Unshackled 4

(Continued from https://johndenugent.com/unshackled-3/)

Unshackled

and mental torture perpetrated against these victims literally changed their brain
chemistry. Added to that are the implanted threats that operate 24/7 in their minds,
at least on an unconscious level. The perpetrators’ terroristic threats can still
dictate their actions, dampen their hope, sap their energy and strength, isolate them
from the rest of humanity, and cut short any sense of a future.

Cover Positions

Reinsurance Clerk

As I continued to be taken to rituals and professionally handled on
covert ops, I needed a plausible cover-a seemingly normal life that
would hide the existence of the other activities.

My first full-time job was at a small insurance company in downtown
Atlanta. I was hired to temporarily fill the position of reinsurance clerk,
held by a petite, black-haired woman who handled large sums of premi-
ums paid to reinsurance companies like General Re and Munich
American, to insure the solvency of the policies issued by the agency. The
volatile woman would soon go on maternity leave, and was understandably
outraged that I’d been interviewed and hired without her knowledge.

During my initial training, she deliberately withheld essential informa-
tion to sabotage my success as her replacement. I basically trained
myself while she was gone, using her previous work as my guide.

Both before and after her leave, she screamed at me nearly every day,
making cruel remarks in the presence of the other office workers. Each
time she screamed, I froze. When she finished her tirade, I hurried to the
bathroom to cry. My face was always blotchy and red when I returned to
my desk. Then she smiled triumphantly and berated me more. The other
employees were concerned about me. They didn’t know I wasn’t able to
assert myself with her because I’d been a victim of both men and women
for many years.

Before she returned from her maternity leave, a new supervisor tried
to convince me to be the clerk’s permanent assistant. I declined. To the
best of my knowledge, while I worked there, I was sent out on covert ops
on weekends, when I called in sick (the flu always made a great cover),
or when I was on “vacation.” 1

Maryland Casualty

My next full-time employment was with Maryland Casualty Company
at the insurance company’s regional office located in a sprawling office

141

142

Unshackled

park, north of Atlanta. To the best of my memory, all of my positions at that
company were actively used as covers for my participation in covert ops.

Because nearly all of my supervisors and managers at Maryland
Casualty appeared to be directly complicit in covering-up for my
absences, I couldn’t separate my feelings about the ops from my feelings
about working there. When Albert dropped me off at the front entrance
of the flat-roofed, one-story building, I usually cried. Each time I prepared
to enter the building, an invisible darkness seemed to crush my soul.
I have never forgotten telling Albert that Maryland Casualty reminded
me of the song, Hotel California, “You can check out any time you like,
but you can never leave.” 2

Because my mind was constantly active, typing insurance policies and
endorsements bored me silly. After six months, I transferred to another
room where I worked as a CRT operator for a year and a half, inputting
pages of cryptic codes from insurance policy files. After that, I trans-
ferred to the Commercial Casualty Department located in the front part
of the building. There, I was an insurance policy rater/coder.

Pam, our department’s middle-aged supervisor, was petite with short
auburn hair. I quickly learned to fear her, and tried hard to avoid
angering her. Because Pam’s behaviors reminded me of my childhood
relationship with my mother, I developed an emotionally conflicted
relationship with her. Unfortunately for me, she used my fear of her
anger and stern disapproval, as well as shaming tactics, to keep me under
tight control.

Our department’s manager, Clyde, was a tall, middle-aged man with
short, thinning brown hair. He usually wore a plain, long-sleeved white
shirt, dark suit, and glasses. His bald manager, Fritz, usually sat quietly
in his own cubicle and said little to anyone. Clyde soon became my
substitute father figure.

Pam and Clyde seemed to cultivate similar childlike loyalties in many
of the other young female workers in our department. Pam also used her
religiosity and moral recriminations to keep us compliant. Tension often
built up between those female raters who vied for Pam’s attention and
approval. Because tempers often ran high, a common expression was,
“The shit just hit the fan.”

At that time, if I’d been told that my positions were cover jobs, I would
have said the idea was pure craziness. I didn’t know what I couldn’t
remember.

Cover Positions

143

Because I enjoyed being a rater/coder, I was rarely bored. Whenever
I’d learned everything that I could at my current level of expertise, Pam
encouraged me to attain more training. Since I received a raise every six
months during my employment at Maryland Casualty, I believed I must
be a highly valued worker.

After several years, our regional office transferred to a large new
building near Perimeter Mall, located in a wealthy section of north
Atlanta. The building had a huge multi- story atrium with dining tables,
water fountains, and a long goldfish pond that many employees tossed
pennies into for good luck.

Around that same time, Albert and I hunted for our first house. Still
in control of our money, he claimed we couldn’t afford more than the
most basic home. In August, 1982, we found a tiny new pine-sided,
three-bedroom, one-bath house on Cedars Road, out past the sleepy old
town of Lawrenceville. Although we had no air conditioning in the hot
summer and only small space heaters to warm us in the winter, I was
ecstatic-finally, we had our own home!

Because we now lived an hour’s drive from both of our jobs, Albert
tired of transporting me. For a while, he encouraged me to rely on co-
workers to drive me to work and back. When that was no longer an option,
he agreed to let me purchase a small car of my own. (Still phobic about
driving, I didn’t obtain a driver’s license until I was in my late twenties.)

I chose a new white Mazda GLC hatchback with standard transmis-
sion and blue-gray interior. When Albert tried to teach me how to drive
it on the rural country roads near our home, he made me so nervous,
I insisted on teaching myself. Within hours, I drove fine! I didn’t know
that I’d become co-conscious with an alter-state that had been driving
since I was a teenager.

I felt more in control of my life as I drove to work and back each day.
And yet, at work and at home, I was still being controlled.

Sitting at my desk each day, I helped to process huge stacks of files.
Our copies of the business insurance policies, endorsements (changes),
cancellations, audits, underwriters’ policy renewal instructions, and our
own sheets of coding were stapled inside the off-white manila files.

Any of the files that were jacketed by extra blue or red folders were to
be processed first, because they either had large premiums that needed to
be input on the computer ASAP, or they were so old, we could get in
trouble with state auditors for not having processed them yet. Although

144

Unshackled

I tried to please Pam by working hard and fast, she always seemed to
expect more from me. I usually enjoyed that challenge.

When Pam had first hired me, she’d agreed I would never have to work
overtime. She broke her word when she and Clyde insisted that every
rater must work overtime, either during weekdays or on weekends.

This was a problem, because I was often transported at night to Aryan
meetings, and was exhausted from going on ops, doing my regular job,
driving an hour each way to work and back, and now working overtime.
It was more than my mind and body could endure.

One Saturday, I came to work early in the morning. When I sat down
at my desk, I broke into tears. Surprised, Pam asked what was wrong.
I held out my arm to her and said, “What does Clyde want? My blood?”
Although they let me go home that day, the pressure to work overtime
continued unabated. I was constantly exhausted and sick.

I didn’t know enough about healthy boundaries to recognize that Pam was
overly controlling and intrusive about my personal life. Therefore, I didn’t
think it strange when she told me what to do at home, as well as on the job.

I wanted to believe Pam when she claimed to be a godly Christian.
I couldn’t accept the alternate reality-that she and Clyde not only were
not concerned about my health; they were deliberately using my mental
programming to control and handle me. My belief that Pam was a devout
Christian clashed with the hidden knowledge that she was not what she
claimed to be. That clash created cognitive dissonance in my mind; one
of the two sets of knowledge must be repressed. Believing that Pam was
“good” was preferable to knowing that she was actively and willingly
betraying me.

Because I repressed all memories of Pam and Clyde’s covert activities
as assigned handlers, I was shocked and dismayed when I discovered that
for years, Pam had deliberately withheld information from me that
directly affected my professional future.

Her betrayal fueled my anger, helping me to break loose from her
control. I quietly inquired about rating positions at nearby insurance
companies. An elderly female co-worker told me she’d been hired to
work at Cotton States, another insurance company about a mile away.
At her suggestion, I applied there and was quickly hired.

When I gave Pam my required two-week notice, she was icy cold
and wouldn’t speak to me unless absolutely necessary. Not having
encountered that side of her before, I was deeply hurt. 3

Cover Positions

145

One day, I took some of my personal possessions from my desk outside
to my car during a coffee break. When I returned, Pam furiously yelled at
me in front of the other raters, informing me that from then on, she would
inspect everything I took from my desk. I was stunned by her sudden dis-
trust and by the realization that although I’d worked closely with her for
five years, I didn’t really know her. After that, leaving was easy.

In the 1990s, I pieced together enough information from my journals to
know that much of my seven years of employment at Maryland Casualty
was a front for other activities. To the best of my understanding, I often
reported to work and then left the building-sometimes for days ” to do
covert ops under the control of one or more professional handlers.

Occasionally, Clyde or Pam were my handlers for local activities. I’ve
had several vivid memories of Clyde driving me from Maryland Casualty
to the Fort Gillem Army base south of Atlanta, to meet with spooks in
rooms and corridors hidden beneath one of its small buildings. I’ve also
remembered that on at least one occasion, Clyde personally handled me
on an overseas assignment. I’ve also had numerous memories of Pam’s
involvement in Cobb County Aryan meetings and activities.

One alter-state journaled that Clyde’s manager, Fritz, had privately
told that alter-state that my personnel records had been doctored so if
anyone asked about my unusual number of absences, my records would
show that I was in the Army Reserves. I don’t know if this is true, since
I was never permitted to see that part of my personnel file.

Pam also told some of my alter-states that she covered for my absences
by telling other raters that I’d gone to other branch offices or to the
Baltimore home office for “special training” (I never did). Because Pam
was in charge of our vacation schedules, she chose when I could take
days off. Sometimes, if I felt exhausted from an op, she encouraged me
to take the rest of the day off to recuperate. Not knowing that I’d just
come home from a stress-filled op, I believed her when she said I had a
24-hour virus. 4

On numerous occasions, both Albert and Pam suggested I take Emily
to visit my mother and her second husband in South Carolina. I didn’t know
that after my arrival, they often triggered out alter-states and drove me to
nearby airports to go on more ops while keeping Emily at their house as a
coercive measure, ensuring that I would comply with my assigned handlers.

When I first remembered that my positions at Maryland Casualty
were covers, I was very upset. How could I have been gone for days at

146

Unshackled

a time, leaving my desk at the drop of a hat, with no questions asked?
Damn it, I’d worked hard for my pay! I was a good worker!

As the memories continued to emerge with remarkable consistency and
vividness, I realized I had probably been given semi-annual raises to keep
me from seeking other employment. I also realized that, because of the
way our department’s file distribution system had been set up, any
rater/coder could have easily completed another’s work. This may be one
reason why I had often started working on a complicated file, then had later
discovered it had been completed by someone else-often by Pam herself.

Pam and Clyde had repeatedly reminded the Commercial Casualty
rater/coders that the Baltimore home office required all workers to
maintain and update our bulky, red-jacketed “desk manuals,” so that no
employee would be indispensable. Each desk manual contained indexed,
handwritten, detailed instructions on how to perform any task handled by
any person sitting at that station. In other words, any person could have
completed my files while I was away.

When I finally accepted that my employment there had been a cover,
I felt miserable. Pam had repeatedly told me I was one of their best work-
ers. What a blow to discover I probably wasn’t! Worse, Albert had been
actively complicit. My bosses, Albert, my mother and her husband,
Dad . . . had anyone in my life not betrayed me?

Even several co-workers, who Pam had assigned to drive me to work
and back and to befriend me away from work, had been used to help
transport me for ops !

I’d been raised from early childhood to believe that my value as a
human was based on what I did, instead of who I was. Learning that
I hadn’t earned my pay was a powerful blow to my fragile self-esteem.

