February 27, 2012

Tea and Toast

My mood got better yesterday probably because the actual day of my birthday brings a bit of a break in the tension. Saturday was pretty awful though, no money, no cards or wee pressies in the post all those memories of friendless birthdays in the past. Today started pretty awful though, dreams about a tiny baby that someone had left, I let on older woman look after it. Then I heard crying when I went followed the sound I found the baby at the bottom of bath full of water. I scooped her out and turned her over to get rid of the water, before long the baby was a plastic glow in the dark skeleton that I felt there was no point in carrying around. I can still feel the little warm body close to me. February is more Haloweeny that October ever could be, everything is so bleak.

After feeling grumpy for a while I went back to bed and had a word with myself. We didn't resolve anything but we decided on the necessary things to do, feed, wash and cloth boy which I did happily. I was looking at him running down the road and heard the word 'satan' in my head. Maybe there is multiples that don't like him because they think he means the end of them. It's not true though, him being around means I have to address and except them all. Maybe its more like whoever said it was a cult construct that knows wee man means there is no going back, only forward.

Mum can take him on the day I travel to see new shrink though, big relief. Don't know what I'm going to do when she is working though. My sister is drinking too much for me to be happy to leave him with her. When my mum was talking about it she said there was no reason for my sister's drinking, I didn't agree, didn't disagree. She gets worse before family visits, during holidays but is much better than I am at keeping myself busy. I guess I tend to dwell, she runs from it. Daft cow, what can you do with someone that turns up drunk for her one and only AA meeting, to driving lessons, situations when she knows she will be sent away. That must be horrible. My card from my gran that had cash or a Markies token in it has gone missing, and the first thing I thought was maybe my sister had taken it. She lies so much, spends money she needs for the kids on drink knowing my mum will sort it out.

Mark Radcliffe told a joke I liked on 6 music, 'How many Freudians does it take to change a pe-eh-light bulb?' little things :)

February 24, 2012

'Now that were all here, were not all there!'

Breaking Ritual Silence: An Anthology of Ritual Abuse Survivors Stories an Amazon import from the states. Excellent, I would recommend it to anyone regardless of how far along they are in terms of remembering and accepting. Not that it's the kind of thing you can read quickly, but even having it around is good. Struggling to find the right time to read though. Last night was fine, some of what I have read so far are more testaments to survival and healing rather than records of abuse, I went to sleep in hope. I read some when wee man was at nursery today and was worried that I might of been swaying I felt so dizzy waiting to pick him up with the other parents. Going to the shop and walking him home was fine, he was chatty as he usually is and we had a laugh. When we got back in I started feeling claustrophobic and really depressed again. Chances are I would be feeling that way anyway, I hate it when my birthday falls on a Sunday. Much easier for all those weekend Satanists to be involved.

I'm really tired and it feels like I'm coming down with something, again. I want to write about how I responded to the stories, the way they seem so much stronger than me in terms of what they can remember or because they cut of all contact with their families. I know comparing myself to others is never helpful, we all have different horror stories and ways of coping with similarities and differences. Some worked, studied and raised children as they remembered and got therapy but not everyone. It will be hard though, accepting birthday presents from my mother and the money I need because I spent the lecky money on a present for wee man and wine for me, with the doodles of bone scrapers I used to draw stuck in my head. Something about her being a nurse, with considerable expertise. The sense I have that huge parts of me are still in that Glen isn't going away, I dream about it almost every night like everyone else there has moved on except me.

Dont end it there girl.

Someone who knows about this stuff is trying to find me a therapist, I have had lots of support from twitter, things are changing but its slow and that makes me feel like this is as good as it will get for me but it wont be, if change doesn't come to me I go out and find it.

February 23, 2012

It's Still February..

I often find myself tracing a heart shape on my thumb nail, on my clothes, on the telly remote.. Last night I remembered, we were in one of the school out buildings, Craig was being raped, tortured by a man we were all watching. It was a really small school so its not impossible we were all there. I started tracing a heart shape on my finger with my thumb hoping he would feel it and he would know that love was real to. I'm not sure if our teacher was there but I remember staring at her face one time, I think it was in that same building, trying to figure out what she was feeling, what she was thinking. Was she honestly into all this? Her face contorts into joy.

Been reading Breaking Ritual Silence (eds. Lorena, Levy) not an easy read but necessary. Still disheartened by how much writing survivors rely on fantastic therapists, and group therapy. Stuff like that doesn't seem to exist in Scotland, to small a country I guess. I contacted one of the editors from Manipluation of Attachment Needs she email back saying she would like to help and could I commute to London. It's brought up a lot of money related rage. If I had any kind of savings of reliable income I would uproot wee man and and head down there. As terrifying as that would be.

I find it hard to even imagine a future for me up here, beyond being a mom that is. I'd love for him to have a mom that was less tired, more able to take him places, that had more friends. She emailed back to say she would try and help me find someone up here, that she would be back in touch soon.

No sign of birthday spliffage so I bought wee man a big wooden castle and hauled it back from town. Tried not to get to grumpy with him for playing with it when I was still trying to assemble it. It will just be me and him on Sunday, thankfully my mom is working, and this is my skint week so it can be as quiet as I want it to be. Some chinese food, some cake, some wine, some dancing with wee man, best 'birthday' ever.

February 20, 2012

Say Something...

