I am 100 percent convinced, after knowing David Duke since 1989, that he is a victim of this program, and that he does not know it, though he IS aware of my accusation that he is an MK-Ultra victim and puppet.
2008: I am second from the left, and Duke is at the podium. Don Black is far right, and next to him is his son and onetime heir Derek Black, who has however renounced WNism.
I am just as certain that I was in it too. Note that the victim Lynn Moss-Sharman, who speaks on this video, says right off the bat:
1) ”They” select really bright children with lots of potential;
2) ”Their fathers are connected to the military.”
I and my father in 1963; I suspect he was a victim too, in a multigenerational program
Kissinger, photographing a little girl; the mayor of Providence, Vincent Cianci, who later went to prison for five years for extortion; and my father
My father was a lieutenant colonel in the Marines, his a colonel in the Army. Duke’s father, whom, btw I met in 1989 at his son’s office in Metairie, Louisiana, got him a job with the Defense Intelligence Agency during the Vietnam War.
That is the kind of high-level help in draft-dodging, that families such as the Bushes, Cheneys, Rockefellers, etc, get away with for their kids.
So they do not go off to war, but envy them not — they go off to ritual abuse, torture and mind control.
……Dylann Storm Roof — obvious MK-Ultra
Very spacy….. Anything but a convinced WN.
Roof is 100% the grown-up onetime Hollywood/Star Trek child actor John Christian Graas:
And now whistleblower Kathleen Sullivan, Master social Worker, who is the subject of the book below.
“Ten years ago we provided support to a woman exiting a ritual abuse-torture (RAT)
family and group. At that time the social silence about the reality of RAT was
deafening. Kathleen Sullivan is continuing to break this silence by speaking of the
atrocities she experienced as an infant, child, youth, and vulnerable adult. Her writings
are an important contribution to a civil and human rights movement focused on devel-
oping a child friendly world.”
— Linda MacDonald RN, BN, MEd &
Jeanne Sarson RN, BScN, MEd
“I met Kathleen Sullivan near the beginning of my healing as a ritual abuse survivor.
We connected through PARC-VRAMC. It was early in the survivor movement, but
Kathleen was already there reaching out to others and sharing her knowledge of recov-
ery issues. I purchased one of her books, Lessons We Have Learned: A Survival Guide,
and found it full of valuable information. She told me about her living memorial
garden to honor the dead and comfort those who had survived. I was able to see some
of the gardens, walkways and monuments in her newsletters and on her website.
“When I considered starting my own non-profit organization, it was Kathleen who
pointed me in the right direction and assured me I could succeed. With determination,
I found my way through the stacks of government forms. Kathleen has remained a
courageous and outspoken advocate to this day. She is an example of strength and
fortitude. I wish her much success with her new book. She has earned that success. May
her book be a means to educate the public and assist survivors around the world.’
— Jeanne Adams,
founder of Mr. Light & Associates, Inc.
“Kathleen Sullivan makes the critical connection between the communications industry
and the mind control projects. Her ability to see through the pain and horror to the truth,
the actual reasons behind the systematic abuse of children, is exceptional. I highly
recommend this book for those interested not only in what happened, but why.”
— Patty Rehn,
The Advocacy Committee for
Human Experimentation Survivors (ACHES -MC)
“We all look for the purpose God gave us to be put on this earth. Sometimes we come
to find out that purpose. If I have one thing to teach from my experience, it is that we
must be knowledgeable so we don’t continue to make the same mistakes and allow bad
people to take advantage of us and our children. The answer is there. Dig for truth and
then share it.”
— Jackie McGauley, Advocate,
Affirming Children’s Truth (ACT)
TunnelReport @ aol . com
“As a criminal justice trainer and consultant on cult crimes and crimes against children,
one of the difficult tasks is coming to terms with the unacceptable evils that are done
against little ones. One has a choice: ignore it and pretend it isn’t real or face it and do
something about it. The second way is more painful and difficult; but to do nothing is
to let the evil flourish. Ms. Sullivan’s book is a book that demands a response. Read it
only if you are prepared to be responsible for the awful truth you will learn, and brave
enough not to turn away.”
— Dr. Gregory Reid, DD
Occult Research and Crime Consultants
A Survivor’s Story of Mind Control
A Dandelion Books Publication
I am grateful for having had the opportunity to spend a bit of time with
each of you. I thank you for having shown me — in your unique ways —
the better path. I look forward to seeing you again in the next life. Until
then, God bless and keep you.
With all my love,
Author’s Introduction xxiii
Government Programming 1
What Happened? 1
Agencies and Organizations 2
Government Facilities 3
Black Ops 5
Travel to Exotic Places 7
Early Years 15
Good Times 15
Early Childhood 20
Elementary School 21
Middle School 21
Ritual Abuse 22
Dr. Black 24
Nazi Meetings 27 [This is the usual bogus stuff and accusatory inversion that Jews add to this torture, blaming it to the child on the very people, national socialists and Germans, who are most against all this and for the protection of our white children]
Dr. J 27
Sexual Abuse 33
Parental Dissociation 34
Sex Equaled Love 36
Kiddy Porn 37
Comfortably Numb 38
Family Matters 42
Physical Conditioning 42
My Father’s Sadism 42
Grandma M’s Kindness 47
Grandpa M’s Control 49
Nazi Recruitment 5 1
Paternal Grandparents 52
Basic Programming 57
Western Electric 57
Experimental Laboratory 58
Chain Programming 59
Wizard of Oz 61
Greek Alphabet 64
House of Horrors 72
Perpetrator Alter-States 74
Junior High 77
High School 78
Georgia Rebellion 8 1
Georgia 8 1
Acting Out 82
Pastor Hodges 84
Exercise Regimen 85
Secret Investigation 87
Running Away 89
Mission Possible 90
School Intervention 90
Volunteer Work 92
Albert’s Family 97
Nursing Home 101
The Sisters 104
Baby Rose 104
Love Lost 106
Energy Exchange 115
Memory Manipulation 121
Temp Jobs 121
Op Preparations 122
Movie Screens 126
Memory Scrambles 129
Ecclesia Split 132
Local Church 133
Local Airport 133
Aryan Cult Network 134
Child Victims 137
Cover Positions 141
Reinsurance Clerk 141
Maryland Casualty 141
Cotton States 146
Covert Activities 147
Grandma’s Gift 155
The Mansion 157
Baptist Church 164
Albert’s Affair 166
Facing the Truth 169
Not Crazy 170
Going It Alone 171
New Ministry 171
Falling Apart 172
New Family 174
Pentecostal Church 174
Religious Control 175
Blended Family 177
Learning to Communicate 177
Letting Go 180
Reality Check 183
Notifying the Authorities 184
Arrest Warrant 185
Left-Hand Memories 186
West Paces Ferry Hospital 188
Dr. Adams 189
Suicide Attempt 190
Dreaming of Justice 194
Phone Call 195
Final Visit 195
Clash with Religion 207
SIA ” 209
Therapeutic Fragments 210
Back to the One 226
Inner Children 230
New York City Ritual 234
Suicide Programming 235
Bethesda PsychHealth 236
Cindy – Age 5 238
Dolly/Dreia – Age 7 239
Andreia – Teenaged Part 240
Catalina – Teenaged Part 241
Little Kathy – Age 4 241
Renee – Age 8 242
Kate – Adult Part 242
Home Alters 243
Internal Cooperation 256
Traumatic Memories 277
Dr. R 277
Dr. X 277
Witch Hunt 281
Black Op Alter-States 284
Return to Texas 288
Exploring the Dark Side 289
Memories of Dad’s Murder 300
“You Killed Your Dad” 303
Was He Moved? 303
Multiple Emotions 304
Suicide by Lifestyle 305
Bill’s Past 325
More Verifications 327
Reaching Out 335
“Good Guy” Perpetrators 339
The Luciferian 339
Dr. J 343
Unethical Hypnosis 350
Recycled Predators 351
Going Public 357
Talking to a Wall 357
Internet Connections 357
Believe the Children 359
The Void 369
This is to Mother You 369
On the Wings of an Angel 374
Letting Go of the Guilt 378
Sociopathic Mentality 378
Divided Personality 380
Addiction to Secrecy 382
Defusing the Threat 383
Cult Recruitment 384
Nazi Sadism and Rituals 385
Never Forgotten 387
Understanding My Father 389
Not Guilty 393
Saying Goodbye 402
Goodbye, Fantasy Mom 402
Goodbye, Childhood Family 406
Coming Home 410
New Life 418
Gift to Myself 419
Recommended Reading 430
Supportive Organizations for Ritual Abuse and
Mind Control Survivors 433
It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human
history is shaped. Each time a person stands up for an ideal, or acts to
improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth
a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different
centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can
sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.
— Robert Kennedy
By H. Michael Sweeney 1
What is mind control, this curious force that is rarely mentioned in the
mass media? Mind control can be traced back to the earliest of ancient
history, in the sacrificial rites of the worshipers of Baphomet and other
Satanic idols of Biblical times. It is also a tool that has been scientifically
developed and cultivated by the CIA and other intelligence organizations;
it is ultimately an instrument of political control.
The focused and intentional abuse of a small child can result in
forcing the mind to split into multiple personalities, a phenomenon that
under normal circumstances has traditionally been thought of as rare.
