in him did not engulf the light in me that day, but my
grief over losing my beautiful sweet baby was so great, I couldn’t allow
myself to feel softness and caring anymore. I erected thick concrete
barriers around my love and my memory of her, so that Dad could never
touch or hurt that essence inside me. Unfortunately, by walling up and
preserving my deep love for her, I couldn’t express love or caring
towards anyone else.

Later that day, I walked along an open-air, concrete balcony to
Dad’s room at a hotel where we were staying. When I knocked on his
dark, solid door, he silently opened it. Shirtless, he walked toward his
bed. Because he had drawn his thick drapes shut against the bright sun-
light, I couldn’t see well at first.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw something moving beneath a white-cased
pillow on his bed. I looked closer and saw the squirming legs of an
infant. Dad watched calmly as I snatched the pillow off the infant, not
caring if he punished me. I yelled, “How could you do this?” In an even
voice he said, “No one will ever know she’s not yours. She’s physiolog-
ically compatible.” 4

In a sudden flash of insight and memory, I realized he’d set up every-
thing that had occurred that day. But why had he chosen this particular
baby? I felt cold as I picked up the screaming infant and looked at her face.

Although she was the same general size as Rose, her hair and skin
were a bit darker. She was physically stronger and much angrier when
she cried. As I looked closer, I remembered. The preemie in the garage.
Dad grinned. I walked out to the open-air balcony, clutching her against
my chest as she continued to scream. Although my heart felt like stone,
I made a decision: by God, he was not going to kill her! Holding her
tightly, I lost all memory of Rose and gave this baby my birth-daughter’s
legal name. (From now on, I’ll call this baby “Emily.”)

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After I returned to Waukegan with her, to stay sane, I had to believe
she was mine. Still, I felt cold every time I looked at her. Because she
seemed different and was angry when she cried, I believed that demons
had invaded my baby’s body.

One day, in the church’s nursery room behind the sanctuary, a young
female member with short, curly, dark hair picked Emily up and cooed
at her, laughing. When I told her my baby was demon-possessed, she
looked at me in horror and said, “Why, she’s an angel!” My stony heart
couldn’t accept her words. I believed my baby had become the epitome
of evil.

Determined to save her from Satan, I followed the teachings from
Apostle Stevens and Barbara. I constantly laid my hands on her and
anointed her body with olive oil, commanding the demons to leave her
body in the name of Jesus.

Because I focused on her, I didn’t recognize that I, too, had changed.
I was now ready to do assassinations. Each time I, in controlled alter-
states, was sent to kill a targeted man, I unconsciously killed Dad.
My fury and hatred were tremendous. And when I was ordered to do
“disposal” and “clean up” (dismembering male bodies and more), I visu-
alized cutting Dad completely apart so he could never hurt anyone again.

My professional handlers knew my rage at the targeted men was really
about Dad. And although I was used again and again, my fury never
abated. Because the adrenaline rush and the rage gave me additional
strength, when I was pitted against larger, more muscular males with
equal training and conditioning, I always won.

Something else happened during the day of Rose’s murder. Several of
my alter-states were now certain that Dad wanted me dead. Because he’d
killed Rose, they knew that he’d really killed me by proxy since she came
from my womb. I believe that in Dad’s mind she was merely an exten-
sion of me. He couldn’t have gotten closer to killing me without actually
doing it. Some of my alter-states feared they might be next.

Why did he groom and train me from childhood to perform the most
dangerous ops? I believe he hoped that someday I’d be killed on an op.
That way, he wouldn’t have actually killed me. My death would have
been so emotionally sanitized, he wouldn’t have felt any guilt. After all,
such things happened.

Whenever my professional handlers sent me into situations to do
assassinations, my own life was also at risk. Many of the targeted men

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knew they were in danger. Some were armed and ready; some had even
hired professional bodyguards that I had to find a way past, usually by
posing as a prostitute. Some of the targeted men were also seasoned pro-
fessionals, which made them extremely dangerous. Each time, I fought
hard to survive.

By keeping my emotional energy focused on Dad and visualizing him
as I attacked those men, I preserved my sanity. Each time, I mentally
fought like an animal against the greatest beast of all, knowing that he,
the man who had killed my precious daughter, was also the man who
now sent me to die. This knowledge gave me the strength I needed to
fight, stay alive, and come home one more time.

Notes

1. When I told Dad the good news, he didn’t respond at all. Later, he wrote a scathing
letter to Albert, accusing him of “impregnating” me and taking me into a life of
poverty.

2. Some readers may ask, how do I know this isn’t a fabricated memory? My answer
is this:

Although I initially chose to believe that the pieces of this memory
were fake, I was consistently slammed by powerful attached
emotions-especially grief and love. I also began to vividly remember
the month and a half I’d spent with my baby before her death-those
memories had been completely missing.

In 1994, 1 did try to have DNA tests done on me and my given daugh-
ter, Emily, with her permission. Unfortunately, the person we gave the
samples to (later proven to be CIA-connected) reneged. Since then,
Emily and I have both determined that I probably am not her birth
mother, because our skin tone, hair color, eye color, and physical
stature are dissimilar. Regardless, I carefully reminded her that,
whether or not I’d birthed her, I had raised her as my child and loved
her just as much.

3. This form of excruciating mental torture seems to have been used by other sadists
as well. In their leaflet, Acts of Torture, Sarson and MacDonald reported that a
knife was forced into the hands of Sister Diana Ortiz in November 1989, by one or
more members of the Guatemalan army’s counterinsurgency force. Her torturers
forced her to continue to hold the knife “as they plunged it into another woman and
this horror [was] videotaped for blackmailing purposes.” (pg. 1)

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4. Although I remembered well enough to know ” to my great sadness ” that this
memory was valid, I still had difficulty accepting that my father would do such a
horrendous thing to Rose, Emily, and me. I later learned that baby switching in
Nazi/ Aryan cults is not uncommon. By keeping the children from bonding with
their birth mothers, the cult leaders can more easily bond with and mentally
control the children.

AFTER ROSE’S 9/74 MURDER, 9/27/01

Brainwashed

Immersion

Even though I couldn’t remember my sweet baby’s murder, the
immense emotional pain remained. If I didn’t find a way to block it all
out, I would die. My escape was to fixate on The Walk’s teachings.
I spent most of my waking hours in a trance state, making the cult’s
“spiritual” world my only reality. Nothing else mattered anymore. By
then, the construction of our church’s new, one-story building in North
Chicago had been completed. Pastor Bob named it “Ecclesia
Fellowship.” Since Albert refused to go to church anymore, other members
transported me and Emily as often as needed.

The congregation had become my safe family, and I felt at home
whenever I was with them. Pastor Bob and Barbara became my spiritual
parents. Because I believed they loved and cared about each of us, I did
whatever they said. Some of the women taught me how to sew, cook, and
do basic household chores. In effect, they became my mothers.