February more than half way gone. I smoke far too much and do by best to ride the waves of fucking memory and relief its over. Trying to believe March will be better, there will be snow drops and daffodils, more light and the endless fucking anniversaries. Today the killed your saviour, yesterday they ate your baby, tomorrow your mother will shit on you. Not that I see much but the 'I love yous', hear the crying and feel the nausea, the shadows over the brain, the opportunities cut of and the high walls between me and creativity. But he ate well, we laughed today, got new shoes, a new book and me mocha, he spoon fed me the foam from the top. Maybe I have no right to complain but I will, at the bank I forgot about him but he noticed, in the morning I couldn't keep my eyes open and after tea, mince tatties and orange squash I wanted to throw up, such Scottish meals never sit well. I remember arguing with David the male voice from the corner of my mouth how it made a lover weep. I made jokes about Psycho. Reaching out can be dangerous, who wants to know? That average people were the worst the easiest to manipulate, the quickest to adapt, the slickest at switching from sex offender to PTA mom in the blink of an eye. It's only me I don't count, its what I'm for after all. The others got their other lives, to keep the cash, to socialise, to work and all else that seeing has turned to lies and self abuse. I got to know, the accounts, the power struggles, the connections, like a big conscious web across the planet the grew new roots where ever there was hope or healing. Inside I feel them shifting, roused by the reading and the life lines in 120 characters or less. Still I can't go back to Izzy's where the walls rippled with laughter and mocking a girl that looked like me but better dressed, better spoken flits up and down the corridors, taking a sledge hammer to every fragile link between me and another world, we will always get there before you, she had said. But she's dead now and I mourn her spirit and what she could of been I rejoice that she and her kin will never lay hands on me and mine again, to steal from my mind or womb. 'Watch your hands' they shouted in unison standing at the bar in the shitty incestuous coke covered village as I went out the back to make a point making the best of meth that was forced into my lungs. Why? My hands are no use to them now, I'd rather cut them of than make them another penny. No you wouldn't. Enemies within mean enemies on the outside have nothing to fear. Give me the drugs, give me the shrinks, give me the labels, take the food from my son and the clothes from our backs, make mistakes just don't leave me with them.

February 18, 2012

Homour: Without it we are nothing.

Although neither my child psychotherapist who I saw from thirteen to eighteen and the adult psychotherapist I saw from eighteen gave me a D.I.D diagnosis I am remember more and more about alters presenting themselves during sessions. My child therapist had toys in her room and used to stare at them a lot sometimes. I played with them at some point, with an alter I couldn't share consciousness with. As an adult I remembering making my shrink laugh, I would try to be serious but these voices inside me were much more interested in trench/slave humour. They are very good at it, they would make shrink laughs so much he would have to take his glasses of and wipe his eyes. Then they would hit him with the hard stuff.

I lost my comedy duos along the way but I'm looking for them now. They were so unflinching they saw the heart of the matter in everything and made it more palatable by making it funny. Mixing the horror of reality in with puns, observations and jokes in a way that could get right to peoples hearts and make them gasp. The humour disarmed them and left them open to exposure to the truth.

It was so powerful to answer back with wit, while chained to a cross, or after rape. Humour embodies a spirit of resistance that is life loving and infectious. It exposes hypocrisy and undermines authority. They hated it and it was hit hard. Not even I could make jokes about dead babies but there was always the relief that they were free.

We have to laugh at dictators, abusers, what they do to us and what we become. It helps separate us from subjugation, rises us above it all without denying reality in any way. I wish I could think of examples but they don't work much out of context. I do remember being locked up in a hut in a jungle clearing somewhere, there was lots of other huts with other prisoners. There was torture and questions I don't remember what about. I shouted 'Oi your contravening our human rights', and 'I demand a lawyer' at the confused looking patrolling uniformed types. There was laughter from the other huts, some of them started to join in to. I guess you had to be there.

My peoples.

Oh good its snowing dont have to feel guilty about not leaving the house.

So of the top of my head and without trying to much:
David: boy me 'whatever'
James my twin: 'help me', never grew up
Suzi: formaly known as whore me but now accepted and loved 'Fuck them all'
Mum me: 'It's okay, your have everything you need inside you.'
Jade: serious hard ass 'go on fuck with me' *evil grin*
little lou: head down, lips pursed, crys if anyone tries to talk to her.
lawyer me, humanrights me, police me, researcher me, money me and many, many other professionals. Gagged, bound, crippled.
murderer me: 'yep, thats me, the only one that brought about any real therapy or change. Its a vocation.' *wink*
Mia: grew up and protected by organised crime wanted to take over, pretty quite at the moment 'bastard dumbfuck thugs dont know what theyve lost'
Gia: spiritual me 'the life in all things will show you the way, pray, dream, see.'
illuminati me 'shhhh, all things to all men'
Louise: main victim of satanism, musician me, dead
Diana: American me, ex bandmember, cheer leader, well grounded, happy and popular at school. 'LET ME OUT'
arab and middle eastern mes: lots of finger pointing and eyes rolling above veils, one of them 'we will get there' Palastein.
various me that are versions of people I know, 'What would so and so do?'
Scientist me: 'I know'
occult me: 'Don't look at me'
war me: 'Bring it on'
Sally: 'I just want to be left alone.'
Earth mother me: 'Protect the children first' gets sore boobs around small babies.
international mes, 'however bad things are out there, they would me much much worse if it wasn't for us' Still long to be involved.
Rebeca: child, posh clothes, educated, kept entertianed and healthy cherished, hidden, protected at all costs 'I want to go home'

That will do for know.

February 17, 2012

My D.I.D. without trauma.

