My How the Mighty have Fallen

Religion is not a good thing if you want to move beyond your shell and fly into the cosmos. It keeps you from learning, and in many respects it even dumbs you down. Ironically the moral structures are usually quite good ones. But take most morals, wrap them in religion, and you've got the perfect brainwashing program. 

Because of this I feel Christianity being used to "free" people from abductions or the MKultra programs only makes them believe they're free while re-enforcing the patterns, commands and numbness. People turn to these programs and later report they're not getting picked up anymore, but is this true really? I think it's more that they don't *remember* being picked up anymore.

After all, it's our human minds that are being tampered with. When we remember something that happened, it's usually coupled with religious overtones of some sort. Or fear. Something used to put us into the control pattern.

So you pray about it. And when you pray, you're entering a semi-meditative state while putting out a command your subconscious remembers. So it stops on some level for you.  But there are abductees who can attest that although your memories are blocked out once again, it doesn't stop at all.

There are people who portray aliens as demons, and because Western culture hasn't completely made that mental connection between "demons are a fairy tale" to "aliens match the description of demons almost perfectly but are physical" there seems to be a short circuit when the information is relayed to other people. So some people consider aliens to be noncorporeal, fourth dimensional beings that can phase in and out between layers while others consider demons to not be aliens at all. The whole schematic problem between the old word "demon" and our current word "alien" is a giant brick wall, and no one seems to be able to step through or around it.

It's time people got a grip.

They have technology that allows them to walk through molecular objects, but that doesn't make them so beyond our level of existence that they're more alien than alien. They're very physical. They can be fought back against. They can be shot. And they're certainly physical enough to grab you to pump out your stomach juices, subject you to sexual experiments, and take you aboard their very physical space craft for a quick tour.

And because they're physical, meditation and prayer isn't going to stop them. You can be sitting by your bed praying as devoutly as possible,and they'll still walk right in, pick you up and walk you outside while you keep praying.

I don't feel any religion used as a tool to stop abductions is the right approach. Rather, I think they simply just flat need to be stopped. Abductions are a physical phenomenon. Then obviously we need a physical way of blocking them.

Today, as if to highlight my point of view, my mother reminded me of where my family stands in the realm of the metaphysical. "Did you know you guys live only an hour from Cassadaga?" I'd asked her on the phone.

"What's that?" she asked me.

Cassadaga was established about one hundred years ago in Florida as a sister psychic community to another place of the same name in New Jersey. (Or was it New York?) It's populated by only psychics, and I read recently that you're not allowed to live there without passing a series of tests.

My mother said, "I don't believe in that stuff."

You used to, Mom. When I was a kid before my little brother was born, Dad used to make pendulums using a pencil, needle, and thread. You'd ask what were my kids going to be, and you wrote the answers down and kept them in a wooden chest underneath the fish tank. You had books on astrology that I read nearly every day - especially the part about being a Sagittarius - and loved to watch UFO and ghost documentaries.

You once told me that you could sew a corsette from memory and had done so before when you were a teenage. You'd explained that you were French and your name was Aimie, and you were a seamstress back then. So you remembered how to make the clothes you sold for a living. And even today you sew when you can, and you're good at it too even though you're the first to tell people how you have not talent and can't do anything.

But then I found a "Cherokee" tribe in GA when I lived there, and I wanted so much to be a part of a larger red community than I knew. And I introduced you to them. They worship the "Creator" in a thinly-disguised Christian way, with a Christian pastor that preaches every Sunday,and you and Dad flocked to them. (And I used to beg you guys to go to church with me when I was a kid. Ha.)

Now I can't talk to you about hardly anything, and if I find myself needing a metaphysical answer my father is the last person I can turn to.... even though I carry his legacy on. You both only watching movies if it's about Indians, you won't hang with anybody unless they're Indian, you won't read a book unless it's about Indians, and really Mom. You're not even Cherokee.

I know what you are, because Gramma told me so. Tukaho, she told me. Tukaho and Irish. But one day I had you in the kitchen and you whined to me, "But I want to be Cherokee." And then just a few weeks ago you told me you were sure there was a direct Cherokee line in the familiy tree, you just couldn't find the connection to prove it yet - not even five minutes after sneering that we have a direct line to royalty in the family tree and can prove it far easier.