Cotton States

After I left Maryland Casualty and started working at Cotton States, I
felt better about myself. We were treated with respect, and our employ-
ment benefits were excellent. Although I still don’t know if my position
there was a cover, I’ve consistently remembered that at least two super-
visors had also handled me away from the building. I’ve also repeatedly
remembered having taken solo walks outdoors during lunch breaks,
strolling around the white Marriott hotel less than a block away. On the

Cover Positions

147

far side, I met briefly with a male spook who waited for me in a white
car. Each time, I gave him information and he gave me new instructions.

Covert Activities

When I had worked at Maryland Casualty, several of my professional
handlers had come there during the day to transport me. Although I
didn’t recognize them as they walked towards my desk, some of my
alter-states emerged, happy to be with them again. With a nod from
Clyde or Pam, these parts followed the handlers out to their waiting
vehicles.

One of my regular handlers claimed to be with the CIA’s Directorate
of Operations. He was fairly handsome and charismatic with short,
blond hair. He called himself “Jed,” which he said was short for
“Jedediah”-I’m sure that was an alias.

When he came there to transport me, Jed usually drove a sporty white
Jaguar. He convinced several of my female alter-states that he was my legal
husband. Because those alter-states didn’t know of my life at home and
didn’t know that Albert was my husband, they believed Jed. Compliance
came easy, because he gave those alter-states gentle, attentive sex.

These op alter-states loved going on trips with Jed and other alleged
CIA handlers. One of Jed’s sidekicks was a heavyset, wide-built man
with fairly short, slightly wavy orange-red hair and a full beard. I rarely
met with Jed in his office (if it really was his), without the red-bearded
man standing close by-perhaps for extra protection.

When Jed called me at home, he first played the recording of a fax
machine’s wavy tones. My mind always short-circuited when I heard those
tones, because one should hear them when calling a phone number that has
an active fax machine. (We didn’t have one in our home.) The resulting
cognitive dissonance quickly put me into a trance. Then Jed spoke, and one
of my CIA-loyal parts emerged to do exactly as he commanded. 5

Once in a while, Dad acted as my local assigned handler. After trigger-
ing out a compliant alter-state over the phone, he gave that part specific
instructions. Albert never intervened or argued when those parts said they
had to leave. Each time, Dad told the triggered-out traveler alter-states
that if they didn’t do exactly what he and the other handlers said, he
would personally kill Emily.

148

Unshackled

Believing my father’s threat, each alter-state obediently drove to a con-
tact point where an awaiting handler triggered out another alter-state to
begin the next leg of the journey. These adult alter-states instinctively
knew I couldn’t survive the pain of losing another precious child.
Although they hadn’t emotionally bonded with Emily, they understood
that if I died, so would they-since we inhabited the same body.

Although my handlers used my compartmentalized rage to do kills,
that powerful emotion rarely emerged away from their control. In fact,
I would often isolate or walk long distances, alone, to keep from hurting
anyone if I felt angry. If it did unexpectedly emerge at home, I either told
Emily to go to a friend’s house, or to lock herself in her bedroom from
the inside. Although we both knew I could easily use a wire hanger to
open it, the temporary barrier gave me enough time to regain control and
avoid hurting her.

My rage had been with me for many years. When I was fourteen, I had
stabbed my oldest brother in the forearm with the pointed end of my
styling comb after a ritual alter-state was accidentally triggered out while
watching a TV movie, Brothers of the Bell. After I came back to con-
sciousness, I was horrified at what I’d done, and cried and begged him to
please not tell our parents. As far as I know, he never did. 6

As an adult, the closest I’d ever come to consciously hurting a man
was when Albert approached me menacingly in our bedroom in
Lawrenceville one afternoon in a fit of rage. He shoved me backwards
onto our bed, his fist balled, ready to punch me. An op alter-state
emerged, raised my knees to my chest, pushed my feet against his mid-
section, then lifted and slammed him backwards into the wall. I was
astonished and pleased that I’d done this to him; in turn, he never tried to
physically assault me again.

Before my recovery, none of my assassin alter-states had emerged at
home. When Dad murdered Rose, a new adult part had split off from my
consciousness. Dad and other professional handlers code-named that
male part, “Dark.” He visualized himself as tall and muscular. He’d inter-
nalized Dad’s overwhelming, murderous personality, to make himself
equal to and unafraid of Dad. To keep that part under control and separate
from my consciousness, Dad and others tortured him with electricity.

After the severe electrical torture, this alter-state was unable to
connect with me or any other alter-state. He was also emotionally discon-
nected from the rest of humanity. He served only one function: to kill.

Cover Positions

149

Once in a while, local handlers took this alter-state to a private home
in Cobb County. In warm weather, the back yard contained a garden full
of flowers and vegetable plants. Sometimes the handlers instructed this
alter-state to take care of the plants by watering them and weeding
around them. Although he wasn’t capable of emotionally connecting
with humans, this alter-state did develop a bond with “his” plants,
perhaps because they subconsciously represented Rose.

When my professional handlers wanted this part to perform an espe-
cially reprehensible assassination, they took him back to the garden and
forced him to stand and watch as they used a flame-thrower to cremate
the plants. That killed what was left of the alter-state’s ability to bond
with any living creature.

After that, he was a stone cold killing machine with zero remorse or
guilt. His only remaining pleasure was in doing each job well. Although
he hated and despised everything that lived, he hated and despised
himself most of all. And although he had a strong survival instinct, he
dreaded facing another day of totally dark existence. He held the greatest
emotional and psychic pain of any of my parts and was, more than any
other alter-state, the wandering dead.

Some of my other specialized black op parts had been trained to disarm
and kill hostage takers by pretending to be intellectually challenged.
Those parts had no fear of weapons, having been taught that most peo-
ple who hold a loaded gun are just as afraid as the targeted individual.

Although I was never allowed access to a gun at home, I used various
kinds on ops. Since my forearms and wrists weren’t as strong as a man’s,
I was more comfortable using smaller handguns. Because my aim was
excellent (grey eyes are a plus), using a smaller-caliber weapon wasn’t a
handicap.

I was fortunate to also have the ability to see bullets coming at me
in slow motion. I always had enough time to shift my body so they went
past me. 7

I also speeded up, physically and mentally, during dangerous ops. This
may have been due to a powerful adrenaline rush paired with the effects
of repetitive training. While my opponents fumbled for their guns, I’d
already taken aim and formulated my next moves. While they were still
raising their guns to shoot me, I easily picked off one or two of them.

These special abilities were invaluable, because I could go after more
than one man at a time in a hazardous situation and come out alive

150

Unshackled

and unharmed. Most of my spook handlers were so cowardly, they sent
me in alone to take care of a situation during sniper and hostage interven-
tions. My op alter-states never complained, however, because they’d
been conditioned to believe they were disposable and dispensable. They
fought to survive each op so they could go home, not knowing where
home was.

During some nighttime ops, I emerged from a van (usually white,
unmarked, and paneled) that my handlers parked out of sight, a block or
two from a target’s house. One of the handlers in the van monitored me
via a tiny two-way radio device, reminiscent of a wireless hearing aid, that
he inserted in my right ear. This way, the handler could hear what was
happening and could give me more instructions, if needed. If a controlled
alter-state accidentally froze or went under, the handler could verbally
trigger out a second op-trained part to take over and complete the job.

Due to long-term exposure to criminal occult rituals, I felt comfortable
with all kinds of knives-I still do. 8 As long as the blade was sharp,
I carried out my orders with ease. On at least one occasion, I wore a
leather contraption around my right wrist and forearm, the spring-
released blade positioned against the inside of my forearm, hidden by a
long sleeve. I didn’t like that device because it was too awkward to use.
The simpler the weapon, the more I liked it.

My MKNAOMI-programmed alter-states had limited training in the
use and administration of deadly chemicals. A typical assignment
involved my carrying a small plastic container of Vaseline in a purse. As
instructed, I pushed the point of a long hatpin from the bottom/inside of
the purse, outwards through a reinforced corner, making sure the point of
the pin was directed away from my body as I carried the purse over my
right shoulder. I then extracted the Vaseline container, opened it, and
dipped the exposed point into a small, clear pool of liquid floating atop
the petroleum jelly.

After coating the point and giving it time to dry, I then walked up to a
male target and pretended to accidentally bump him with my purse,
careful to scratch his skin through his clothes. Because the targeted
individual didn’t understand that he’d been fatally assaulted, I always
had sufficient time to leave the area before anyone noticed me.

Some of my MKNAOMI parts were also sent into buildings to “paint”
a clear substance onto a doorknob that a targeted individual was expected
to use, usually while under surveillance. Some of these parts were even
used to insert, or smear, clear substances onto targeted individuals’ personal

Cover Positions

151

items in their homes, especially toothbrushes and the open ends of then-
tubes of toothpaste. 9

When the first alter-state with biochemical training emerged in the early
1990s, she identified herself as Naomi. Unlike other black op alter-states,
she was neither rageful nor emotionally cold-she’d simply done her job. 10

A bulky, lightweight handgun that at least one op trained part had used
(against a sniper) seemed to have been made of dark colored plastic. It
could shoot three types of plastic cartridges that were color-coded: red,
blue and yellow. That alter-state was told that each cartridge contained a
unique deadly substance. Not only did the weapon pass through a metal
detector; had it been examined, it probably would have been mistaken for
a child’s toy.

The hardest part of being overseas was that my black op alter-states
couldn’t remember who I was and where home was. They were more
disconnected from me than my traveler alter-states were. This was, in part,
because my op-trained alter-states had been created through extreme torture.
Because they were blank slate alter-states, they didn’t have my morals.

They were rarely allowed to carry any identification. If they did, the
identification was always fake. Because they didn’t know who they were,
they assumed they were the person that the papers, travel visas, driver’s
licenses, etc. identified me as being. This helped the alter-states to pass
through inspection points without appearing suspicious.

To keep any of my alter-states from breaking control and making an
emergency phone call when someone was injured or killed, some of my
mental programmers had exposed me to fake violence, then had let me
“escape” into a room that had a phone. Each time I’d picked up the phone
and dialed “0” to report the mock injury or death, a fake operator had
answered and then either changed the subject or convinced the alter-state
that local authorities didn’t have time to deal with the problem. This
conditioned the alter-states to believe there was no point in calling for
medical aid if an injury or death occurred on a real assignment.

On most overseas ops, at least one specialized alter-state was made
to memorize a temporary emergency number in case something went
wrong. Such phone calls were occasionally unavoidable-handlers,
op partners, and even assigned clients were occasionally injured or killed.
At those times, my alter-states usually required further instructions.

In later years, several of my alter-states were temporarily given a
small, black cell phone. All the alter-states had to do was press the “0”
button, then a spook contact answered, posing as a phone company

152

Unshackled

operator. These alter-states were trained to ignore what the operator said.
When they gave a pre-arranged identifier code and reported the current
circumstances, the fake operator stopped talking and transferred the call
to a spook handler, who gave new instructions.

A particularly unpleasant assignment, after botched overseas ops, was
to dismember dead spooks’ bodies so they could be buried, undetected,
in pieces. I was made to believe this was standard fare for overseas ops.
I was told that local authorities couldn’t be allowed to know the CIA was
operating clandestinely in their jurisdiction. My op parts were also told
that if I died overseas, my body would be disposed of the same way. 11

Since Dad and other men had taught several of my alter-states how to
dismember bodies in rituals, funeral homes, and in other closed environ-
ments, those parts became good at it. To stay sane, I developed one
female alter-state that mentally did mathematical equations while cutting
up the bodies. To this day, I visually “remember” numbers instead of the
body parts and blood.

Some bodies were disposed of, stateside. At such times, a professional
handler came to wherever I was and said that he had a job for “Angel.”
That emerging Angel alter-state (I had several with that code-name)
specialized in body disposal, via acid. Although Angel was told that the
bodies were deceased operatives, it is quite possible that they weren’t. 12

Most of the ops that my alter-states were used for, including body-
guarding and hostage interventions, had the potential of traumatizing the
alter-states. Sometimes, bad things happened to the people they were
supposed to protect-the best of plans sometimes went awry.

