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Tuesday, May 22, 2012


I overwhelmed yet another researcher.

Or maybe I'm just too far gone to deserve the time of day. It's like I burn through researchers the way a chain smoker goes through a pack of cigarettes. I try very  hard to be careful, to respect their boundaries as they have. But they ask questions - do I lie? What good would it do anybody if I lied, no matter how fantastic the story?

She asked. I answered: the things in the blog so far, a lot of them are the result of her questions. She finally told me she was overwhelmed and had to back off for a while.

Of course I apologized: immediately riddled with guilt as I was. What else could I do? And she said it wasn't me. There were the usual stress factors researchers hit when going into this material.  But... so many before her. Dozens. And not just researchers. There was an article writer in England who decided I was "full of shit" because I made the mistake of telling her the tale of how the Western Indians thought their clocks would burn up when the railroad first implemented the time zones and seasonal hour changes. There was a backstabbing story thief who didn't believe ghosts run from me until she put me into a test situation (without telling me) and watched it happen. The specialist with MKultra "victims" who stopped speaking to me because I don't want to suddenly enter some deprogramming Christian agenda without knowing for myself what's really going on. The people who told me I lied about my ex-husband cheating on me, giving me my first black eye, or that my step daughter was being sexually abused by her stepfather and stepuncle.

I guess I just have that kind of face. With "liar" burned permanently across my brow.

Now, I don't know if Researcher will remain in contact me on a friendly level at the very least. She may or she may not. She has dropped off the radar right now because of deadlines and important matters to attend to. And I sit here hitting silent panic attacks all the day long.

Researchers casually say between themselves about how one resource is exhausted and they should break contact this or cut ties that. It's almost as if we, the sources, aren't real people on some levels. We bare our souls to them. For a lot of people the things they reveal about their "other life" comes under a great matter of trust.

And I'm always annoyed and disgusted that the people get tossed aside like pressed fruit. As a matter of fact, I've never gotten a single thank you for my trust in all these years.  It's so that I'd never recommend going to a researcher for anything. 

But Researcher I wouldn't lump in the user category, just the overwhelmed one.The one I place people when I realize I must always keep my wings partially tucked for the sake of their health and well-being. There are a lot of people in that mental category. I don't speak to most of them anymore by their own choice. I hope I'm not losing another friend. Even if we never spoke about this sort of stuff again; I just hate losing a friend.

I already stand to lose so much more I treasure right now. Just. Meh.

Remembering about Dad's involvement in the psychic programs got me curious, so I looked up Mt. St. Helen's. I had always thought it exploded back in the 60's, but I was wrong. It blew in spring of 1980.

Which means I was about 8 or 9 when he quit the program. And I have to wonder just how long he was in it... being as the programs all claim to have been decommissioned in the 70's. Or so I've read.

Friday, May 18, 2012


The best lessons on how to do stuff comes from play and experience. So.

Dad raised both me and my older brother with the basic skills. The first thing I ever learned to do was predict future children using a pencil, needle and thread.  Years later we graduated to the psychic card game; you know the one, where you guess shapes? Only we used aces. I always failed miserably at it while my brother was excellent. Never had the umph, I suppose. At least once Dad would project at me and I'd receive and get them right, but never could "go out" and hear and read. Was rather frustrating.

Then we kids did as kids in a magical environ will do: took to it on our own. Each of my siblings and myself are seven years apart. So when my brother was 16 we turned serious: tried to build a inter-dimensional portal using our energy alone, that sort of thing. It was my job to find folks at school who were possible "others" and bring them home. Then “Matt” "lead" the group, which also bothered me. I mean there I was doing all the grunt work, then it came time for him to do the fun stuff with energy work and I'd get to do a little. And then I had to go to bed or, in later years, I was purposefully excluded. Bothered the crap out of me.

The groups used to do things like pick on local energy entities and stuff. Thought we were demon hunting: thank you Hollywood. Group after group was formed, usually by me with “Matt” taking over. The last one with “Matt” was a real disaster. We'd brought in our cousins on that one, and the oldest was already spiteful by the time I was five. Apparently my older brother was doing some illegal things when I wasn't around.