And Dad: we are Brotheron. I am a card carrying member of the Brotherton. Because that's what we are. We are NOT Cherokee. But that Cherokee cult has you.  All this after you embraced a religion. And our metaphysical drums were tossed to the fire.

I can find other examples of how religion holds mankind back. Take UFOlogy for example. It has become almost a religion. There are tenements to it that no one wants to break, even when information shows that they should be. That would go against the unspoken rule. And so the scientific process is buried under faith and belief.

We can break from our abduction chains only by realizing what makes us dumb, what keeps us from noticing what is around us.

It doesn't mean you have to stop believe in God. It's just that you have to recognize that God gave you the tools to free yourself. Prayer isn't one of them. Prayer is a communication device; it's a telephone. It's not a gun. But your god gave you a gun with which to fight, if you would just learn to use it. It's called reason.

That is step one to becoming free of the "masters".

Eagles

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.

Blanche

Dr. Karla Turner pointed out one day that the only fact we had about the experiences abductees describe is that these experiences are verbal tellings of what has been perceived. The problem is that the aliens, and these days the military, have the ability to control what is perceived, to make the abductee believe they are going through something completely different. So it is that we see a beautiful woman instead of a hungry Reptilian, or think we're giving a speech when really we're being experimented on.

When I was a child I lived in fear of my dolls, because I knew they were going to come and try to kill me. I had a doll that was about 2 feet tall; one of those dolls that's meant to be a life-size buddy to a small child. That doll freaked me out. I woke up many times in the night thinking she was right next to me by the bed, reaching for me to grab me.

Back then my family was extremely poor. Our trailer had been repossessed at one point, and my father had converted an old school bus into a passable home. We had all lived in it at one point. Then my parents managed to get another small trailer, which they placed at the near front of our 1 and a quarter acre while the bus stayed in the far back. The bus was then divided into two rooms; one for me, and one for my older brother.

There was an entire yard away from my bedroom and the trailer where my parents now lived with my youngest brother. I was already an insecure child who felt abandoned. So when my dreams were pervaded with images of bright lights, of me clinging to the bus door and screaming while I tried not to be sucked into that horrible light, I basically became a nervous wreck. Getting me to go to bed became a fight between me and my father, who'd yell and scream and finally resort to violence while I wept and told them how terrified I was.

Couldn't I just sleep on the couch? No. To bed with you.

But I perceived my predators as my dolls - which I now know is a common thing. Many people perceive them as dolls. I have memories of countless nightmares where I'd be in bed and a doll would be on the bed waiting for me. Even though it appeared to be a harmless Barbie or baby doll, my reaction would always be one of abject terror. The doll was there to do evil to me. To kill me, or hurt me horribly.

When I was younger I could scream myself awake, but there was one time the doll said, "Go ahead and try to scream." And I tried. I kept trying. But no sound ever came out again.

This is the power of the perspective that they use to hold power over you.

When I was 14, to my knowledge a succubus came through one of the mirrors in my bedroom and wooed me. He wooed me a long time; took me places, things like that. He was a pale man with curly blond hair. I called him George because back then I called everything George.

One night he asked me to marry him, promising me great beauty if I said yes. (He dressed an image of me in a white Sioux wedding dress with romantically long fringe, pale brown hair, and a perfect figure.l) I said yes at first, but then this woman came from far away and claimed to be one of my ancestors and got me to say no. I'll never forget the hurt on George's face. It was like that moment in the Labyrinth when dummy spoiled girl says "You have no power over me."

And then he proceeded to haunt my bedroom and drive me outright nuts. Throwing things at me, making the room cold in the summer, etc. Dad got mad and told him his ass was just as good as kicked, and I never saw nor felt George again.

But I also stopped having my period. Mind you, I'd only had one and sometimes a girl doesn't have another for a full year. But my belly got bigger and my mother kept asking if I was pregnant (and you know, I was a kid I had no idea) and then one night I dreamed the men in suits came and took my child from my body. It was a girl. They let me see her and then they took her away.

And from then on every time I went to that "other world" I'd do what I was there to do, get relieved for the night, and waltz happily over to the nursery, pick up my young'un, and make a run for it. :-) In that fashion I got to watch her grow up, sorta - so it's hard to say if she's a figment of my imagination or not.

But somewhere along the way I decided her name was Jennifer, after Guinevere, because she looks like her pale father. I'm not sure what they call her. That's my name for her.

Thus. Jennifer White - this name is my badge of experience perceived.

