Be Brave 3

Again this has not been proof read, I'm in such a differnet place to where I was when it was written and I hate just deleting parts I don't understand

The storm outside reminds me of so much. How the rain, the light, and the noise once woke us up. It reached us through the drugs, the pain, and the oppression long enough to pull the rope round our wrist and run. And how on another night the power of the storm which the man was supposed to symbolise, a thief who had claims of mastery over nature thrust into his brain was made nervous enough for me to make a sound, to from a word and push it through the pain and desperation, “Stop”.

How do make this into something the will be shared? Do I dare to risk what sending this to anyone may result in? Of course it may not be my idea anyway, just another pre-programmed set of instructions which serve some interests I do not know. What I do know is that I want out, away from faces and streets that can never forgive or excuse. Away from accents that force my mind and eyes to dumb down, that take away ambition, faith and hope and leave a space for them to fill with indifference and ugliness.

There are other books to explain where this came from, written for professionals by professionals, those by Laurie Mathew who wrote down what I could only stutter and then forget. Or my current crutch and inspiration by Sara Scott that I read two sentences at a time. No one can ever say everything about something in one book, especially this shit. I never choose to be born into the life I was given but the choices I have made have left me proud but in pain. Unable to work but with a drive to explain why without having to deal the expressions on people faces or the platitudes people try to console me with when I tell them who I am. Least of all the bitter requests from familiar faces that I should not bring other people down, to keep it to myself and get over it. To me its keep telling or more murder. For every experienced rapist there will always be young, greedy, and gullible kid ready to learn to the tricks of social control and soul destruction. But there will be people I haven’t get asked for help, minds big and grounded enough to tolerate the knowledge and understanding that most people censor and whitewash.

Every time I hear someone rubbish the existence or the extent of Satanism in recent history or right now I almost feel I am duty bound to give them a personal demonstration of all the techniques of torture and violence I am well trained in and at least attempt to show that I do not enjoy it, I did not search the Internet or watch films for fun. I wouldn’t subject them to any of the sexual stuff, I always so that as only degrading to the people doing it. I can’t even hear or see the word ‘pornography’ without turning of the T.V, curling up with a hot water bottle and talking to myself like I’m a little girl. But maybe I only react like that because I actually do stuff like that and then blank it afterwards. I hope not. Violence without sex though, I can forgive myself that. If anything I wonder if maybe I used it more or better I would be in a better position now. Maybe living in one of the gorgeous Meditiaren villas I helped pay for without the ‘handlers’, memory loss or the dangers associated with falling asleep.

I remember how I was told to ask people to help me so they could be recruited. I remember my parents handing me over to people for a night or a weekend. Watching my parents being pushed into more and more extreme activities. Watched groups fighting over us.


There isn’t any hope except that it will happen to someone else, or that some power struggle might result in sadomasochists in charge rather than true worshipers of evil. Or maybe someone who worked their way through the ranks might admire my spirit and take pity on me and arrange a job or boyfriend for me (providing he or she gets the tapes of my our sex life before anyone else of course). It’s a fucking sick world out there but at least for me it’s a lot better than it used to be.

But I also remember police in tears begging my parents to give me up. I remember winks and whispers that counteracted years of tailored abuse in an instant. I remember nights spent laughing and singing when I scheduled for nights, weeks, and months of brainwashing and torture of every kind. I also remember the looks in peoples eyes as they were untied and released as they waited for their turn. Seeing children change before my eyes as they heard and began to believe the people who hurt them are bad and not everyone is like that. To see them walk or limp away from torture that would reduce the adults to begging, whimpering heaps with their heads held high.

I have little hope for any kind of legal justice there is too many people involved, never mind the numbers of the rich, powerful or supposed ‘role models’. Justice is even more unbelievable the networks and activities involved. Western complacency over is its apart cultural progress and democratic systems of government would never allow it. So how do you vote for, the bloke who likes little girls and dressing up as an animal or the bloke who prefers little boys and high heels? The industry run by white power masons or the one that uses an informal system of blowjobs as the only mains means of achieving promotion.

Of course I am exaggerating, things aren’t this bad all the time. They don’t have to be; it has been that bad in the past and the threat of it returning is enough to everyone’s minds and bodies in line. In the mean time there is the traditional persecution of outsiders, a prejudice spewing media, the ever-present masons, organised criminals and sick thugs in place in case anything or anyone should look like they might cause problems in the future.

I spent every second regardless of the state of my memory looking anything that would help me survive, that could stop me from becoming like them or from giving in another way and spending my life in isolation, without love without understanding, without truth or hope. Like the signs that that seemed to say I was doomed those that told me keep going as best as I could were everywhere. I am not alone, I am not destroyed I am damaged but I am young and I know that like evil, love long forgotten about can sprout up and surprise you by granting desires to fantastic to dream and solving problems to huge to see.

Sara Scott describes working with survivors in her book The politics and experience of ritual abuse: beyond disbelief (Open University Press, 2001) writes about a horror used for both special occasions and regular maintenance of women.

“… each of the women described having endured pregnancy followed by a forced abortion, or the birth and subsequent ritual killing of the baby, more than once during their teenage years. … many laid particular emphasis on the importance of a late-term baby, whose birth seemed to have represented a turning point in their rejection of the ritual abuse culture which they had been raised.”

How does someone go about recovering from something like that? How do I explain it a therapist, G.P., or friend. Its not easy but I do it. Every time is a triumph a moment when I can look into the lifeless eyes again and know I kept my promise, I’ll never forget, even if I can’t count you. Sharing the horror feels like a public duty although almost everyone would rather I just shut up. Hearing me talk must take them back, however recent or long ago it may be. Some of us learned to deal with it with great indifference and some groups wouldn’t stop until you were prepared to at least not caring. While try and convince you that this one would live to try and bring back the fight. Even the coldest among us was broken by it. Although a would call it more than the just the moment when the culture of abuse handed down by her parents and communities was rejected. In those moments all faith and hope in all human culture is taken away. At least those children would not grow up to be forced into abusing their mothers’, they would never become breeders or initiated into anything. What fight for a better life can there be if every relationship and lifestyle choice is being offered by a society that permits and requires what is done to us. Why fight for a partnership that brings self-esteem he or she will always be capable of that. Why work for a career or job you are proud of when all industry and businesses are collaborators and enforcers of a culture that rapes us into pregnancy and then rapes us until were not.

I am sure if ritual abuse literature really understands how little effort is required to make all the death, torture and humiliation look like a natural and necessary part of wider society. Attitudes encouraged and hinted at on T.V and in films, in the politics of the classroom, street, or bedroom are all just justifications and excuses for the violence. Like felt sewn round a hangman’s noose.

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