Those who use it as a tool to program people want us to believe that
Multiple Personality Disorder, or Dissociative Identity Disorder, as it is
now known, does not exist, or that patients who display its symptoms are
either prompted to do so by dishonest therapists, or are imitating something
they have seen in a book or movie.
In reality, the mind of a normal child readily splits into alter-personalities
when repeatedly and inescapably subjected to unspeakable terrors. The
split-off alter contains the memories of the terrors behind a veil of amnesia.
Though deeply scarred, this terror-ridden fragmentary personality will be
suppressed, leaving the primary self relatively free to continue in life
without further displaying any symptoms of the suffering the victim
has endured. Sadly, this desperate form of self-preservation can be
manipulated with evil intention.
In mind-control programming, this effect is achieved time and time
again, creating dozens, hundreds, or even, as with Kathleen Sullivan,
thousands of fragmented alter personalities. Each tormented alter has a
unique identity, life experience, personality, set of moral values, skills
and capabilities, fears and weaknesses, and even a unique understanding
of reality itself. In fact, some can be so detached from reality that they
believe they are objects or animals, not even human at all. These beliefs
reflect their programming. How they are actually used is up to their pro-
grammers or handlers.
Programmed operatives are not fictitious entities invented for theatrical
productions. Take The Manchurian Candidate, an action-adventure-spy
thriller. It is considered a form of imaginative entertainment; however,
the book and film were based on top-secret, classified information
involving the intelligence activities of Red China, Korea, and the United
States. This knowledge is in the hands of other nations, too, including the
“good guys” in England, Canada, and Australia. As early as World War
One, countries on both sides relied on early “prototypes” for spy work,
ever advancing the technology and learning by its use as they went.
Through methodical manipulations via drugs, hypnosis, torture and
training, it is possible to create a Manchurian Candidate; a programma-
ble person with absolute obedience. There seems to be no limit to the
complexity and ingenuity employed in this process. Handlers pick and
choose alters, assign them duties, and give them their own set of memo-
ries, instructions, triggers, and fail-safe booby traps, to ensnare anyone
attempting psychological reconstruction of the self. Once the ability to
fragment has been established, other alters are cultivated to amplify their
skills and taught how to best serve their master. Examples of controlled
programming can be found among serial killers, mass murderers, and
even terrorists whose “inexplicable” crimes explode in living color on
our television screens.
As much as I would like to, I cannot discount the vastness of this
phenomenon. The sad fact is, the technology is so well-researched, and
so easy to employ, it is being used in truly creative ways. I estimate there
are now tens of thousands of “sleepers” in place and certainly hundreds
of active programmed operatives with experiences comparable to
Kathleen Sullivan’s. Other experts in the field mention even higher
Evidence of the perpetration of mind control by agencies of the United
States government has found its way into the Congressional Record and
proposed state and national legislation. Government documents from
MKULTRA and Project Paperclip have been released under the Freedom
of Information Act. Patents for devices that allow control of the mind
have been filed. Articles in medical journals and scientific papers discuss
advancements in the technology. Interviews with medical professionals
who are dealing with the aftermath of uncontrolled experimentation and
manipulation have been published. Themes involving mind control are
found in fiction, music, television and film, and documented in confessions
by perpetrators and victims. Brazen bragging by the likes of Satanist and
military psyops expert, Michael Aquino, has placed valuable confirmations
on the record.
Those few brave victims of mind control who have come forward,
typically report being used as lab rats in bizarre experiments, and in
many cases, sent on missions. What makes Kathleen Sullivan’s story so
remarkable is that she reluctantly admits having been used to kill. In the
course of relating how that came about, she reveals unique and invalu-
able insights into the infrastructure, the methodologies, and the purpose
behind it all.
Our first instinct is to turn away from any ugliness. Although the
experiences revealed in Unshackled are painful and often repugnant, we
dare not turn away, for this is not only a bold and courageous revelation;
it also serves notice that just as we are all victims of these atrocities, so
we all have the potential to free ourselves from their insidious influence,
to resist and transcend them.
Our whole society is affected by the sanctioned use of our own non-
consenting citizens as programmed assassins. Insofar as we are persuaded
by propaganda not only to tolerate such a practice, but also to endorse it,
we all become enmeshed in the machinery that makes mind control work.
In becoming aware of the baneful influence of propaganda, it is helpful
to bear in mind that our world history is not the random happenstance as
presented in what they call the “news.” I am skeptical of messages pur-
veyed by the mass media because these corporations are largely owned
by military contractors and have been compromised by CIA interests
ever since Operation Mockingbird; at this point you will find thousands
of intelligence operatives in key positions of what you may believe to be
our “free press.”
Thus, whenever some explosion, assassination or other tragedy seems
to “just happen,” especially when there are unasked and unanswered
questions, there is a very good chance that a programmed operative was
involved, either as the doer of the deed, or as a patsy set up to take the
blame for it. The questions that should be asked will become readily
apparent. To unravel the clues, always start with the question, “Cui bono?”
Who benefits, or whose agenda will now be less encumbered? Then ask
what social changes are being promoted by opinion-makers, often citing
reports of polls. Connect the dots, and a recognizable picture of mind
control will emerge.
Most victims of mind control programming are not assassins. Many
have been used less dramatically to infiltrate and manipulate the devel-
opment of corporations, foundations, agencies, and other socially influ-
ential infrastructures. Many more seem not to have been used at all; as
sleepers, they may simply be awaiting some future event requiring them
to be triggered into action.
While historically, the CIA has been the most significant developer of
programmed operatives, today it is clear that the same technology has
been widely used by other groups, including intelligence agencies of
other nations, various mafias and occult groups, select “elite” families,
and perhaps most frightening of all, certain churches and fraternal
organizations. What makes the latter so frightening is that many of them
operate networks of hospitals and clinics that specifically involve them-
selves in the creation of programmed victims, as well as the recapture and
reprogramming of those whose control mechanisms seem to be slipping.
In my first book, The Professional Paranoid, I listed over 400 CIA
fronts and CIA-influenced companies and institutions. Fully half of these
are involved with mind control. Half of those seem bent on convincing
us that mind control does not work, and that complaints of ritual abuse
are nothing more than false memories induced by bad therapists. I’d
rather that was true. But in point of fact, nearly a third of all my clients
turn out to have suffered ritual abuse and/or programming, though when
they initially reached out for help, they generally had no concept of what
lay behind their problems. Virtually every one of these people has had
some exposure to cults, military intelligence or the CIA. None had been to
therapists, except those belonging to these groups — their programmers.
Mind control is a covert crime perpetrated by covert means. There are
organizations which have been established to rush in and ensure any
exposure of the crime is dealt with quickly, and effectively covered up
with disinformation. It thus remains the perfect crime, reduced to
nothing more than a mysterious bump in the long, dark night of our
political and social nightmare.
Victims of mind control often do not realize they are victims. They are
even less likely to wake up to their own reality if there are people delib-
erately put into their lives to ensure the secrecy-people disguised as
friends, relatives, or coworkers-their handlers and programmers. In my
book, MC Realities, I offer a long list of symptoms and clues to help
identify such unhappy states, as well as advice on how to fight back.
It is not a hopeless journey, but it is a perilous and difficult one. This
book is testimony that success can be had.
Unshackled will cause many readers to question whether we are being
told the truth about the political and social landscape of our world. If you
value the purpose of our laws and our constitutional rights, if you treas-
ure free will and the pursuit of happiness, you will realize that these
rights are in jeopardy for all of us, when they are denied to anyone.
1. H. Michael Sweeney is the author of the following publications:
• The Professional Paranoid: How to Fight Back When Investigated,
Stalked, Harassed, or Targeted by Any Agency, Group, or
• MC Realities: Understanding, Detecting, and Defeating Mind
Control and Electronic Weapons of Political Control Technology.
• The ProParanoid Newsletter.
• The ProParanoid Reference CD-ROM: A collection of materials
useful to victims, investigators, and students of the intelligence
community, mind control, and political intrigues.
These publications are available from his website, http://www.proparanoid.com. Readers
may request a sample newsletter by sending an email to theprogrammedassassin®
By way of introduction, I am above all a dedicated American.
A physician might describe me as a “well-nourished Caucasian female of
average height and weight,” and note that I have naturally brown, short
straight hair and gray-blue eyes. I am neither beautiful nor ugly, which
means that most people would scarcely notice me in a crowd-an
important asset during my covert past.
As far back as I can remember, my IQ has tested toward the high end.
I’m grateful for my intelligence because I have been able to use my mind
analytically to come to terms with what was done to me.
Because of the traumas I sustained for more than three decades, I spent
most of my life severely dissociated. From one day to the next, I didn’t
know who I was. Although I’m now fairly integrated, I may continue to
have occasional flashbacks and may shift more in my moods than those
who have never been prone to dissociation.
As of the date of Unshackled ‘s publication, I continue to study Social
Work at a local university, with an additional minor in psychology.
Although I straggle with an anxiety disorder (PTSD), I’ve managed-thus
far-to keep a high grade point average.
My initial vocational goal is to become a Licensed Clinical Social
Worker (LCSW). I hope to help other trauma survivors find their way to
richer and fuller healing, and to teach mental health professionals how to
work more effectively with severely dissociated clients.