Notes

1. Out of all of the years I worked full time, with nearly all of them generating two
weeks of paid vacation each year, I only have one memory of having gone on a real
vacation-to Miami. Even that trip was a cover for other activities I was forcibly
involved in, while in Florida.

2. The lyrics were used as part of my CIA-compliant mental programming. Several
spook handlers bragged that the song was an Agency favorite, partly because of the
implied threat, and partly because “CIA” is embedded in its title.

3. As a child, I had learned to separate my awareness of the two “sides” of my par-
ents’ abusive personalities in my mind. By blocking out the abuse and danger, I was
able to survive being in their presence each day without being terrified. This coping

Cover Positions

153

mechanism continued when I was an adult. When an abusive person became an
integral part of my life, I blocked out all memory and awareness of the harmful side
of that person’s personality, and only recollected the person’s “good” side.

This is one of the primary reasons why I allowed abusive people to have power over
me for so long. Only when their negative behaviors were so blatant that they
punched through my wall of denial, was I able to recognize what they really were.
When that happened, I (as the host alter-state) had one of two choices: I could
accept the fact that the person was a threat to me and totally separate myself from
that person to protect myself; or I could push the truth away, pretending that per-
son’s negative behaviors did not exist, and go back into denial about that person’s
true character and motives. I suspect this is what some alleged ritual abuse sur-
vivors have done: after they initially believed their emerging memories, they were
influenced to go back into denial and return to their dangerous families, who then
influenced them to blame the “false” memories on their therapists.

4. Because I was conditioned not to consult with regular medical doctors, I treated
myself.

5. Carla Emery explained this effective hypnotic technique, known as Telephone
Induction:

The hypnotist speaks, or sounds the post-hypnotically suggested
induction cue over the phone when he gets his subject’s ear on the
other end. He doesn’t have to say “Hello” first. That would give his
subject a predator-on-the-phone warning and the chance to hang up
before the induction cue is spoken. Instead, the hypnotist gives the
induction cue first. Immediately, in a person programmed for routine
amnesia during trances, the subject’s conscious mind is off-line. Only
the reflexive hypno-robot is listening. The hypnotist gives his instruc-
tions to that subject’s unconscious. When he is finished, the phone call
and the hypnosis are terminated (probably both at once) by a routine
suggestion, (pg. 65)

Possibly the best way for a novice to understand telephone induction is by review-
ing the fictional movie, Telefon, starring Charles Bronson. In it, sleeper agents were
unwittingly programmed to respond to a coded phrase. Not knowing that they were
mentally programmed, they responded to a trigger phrase given to them during an
unexpected phone call. In response, they each tranced and carried out the caller’s
instructions. The movie is an overly crude example of mental programming because
most mind-controlled slaves are given many different programs that can be trig-
gered, usually one at a time. Another difference is that in the movie, the sleepers
were only used one time. In real life, because they are a serious financial invest-
ment, most slave-operatives will be used for decades.

6. At times, my brothers and I were fiercely loyal and protective towards each other. And
yet, given our shared parentage, I am aware that I may not be the only sibling who was

154

Unshackled

programmed to have compliant alter-states. For this and other reasons, I choose not to
have any more contact with them. Sometimes, to stay safe, mind-control and ritual
abuse survivors have to care about those they love from a great distance.

7. I remembered this with no verifications in the early 1990s. Nearly a decade later,
I attended a graduation ceremony in Chattanooga. The CEO of the Gallup Poll gave
the address. He said he had interviewed successful professional hockey goalies and
had learned that they had the unusual ability to see the puck coming at them in slow
motion. In July, 2000, 1 wrote to Gallup for more information. An employee replied
in an E-mail that this ability is called elongated time.

8. Some therapists call this a “trauma bond.”

9. Not long before these memories emerged, I developed a sudden phobia about
touching doorknobs and using toothpaste. In the past, I’d always carried a small con-
tainer of Vaseline in my purse-perhaps as an unconscious reenactment. The initial
awareness of my first emerging NAOMI programmed part was triggered during a
class at a Baptist seminary, in which a student recounted the story of Ruth and
Naomi. The impact of hearing the word Naomi was so tremendous that I ran to the
bathroom and cried loudly for nearly a half-hour, not realizing that the adult
students could hear all of it through the building’s ductwork. I dropped out of
school shortly after that.

10. In Bluebird, Dr. Colin Ross explained why the CIA’s MKNAOMI project was
developed. MKNAOMI was a joint project of the CIA and the Army’s Special
Operations Division in Fort Detrick, Maryland. It ran from 1953 to 1970.
MKNAOMI involved “developing, testing, and maintaining biological agents
and delivery systems for use against humans as well as against animals and crops”
(pg. 67). At least one alter-state having that project’s code name had continued to
be used on black ops for years after the project officially ended.

11. This was a powerful, unconscious incentive to survive, because I didn’t want my
loved ones to grieve over losing me while having no idea what had happened to me!

12. I’m still phobic about handling all forms of acid, because I know what some of
them can do to human flesh.

Interventions

Grandma’s Gift

Because I was so busy going to work, rituals, ops, and more, I didn’t
have the time or energy to casually visit with my extended family in
Pennsylvania. This was unfortunate, because I didn’t have the chance to
see my paternal grandmother one more time before she died of a massive
heart attack in March, 1982, in the presence of her second husband.
Although I deeply grieved losing her, I was glad she’d had the opportunity
to experience safety, love, and happiness with him in his home during her
remaining years.

When Dad was told of his mother’s death, he was stone cold and
showed no sign of grief. He insisted that he saw no reason to go to her
funeral; after all, she was dead. My stepmother had to fight to get him to
take her with him to Grandma’s funeral to pay their last respects.

Before Grandma’s death, she had secretly instructed one of Dad’s
brothers-the executor of her estate-to travel to Georgia and hand-deliver
her brilliant diamond solitaire ring to me at Dad’s house. Because I hadn’t
known that Grandma had owned it, I was deeply touched. It was my first
nice piece of jewelry.

Grandma’s legacy helped me to feel special. The knowledge that she
had cared that much about me gave me new strength and helped me to
stand taller. My uncle told me that because Grandma’s first husband had
never bought her an engagement ring, she had decided to save up her
hard-earned money and buy one for herself.

Upon hearing the story, I realized if I was ever going to be happy,
I couldn’t wait the rest of my life for Albert to change. It was time to
create my own happiness.

Meadowlark

Grandma’s ring was the first step of my journey into strength and
freedom. More changes came quickly after, almost as if an invisible hand
was choreographing the events.

155

156

Unshackled

In the early 1990s, an alter-state named Andreia recounted an experience
in which I had been forcibly transported in 1985 to an Air Force base that
was identified to me only as “Meadowlark.”

I was escorted there by a spook named Jim who fancied himself to
be a cowboy. He led me into a set of below-ground corridors and rooms
at that base. Soon, a succession of alter-states was triggered out
and painlessly interrogated by a gray-haired, ramrod-straight, retired
Army General who some of my alter-states had known in the past
as “Poppa.”

After the interrogations, Poppa asked to speak to any alter-state that
would consider defecting and working for him and his people. Andreia
emerged. Having known Poppa in the past, she still liked him.

Poppa warned Andreia that if I continued to go to the Aryan rituals in
Georgia, I’d be put in prison for the rest of my life and could lose con-
tact with Emily. He said his hand-picked, retired Army intelligence per-
sonnel were working covertly, on a strictly voluntary basis, to shut down
Aryan organizations in the US as part of an extensive covert operation he
called, “Clean Sweep.” He said he knew about the nationwide Aryan
network’s plans to overthrow the government in the year 2000, since it
was one of Hitler’s long-term goals. He said that, because much violence
was planned (including bombings in Atlanta during the Olympics), ASA
and other intelligence agencies had chosen to intervene.

I write “ASA” with the understanding that I’m not able to recall,
clearly, whether Poppa said his covert intelligence agency was the Army’s
ISA-Intelligence Support Activity, or AS A- Army Security Agency.
Years after I remembered meeting Poppa at Meadowlark, several
alter-states journaled that Poppa’s recruits were connected to ASA, and
that I had picked up the moniker ISA from a book about the extensive US
intelligence community. For simplicity’s sake, I will identify the agency
as ASA with the understanding that it may not have been that agency
at all. 1

Poppa’s face registered hatred towards the Nazi conspirators as he
spoke. Then he talked about ASA’s dedication to “God and Country.”
Although he had done hurtful things to some of my parts in the past,
supposedly out of necessity, he now convinced Andreia that he’d become
a true Christian and that, because of his conversion, he wanted to do what
was right. Andreia believed him and agreed to cooperate with him and
the ASA after I returned to Georgia.

Interventions

157

Poppa warned that either I could stay completely away from the Aryan
meetings from now on, or Andreia could attend them as his mole to help
bring the network down from the inside. He reminded Andreia that if she
chose to secretly participate in the Aryan meetings while pretending to
be other alter-states, she would have to perform the same repugnant acts
they’d already performed. He added that he would assign one of his
inside men, already a mole, to protect her.

Although she grieved that she would have to harm others, Andreia agreed
to stay conscious as much as she possibly could during the cult meetings.
She was willing to lose pieces of her soul to help free the children.

When Andreia journaled this memory in the early 1990s, I thought I’d
lost my mind. I could find no proof of any Air Force base named
“Meadowlark.” I put the questionable memory in the back of my mind to
wait for verifications ” if any existed. 2

Several of the other alter-states interrogated at Meadowlark journaled
that Poppa had told them that the CIA had made a disastrous mistake
by bringing Nazi professionals to the US and installing them in secure
positions. 3 He said the CIA had allowed our sworn enemies to work
towards taking our government over from the inside-out. He said the
public would not be told about the attempted overthrow, because there
would be “riots in the streets” and “mass panic.” He said Clean Sweep
had to be conducted quietly. The main reason why our government was
not willing to admit that criminal occult activities were rampant, Poppa
told me, was because much of the occultism had been covertly intro-
duced into the US, in a Trojan Horse sort of way, by some of the Nazi
immigrants.

Poppa said the CIA was tight with many Aryan occult organizations,
just as the FBI continued to collaborate in secret with a number of Mafia
organizations still operating in the US. He said the CIA had a vested
interest in ensuring that these secretive, dangerous cults continue to operate,
unimpeded, and this was why other federal agencies enacted Clean
Sweep. Poppa said that as they attempted to do damage control, they
were having to work against the CIA in the process. 4

The Mansion

In 1985, after I was flown back to Atlanta from Meadowlark, Andreia
and some of my cult-conditioned alter-states continued to attend the

158

Unshackled

Aryan meetings in the Cobb County area. Many of the meetings were
held in warehouses; some were held in old houses in and near Kennesaw.
Those houses were owned by cult members who clustered in several
neighborhoods. Some of the houses were connected by hidden under-
ground tunnel systems that they used to store contraband and children
who were bought and sold on the lucrative black market. 5

On numerous occasions, I was also taken to an elaborate underground
installation that was probably a former SAM missile site. 6 A large brick
house had been built atop the site.

When I was taken there, the mansion’s exterior walls were beige-
colored brick. Sometimes men stood in black uniforms on the roof,
holding rifles. Behind the mansion, I sometimes saw men dressed in
similar garb, practicing martial arts. 7

After entering through the front door, I saw at least one large chande-
lier hanging from the high ceiling in the open living area to the right that
could also be used as a ball room. Walking through the house towards the
rear, several enclosed rooms were to my left.

