Some of us survivors cannot get away physically. Maybe the leaders of our country are the perpetrators. Maybe our communities are full of perpetrators whose sole job is to remind us of our abuse. Where then can we go? Mental and spiritual liberation are still available. The skills required to find this kind of liberation seem out of reach when you are first seeing how you have been abused in the cult. There are many helpers who can show the way when the roar of your pain from remembering finally dies down.

It’s a hard thing to let go of the traditional concept of justice where the perpetrators get reported, crimes are investigated, and perpetrators go to jail. It’s one of the emptiest promises society makes. But I have observed how miserable cult people are in their daily lives. Their minds are so twisted up in seeking revenge and hurting others. They have long histories of being abused in the cult of which they are barely aware or actively trying to ignore. They spend their time and energy on all the wrong things, none of it on understanding their trauma or healing themselves. They aren’t capable. If you, the survivor, are capable of and willing to do the work, you are already far ahead of your perpetrators. And far away.

Justice is found in being different than your perpetrators. Having survived to find peace of mind and happiness and love still in your heart is your justice. This is a different kind of justice that takes some getting used to. It’s hard to trust that this justice will work for you, and that you will find relief and comfort from just being different than your perpetrators. But, over time, you will notice how your experience of life becomes lighter, your struggles are not as dramatic or painful as they once were. You notice a difference in the quality of your life, too.

Growing up in a cult, we are conditioned to accept constant violation as a part of life. We are conditioned to seek relief through mockery, cruel pranks, and hurting others. Leaving the cult, we come to experience life differently. Life is not without struggle, but it can be peaceful and quiet. Joys can be simple, gifts can be small, and appreciation can be abundant. These are things that people participating in cults do not know. These are the gifts that we walk away with when we finally leave. This is not just getting away. This is what it means to be far away. Be far away.

Other illusions are made when the survivor experiences a hardship in life that occurs naturally, such as losing one’s job, or having someone they love or admire pass away. The cult is quick to imply responsibility. Over time, it seems like the cult is in charge of everything bad that happens in life so the cult must be feared and obeyed. Cult members will even try to imply responsibility for bad weather! The most important thing here is to think logically. If they are threatening to have you pulled over, maybe you might get pulled over anyway because your tabs are expired. Make sure your car is in good working order and don’t drive impaired. Worried about getting pulled over for no reason? Wear a camera or put a camera in your car that never shuts off.

Check on your friends and neighbors’ immigration status if you are afraid of them getting deported. This seems to be a big threat for cult survivors right now with a cult leader as a President. Take care of what is your business and try not to worry about the rest. Pick and choose how you will spend your energy.

Setups involving actors are often highly engineered. Cult members are planted near the survivor, in their neighborhoods, as friends or lovers, or at a business that the survivor patronizes. How does the cult know the survivor will patronize a business so they can plant their members there? The business might be the closest to the survivor or have advertising that ‘speaks’ to the survivor and draws them in. One time I hired a financial advisor simply on the basis that we had both previously worked for the same company. Turns out she was a cult plant who abused the built-in trust I assigned her as a former Softie. Don’t give anyone built-in trust! Trust must always be earned.

One of the symbols used in my cult training was a bear. The bear represents total control or dominance of the perpetrator over the victim. There are a surprising number of businesses near me that use advertising that includes images of bears or refer to bears in their name. Most of the imagery used are cartoons which is designed to speak directly to young parts. If were to patronize the business, I would most certainly fall victim to some scam or trickery. My awareness of the images and symbols used in my abuse proves helpful in avoiding cult activity as an adult. I also shield young parts from seeing these images through an automatic internal process which involves gatekeepers that are responsible for taking out trash when they see it.

For me, knowing that the majority of my interactions with cult members are going to involve illusory tricks, I have learned to take things lightly. The things they do are amusing at times and frustrating at the very least. But not any more so than the ordinary problems life often confronts us with. Creepy neighbor? Lots of people have those. Got rang up twice for something at the grocery store? It happens to a lot of people. Fake Cult Boyfriend pretending to cheat on social media? It’s happened a million times before and he’s desperate for the attention. It’s important for mental health not to attribute all the problems in one’s life to the cult. The cult will imply responsibility for anything negative in your life. They are the ultimate doomsday opportunists.

Certainly some scenarios are engineered for entrapment like that time they put cocaine in my compounded medication that was delivered from out of state and then implied that the police were going to pull me over and put drugs in my car to frame me for illegal drug use. They even scheduled extra patrols in my neighborhood that week. Would I actually have gotten pulled over and had drugs planted in my car? Perhaps but not likely given my access to legal resources and past fights I have had with them.

I fought them before when they had the hospital switch my urine sample with a tainted sample when I was being triaged in the hospital during my son’s premature birth. I fought back by demanding a hair follicle test which proved I was not using methamphetamine at the time of his birth. It was this scenario that led to my increased awareness for the second scenario with the cocaine. This time I also fought it and reported the tainted prescription medication to as many agencies as I could think of. If I had gotten pulled over and had drugs planted in my car, a hair follicle test would not have exonerated me as they put cocaine in my prescription medicine, so I had to let as many people as possible know what had happened. Stand up for yourself when it matters!