In part, my healing process has focused on finding positive value in the
years of trauma that I endured. If I didn’t believe that I could turn
evil into good, I would not have fought so hard to survive the pain of
my past. 1
Unshackled has not been easy to write, nor will it be pleasant to read.
Much of my past was ugly and brutal. Although I have done my best to
remove any gory details that do not go to the very essence of my story,
some sections will still be difficult to read. If you feel uncomfortable
with any information in this book, please feel free to skip that section and
go on to the next.
Although the traumas I describe may seem more than any human can
endure, I assure you I not only endured them, but am now healing from
their long-term effects. I hope that in a way, this book will be a testament
to the strength and creativity of every ritual abuse and mind control sur-
vivor. We’ve been through hell and have lived to tell you about it-if
you’re willing to listen.
Too many TV shows, books, and movies promote the idea that being
a professionally trained operative is exciting and adventurous. Nothing
could be further from the truth. Assassinations in particular take
assailants to a place in their souls where no mentally healthy person
would want to go.
One of the reasons I have chosen to tell my story is my anger at the
people who broke my mind and conditioned me to become a mentally
controlled slave, and at those men and women who used me to harm pre-
cious innocents at the risk of my own life. I am angry that I have needed
many tens of thousands of insurance benefit dollars to heal. I am angry
that I am (as of the date of publication) still legally disabled because of
what was done to my mind, body and soul. I am especially angry at
detractors, some with “M.D.” or “Ph.D.” after their names, who publicly
label ritual abuse and mind control survivors “fabricators” and
“liars”-while hiding the fact that they (the detractors) have ugly covert
reasons for attacking us.
I am going public about my past because I have run out of patience
with those who perpetuate the following lies:
• Ritual crime does not occur in North America, or
• Ritual abuse in North America is a phenomenon that has
suddenly appeared out of thin air;
• Because survivors’ stories are bizarre, they cannot possibly have
occurred (in other words, bizarre equals impossible);
• Hypnosis cannot be used to influence people to perform acts
against their will, or
• Hypnosis doesn’t exist;
• Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly known as
Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), is fabricated, rare, and/or
• Dissociation is caused by demonic possession;
• Pagans and occultists are demonically possessed or spiritually evil;
• People commit evil acts because they are driven by evil spirits;
• Recovered memories of childhood abuse are unreliable,
fabricated, or have been implanted by unethical therapists;
• Repressed memory doesn’t exist;
• People who remember, in therapy, that they were abused as
children, are likely to drag the abusers through the court system
and destroy their reputations;
• Child sexual abuse survivors are not responsible for their
decisions to remove themselves from unsafe family members,
when they remember what those individuals did to them-their
• Child sexual abuse survivors are solely responsible (or maybe
their therapists are, too) for “destroying” their childhood fami-
lies if they say what was done to them; and therefore,
• The child molesters and rapists are not responsible for the long-
term effects of their crimes within the family and the lives of
• People who claim to be survivors of child abuse are sick and
want to stay in a fake victim role;
• People who claim to have been abused by family members are
playing a “blame game” to avoid taking responsibility for their
• If FMSF spokespersons say that alleged child abusers-who
have been successfully prosecuted-are not guilty, then they are
innocent of all charges;
• Because the victims cannot prove what had been to them, they
have fabricated their memories of the abuse;
• Sexual assaults against children are acts of love;
• Children want to be sexually assaulted;
• Children are not harmed by sexual assaults;
• Documented ritual abusers always work solo — they are not usu-
ally part of a larger criminal occult group that remains hidden;
• Even though Timothy McVeigh and Eric Rudolph were certainly
brainwashed by the leaders of isolationist Aryan cults that encour-
aged violence, these young men and others like them have not been
mentally controlled and manipulated to commit terrorist crimes;
• The CIA’s MKULTRA program never included experimentation
on, or traumatization of, children;
• The CIA’s mind-control programs ceased in the mid 1970s;
• Such experimentation was unsuccessful and didn’t go to the next
step of creating mentally controlled slaves;
• Only the CIA has used mind control techniques against
• Those who claim to have recovered memories of having
performed crimes in altered states of consciousness are seeking
attention or want to be punished for crimes they never committed;
• People who recover memories of having been abducted and
harmed by aliens are psychotic or insane;
• The CIA and US presidents never authorized illegal assassinations
• The CIA created assassination techniques and tools but never
used them before 9/11;
• The worst of criminals can be identified by odd or deviant
behaviors, isolationism, criminal records, a clear disinterest in
participating in the local church, mosque or synagogue, making
children uncomfortable by their presence, and so on; 2
• The worst of criminals work alone-they can’t get along with
other criminals and therefore cannot successfully network and
do business with other criminals;
• Pedophiles work alone-they don’t meet as groups to share
deviant materials and to assault children;
• Only males sexually abuse children;
• The worst of criminals don’t operate in our neighborhood/town/
Most citizens in North America are still unaware of the existence of
a large network of pedophiles and black-marketers who buy, sell, and
use child and adult slaves in our continent and beyond. Because many
of these slaves’ bonds and chains are mental, they are invisible and
difficult to prove in a court of law. Regardless, mental slavery is a clear
and flagrant violation of our civil rights and should be addressed
as such. 3
Although this book includes information about my having been used
in controlled alter-states as an assassin, I am not suggesting that all, or
even most, mind-control survivors were trained or used to kill. I do not
know what percentage of us have. I fervently hope that we are a small
minority within the mind-control survivor community; if not, our country
is in serious trouble.
Several people have suggested that I and other mind-control survivors
could have used information from fictional movies and television shows
to create “false memories.” Although a few people may have done this,
many mind-control survivors recalled specifics about techniques,
agencies, types of programming, and more-years before such material
was made available through television shows and movies. Most likely,
scriptwriters used our stories that were available to the public in books,
magazines, postings and websites to create their quasi-fictional stories.
Although fictional mind-control characters may appear sexually
titillating, exciting, and appealing, our real experiences have consistently
been demeaning and horrific.
I will share a few of my verifications with you. The remainder will
remain in my possession as “life insurance,” to ensure the safety of my
loved ones and myself.
Until the early 1990s, I didn’t know that I had a dissociative disorder and
amnesia. My split-off altered states of consciousness (henceforth known as
“alter-states” or “parts”) had efficiently functioned away from my
conscious awareness. Some people call this condition a “split personality,”
although it would be more accurate to say that my personality was
Contrary to popular opinion, Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) is
not schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a lifelong, hereditary chemical
imbalance in the brain that is often successfully treated with psy-
chotropic medications. Although a genetic component may increase a
person’s ability to develop DID, it isn’t necessarily a lifelong disorder. It
can be reversed, given the right kind of therapeutic help and support-in
a safe environment.
A common, knee-jerk reaction to hearing the stories of survivors of
ritualized abuse and mentally controlled slavery is that-because our
stories are bizarre to the extreme-they cannot possibly be true. I’ve also
observed a secondary reaction to our horrific stories: after claiming our
stories are fabricated, these people openly deride us. (I find this reaction
bizarre. Would they also roll down their windows, then point and laugh
at victims of serious car wrecks as they drive by?)
I ask you to please keep in mind that we survivors have been exposed to
hardcore criminal minds for whom what is considered bizarre in normal
society, is their acceptable norm. Most of these criminals (mostly men)
are intelligent sociopaths who have zero conscience and no fear of the
law. My primary tormentor, a brilliant and creative man, often said to his
criminal associates, “If it works, why not?” In other words, he wasn’t
mentally and emotionally constrained by written and unwritten social
mores and rules. He and his associates had no limitations, other than their
humanness, and therefore did anything they chose to reach their goals.
When deciding which life-information to incorporate in Unshackled,
my litmus test was that I must be so certain about that information’s
validity, I would be (and still am) willing to swear to it in a court of law.
I am reasonably certain, and am therefore willing to testify, that the
CIA was the agency primarily responsible for my having been experi-
mented on and traumatized in controlled settings as a child, to eventually
be used against my conscious will as a covert slave-operative. 4 I do not,
however, want the CIA to be scapegoated. Other federal agencies and
groups, including criminal occult leaders and Mafia organizations, also
use mind control techniques on unwitting victims. I still value most of
the services the CIA provides for our country. Those of its many thou-
sands of employees and contractors who genuinely seek to do what is
right for our society and the world should not be held accountable for the
actions of criminals who secretly operate among them.
As I relate my past interactions with various organizations and groups,
I am not suggesting that all of their members or employees would follow
the examples of those individuals I was forcibly exposed to. Decent,
caring people, as well as people of ill intent, can be found in every social
and professional milieu.
Where I mention the False Memory Syndrome Foundation (FMSF),
I am not suggesting that all of its members are former CIA MKULTRA
perpetrators, child molesters, and/or criminal occultists. Some members
may have been falsely accused of crimes against children. Others may be
so dissociated that they truly do not remember having hurt innocents.
And some of the FMSF’s supporters may have accepted the clever lies
fed to them by more unsavory members-particularly its founders. 5
Although I do mention mind-control techniques that I’ve witnessed in
several Christian denominations, I am not suggesting that all, or most, of
their ministers and pastors choose to use mind-control techniques on
their congregations. I sincerely hope that those who do, will remain a
The opinions that I express in Unshackled are not the opinions of
PARC-VRAMC [Positive Activism, Remembrance and Commemoration
for Victims of Ritual Abuse and Mind Control], an advocacy organization
I founded, nor are they the opinions of the book’s publisher or editor.