After about a year, Bob and Ann-Marie tired of how we took
advantage of their free hospitality. They insisted we find another place to
live. We found a cheap attic apartment in a large old house at 14 Jefferson
Avenue in downtown Waukegan. Unfortunately, because we’d moved
near Lake Michigan, the temperature changes were more severe. One
winter’s night, the outside temperature dropped to 60 degrees below zero
with the wind chill factor.

Alone and isolated during weekdays, I grew paranoid about being
attacked by Satan and his hordes of demons, especially the big, bad ones
that Apostle Stevens called “Nephelim.” Since I didn’t have a job
anymore, I did intercessory prayer for hours on my knees each day,
prayerfully fighting invisible demons that our leaders said were
constantly attacking us from the spiritual realm.

The leaders also told us that every word we spoke as sons of God
had the power to become reality. For this reason, I feared if I said I felt
like I might be getting the flu, I’d accidentally speak the illness into
existence!

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115

I didn’t want to dirty my spirit with earthly information and demonic
influences from “Babylon” (normal society). Now, at the leaders’ encour-
agement, printed literature and taped sermons from the Walk became
my primary sources of information about the outside world. I believed
I was as happy as I could ever hope to be, since I was drawing so close
to God.

Energy Exchange

During praise and worship services at Ecclesia Fellowship, we were
told to raise our hands. We sang any way we wanted, especially in
“tongues” that sounded remarkably like baby babbling. We were told that
when we prayed in tongues, the Holy Spirit was sweeping into the
building, filling our spirits like oil being poured into lanterns. We were told
that this would prepare us, Jesus’ spiritual bridesmaids, for the impending
wedding of Christ and the Church. We were told that, by becoming more
holy, pure and obedient-filling ourselves with the “living word of God”
(mostly from Stevens), we would hasten Jesus’ return to the earth to
reclaim his spiritual bride (us), and to set up his new kingdom.

Sometimes, as we prayed together in church services, we were
instructed to hold our palms outstretched toward whomever the leaders
prayed for. We were told to send the power of the Holy Spirit from our
bodies, through our hands, to them to give them strength, healing, or
deliverance from demonic influences.

I often experienced a physical exchange of energy after church
services. In the back of the sanctuary, Barbara and other seasoned female
members hugged me and others, chest-to-chest. When they did, I felt
strong energy flow from the center of my torso to theirs, and back again.
As the energy flowed, we comfortably swayed back and forth in rhythm
with it.

I never sensed that this practice was sexual-the energy transfer felt
clean and pure. Sometimes the force of the flow was so strong, it
knocked us away from each other. When it did, we stood there quietly,
praying and swaying peacefully until we’d recovered our faculties. We
were pleased that the Holy Spirit was channeling so strongly through us!

We were also instructed to pray for people who were not in the building,
and to visualize where they were, what they were doing, and what their

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special needs were. If we had a “prophetic” vision about a person we
prayed for, we were to walk up onto the stage where Pastor Bob and the
elders stood and share the vision with the rest of the congregation.
Because my heart pounded rapidly nearly every time I thought of walking
up onto the stage, I usually remained silent.

One night, in a rented room in a small commercial building in
downtown Waukegan, Barbara set up a meeting where church members
viewed a film that showed how physical energy transferred from
one human body to another. It focused on scientific Russian experiments,
in which individuals were instructed to interact with each other while
their energy fields were filmed. We watched energy move from one
person to another. As one couple interacted sexually, their auras
even changed in size, shape, color, and intensity. Fascinated, I wondered
why more people didn’t know about energy exchanges and energy-field
auras.

Submission

Because I still believed Albert was God’s mantle of authority over me,
and because he continued to give me prophecies from God when we
prayed in our large, airy, wooden-floored bedroom at night, almost
everything he demanded, I did. Even when he told me to do things I
didn’t feel good about, I continued to obey him.

The only time I disobeyed him was when people with higher authority
gave me different instructions. These instructions came from Pastor Bob,
Barbara, the elders, and Apostle Stevens (through taped sermons and rare
visits to Ecclesia).

I’d been conditioned throughout my childhood to obey Dad.
Disobedience wasn’t allowed. Now, because Albert was my primary
male authority figure, I obeyed him.

Albert was often cynical, demeaning, and abusive towards me; he had
a cruel temper. If I didn’t immediately obey his commands, he screamed
at me and made life hell until I fully complied.

Another reason for my obedience was that I was dependent on him.
I didn’t have a car and was phobic about driving in traffic, not knowing
that some of my hidden alter-states had been driving for years. 1 I also
didn’t know how to use a bank account or write checks because Albert

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handled all of our money. I felt worthless, believing I couldn’t survive
without his help and guidance.

My submission towards Albert was reinforced within the Walk. Our
leaders and some of the women-especially Barbara-taught us that we
must obey our husbands, because rebellion against their God-ordained
authority would bring demons into our homes, and would put our
children in danger of becoming ill, demon-possessed, or even dead.

Following Barbara’s example, some of us even wore white lace
Spanish mantillas on our heads to publicly display our submission to our
husbands and church elders.

We were constantly taught that if we obeyed our husbands, God would
honor our obedience and would miraculously manipulate them to treat
us right. Since we were encouraged to read Church of the Living Word
literature and were discouraged from reading the Bible on our own, I didn’t
know that the leaders often used scriptures out of context to manipulate
and control us.

We were instructed to listen to cassette tapes of sermons, especially
those given by Apostle Stevens, several times a week. He and other leaders
told us we must listen to each tape at least three times in a row, so the
“living word of God” would “go down into our spirits.” Over a period of
three years, I purchased and listened to hundreds of tapes, allowing the
leaders’ teachings to bypass my critical thinking. I wanted God’s “living
word” to fill and transform me.

In their sermons, many of the leaders-especially Stevens-used a
combination of Ericksonian hypnotic techniques and Neuro Linguistic
Programming (NLP). 2 Whether this was accidental or intentional, most
of their sermons were so irrational and metaphorical, they created a
spiritual fantasyland in my mind that became more real to me than the
physical world.

The leaders taught that demons could come into our homes through
worldly literature and television programs. Following their teachings,
I used cooking oil to anoint our television, doorways, windows,
pillowcases, mail, and more. I would do whatever it took to keep my
family safe.

Each night, I placed our tape recorder next to Emily’s bed and played
Stevens’ messages as she fell asleep, so the Spirit-breathed (pneuma)
word of God would fight off any demons that she was too young to
recognize.

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Alone with Emily in our apartment on weekdays, I “danced in the
spirit,” stomping and twirling as I sang to God “in tongues.” I didn’t care
what she or our downstairs neighbors thought. Stevens and other leaders
had taught us that such dancing and singing were inspired by the Holy
Spirit. We were taught that it would please God, since He had been
pleased when King David had publicly danced in praise to Him. I wanted
to be as close to God as King David had been!