Its a bit unrealistic to think that just because I'm not being tortured, raped, witnessing the violent death of children or whatever, all my multiples have just 'gone away'. It's difficult to think about. When there has been mind control from a very early age their is no 'core' that isn't a deliberately created construct. There were times when I would look down at my hands and think 'oh my god I'm me'. Not very many times. I'm not sure what I feel when I looked at my hands now, beyond annoyance that I need to cut my nails that is. They're not my hands, were just stuck with each other.

Increasingly tempted to go calling to see who I can dredge up. The reading has helped me loose my fear of hypnotism, with the right person of course and I can't see how I can find who ever that is anytime soon.

I remember that terror of realising I'd lost time. Working in Tesco, stacking freezers. I was working down the aisle tidying up and looked up the row and realised I was several feat further down the aisle than I thought I was. It doesn't sound like much, but it wasn't autopilot, one second I was in one place, a second later I was much further down with no memory what so ever of doing the work. I'm going to try and speak to the psychiatrist about it, the fears I have about working again, how hard that semi formal socialising is for me, how hard it is to concentrate. My tendencies to either completely bow to instructions or reject them totally.

I think I know why they don't talk to me. I'm one of them. Someone who is weak and can't be trusted, someone who ignores and exploits them. It's them that's real, not me. I'm just a programmed front and I can't get any further without them. But I took the pain and the horror for them to especially in the last years, they were so much more clever, skilled, competent than I am. I didn't have much to loose they did. It was them people were usually after anyway, I didn't want to give them what they wanted.

'It's not working. Why isn't she splitting?'

I was up late last night in the living room when I got that creepy feeling again. There was thumping, my down stairs neighbour was having sex and I had went vague and deaf rather than hear it. I feel it when I see my son fall, I freeze, too terrified to run to him in case I lose him. I need to deal with some of this, I will not be the sort of mother that turns herself into a zombie rather than deal with the pain of seeing their child hurt.

Dissociation although necessary for survival, makes me vulnerable to further abuse. Olga Trujillo describes it in the sum of my parts a bloke she knows she isn't safe with starts asking her questions about where she lives and what she does and she hears her self answering the questions automatically. Been there. The way she was delighted to be asked to go fishing with her brothers because she thought is meant they wanted her company when in fact them and their mates just wanted her holes. Its almost a choice, there is going to be more rape anyway so why not pretend for a little while that they like and care about you. What difference will it make?

Come back guys, me and the wee man need you and we love you.
Glasgow, the adverts, the programming, being forced to hold that grey spongy stuff that tastes like the yuckyness you get when youve been smoking too much but much, much worse
No more brain damage.

February 16, 2012

A moan with a happy ending.

Continued dodgy physical health makes it so much harder to do the normal stuff people do that keeps the depression manageable. The sore legs I got from housework got worse and now my throat is so sore I cant face eating and feeling nauseous when I do. Several times in a row now I've come home from staying at my mums and woke up with a nasty virus the next day.

Maybe the colds are away of avoiding dealing with the difficult relationships with my family, maybe its little mes' still waiting for their mum to stop it all and explain everything away. I think about the time in the Glen when there was a load of porn being made and someone took pity on me and told me to go to my bed (alone) because I wasn't well. Strange that someone should be so involved in child porn and then for some reason have the compassion to let me of because I had a fever. Maybe I think that if I stay ill I don't have to be involved in all that society crap.

I haven't managed to draw a line between 'Satanic' and 'normal' cultures I'm not sure if I ever will, but I would like to see things differently. When there is so much distance between what is and what is accepted I can't see how I can ever really integrate myself into any community. It would be easier if I didn't identify all lies with evil, which is a bit of an extremist point of view. I understand why I feel that way though, everyone I have known lied to me, I needed them to or my systems of alters would fall apart. Sometimes the only people who told any kind of truth was rapists. They told me my whole family did this to me, that they would come back and take me away and my parents would do nothing to stop it, that the police would not help me. They were right. They were wrong about a few things though, 'it' isnt what I'm for and 'it' isnt going to happen my whole life.

I started 'The men who stare at goats' and was just about finding the right distance where I could read and remember without getting overwhelmed when my son and niece came in. Not sure I can go back to it now. Not tonight.

I watched some of David Cameron's speeach from Edinburgh today, I hate the way politicians go on about how 'great' history is. Sure enough, exploitation, colonialism, genocide and wars, great stuff. Why does there have to be so much bullshit?!

Nevermind I'm feeling well enough for a plate of pasta with tinned tomatoes, a heathy dose of extra virgin and a sprinkling of mature cheddar with a cup of camomile tea on the side. My life has improved this much there is no reason to believe that it can not get better still.

February 12, 2012

Mother

'You mentioned something about birthdays being difficult for you, and it brought to mind what I've heard about Satanism.'

My body sagged as every muscle in my body relaxed. The massive anxious crippiling weight on my brain lifted. It was like the sun coming out. I stared at her, my eyes all big and non-scary, the breath all gently left my lungs. Then I looked down at my fingers as I fidgeted with them.

'Well, I think so. Judying by all the big wooden crosses, backwards talking and stuff. Theres lots of talking. I don't know what its all about but its like a huge dark patch in my head. When I think about it, it isn't just orders, do this, do that. There's loads of it'. She was quiet and covered her hand with her mouth, leaning her head to the side, blinking. 'It's why I come here'.

'I'm not going to remember this.' It hit me hard and I recoiled into weeping.

Grammer, spelling, punctuation, tone and style changes sometimes mid sentence/mid word

They were right about one thing (and one thing alone) Dissasocition and all that alters stuff is quite interesting.