Cults will reuse scenarios. They observed the helpless state it put you in last time and they are wondering if the setup still works. Remember, their goal is to keep you in an endless state of helplessness so you won’t expose them. In this way, cults are constantly testing triggers and setups, refining techniques, trying new scenarios, etc. If you show you are immune to a setup, they will move onto the next one and remove that one from the list of things to mess with you.

The energy required to live amongst cult members and fight off their attempts to control you is substantial, but not more than what the perpetrators are expending planning and executing setups on you. They think about you way more than you think about them; I guarantee it. I often imagine them drawing up plans in their home office like Wile E. Coyote in The Road Runner show and that makes me laugh. They still haven’t figured out that I know as much as they do because I was once a part of their group and participated in the same operations they plan against me now.

MKUltra, when its practices are done in the victim’s home setting, qualifies as non-state torture. I was subject to MKUltra programming at home by my mother. I was drowned, threatened with knives, beaten, drugged, raped, and otherwise terrorized by her from a very young age. At three years old is my earliest memory but I do also have some infant memories so I think she had been abusing me from birth and possibly even in the womb. She had a precipitous labor with me; I think I was trying to get away from her as quickly as possible even then.

Things were worse when my father was away on cruise but they also perpetrated a lot of abuse together. When he was gone she sexually abused me, just the two of us, alone on her bed with the itchy red wool bedspread. There are many games that she taught me that were meant to teach me a sexual skill, like blowing bubbles and licking lollipops which is something I also remember learning at my grandmother’s house. We played a game at the grocery store where I would run ahead of the cart to find an empty space on the bottom shelf. I would sit and patiently wait for her to ‘buy’ me. This game was meant to normalize child trafficking.

My mother put me in ballet lessons while my father was away on cruise to strengthen my legs for certain sexual positions; she was getting tired of holding me on top of men. Her clutching me by the ribs is a body pain I still have to this day. Never medically explained, it’s how my body stores the trauma.

She trained me how to clean and keep house, and she put me in finishing school for one year when I was 13 to ‘sophisticate’ me. I learned how to set a table for a seven course meal, how to dress according to color theory, how to talk, how to walk, how to sit, apply makeup and fix my hair. I believe there are still programs like this now. I enjoyed that time.

Her sexual abuse was inevitable considering she was a survivor herself. She once told me that she was advised not to have children because of the hole in her heart, but now I believe it because she was going to abuse us no matter what because of what was unhealed in her. She acted like a child, clearly regressed, in her mother’s presence. She mocked her just under her breath where Grandmother could not hear. She threw fits that were worse when she was drunk which was often. When grandmother had a stroke in her 80s, she insisted on moving grandmother from Texas to Washington so mother could care for her. I shudder to imagine what abuse my mother put grandmother through in her final years of life.

The pretext for the sexual abuse was always the same. I had gotten in trouble and was to be punished by spanking. Mother had a belt that she used which she folded in half and slapped against her palm as she waited for me to get undressed. I had to be naked for the spankings. These happened on a regular basis and only while my father was away.

As soon as I felt the first blow, from where I lay prone with my face turned on the surface of her bed, my consciousness left my body. It had happened enough times that I developed alters or parts of self to take the abuse. Their memories had always been encased in shame, inaccessible to the rest of the internal parts. So these memories were very hard to come by. They were tucked away in layers of disbelief, shock, and shame.

I’m pretty sure that my mother was a lesbian. I perceived her as asexual when I was a child, some kind of safety mechanism, I’m sure. It was easier to think of her as a non-sexual being rather than as someone who was raping me. I had to live with her alone for four years when she was at her worst with nobody watching. She made me go down on her in the mornings. I remember putting my fingers in her vagina. She used me for her own gratification just as a male rapist does. I was often late to school and sometimes missed school altogether because of her morning ritual.

Now, when I look back on what she did to me, I can see that she was acting out her trauma. These are things that were done to her. Her brutality, viciousness, coldness, and sadistic attacks were about total control. She had to dominate me because she had been dominated. She had to terrorize me because she had been terrorized.

One of my earliest memories is of her jumping out of my closet after I had fallen asleep. This was a fun game for her. Sometimes she wore a witches’ Halloween mask. She would creepily open the sliding wooden door, cackle, and raise her arms as if she was going to get me, and then glide out the door. I remember that my father was alive at that time and they played this game together. He would lovingly put me to sleep and she would wait in the closet until he left, meaning that I had just fallen asleep or was about to fall asleep. It’s explains why I have sleep issues now. Sometimes she would jump out of the closet and startle me, and other times she would silently exit my bedroom which was worse because I could never be sure if it had really happened. The next morning she would act normally.

Her sexual abuse operated in much the same way. There was always plausible deniability built into each act. She had thought to protect herself should I ever remember. The pretext invoked something made to make me feel shame already, such as “getting in trouble.” I don’t ever remember what I got in trouble for; one time I think it was over spilled milk. The spanking itself was very ritualized where mother would tell me things like what a bad child I was.

Mother often lost control during these spankings. After she lost control, hitting me hard and fast, spit flying out of her mouth, she assaulted me violently with vegetables and other objects. Sometimes I was made to eat the vegetable afterward. One time she raped me with a curling iron that she had used to curl my hair earlier in the day. She gave me a little burn on the ear so I would know it was hot. Then, when I was raped with the iron, she pretended like it was hot but it wasn’t. I was in trouble so I got what I deserved. It was all my fault. What better way to make a child forget.