A hidden entrance was in a wall between two of those rooms. When it
slid open, I saw a wide concrete ramp that sloped down to the first sub-
level of a complex of concrete walled rooms and tunnels. On that first
sub-level was a large nursery room in which young children, especially
babies in cribs, were taken care of by rotating shifts of female Aryan cult
members. 8

I was told that some of these women’s children were sold to childless
couples through cooperative adoption agencies. I knew from previous
experience that these children were birthed by cult mothers away from
hospitals, so the babies had no birth records. Many of the women who
birthed and tended the children were known in the Aryan network as
“breeders.” 9

Another underground, concrete walled room housed expensive
electronic equipment that accessed what was identified to me as the
“Brandon” computer system. 10 J.C. and his father-in-law, B.H., told
me that the computer system held pertinent information on every govern-
ment programmed slave in the US-including the names and training of
all their documented alter-states and how each one could be triggered
out. They taught several of my alter-states how to use the system; based
on what I saw, what they told me seemed to be correct. They said the rea-
son the information would never be found in the CIA’s files, was because
it was stored on at least one of NASA’s computer systems. 11

Interventions

159

The alter-states that were trained to input data into that system were
amazed at how much information they found on it about people they
knew. The Aryan leaders didn’t know that Andreia was also accessing the
information and funneling some of it back to ASA.

B.H. and J.C. met frequently at the mansion with a thin man who was
both a Satanist and a civil war buff. B.H. and the thin man seemed
to have a surprisingly loving and sexually intimate relationship. In some
of the mansion’s basement rooms, B.H. happily videotaped humorous
pornography that was just as professional as Great Britain’s Benny Hill TV
shows. One of my alter-states personally assisted B.H. in the production of
some of that pornography.

In that mansion, B.H. used an innovative form of electrical torture to
create a new child alter-state in me that he named “Leah.” That part
became his personally owned slave alter-state.

In my last years in the Aryan cult network, B.H. seemed to convince
himself and just about everyone else that I was, by choice, his cult wife.
Several of my child alter-states liked him because he was nice to them at
times. They were very upset to learn from other parts, after I broke away,
that B.H. also had a cruel side to his seemingly split personality.

William

In 1985, J.C. introduced a new cult member, William, to us. Although
he wasn’t tall, William’s shoulders and neck were strong, and his posture
was ramrod- straight. J.C. explained that William had retired from the
Army as a Sergeant Major after thirty years of service, and was now
seeking J.C.’s personal protection. 12

J.C. enforced strict rules about cult membership: each new member
had to perform illegal, distasteful acts to prove his or her loyalty. They
didn’t know that J.C. would use secretly videotaped films of their initia-
tions to blackmail them into ongoing compliance and silence about the
cult’s numerous illegal activities.

Several of my cult alter-states watched as William performed the
demoralizing tasks in a stone-faced way. Unlike my father and
J.C, William never fully relaxed at the cult meetings. My cult-loyal alter-
states didn’t know about my trip to Meadowlark, and worried that
William might betray J.C. They didn’t know that Andreia, a part they
weren’t aware of, already had.

160

Unshackled

William soon gained J.C.’s permission to drive me to the Cobb County
meetings, and then back home to the east side of Atlanta. Some of my
cult alter- states noticed that when William drove them home, his face
screwed up with disgust and anger as if he needed a long, hot bath. Those
alter- states were confused because they were accustomed to being in
the presence of criminals who were noticeably relaxed and happy after
performing illicit acts.

ASA

My cult alter-states didn’t know that William was triggering Andreia
out and driving her to covert ASA meetings that he officiated. At those
meetings, the other ASA volunteers called him “Bill.”

Andreia was amazed by the volunteers’ selflessness. They seemed
sincere when they stated that they were willing to give their lives, if nec-
essary, to bring down the local Aryan cult network from within, brick by
brick. Their #1 motto was “God and Country.” A recent fundamentalist
Christian convert, Bill believed if he served God and Jesus, he would be
protected from the cult’s evil.

The unselfishness and caring of the ASA volunteers became the
human antivenom to the sociopathic poison I’d been immersed in, for
nearly all of my life. They became my lifeline to sanity and morality,
ushering me into a new state of grace. 13

Coercion

Although I didn’t remember J.C. or the Aryan cult network when I was
home, I often thought about divorcing Albert and starting a new life with
Emily. Twice, I secretly met with a local female attorney to discuss fil-
ing for a divorce. Each time, Albert found out and talked me out of it.
Based on what I’d told her about Albert’s abusiveness, the attorney was
unhappy that I kept backing off and suggested I seek professional help.
I never talked to her again.

At some of the Aryan cult meetings, J.C. and Albert repeatedly threat-
ened some of my alter-states that if they should ever try to break and run,
taking Emily with them, Albert and J.C. would use cult funds to ensure
that Albert would gain full custody of Emily. The alter-states believed

Interventions

161

their threats and decided to stay and protect Emily within the system as
much as they could, since they were convinced they’d never be able to
take her away.

At home, Albert used another tactic to keep me controlled. He said if
I ever tried to divorce him, he’d move to another part of the country and
change his name, so that I’d never get a penny of child support from him.
Because I didn’t earn much as an insurance clerk, I believed I couldn’t
afford to raise our daughter on my own. In every way, I felt hopelessly
trapped.

Notes

1 . Although the ASA was officially disbanded after the end of the Vietnam war, some of
its members may have continued covert operations, identifying each other as ‘ASA”.

2. In July, 1992 1 was at a local library, scanning the 1990 Encyclopedia of World Crime,
Vol. Ill for verifications of the names of several Mafia figures I’d remembered.
In it, I found a section about a violent, subversive Aryan organization I’d already
remembered: The Order. I also found verifications of what I’d recalled hearing at
Aryan planning meetings. Best of all, it verified the existence of the federal govern-
ment’s Clean Sweep operation:

Order, The, prom. 1983-88, US consp. -secret crim. soc. Fifteen white
supremacists were indicted in Fort Smith, Ark., and Denver, Colo., in
late April 1987 as the US government moved to eradicate America’s
racist movement. A lengthy investigation named “Clean Sweep” linked
a group of neo-Nazis called The Order to racially-motivated killings
and robberies dating back to 1984, and resulted in arrests in five states.

Two of The Order’s leaders were arrested. They had planned to “murder blacks
and Jews, poison city water supplies, carry out terrorist actions to overthrow the
US government, and bomb public utilities.” (pg. 2376)

3. In 1994, a consultant told me that a new video had come out about the retired
general. When I reviewed it, I learned that Poppa had been one of the first Army
officers to enter a Nazi concentration camp in WWII. The camera panned a hand-
written letter that he’d sent to his mother, expressing strong hatred towards Nazis.
In the summer of 2002, 1 researched ASA, ISA, and Poppa (using his real name) on
the Internet. I still didn’t want to believe that the Meadowlark memories were true.
I was astounded to find websites and articles on the Internet that directly connected
him to both Army intelligence agencies !

I found another verification on the Internet in early 2002. When I used the search
terms “Meadowlark” and “Air Force,” the Google search engine indicated the

162

Unshackled

existence of “about 1490” website listings that included both. After ten years
of clinging to denial, I finally accepted that the Meadowlark interrogation memory
was valid.

4. If what Poppa told me was true, then this effort may have hit a brick wall when
George W. Bush, the son of a former CIA director, was elected president-especially
since many of his father’s close associates had recycled themselves as George W’s
advisors.

5. Many ritual abuse survivors have reported that members of some criminal cults
and black-marketing networks prefer to cluster in select neighborhoods. Often,
when one cult owner has to sell a home, another member of the group will quickly
buy it. This may be a reason why, when some ritual abusers are publicly accused
of hurting children, their neighbors-in surprising unison-insist that the accused is
innocent.

6. In the December, 2001 edition of GQ, I found a diagram of a former underground
missile site with a house built atop it. The diagram of the underground rooms and
tunnels was identical to the layout of the tunnel system I’d remembered beneath
the mansion. Because the government-contracted Lockheed and Martin-Marietta
plants were close by, logic can conclude that a SAM missile site might have been
constructed there to protect them. And true or not, a consultant once told me that
the US Department of Defense sold some of its defunct missile sites to members
of the nationwide Aryan network.

7. In 2003, while researching a former CIA handler named Mitchell Werbell III, I
found information that may explain the martial arts and black uniforms. Werbell
owned and operated COBRAY-SIONICS Training Center, a spook counter-
terrorism training facility in Powder Springs, Georgia. It seems that black
uniforms and martial arts training were a part of their operations (Lau 1). I also
learned that Blackhawk helicopters were used by some of these operatives-
perhaps the same helicopters I’d watched land on the roof of the mansion
(American Ballistics).

8. Although this may seem ludicrous, other survivors of that Aryan network have also
spoken of the underground nursery and tunnel systems. Some of them had never
repressed their memories.

Because this Aryan network is a tightly closed system, with many of its
members fearing death to themselves or loved ones if they leave or tell, few out-
siders (until now) have been aware of its existence. I want to emphasize that I am
not opposed to the rights of Aryans to believe as they choose. What I do oppose is
the cowardly torture, sexual abuse, black-marketing, prostitution, brainwashing,
forced porn participation, and murder of babies, children, and adult slaves. I would
be willing to bet that some members of these Aryan organizations are also opposed
to these ongoing crimes. True pride is strong in itself; it doesn’t need to prop itself
up on the shoulders of slaves.

Interventions

163

9. Some breeders are brainwashed to believe that bearing children in honor of Hitler is the
highest possible honor. Most of them don’t realize they are actually slave-prostitutes.

10. In 1996, 1 used NASA’s ArchiePlex Internet search engine to find information that
might verify certain memories. During that search, I ran across the word “Brandon.”
Nearly every reference concerning that word was about Brandon University,
including information about its Computer Services and its Department of Math and
Computer Science. What an odd coincidence!

1 1 . According to Linda Hunt’s Secret Agenda: The United States Government, Nazi
Scientists, and Project Paperclip, 1945 to 1990, NASA was basically created by a
group of Nazi immigrants who had been brought into the US by the Army and CIA,
their records whitewashed in the process. Some were proven war criminals.
Although I am certain that most of NASA’s current activities are legitimate, it is
quite possible that some of its Nazi founders and their associates could have
worked all along as double agents, using its facilities and equipment-as I believe
was also done within the CIA-to further the Reich’s heady goal of eventual world
domination (A.K.A. the New World Order).

12. According to J.C., William’s cover story was that he had gotten into serious
trouble with an Aryan group in Kentucky, and needed J.C.’s protection from them.
In return, William offered to do whatever J.C. wanted of him.

13. The reason I mention these individuals now, is that their cover was compromised
in the mid 1990s when a fake “good guy” named Mark Phillips gained this infor-
mation and everything else I’d compiled. Later, he admitted that he gave it all to
CIA officers working in Atlanta. Since then, I’ve been given the go-ahead by ASA
operatives to share this part of my and Bill’s story, with the understanding that
doing so will no longer put their people at risk.

Freedom

Baptist Church

Before my unexpected trip to Meadowlark, several young people from
Hebron Baptist, an old one- story, white wooden church in the tiny town
of Dacula, had started to visit our rural neighborhood as part of their
church’s outreach program. After some initial reluctance, I gave Emily
permission to ride with them in the church bus each Sunday.

After talking to the young driver and his girlfriend for several more
months, I decided to go to Hebron, too. I hadn’t attended a church on a
regular basis since I’d left the Local Church. This was, in part, because
Albert had great difficulty staying in any church for long.

Although he’d taken us to numerous Charismatic and Pentecostal
church meetings in the Atlanta area, he’d eventually insisted that I support
him in setting up a Charismatic church in our home in Lawrenceville,
with him as pastor. I’d refused, because I believed he was unstable and
dishonest. I wasn’t willing to support his living a lie before God. He
never forgave me for that.

Hebron became an important source of healing for my wounded,
shattered soul. Its black-haired, dark eyed, energetic pastor, Larry Wynn,
seemed determined that the congregation would reach out to all neighbors
and newcomers, to share the love of Christ with them.

I was surprised to learn that his wife, Ethel, had been in my high
school class in Snellville. Because I had liked her when I first knew her,
and because Larry seemed sincere, I chose to risk trusting them. Every
time I went to Hebron, members hugged me, talked to me, and made me
feel welcome. Their caring and joy seemed genuine, unlike the “love
bombing” I’d previously experienced in religious cults. I joined Hebron
and was soon baptized in a tank of water behind the pulpit. I’d finally
found a place where I could belong.