February 10, 2012

That's better.

I'm glad I said all that. I know every time I communicate things that I am expected to feel too insecure to even think about, I feel a little a lighter and a little more settled in my flesh. I have a lot of really oppressive dreams involving bags and bags of black rubbish sacks, filthy showers and broken toilets. The earlier post has brought those dreams to mind in a less stressfull way, like the chaos in my head and body is being addressed.

Cause whatever else it all might be it is definitely shit. The ritual abuse, the Satanisms, MK Ultra like mind control programmes, the rape, the varied, creative and well researched forms of torture, the government sponsored scientists training subjects for involvement in organised crime and international terrorism. It's all just shit. Shit I'm not prepared to let keep me in pain, indoors and terrified of my own existence for the rest of my life.

Most of the people who I have really known at any point, who knew and loved me usually agreed. 'Talk. There is nothing else you can do, we'll be there for you.'. I worry its hardwired, and not in the sense that it is a path I choose a long time ago but a path that was chosen for me by very, very bad people.

But all I can do is do what feels right, to do what I need to do to stay safe and better in that order. I don't think I have much experience of trying to make my life better it was always about getting a life that was conscious. I have never been here before. I feel very inexperienced.

Even at the moments when its impact on my life was at its worst I knew the Internet would one day pay me back. The friends I have found online and the books and sites that their compassion and interest has given me the courage to read are challenging my core beliefs. I accept the raw nerves, and that pain round about my cervix that hurts every morning and night at the very least and often all day. I'm not hiding in states close to comatose, under faith in the supernatural, damaging relationships or work. I don't rip by brain and soul apart trying to dissect its deep and complex causes because I believe convictions so strong could be the result of being turned into a robot. A robot that seeks to aid everything that causes mass amounts of damage to anything that even suggests Humanism. We are all a lot more complicated than that. Nature finds a way.

Delusions: How after years of abuse and mind control can I ever trust anything I think, feel or sense?

In the late 80's early 90's whenever I saw Saddam Hussein or Gaddafi on TV my first thought was always, I know him, he can't be that bad he was nice to me'. I remember big round tables with Baath party members, rape and torture from their sons, gold taps and serious levels of opulence. The casual disregard for life that I was already familiar with although it wasn't used to it being so public and in the open.

Bloody hell I would think if this is what they are 'publicly' what the fuck is the Satanism going to be like? There generally wasn't any. In my memory the responses of middle eastern dictators to ritual abuse was extremely refreshing, they weren't fazed much. They thought it was all fucking mental, Gaddafi, Saddam, indignant in response to the inhumanity, the basic anti social nature of Satanism. I had to laugh.

They reminded me of my Scottish Grandads sometimes. Of course the vast majority of contact was over the phone and you never really know who your talking to. All a bit different beyond North Africa, much more monochrome.

I was told about 9/11 sometime in the early mid eighties by two men I believed to be British intelligence officers, they said I would be involved. I wasn't up for it. They said I would be doing it anyway. So I did that trick in my mind when I convince myself that when someone was telling me how awful things were for me it was because they had to not because they wanted to. If they had a choice they would not be involved in a career that involved standing in woods in the middle of nowhere with a victimised 6 year old in a nightie. They just needed help to get out. It was convenient for all of us to see the towers as an evil that would prevent much greater evils and by being involved I was buying a ticket out. On a spiritual level I felt it was justified to stop the spread of violent political abuse within and across modern states and cultures. It was war. War against Satanism.

I had to convince myself of that of course to survive. The closer it got to September the harder I found it to maintain any pretense that I would flying out of Scotland to a life with people I that loved any time soon. So I switched priorities, from fighting 'Satanism' whatever the fuck that is, to staying alive. There was lots of people who thought that the moments those towers fell I (who was a bit of an inconvenience) had served my purpose. I would be weakened until I could be piked of, worked to death. I stayed on the phone for days at time whenever I could. I dreamt about the towers collapsing for years before I watched it on TV.

Early in 2001, I gave up on uni and split up with my boyfriend, I had work to do. I remember going into a bank in Aberdeen and handing over some sort of money transfer slip to a bloke, he was about as young as I was, I remember announcing as loudly as I could 'I can't get money for cat food but can get for acts of international terrorism is okay'. He just smiled.

I told people for years that it was going to happen, on the day it happened and the days after the phone was very busy. Celebs, bands, footballers, criminal friends and foes, security types and others, jokes about 'only blowing the bloody doors off', feeling unnerved at how cool the members of 911 all seemed to think it was. Some freaked out, asking me if this meant that everything else I had told them was true as well. NY port authority, firemen <3. Others giving instructions, working my muliples. I had believed for years that after the towers I would be free, I could be me, I was very wrong.

Friends, my shrink, my family all told me that I hadn't told them about the towers, that I was ill, that I should get help, that I should sort myself out. The phone stoped ringing, the sexual abuse is always among the last tings to stop. I was taken back to the concil flat I had abandoned, face down, head between the toilet and the bath, trying to count the dates (14th November, 15th November). No rituals, no fancy dress, no ancient looking tombs, or beatufifil carved sexual torture tools. Just men in designer clothes who all had flash phones with loads of numbers on them drugging, raping and forcing a young woman into prostitution. A young woman who doesnt have a flash phone or designer clothes but was having a mental breakdown. Fistfulls of paper money being handed around, the usual back slapping, networking.