The people behind MKUltra are really obsessed with controlling how people think. These perpetrators seek to be in charge of others’ emotional states at all times. In their ranks are Satanists, pedophiles, rapists, murderers, traffickers, makers of CSAM, and people who believe in and practice occult rituals. They are psychopaths working with others to destabilize their victims through psychological, emotional, spiritual, financial, social, familial, and sexual control. Their need for control is pathological; it helps them not experience the loss of control they once felt, perhaps, when they were small.

The MKUltra experience is, at best, an intergenerational experience, shared across and by families. When I returned to Washington after my training in California, cult members wanted to learn and copy the abuse training so they could create the type of child sex slave known as the Monarch, but in a home environment. Program names are unknown to my younger selves. They only know of the formality of our training. A man dressed in military uniform with black shiny shoes sat across from us at a metal desk, adjacent to swinging doors. He signed me in on a thick ledger-type book- with flourish. His job was to make me feel important, special, wanted. I was often praised for my abilities there.

Monarch slaves are trained for future roles as wives, spies, and assassins. The sexual aspect is important mostly when children are young because children can be trafficked for profit when young. But adults… adults are told who to marry, how many children to have, at what age to have children, etc. So much of the MKUltra survivors’ life is spent being told what to do. Those who defy the system by thinking for themselves are punished. Constantly.

The program I’ve experienced over the past five years goes in cycles. Themes repeat, lots of actors are used, interactions with outsiders are controlled. One time I was picking up my daughter from a home birthday party. I knew the host was a cult plant. The parents were standing around near the open garage door, waiting for their children to be ready to leave. There was a woman I was interested in talking to; I could sense she was not part of the cult. I could have a normal interaction with someone for once. The relief!

Two women I knew to be cult members swooped around her, physically blocking me from being able to get close to her while a third cult member engaged me with cult-laden message rich conversation. She used any and every trigger word she could think of, thus creating an odd way of speaking which made no sense. You can’t take anything these cult people say seriously because they will spew out the dumbest shit just to get trigger words into the conversation. This is the dumb shit I have to deal with anytime I interact with them.

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Many survivors were also used in Satanic Ritual Abuse which complicates memory retrieval. In my experience, traumatic memory is just a smokescreen that hides valuable training and skills from the survivor. Once MKUltra survivors work their way through the traumatic experiences, they can access the training they were given and use that training for their own benefit.

Mind control techniques only exist to prevent survivors from doing exactly this. Mind games, psychic suggestion, fear traps- all are used to stop the survivor from gaining access to their own mind. Our minds are powerful and can be used to dismantle the power systems that create and control us. The people behind MKUltra know this. We were created to be used as weapons by them. Their biggest fear is that the weapons they created will someday be used against them.

Pedophiles and sex trafficking networks have made this country into their safe haven. Four years ago when I first started trying to report the network’s crimes, I spent 8 months looking for a pay phone in the major metropolitan area where I live. I never found one. So if your phone is being monitored, as mine has been since 2016, you cannot make a phone call without your abuse network knowing about it. Who decided pay phones were no longer necessary?

Sexual assault centers delete rape reports from adults and kids who are being trafficked by these networks. Pediatricians are coerced or complicit into not seeing signs of sexual abuse in kids who are being trafficked by these networks. Schools have people placed there to keep an eye on kids who are being trafficked by these networks. Banks share financial information about a victim with these networks. Hospitals cover up diagnoses that could implicate these networks so that even the victim doesn’t know the true cause of their injuries. If they were drugged when they received the injury, they won’t have any memory of being injured.

In the past month, right after I got back memories of being sexually abused by my mother after my father died, I started having memory recall of being drugged and trafficked by my mother and step-father as a teenager in our family home. I remember a mask being placed over my face and bright lights that they used for making CSAM. Then I figured out that the nerve damage and other symptoms I have been experiencing since July 2024 are signs that I have been drugged with nitrous oxide. As in recently. I have spent the past three weeks trying to report this. Shortly after I made my 7th FBI report, my home was broken into and evidence relating to my trafficking went missing. Local police started following me.

I started hearing rumors that the network was going to frame me for illicit drug use. I got curious about what was in the mail order compounded medication I had been taking since December. I bought a test kit from the pharmacy and discovered the medication I was taking is laced with cocaine. So that’s in my hair now. My house got broken into three more times. I put bars on the doors.

These networks have made this country into their safe place to rape and murder children without impunity. Nothing gets reported and if it does, it won’t be investigated. I tried to get in touch with my Senator and the network is blocking my mail and emails from reaching her. There is no way out for survivors under these people’s control and the only way to protect yourself and your kids from being drugged and trafficked at night is to change your locks. FFS. I don’t think the average citizen has any idea how bad things have become. Consider yourself lucky if you are not affected. It’s a death sentence for the rest of us.

***
I’m opening up comments for this post because I need help. If you are outside the United States, you have my permission to share my story with any international organization that could provide immediate help.