Soon, I was going to church three times a week. Albert angrily
accused me of being a hypocrite. He claimed that all Baptists were
fakes because they weren’t filled with the Holy Spirit and didn’t speak in
tongues. Although he never set foot inside the church, he constantly

164

Freedom

165

criticized its members and said they were just pretending to care
about me.

As I spent time with happily married couples from the church, I realized
I was stuck in a stagnant, decaying relationship with Albert. Although I’d
tried hard, I didn’t love him and I knew he didn’t love me. Since I didn’t
believe in divorce, I resigned myself to an empty marriage. The love of
the people at the church, and from God himself, would have to suffice.

The insane pace of my life continued. I was transported to Aryan
cult meetings at night and on weekends. I was sometimes taken from the
cult meetings to Dobbins Air Force Base and from there for ops. I still
worked at my day job. I went to nighttime exercise classes several times
a week, and then walked around the local high school’s track. I did all the
chores at home, including cooking, cleaning, laundry, and mowing the
lawn. I took care of Emily. And now, I went to church three times a week
to try to get my life right with God.

Unfortunately, several of my male spook handlers took advantage of
my naive devotion to God. They triggered out gullible alter-states while
claiming to be angels sent by God with special messages for me. Because
I’d recently read evangelist Billy Graham’s book, Angels: God’s Secret
Agents, I-in those alter- states-believed the men. The alter-states didn’t
know they were being manipulated by humans who were far from holy.

In church, Pastor Wynn taught that God didn’t need anyone else to
translate for Him. He said if we remained prayerful and open to obeying
God, He would speak directly to our hearts. His words helped me to
become more skeptical towards people who came to me, claiming that
God had given them a revelation or a special message for me. I decided
if God didn’t tell me something first, then self-proclaimed “messengers”
were either delusional, or were lying to manipulate me.

Something else happened at Hebron that drastically changed the
direction of my life. On most Sundays, especially during the evening
services, Pastor Wynn invited members to kneel at the front altar to pray.
For several months, I felt a strong pull to the altar. Each time I knelt,
I felt deep pain and couldn’t stop crying. If I remained at my pew, I still
felt an urgency to get on my knees, to ask God to please change me. I felt
as if the true Holy Spirit was shining a spotlight in places inside that
I couldn’t see.

For many years, I’d felt a great blackness inside. Although I didn’t
know what it meant, I now think it represented the amnesic barrier

166

Unshackled

between my conscious self and hidden alter- states. I had also sensed for
a long time that something evil was in my soul, but I hadn’t known what
it was. I didn’t dare tell other people about it ” I was afraid they’d reject
me if they really knew me. Still, I could be honest about it with God.

One Sunday morning at the altar, I felt a message form in my mind.
Maybe an alter-state was talking to me. Maybe the words were from a
hypnotically implanted suggestion. Regardless, it was what I needed to
hear: “If you truly love God, if you really are willing to give Him your
life unto death, then you will have to be just as willing to give Him your
openness to the greatest pain you’ll ever experience.”

I sensed if I said yes, He would apply his Holy Spirit to my life, using
it as a purging fire to burn away everything that was evil and corrupt.
I sensed that the holy fire would be the source of the pain.

I wanted to be cleansed inside. I wanted to be pure for God. I didn’t
want to be a hypocrite anymore, hiding the secret darkness from other
Christians. I was tired of living a lie, pretending to love people when
I felt no warmth inside. I was tired of smiling when no joy was
in my heart. I wanted to be what I believed God had given me the
potential to be.

That day, I surrendered to God. I opened my arms and my heart.
Although I didn’t know how the purging would come, I decided not to
struggle when it did. Since then, I’ve watched God keep His end of the
bargain by enacting a strange sequence of events that I never would have
dreamt possible.

Albert’s Affair

One hot Saturday at home, I opened our doors and windows to let a
breeze blow through. As I washed dishes in the kitchen sink, a weak
voice called to me from beyond the doorway to our carport. I turned to
see a thin, brown-eyed, middle-aged, sweaty woman standing outside the
screen door, asking if I would give her a glass of water.

As Geena sat on our green living room sofa, gulping the ice-cold
water, she said she’d hitched a ride to Lawrenceville to find shelter with
some old friends, only to discover that they’d moved away, leaving no
forwarding address. She said her current husband, an avowed white
supremacist who worked for an Atlanta television station, had recently

Freedom

167

beaten her so badly, she’d ended up in the hospital. She said she couldn’t
go back to him.

I told her to wait in the living room, and discussed her story with
Albert, away from her hearing. We concurred that God must have sent
her to us, so we could minister to her. I told Geena she could live with us
temporarily, paying us back by helping with light cleaning and weekday
meal preparations.

In record time, Geena and Albert were lovers. 1 Two neighbors saw
them kissing on different days in Albert’s car at nearby shopping center
parking lots. The neighbors later admitted they’d been afraid to tell me,
because they’d believed that I didn’t want to hear the truth. They were
right.

Geena was significantly older than Albert, and claimed to have
cancerous tumors all over her body. She’d already been married five
times. Because I couldn’t imagine that Albert would ever choose her over
me, I didn’t believe she was a threat to our marriage. And yet, as I con-
tinued to block out indications of their affair, my subconscious wouldn’t
leave me alone.

I had unnerving nightmares of walking through the doorway of an
old house with wooden walls. As I entered an empty room, I heard
rats scurry inside the wall to my immediate right. By the time I walked
into that room and looked at the partially exposed wall, the rats had gone
into hiding again. Each time I awoke, my heart pounded and I felt great
dread.

Several weeks later, Albert took Geena to a large indoor flea
market-one of their favorite weekend haunts – on my birthday while I
did the weekly chores. That afternoon, after they returned home, Albert
gave me my birthday present: fingernail clippers with a daisy painted on
top. Then Geena showed me what he’d bought her: an “engagement ring.”
She assured me that its stone was just cubic zirconium, and said she
needed it when Albert took her to country music bars at night, so other
customers wouldn’t “hit on” her. Seeing my anger, Albert encouraged me
to hit him, saying I would feel better. I didn’t.

About a month later, on a warm Saturday afternoon, I was coming
home from my weekly trip to the grocery store. As I drove up a dirt
road into our neighborhood, dread and pain built up intolerably inside
me. Then something broke. I knew. The pain completely took over
as I drove up our sloped, concrete driveway. I sat in the car for a long

168

Unshackled

time, so paralyzed by the pain, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even cry.
When Emily came outside to check on me, I told her to go to a friend’s
house. I knew I’d go mad if Geena spent one more day in our home.

When Geena and Albert came home from the flea market that night,
I demanded that he remove her immediately. Although he accused me of
being crazy and claimed they’d done nothing wrong, I stood my ground.
Geena screamed and threw objects in the living room as I hid behind my
locked bedroom door. After Albert calmed her down, she packed her
belongings and he drove her to a relative’s house.

If I hadn’t received genuine love and caring from the people at church,
and if I hadn’t subconsciously learned about integrity from Bill and his
ASA associates, I might have backed down and become even more of a
doormat to Albert. Fortunately, their positive influence short-circuited
my scriptural religious programming: “Wives, be in subjection to your
own husbands.” (I Pet. 3:1, RSV)

After Geena was gone, Albert pretended to be a model husband and
father during the week. And yet, he refused to be with us on weekends,
claiming he needed some time alone to “figure things out.” Although
I wanted to believe him, I occasionally wondered if he was spending the
weekends with Geena. When I questioned him about it, he accused me
of being crazy. Sometimes I wondered if he was right.

One day, Albert surprised me by saying he wanted to drive to Miami
by himself and stay there for a week. He said he needed time alone to
figure some things out about his life, and to decide what he wanted to do
with it. I believed him, and hoped that spending time away from me and
Emily would help him to appreciate us when he returned.

Several months later, I asked him to go to marital counseling with me.
He made an appointment with one of his co-workers, who was studying
to become a Presbyterian minister. We went to two sessions at the man’s
church. Each time, Albert insisted he was not having an affair. Both men
made me feel guilty for not trusting his intentions. The counselor said
I should support Albert’s godly friendship with Geena.

Although I’d tried to hold on to what I sensed was true (that they were
having an affair), I caved in and accepted Albert’s claim that their
relationship was pure. I had very little knowledge about proper bound-
aries and behaviors between men and women, between a married couple
and a single woman, and so on. I didn’t know enough about life and
relationships to say, “This particular behavior between you and Geena is

Freedom

169

inappropriate and I won’t stand for it.” Not knowing what was proper and
what wasn’t, I believed I must be wrong for thinking that Albert was
having a sexual relationship with her. After all, even the counselor said
he was innocent. As I accepted their false reality, I strongly considered
the possibility that I was insane.

Facing the Truth

After several more months, Albert asked me to go with him to look at
a new car that he wanted to buy at a local dealership. The salesmen
seemed to suppress their grins when Albert introduced me as his wife.
That bothered me; had Geena been there earlier with him, to choose the
car? (Later, he admitted that she had.)

On another weekend, I took a long walk out into the countryside and
was startled to see Albert driving home from that direction. As he pulled
up beside me, I confronted him and asked if he was still seeing Geena.
He said yes, insisting they were just friends and that I was crazy for
thinking that Albert-a “man of God”-was committing adultery. He tried
to make me feel sorry for how poor and lonely she was. He said I should
be grateful that he was ministering God’s love to her.

I decided I’d know the truth if I saw them together. When I asked
Albert to invite Geena to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, he seemed
surprised and elated. That holiday afternoon, their body language may as
well have spelled “lovers” in flashing neon lights.

Several days later, on Albert’s birthday, I confronted him and gave him
until the following New Years Day, 1997, to agree to sell our house and
split the net profit. Because I had no savings, I’d need the money to pay
rent for an apartment. Instead of showing remorse, Albert screamed that
I was ruining his birthday. I refused to back down.

When he realized that I meant what I said, he became openly cruel and
said things I never would have believed he was capable of. I went into
emotional shock and feared for my life.

His dark side emerging, he made all kinds of threats, even against my
life. He still insisted I was crazy and that I was imagining he and Geena
were having sex. He accused me of sinning against God by planning
to divorce him. I struggled with that last accusation, because I wanted
to please God by doing what was right. He added that if I divorced

170

Unshackled

him and married another man, I would commit adultery-which I believed
was a major sin.

After much soul-searching, I decided I’d rather sin against God than
live one more year with Albert. If I divorced him, at least I’d still have
God’s love. Another concern was that if he and Geena were having sex,
Albert could pass a disease on to me. Pastor Wynn told me that regard-
less of whether or not Albert was committing adultery, God loved me so
much, He wouldn’t want me to continue to suffer in an abusive relationship.
I hired a new lawyer and filed for divorce.

Albert’s rage increased when I still wouldn’t back down. Whenever he
was in the house, I locked myself in our spare room. Although he wasn’t
big, he had terrorized me for years with his muscular arms and fists,
screaming and spitting in my face, pushing my back against walls for
long periods of time while Emily watched, helplessly. 2

Now, he constantly made threats and accusations. I spent innumerable
hours on my knees in the small carpeted room, shaking, crying, and
begging God for protection, sometimes reading the Bible aloud.

One day, as Albert screamed outside the plain wooden door, I read in
the Bible that Jesus had said we should treat our enemies with kindness.
Although the idea seemed irrational, I decided to give it a try. During the
rest of our time together, I was the nicest wife Albert could ever want.
I was pleasantly surprised when he stopped threatening me.

Not Crazy

After we’d sold the house, Albert started making new threats. He said
he’d use Geena’s gun to shoot anyone who tried to help me take any
appliances from the house that he wanted for himself. Because I was
tired and simply wanted my freedom, I let him have whatever he wanted.