Something that did stop in 2001, was the dreams. I call them dreams but they didn't feel like that. Usually involving rape, mutilation, and murder. The only difference between them and reality was that I didn't/ couldn't split during the 'dreams'. I had my throat split thousands of time, womb ripped out often by people I knew, experienced being skined alive and much much more. Then I would wake up, aparently unharmed. Sometimes I would see pictures of missing women on the TV sometimes and feel certain I knew what happened to them. I used to be able to forget most of them when I woke up, but in 2001 that stopped. Maybe it was part of me figuring out a way to stop it. Whatever it was there is no way those pictures, those feelings, those acts on flesh came from me. It was part of the programming, the mind control.

I'm not scared writing this, I've no evidence for any of it. If I get threatened or hurt they mulitples come back and that means all the memories to, of where the bodies are buried, of phone numbers, how to drive, how to fly, all those Jedi like mind tricks to get people to do whatever you want them to do. Where the documents are, where the money is. I have no intenion of being a martyr, I've lost enough, I just want to know me and this is the only means I have of attempting it. Telling a shrink about this sort of stuff is unlikly to help.

It was agreed I would walk away and be left alone, but I could say what I liked, it wouldn't matter anyway its to unbelieveable. I am also the first to question whether or not I was a reliable witness or not, I'm too split.

February 09, 2012

The sum of my parts

Reading Olgo R. Trujillo's book, have stopped after the part when her dad gets her brothers involved. I remember that hope to, seeing my sisters with him. They want to help me, to talk about the truth unlike Olga though I can't go into any detail about what happened next. It's not even blackness, just that the nanny part of me stops me from seeing any more like 'dont worry your pretty head about all that my dear'. There are flashes of my sisters on top of me anything else gets pulled back before it comes to the surface. I love the fact she writes about her eyes moving back and forward, the flickering, daytime REM I've talked about in previous blogs, inner restructuring.

I'm sure I used to hold moments in my fist like she did as well, until it was found out and I had to think of something else.

Left hand making cord shapes along to Beth Orton, I used to think that the first thing I would do when the trials were over was learn how to play the guitar properly, to read music, to play, to create on my on terms, for pleasure, for healing. I tried before but it was so hard, I couldn't just pick it up and play like I used to. Hard to dissasociate guitars from industrial horror.

I thought it was just a fantasy until I saw the cuts on my fingers. Then I remembered the little feat on the peddles and the way men looked at me. Rape music.

I think I need a shrink, one that I choose. There would be some very, very hard times though, its so hard to commit to making things worse even if in the end it would make things better. I can't see how things would change much just bungling along they way I am.

Finding one that accepts ritual abuse is probably hard enough, nevermind one that accepts involvment of the state and the places they sent me or being forced into studios to create/produce for well known artists.

It's been in films, games. Soldiers, mercinaries sent out to gun down black people in huts. We went to school with our hands aching, still trembling from prelonged use of automatic weapons.

It's easy for me, I was there. How does someone believe it if they weren't there, if the knowledge isnt in them all ready?

Whore (very unpleasant)

My sister's ex used to come up the road. I've tried to remember if it started when he lived down stairs from us but all I can remember is watching a film in his living room, I can't remember whats it called, its about teenagers having sex, named after a bar or something. But when we moved away he would visit in the night, like I said my dad had the keys and wouldn't lock the doors. He often used this drug on me, it would totally paralyse me but had no effect on my head or what I felt. I was totally conscious, he had some knowledge of working my alters dissociative states so someone was training him. He would get my little nephew involved to, he would touch him gently and ask him if he liked it and tell him he loved him afterwards. He was never gentle with me and would talk to my nephew about me, saying I must be a whore to let them do that to me. He had been training my nephew since he was tiny, one of his first words was 'whore' he would say it whenever I walked in the room sometimes, I was 10.

Another time there was group members in my room, I was on the bed they were arguing about something, maybe what they were going to do with me. My nephew, who was about 3 didn't like the fighting and took the initiative to stop it. He got onto to the bed and raped me. I told him 'No' and tried to push him of but the male group member pushed me back. My nephew has seen enough rape and sex to know what noises to make, what to say, how to move. I'm not sure if my family were there but sometimes when I think about it I can hear my mother hooting, clapping and congratulating my nephew along with the rest. They were all very impressed with him. It wasn't blacked out, it hang over me for a long time. At school, at home, it was so disgusting, so humiliating, and the way they cheered him on, it felt so unspeakable at the time because he was a boy he had more power than me regardless of how much bigger and older I was. The very sound of his little high pitched voice used to make me flinch, I saw my dad doting on him and felt so sick I would sometimes vomit. But I learned to speak, even if it was to wrong person, the place, the wrong time because every word puts more distance between me and then. There was men who used to phone and I would describe the things that were happening to me, for evidence, I continued with it long after I knew they were masturbating because I loved the sound of my own voice and the sound of the truth

I resented him and had tried not to hate even before the incident described here because they used his little hands to kill one of my own on a portable alter in my room. He didn't even resist. I did at his age but then I'd been trained to resist so it was easy. Why did he get to live? Why did he get to be with my sister? I resented and hated my sister for letting it all happen and because she got to keep her child and yet spent so much time in an alcoholic haze.

Despite my feeling of total disgust towards him I still had to try protect him and teach him better. He was only little and I didn't want him to grow up treating me like that, I couldn't do much about the others but he had a chance. I knew I would have to scare him into listening to me, I'm not sure how I achieved that but I didn't hurt him. No point in hurting someone to teach them that hurting people is wrong. He needed to know I would defend myself though.