The sexual abuse done to me by my mother when I lived alone with her from the ages of 6-9 is far worse than what any man ever did to me. Mother-daughter incest… just the thought of it makes most people turn away. It’s hard enough to accept that adults rape children. The sex abuse done to me by my father was done under the guise of love, but what my mother did to me was done with the intent to destroy.

All my memories up to now have been of rape by men which somehow I never felt ashamed of. Me, personally, I was victimized but I never carried shame from it. Now I know where all the shame went. Fortunately, the past couple of years I have devoted a lot of energy to understanding other survivor stories of mother incest. I empathized so deeply that I came to accept that the shame from mother incest does not belong with the survivor, no matter the circumstance. This understanding is what I needed to be able to accept my own mother incest story.

I will write this story here, soon. I am still processing. My usual trigger warning will need to be edited. I am warning you all now. Dear readers, I don’t want you to turn away but I also want you to protect yourselves. Stories can heal but only if you are ready for them. I am finally ready. I am thankful to those who shared their stories of mother incest with me. I wasn’t ready to know until I witnessed your bravery. You are the reason I was able to remember. Thank you.

Sometimes nothing happened to me but I had a sense that something was going on with my younger sister or cousin. Once my cousin disappeared at Disneyland and stayed past closing into the night. It took several hours for security to find him. I always wondered why he didn’t want to be found but everybody in my family made a joke out of it saying he loved Disney so much he didn’t want to leave so that made it OK and us kids didn’t question things further.

My step-father was a real estate developer and he had cultivated a friendship with a wealthy investor from Canada. My sister and I were taken to his house in Washington for a visit one evening and we played piano for him. I feel like that was the meeting when he decided which child he wanted because later my family took us to his property in Canada. We travelled there by RV. It was a long drive and during a turn in the road, a 12-pack of Diet Coke fell on my head while I was sleeping and everyone laughed about it except me.

I don’t remember anything unusual from that trip except that I had gone horseback riding by myself and had encountered a cougar on the trail which was terrifying. I didn’t see the cougar; the horse just bolted and they told me later it must have been a cougar. Sometimes they plan scares like this to make a child dissociative of the entire trip.

Access codes trigger the survivor into a dissociative state much like the state they were in as a child when the rape or abuse was happening. The part of self that is brought forward is amenable to abuse. For example, say a child is raped repeatedly in a red room. As an adult, someone can take that survivor to a red room in order to access the childlike self-state that was raped and abused in red rooms. The survivor is easily controlled in that dissociative state. The codes are referred to as access codes because they allow perpetrators to ‘access’ a self state that will not resist the abuse that the perpetrator has planned for them. Justice for RAMCOA survivors will be difficult to achieve until non-compromised police departments understand this very simple feature of ritual and organized abuse.

Becoming aware of access codes is how I got back memories for some of my trauma. I first remembered being raped in motorhomes when my ex-boyfriend, who had gotten my access codes from my mother, took me to the Seattle RV show in 2021. I had told him I needed a friend and didn’t want a sexual relationship with him. He took me to tour RVs as a way to access the part of self that would allow him to rape me. He also knew numbers, colors, music, and other details from my childhood trauma that could only have been passed to him by someone who had been present for my childhood trauma. That is how I ended up getting raped multiple times by my ex-boyfriend, a cult member under my abuser group’s control, over the course of a year. Later, I remembered that I had been trafficked in our family motorhome as a child.

Sharing access codes with male cult members is one way that familial abusers continue trafficking their children into adulthood. The survivor may have successfully left the family, as I did when I got divorced in 2015, only to find themselves in a new relationship with someone who knows exactly how to trigger and control the survivor. The abuser group will also use the male cult member in this situation to get information about the survivor’s life. My ex Jon actually took a bag of paper intended for shredding from my garage. This abuse by proxy is a form of trafficking for the survivor: the abuser gets to continue their abuse while the male cult member gets compensated with sex from the survivor.

In some cases, the abuser group may employ threats to force someone in the survivor’s life to abuse them. It’s easy to see how this can be done with the total lack of response from law enforcement when reporting organized crime. If the survivor makes a report against the person, the group will happily throw the coerced individual under the bus. The coerced individual is expected to take the fall for lesser crimes like rape or domestic violence while covering up the organized crime. Compromised police are especially eager to crackdown on abusers by proxy because they know it takes attention off the organized crime.

A survivor’s empathy can also be manipulated so that they feel sorry for an abuser by proxy. Ritual abuse survivors, in particular, have seen many situations where fellow victims were forced to abuse. Groups set up abuse scenarios where children have to choose between killing and being killed, or harming someone in order to protect someone else who they perceive as more innocent or more worthy of protection. These scenarios continue into adulthood as the group seeks to replicate familiar cycles of abuse. There are many ways to continue abuse and trafficking in the adult survivor’s life and it all begins with the survivor granting access to the abusers.

I arrive at the MKU training facility with my father on a bright and hot morning in China Lake. He parks the car out front and holds my hand as we walk down the sidewalk lined with red poppies. We enter the building and proceed down the long, open corridor with the big windows. A man at the end of the corridor writes my name in his logbook. We pass through the swinging doors then enter an elevator to the left. I get to push the button. I am happy. I am four-years-old.

I am led by a soldier into a concrete room with high ceilings and dark windows on two sides. I don’t remember leaving the elevator and I don’t know where my father went. My memory has been interrupted and I must quickly adapt to this new reality. My heart beats fast.