My divorce attorney was unhappy that I insisted on splitting the profit
with Albert. I even agreed to accept the legally required minimum in
child support payments from Albert, although the judge soon decided
that Albert should pay more. After Albert bought a small mobile home
and had it placed in a trailer park near Lawrenceville, I prepared to move
with Emily into a rented duplex on the other side of town.

While sorting through some of the personal belongings that Albert
had left in our small attic, I found a set of Polaroid pictures of him

Freedom

111

and Geena standing on a Miami beach, embracing each other. Staring
at the photos, I realized I’d been right all along-they were having an
affair!

Emily celebrated when I showed her the incriminating pictures. She said
she’d always known they were having an affair, and had been terribly
frustrated and angry when I wouldn’t believe her.

Going It Alone

When our divorce was finalized in the spring of 1997, 1 hated the word
“divorcee” and didn’t want a relationship with any man. I just wanted to
be left alone with Emily and my relationship with God. My biggest treat
each week was to sit on the carpeted living room floor of our duplex on
Friday nights, eating canned oysters and cheddar cheese on crackers
while listening to my favorite Christian radio programs. For the first time
in thirteen years, I didn’t have to worry about Albert yelling that I was
contaminated by battery acid on the carpet.

I worried about running into Albert and Geena when I went to town
on errands. Because I couldn’t bear the pain of seeing them together,
I wanted to move away from Lawrenceville. I didn’t consider what
another move would do to Emily, who had already lost contact with her
friends from our former neighborhood. Although I took her to visit and
spend the night with them as often I could, it just wasn’t the same.

New Ministry

One Saturday morning at Hebron, I attended a women’s workshop on
intercessory prayer. Our petite, middle-aged, red-haired presenter, Jessie,
said that she and her husband, Grant, had created an international inter-
cessory prayer network.

After the workshop, I couldn’t get Jessie out of my mind. Because
I still believed I had the Holy Spirit’s gift of intercessory prayer, I
decided their ministry was right for me. After several months of visits
and phone conversations, Jessie suggested I break my lease and move
near their home in Conyers, in order to do voluntary secretarial work for
their ministry. She said I could work in their home on Saturdays and on

172

Unshackled

weeknights, as needed. She said God would financially bless me for what
I would do for their ministry.

In July, Emily and I moved to the lovely old town of Conyers. It had
quaint shops and seemed safe enough for me to walk my dog at night in
the dark. I rented a duplex that stank. Dark and dirty, it was the best I
could afford.

I first met Grant when I attended a weekend prayer retreat near
Atlanta. I was impressed when he told us that for the past eight years,
he’d worked for Billy Graham’s extensive evangelistic organization.
Grant’s soft voice and startling blue eyes easily put me into a hypnotic
trance-state. At the retreat, Grant and Jessie encouraged some of the
female participants to sit on his lap and imagine him to be their father, so
they could “emotionally heal” from negative relationships with their real
fathers. Although I was uncomfortable and refused to do it, the other
women’s trust in Grant influenced me to also trust him.

On the last day of the retreat, Grant challenged us to go for a walk in
the woods to see if God would speak to us, individually. I came back,
convinced that God had given me a personal message. Others claimed to
have had similar experiences.

I was impressed with how well-behaved Jessie and Grant’s teenaged
children were. I told Jessie I wanted Emily to spend as much time with
them as possible, because I wanted my daughter to have the positive
influence of a stable family with two godly parents. I didn’t understand
that I was infinitely more important to her than a houseful of strangers. I
also didn’t comprehend how grief- stricken she was since Albert had
stopped calling her, and had told her he didn’t want her to visit him
anymore.

Falling Apart

At Jessie’s suggestion, Emily and I transferred our church memberships
to a large Baptist church in nearby Lithonia. I did what I could to keep
Emily active in the new church, believing her youth leaders would pro-
vide a positive male influence. As a single mother, I was so exhausted
and overwhelmed with responsibilities and worries, I didn’t have the energy
to open my heart to her anymore. Instead of loving her and listening to her,
I became a religious, controlling disciplinarian. I spent many hours each

Freedom

173

week on my knees in my bedroom, praying desperately for God’s help
and guidance. She resented my fanatical Christianity and wanted her old
mother back.

I also didn’t understand that she’d probably developed a learning
disability. She constantly brought notes home from teachers; they com-
plained that she wasn’t doing her schoolwork and spent most of her class
time writing notes back and forth with other girls. When I confronted her,
she said the classes bored her. Because I knew she was bright, I thought
she was being lazy and rebellious. I restricted and disciplined her more,
making her a prisoner in the duplex for every minor infraction.

I also punished her for my memory lapses. At least twice, she asked an
alter-state for permission to spend the afternoon with a friend. Because I,
as the host alter-state, wasn’t conscious when she asked, I grew frantic
when she didn’t come home on time. Each time she arrived hours later,
saying that I’d given her permission, I punished her for lying.

Although she had made good grades in the past, they now plummeted.
She associated with local teenagers who were also having trouble at
home. The more she fought for her independence, the more I panicked
and fought to keep control over her. I didn’t understand that parents
aren’t supposed to control and confine their adolescent children, but are
to guide and encourage them to grow and become independent. When
she needed consistent love and respect, I gave her harshness and control.

Notes

1. After their affair was confirmed, my mother’s second husband told me he believed
Geena had been “sent in” to live with us. Tight-lipped about his own covert
connections, he didn’t elaborate.

2. Although several alter-states have journaled that Albert sometimes hit me with his
fists, I still have not recovered enough memories to be sure of this. It’s possible that
I’m still blocking the memories out because I don’t want to remember how terri-
fied and helpless I felt when he was enraged.

New Family

Bill

In the spring of 1997, I learned that an insurance company closer to
home had an opening for an experienced Commercial rater. I applied for
the position and was quickly hired.

Located near the end of an isolated road, this company’s southeast
regional office building was six stories tall with a flat roof. It was sur-
rounded by acres of black-tarred pavement and perfectly manicured,
green grass.

Within a week of starting my new job, I officially met Bill Sullivan for
the first time. 1 He was responsible for the maintenance of the building’s
immense air conditioning and heating system, all the building’s lights,
cafeteria equipment, electrical wiring, and more.

After our first encounter, he spent an inordinate amount of time in my
department on the fifth floor, standing on his tall ladder to change flores-
cent light bulbs up in the ceiling while peering over my cubicle wall. He
always whistled when he entered the area. Soon, he was leaving cryptic
handwritten notes on my desk. Each one had a scripture reference. After
several weeks, he asked me to go out on a date.

Because I hadn’t been on a real date since I’d married Albert, I was
nervous. What if Bill expected sex? I couldn’t do that-I wanted to stay
chaste for God! Still hesitant, I let him take me to lunch at a nearby
Chinese restaurant. It soon became our regular haunt.

Pentecostal Church

After several months of dating, Bill persuaded me to stop associating
with Jessie and Grant. I’d actually considered becoming an overseas
Baptist missionary, perhaps-at Jessie’s suggestion-in Indonesia or
South Korea, where Grant sometimes addressed Dr. Cho’s Baptist
mega-church.

174

New Family

175

Unimpressed with my plans, Bill reminded me that my first
responsibility was to Emily. Although I didn’t want to let go of my escapist
fantasy, I agreed not to do any more volunteer work for the couple.

Next, I agreed to attend Bill’s Pentecostal church with him. They met
in a small, red brick building for which he did all the maintenance ” at
no charge. I flashbacked constantly during their Sunday morning and
evening services and felt as if I were losing my grip on reality. Bill
insisted that I continue going there. Because I wanted to deepen our spir-
itual relationship, I relented, feeling miserable.

Religious Control

Bill suspected that Emily was taking street drugs. Although I refused to
believe him, I admitted I was worried about her, too. He convinced me
that if I married him, she’d have a more stable and secure environment.

During the year we dated, I recognized that Bill was a control addict.
He tried hard to change both Emily and me. Because she and I both pre-
ferred androgynous clothes, Bill bought stylish, uncomfortably feminine
garments for us and insisted that we wear them. Then, he paid for both of
us to change our hairstyles. After the makeovers, I saw a total stranger in
the mirror and felt fake.

Because he wanted to please God, Bill insisted that we abstain from
sexual intimacy until marriage. Given my history, this was difficult. When
I visited Bill at his house, he always insisted that we pray on our knees
and read our Bibles together to stay out of trouble.

Although I believe that Bill meant well, both Emily and I rankled
under his control. Nonetheless, I chose to marry him. I sensed that he was
a good and loving person underneath the religiosity. I also believed that his
influence as a stepfather was what Emily needed, to heal from the loss of
her relationship with Albert. I didn’t know that no man could replace what
her father had been in her life.

Married

During the spring of 1988, I was under a great deal of stress. My
finances were very tight, especially when Albert refused to pay child

176

Unshackled

support. Bill offered to pay me if I’d help him to do odd jobs at people’s
houses at night and on weekends. I didn’t know that these odd jobs were
often a cover for my going with him to Aryan and ASA meetings.

When Albert learned that I was engaged, he resumed weekend visita-
tions with Emily. Because Geena was now living with Albert, who still
claimed that their relationship was nonsexual, I didn’t want to let Emily
spend the night with them. And yet, because I believed that she needed
to be with her daddy, I let her go.

One Sunday afternoon after Emily had visited with Albert and Geena,
they drove her to our church’s parking lot. Bill and I sat in his car,
waiting. When Albert got out of his car, Bill walked towards him to shake
hands. Not saying a word, Albert stalked back to his car, got in, and drove
away in a hurry. Although I couldn’t understand his behavior then, I now
believe that he’d recognized Bill from the Aryan meetings.

That evening, Albert called me three times, threatening to kill Bill.
Although a local judge issued a restraining order at my request, I still
feared that Albert was so irrational, he might follow through. Between
that worry and the stress of arranging my wedding to Bill, I was mentally
and physically exhausted.

On July 1, the day before the wedding, Emily disobeyed me about
something insignificant and then locked her bedroom door. An infuriated
male alter-state emerged and angrily banged on her wooden door, yelling
at her to open it. When she refused, the alter-state used a wire hangar to
unlock it. When he saw her trying to climb out a window, he became
more enraged and ran at her. She shrieked and couldn’t get out quickly
enough.

I was completely amnesic as that part hit her on her back again and
again with the wire hangar. When I came to, I was horrified at what I’d
done and feared that I’d go to jail! Because I couldn’t remember why
I’d beaten her, I used a false rationalization-insisting that I wouldn’t have
“had” to hit her if she hadn’t disobeyed me.

The next day at church, Bill and I married. I’d asked Dad to give me
away to Bill and he seemed happy to oblige. I didn’t know how much
power I was still giving him. I also didn’t know that a large percentage
of the witnesses sitting on the church pews were handlers, Aryan cult
members, or ASA personnel.

Although I was mentally unaware that I was surrounded by enemies
and spooks, I felt unsafe and dissociated and became a curly-haired,

New Family

177

mechanical Barbie doll. In our wedding pictures, my face was either
frozen or I wore a pasted-on smile. The only time I felt any warmth was
when Bill and I faced each other at the altar. He cried, and tears filled my
eyes as he silently mouthed, “I love you.”

While I posed as the glowing bride, Emily-one of my bridesmaids-
smarted under her pretty blue dress, her back covered with fiery red
welts. She stayed with Dad and his wife during our week- long honey-
moon. Twice in one week, I seriously hurt her and betrayed her trust in
me … as Bill and I had fun traveling across the Southeast, Dad was free
to do whatever he wished to her.

Blended Family

After the honeymoon, we moved into Bill’s large house in a new
subdivision in the small, rural, unincorporated town of Centerville-several
miles south of Snellville. His two-story house was several years old. I felt
like the lady of the manor, and had difficulty accepting that God was now
blessing me so lavishly!