Insanity

Behind the walls of our attic apartment were thick layers of residue
and feces from years of roach infestation. At night, when I walked into
our large kitchen and turned on the light, they scattered into cracks and
crevices. Every time I opened a drawer, they dropped egg sacs as they
scurried away into the darkness. The feces, egg sacs and crawling bugs
nearly drove me out of my mind. Albert refused to let me use chemical
sprays to control them. He said they’d make his hair fall out, and then
he’d go crazy. 3 I tried to work with him by using natural remedies to
make the roaches go away, but they did no good.

Appalled by the infestation, a new landlord hired two men to
thoroughly spray all of the apartments. When the men finished, insecti-
cide dripped down the sides of the doorway between Emily’s narrow
bedroom and the kitchen. Albert freaked out and wouldn’t let us walk
through it. After the chemical dried and we did walk through it, Albert
insisted we take off our clothes and wash them immediately, so that any
chemicals that touched our clothes wouldn’t get near his head. Because
we couldn’t yet afford to use the Laundromat down the street, I washed
our “contaminated” clothes in our big cast-iron bathtub and hung them
in the enclosed back stairwell to dry.

Each time the exterminators sprayed our apartment, Albert insisted
I wash the doorways and any other parts of the apartment that the spray
had contacted. I had to throw away the cleaning rags, then scour the sink
and bathtub to remove every last trace of the chemicals. Still, he was con-
vinced that residual insecticide was on my hands. Although I washed
them many times, he never let me touch his head again.

One day, Dad’s mother sent me an unexpected birthday present: two
beautiful rugs she’d crocheted by hand. I treasured them, knowing they’d

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taken her many hours to make. I decided to put them on our kitchen floor.
Unfortunately, Albert believed our shoes were also contaminated by the
chemicals on the wooden doorways. After we’d walked on Grandma’s
rugs, he ordered me to throw them in the garbage. I cried and begged
him to please let me wash them, but he refused. Although I obeyed,
I never forgave him and grieved losing this precious connection to my
grandmother.

He soon developed another phobia towards the acid inside car batteries.
He was convinced that it, too, would make his hair fall out and make him
go crazy. If I walked within several feet of a closed car hood, I had to
wash my purse and all of its contents. If Albert had an especially bad day,
I had to throw my purse into the trash in a sealed plastic bag, so the trash
container wouldn’t be contaminated.

Albert’s logic had no logic, and yet it dictated our daily lives. Every
time I had to dispose of another “contaminated” personal possession,
I felt more anger towards him.

At times, I also appeared insane. After Emily started walking,
I decided she needed a pet and adopted a small calico kitten. Soon, it
started stalking and pouncing at Emily, claws bared. Something in me
snapped. I felt an irrational need to protect Emily from it. First, when it
pounced at her, I picked it up and shoved it across the floor, away from
her. Then I started throwing it a little harder. One day, I totally lost
control. I threw it so hard, it thudded into the far wall.

After that, it stayed away from me, making an eerie howl that
made the hairs on my arms stand up. I was deeply ashamed of what
I’d done to the poor kitten, especially since I didn’t know why I’d
done it. I enlisted a man from church to come and take it away. He
looked disgusted when I wouldn’t admit that I was responsible. I didn’t
know that I’d flashbacked and seen it as a danger to Emily, because
I’d been forcibly exposed to frightening wildcats as a child. I felt like a
monster.

On another occasion, convinced by Barbara that I must cleanse
my intestines to make my body purer and more acceptable to God,
I began giving myself a coffee enema every day. Sometimes I did it
when Albert was home. Although it disgusted him, I refused to stop
since Barbara’s authority was higher than Albert’s. Starved for a
father’s love, I was determined to do whatever it took to make God love
me more.

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Notes

1. Such schisms in my overall personality weren’t unusual. Often, if I had a phobia
that kept me from doing something that most people could comfortably do, I’d
have a hidden alter-state that had compartmentalized the ability to do it. For
instance, as the host alter-state, I was terrified of heights. And yet, I had at least one
alter-state that wasn’t afraid of dropping down from one open-air apartment bal-
cony to the next, many stories high.

2. Dick Sutphen explained why, although is a powerful tool for mental control, we’ve
heard so little about it:

The concepts and techniques of Neuro-Linguistics are so heavily
protected that I found out the hard way that to even talk about them
publicly or in print results in threatened legal action. Yet Neuro-
Linguistic training is readily available to anyone willing to devote the
time and pay the price. It is some of the most subtle and powerful
manipulation I have yet been exposed to. A good friend who recently
attended a two-week seminar on Neuro-Linguistics found that many of
those she talked to during the breaks were government people.
(Sutphen, pg. 13)

3. Chances are good that Albert suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
(OCD). Although some people with this mental disorder are obsessed with protect-
ing themselves from germs and constantly wash their hands, in Albert’s mind,
chemicals were the invisible enemy.

Memory Manipulation

Temp Jobs

The more time I spent with Emily, the more I enjoyed and was
fascinated by her. I no longer believed that demons inhabited her body.
I was ignorant, however, about child development. Treating her as I’d
been treated as a child, I didn’t use baby talk and expected her to reason
as an adult. Nonetheless, I marveled at her cuteness and her excitement
as she explored the world around her.

Unfortunately for both of us, I was not yet in control of several “Mom”
alter-states that did some of the more benign things to Emily that Mom
had done to me. For instance, in public, I secretly pinched Emily to make
her obey me, not understanding that I was actually conditioning her to
fear me. Whenever she cried in a restaurant, I took her into the bathroom
and spanked her on her rear, not understanding that I should instead find
out what her need was. I was convinced that she was rebelling against my
authority whenever she failed to do what I told her.

I even spanked her when she refused to repeat a prayer after me. I didn’t
understand that at the toddler stage, part of the child’s personality devel-
opment includes saying no. Any time she rebelled, I believed-based
mostly on Barbara’s teachings to the women-that a new demon in Emily
was making her do it. I was convinced that I must spank Emily to keep
her from giving the demon more power-after all, we were taught that
demons could kill our children!

Whenever I spanked, pinched, or otherwise hurt Emily, I always felt
horrible afterwards. And yet, because I didn’t understand why I did some
of those things, I created false rationalizations for my abusiveness. I was
too frightened of myself to acknowledge my guilt and loss of control.

In one good way, I bonded closely with Emily. Unfortunately, I let it
go on for too long-perhaps bonding her too closely to me. Because of the
radical teachings of several pastors’ wives in the La Leche League,
I breast-fed her until she was two-and-a-half. I was taught not to stop
until she didn’t want it anymore. They said it should be up to the baby,
not the mother.