Magical kids act like eaglets, too. The oldest will push the littlest out of that nest to die. In my case when I finally caught my stride and started to figure out what I could do, my brother took steps to stop it. He "sealed" me he said; claimed I was too powerful. Well, what this means in modern terms is he rewired me. Never could get past it. It's like... having your ethereal spine broken permanently. It was horrible too, like being wrapped in chains and stuck in a glass jar.  Sometimes I'm still there, but meh. That's another story for another day.

My little brother... never got training and went schizophrenic nuts. Part of that is also my brother's fault: he did a lot of bad things to my little brother. They're bad things my mother still denies. Part of it is my fault: I was a very violent and angry older sister. Too jealous for my own good. And the rest is simply because no one would help him when he could have been helped, and now it's too late.

So there I was, 15 and someone no one ever listened to. Mom fell off the porch and hurt her back? Go get help I said to my little brother. Got ignored. My little brother's gifts were the kind that, traditionally, would have gotten him apprenticed to a shaman. You gotta help him start practicing and focus I said to my father. Got ignored. There were bright lights and nightmares. Got ignored.

So when I noticed the phones were tapped I didn't say anything for a while. I'd pick up the phone and listen to how the wires were tapped; listened to two guys negotiate bringing something over, realizing they were being listened to, saying shit and hung up. One time they crossed and I accidentally got a neighbor on the phone: girl from up the street. Then there would be clicks and I guess they got their shit straight.

Then the black vehicle started parking at the edge of the yard to watch us. Now by then I'd already had a life of nightmares involving being chased by things, the feds, turning into a werewolf, whatever. (All separate stories.)  And there's this car watching us like in some FBI movie. And it would *only* come watch when it was just me at home.

One day I decided I was gonna get them so I barreled off the front porch and started to run for the car. It peeled away like crazy. After that it parked a house farther away or on the other side. But it still came around.

I told my parents and they didn't believe me.

Soon after I came home from school and went to the bus, which had become my older brother's bedroom. (The rest of us were in a slightly bigger trailer by then.) He wasn't there, so I asked my mother. She was all incredulous that I didn't know he'd been arrested a couple of days ago. (Well, duh. They also never tell me anything.)

Seems the spiteful cousin had turned in my brother. So for the next few years we had to deal with that stigma. It was not fun, being blamed for things you never did by an entire town. Maybe my brother did them, but the rest of us had no idea.

A couple of weeks into the trials my spiteful cousin wrote the newspaper a letter about how we were Satan worshipers.

That was also not fun.

By that point in time I had a book I'd written, because I'd felt it was what I was supposed to do. It covered a lot of past life material, a DNA family tree, how to do things, the works. My brother, too, had another persona. All stories for another day.

I burned that book in the back yard because my senses said it was wise.

And then I buried myself into my own head and went mundane for a while, which meant I stopped writing as much and read a lot of books.

There were a couple of times I "reawakened" but had to rebury for one reason or another. And then I started dating Mr. Wrong.

Mr. Wrong... was a demon, and I mean this literally. That’s what he fancied himself as, being a he was a member of the Otherkin the same as I. (The Otherkin consider themselves apart from humanity for one reason or another. The majority do this because they feel they are an elf or some other myth that matches how they feel inside. I was very devout to the subcommunity at the time, not knowing as much as I do now. These days I’d tell you point blank they’re probably all abductees or associated with that problem in some way. Their stories almost all match the UFO side – but because Otherkin use words like fairy and unicorn, people don’t take them seriously. When they should be on some level besides “these folks are practicing escapism.”)

Mr. Wrong didn't mean to,  but he's the one that woke up things fully. He was on the internet with me, and we were experimenting with seeing one another. During the course of the fun I decided to start looking at other things. I found myself getting smaller and smaller until I was whirling past protons and neutrons and finally got to the center. I was so small light couldn't filter things in color. I told Wrong what I was seeing.  He said he didn't believe me, but the next day he sent me photo shots of the first photographs taken at that level. He said they were from only a couple of weeks ago. They were exactly as I'd described. I'd simply gotten that tiny.

From there it just got to be a deliciously wicked game that I used to pick on the Council On High. (Lotsa stories there, explanation on them will hopefully come later.) And it was like I just knew all the tricks of the trade. I knew you could time travel already, touch things, manipulate, how many it would take to change the past, how to hack certain environments, you name it. I just knew as if I'd always known. And we did them all.