His combination living-dining room had a cathedral ceiling. I was
overwhelmed by all the open space, after having lived in a small, dark,
smelly duplex for a year. Sunlight shone through the large house’s many
windows. In addition to the living-dining room, the upstairs contained
three bedrooms, two full baths, a small kitchen, and a large wooden back
deck. Downstairs were a fourth bedroom, a half bath, a recreation room,
and a huge, high-ceilinged double garage. All through the house, the
white walls were spotless; Bill still hadn’t hung a single picture.

I chuckled when I noticed that he hadn’t yet used his dishwashing
machine. Was he in for a change, living with us! I often teased Emily
about being a walking tornado because she constantly left dirty clothes
and dishes in her wake.

Learning to Communicate

Bill and I continued to work at the same insurance company. Because he
had to be there at 6 AM, he usually left before dawn in his blue pickup truck.
I started work at eight. Although we got along well there, at home, our

178

Unshackled

tempers often flared. We both were accustomed to being in control, and
neither of us had learned how to constructively express our hurt feelings and
anger. I cried a lot and wrote him dozens of angry, barbed notes.

Sometimes, when I was icy and uncommunicative, Bill grabbed my
wrist and pulled me into our bedroom. He closed the door and made me
kneel with him on the carpet to ask God for help. He usually started by
praying and telling God what he felt and needed. Then he waited
patiently until I did the same.

Believing that God was in the room with us, I felt safer to say what
I really felt. Although our prayer sessions were extremely painful, we
were learning how to be honest with each other about our feelings.

Schism

Almost every day, Emily and Bill snapped at each other. The more she
rebelled, the more frustrated he felt. And yet, he showed her a kindness
and gentleness that I was incapable of. I felt ashamed when I realized he
was a better mother to her than I was. Instead of constantly restricting
and punishing her, he tried to negotiate her privileges. I hated myself and
wondered if they would be better off without me.

As hard as Bill tried to work things out with her, however, their dis-
agreements escalated in intensity. Tired of all the stress, slammed doors,
tears and barbed words hurled back and forth, and Emily’s insistence that
she’d be happier with her dad, I decided she should live with Albert for
a while-so she’d appreciate what she had with us. Albert agreed to the
temporary arrangement when I promised that he wouldn’t have to pay
child support.

After Emily moved into Albert’s trailer in November, she refused to
talk to me. I was devastated. Several times each week, Albert called me
at work to tell me how well she was doing at home and at school.
Although I felt sad that I’d failed as her parent, I was glad that she’d
finally found some happiness and stability.

Arrest

In December, the sky fell. Albert called me at work to tell me that
Emily had just been arrested at school with Geena’s gun in her

New Family

179

possession, the safety off. He said Emily had planned to shoot another girl
who-fearing Emily’s rage-had chosen to stay home that day.

Emily later told me that after shooting the girl, she knew she was
“supposed to” walk into the school cafeteria, climb up on a table, and
“blow her brains out all over everybody.” 2 I’m deeply grateful that the
principal was able to talk her into giving him the gun without anyone
being hurt.

On the day Emily appeared in Juvenile Court, Bill and I sat as close as
we could to the judge’s bench. Although Albert had sheepishly admitted
to me that Emily had recently become an Aryan skinhead, I was unpre-
pared for her drastic change in appearance.

She wore a dirty denim jacket with the words, “Sex Pistols,” hand
written on it in thick, black magic marker. A large Nazi swastika was
visible from the far end of the courtroom. She’d shaved her head in a
Chelsea, a style that she later explained was fashionable for Nazi skin-
head girls. Only her dyed bangs and a “tail” at the nape of her neck
remained.

Because I didn’t remember the Aryan network or its meetings or
rituals, I was stunned that she’d turned into a hard-core skinhead in just
one month!

Although she knew that Bill and I were present in the courtroom,
Emily refused to acknowledge us. At first she seemed rigid and defiant,
but when the judge gave his sentence, her face crumpled into a frightened
little girl’s. I wanted to hurdle the benches, run to her, and enfold her in
my arms. I hurt so badly, knowing I couldn’t do anything to comfort her.

Christmas was especially painful for Bill and me. The judge wouldn’t
allow Emily to leave the county juvenile detention center. I brought a
specially embossed Bible to the center as her Christmas present. I hoped
she would draw the same hope and strength from it that I did. It only
angered her again. My heart broke more when she welcomed holiday
visits from Albert and Geena, but not from us.

Crossroads

Emily’s assigned county caseworker believed that Emily’s acting-out
was a symptom of hidden family problems. She wisely arranged for
Emily to enter a juvenile rehabilitation program at the Crossroads of

180

Unshackled

Chattanooga facility in Tennessee. Each of its large cottages housed an
individualized recovery program. Emily stayed in her adolescent cottage
for over a month.

Before her discharge, she invited Albert, Geena, Bill, and me to her
“family week” sessions. Although Albert declined, Bill and I attended
them together. Initially there to support her, we both soon realized that
we also needed professional help.

Because of what I learned about chemical addictions and dysfunctional
family systems during that intensive week-long program, I recognized that
our family was a mess. More important, I realized that I was almost com-
pletely disconnected from my emotions. I didn’t feel fear, except for
Emily’s and Bill’s health and safety. I felt no love, happiness, emotional
warmth, or empathy. This frightened me. Why was I so emotionally frozen?

Emily’s counselors gave me a challenge with a promise: if I would
enter Crossroads’ 28-day adult inpatient codependency therapy program,
they’d recommend to the judge that Emily be placed back in our home.
Unable to bear the thought of losing her again, I took a month-long leave
of absence from my job and entered the program.

Letting Go

After Emily was discharged from the adolescent unit at Crossroads,
she lived with us for several more years before marrying and starting a
new life with her young husband. Until she moved out, our relationship
stayed extremely rocky. Although Emily continued to block out what
she’d endured in the past, she unwittingly acted it out in nearly every way
possible.

While she was with us, I took her to a succession of therapists and hos-
pitals, looking for a miracle for her-and for us. I didn’t understand then,
as I do now, that in part, I was frantically fighting to keep her alive
because somewhere in my mind, she and Rose (who I didn’t remember)
were one. Even after Emily married and moved away, I still tried to save
her from death – especially when she was suicidal.

One night, after spending the day with Emily and her young family,
I was alone in a hotel room bathroom while Bill slept. As
I thought about my conversations earlier that day with Emily, how she
again threatened to suicide, even telling me about her plans for her

New Family

181

funeral, I had a devastating moment of truth: by obsessively holding onto
Emily and trying to save her from self destruction, I was actually feed-
ing her suicidal tendencies and her exponential, destructive rage towards
me. Over the years, I’d conditioned her to depend on me, which now kept
her from being able to feel good about what she could do for herself.

Realizing this, I knew I had a choice. I could continue to lead us both
down a destructive path, or I could distance myself from her and work to
break our emotional dependency on each other.

When I first distanced myself from Emily, I began to experience the
fullness of my suppressed grief from having lost Rose in such a sudden and
brutal way. I had never experienced such pain. By working through that
grief a little bit at a time-it was as much as I could survive-I was able to
recognize that Rose and Emily were two totally different entities in my life.

Now, I feel a long-distance love for Emily that is wholly separate from
what I will always feel for my baby girl. I smile now, as unexpected
flashes of Emily’s childhood come back to me. She was a sweet and
beautiful child, and I am comforted with the new-found knowledge that,
as broken and unstable as I was in the past, I did dearly love her and did
want the best for her.

A great tragedy between us remains: now that I have the capability to
truly love her for the person she is and always was, she is unwilling to
trust and receive my love. (And really, can I blame her? This is her right!) 3

Can there someday be a happy ending for us as mother and adult
daughter? I don’t know. And I don’t know what’s ahead for either one of
us-no one has that kind of foresight. Every day, I find myself hoping that
she will eventually encounter helpful support and a way to heal. Maybe
it’s already happening for her.

In the meantime, regardless of what happens to her, to Bill, or to any-
one else I dearly love, whether it be life or death or anything in-between,
I must focus on my own healing and recovery, and on doing what I
believe is right for my own life.

From these painful experiences, I have extracted a powerful and
life-changing truth: the only person I have the power to save is me.

Notes

1. Because Bill is firm about maintaining secrecy concerning his past activities for
ASA, our first encounter at the insurance company remains his cover story for how

182

Unshackled

our relationship began. I respect his right to keep secrets, and he honors my right
to speak out about my experiences with him.

2. Her too-calm statement that she was “supposed to” kill herself after killing the
other girl sent chills through me. Now, I wonder: was it a hypnotically implanted
command? If so, who had put it in her mind, and why was she commanded to self-
destruct? What she said she was “supposed” to do was eerily similar to what we’ve
witnessed time and time again over the last decade, in public schools throughout
the US. What is happening to our young people?

3. This is perhaps one of the strongest grievances I have against the FMSF: some of its
most outspoken members seem to insist that adult children do not have the right to
distance themselves from childhood families that they believe are detrimental to
their mental and physical health. I believe this proves those FMSF members’ true
motivations. If parents truly love their adult children, they will give them all the time
and space they need to find their own way in life-even if it means grieving their
absence. Control addicts cannot bear to lose control of their victims, whereas truly
caring parents will-despite the pain-let their loved ones go their own way without
making private and public recriminations against them. The greatest gift we can give
ourselves, and our children, is encouragement, to build independent lives, and to
teach them how to become self-sufficient. I wish I had learned this, sooner.

Reality Check

Codependency

In the summer of 1989, after Emily was discharged, I hesitantly
entered Crossroads of Chattanooga’s adult codependency program. I
didn’t like the idea of sharing my thoughts and feelings with a group of
strangers. Still, for Emily’s sake, I believed I must try.

Since most people with dependent tendencies focus on others to
avoid their own needs and problems, the counselors in our cottage
insisted that visits, phone calls, and incoming mail be kept to a
minimum. Since my handlers and family couldn’t use phone calls and
mail to trigger me into silence and forgetfulness, I was safe to begin
to remember.

In group therapy sessions, I listened to other patients talk about why
they were there. Most of them were there because they had relatives
suffering from chemical addictions. Although I talked a little about
Emily’s arrest, I sensed that my problem was much deeper.

Each patient was asked to draw a chart of major life events from early
childhood to the present. Most of the childhood side of my chart was
blank. As for the events I could remember, I didn’t know how old I’d
been, or when they’d occurred. When I compared my chart to those
of other patients, I noticed that most of them had remembered the dates
of important life events. Why couldn’t I? 1

Our codependency group performed two sets of relaxation exercises
in a room where we lay on our backs on the floor, listening to either a
female counselor’s soft voice or to a cassette recording. Each time, we
were told to visualize ourselves walking along a path through a forest,
then finding unexpected treasure. Each time, I had flashbacks, sat up, and
looked around the room to make the flashbacks stop.

I didn’t want to believe what I was remembering: that when I was
a child, my father had sexually assaulted me. Deeply shaken, I told
no one.

183

184

Unshackled

Incest

One day, as I relaxed on a lounge chair near the facility’s outdoor pool,
another memory unfolded: it was daytime, because sunlight streamed
through a window. I, an adolescent, was alone with Dad in his bed in
Snellville, Georgia. We were both naked under a white sheet. He smiled
as he moved towards me. The memory was so vivid, I couldn’t make it
go away. Again, I told no one.

Several days later, we were taken in a van to a nearby shopping mall
to see a Batman movie. About halfway through it, I had more flashbacks.
During the drive back to the cottage, I hyperventilated and wept. What
was wrong with me?

After we arrived at the cottage, an older, gentle female counselor
walked with me on a path that circled it. Because we were not allowed to
take medications, she held a cold, wet washcloth against my forehead as
I continued to cry, uncontrollably. She and the other counselors waited
patiently, careful not to suggest anything.

During the next few days, I had numerous flashbacks of Dad perpetrat-
ing sexual acts against me and two other children in our bathroom
in Reiffton, Pennsylvania. I wondered, “Why now? Why hadn’t I known
it all along? Could I be making it up?” My assigned counselor was
concerned when I told her that Dad still had easy access to young
children. She insisted I go to the authorities after my discharge and tell
them what I was remembering. Although I agreed to do that, I felt uncom-
fortable-what if Dad wasn’t hurting children anymore? Wouldn’t I then be
hurting him?