The soldier walks me over to a metal table in the center of the room. He pulls a metal chair away from the table and motions for me to sit. There are four soldiers wearing camouflage standing with their hands behind their backs- one at each corner of the room. I don’t notice them right away as my attention is on the contraption sitting on the table in front of me. The man tells me it is a bomb and that I have five minutes to defuse it or everyone in the room will be blown to bits, including me.

“Kaboom,” he says and makes an exploding motion with his hands. He has a slight smirk on his face as he activates the bomb.

I stare at the wooden box containing the bomb. Red, blue, and green wires extend out from a metal cylindrical shape screwed into the center of the box. There is a timer with red numbers that flash as the countdown begins. I have been here before. The entire setup is vaguely familiar. I glance around the room. This time I notice the falsehood.

There is always a falsehood in trauma-based mind control. My brain has begun to create a part that recognizes the lie; she stays hidden and asks a lot of questions. Her faint awareness calms my nerves. Why are the men in the corners of the room not panicking? Why would they leave their fate in a four-year-old’s hands?

I reach my small hand gently into the box and grasp the green wire with my fingers. I have been here before. I know what to do. I gently tug on the wire and it falls away from the metal cylinder.

In previous iterations of this scene, the bomb explodes and I am covered with blood. In reality, the blood is red liquid that is splashed on me by a soldier as he rushes towards me and pushes me to the ground. In one continuous motion, he snatches me up and runs with me in his arms through an open door. I am placed on a cold metal table and told that the bomb exploded and I am in need of emergency surgery. My insides have fallen out and the doctor is going to replace them with shiny, new metal parts. I start to cry.

He says, “Your heart will be made of steel. You will become invincible!” I am terrified.

The surgeon quickly removes my dress and panties. I am naked on the table as he begins the surgery. He places a scalpel against my chest and makes a light scratch. I pass out from fear. When I awaken, I am lying in a hospital bed wrapped in a sheet. I cannot move my arms or legs. I cannot see my body. A doctor walks into the room holding a clipboard and pen. Light streams through a window.

“Your surgery was successful,” he announces. “You are going to live.”

I nod. He approaches the side of the bed and pulls a stethoscope from a pocket in his white jacket. He pulls down the sheet from under my chin and places the stethoscope on his head. He listens to my heart.

“We’ve given you a new heart made of steel,” he says. “It will enable you to do special missions for us. You will be stronger than all the others. Do you want to be stronger?”

I nod my head again.

“Good,” he says. “We need strong girls like you in the program.”

On this day, however, I have successfully defused the bomb. The soldier that brought me into the room steps forward and shakes my hand.

“Congratulations!” he says. “You have passed the test.” He leads me out of the room to the hallway where I see my father sitting on a chair. The overhead lights buzz and flicker.

“You passed!” he exclaims. “Let’s go get ice cream.”

Later, in the car, he slides his hand under my dress. He tells me that he loves me and that he is very proud of me. By that time, I have forgotten what for. My mind is on ice cream as I try not to think about his hand in my underwear.

Anyone who went through the Monarch program at China Lake Naval Air Station likely remembers the General. He was an older man in his early 60s who wore green camouflage, a camo hat, and black boots. The General had an insatiable appetite for children but especially for little boys.

I first met the General in 1974 when I was newly enrolled in the program. Many of the men running Monarch were sadists; the General was one of the worst. He was a student of fear and knew all the ways to create lasting, debilitating fear in a child. His job in Monarch was to program children so they wouldn’t be able to remember the abuse that happened in the program.

Human beings are genetically programmed to be afraid of certain things in nature: heights, running water, spiders, snakes. As a species, we have been in a continuous state of evolution for the past 300,000 years. Collective experience has told us to be afraid of these things even though many of the risks of dying from falls, poisonous bites, and drowning have been since mitigated by technology and education. The General sought to capitalize on these instinctive fears by incorporating them into the Monarch program.

Children were placed in boxes with spiders, hung upside down while snakes slithered over their bodies, and threatened with wild animals that, hidden from view, were leashed with chains and controlled by professional handlers. Children who knew nothing about war were introduced to this threat by photographs and films. I was two-years-old when I saw images of the Napalm girl running away from her village while being pursued by American soldiers. The General told me she would be raped and beaten for not obeying orders.

The General’s job at China Lake NAWS was to put as many fears into a child as could be tolerated. Children in the program had limits and while some children were disposable, others were there because their families willingly put them there and the General was expected to keep those children alive. If one of the disposable children died while in his care, the death would be used to threaten the kids that were meant to survive. I saw many children die from sheer exhaustion and fear. Their bodies were dumped in large metal vats or wrapped in sheets and thrown in the back of a truck to be buried in the desert.

I am certain that the General is now dead. He has probably been dead for decades. When I started recovering my memories of the Monarch program, his voice and the images he implanted in my brain were the first memories that came to mind. The memories came in brief flashes. If I was driving on the freeway, I would see flashes of my car careening off an overpass or imagine a telephone pole falling on my car. I heard over and over his voice in the back of my brain: it’s dangerous to remember, dangerous to remember. When I confronted this voice in therapy, it laughed at me and said he had only been trying to scare me. But I never got any reassurance from him that those things wouldn’t happen. The threat was persistent until I removed it by accepting that my experiences with the General actually happened and the purpose they served was to stop me from remembering.