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After she’d weaned herself, Pastor Bob and Albert told me it was time
for me to get a job. I didn’t see how that was possible-how would we
pay for a babysitter? I was touched when several church members
offered to baby-sit for free. At the time, I believed they would be best
for her because they were filled with the Holy Spirit. Now, I wonder if
that was a mistake. After all, most of them were as “spiritually”
psychotic as I!

I started working through Jobs, Inc., a temporary employment agency
in downtown Waukegan. Because I’d taken two years of typing classes in
high school, I was assigned to various departments at the sprawling
Abbott Laboratories pharmaceutical facility in North Chicago.
Sometimes, on a new assignment, I was led to an empty desk and given
magazines to read for days at a time. I didn’t understand that some of
those temp jobs were cover positions for covert ops.

Op Preparations

Sometimes, when I was to be sent out on an op, Albert personally
drove me to meet with professional handlers. At other times, handlers
picked me up at home and drove me to buildings where I was hypnotized
and tricked into believing I was at a regular job. I reported to many
buildings and offices during the next two decades.

Because the handlers didn’t want me to remember the exteriors of the
buildings they transported me to, I was not allowed to look out the
vehicle’s windows. If I did, one of the handlers either tortured me with a
stun gun-usually on one of my forearms, or painfully pressed on a pressure
point near my neck or shoulder. 1

Sometimes, they made me lie on the sedan’s back floor, face-down.
Sometimes they transported me in car trunks. When they transported me
in the back of white, windowless panel vans, I was usually strapped to a
gurney with an IV in my arm to keep me sedated.

One method they used to block out memories of civilian air flights was
code-named “Sound Of Silence” programming. To do this, programmers
created a “Helen Keller” alter-state that was certain she was blind, deaf,
and unable to speak. When in this altered state of consciousness, I was
led by the hand by my assigned handlers in and out of planes and airports.
Even though my eyes were wide open, I literally was unable to see. 2

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Part of this programming was accomplished through hypnosis paired with
the threat that if I did see any identifiers that indicated which flight I’d
been on, or if I heard anything that would do the same, I would be killed.
Therefore, to stay alive, I unconsciously chose not to see and hear.

By triggering out a succession of alter-states for each op, my handlers
ensured that each participating alter-state contained only one piece of the
whole experience. That increased the fragmentation of my op memories,
which is one reason why the memories eventually emerged in so many
bits and pieces.

Most of the op briefings were routine. Usually, I was led to a desk in
a commercial building, and was told that the desk was mine. I was so
drugged or hypnotized, I believed I was at my regular office job. Another
handler, posing as my supervisor, placed a stack of files on the desk in
front of me, or on a shelf above it. 3 An alter-state was triggered out by
the sight of a red-jacketed manila file in the stack. That op trained
alter-state opened the file consisting of a printed dossier, one or more
black-and-white 8- 1/2 X 1 1 s of the intended male target, and other pages
of printed information.

To the best of my knowledge, each dossier stated that the “target” had
recently raped children, women, or both. Sometimes it stated that the tar-
get had just been released from prison and was an “imminent danger to
society.” My op parts believed that my duty as an American citizen was
to “take him out.” A simpler command from a handler was: “Do him.”
We both understood that “do” meant “kill.”

After one alter-state read the file, another op-trained alter-state was
also triggered out and briefed, to ensure that at least two op-trained parts
always had the information necessary to complete the assignment.
This ensured that if one part accidentally submerged into unconsciousness
during the op, the other part could then be triggered out via a tiny
transceiver that the handler had placed in my right ear.

The male professionals who briefed me often increased my deep store
of volcanic rage towards men by ordering me to get down on my knees
and perform oral sex on them before they sent me to perform the op.

I was then transported by car, van, truck, motor home, ambulance, plane,
jet, boat, cargo ship, mini- submarine (ideal for rivers), or helicopter to
perform the op.

I have also had numerous memories of having been in groups
of American tourists that supposedly participated in guided tours in

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various countries. It seems that this was an overseas cover that not
only made me seem innocuous; it also ensured the happy cooperation
of my “tourist” alter-states. After all, who wouldn’t want to go on
free overseas vacations?

“Husbands”

My professional handlers couldn’t risk my breaking free from their
control in the middle of a mission. If a male handler could convince a
female, emerging alter- state that the handler was my legal husband, then
that alter-state would more likely obey his commands without argument.
Most of my op trained alter-states didn’t know that Albert was my hus-
band. Instead, when they emerged, they believed whatever they were told.
Some of the “husband” handlers took further advantage of my parts’ igno-
rance by having sex with them after an op was completed, ensuring that
those alter-states would more likely obey them on future assignments.

While preparing to take me home, my handlers always did a full body
search. They checked my mouth, vagina, rectum, and all of my skin.
They made sure that none of my op alter-states had hidden any clues or
secret messages in or on my body for me to find back home. (Several
parts had been caught using ink pens to write messages on my skin to tell
me, the host alter-state, what was happening.)

Albert and other people close to me, including relatives, supervisors,
and “friends,” helped to cover-up for my absences. Whenever I returned
home, they acted as if I’d never been gone. Their behaviors reinforced
my amnesia.

At home, I wasn’t able to remember having had extramarital sex with
some of my “husband” handlers, since I repressed those experiences too.
I did, however, remember it in my dreams. Because I felt embarrassed by
the vivid orgasmic dreams, I decided they must be from Satan. Although
my sexual needs were no longer being met at home, I still wanted to stay
faithful to Albert so that God would be pleased with me.

Blammo

The following is a journaled memory of a typical op. As usual,
I remembered the memory itself, with no knowledge of how I arrived in

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that location or how I returned home. And as usual, during the event,
I didn’t know who I was or even what year it was. Amnesic, I only knew
what my handlers told me.

I found myself alone in a foreign country, slowly driving along
a narrow, crooked street in a small car. It was right before
dawn. A row of narrow, small, one-story, wooden houses were
on each side of the street. My temporary home base that I
shared with my “husband” (handler) was the last house on the
left. The street was still quiet, but people would soon be
waking up and coming out.

As I drove slowly along the street, I saw that somebody had
placed a detonation device atop the front doorstep of each
house, anticipating that when a person opened their front door
and stepped out, blammo ! The house would be damaged, at the
very least, along with the victim.

I could make out several of these doorstep devices in
the pre-dawn shadows. By our back door, I noticed a stack of
three logs. A long, thin metal pin stuck out beyond the top log,
to be triggered when the solid wooden door pushed open
against it.

My first thought was for the man I called my husband, and the
small, brown-haired, intelligent girl staying in the house with
us. I believed she was our daughter. Though our “marriage”
was a cover, this operative part of me believed in the reality of
the arrangement.

The husband had short, straight brown hair, and was grizzled
from lack of sleep. Muscular and clever, he knew how to
disassemble bombs.