Notifying the Authorities

After I returned to Atlanta, I balked for about a week. Then I decided
to send separate certified letters, one to my stepmother at home and the
other to Dad at work, asking to meet with them. In the letters, I hinted at
what I’d remembered. A day or so later, my stepmother called to say that
she’d made Dad leave. After receiving my letter, she’d discovered that Dad
was now molesting at least two children. When they were taken for a
medical examination, physical evidence was found. They met with a

Reality Check

185

child psychiatrist, and the eldest child gave a videotaped statement to
a detective at the DeKalb Police Department Sex Crimes division, that
incriminated Dad.

Not knowing what the children had said, I provided the detective an
independent, handwritten statement about what I’d remembered. 2 I hadn’t
yet been told what the eldest child had disclosed during the videotaped
interview. After I gave my statement, the detective told me that it was
nearly identical to what the child victim had stated. I broke down and wept
with both relief and dismay: I was happy to hear I wasn’t crazy, but
dammit, this meant the memories were real! I didn’t want my dad to be a
child molester, and I didn’t want to accept that he’d sexually abused me!

Arrest Warrant

On August 26, 1989, a criminal warrant was issued for Dad’s arrest.
It stated that Dad “did commit an immoral or indecent act to or in the
presence of [a child] . . . with the intent to arouse or satisfy the sexual
desires of either the child or himself.”

He was arrested, placed in jail, and released on bail shortly thereafter.

Intimidation

As I met with an assistant D.A. to prepare to testify against Dad, he
warned me that Dad was facing a maximum prison sentence of sixty
years. That upset me; although I didn’t want Dad to hurt more children,
I still cared about him and didn’t want him to be put in prison.

During the next several months, Dad became openly hostile towards
me. His behavior helped me to realize he wasn’t the father I’d made him
to be in my mind.

He told people in his church and community that I’d gone to
Crossroads because of a “drug problem.” He said my therapists had
implanted the memories in my mind. He said that I wanted him
sexually and was therefore lying to my stepmother to influence her to
divorce him-so that I could have him to myself!

He also tried to intimidate me through the mail. He sent a photo album
full of pictures from my childhood. Attached to it was a plaque with the
words, “Recipe for a happy marriage.” Although I was pleased with the

186

Unshackled

pictures, I felt nauseous as I read the plaque. He also sent a series of
greeting cards with threatening messages-some coded, some overt.

He instructed one of his criminal attorneys to send me a letter,
threatening to sue me for interfering with his marriage. He attempted
to subpoena my Crossroads records. He even admitted hiring a
female private detective to secretly investigate me and “dig up dirt”
about me.

When I learned of Dad’s actions, I was heartbroken. His behaviors
proved that he didn’t love me, and that he now believed I was his enemy.
That thought especially frightened me, although I didn’t know why.

I continued to have visual flashbacks of his having sexually assaulted
me and other children, and decided to go back to work to get my mind
off the past for a little while. Too much of an emotional wreck to go back
to a full-time office job, I applied for a part-time position as cashier at a
nearby McDonald’s fast food restaurant.

Left-Hand Memories

When I was at home, I constantly struggled with sensory overload.
Day and night, I endured many visual flashbacks and strong physical and
emotional memories known as abreactions.

Most of the journals I wrote during that time were about bits and
pieces of memory that emerged throughout my waking hours. They were
usually visual, odorous, physical, and/or audible. Some days, I had ten or
more flashbacks in succession, all of them totally disconnected from
each other. Each flashback usually contained no more than a half-
minute’s worth of memory. Their abruptness made journaling very frus-
trating, because they had no “before” and no “after.” 3

As I sat on my bed and journaled some of them, they were like opened
doors that led into full memories. And like the ends of threads of individ-
ual memories, if I was willing to relax, trust, and follow the threads, the
rest of these particular memories came quickly.

A new problem soon developed. I was so mentally stuck in the past
that I kept forgetting what month or year it now was. To remedy that,
I affixed a large calendar to our kitchen wall and I marked off each day.
After completing each morning’s journaling, I wrote the current date on
the top of the first page. Writing and seeing the current date seemed to
help bring me back into the present.

Reality Check

187

I also experimented with “right hand/left hand writing.” I’d learned at
Crossroads that writing with my right hand accessed information stored
in the left side of my brain, while writing with my left hand accessed
information stored in the right half. After journaling in the morning with
my right hand, I then put the pen into my left hand and gave permission
to hidden parts of my mind to journal. That technique helped me to
access suppressed memories, and was my first attempt at connecting
with alter-states that I still didn’t know I had. 4

One day in December, after Bill had left for work, I tried to learn more
of what I’d blocked out from my childhood. Sitting cross-legged on the
middle of the bed, I put the pen in my left hand. Immediately, I felt some-
thing unfamiliar in my mind, as well as new body sensations. The pen
seemed to move on its own:

I . . . Mommy where . . . come in here . . . why won’t you come
in . . . don’t you know . . . blood red bloody red . . . you bitch
you bastard . . . you knew and you didn’t stop and you didn’t
try to stop … He broke me He broke the red thing in me . . .
You didn’t come in the room . . . You stayed safe in another
room . . . bloody red hands . . . bloody red … I hurt in
my tummy I gagged and went to throw up . . . bloody bloody
hands . . . dad you are a god-damned animal you broke me your
prick is as big as a house . . . what you did hurt me in my
tummy . . . bloody red bloody red hands . . . my peehole legs
are bloody red … It is getting down my legs stop moving stop
blood stop . . . What I want … I want you to stay away from
me … I want you to love me … I want you to do it again . . .
You felt so good in me . . . you screwed up you made a
mistake now what . . . she’ll catch us . . . you are my prince . . .
you make me feel real special . . . just between you and
me . . . let’s not tell her she’s just a bitch anyway . . . you
deserve better . . . you deserve ME!

I remained conscious as that child part of my broken mind told me
more of what I had previously been unable to remember. In succession,
I vividly experienced the pain, the too-big penetration, the fear, the
unwanted sexual stimulation, the anger towards Mom for not stopping
Dad, the adoration towards the man who had just raped me and torn my
flesh. Weeping, I put the pen in my right hand and wrote to the child part

188

Unshackled

of me as I would have to an external child. I explained that what Dad had
done was wrong and the child was not to blame.

I put the pen in my left hand again. Another unpleasant memory
emerged in writing. Again, my body was racked by the sensations of Dad
raping me.

Mommy . . . why didn’t you stop him … He kept eating me
up … No one could stop him … he was big and strong … he
laughed if I tried to fight him … he pinned my arms to the
side of the bed … he made my legs like scissors … he was a
robot … He put his prick in me it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it
hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt … it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt
it hurt it hurt it hurt I cried Oh God how could this happen to
me I’ve been a good girl … he gave me a candy cane to suck
on while he washed me . . . Mom and brothers were gone
shopping . . . Dad was babysitting me … I had a cold I felt so
awful . . . How could he do it to a sick girl

Freed by my left-hand writing, these memories slammed me. Every
time I wrote with my left hand, I learned more than I could bear.
I screamed when my body relived another childhood rape. I slammed
myself into walls as I physically relived Dad throwing me against walls
in the past. On my back on the floor, I bucked as I physically relived Dad
humping my little body.

Trying to make me feel better, Bill teased that I should carry a “snot
bucket” around the house because I cried so much. Trying to find humor
in my pain, I told him that I should buy stock in the Kleenex tissue
corporation. Making jokes took the edge off a bit, but it didn’t make the
pain and horror go away. More and more, I feared what else lurked in my
unconscious mind.

Exhausted at night, I laid my head on my husband’s legs as I watched
TV with him. When I closed my eyes, I saw Dad’s penis coming at my
face again. I wept.

West Paces Ferry Hospital

After Dad’s arrest, my stepmother learned about a support group for
family members of sexual offenders that met once a week at West Paces

Reality Check

189

Ferry Hospital, northwest of Atlanta. When we went to a meeting we
heard hard, cold facts about criminal mentality that made me realize that
Dad would probably do whatever he could, to avoid prison. Although
I had still hoped that he’d choose to tell the truth for the children’s sake,
I had to consider that he might never do that.

I worried more and more about Dad’s future. Because he still ran for
miles every day, I feared he wouldn’t survive being in a locked facility.
I didn’t want to hurt him. And yet, if he’d recently assaulted children, he
was dangerous. I knew if I testified against him, I’d never have a chance
of receiving real love from him. I asked God to give me the strength to
testify, and to give me the love that my earthly father never would.

We didn’t know that Dad’s court-appointed psychiatrist was actively
working to have him evaluated on an in-patient basis as part of the hospi-
tal’s Sexual Behavior Treatment Program. Had he gone into that program,
the rest of this story might have had a better ending-but it doesn’t. His
AT&T medical insurance plan refused to pay for his treatment there.

Dr. Adams

On November 17, 1989, Dad received an indictment from a 23 -member
DeKalb County Grand Jury for three counts of child molestation. To pre-
pare for his defense, he met privately with Dr. Henry Adams, a professor
of psychology at the University of Georgia in Athens. In a subsequent
civil deposition, Dad described Adams as “the leading authority on
sexual abuse in children.” Adams (deceased) had previously testified for
the defense in the infamous “Little Rascals” ritual abuse trial.

Because Dad lied throughout his deposition, I do not know how many
of his statements about his conversations with Adams were valid. Dad
claimed that Adams said Crossroads was a sexual encounter clinic.
I believe Dad was telling the truth about that, because before he’d met
with Adams, he hadn’t used that particular argument:

[Adams] claims that . . . there are a number of people, mainly
fundamentalist ministers, who are setting up a number of
bogus psychological clinics all over the country. They call
them sexual encounter clinics. Almost everybody that goes into
these clinics comes out sexually abused, across the board . . .
he said this is the kind of thing that’s happening all over the

190

Unshackled

country right now. It’s called scapegoating, where you dump
all of your problems, whatever they are, on the person who
raised you, as sexual abuse. (Deposition 76-77)

Suicide Attempt

Although Dad eventually enlisted Dr. Adams to testify for his defense in
the upcoming trial, he became suicidal immediately after one of his initial
meetings with the doctor. Dad later told his estranged wife that first, he
visualized himself driving into a concrete bridge support. Then he “saw”
himself climbing to the top of a nearby mountain and throwing himself off
the side. Although he successfully fought off the first two urges, he then
checked into a hotel near home, cut both of his wrists deeply with a razor
blade, then went to their house to enlist her help. Seeing the blood, she
called a neighbor who was a nurse. That woman in turn called the police.

One of the responding officers wrote: “He stated that he was very
depressed because he is facing four counts of child abuse, and felt that
suicide was the only way out of it.”

According to that officer’s memorandum, when he tried to talk Dad
into seeking professional help, Dad said, “You don’t know how bad it is,
the prosecutor is . . . out to get me; I’m probably facing the rest of my
life in prison; [he] is half prosecutor and half crusader.”

After being taken to a medical facility, Dad was transferred to a psy-
chiatric hospital where he stayed for several weeks. While being treated
for depression and suicidal ideations, he developed a plan of action
designed to help him feel more in control of his future.

Because I was quite shaken by Dad’s drastic action, the assistant
district attorney told me that one of the reasons Dad might have cut his
wrists was to influence me not to testify against him (if so, it nearly
worked). He reminded me that the welfare of the child victims, not Dad’s
mental state, should be my primary concern. I feel grateful that the assis-
tant DA believed me and the children. His swift and determined action
against Dad probably saved them and other children from being sexually
assaulted, and worse.

When Dad was released from the hospital, he traveled to a conference
at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. After that, he traveled to
Pennsylvania to spend several days with his childhood family.

Reality Check

191

(Continued at

Unshackled 5