October 28, 2012

Arresting Gadd? I'm sure the Met are just giving the Grandmasters a false sense of security...

Hmmm.

Tried not to get too down hearted about it.  He's such an easy target.  The sort of common or garden paedophile that took up the lower levels.  They were looked down on by most ranks.  This meant they were exploited, bullied, blackmailed, humiliated and abused to an extent I found it hard not to feel sorry for them.  I argued about it with a friend in the mid eighties, she hated them all equally.  I felt that at least the ones that had sex with kids because they found it irresistible tended to talk to you more and were more likely to be a bit nicer to you.  The other ones, people with more clean cut, family man, respectable type public roles had to take drugs, watch films and be raped themselves to have sex with a child.  It was a means to an end.  Many rings had ideologies built on some sort of belief that by going against every social and humanistic instincts a human had brought about liberation and would eventually make the whole society free.  They had a lust for an absolute power over people and learnt to get off on sexual abuse, humiliation, physical trauma and murder.  Their faces plastered all over the media causes me a lot more problems than bloody Gary Glitter and Freddy Starr.  Their sort was never seen as having much occult powers.

Savile, at times anyway seemed to straddle the lot of them.  I was some sort of favourite of his, the sort of domination that is designed to last a life time.  I'm having a sense that there was one before me who was murdered.  I was taken all over with him and for him and introduced of loads of people he knew. I witnessed him rape adults too when no one else was around.  That didn't come as easy to him outside the cult he had to get into some sort of zone before hand.  It was always part of a plan to reinforce his power and influence with the Masonic cults, to silence someone or influence the direction of the rituals.  He talked some scary shit.   

Nightmare dreaming last night.  Related to the memory from just after the move to the Glen, that makes me about four.  We were in the kitchen, the stove was lit and it was warm.  My parents were happy, they had either just started or were about to start university and were glowing with it.  They are the first of their families to go.  We were all happy and were excited and hopeful about rural life.  Savile strides in.  At least I think it was him.  It was a face from the telly anyway who was exuberant, loud and drew attention to himself, he was talking about what a powerful man he was.  He had about 7/8 other men with him, mostly in suits I think.  Smartly dressed while the main man was brightly dressed, like a telly star.  For a split second I was thrilled because a shiny famous person was in the house.  Then I remembered who he was, how I knew him.  Memory stops there but it was a long time before we felt so happy together again, if at all.

One of the images from the dream I'm really left with is of opening a letter from the Criminal Injuries Compensation people.  I pretty sure I wrote Savile down as a rapist when I applied.  The letter had a photo and a written request asking me what I knew about the objects in a photograph.  The picture was of things that looked a bit like ball gags.  Four or two long thin straps but the objects where the ball would be were different.  They were coloured and shaped, kind of funking looking I guess.  I didn't look long, they seemed child seized.

October 25, 2012

Operation Yew Tree and Me - Part I

I started by emailing the NSPCC.  The media was saying people should contact with them or their local police.  I didn't want to call the local police although I do have the name of someone I talked to when I first moved here and a social worker who I also discussed things with.  I was told it was being investigated but they were very busy I have hear nothing since.  My therapist that is destructive for me.  They forwarded what I sent to the Met.  Felt great when I saw .met in my inbox, from an actual police person, with their own email address and a direct dial to Operation Yew Tree.  I sent of my details and waited.

Last Thursday I was riddled with it all and anxious about the transvaginal the following day so I phoned and asked for the some officer.  Half an hour later I got the call back.  I repeated much of the stuff I have said to Woman's Aid workers and whoever Woman's Aid workers had wanted me to repeat it to.  She was very sympathetic and friendly but I'm pretty limited into how much I can go into at first contact.  Especially when wee man came in needing help getting back into his grim reaper Halloween custom.  The usual suspects and Savile as a ring leader.  Aberdeen police refusal to admit any knowledge of me despite countless statement, arrests and working as an informer.  She said someone would come up and take a statement.

After Panorama, the helplessness over the chronic pain despite and apparently 'completly normal' pelvic area becoming more manageable and I had to update them.  Memories have been clearing because of all the press coverage because I'm talking and writing.  I'm certain I was taken to every building they showed.  Merion's words about Duncroft; celebs, vulnerable young women in big old buildings caused not so much a bell to ring but a massive ever reverberating clang.  I wrote about the murder parties that happened after the paedo sex ring parties and how I used to wonder why they bothered to put a life jacket on me every time we crossed water.  Wrote of the girl who had hair like my friend and how she seemed so happy when we knew she was next to die.  I think Savile may have referred to her as Rachael but I'm not certain.