I helped Mr. Wrong, too. I got him a place to live with my credit. He found a job he never would let me know about - but I can tell you he wrote information gathering programs and worked in DC. He got his legs back and suddenly I was a nuisance, you know? I'd exercise, and he'd do things to stop me. I was just starting out on being an independent artist; he'd sit beside me and tell me to just give up and stop trying. But when he threw me away, I kept going.

Oh I had to heal as we all do - when I left him he had me so fucked up in the head I genuinely wasn't sure what sex I was anymore. Nobody I've ever spoken with has understood just how bad treatment that really was. The ones who knew him are always "but you are the one who raged, who ranted, he was always so quiet and perfect. He was a nice guy."

He was a fucking psychopath... and is the reason why I don't trust "professional" help. Nothing like going to a professional with the guy hoping she'll see how he's hurting you only for her to side with him and feed him horrible things to say about me. I have a temper, that made me evil.  My passionate nature ensures I will always be the bad guy.  Interestingly, that's how I remember my past lives as well. So.

So when I finally stood back up again I walked faster. Even past a nervous breakdown, being called the bad guy at least two more times in large dramatic affairs of doom and destruction, remembering my "eternal mate", and all sorts of sordid drama. It was like my spinal cord was repaired, sorta, and now that I had this stolen piece of myself back again I could only be held down for the time it took a person to heal emotionally. Then I'd bounce back up again. I never could do that before: before I'd go down and never get back up again because so much of me was already missing. I made other friends and taught them. And so forth and so on. Until today.

Funny thing about it all: I used to rely heavily on card reading. I had a pack that belonged to my grandmother. They were regular cards that she and I played games with for years. My best senses came from those cards. My mother went on one of her God trips and they simply disappeared. I know what happened to them - one of two things. My mother also jealously kept anything related to my grandmother away from me. Still does to this day. If it's mine and mom finds out it's attached to Gramma, she finds a way to get it from me and hide it.

After those cards disappeared I've tried reading with other cards but it never was the same. With Gramma's cards I could predict things to the minute. There was one time my South American boyfriend, Danny, had moved to Maryland. I just sat at the table for days reading over and over again, and they kept telling me over and over again he was coming to get me. When he came to the door with his mother (she was a sweetheart) I had a bag packed by the door ready to go. 

He came to the door like he was going to surprise me. You should have seen his face when I smiled that he was there and said "HI!" because I'd been expecting him. So he announced he had come to spirit me away... and I said, "I know. I'm all ready!" and picked up my bag. Hehehehe.

But when the remote viewing came back and the other skills that don't require a tool as much, the card reading died even more. It's like I traded one for the other.  Even so I can only do these things under certain conditions. I don't walk. I limp.

And another thing? My spelling has went all to hell.

Sometimes I wish I could talk about these things to my husband in depth. To be honest I don't think he completely believes me. There's been a time or two he has slipped up and made a comment that sounded like he was only tolerating his wife's weirdness because that's what you do. He saw a UFO once when he was in Afghanistan, and there have been times he's waken up tired with the bruises and wotnot. But when I bring something up - like the specter I saw in the house the other night - he just listens and has to fight to find a sentence to respond with. I can't turn to him with too much. He has no desire to follow.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Sins of the Father

So yeah, my father was part of some government psychic program. I don't find that so strange.

All I know about Dad's involvement is he went through the testing when things were in it's earliest stages. He was with them a short while then quit. Couldn't get along with one of the others guys, he'd told me when I was a teenager.  Raised us with such fun things as games to hold aces and read each other's minds. (And thus I can tell you I'm what they call a reverse psychic.)

When I was first deciding I was going to do something about this alien problem, I got a book about the origins of the psychic program. I'd gotten it to see if my father was mentioned. And thus I now know the military wouldn't have the program it does today if it weren't for a chinchilla.

I never finished the book. I got 1/4 of the way through and got curious, so decided to remote view to the past and take a look at the grounds. Mind you, it's difficult for me to remote view successfully. I'll be doing something and realize I'm doing it, and it's like a shelf falls out of place in my head. You can feel the shelf fall and bam! I'm thrown out of things. At most I can go for about 2 to 3 minutes.

I found myself in a dark room staring at an open door. I could hear voices: a woman walking down the hall. She was giving a tour of the facilities. She said, "And this is the testing room" or something like that. And... something else happened. They closed the door. It was heavy metal so it clanged. The clang startled me and I was bust out of the vision.