Open Your Eyes for the Reminders

The few people who have taken me seriously over the years get offended or puzzled when I defend my handlers, my past, my life. Then there are those, of course, who don't believe me - because obviously I'm lying or I'd be a shivering lump of jell-o right now sitting in a dark house worrying about Charlie coming to get me. I'd be bitter and angry; full of fury and ready to fire.

I don't deny the presence of PTSD in my life. I don't pretend I didn't have it before the real world and the actions of people I thought were my friends ripped my family apart. I wouldn't be honest if I told you I wasn't prone to panic attacks even at the age of ten.


It's just that the situation in my head and chest are complicated and crippling enough without using them as an excuse to get away with stupid shit. Oh, call me drama queen for speaking up when you've done me wrong. Accuse me of overreacting when I let you have it for being an asshat in my direction. You're wrong when you do it: you're very wrong. If I let you have half of what goes on in my head you'd - well.


There is someone I let have it that way, before I knew what was going on in here. Years ago. At the time I was trying to remember that special past life. The information I had was sketchy. So this guy psychically took a peek. And wept.


What a mystery! So I sent willing student after student into my head to tell me what the hell was in there bad enough to make a grown man cry. They wept. They shuddered. They spoke of the Pit, The Hill, of bodies, of things. And after a while I stopped sending them in: it was too cruel to do so.


But I look back at all that's happened and I consider how essential this information is. The important thing to me is that it shapes me into WHO I am. We are the sum of our memories and experiences - and sure, things aren't always bright in my head. I had to send my son away on my daughter's 5th birthday to save him from a bigot in New Jersey who, after not being able to prove child abuse, was trying to have him shut away in an insane asylum: anything to take that boy from his mother. My first husband slept with eight different women, brought home VD, and gave me my first black eye. I was teased so heavily in school I still get anxious and overly-defensive when in group situations.


I had to sell sex to random men for $5 here and $10 there just to buy groceries to feed the kids. I didn't qualify for welfare of any kind, and child support enforcement turned out to be a cosmic joke.


Okay, yes. I carry a big gaping wound in my heart that my son doesn't answer my letters and calls another woman "Mom". On the other hand, if it hadn't been for those mundane matters, I would never have learned to stand up for myself the way I do now. I wouldn't be able to write the way I do, sing, breathe... and I wouldn't care enough about the world to want to make a difference the way I try to do in my own small way. And if I were handed the World Monarchy today, I wouldn't have thought as deeply as I have been doing for years on how to change the administration to stop being such a jack-ass to the little guy.


My PTSD isn't just from the "Other Side" - the side with bloody beaches and dark-haired people trapped in tiny cages. It comes from life in general.  It keeps me from holding a regular job, and I can't get PTSD disability checks the way a soldier documented as having gone to war can. So I chose to make my own way in this world with the skills I have. Maybe I'll be a gem someday. Maybe I am one already.


Someone found my last blog post today. Her presence was brought to my attention, which brought me to her own blogs. Which brought me to her story.


Such a beautiful woman: once a sex slave, prostituted on the streets in Manhattan.


There were other links. Sadder stories. Similar. Women trapped in a waking nightmare, one that's even harder to get out of than mine.


When it comes to my handlers, I am very very aware that I was treated with a different kind of care. For us in the program, the torture isn't as senseless as people like to think it is. The pain is a tempering fire as we're forged into strong blades of steel. A "broken butterfly" is a blade that broke in the fire or during use.



I was a broken butterfly once. So I reforged myself. These women whose stories I read tonight: they don't always have that option.

So if you please: my past brings me great pain, and I can't deny it. This blog will be a healing device as I go. But I can heal.

Some of those women know others who are still trapped.

I am reminded: things aren't always that bad. No matter how thick the gore.

Jaded in Jacksonville 15

There isn't very much by the way of profound in this vlog. I just took a moment to put together a quickie for the sake of making sure my vlog had something fresh and certain events with the Fishbowl (the Council of NIne... the Intergalactic Federation... whatever you wanna call it) were recorded... because I like having stuff recorded. I do mention George Kevassalis, but only because it's part of what happened. Sorry I'm not as... eeeh.... number-saavy as some folks.

No really. I care. I swear I care. I know it doesn't show on my impassive and uncaring face, but I care! I do!!

I even blipped out most of the swear words this time. =^-^=