As prearranged, I drove on past the house, and pulled the little
car around into an industrial area for a hastily-called rendezvous
with him. He had just come back from a quickie assignment.
I told him about the bombs I had seen, and begged him,
“Come on, let’s get out of here nowl”

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He gave me a grim look; taking it as a personal challenge,
he was determined to stay behind and disassemble every
bomb.

“Just because you know how to do it,” I said, “doesn’t mean
you have to be the one to do it!”

As we stood arguing about what to do, two of the houses
detonated from the doorstep bombs.

“Come on! It’s not worth dying for!”

He wasn’t going to go away with me, so I told him I wanted to
take our daughter out of there to a safe place, before she got
blown up too. We had another car, a station wagon with brown
side panels, sitting next to the left side of the house, parked
in the wet, leaf-covered dirt. When I suggested taking the
station wagon, he shrugged, then gave me instructions about
where to go next.

I tried one more time to get him to come with us, but I saw a
gleam in his eye as he sought out the pin in the log on the back
porch. The man was too far gone.

After he safely dissembled our log bomb, I entered the house,
picked up the sleepy child, wrapped her in a red blanket, carried
her outside, and lay her gently on the shiny brown leather seat
in back. “There, now, honey, just take a little nap while I drive.
We’re going on a trip.”

As I drove slowly away from the danger zone with the child
lying quietly in the back seat of the car, I felt nostalgic, yearning
for the man I had left behind. I also reached the sad realization
that it may very well be the last time I would see him.

Movie Screens

After most covert ops, the professional handlers had to ensure that
I would not remember what had occurred. One way they did this was

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127

by implanting fake “screen memories” in my mind that blocked out
previous legitimate memories.

One type of screen memory was implanted at a location that I believe
I was taken to after ops, to be debriefed. The Janus building was in
Washington, DC. According to a photograph still in my possession, its
street number was 1666. 4 The theater section was on the bottom floor of
this multi-story building. The outside marquee sported two masks, one
laughing and one sad, representing the dual faces of Janus, a mythological
god. The concept of Janus was regularly used in my CIA mental
programming because I lived two completely different lives, one at home
and the other in the field.

At that building, I was usually taken upstairs first to a small, plain- walled
office. The assigned debriefer, usually a clean-cut Caucasian man
wearing a black business suit, triggered out every alter-state that had been
conscious during the op and transportation. Each part told him what that
part remembered. The parts knew that lying could lead to being
tortured, so they were careful to tell the truth. They were not, however,
averse to holding back pertinent information that could lead to their
being tortured for having screwed up.

Afterwards, I was taken downstairs into the empty movie theater.
While I watched a movie, a male handler sat to my right and carefully
monitored my responses to what I saw and heard. Because I was in a
trance state and was sometimes drugged, I believed the movie was really
happening. Sometimes, the man added verbal hypnotic suggestions to
make the movie seem more real.

Whoever chose these movies seemed to look for anything in them that
could parallel at least one or two details they knew I’d experienced during
the previous op. They understood that my future retrieval of memories of
repressed events would work backwards. In other words, because of how
my memory was naturally stored and retrieved, I would remember the
most recent part of a series of experiences before remembering what had
previously occurred. This means I would remember the movie screen
memory before I’d remember the real op preceding it. If the movie seemed
unrealistic, I’d be so confused by my memory of it, I’d think I was psy-
chotic and therefore wouldn’t believe the op memory if it emerged later.

Sometimes I was led into a plain-walled room-perhaps at a
different location. I was told to sit in a small, tireless car that had been
placed in front of a movie screen. Two more same- sized, white screens

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were attached to each side wall. Sometimes, instead of sitting in the tireless
car, I was instructed to pedal a stationary bicycle or run on a treadmill,
again surrounded by the three movie screens. Regardless of the mode of
fake transportation, the scenery moved as I “drove” the car, pedaled the
bicycle, or ran on the treadmill.

Sometimes when I pressed down on the car’s brake, the moving
scenery didn’t slow down. I watched in terror as the car plunged off a
cliff and crashed into the ground below. Each time I believed that I’d
died, and then wondered why I could still see and think.

Using the bicycle or treadmill was also crazy-making because at first,
as I pedaled or ran, I was going at the same speed as the fast-moving
automobile traffic on the wide road that I believed I was also on (really,
the traffic was on the screens). Then suddenly, the cars on the screens
would seem to zoom around me and I believed I’d somehow lost my
strength and energy to keep up. Each time, I panicked and felt ashamed.
Because I believed I was on real roads with unfamiliar numbered signs,
I worried. Where was I, how could I keep up with the traffic, and how
would I ever get home?

These particular screen memories were especially effective in blocking
my memories of having previously driven, in an alter-state, to specified
locations.

Before the advent of virtual reality, Dad had preferred using what he
called “acted-out scenarios” to implant screen memories in the minds of
victim- slaves. Sometimes he and other alleged operatives contracted
with established Hollywood actors and actresses to participate in these
mock scenarios. At other times, they used people the victims would never
see or meet in regular life. 5

Dad believed by using all of a victim’s senses during an acted-out
scenario, the victim would be more convinced that the retrieved memory
of the acted-out scenario was a fully legitimate event.

In the 1990s, my way of determining whether or not a remembered
event had been acted-out was to review the expressions on the faces of the
other participants. I usually could remember a bit of a sneer, or a smile in
the eyes of a participant who should have been upset or frowning if the
event weren’t legitimate. Another clue was if I’d felt woozy or drugged
during the event. During a real op, I would not have been drugged.

The implantation of another type of screen memory went like this: by
phone, a male handler would instruct one of my alter-states to meet him at

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the ornate carousel atop a small hill in Six Flags Over Georgia, a large
amusement park near Atlanta. Not knowing I was being controlled, I’d tell
Albert I was going to the park for the day to “have fun.” When I approached
the carousel, its lights and calliope (organ) music and its rotation and the up
and down movement of the horses quickly put me into a deep trance. 6

Then the man walked towards me and triggered out a compliant
alter-state that recognized him and enjoyed being with him. From there,
he took me on another overseas assignment.

After the op and my debriefing, he brought me back to the carousel, had
me watch it again until I tranced, then implanted a verbal hypnotic sugges-
tion that blocked out all memory of the op. Finally, he melted into the crowd.

When I “came to” and drove home, I didn’t know I’d been gone for sev-
eral days. At home and at work, Albert and other local handlers helped
to convince me that I hadn’t missed any time at all.

Memory Scrambles

Some handlers hypnotically tricked my mind into seeing something
that was not there, or tricked me into seeing something as other than what
it really was. When I first remembered having been hypnotized that way,
I felt embarrassed and scared. I didn’t want to believe anyone could fool
my mind so easily! 7

Stateside handlers used several “themes” to keep me compliant. One
hypnotic trick was to make me “see” flowing molten lava outside a build-
ing, so I didn’t dare leave it. (An adult alter-state related that this had
originally been created in my mind when handlers made that alter-state
walk on a bed of burning coals while in a deep trance.)