I called Dad a few days later and told him about it. I didn't get to finish my story. I started to tell him about the door and he finished describing the room for me.

I bumped into Dad's past again when my husband was on his second deployment to Afghanistan. This was a hard time for me. I was angry at how we'd been treated, the lies, being left behind - most specifically the lies. I was angry that his first sergeant was bound and determined to do what he could to tear our marriage apart while other soldiers were allowed to talk to their wives. (No, seriously, they tried to order my husband not to talk to me it got so bad.)

When I'm angry I can do extraordinary things. But only when I'm angry. So I was doing a lot: I was remote viewing to that region nightly, I was moving things, I was seeing the future, giving my husband predictions on the next attack, you name it. I was also dealing with being given to this new young new handler - he must have been about 25. And he was so annoying to me that I'd remember him after missions and nightly abductions. He hated me, I hated him.

Then I had a vision.

@ 2010-06-22 17:49:00     Time Sensitive Documents

 The beginning is sketchy, but I was being told what was going on much like in a briefing I suspect. But because I wasn't sitting at a table being briefed but asleep, as I was told various information my mind supplied images.

  There were old military trucks. They weren't brown, but they weren't quite army green. They were also covered in dust because they had been in country a long time. They weren't traveling in convoys; they would go one at a time originating from the lower middle area of Afghanistan towards the border of Pakistan. One at a time, they'd travel with the dust around their wheels and the sun in the sky carrying...

 chrome pretzels.

  Yes I KNOW that's weird. Hold your horses... like I said: symbolic.

  So yes. Chrome pretzels. And I was told that these were some sort of probe, but the teller couldn't quite comprehend the technology and I could only perceive them as shiny brand-new metallic pretzel shaped things piled in the covered backs of these old trucks. The trucks were definitely older models, by the way. And the pretzels were being brought to the border region like this and set up along the mountains. They were being done so "right now".

  A parked truck that had been carrying the probes was sitting in the barren place it was left. (These trucks were never on base, but always in open areas or away from people.) I was standing in front of it. A vine was growing out of the engine. It had crawled its way down around the CVC joint and shaft of the passenger side front wheel of the truck and was crawling up the truck. It's important to note that it was only about 2 feet long (the part that was visible) so far. Later when telling the dream to someone, they mentioned grape vines and I remembered that the vine had three whole triangular-shaped leaves.

  The narrator said, "This is a side effect of the objects being brought here."

  I can't remember if there was anything else about that before my mind centered on the pretzels again. I have an alternate self who rarely speaks to me. She said, "You are perceiving them wrong. Instead, perceive them as forks."

  And so the trucks were filled with shiny chrome forks.

  And so I woke up at 3 am. I tried not to, but there was no choice in the matter.

  The meaning I have gathered:

  The trucks were Taliban trucks. They use old equipment, some from even back in WWII. Our vehicles would have been newer models, and they would have traveled in something else besides 2 men in a lonely truck. There would have been a guard or a convoy. Well, there would definitely have been more than 2.

 The pretzels are some sort of equipment to be able to sense what's going on. The pretzel shape could mean their maker's origin or just how they work, or even that they look like pretzels.

 The chrome means they're brand-new.

 Their point of origin is where they're being shipped out from to get to where they're going.

 The area they're going to is near where my husband is stationed. (And where my conglom has also been stationed.)

 The vine is a grape vine. It was explained to me today that certain motion sensitive equipment and other probe like devices such as these can be networked together to share information - like a vine.

 When "SHE" said to see them as forks... punster that she is... she was saying we are "forked". I'm actually quite fond of that particular pun.

  ... I've tried all day to figure out how to get the message about this to the right people. If this vision is interpreted correctly, there are going to be a lot of soldiers dead in the most nasty of ways.

I was very upset by this thing because I knew it meant doom for the people in my husband's region of the world. I'd sent all of the energy sources I could to protect him, and this was a very important message. I called a friend of mine about it, and together we began to try to track down people who were once part of the psychic program to get *someone* to listen to me. We finally found one old gentleman that had been part of Stargate.

I called my dad and told him no more crap, no more secrets, I was exhausted and didn't have much energy left; he had to give and help here. I told him the dream, and that's when he told me why he left the program.

There was a dream he had kept having about people driving off a cliff. He knew they were driving into fire but no one would listen to him no matter how he waved his arms and shouted. He knew it meant something bad was going to happen, but the people in the psychic team did the thing they're reputed for doing: ignored it. And then Mount Saint Helens blew itself up. And he was just so disillusioned by the lack of response when it was known it was going to happen that he quit.