I'm scared to try and focus on the faces that were a feature throughout all of the years in case I can put names to them.  One thing I do know is that the very sound, the shape, the pattern of the initials 'BBC' has made me feel as if surrounded in tar and being sucked downward for as long as I can remember.  Making the Houses of Parliament look like fun house.  There were times when I knew why I felt that way and walked the streets in comfy, perfectly fitting boots, wearing warm, soft layers with a mind sharpened into sharp, cutting focus.  

October 22, 2012

We can do this.

Not all at once of course.  I need to figure out as much as I can as part of the mourning process, to figure out who I am, to figure out where I want to go.  Talking about Savile, Jersey, ritual abuse and all the rest is me looking after myself and those I love.  It will not take over my life though I will take my time put my health first.  I cant keep hiding from the names and faces that lurk behind my eyes, forcing them into the pitch black, no words zone.  I will say whatever I say and write whatever I write.  Stop thinking so much and be more. 

Getting back in touch with the truth isn't something I only do when there is some shit in the media it is a constant long term process.  I will hope that others come forward and accept it when I feel like I need them but remember the reason I remember, the reason I talk is for me.  I have nothing to prove to anyone but I would like to be part of something which exposes the violence and curroption that can flourish at the very highest level in Western democracies.

People, remember what you promised yourself as a child, in agony, heartbroken and with no safe place to go.  Remember what they made you promise.  Remember who and what was taken.  It's time to wake up now.  It's okay now and if it isnt we have the resources to make it okay.  No one could possibly say everything they saw but you can have a couple of conversations, give the met a name, a location or two.

Much love.

October 14, 2012

Turn the page (freewriting)

Turn the page
And it's covered up with a white sheet.
Dont read between the lines that exist but are never represented
that are seen but never documented.  Lines like scars
that trace the boundaries between what we will and will not remember.
I want to draw a curvy landscape and a rectangular city
but I trace my little foot and the line from the bus stop
to my therapist's office.

Over the rainbow isn't that much different.
They just don't pretend as much and leave their corpses
out to rot in the sun instead of deep in the bracken.

I told my therapist when I was 22.  It was ongoing.  I took the bus buzzing with pain and hope.  He would tell the police.  I would be listened to, I would be cared for.  He called me delusional.

I told a man at the hospital he wasn't involved in all that so much I thought he might be a good man.  He told me there was nothing he could do, that trying to stop it would makes things worse for me.  He said he helped a lot of people and asked why I would want to threaten that.

 

October 08, 2012

One week in recovery from the Illumanti

There has been some rain this week drenching the outside of my windows as watched TV under a blanket or was wrapped in cotton in bed in the dark.  The light has bee tremedous.  Something in its angle or nature that goes right through people and wakes something primitive and positive, something cosmic.  Alexander McColl Smith, watching the search for a lost girl.  Whats the point of dredging rivers if there is any chance the kid is still alive, shouldn't they be knocking on and kicking down doors, pressing the snouts

On Monday I had an appointment with my GP.  Stronger painkillers prescribed, a brief discussion about the vaginal scan I put off because of pain and fear.  The flu jab, I mentioned pulling my medical records.  The records of a fictional character, the legal front to a life undocumentable. 

Tuesday is dramatherapy day, every session getting more emotional.  Making body sculpts for the last week.  I place someone as me, sitting armed wrapped around tummy, head down, writing as someone stands over evaluating I called it 'ATOS'.  Someone else makes a lawyer and positions themselves somewhere else, half cowering half straining to watch the lawyer.

Wednesday its over to a prettier side of town to see a woman my private therapist to start providing her with my trauma history.  At last.  We start at the beginning years 0-4, using old notes and everything pressing I let it go.  Shes writes the odd note, asks nothing offensive and takes the highly possible to the extremely unlikely without reacting. 

Thursday, I have no appointments.  I take the painkillers after getting back from the school and watch the news.  Missing girl, Jimmy Saville, Syria screaming.  A hopeful sounding drop in the basket the post gets into.  Seconds later I am unwrapping a reasonable sized slice of mediocre hash and am over joyed.  That night there is family phone calls, sister back off the wagon, mother woken up from night shift by the school saying the spidermonkey is still sitting there waiting.  I find out from my dad my mum unwilling to tell me in case I phone Social Services.  A few phone calls later and my nephew is on the road with the kids' dad.  Whatever can be said about this family they are definitely better than they used to be.

By Friday I'm not sure I can do it.  I need more hash, I need someone to pick up junior and take him somewhere fun.  I want to be alone, I can't face cooking and I don't want to go to the asthma nurse.   He's tired and grumpy when I pick him up but cheers up on the walk.  The nurse ups the dosage in my steroid inhalers and we pick up fish and chips on the way home.  Friday night thinking.

Now its Saturday, dishes are no longer mounting because there isn't anymore to dirty, but they have been scraped.