Some handlers told me to look out a multi- story office building’s plate
glass window at a cloud in the sky. They said the cloud was an approach-
ing tornado. They knew that because of my Wizard of Oz programming,
I had a strong fear of tornados. Sometimes they laughed so hard they
doubled over, tears streaming down their faces, as I frantically yelled at
them to follow me, then ran down several flights of stairs to the lowest
level and hid there. At other times, if a helicopter were landing nearby,
they mentally tricked me into believing it was another tornado. 8 Because
the rotors created a strong gust and were noisy, hypnotically tricking me
into seeing a tornado instead of the copter wasn’t difficult. 9

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Notes

1. Although Groome, et al, described how a head concussion can temporarily negate a
person’s ability to retain bits and pieces of new memory, their description of its
effects may also explain why the electrical effects of stun guns kept me and other
slave-operatives from retaining certain information: “In all probability the contents
of the STM [short-term, temporary] working memory at the time of the accident are
lost because they have not yet been transferred to the LTM [long-term, permanent
memory storage], and the STM working memory (which depends on conscious
awareness) is put out of action during the period of unconsciousness.” (pg. 161)

2. Some followers of Sigmund Freud would probably call this, “hysterical blindness.”

3. I’ve had hundreds of flashbacks of “coming to” while sitting at a strange desk,
surrounded by unfamiliar office workers, then opening a file and panicking because
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it.

4. Although 666 is a common symbol used by occult practitioners, some mental
predators who are not occult practitioners have used it and other occult symbols to
frighten and intimidate victims who had been ritually abused.

5. Some mind-control victims have even reported being put in full-scale, fake
UFO’s that were sometimes moved up and down by hydraulics. In the fake UFO’s,
drugged, tranced victims met humans dressed in “alien” costumes. Later, because
of the effects of forcibly administered drugs and Ericksonian hypnosis, the remem-
bering victims weren’t able to differentiate between preceding, legitimate events
and the subsequent acted-out UFO scenarios. They also were not able to recognize
that the “alien abductors” were really human. Although some survivors are con-
vinced that their abductors were aliens because they remember them as having
been unnaturally tall, changing the perceived size of perpetrators in the minds of
victims can easily be accomplished through hypnosis. For example, due to
“Gulliver programming,” I initially remembered some of my persecutors as being
several inches tall!

In the introduction to one of his fascinating books about true conspiracies in the
US, Alex Constantine wrote:

The “Alien” Invasion-a very active cover story for the development of
mind control technology. Supposedly (as those weird syndicated UFO
television programs keep reminding us) alien scientists have voyaged
millions of light years to place CIA implants in the bodies of human
subjects. This incredible cover story is widely believed-yet most
“skeptics” scoff at the notion that human scientists might want to do
the same thing. The aliens have been pounded into the heads of the
American consumer by a slue of books penned by military intelligence
officers (Psychic Dictatorship, pg. xii).

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6. Most mind-control survivors I’ve been in contact with have specifically
remembered being taken by handlers or family members in the US to Disneyland
(in California) or Disney World (in Florida) for programming sessions, as was I.
I suspect this was done to us for a minimum of two reasons: 1) being in such a
trigger-laden environment would easily cause dissociated individuals to regress
into childlike states of consciousness; and 2) the overwhelming colors, shapes,
sights, movement, and sounds-added to mental and physical fatigue-could easily
cause dissociated individuals to go into a lengthy hypnotic trance.

7. Dr. Elizabeth Loftus, a FMSF spokesperson and self-proclaimed “memory expert,”
has generously provided the mind-control survivor community with irrefutable
proof that, by using regression and hypnotic techniques on unsuspecting adult sub-
jects, a professional can convince a fair percentage of them that they either experi-
enced or saw something that didn’t happen the way they remembered, or that they
experienced something that didn’t occur at all. If Loftus could accomplish these
results by using benign, harmless techniques in controlled settings, imagine what
could be implanted in a survivor’s mind by using terror, coercion, sleep deprivation,
food deprivation, hostile environments, drugs, Ericksonian hypnosis, Neuro-
Linguistic Programming (NLP), and more.

8. It would be just as easy to hypnotically implant a screen memory in a victim’s mind
of the helicopter being a UFO.

9. Carla Emery explained this hypnotic technique:

Words act as conditioned stimuli in a totally mechanistic, automatistic
way when the subject is deeply hypnotized. During hypnosis, the con-
scious mind, one of whose functions is to keep us hitched to reality, has
been turned off. The conscious is not there to interpret or deny. The
unconscious is literal and, frequently, obedient. When the subject’s
conscious mind is turned off because of hypnosis, language takes the
place of reality. If the hypnotist says, “You see a cat waltzing alone in
pink pajamas,” you might see exactly that. (pg. 209)

Enslaved

Ecclesia Split

While Albert and I lived in Waukegan, Dad and Mom occasionally
paid for us to either drive or fly to Atlanta to visit them in their separate
homes. Pastor Bob and Richard kept insisting that God wanted us to stay
in Illinois. Angry that I still refused to relocate, Albert started coming
home late at night from nearby taverns. Each time, he was so drunk, the
fumes nearly knocked me out. He’d lie on our mattress on the floor and
cry about how miserable he was. His incessant complaining made me
feel like crap. I tried so hard to please him by being a good and godly
wife; and yet, he still wasn’t happy.

To protect myself from the pain of not being loved or accepted by my
husband, I clung harder to the church and to the Apostle’s teachings.
Pastor Bob, Richard and Barbara assured me if I kept obeying the Word
of God, Albert would eventually submit to their authority. They said that
once Albert obeyed, our family would live in harmony.

We probably would have divorced, had Ecclesia Fellowship not
unexpectedly split. It began when Pastor Bob and Barbara flew to
Anaheim, California, as they’d done several times in the past, to visit
with Apostle Stevens in his home. When they returned home this time,
they were noticeably troubled. The next Sunday, Bob told our congregation
that Stevens was no longer living for God. Barbara later stated that she had
learned-true or not, I don’t know-that Stevens had become an alcoholic,
was committing adultery, and was consulting with astrologers.

Bob said he knew his personal decision to break away from the
Apostle’s authority would not be acceptable to any members who still
chose to follow Stevens. He asked the church members to fast and pray,
asking God what they should do-start a new church with Bob as their
pastor, or stay in the Walk. Many of the younger adults chose to stay in
the Walk under Stevens’s authority. They relocated to a smaller church
that we’d recently helped start in southern Illinois.