They are mine alone.
I do not want it to be used as a tool to recklessly slander or libel any
person. For that reason, regardless of the ways that certain individuals
harmed me in the past, I will not name most of them. I am, however,
willing to testify in court about them if their identities are made public,
and about those perpetrators I do name. Although human nature tends to
sanctify the dead, history should not be unnaturally revised or contorted
to meet the emotional needs of surviving family members.
Varying perspectives about an event or an individual can be equally
valid. I ask that my childhood family respect my right to speak out about
memories and recollections that may understandably differ from theirs.
I regret any pain I stir up in the minds and hearts of those who know they
were also victimized. And yet, I must remind them that I am not respon-
sible for their pain; those who harmed them are. I hope that, if needed,
they will seek professional help to cope with their painful pasts.
After learning of this book, other family members who are active per-
petrators may try (again) to callously assault my mind and my character
in an attempt to silence me and to dissuade other observers in the family
from remembering, breaking free, and speaking the truth. To these per-
petrators: I have the right to speak out about what was done to me, and
by whom. Although I have not named some of you, I reserve the right to
do so. If I am challenged in court, I will gladly testify against you. I’m
sick unto death of carrying the back-breaking burden of the knowledge
of our family’s sins against the innocent. I’m laying that burden down
and will not pick it up again. If going public means losing any remaining
ties to the family, so be it. I’m worth it.
Because I focus attention on the behaviors of certain perpetrators
who negatively changed the course of my life, I readily concede that the
information I present about them may appear biased. I am not, however,
suggesting that this is all they were and did. Some parts of their person-
alities were not destructive, and they may have even enriched the lives of
others. No one is all good or all bad.
To protect the privacy of family members who acknowledge that they,
too, were victimized, I will not reveal information from a number of their
documents in my possession that directly verify some of my memories.
Their stories belong to them.
While I have my stepmother’s express permission to name and write
about some of my experiences with my father, I have not released the
names of my stepmother, mother, ex-husband, maternal grandparents, or
surviving daughter. If you happen to know their names or identities,
please do not reveal them to others. My goal with this book is not to
shame them-even though those who are perpetrators deserve to feel
ashamed. I also ask that the privacy of my father’s adult children be
To protect the identities of people I prefer not to name, I’ve given them
the following aliases: Dr. J, Dr. T, Dr. X, Albert, Emily, Clyde, Dee, Fritz,
Geena, Gerrie, Grandma M., Grandpa M., Grant, Dr. M, Helen, Janie,
Jessie, Joan, Lucian, Pam, Pete, Poppa, Rose, and Therese.
To trauma survivors: this is a non-fictional account of my life, no one
else’s. If you sense that certain sections are similar to your own history,
please skip those sections to avoid possible memory contamination.
Information about the criminal network within which that I was forced
to co-exist may seem new and strange to some of you. My suggestion is
to think of the groups and organizations comprising that network as a
hidden co-culture that has operated, largely undetected, in Europe and
North America since at least the 1940s. 6
Not unlike the mafias, these organizations have rules and mores that
are drastically different from those of “normal” society. And yet, as a
full-fledged co-culture, their world has existed in plain sight, totally
interconnected with mainstream society, politics, religion, academia,
business, banking, entertainment, and more.
Although the leaders of this co-culture do not want the public to know
that it exists, I hope Unshackled will help you to recognize some of their
ideas and intentions, their activities and their endangered victims.
In my past, I was extensively exposed to individuals and groups who
practiced the occult religions of Druidism, Satanism, Paganism,
Rosicrucianism, and Luciferianism. Although at times I may appear to be
biased against occult practitioners, I beg you to take my expressions in
context; it was certain practitioners of these beliefs who hurt me and others.
In a similar way, I ask you to remember that not all Aryans and
Neo-Nazis are like those who it is my regrettable duty to describe in this
book. And please remember that most Germans are not Nazis.
Although I have written about a series of related crimes that I witnessed
in Reading, Pennsylvania and in Cobb County, Georgia, I am not
suggesting that local residents supported such activities, nor am I sug-
gesting that local law enforcement personnel helped to conceal such
crimes. The criminals were clever and well-financed, and had numerous
high-tech resources that would have made detection and prosecution
extremely difficult, if not impossible.
Since 1991, I have met other survivors of ritual abuse and mind con-
trol who independently verified my memories of experiences that we’d
shared. Because they have reason to fear for their lives, I will not reveal
To protect myself legally and to preserve my life and the lives of my
loved ones, I will not provide any identifying details of any crimes that
I was forced to perform in the past.
Wherever you see the word “I,” please be aware that I may be relating
experiences that I’d had no awareness of, before I connected with split-
off parts of my personality and mind.
Because I am only one limited person, and because I value my privacy,
I am not willing to provide one-on-one support for those who read this
book or learn of my history in other ways. If you need support or infor-
mation, please feel free to utilize the resources listed at the end of this
What I experienced in my past, no other ritual abuse or mind control
survivor has experienced in exactly the same way. And yet, much of what
I describe in this book has also been experienced in a comparable way by
many trauma victims and survivors. I gratefully dedicate this book
Kathleen A. Sullivan
http ://www.kathleen- sullivan.com
1. “… positive reinterpretation of a traumatic event requires the victim to think about
whatever positive gains or lessons can be gleaned from the horrific experience, and
to focus on them in readjusting to the future . . . such positive reinterpretations are
therapeutic, since they allow victims to see meaning in the world and to improve their
self image, feeling stronger and more capable of confronting adversity.” (Bower and
Sivers, pg. 647)
2. If you are a parent or grandparent, daycare operator, school teacher, law enforcement
officer, therapist, or minister; if you’re none of the above and still want to know
more about pedophile mentality; I strongly urge you to purchase Dr. Anna Salter’s
Predators: Pedophiles, Rapists, and Other Sex Offenders and keep it close at hand.
Predators explains pedophile behaviors and mentality in a way I’ve not found in
any other piece of literature. It breaks every entrenched myth about child molesters
that can keep us from recognizing one in our midst-one who right now, this minute,
may be hurting a child. I believe it should be required reading for anyone who has
responsibility for the care of children.
3. Article XIII of the Bill of Rights states: “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude,
except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted,
shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”
4. I am amazed that journalists and reporters still ask CIA spokespersons and
Directors, “Did your Agency perform assassinations?” and then report their nega-
tive replies as gospel truth. Wouldn’t they look ridiculous if they were to interview
alleged murderers and then report their claims of innocence as true-simply because
they said they were? The same holds true for those who accept-at face value-the
CIA’s claims that it didn’t employ or use certain individuals, because it has “no
records” of them.
5. Dr. Colin Ross wrote: “The FMSF is the only organization in the world which has
attacked the reality of multiple personality in an organized, systematic fashion.”
(Bluebird, pg. 115) Why would they do this? I believe some of the doctors who per-
petrated crimes as CIA mind-control contractors became afraid when their former
victims started to remember. I believe this is why some of these perpetrators
formed or joined the FMSF-to use it as a disinformation mechanism to discredit
the victims in advance, by convincing the public that recovered memories and
MPD/DID are “fabricated” or “implanted.” Perhaps they knew that their victims
would be less likely to remember the crimes against their humanity if public
opinion was turned against them:
It is far harder for memories to be recovered when there is a threat
of social retribution or powerful social or political determinants of
shame about what is recalled … a more comfortable survival can come
naturally into being when conditions mean that the unspoken is given
a social voice. (Woodcock pp. 147, 149)
6. In their leaflet, Seeing Inside the Ritual Abuse-Torture Co-culture, Sarson and
We have named the culture of these destructive families/groups as a
co-culture versus a sub-culture because the ritual abuse-torturers exist
among us, undifferentiated from the neighbour next door. They draw
no attention to themselves by way of unique clothing, body piercing,
or hairstyle, or by race, or by living in a commune, or by openly
advertising their evil-based beliefs and behaviours, hence the reason
we have entitled our book, a work in progress, The Torturers Walk
among Us. Perpetrators of RAT [ritual abuse/torture] can be living
successful lives, making a living “legally” employed, hold positions of
extensive positional power and community status, others have class
and wealth, others are “simply common folk.” (pg. 1)
In the summer of 2001, 1 reached a critical crossroads in my life. For
the past several years, I’d tried to follow the examples of a large part of
the ritual abuse/mind-control survivor population-a community with
whom I had the good fortune to connect. Due to their fear of being
cruelly ridiculed or harmed again, most of those brave men and women
have chosen to quietly get on with their lives, never speaking about their
remembered experiences outside of their personal support networks.
I’ve tried silence too, but it hasn’t worked well for me. I felt like a
counterfeit when I mimicked others around me, hiding my past while
presenting myself as a “new” Kathleen. Because I wasn’t being authentic,
I was miserable.
When I opened up to one of my professors about my past, she said
I ought to write an autobiography. Blushing, I told the professor that a
prolific author, Gordon Thomas, had already suggested the same. “Then
why are you hesitating?” the professor asked.