My nephew is in England now, I could never say I loved him but he seemed to earn more respect for me as he grew older. Except for in Glasgow and that New Year of course, I hope for his kids sake he has a better choice of friends now than he did then. At the end of the day he knows I'm the only one in the family he will ever get any sense or truth out of. I felt my fear for him fade when we watched Scrubs together a few years back. It was the scene when the hardass lawyer woman (played by ER's nurse Hathaway) is walking down the corridor and hitting every man she passes in the crotch with a hooked walking stick in time to music (Big Spender?), 'I hate this scene.' he moaned. 'I love it.' Throughout the song he wails every time she hits and I laugh hard, by the end of it tears are streaming down both our faces. We made such a racket that once the song had ended and I went through to kitchen to avoid anymore bonding everyone wanted to know what was going on. Us ex-Satanists have to get our kicks somehow.

As for the group members, it irks me horribly that whenever I get a wee lump of hash, that makes me feel cool for a little while, that makes me want to write poems, cook creative meals, link thoughts and memories or go for long walks, that maybe it passed trough their hard core baby killing hands. I hate thinking that my money goes towards paying someone to hurt a kid, some nasty drug, petrol for their cars, to threaten social workers or police, whatever. With these sorts of torture merchants it was hard to know who was running who, but I reckoned from things I saw that they were sometimes used by intelligence sorts to fuck up other intelligence sorts (like me) and in return got a free reign to earn, subjugate, and get their jollies however they wanted.

The reason I've written this today (again?)is because I've struggling a bit with my son in terms of him wanting a 100 kisses, or when he sits on my lap and squirms or wants to cuddle up to me in bed. We did not bad today though in the end, sorted out the messy kitchen, watched Pooh's Heffalump Movie, washed his hair, sang to each other at bedtime (Eagles' Desperado, and his penguin song). He has never called me a whore.

February 08, 2012

Wierd Wedding Memory

I didn't want to have sex in my room, for obvious reasons. He agreed, he was older and wanted to wait anyway. I wasn't so sure, I couldn't see the point in waiting when I barely remember one day to next. One day we took the dog out and I took him into a field and behind a wall. The field was pretty bare it must have been about Spring time, or maybe a less cold day in autumn. I had thrilled myself all day at school feeling the condom in my pocket. My public consciousness didn't know what I was holding but was well aware of the excitement, there was dread to, but I knew that could easily be a sign of doing the right thing, of going against the conditioning.

A while later there was a phone call, they found the condom. 'Christ.' I said, 'Haven't you lot got anything better to do?'. 'It was consensual then?', 'Yea it was my idea'. Then I remember getting out of car, outside a big old, Church in a big old city. There's an intelligence type waiting, one of the more human sort. 'Glad you could make it'. He says, smiling. I don't know what I'm doing there, but I'm used to that and I don't feel particularly threatened. I'm taken to a room round the back of the church, 'That's pretty', 'It's for you.' Inside the church is full of familiar faces that I don't want to look at for long because of the intense conflicting emotions and memories it would bring up. Up at the top, he's standing there in a suit next to a best man I can't remember. Can't remember the service either, just the way he cried after that kiss, people in the pews went, 'aahhh'.

There was a reception, I drunk lots, danced lots and acted pretty daft went I was told it was time to go I was disappointed. 'Where are we going?'. 'Your honeymoon,'. I tell him I have to sleep during the travel. I wake up on white beach, with a little cabin, people brought us amazing food that he would watch me scoff down.

Before he was sent to jail a policemen gave us time in the back of a police car together.

It came to me last night and stupidly I touched myself try to see if it would help me figure out if any of it had happened. It didn't. All I got was the ache and memories I had no emotional response to. Afterwards I felt awful and when I sat down at the computer to put some music on I expected it to hurt. These days it has all melted into one, the rape, the exploitation and the consensual that I thought brought me back to life, all the same, none of it really me.

February 06, 2012

I am the alpha and the omega.

....Zeta had to do with the production of snuff films that this person was involved with...Omicron had to do with their linkage and associations with drug smuggling and with the Mafia and with big business and government leaders. The Greenbaum Speech D.C Hammond 1992

In his speech Hammond describes the programming of people to form different alters to form different functions allocated with letters of the Greek alphabet. I have chosen the quotes above because so far I have been fustrated at how little money making and connections between big business, organised crime and political leaders there is in literature about ritual abuse and mind control.

I remember the song out in the nighties I think it was the Shaman, the lyric went something like 'Alpha Omega, for you I will also have time.' Or at least thats what it is in my head. It made me go cold the first few times I heard it. Lots of things made me go cold, I knew was all part of that stuff that I couldn't remember much off. Lots of flickers of studio time.

I have scanned the speech a couple of times and read some of it properly this now. It is always good to read about how Nazi scientists were protected and their research continued by the USA but the speech does not mention the involvement of British Intelligence and free masons. It was something I always felt to be true and was able to confirm myself with the help of members of the intelligence community. I don't know what letter researcher me is assigned with, or if she's the same as foreign/ancient language me or someone totally different one thing is for sure I have never been able to wake them just because I was bored or a bit fustrated. There is so much in here and they leave no room for me, no brain left to start again.

In Ritual Abuse and Mind Control: The Manipulation of Attachment Needs Valeria Sinason discusses how more recently survivors have talked about abuse from many more religions that just satanism.
...later referrals included Luciferians,..Paganism, Wicca, Voodoo, Black Witchcraft, Black Dianetics, Gnostic Luciferianism, Illuminati, Military Mind Control, MK Ultra and Bluebird'
(I remember not being to stop staring at bus drivers with bird tattoos, swallows? I'm not sure. And can I add, just of the top of my head the Lutherians were much fun either)
...Of even more concern were those whose systems can include all of this: a devoted Catholic alter, an abusing Satanist one, a Celtic one, A Kabbala one, an Egyptian one ... None would want to know each other. (pp.4-5).