Bob’s decision helped to break what I believe was John Robert
Stevens’s long-distance hypnotic control over my mind-and the minds of

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133

many other gullible believers. I was finally free to question what the
Apostle had taught. Elated, Albert demanded that I discard all my Living
Word cassette tapes and printed materials. As I obeyed, I felt as if I were
going into physical withdrawal.

Local Church

A young, red-bearded friend of Albert invited us to go with him to
downtown Chicago to attend church meetings held by another Christian
group that identified itself as the “Church in Chicago.” It was part of an
international religious organization, the Local Church. The Local Church
was led by a small, balding man named Witness Lee. He claimed to have
been a disciple of one of Korea’s famous Christians, Watchman Nee.

At these new meetings, my first lesson in how to pray the Local
Church way was to cluck my tongue once, then say: “Oh . . . Lord . . .
7esus.” The men and women in the Church in Chicago were very
friendly. They used a technique I’ve since learned is called “love bomb-
ing.” Someone always invited us to eat and rest in their home on Sunday
afternoon so we could go to the evening service before returning home.

Atlanta

When I finally agreed to move back to Atlanta, I discovered I’d
accrued enough hours as a temp worker to receive two weeks’ vacation
pay. That same week, a young couple from the Church in Chicago came
to visit us and gave us $300, saying it was from God. I believed these
were signs from God that confirmed we were to return to Georgia.

After we loaded up the car and traveled to Atlanta, Dad and his new
wife invited us to stay in their home in an older subdivision in the out-
skirts of the city.

Local Airport

After several months of living with Dad and his wife, we found a
second-floor apartment at Cumberland Court, a low-rent complex in

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Chamblee, Georgia. Our new apartment was within walking distance of
Dad’s house. It was also close to Peachtree DeKalb Airport, a small air
field used mostly by light planes.

I didn’t know that sometimes I was flown from that airport to be
briefed and prepped for ops. In fact, I had no conscious memory of ever
going there. Although I’ve not yet found any evidence that Dad ever had
a pilot’s license, I’ve had several memories of him flying me from the
airport and back in small aircraft.

I doubted these memories until a private investigator reminded me that
because my father had been a flight engineer during his four-year stint in
the Air Force, he would have known how to fly small planes. Another
professional explained that often when a person “borrows” an owner’s
plane, he gets away with it by not having to present a pilot’s license.

Aryan Cult Network

I was unaware that Dad was manipulating some of my younger alter-
states to go to cult meetings in Atlanta and Cobb County, officiated by
local Aryan associates. Although some of their criminal occult
rituals were similar to what I’d experienced in Pennsylvania, the north
Georgia Aryan network focused more on the manufacturing and sales of
illegal drugs and pornography. Unfortunately, as in Pennsylvania,
pedophilia seemed to be the norm, as was the horrification and torture of
their victims-particularly children and women. Further, I was forced to
help Dad and some of the leaders when they transported children who,
Dad claimed, were being bought and sold through their extensive,
lucrative black marketing network.

In Pennsylvania, Dad’s cult had often used dogs, snakes, and an
occasional circus-trained lion in bestiality porn shoots. The Cobb County
Aryan network’s leaders seemed to prefer using domesticated animals,
including trained dogs, although they also sometimes used tamed wildcats.

Unfortunately, when several children victimized within the network tes-
tified about the wildcats in court in the late 1980s, they were disbelieved.
As with that jury, most people are unaware that owning a large, tamed
wildcat is a status symbol among certain groups of black-marketers. 1

Dad continued to break child victims’ minds, creating pliable altered
states of consciousness they weren’t aware of. In the mid-1970s, Dad had

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easy access to a large, two-story warehouse in Atlanta. On Saturdays, he
and several male associates brought children there to be traumatized and
mentally programmed.

Although he now used mannequins with fake blood to traumatize the
children, he still insisted that the children use knives to kill baby animals
on plain, cafeteria- sized tables. Doing this served several purposes:
1) the children had to suppress their consciences before they could kill
the innocent baby animals; 2) they then developed perpetrator alter- states
that didn’t mind killing; and 3) even if they remembered, they wouldn’t
tell anyone, because Dad and the other men told them everyone would
hate them for killing the animals.

Because the warehouse’s exits were always guarded on the inside by
men, my cult-conditioned alter-states didn’t try to break and run. They
believed there was no escape. Dad was also careful to always make
another alter- state take over whenever I left the building, so I would not
remember what had just occurred inside. And as I was being transported
home, whoever drove me would verbally trigger out several more alter-
states in succession so that, by the time I arrived home, the memory of
the warehouse was completely gone. Dad and his criminal associates
called this technique “information compartmentalization.”

Dad taught several of the local Aryan leaders (including a man I’ll
name “J.C.”) how to trigger out and use several of my child alter-states.
Because these alter-states hadn’t developed mentally or emotionally, they
didn’t feel old enough to be a parent and therefore didn’t accept respon-
sibility for Emily’s welfare. Because Emily had no way of knowing this,
she believed that sometimes her mother didn’t care if those people hurt
her terribly.

Some of the Aryan leaders called themselves “Southern Gentlemen”-
an oxymoron. They told my participating child parts what to do during
hardcore rituals and kiddy porn shoots. The rituals also were used to cre-
ate more screen memories in my mind. When I remembered them in the
early 1990s, their horror blocked out memories of preceding, covert
assignments-for a while.

My forced participation in the Aryan occult rituals was also used to
blackmail some of my adult alter-states into performing more assassinations.
Dad and other professional handlers repeatedly told these parts that if they
went on ops, they wouldn’t have to perform illegal acts in rituals and
wouldn’t have to see more children being hurt. Then they reassured the

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alter-states that the CIA would cover for them at home so they wouldn’t
be arrested for any stateside (ritual and porn) crimes that they were
forced to perform.

Albert also participated in some of the local Aryan occult rituals, and
often transported us to them. He seemed to do whatever Dad wanted,
even taking me to a specialized facility where I was repeatedly drugged
and electro-shocked. This usually was done when I became noticeably
depressed or agitated at home and sat on our carpeted floor in the hall-
way or bedroom, holding my head in my hands and crying out, “I have a
whirlwind in my head!” (These whirlwinds seemed to consist of rapid
thoughts and images that circled nonstop in my mind-some survivors
call this phenomena “rapid switching” of alter-states.)

In the 1990s, when I first remembered Albert’s many betrayals, I felt
hurt and angry. To be fair, however, I had to consider that Dad might have
blackmailed him into compliance and silence.

One reason I think this is possible is that, in the early 1980s, after
Albert suddenly refused to have further contact with Dad, Albert kept
ranting about how when “they” came to get him, he’d “take out” as many
of them as he could before they killed him. At that time, I thought his
mind had snapped-especially when he refused to say who “they” were.
Now, I believe he was terrified that members of the Aryan network might
kill him for breaking away from their control. 2

In spite of Albert’s animosity towards Dad, however, he had a streak
of racism that perhaps helped him feel comfortable around some of the
other white supremacists. He shared many of their beliefs, possibly
because he was raised by a Nazi stepfather.