Accepting that teacher’s challenge, I took a year off from my studies
to do what I’d dreaded the most: to review thirteen years worth of hand-
written journals that were full of my memories of traumatic events that
I’d previously blocked out. I had stored the journals out of sight in my
basement in six white plastic file cartons. The task of piecing together
my life story from the journals still seemed impossible.
As I slowly worked my way through them, I was troubled by how
fragmented my memories still were. Most of those I’d recorded had, in
reality, lasted only between ten seconds and a minute or two. 1 Assembling
and connecting the memory fragments was like trying to reassemble a
ten-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. 2
Day and night for over a year, as I reviewed the journals, an uncanny
urgency drove me to absorb every bit of the memories-only to block
them out again when I put the journals down! Determined to remember
this time, I read them again and again, typed them onto diskettes, and
reviewed them verbally in therapy.
Although those memory reinforcement techniques seemed to help,
I was horrified to rediscover some of the deeds I’d committed in the past,
under the direct control of professional handlers. How could that have
been me: so brutal, so cruel and heartless? How could I have actually
wanted to hurt people and make them feel-in their bodies-the pain I had
felt in my soul? What had happened to me?
Agencies and Organizations
Another question plagued me: who and what were the groups and facil-
ities I remembered having been exposed to? Certainly, none of them had
been part of my “normal life”!
My journals indicated that I had performed illegal acts for a network
of organizations, groups, networks and agencies. My alter-states knew
most of them by code names.
Various spook handlers referred to the CIA as the Web, the Agency, the
Organization, the Family, and the Company. A former CIA Director,
George Bush Sr., was sometimes called the webmeister. Some CIA
employees who had also previously been in the OSS referred to themselves
as the Old Guard.
Several self-identified NSA employees I met in Atlanta in the late
1980s and early 1990s alternately referred to their agency as the Net and
I was exposed to several Mafia members, beginning when I was a
young child. Dad sometimes took me with him as his cover when he met
with mobsters who may have been members of the Colombo-Profaci
crime family that operated in the Northeast. As a young adult, I met mob
members in Chicago. Later, I met members of Trafficante’s organization
and was taken more than once to a compound in Florida that I knew as
Marina Del Largo-not to be confused with Donald Trump’s resort, which
has a similar name. I also met and interacted with mobsters in Atlanta.
(I will not provide any other details about my experiences with any of
these groups or individuals.)
I knew NASA by its official name.
I was taken to meetings of groups known as the “Golden Dawn” and
the “Illuminati.” At those gatherings, I learned that some members of
Illuminati were also members of the Golden Dawn. They exposed me to
a mish-mash of Luciferian and Pagan beliefs. The members of the inter-
national Illuminati organization seemed to be covert “Rosicmcians.”
The words, “the Illuminati” alternately referred to the group and to its
individual members. Although I used to be in awe of the Illuminati, I now
consider it to be one of many secretive cartels. 3
I was also exposed to a mob-connected occult network, headquartered
in New York City, code-named “Satanic Hierarchy.” (Again, I will not
provide further details about my interactions with this organization.)
As an adult, I repeatedly encountered members of a large, national Aryan
network-The Brotherhood.” Another Aryan group, perhaps part of that
same network, was called “The Order.” Another, Western Mysteries, was
especially involved in publishing literature. I met representatives from many
smaller Aryan groups over the years-each had a code name that was known
only to insiders.
Alleged CIA handlers referred to male Secret Service personnel as
bus boys. Self-identified Secret Service agents called one of my highly
trained bodyguard alter-states, plain Jane. 4
I was also forcibly used by members of an international network,
code-named the Octopus, that included alleged CIA employees and
contractors, members from several Mafia families, and more.
I was taken to numerous US military bases and government facilities
over a period of more than thirty years. I have since been able to identify
several of them, first-hand. 5 These are the names of some that I believe
I was taken to for programming and/or training:
Fort Payne, Alabama. After our family moved to Atlanta, Georgia,
I was taken to a military base that I was told was Fort Payne. Female
teenagers and women were given special training there. I was called a
“Golden Girl” and received what was code-named “Black Claw” physical
Redstone Arsenal, Alabama. There, I believe I received MKNAOMI
biochemical black op conditioning, briefings, and debriefings.
Juvenile Facility in North Carolina. When I was sixteen, I was taken
by my parents to a facility near Morganton and Marion, North Carolina. The
grounds were enclosed by a high chain-link fence. A separate observation
tower was attached to an above-ground enclosed walkway that led to
the main building, where I and other youths received specialized ops
training, and where I was also brainwashed about the Aryan, Pagan
Golden Dawn belief system. Those who didn’t follow orders were bru-
tally punished. I first remembered this facility in the early 1990s when
an emerging alter- state drew a crude map of the buildings and grounds.
A social worker from North Carolina recognized the drawing, and said
that she’d known the facility as the “Western Carolina Adolescent
Correctional Center.” (I’ve not yet found a verification of a facility having
Great Lakes Naval Base near Chicago, Illinois. My first husband,
Albert, took me to a large building on the base where I and other adult
female “patients” wore hospital gowns and endured extensive mental
programming and training in a psych ward setting.
Fort Gillem near Atlanta, Georgia. I was repeatedly driven there by
a man who escorted me into a set of underground corridors and rooms
where he seemed to be in charge of local spooks. He and other profes-
sionals sometimes briefed and debriefed me there.
Fort McPherson near Atlanta, Georgia. After I’d had several vivid
memories of that base in the 1990s, my second husband, Bill, drove
me there to see if any of the buildings looked familiar. I immediately
recognized the large, white Forcecom building where, in a below-ground
room, a female programmer had forcibly reconditioned me after a
failed op (by threatening to shoot me), so that I would continue to do
assassinations. I had also remembered a one-story cafeteria building
behind it, where I’d been taken by a male handler who had been hungry.
As Bill and I sat in the Forcecom parking lot, we saw several casually
dressed individuals leave the smaller flat-roofed building, carrying
Styrofoam take-out food containers.
Fort Benning, Georgia. I believe that, as an adult, I received limited
training at this Army base. At that time, a male handler told me that I was
the only woman receiving it there. I was told that I was given specialized
training to familiarize me with how Rangers worked together on ops.
(Over the years, I developed tremendous respect and deep appreciation
for those men; unlike most spook handlers, they remained gentlemen.)
I was also put through brutal mock torture/interrogation sessions to con-
dition several of my alter-states to respond in specific ways if I were ever
caught and interrogated while overseas on an op.
Edgewood Arsenal, Maryland. When we lived in Maryland, my father
took me to a sprawling government facility code-named “Edge-of-the-
Woods.” There, I endured the unexpected effects of a hallucinogen and
mind- shattering mental programming.
The Farm. When I was a teenager, Dad took me to this spook-run
facility to have me trained for black ops. It may have been at the CIA’s
Camp Peary; it may have been at a CIA/ Aryan-run “counterterrorism”
camp in Powder Springs, Georgia; or it may have been at an entirely
different location. 7
Fort Campbell, Kentucky. I reported to this huge Army base several
times to be briefed for special ops and to receive limited conditioning
Dobbins Air Force Base, Georgia. When I lived near Atlanta,
I was often transported from this base by jet to other locations for covert
ops, and then was brought back to the base before being transported
Goddard NASA facility near Washington, DC. I believe I was taken
there in approximately 1968, to be mentally programmed.
Huntsville NASA facility in Alabama. I believe that mental program-
ming was done to me at that facility after my family moved to Georgia
in 1969. During a tour in the mid 1990s, I easily identified several of the
“Meadowlark” Air Force Base, exact location unknown. I was
flown there from Dobbins AFB in 1985, and was interrogated in under-
ground rooms by military intelligence personnel.
The years of programming and conditioning at these and other govern-
ment facilities prepared me to become a covert slave-operative. When I
fell asleep at home in my adult years, my nighttime alter-states emerged.
Because these alter-states were adrenaline junkies, ops were their drug of
Sometimes I was first taken to a local cult meeting. After the horrific
ritual, other parts were triggered out to be transported. Most of my
op-trained parts were more than willing to go on far-away assignments.
It was what they existed for.
These are some of the activities that my covert op programmed alter-
states performed while under the control of professional handlers:
• Protection, body-guarding, and escorting
• Hostage interventions and rescue
• Arms smuggling, including transportation of small rockets
• Bombings and sabotage
• Teaching children how use standard and makeshift weapons
against mock adult attackers
• Taking out snipers
• Torture and interrogation
• Clandestine photography
• Clandestine search of an organization’s files
• Killing assassin-programmed individuals who had gone out of
control and were an imminent danger to those around them.
(Because they were so dissociated they felt no pain when injured,
I was trained to kill them in a particularly gruesome way.)
Professional handlers used a succession of my pre-programmed covert
op alter-states to successfully perform each operation. Afterwards, I was
transported home with no memory of the event.
My black op (assassin) trained alter-states were even more specialized.
Through hundreds of repetitive acts, each was conditioned to kill in at
least one of the following ways: zip wire, gun, knife, or chemicals. Other
methods were also used on certain ops. The zip wires were sometimes
sewn into loosely-basted hems of garments, particularly blouses and
jackets, with soft ends to protect my hands from being sliced through.