Indeed. I can't remember ever being that fascinated by most rituals (probably because I had seen so many of them) but there was the odd world view that I found intreging, espically some of the Eastern ones. It was the access to texts that I got really into. I do find religious belief interesting, I studied religious studies at school. I have had at times a highly developed spiritual side that could take the best of all of them and make something all purpose, beautiful and healing it was needed for the Messiah work. As well as suffering from the constant inner religious war that the quote suggests.

For years I wore a silver cross, but that was about not forgetting I'd been raped on a cross rather than a Christian faith. Look at the centre symbol of our state, a man being cruicified, and they say it doesn't happen? I still have one, but this one is made of chrome and is inset with little pieces of coloured glass, all the colours of the rainbow.

I dreamt of fields covered in blood, I found deer, one dead and one dying. I used to think I had been cut out of the stomach of a deer, then they slit her throat. Rebirth from an animal rituals are mention in Ritual Abuse and Mind Control as a satanic thing. I wasn't happy about the deer, I went to look for someone to complain about it to.

Early I was lieing in my bed with my eyes closed and saw a picture come out of the darkness. A girl about 5 or 6, she is upset and has one arm outstreached like someone is holding it but I can't see her hand. A man is pulling down her bottem lip to expose her teeth and laughing. She looks familiar but I can't place her. The first thing that came to mind was Jersey and all the teeth they found. I tried to write a poem about it, about falling on a heap on the floor when the news first came on about Haut de la Garenne. My fist was clenched and when I looked down and forced myself to open it I saw bloodied teeth, some with bits of flesh attatched. I'm pretty sure the same man who handed me the teeth was the same man pulling down the girls lip. No murders my flabby ass.

February 05, 2012

Messiah

It wouldn't of been possible even a week ago to type 'Messiah' and explore the stuff I am about to explore, maybe I have touched on this before but I don't think so. There is still a fear that this will help identify who I am and that talking about this will start things up again but it is not stronger than the need to see it out written down and 'out there' instead of being 'in here'. Reading Ritual Abuse and Mind Control: The Manipulation of Attachment Needs has taking a lot of the power and the shame away from that word. I finished the Chapter on programming yesterday and read Chapter four 'Love is my Religion' written by an anonymous survivor last night. I am not able to give the coherent linear outline of what happened like this author did but reading it has made me feel a lot more confident that one day I will be able to.

Being made to feel special, being told that you have special powers is a tactic often used by abusive cult groups. This is compounded in me because of the support that I got from people who I have called the resistance in the past, people who helped me, people who undid and replaced programming. I don't now when it started, possibly from birth, I was being told that I was going 'to stop it all'. This came from various groups and individuals and I don't associate all off them with torture. Some satanist groups said I was the Messiah and abuse was centered around me, my body fluids, my shit, my piss, my menstrual blood, the products of my uterus were seen as giving who ever consumed them power. Programming had been installed so that if when I was driven to extremes and I started to believe I was a Messiah I suddenly found I had great strength. I knew from a young age that the more you consent to programming the more effective it is and although I was scared I was consenting to the people who were giving me inner and practical resources to protect myself. They gave me protective programming that undid its self after an event or a memory had resurfaced for example and I worked with them. I was taught how to program others with and without trauma. They would also provide me with guns and contacts. Part of the 'ending it all work' required murder and torture as someone who was surrounded by extreme violence I never questioned this.

Being deeply suspicious of all religion, I was quite happy to use 'The Messiah' as a mask, an alter, to fight, to keep me separate from cult identities and see it as ridiculous satanism and even laugh about some of it when I was safe. But during my teens the control over my reproduction, the babies, the embryos and foetuses the diliberate bonding followed by betrayal or death, I lost the ability to take a step back and laugh about it all. I started to believe it for real, I was a saviour I had to be or I would not survive. I started working on my own, programming myself more without prior instruction. When I was in refuge the first time I saw a young woman I recognised from a group. My support worker later said that the young woman had said 'She was recruited, she took it over, she ended it.' Of course, its my job.

The longer it went on the harder it was for me to stay even remotely stable between torture and work if I stopped believing. I started verbalising 'I am the Messiah' during my breakdown in 2001 without being able to stop myself and narrowly avoided being sectioned. Of course, I was just carrying out programming, training but it gave me a lot of spiritual resources. As much as don't believe in religion I did believe that the founders of major religions were benevolent, good intelligent people and I could reach them, talk to them. Of course, I did not 'end it all' there is still plenty ritual abuse and mind control going but they leave me alone. I ended it all for me and that is miraculous enough.

February 04, 2012

Happy Rosa Parks Day!

I was looking online to try and find out for reasons why this day is difficult. This is definitely not the first year where I have looked at the date on the 3rd and felt terror about the next day. Last year the Arab Spring was an excellent hope filled distraction but not this year. The reports coming out of slaughter in Syria last night where awful.