I remember visiting my father’s parents only a handful of times as a child. My most vivid memory is when I was a baby. I started walking at a very young age, before 12 months of age, and in the one memory I have from then I was crawling so I might have been 9- or 10-months old. My father and his father talked openly about the program while I played with blocks on the carpet in front of the fireplace after dinner one night. They were talking about me; the mention of my name is what caught my attention.

I got the sense that the family was disappointed that I had been born female. I was born before scans could determine the sex of a baby, and they had been hoping for a boy. Still, grandfather thought I had potential. He told my father I could go through the program to become a wife of a military officer or government official. I could even receive espionage training and be used for intelligence gathering. Of course, they also wanted me to be tested for psychic abilities as my lineage had been carefully selected to increase my potential for these skills. My father seemed excited about these prospects and also about training me as his personal sex slave. He’d had incestuous relationships with both of his sisters since childhood.

The other visit to my grandparents’ house was marred with darkness and I don’t remember much. The curtains were drawn and cigar smoke hung in the air. It was deathly quiet. Grandmother had been sick for some time and I had been brought to see her. I was between three- and four-years-old. The house was stuffed with antiques, books, stacks of old newspapers, and ashtrays. They had two lap dogs that I liked to pet and a piano against one wall that I was allowed to play. Grandfather served tea in china teacups on a silver platter. Grandmother was too sick to get out of bed. I only have this one small snapshot of a memory; the rest of the house and what had possibly occurred there remains buried.

Grandmother died in early 1979 from a ruptured esophagus following a lifelong commitment to alcohol. Grandfather died a few months later from a heart attack. This was after Allison had died in 1978. My father was killed in December of 1979. I always thought his parents had been killed first so as to increase his suffering; my father loved both of his parents very much and wanted to make them proud.

Nobody ever dies the way they tell you when you grow up surrounded by organized crime. As a child, after all these deaths, my mother and paternal aunt Katie told me repeatedly they were afraid they would be next. Later, after I started writing my story, this sentiment would be used to make me believe it was the government who had killed them and I should be afraid of saying too much about what I remembered.

My mother loathed the M family for what Grandfather had done to her and she hated my father for murdering her baby, Allison, a child who looked like her with brown hair and pale blue eyes. Grandfather had promised her things- a life of American nobility filled with crystal, silver, and china and all the pomp and circumstance of a Navy wife whose husband would someday be someone important. That life ended with the death of my younger sister. Now a pedophile’s mistake would have to be covered up and it would forever be undeniable that the M family had been keeping a dirty little secret for generations.

Some people might wonder how a mother could traffic her own daughter. If the mother had been sexually abused herself, perhaps we could make the case that she didn’t know what she was doing was wrong. Perhaps her values were so skewed that she actually believed trafficking her daughter was part of the process of securing a new husband? I mean, someone would have to keep sexually abusing me so I didn’t remember all the prior sexual abuse. A good father couldn’t be too good or I would know what I had been missing.

Families that sex traffic children from one generation to the next know that what they are doing is wrong. It’s not so normalized within their family structure that they forget right from wrong. Why else would they go to such lengths to not get caught? Why punish survivors for speaking out? My mother trafficked me to alleviate her shame and humiliation from being trafficked herself. Her parents also trafficked her to important, high-ranking government officials within the state of Texas, as well as to truckers who worked for my grandfather’s trucking company. Now, even with her lofty title of Superior Court judge, she finds no legal recourse for what was done to her. I can relate to her frustration.

My mother must have also found it humiliating to be married to a pedophile that murdered his two-and-a-half-year-old child during a rough rape. Over the course of my lifetime, she has incentivized men that I had relationships with to abuse me. Some of these men have shared with me what she did or said to manipulate them into abuse, and some have expressed regret at having been put into that position by her. And some hurt me because of their own unresolved childhood trauma which is also wrong. As a trauma survivor, I am allowed to feel anger and hurt over having been abused, regardless of whether the abuse was coerced, misplaced, or intentional.

I used to think she did these things for her own amusement, but now I realize she does it to alleviate her guilt over not taking action to stop the sexual violence she knew was happening in her home. This sexual violence was part of her childhood, too. She knew it was wrong because it made her feel bad when it happened to her. But rather than getting help or pursuing self-healing, she sought to displace her negative feelings onto me by replicating the abuse she endured and watching me suffer instead of protecting me and getting me help. She refuses to take accountability for the crimes she committed against me, just as she refuses to take responsibility for resolving her negative feelings about her abuse. This is how someone chooses perpetration over healing.

Retraining is the process of retraumatizing the survivor using elements of their original abuse. A person might be sent into the survivor’s life that resembles one of the survivor’s original abusers or the survivor might be forced to visit the original abuser under ‘emergency circumstances.’ The purpose of retraining is not necessarily to punish the survivor; the purpose is to regress the survivor so as to stop the survivor from making progress in the natural process of memory recovery.