As an example: when Emily was about six years old, Albert repeatedly
told her and me that if she ever had a “nigger’s” baby, he’d disown her.
He was angry when he said this, irrationally behaving as if she’d already
become pregnant.

Albert nursed a terrible hatred towards Blacks. Sometimes he deliber-
ately drove too close behind small cars driven by elderly Black women,
deliberately terrorizing them and making frightening faces at them. Each
time, I felt so embarrassed, I slid down in my seat. When we’d be near a
Black male, Albert would usually sneer and call the man a “jigaboo.” He
clearly believed that people with darker skin were inferior, and avoided
walking near or talking to any of them.

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Whenever he drove past a government-subsidized housing project in
Lawrenceville, Georgia, he sneered at the Black children playing outside
between the rows of single-story buildings, calling them “yard apes” and
“jungle bunnies.” Because I didn’t remember the Aryan meetings, I didn’t
understand where he got those strange words.

I was alarmed by his behaviors and often felt ashamed to be his wife. He
seemed to be so full of hatred and rage-I prayed constantly to God
to touch his soul and make him the good man I sensed he had the capacity
to be. I wasn’t willing to accept that God can’t force any person to do or
become anything, against that person’s will. I needed many more years to
realize that, unlike most of the male figures in my life, God was not a perp.

Child Victims

Because Dad created and conditioned most of my programmed alter-
states, he knew which buttons to push, which triggers to use, and which
parts to pull out to perform specific activities. He was careful never to
trigger out a child-rescuer part when he wanted me to help him do awful
things to children.

He and his criminal associates enjoyed using victims to harm and
traumatize each other. They reminded me of prison guards who choose
prisoners to harm each other for the guards’ entertainment. By having
victim #1 perform an act against victim #2 while the controller stands in
the shadows or in another room, victim #2 will believe that victim #1 was
responsible.

Forgiving myself for obeying Dad has been hard work. I’ve had to
accept that I was weak. I broke. I reached my limits of endurance again
and again, until I did whatever he and his criminal associates commanded.
Holding onto undeserved guilt has also been a sneaky way to avoid
remembering how weak and helpless I’d felt, having had no control over
the situation.

When Dad made me do terrible things to children, he used a control
technique that he’d first developed when he’d forced me to participate in
murderous rituals as a young child. Each time, Dad gave me a choice
between performing a greater or lesser evil-a classic double -bind. Either
way I went, I ended up believing I was guilty and therefore a monster.

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Based on Dad’s specific instructions, I could either hurt the child, or
he would take over and torture the child before carrying out my original
assignment.

Dad’s threat of torturing a child was always given to me away from
the child’s hearing. The victim had no way of knowing that my disobedience
could lead to the victim’s being brutally tortured. Because Dad made sure
the child saw me participate without a struggle, I believed that each child
saw me as a willing perpetrator. That especially broke my heart.

Because Dad controlled when my cult alter-states came out and when
they went back under, those parts couldn’t stay conscious long enough to
be able to report the crimes. He also ensured my continuing cooperation
by telling those alter-states that if they did report the crimes, they would
go to prison. He never mentioned the word “coercion.”

Because my alter-states didn’t know they were not guilty for what
they’d been forced to do, they believed they were just as guilty and mon-
strous as Dad.

Although those alter-states believed his threats and did whatever he
commanded, the alter-states initially felt different towards J.C., the Cobb
County Aryan leader. They weren’t so sure that he’d carry out similar
threats if they dared disobey.

The first time he told an alter-state what to do to a brown-haired
boy for a porn shoot, that alter-state chose to disobey him rather than
traumatize the boy. Livid with rage, J.C. came into the room, dragged
the boy into another room, and tortured him by using a branding iron
heated red-hot on a portable barbeque grill. Later, J.C. convinced this
alter-state that my rebelliousness had caused the boy to be tortured. The
lesson went deep; all of my cult alter-states obeyed J.C.’s instructions
from then on.

Although they were careful to obey Dad and J.C, these alter-states
still attempted to secretly soothe and comfort the young victims-since
the men didn’t say they couldn’t. If the alter-states believed they weren’t
being watched, they whispered words of encouragement into the chil-
dren’s ears. Seeing no way out, these parts believed they could best help
the children from within the system.

If a child was to be bathed as a preparation for ritual sacrifice, my
parts bathed the child gently and soothingly, looking directly into the
child’s eyes the entire time. These parts knew that for some children,
death was a mercy, compared to what they’d have to endure each day as

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slaves. My parts wanted each child to know that someone did care. They
did the best they could in each evil situation.

My professional handlers knew I would much rather be given pain
than witness children being tortured. And when I was forced to harm
children, I took on the controllers’ disowned guilt as my own.

Notes

1. In the early 1990s, several of the children’s adult relatives told me that a female
therapist in North Georgia, who had believed the children’s stories and had planned
to testify for them, was brutally murdered-officially as the result of a robbery
attempt.

2. Through personal experience, I’ve learned that about 90% of the threats made to
mind-control and ritual abuse victims are never carried out. Oftentimes, perpetrators
believe if they can hurt and terrorize victims while they still have control over them,
then if the victims decide to leave, the internalized terror and memories of torture
and horrification are usually strong enough to influence them to give up and go back
without a single threat being carried out. The use of threats to control the minds of
victims is not an unfamiliar tactic. Time magazine 2/10/97, “By the Book”:

To the growing list of popular “how to” manuals, add this release from the
CIA, recently made public under a Freedom of Information request from
the Baltimore Sun. The agency says it no longer follows the rules of the
124-page 1983 “human resource” handbook, used to train security forces
in Latin American countries, which includes passages on mental torture:
“A threat is basically a means for establishing a bargaining position by
inducing fear in the subject. A threat should never be made unless it is part
of the plan and the ‘questioner’ has the approval to carry out the threat.
When a threat is used, it should always be implied that the subject him-
self is to blame by using words such as, ‘You leave me no other choice
but to . . .’ He should never be told to comply ‘or else!’ The threat of coer-
cion usually weakens or destroys resistance more effectively than coer-
cion itself. For example, the threat to inflict pain can trigger fears more
damaging than the immediate sensation of pain. In fact, most people
underestimate their capacity to withstand pain. In general, direct physical
brutality creates only resentment, hostility, and further defiance.” (pg. 21)

After 9/11, President George W. Bush and numerous other government officials
constantly used the media to attack certain foreign leaders as either being terrorists
or promoters of terrorism. This can be perceived as hypocritical, because what
employees of our government and their associates have done to the minds and lives
of mind-control victims is a working definition of terrorism. The ongoing traumas

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