Each black op alter- state was trained to use at least one type of
weapon. Some were also trained to select a certain number of objects or
surfaces in any environment to use as makeshift weapons.
In the early 1990s, I was severely re-traumatized as I remembered
the crimes that I’d been forced to commit. As I resuscitated the dead
parts of my soul, I felt the immense emotions of pain, grief, and horror
that I hadn’t felt during the actual ops.
Travel to Exotic Places
To give you an idea of what remembering was like, I’ll share from two
days of journals that I wrote in January, 1993.
First, I relived a series of emerging traumatic memories in bits and
pieces, starting with a childhood memory of my father driving his chisel
into my skin to lift my kneecap-just enough to frighten me. Then he used
a drill to wound my feet-again, not enough to leave a lasting scar.
As I remembered this, I slipped into the same kind of trance state that
I’d gone into as a child, to escape the pain. When I came to, I found that
I had written many pages of memories. Several were especially upsetting:
In a teenaged training session, I held a long sharp knife and plunged it
deeply into the front of someone’s torso. I was being taught that there
were two ways I could do it. I could either do the “T,” which was to cut
from below the belly button up, and then-at an angle — do the upper
stomach and heart, or I could do it with one deep, lower slash from one
side to the other, through the intestines.
I was taught that either way was extremely effective. The lower
slash would leave the person in pain for a while before the actual death,
if that was what was intended. To simply kill, the “T” was preferred.
Before doing it to live adults, I was made to do it on upright adult
cadavers. Each time, I wiped the fatty tissue off my long knife. I was
taught that it was important to keep the knife clean; and anyway, I didn’t
like looking at it.
Then I remembered standing in a room with white walls. I saw an
intense, slim woman, average height, with short, dark hair and eyes.
Other people stood in the room, too. On a table to my right were objects
that could be used to attack and kill.
I had no choice; the woman held a knife and kept reaching out as if to
slice at my forearms. When I finally got tired of parrying, jumping back,
and moving my arms away from her, I went after her full-force. I grabbed
her knife and cut her neck deeply-from one carotid artery, then right
through her throat to the other artery. 8
In the next memory, another adult was fighting me. I grabbed a knife
from the table. Unfortunately, because it was dull and serrated, I couldn’t
use it on the attacker’s neck. After I successfully took the attacker down,
a slim, friendly, middle-aged man with curly, graying hair took the knife
from my hand and pushed it down hard on the victim’s fingers-cutting
several of them off.
When I came back into consciousness and read these journaled
memories, I was devastated. I felt solely responsible, even though the
gray-haired man had instructed me. After all, the knives had been in
(Nearly every day, similar heart-pumping, gory memories emerged in
my dreams and waking hours. They followed me to the store and to the
post office, to church and to school. The memories were clearly telling
me that I had been trained to kill. Why me? Having no answer, I felt a
heavy weight of guilt.)
That afternoon, I decided to shake off the effects of the memories by
going to a nearby shopping mall. While investigating a sale at a phar-
macy, I found a bin full of bumper- stickers. I bought several: “JOIN THE
ARMY! Travel to exotic places . . . meet unusual people . . . and kill
them.” “I’M A VIRGIN … but this is a very old bumper- sticker.”
“TOTO, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” “I’d kill Flipper for a
tuna sandwich.” “I’m Glad I’m Not You.”
My favorite was, “In spite of the cost of living, it’s still popular.”
Although I was remembering horrible things that I’d done in the past,
I was determined to survive.
When I returned home, I tried to get some sleep. Instead, I struggled
through one vivid dream after another.
Early the next morning, my husband left for work in his pickup truck.
Alone in the house, I placed several pillows between my back and our
queen-sized bed’s wooden headboard. I grabbed the spiral-bound
notepad that I’d placed on my dark brown wooden nightstand, and wrote
whatever came to mind. Soon, I felt as if I were falling asleep, although
my eyes remained wide open. I didn’t understand that I was capable of
putting myself into a trance state, thereby allowing split-off alter-states
to emerge and write in my notebook.
When I came back into consciousness, I found that I’d written about a
covert operation in a foreign country. As usual, this memory had no
beginning and no end.
Even if it should someday be proven to me that this particular episode
was an implanted screen memory, I still feel grateful that I was able to
recall it. After being so emotionally battered by horrifying memories,
this recollection restored my sense of inherent goodness.
I have no idea how I arrived there, who took me, or how I got back
home, nor do I know the year the event unfolded. I suspect that it
occurred between 1982 and 1987.
Based on the architecture and the vehicles, the angle of the sun and
speech patterns of the natives, I can venture a guess that we were in a
South or Central American nation.
It was daytime, warm outside. I was inside a battered, old, two-story
clapboard residential retirement home not far from a downtown area.
It had lots of bedrooms occupied by a number of elderly Caucasians. The
kitchen was on the first floor in the right rear, the living room in front.
A porch, bordered by a wooden railing, was in front of it. The residence
wasn’t fancy, but it was livable and clean. The residents were taken care
of by a small team of professionals, including nurses.
Several of the bedrooms were downstairs in back. Some of the
residents had to sleep in them because they couldn’t walk up the stairs.
One, an older man, was very slim with thinning brown hair on top of his
head. He seemed quite ill. I helped put him on his back in the smallest
bedroom. We covered him with a colorful, handmade, pastel pink, block-
style quilt. He was in a lot of pain-I think it was his heart.
Some kind of political action was taking place in the vicinity. I was at the
residential home with a makeshift team of CIA agents, mercenaries, and
others-anyone in the area who was available had been called in to help. The
elderly folks were in danger, and our assignment was to protect them.
Had we not been in imminent danger, the professional handler who
had brought me there would probably have taken greater care to ensure
that I did only what he gave me orders to do, nothing more. This time,
however, I was free to follow my own instincts, because he was too busy
doing other things.
During the late afternoon, we received a directive from a young, slim,
fiery man with thick, curly, dark-brown hair. We were told that he’d
commandeered the downtown area, and wanted to use this house as his
base of operations against soon-to-arrive military forces who we prayed
would kick his ass. Unfortunately, the elderly residents couldn’t be
transported away in time.
Some of the aged males had served in previous wars. They knew how
to fight, but most of them could no longer shoot straight, due to shaking
hands or poor eyesight. Others were quite senile, and there was no safe
place to take them.
As more residents returned to the house, we gathered them in the center
of the house, with groups upstairs and downstairs.
Two elderly gentlemen who still had good eyesight were asked to
carefully hide by the windows and alert us if they saw any movement
coming up the dirt streets.
We knew that the action would be coming from the downtown area.
The military leader had already ordered filled burlap bags to be stacked
in piles across the dusty street from the front of the house, his men guard-
ing them. An “SOS” had gone out for more of our folks to find their way
to the house to help us defend the elderly residents.
We were told to hold our fire, due to insufficient weapons and
My dark-haired, short handler handed me a shotgun and ordered
me to use it. I explained to him that I didn’t know how. 9 Several rifles
and pistols were quickly taken up by the others. They had a sweet
automatic machine gun-a newer model. Big and black, it used brass
projectiles. All I had to do was aim and pull the trigger-it would do the
rest. After I tested it, I didn’t want to use anything else, and they didn’t
take it away.
The real trouble didn’t start until dusk. We turned off all the lights in
the house, so nobody could see where we were when we fired. Some men
started approaching the house by pushing what looked like rectangular
plywood dollies on wheels, stacked with filled burlap bags. They seemed
to be using them as moving shields. Our lookouts warned that it was time
to start firing.
The enemy had a lot more ammo than we did. We only shot when we
had a good chance of hitting one of them.
We couldn’t afford for even one of those men to get into the house.
Too many people could get killed too fast. If we could just keep them at
bay! More men came in droves through nearby buildings, settling down
behind the stacks of bags. Typically, they had flat, dark-skinned faces and
wavy dark hair.
Although they had automatic weapons, they must have been drugged
or drunk or both, because they couldn’t shoot straight. It took a while for
us to realize this. I was genuinely frightened, and didn’t expect to live
through the night. I tried my best to shoot the crowns of any heads that
rose an inch or two above the tops of the bags, but they were too small a
target and I didn’t want to waste my ammo.
Several male spooks and meres hid behind furniture that we had
stacked behind the wooden rails on the porch. One man and his partner,
both American businessmen, had come by earlier in the day to volunteer
I went from window to window in the house when the lookouts told us
they saw movement outside. We were quite nervous, because there were
several roads-it was hard to see everything going on.
Unfortunately, we weren’t paying attention when the sick elderly man,
clad in a light-colored terrycloth robe, unexpectedly walked out onto the
porch. Several of the men tried to grab his robe to stop him. I went
berserk and ran out onto the porch. A middle-aged, brown-haired man
helped me force him down onto the wooden surface, while the others
remained hidden behind the furniture. Unfortunately, we three were now
in plain view of the enemy.
I knew the color of the robe made the man an easy target. I saw sev-
eral men behind the bags rise up, as if to get a better shot at him.
Without thinking, I stood up with my black machine gun and started
firing at their heads. There was some light on their side of the street, per-
haps from the moon, and I could see a black substance fly through the air
from two of the men who had crouched side -by-side. They deserved it
for shooting at that innocent, senile man!