I'd remembered, while he was telling me, a time he'd told me that dream when I was young. So I knew he was finally telling me the truth.

"Don't tell people you're my daughter," he warned me. "Don't mention my name." But I knew I was going to have to eventually. Modern politics is silly like that.

I had gotten the Stargate fellow's number and left him a tearful voicemail. When he called me back I was already calm and trying to gather old friends who I used to do things with to do something about things on my own. I was so harried and stressed. So now I'm going to admit to doing something rather manipulative, but please understand I'd spent an entire life not being listened to and an entire day trying to save an entire unit's life.

When he, Mr. G, called back I answered the phone and promptly broke into a weak woman's tears. Oh thank God you called, thank God I just don't know what to do I had this vision and my husband is over there and I'm so worriiiiieeeeeeeed.

Part of those tears were real, mind you, but not all of them. When I had him listening I calmed down and we chatted. I told him the vision, I told him for sure what it meant, he told me he didn't know anybody anymore, we talked about the vision some more, he told me my interpretation was probably wrong, I told him some more information, he asked me my whole name (while I felt him probing), and then he started to tell me techniques on how to use my talents.  I told him yes, I already knew some of it, I was raised in the stuff, my father claims to have been part of one of the programs.

He said, "Who was your father?"

"Dean White," I replied. (No, not his real name. That's not important here.)

"Dean WHITE!?! Ah ... is that your maiden name?" Poor recovery.

"Yes," I replied calmly. If I had laughed then my message would never have gone where it needed to go.

After that he told me there was someone who was still in the military that was in the program he could possibly contact that could pass things on.

Now that I think about it, he didn’t seem to like that my dream was narrated to me either. I’m not sure why.

Through my remote views to protect my husband I was 90% accurate... but my energy could only last a few months. I was so tired. That vision was my last spurt of energy aside from one last event with that stinking little handler.

But regardless, we watched things happen my husband and I. The troops were moved in secretly, my husband watched vehicles move around, we knew what I'd seen was coming to pass.  And then the guys were sent into the pass - the place I'd been ranting on the "other side" that needed to be routed out - and sure enough. They'd been settings things up for months in the way I'd foreseen. But there was someone who was an informant, which I'd tried to tell folks about, and this was anticipated. It was a damn near slaughter.

But when my husband and I went over some of the events, we noticed some strategies were in place as if they'd anticipated what I'd seen. At least, I'd like to think so... that lives were saved.

So it all ties back to my Dad. If it weren't for his early involvement - whatever it may truly have been - I may never have gotten the message through.

And that's all I know of it - well aside from him telling me once he'd managed to do that astral trick where you're in two different places at once, and the government had went nuts trying to get him to do more tests but he'd refused. Apparently he was in one place while a woman in another place gave him coffee and watched him fade out of existence.

As for the vision, my time with it ended like this:

Mr. G,

I was so upset when I spoke with you the other day I forgot to tell you about something else I saw. Of course it's too late to turn it around. When I saw that the Pentagon had released the intelligence regarding Al Qaida being at it's weakest (confirming another vision I'd told my husband), I knew the operation had begun on schedule. And now I look at those mountains and they're muddy and dark dark red.

A few weeks ago - I'm not sure when because I didn't record it the way I try to remember to do - I was talking to my husband and getting angry. Next I knew I was watching a man sit down at a table. He wore robes. I knew he was telling the Taliban our plans, and he was meeting in a room with another man to hear what was next. I was surprised that his under robe was made of that fake denim cotton material pattern. One just doesn't' picture a Muslim in fake denim, you know. But he was proud of his denim pattern. He preferred it It was dark and blue and he liked it.

He's groomed, like he was groomed in the states somehow or maybe he's a half-breed. He bathes more than the Taliban. That also surprised me. So maybe he blends in well or something. He isn't like a prince: just someone a touch fastidious.

Now of course so much of what I saw makes perfect sense. The Taliban were feeling urgent because they'd been tipped off last weekend was coming. They were laying their plans and preparing because they knew. They knew the location, they knew from which direction, and they even had a sense of how many.