Back when I was on dating apps, before I remembered being sexually abused by my father, I met a man online who was the spitting image of my father. Not too far into our online interaction, this man sent me an unsolicited ‘dick pic.’ The child parts that were present for my father’s abuse were triggered and retreated inside for protection. This stopped many memories from coming forward, memories that might have started emerging had I not been triggered by his doppleganger.

On another occasion, I was called back home to visit my ailing step-father. He had suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident. My mother, who was his caretaker, abused and denigrated him in front of me. At the time, I didn’t remember that he had sexually abused me. Being forced to see him in that vulnerable state confused the young parts inside me that had been abused by him, effectively shutting down memory retrieval for years.

Retraining almost always involves the survivor being exposed to one of their original abusers or somebody who is acting as a stand-in for an original abuser. Some parts of the survivor, who is most always dissociative, may be waking up but others are still unaware. The abuser group will reach out to the unaware parts to trick them into participating in the retraining effort. They will use tactics that have worked in the past, such as guilting the survivor, promising rewards, or triggering a false sense of duty or responsibility that the survivor might feel toward the original abuser. A successful retraining effort will result in the survivor remaining bound to the abuser group so they can continue using and abusing the survivor.

Cult interference occurs with adult survivors’ medical care as well. It’s the same every time: I go to a new clinic and choose my own doctor. I might see the doctor once or twice before that doctor is abruptly retired or moved to another clinic, and I am provided with a ‘new’ doctor. The new doctor is cult-controlled and immediately stops whatever medical care has been ordered or sends me to cult-controlled specialists who also shut down any help for me. I haven’t gotten any help for the brain injury that they gave me or for any other numerous torture-related injuries such as nerve damage from being electroshocked by them.

These are two ways my human right to medical care is being violated in the United States by cult-interference. Reporting it does nothing because everything can be explained, mistakes happen, there was a miscommunication, etc. Getting records is nearly impossible. Transferring to a new clinic is also impossible. Continuity of care is interrupted. There is no care because everything is a wild goose chase and no one is looking at the issue holistically. Trauma causes a lot of medical symptoms which is a lot of evidence that needs to be erased. My medical issues which are caused by them must be erased because they are proof of their abuse. My body is evidence.

To the child who was made to hurt me
in the Monarch program:

I wanted to write you this letter
to let you know
I forgive you.

We were children when we first met
in the inescapable horror show called Monarch.
My name was written with great pomp and circumstance
in a fancy logbook each time I was taken there by my father. 
You stayed there for days at a time wearing white trousers and a white t-shirt. 
You walked with your head down low, 
your feet bare on the cold tile floor, your black hair disheveled.
They didn’t want you kicking them 
with shoes on. You always fought back,
unlike your brother who was also there. 
You carried home an envelope of cash 
that was never used to benefit you
and bruises that your mother never noticed.

The men who hurt us are long dead or close to it,
and their souls will burn in hell for all eternity-
I'm sure of it.
Do you remember the beatings? 
I could hear your screams from the other room, the room where they made me wait for you, the room where they said they would fix your broken jaw.
Do you remember the drownings? They asked me if I could hear you talking to me in my dreams. I always said no.
Do you remember the daylight basement
where we stacked blocks on the green pile carpet? I remember you. They sat me at a desk and made me draw pictures of you so I would never forget you.

I want you to know I forgive you.
You didn’t want to be there either.
I know because I could see it in your eyes.
Your eyes were filled with soul-wrenching pain.
But I saw something else in your eyes, too- 
compassion, sadness, and regret
for what they made you do to me.
You were not alone in those moments of terror.
I was there, too. We were two children alone,
separate but together.

Whenever the memories come,
and seep through every part of your being 
and claw your soul out and devour 
what you are sure is the last surviving piece of your heart, I hope someone is there to catch you and take you away from that horrible place. I hope you are able to forget everything they made you do,
and then I hope you are able to forget even me, 
that child they made you hate and love
at the same time.  

Mother asked me to draw a picture for baby Allison who was in Heaven. The drawing is dated November 1978. Allison died in August that year.

Here we are in Daddy’s sailboat. We are kept apart at opposite ends of the sailboat in tiny rafts. Daddy and Mommy look happy, but we are not happy. Our mouths are small from shock and despair.

Earlier, Daddy took our photos in the hull of the boat. He said if we did not do as we were told, he would put us on rafts and set us adrift and the sharks would eat us. We did as we were told.

When I was in my mid-20s, I went with my mother to visit grandmother in Texas. We were there for one or two weeks. I can’t remember anything about the visit except that grandmother had just bought a house and had fallen in love with the man who sold it to her. They got married very quickly so they could live in the house together. They were both in their 80s.

One day, out of the blue, mother said she wanted to take me to see a doctor to check my neck. I don’t recall ever having a problem with my neck. I can’t remember what type of scan was performed; it was either an MRI or an Xray. I remember discussing the results with the doctor with my mother in the room. Now I know what the doctor’s visit was about.

Last week I learned that I have moderate to severe stenosis in my cervical spine. I have signs of nerve damage throughout my body affecting my vision, hearing, gait, memory, and balance, among other things. This is the result of electroshock torture I endured between the ages of 2 and 6 as a participant in the MKUltra program.