After that, we were more aggressive and held them off through the
night. I don’t remember how long I kept firing. When I went into
the house to get more ammo, it suddenly hit me: I had stood out there
on the porch in full view of those men across the street as I had fired at
them, making myself a very easy target! I shouted to the others, “Did you
see what just happened! I was standing right there, and they were shooting
at me, and none of the bullets hit me!” My preoccupied handler agreed it
was a miracle.
One man seemed to be in his sixties. In the kitchen, he offered me
some of his cartridges. He had several different shapes and sizes in a
clear plastic box. I didn’t even know which kind to use. When I grabbed
a bunch, he stopped me and showed me how to select the right ones. I put
the others back and thanked him. A black, long “drawer” pulled out from
the lower side of my machine gun. He showed me how to insert the
projectiles. He said all I had to do was point and shoot.
Time lapse. I woke up in the early morning, startled, wondering why
everything was so silent. It was dark in the house and nearly everyone
was sound asleep in chairs, sofas, and on the floor. Only one other
person seemed to be awake-one of the old vets who had posted lookout
the night before.
He whittled a piece of wood as he sat at the old cloth-covered kitchen
table. I was beginning to feel the emotional impact of what had
happened. I asked, “Are they gone?” He nodded, then told me about the
elderly robed man, who had been shot in the leg. We talked quietly for a
while, so as not to wake the others. I felt very comfortable with him. He
was a man of few words. I thought of him as the kind of person I hoped
to someday become.
Later that morning, the others started to wake up. While they chose
food from the refrigerator, I opted for a peanut butter sandwich. I was
deeply touched when the old gentleman quietly gave me one of the
bullets that he said I’d shot the previous evening. It was rather flattened
and a little bent. It meant more to me than any medal that may have been
given to me. I sensed it was a symbol of his personal respect and his way
of honoring my help. I put it in my right jeans pocket, vowing never to
As always, my handlers did a full-body search before they transported
me home. Although they took away the memento, they couldn’t com-
pletely erase the memory of another mission accomplished-this one,
After I read this journaled memory, I told my husband, Bill, what I’d
remembered about the ammunition that I had used. As I spoke, his face
registered shock. A retired Army NCO, he explained that the elongated
brass bullets were called 7.62 gauge, 30-caliber universal projectiles
because they could be used in a number of different weapons. From his
extensive experience with ordnance, he told me that yes, the gun I used
was a machine gun, and yes, those projectiles would have been used in
such a gun, and yes, the way I described loading it really is the way it
would have been done.
After that, he shook his head and chuckled about what he called
the Shootout at the OK Hilton. He said, “What kind of woman am I
married to?” Calling me his “Pistol-Packing Mama” he declared, “You
were a herol”
When he called me a hero, my face crumpled and I started to cry.
“Yeah, I was a hero, all right . . . but I was also the worst monster there
could be.” I wished so bad that the way I had behaved on that particular
op had been the way I’d behaved on every op. Soon, more emerging
memories reminded me that this simply wasn’t true.
1 . “Fragmented encoding of a traumatic event makes voluntary retrieval and reconstruc-
tion of a trauma in explicit memory difficult, if not impossible.” (Spinhoven et al.,
2. “More compelling and less consciously available dimensions of denial are
when memories of gross violations are so threatening to the psychological and
physical integrity of the survivor that recollections are literally split off from con-
sciousness … the shattering manner in which torture and atrocity violate the phys-
ical and psychological boundaries of survivors frequently causes their recall of
events to emerge in ways that may be fragmentary, disconnected and bizarre.”
(Woodcock, pg. 144)
3. I am not opposed to participation in secret, invitation-only organizations. I am,
however, concerned when such groups use tax revenue to create governmental poli-
cies, agreed on at those meetings, that are diametrically opposed to the will of most
taxpayers and voters.
4. I think one reason I was also chosen and trained to perform protection services for
targeted individuals was that I’d done a number of very successful hits and snuffs,
and therefore had a better feel and sense of how a person might go about killing the
client. I was acutely alert to the body language, eye expressions, hand movements,
and vocal inflections of potential assassins.
5. I’ve not yet tried to validate the memories of other bases and facilities, because if
I go to any of them, I risk being re-accessed. I’d rather be without some validations
than be hurt again.
6. I repeatedly remembered that the boys and girls who were trained to become Aryan
super-warriors were called “Golden.” After these memories emerged, my step-
mother gave me copies of letters that Dad had sent to her while attending Purdue
University in Indiana. I was astonished that, in a letter dated 6/25/79, he’d written:
“I went to see Golden Girl Friday night- about a big blond test-tube baby raised by
2 scientists from Hitler Germany who was trying to prove his theories about the
superiority of white, blond, Republicans. He kept sprinkling super vitamins and
growth hormones on her grits, then convinced a group of rotten capitalists with
mustaches to finance an Olympic training facility for her. If she wins three golds
in Moscow, they have her name for their living bras, cereals and panty hose, and
the professor gets to prove that blonds can do anything better.”
7. Camp Peary, A.K.A. The Farm, is a CIA Directorate of Operations “spy school”
near Williamsburg, VA. Another facility code-named The Farm was a 60-acre
estate in Powder Springs, south Cobb County, in Georgia. It was owned and run by
a spook named Mitchell “Mitch” WerBell III. This counter-terrorist training camp,
COBRAY-SIONICS Training Center, contained a “clandestine factory developed
to perfect the tools and techniques of sniping, counterinsurgency, and the coup
d’etat. (New York Review, pg. 2) WerBell III was a highly respected “OSS Captain,
guerilla fighter, military advisor, soldier of fortune, paramilitary expert, silencer
designer and weapons wizard.” (American Ballistics, pg. 1)
8. Some of my black op trainers called the resulting gash a “smile.”
9. Because my trainers didn’t want me to use my weapons training on my own
volition, I was only allowed to touch a gun when it was given to me with specific
instructions about what to do with it. Each time, it was already loaded.
Although I endured many traumas that I mercifully blocked out over a
period of more than thirty years, I also lived a reasonably “normal” life
that I was comfortably able to remember. These are my favorite child-
hood memories from that part of my life.
Almost every year, our family-consisting of Mom, Dad, two younger
brothers and I, went to the annual Shriner circus that was held in a large
building in downtown Reading, Pennsylvania. We were each allowed
to buy one souvenir. My favorite was a brown, furry, toy monkey on elas-
Once in a while, Dad took us to the “band shell” in the city. The concrete
structure, shaped like a giant opened clam shell, sheltered orchestras and
bands that played free concerts. I especially enjoyed watching big gold-
fish as they swam in a murky pond in front of the stage.
After we moved to the nearby suburb of Reiffton, my brothers and
I discovered how to climb a huge pine tree in our back yard. When Mom
removed the lower branches, we nailed boards to the trunk and scam-
pered up again. Climbing to the top, I could see forever!
On warmer days, we met with neighborhood boys at a creek below a
huge, grassy hill near Exeter Township Junior High School. We spent
many lazy summer days catching crayfish, chewing on watercress, wad-
ing barefoot on big slippery rocks in the cold water, and occasionally
falling in while the others laughed.
In the winter, the big hill above the creek was our favorite sledding
spot. Adventurous souls used wooden sleds or round, metal saucers with
handles to hurtle down the packed white snow to the edge of the creek.
We dubbed our favorite neighborhood play area, the “rock pile.” It was
really a large cluster of boulders. I played Jane when the boys took turns
playing Tarzan. When they were knights storming our rock castle’s turret,
I was the damsel in distress.
In the winter, we built snow forts to hide behind during snowball
fights. Our snowmen had carrots and raisins for their noses, eyes, and
mouths, and sticks for arms. Sometimes we lay on our backs and moved
our arms and legs to make “angels” in the snow. Tired and cold, we went
inside and placed our wet snowsuits, scarves and gloves on radiators
until they were toasty dry.
We regularly attended a Lutheran church several blocks from our home.
It was just down the road from the elementary school that my brothers and
I attended. Although Dad and several other church members ritually
abused me in the church buildings, especially at night and on traditional
Christian holidays (Dad had keys to all the buildings), I enjoyed attending
Sunday School classes and participating in the children’s choir. We
proudly sang, “Praise Him, praise Him, all ye little children . . . God is
love . . . God is love,” Beautiful Savior, Onward Christian Soldiers, and
other music that made God and the church seem non-threatening and
On warm summer days, we walked to a nearby A&W drive-in restaurant.
I loved the frosty, ice-cold glass mugs that the root beer was served in.
When we visited Mom’s parents in the nearby town of Laureldale, we
sometimes went to a large carnival at the Reading Fairgrounds several
blocks down the road. I usually ate a red candied apple or pink cotton
candy as I went on slower rides, or stood and watched my brothers ride
faster, higher ones.
At night in the hot summer, my maternal grandparents’ windows stayed
open. I often stood next to their living room window that faced the direc-
tion of the fairgrounds. Feeling the cool breeze on my face, I enjoyed
listening to the screams of race cars and excited crowds.
When Dad drove us on Sunday afternoons into the countryside, I
looked for brilliantly colored hex signs painted on barns. Most were
based on superstition; locals believed they brought good fortune or pro-
vided protection from witches and demons.
Once in a while, we went to Crystal Cave in Kutztown. I was awed by
its gorgeous, natural quartz formations.