The reason why they never attacked my husband's FOB until just before the operation was because they were waiting. I thought they were waiting for their fellows, but that was only part of it. They were still preparing. I couldn't figure out how, but I knew it had something to do with the earth.

I could have perhaps made a difference if only I'd tried to find someone sooner. If not you: someone. So I'll tell someone besides my friends and husband again. Maybe it will help. But I doubt it. A friend once told me that I would die the prophet who was never heard. So.

Today while talking to a friend about the informant (she remembered when I found him so we were talking about him) I "flew over" automatically again. It was brief. It was faint. It happened when I said, "I just don't know how to turn this situation around - no wait." And I did.

Their backsides are cooled by the wind.

I shouldn't bother you with this again, and I know you're busy. But I know also that people are dying or are about to die. I don't know why but I keep thinking of the piano cord death method in the beginning of Ghost Ship. But with a claw on the string.

If your friend was able to take my last vision and use it, perhaps this one will help as well. My sights are getting dimmer and dimmer, which could mean any number of things. They might get stronger when my husband returns to that hellhole after leave. Who knows. He's no longer being agitated by his jerk first sergeant (transferred again). When he's not agitated, I tend to not be agitated. We're tandem like that.


Researcher and I have been discussing things back and forth. She thinks she can use my story in a book. I say she's welcome to it: if it can help someone all the better. That's a good thing.

I don't want to say her name here, so I'll simply name her Researcher. So far she's a good and wise person; has driven me to pick up projects I thought I'd never be able to pick up again. She's also a fantastic writer. I love to read her things. And I dare hope we're becoming friends; that most precious of universal gifts.

She asked a series of questions for her research, and one of them had to do with childhood abuse in the family. Now, I now that many people in The Program talk about how they were so severely abused by their parents, or their father sold them into sexual slavery, or some other horrible story. I know that without that historic abuse in your life some researchers will decide you lie and are not part of the Program at all.

Well. I have no family abuse in my life. Sorry to disappoint.

My father, now, he was abused very heavily: he had been taken from his family when he was a kid and spent his life being passed around. That has to do with the stigma of being "Native American" in those days. Hell, even when my first born child was born I had people trying to take him from me before he was a few hours old. The government takes Indian children away from their parents; end of story. The government does not trust us. That's the rest of the story. We are still "The Indian Problem". That's the story in a nutshell.

Part of my father's history is he'd been bequeathed a bunch of land by his grandparents. It was a house, a small island of maybe an acre wide; things like that around the town I grew up in. Then the government gave him to some distant cousins to be fostered. While fostering him they beat him with two by fours and homesteaded his land out from under him. Nice, huh.

(But even so that branch of the family had a strong "witch" named Fanny who would pain her moods and cause the weather to change - so I was told by my father's cousin who was called my aunt. And that so-called aunt also fancied herself a psychic; used to work with the local police and everything.

She used to freak out at the tricks my older brother and I used to do, but that's not important. She was ignorant. Enough said.)

So some abuse my father suffered through that carried down. He just had a fierce temper. He didn't sexually abuse us. Again, sorry to disappoint. He just would get mad and spank us very hard, then spank us again for crying.

There was a couple of times he lost his temper and left my brother weeping softly on the floor. That could be considered abusive, I suppose. But when you people think of abuse, you think of some sort of daily torture with constant bruises.  That wasn't my life.  So I dunno if abuse is the proper term so much as he was rough. And we feared him.

Mom, too... not abusive so much as distant from me. Yes there were times she would not respond to us at all, as if we weren't there. She once told me I was ugly. When my little brother was born, her attitude towards me changed so visibly I resented my little brother a lot. She's different now and doesn't remember any of it, of course. But I have a chipped tooth from one of her slaps still today.

But still on that when I went to school during the freezing winters - yes Florida used to have those with busted pipes and sheets of ice and everything - with shoes that were popping open it wasn't my  mother. It was that we had no money. And no, we didn't get food stamps or some magical tribal check. I've never qualified for food stamps; not when I was a child with my mother, not when I was pregnant with my children, and not when I was a single mother with two small babies in diapers.

No, the sexual abuse happened with an unrelated church man - who was a three time offender but had been allowed his kids back anyway. I was friends with them, and practically lived over there. I was ... maybe 10, 11, or so. I was either over there or my grandmother's house.