Beyond the fairly usual nausea and lightheadedness today, my teeth started chattering even though I was warm and my feat have been twitching. Its pretty low key that only really mean something to me because they are on top of the pain and the lost, scared feelings. The book I've reading doesn't place much particular emphasis on February but it reminded of the significance of birthdays in Satanism. The girl I was involved with at school had her birthday on the 7th and that year when it never ended they tortured us both badly, no drugs, no customs, just pain, humiliation and trauma. After the worst for that day was over I remember looking a her across the room in my bedroom and managing to say something like 'Christ that was awful', she agreed. But the fourth? Ritual Abuse and Mind Control (2011) does mention Groundhog day as Imbolg (with milk) in the Satanic calendars involving human sacrifice (p.22) but that is the 2nd. Most of the 'holidays' and moon phases listed on the calendar rings faint bells (so many years, so many groups, so many locations) especially Candlemass but I'm still not anywhere close to giving up much in the way of specifics. But as I sit here and think about it I have vague memories of being in my bedroom behind other cult members standing around some sort of rape on a man, it might of developed into a sacrifice I'm not sure there were times when it was common for me to see bodies taken out of my room. It had become pretty normalised and my mind was wandering I knew that the end of Imblog/Candlemass whatever had some special significance for me. I was going to be the centre of attention. I can remember detesting the feelings like excitement as well as dread that were rising in me as well as the faint hope in finding yourself conscious and not disassociated. I hated the excitement, like the feelings of sexual arousal that I've experienced when close to rapists and before rituals as the body prepares itself for the inevitable.

I searched online to try and find any special significance about the 4th. The only thing that had any real resonance to me was Rosa Parks birthday. I know I used to keep her in mind when I felt that everything was hopeless, nothing would ever change and there was no point in trying to resist. Just like I kept the Holocaust in mind when I'm told 'things like that don't happen'. She said No and it changed the world, I said No, when I could. They got it out of me, my hopes my ambitions my heroes. I can hear myself saying her name to group member once I'd been taken to some open state, standing in my room and knowing it was going to bring a hell even more personalised than before. They were after my intellect.

'With milk' brings back the disgust at having to allow group members to feed from me. Where's my bairns you cunts?

February 03, 2012

The Manipulation of Attachment Needs

Heaps of pain recently, not sure if its because I missed a day on the pill after it had just settled down again after the antibiotics. Maybe its the reading, the chatting on twitter, the time of year or a combination of all. It does feel like the reading is opening my mind up but I still shy away from writing things down the moment they come to mind. I remembered being in the back of a police car breast feeding, my milk had just come in and I left a wet patch on the seat. I'm getting snippets of phone calls when I was small not just of being controlled and terrified but of people, or a man anyway trying to tell me who I was, what was going on, trying to arm me against it all. These people have always been there, they are part of the networks. That's what makes it so hard for me to let it all go because it was through the cults,the organised crime, the corruption that I got only real love and recognition. How can any one understand if they haven't been part of? Maybe it was just a method that was used to get me to trust, to bond but I have always felt confidence that I am part of a long line of resistance as much as I am a product of mind control.

Ritual Abuse and Mind Control: The Manipulation of Attachment Needs (eds., Epstein, Schwartz & Schwartz, 2011) arrived today. I had a lot of hopes for it because it has great reviews in Amazon, its British and its new and so far it hasn't disappointed. Its gone into depth about calendars which brought back lots of slivers of images and sensations. I'm not going to go into great detail this now but I hope I will read it at least twice and make some effort to make notes as I read. There was at least one year in my early to mid teens that was particularly awful for calendar related torture. At the beginning of the year especially, everyday or every other day there would be torturous rituals and get together. From the Christmas hardcore to getting dizzy as I was forced to watched the ribbons intertwining on May Day somewhere in sunny Southern England, shit just kept happening. The 'I've never been raped' me didn't have time to surface, or was never called.

That's probably another reason why I find this time of the year so hard, as well as the Seasonal Affected Disorder. Halloween doesn't bother me as much, probably because I was taught (possibly through/by the resistance) that there was no such thing as bad spirits, just unresolved traumas and people with bad intentions, evil skills. Halloween was an equaliser when anyone could call on whatever they wanted to do whatever they wanted. In the converse nature of things this makes Halloween good, children wear skeleton costume, mothers dress up as witches and fathers (in a more recent less traumatic year) stumble down the stairs in the common alcoholic state dressed as Grandpa Monster. Representations of death are everywhere not hidden, its a reminder of human sacrifice but not in a way that is intended to terrify but just as a fact of our heritage, our past, our culture in a way we can laugh at. It's a celebration of progressivness as well as a recognition of how thin our ideals of 'civilisation' really are. The eye balls in the drinks are actually rubber balls, not real ones. I find it all a bit of relief these days from the 'proper' culture that is so prevalent the rest of the time. I doubt I will ever feel that way about May day, or the Summer Solstice.

One part of the book that resonated with me was an account about a survivor who felt such a strength of bond with her newborn before he was murdered that she choose to never leave that moment, that she would hold the child forever. I identify with this a lot. In the book they have a ceremony for the dead child where the mother lets go of the baby so it can be with 'God', there is flowers, lots and lots of tears but it works, the mother can move forward. Although it makes me roll my eyes a bit, I don't have that much of a problem with God in this context but to me the baby is returned to enrich the universe, to be part of nature instead of held captive in a frozen moment. But I not know how many there were, how many are still alive and I can not use one to symbolise them all, people are not symbols they are representative of themselves, individuals, unique souls who were brought to life in me, with my good blood, through my fertility. I do not want to let them go.

I'm in the mind control chapter at the moment, which is adding to what was resurfaced after reading The Greenbaum Speach. Its so good to see descriptions of mind control techniques used by the state written and spoken by professionals in a language that is clear, conversational.

Enough for tonight I think. xx