Mother was always proud of the fact that I made it through childhood unscathed. She noted a scar underneath the tip of my nose as the only mark of injury from my childhood. Did she know about my neck? I think she knew about my neck. Why take me to the doctor in the middle of nowhere, while on vacation? I’ll never be able to locate those records. I wouldn’t be surprised if she paid for the visit out of pocket so there wouldn’t be a record.

This is the type of thing people do when they are afraid of being found out. She must have been advised that one of the side effects of participation in the MKUltra program was nerve damage. I never had any physical problems as a child, except with my vision. I was very active with school and travel before I settled in Seattle and started working at age 24. If I’d had symptoms before that point, I don’t think I would have noticed.

Almost immediately upon starting work I began to experience intense pain in between my shoulder blades. I went to the doctor who suggested maybe I had gotten injured from carrying a heavy backpack on my 9-month long backpacking trip through India and Nepal. It seemed like muscle strain would have resolved within a matter of months, however. The pain continued for years. No cause was ever found. Mother suggested it was from bad posture: I was slouching at my desk. She reminded me that I had always slouched as a child, too.

I started a regiment of chiropractic, acupuncture, and massage visits that I diligently followed for almost 7 years. I never found any relief. Eventually the pain migrated to my left rib cage which is still tender to the touch today. I have never been able to wear a wire bra or have anything restricting my chest due to this unexplained chronic pain.

Mother knew the cause and let me suffer because she was afraid. Fear ruled her life then as it does now. Every symptom of nerve damage I’ve had over the past 26 years could have been explained by her, but then she would have had to admit that she put me in a trauma-based mind control program as a child. She was afraid I would remember. She must have known someday I would remember. She must have known this day would come. I think she knew. And yet, even now, she is only concerned about “correcting my story” and gaslighting me into oblivion.

The week of February 15, 2021, is when I got all my memories of ritual abuse back. Prior to that week, I had no awareness whatsoever that I had been sexually abused or born into and raised in a Satanic cult.

The first day I remembered that I had been sexually abused by my father. The second day I remembered my mother giving me a sponge bath after I had been sexually abused. The third day I remembered being trafficked in military housing on the Whidbey Island Naval Air Base. The fourth day I remembered participating in Satanic rituals at night near my house in Oak Harbor, WA.

On the fifth day, the hardest day of all, I experienced a panic attack during which my heart rate was elevated to 180 for 3 hours as I remembered being taken to a facility at China Lake Naval Air Weapons Station by my father and being tortured there. It was on this day, February 19, that I recovered the memories of hundreds of alters, each alter having experienced a different incident of torture, completely intact and perfectly etched with great detail in my brain. The alters had been there my entire life not knowing that they were alive. Hundreds of little girls inside me believed they were dead and I rescued them and brought them into the present day.

I have wondered how it was possible to regain memory in such a way. It was as if a dam broke in my brain. The trauma that came rushing out was somewhat titrated; I believe I might have died if I had remembered it all at once. I knew I had alters as early as October 2016, but I didn’t know why. I had NO memory of any trauma for two and a half years. The memories took two and a half years to surface, and then 5 days to be revealed to me. I refer to the week of February 15 as ‘the Big Reveal.’

Many more memories have come back in the four years since then: the night of my sister’s fatal injury, the sailboat trips where my sister and I were made to participate in the making of child porn, a trip to Couer d’Alene, Idaho, where I was trafficked inside a hotel, a trip to Disneyland where I was trafficked along with my cousin Tim on Disney property, sex acts my mother made me perform on her while my father was away on cruise.

The human brain is amazing. The process of dissociation protected me for 47 years from knowing the unthinkable. The dam waited patiently until I was in a place that was resourced enough, safe enough, and stable enough for me to know. It’s sad to think I wasn’t resourced or safe enough to know for all that time before then. With love and support and a safe place to tell their stories, survivors remember. Eventually, the memories return. Hopefully perpetrators are still alive so they can be held accountable. Fortunately, many states have no statute of limitations for prosecuting child sex abuse, regardless of when the memories return.

There was no shortage of people with mobility issues today on my walk at the Everett marina. My cell phone’s location is tracked by my abuser group. Either there is an employee at my cell service provider that is leaking my data, or my mother, who was a Superior Court judge in Washington state for 25 years, has an illegal court order allowing them to give it to her. I don’t know which.

During my walk, I received a text message from the sweet pawn they have assigned to me, alerting me that I was being tracked. They have him pass me clues so I will trust him and think of him as a protector. The trigger words were tracking, pet, genius, and the thought of losing your pet. Thanks for the heads up, doll!

I saw at least 15 other people with various walking assist devices, canes, wheelchairs, people holding them by the arm, people wearing fall vests at the marina, but I was not able to get their photo. The woman wearing orange and the elderly woman’s orange hair is not an accident. They probably dyed her hair last night after they saw the blog post. People commonly dye their hair orange to signal to me their cult allegiance. Or they wear orange clothing. I have dozens of photos of people wearing orange around me. She knows she is being recorded and puts her head down as I pass her by.

All this is courtesy of nurse Ruth in the physiatry department at Providence Medical Center in Everett, Washington, who violated my HIPAA rights by sharing my personal medical information with my abuser group. Today was the day to capture these antics, considering my blog post published last night was about needing assistance walking due to my spinal cord injury from electric shock. These people are allies of a Satanic cult.