 I was also the star witness when he went to court the final time. Not sure why it was me, but yeah. You'd think his daughters would have made better witnesses when it was his oldest daughter who made the call. But these men in suits took me into a room with a long table without my parents, sat me down, and proceeded to ask me very serious adult questions about the situation. I was... maybe... 14? 15? Although it seems to me I was 13: I tend to age revert though.

They didn't ask me for details on what he had done. They just asked one time if he had done it, and I said yes. "I know because I had a dream and woke from it." So then they asked what do you want done with him?

And I answered, "House arrest, counseling. He's a sick man." I was repeating that last part from a counselor who, during the initial interview to see if I needed mental treatment for this, had told me about how the molesters think they're having real sex with you. And that they often don't realize they're abusing you.

That counselor had explained a lot to me that day as if I were some sort of college student, and through it all I was repeating what my inside me was saying. "BE sure and tell them you know it's not your fault it happened." Etc. So I got out of that with a clean bill of mental health, which was a very important thing for some reason. And when the counselor was talking I was thinking, "Liar. That man was training me to have sex with him in the future." Which was obvious: if you'd heard him talk all those years.

So this 4 time offender who had molested his own daughters, me, the neighbor's girls, and a couple of small girls one of the daughters was babysitting, was given house arrest and counseling. To the letter on what I'd said they should do, I might add. =^^=

Go me, empress of everything. Except the Military Graphic Arts department, but that shall change someday. Because SOMEONE who knows what they're doing needs to take over. Some of these posters around here. Day-um.

Through most of my young life I held on to my virginity like some talisman. It was important not to lose it. Young boys came asking point blank for sex, and I turned them down. I've been pushed into bushes, approached, you name it. I skirted all the dangers as I held onto myself; partly because I knew I had a chosen mate, partly because I didn't love those boys, because I didn't want to get pregnant, etc.

There was an inner knowledge that I was an "Untouchable". No one was allowed to tup me in that way; I was exempt for some reason. I told this to a boy once who was asking me to have sex with him. I don't know where I got the idea.

But even today I must recognize that most of my sour sexual experiences are the result of desperation and poor choices that happened after my first marriage ended. Not because of the Program, not because of some dark agenda.

I recognize there probably was some sexual training in there somewhere, I just can't find it. There were times I "dreamed" of demons rubbing my body, exciting me to a sexual frenzy only to leave me unsatisfied. Between the way the other kids treated me at school, the abuse, and the years of knowing I was "Untouchable" I've developed this serious sexual hole in me; I can't feel sex hardly at all. I have a hard time getting into it - I can't just throw myself into it and care the way so many women claim to do. And if my husband doesn't have sex with me I begin to feel ugly and undesirable; my morale takes a serious plunge into the sewer.

I was Untouchable because I was meant for something else. But that's the extent of my knowledge.  Well that’s part of the point of this journal: to help me remember and figure things out.

Monday, May 14, 2012

And Beginning With an End

He's dying. my father. He's been dying since his major heart attack when I was 18 years old; he has taken his time. The doctors told him 6 months to live - or so he told me - and that was two generations ago. Now he tells me he has an aneurism, but doesn't tell me where, and he goes to the doctor next week to see if there's anything that can be done.

It sounds serious, and it probably is. I've already shed a large number of tears. Ever since I was very small, the thought of my parents' death has moved me to tears. It's a large cloud that has overhung over my spirit my entire lifetime. To be so close to the actual event has made it so I can't sleep, and I can barely eat. Even though my father and I aren't close the way we used to be. Even though my mother and I can barely talk.

They threatened me with their deaths so much, I have often stopped to wonder today if my emotional reaction isn't a response to the years of threats and mental shaping through the thought of it.

Although it's probably not true, I tend to attribute most of this MKultra and spiritual part of my life to my father. It's not as if he brought me to one of the masters and said, "Here's my daughter for $5." It's just that growing up he would tell us kids stories, give us pendulums to play with, taught us psychic mind tricks, told us about aliens, his experience in the Bermuda Triangle, and a myriad of similar details. He facilitated my ability to grok this mystery on the waking side of life simply by allowing it to be openly acknowledged.

And there was his own involvement with the government program.... I don't know much about it. Just that he was involved in the psychic programs, did some readings, and there are a few details he and I spoke about.

So I find it ironic that his sun sets when I have begun on this blog journey - setting my own story to a sunrise. The thought brings me to more tears. I am sad this evening.

I had so much more to say before, but it has all fled.