Dad stored rock specimens in several cardboard boxes in a closet in
our basement. Sometimes he encouraged me to handle them. My
favorites were embedded with rough gemstones and chunks of iron
pyrite, also known as fool’s gold.
Dad occasionally drove us to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and nearby
Zelienople to visit Mom’s extended family. A great-aunt and her husband
lived in a small brick house. Behind their back yard was a single-wide,
white trailer. One day, my great- aunt walked me to the trailer to
introduce me to a big, black-haired woman who lived there alone. My
great-aunt explained that Nellie had been a nurse, and was paralyzed
from the waist down from a car accident.
Fascinated, I watched as Nellie swung her legs in either direction
through the long trailer, balancing herself on wooden rails affixed to its
walls. She showed me woven potholders and other items she’d hand-
crafted, as well as her collection of postcards that friends sent her from
their travels all over the world.
When I expressed an interest in the postcards, she offered to give them
all to me. I was stunned by her kindness, more so when she offered to be
my pen-pal. After that, I wrote back and forth with her on a regular basis.
Every time we visited my great-aunt, I immediately went to Nellie’s
trailer to spend more time with her.
Sometimes, when we visited my mother’s parents in Laureldale, we
walked at night to a nearby miniature golf establishment. I looked forward
to buying a cone of swirled, soft- serve ice cream from a nearby food stand.
One summer in Reiffton, my oldest brother’s best friend gave us a
large roll of red tickets for a carnival in a nearby wooded area. We
sneaked to the carnival one night, fascinated by the dancing women,
small gambling trailers, and other attractions that were clearly meant for
grownups. The people there were nice to us. When Dad found out, how-
ever, he forbade us to go again. He said it was run by “filthy gypsies.”
Still, I was glad we’d gone-it was an adventure!
Because my oldest brother’s large bedroom was in the attic, we often
played up there for hours at a time, when we couldn’t go outside. One
Christmas, our parents gave him a hobby kit that included a miniature
oven, metal molds, and tubes of Plastigoop. We spent countless hours
making colorful rubbery bugs, miniature snakes, and other Creepy
One August, I was with Mom at her parents’ house. My birthday was
in a couple of days. She said that my present was on the back porch.
When I opened the storm door and looked out, I saw a white cardboard
box. I cried as I heard mewing and saw a tiny paw poke through a hole.
I named my black and white kitten “Snoopy,” because he investigated
every piece of furniture in our living room. I dearly loved him.
One of my favorite school field trips was to the chocolate factory in
Hershey, Pennsylvania. I was fascinated at how the little Hershey Kisses
were manufactured by big machines, then wrapped in silver foil. At the
end of the tour, each visitor received a big chocolate bar. Afterwards, we
went to the amusement park. Even the street lights looked like giant
When Dad drove us home from Laureldale to Reiffton, we often
stopped at the Pagoda, a seven-story building atop Mount Penn. We
climbed several sets of stairs to look at the city of Reading far below. If
we were below the mountain at night, we could look up and see the
Pagoda’s multiple roofs outlined by bright red-orange horizontal lights.
On some of my worst nights, its consistent presence was soothing.
On warm summer days, I always looked in our yards for four-leafed
clovers. I shared them with my brothers so they would have good luck,
too. I also liked to observe and play with bugs. I especially looked for
praying mantises, because they were supposed to bring good luck.
Every spring, tent caterpillars invaded the stunted crabapple trees at a
nearby high school. I kept the squiggly creatures in a big glass jar in my
bedroom until I gagged from the inevitable stench.
I often caught fireflies in the small yard behind our paternal grand-
parents’ house in the upper end of Laureldale. Grandma gave us glass
jars to keep the bugs in. I marveled at how they blinked in the dark.
Sometimes my brothers, younger cousins and I played kick the can and
freeze tag in the yard.
In the daytime, we stood behind the house and waved to the men who
stood in the engines and cabooses of passing trains on a railroad track
beyond the back yard. We jumped and shouted happily whenever they
Buttercups grew wild in the grass near our house in Reiffton. I rubbed
the small yellow blossoms’ pollen on my nose and upper lip, fascinated
by the petals’ shininess. Our next-door neighbors’ cherry trees were full
of lovely pink blossoms in the spring. Sometimes, when they gave me
permission to break off a small branch, I took the cloud of blossoms to
my favorite school teacher.
Large maple trees flanked both sides of our street. My brothers and
I called the seed pods “helicopters” because they rotated in circles as they
floated to the ground. We opened the sticky pods and placed them on our
noses, pretending to be rhinoceroses as we playfully charged at each other.
Sometimes in the summer, locusts flew up into the tall trees to attach
themselves to the bark and shed their shells. The night was often filled with
their rhythmic buzzing. We would sell their empty shells to neighbors for
five cents apiece.
Mom’s mother grew roses and other lovely flowers in her yard. Each
summer, we plucked colorful snapdragon blossoms and pinched them
between our fingers to make their “mouths” talk.
My favorite flowers, Queen Anne’s Lace and chicory, grew wild along
roads and highways. The blue chicory flowers nicely contrasted against
the tall green grass. Each white Queen Anne’s Lace blossom was really
a large cluster of hundreds of tiny, individual flowers. The blossoms
reminded me of snowflakes-so delicate and intricate!
This is how I preferred to know my life. Although I thought this was
the whole story, I lived another life that I was unaware of.
My birth certificate states that I was born in the Reading Hospital
in August of 1955. 1 was first child in my generation of our extended fam-
ily. My first home was a second-floor apartment in downtown Reading.
Although some authorities on memory claim that people cannot
retrieve memories of infantile experiences, I believe they are in error. 1
I’ve had many flashbacks of lying on my back in a wooden crib in a
room. When I turned my head to one side, I saw a dark brown door frame
surrounded by a light colored wall. I explored with my eyes and mind.
Although I couldn’t talk, I could observe and anticipate. Sometimes my
mother entered the room and walked towards my crib, avoiding my eyes
as she silently changed my diaper.
When the shadows grew longer, my gut spasmed as I recognized the tall
outline of my father in the doorway. His eyes were cold and gray; his hair
short, straight and dark blond. His posture was erect, his figure lean. He
changed my diaper and more. I looked into his eyes as he gently caressed
my tiny genitals with his fingertips. I enjoyed the pleasurable sensations.
Sometimes his eyes were expressionless as he looked into mine, while
pushing a diaper pin into my tender flesh. I quickly learned that crying
was useless, and endured the torture in silence.
Although my mother breast-fed me at the beginning, one day, Dad
introduced the head of his penis after I’d suckled at her breast. Because
I was a sucking machine, I did to the head of his penis as I had to Mom’s
nipples. Because Dad put sweet liquids on his penis at first, I enjoyed the
sugary taste and soon adapted to the secondary taste of a clear, slightly
sticky liquid. I acclimated to that taste before I could crawl. 2
When I look at early pictures of myself, I do not see a child who was
apathetic. For the first couple of years, especially when away from home,
I still smiled and was curious about my environment. I don’t think I
would have done as well if Dad hadn’t made regular, direct eye contact
with me as he sexually stimulated me.
Dad sometimes volunteered to change my diaper, pretending to be a
helpful father. As time went on, he pushed soft items into my tiny vagina,
including dark red, canned Vienna sausages, then his pinkie finger, then
his larger fingers-while using other fingers to manipulate my clitoris.
That created waves of vaginal contractions that were so powerful, they
hurt. As my vagina stretched, Dad gradually inserted grapes, hot dogs,
bananas, and eventually his large, long penis.
By the age of four, I sometimes jumped up and straddled one of his
legs. If we were in the presence of other adults, Dad pushed me away and
said quietly: “Not now, not now.” Later, if he had time, he took me to a
private room and pleasured me. By then, I was totally addicted to his
scent and touch, and to the orgasms.
As I grew older, one of the results of the ongoing sexual abuse was
incontinence. Sometimes, when I played outside with my brothers, I wet
my pants. They made fun of me as I ran home and hid my clothes in the
Although I enjoyed vaginal orgasms, Dad also inserted his penis into
my rectum. He used Vaseline and later, KY Jelly, as lubricants. Still, I felt
immense pain and was often constipated. 3
In 1957, after my first brother was born, we moved to a rental home
on Bellevue Avenue in Laureldale, several blocks up the street from my
maternal grandparents’ home. Because my parents didn’t own a car at
that time, Grandpa M. took Dad and me at night to meet with small
groups of men in their homes. Grandpa M. seemed to know them well.
Some of the men digitally penetrated me as the others watched with
lust or amusement on their faces. Because Dad didn’t smoke or drink
liquor, I was repulsed by their odors. When I wasn’t being molested,
I quietly watched and listened as they talked and joked. I noticed that
Dad’s laughter was different-the noise came out of his mouth in bursts
that ended abruptly.
I also noticed that he seemed agitated when he didn’t know what to
say, or how to say it. Although he did whatever Grandpa M. ordered,
Dad’s body was extra stiff in the presence of those men.
After my second brother was born in 1961, we moved across town to
a two-story, red brick home on East 36th Street in Reiffton, a sedate
community. Already a tomboy, I found lots of places outside to play
I was painfully shy when I attended Reiffton Elementary School, a red
brick building several blocks from home. Although I made good grades,
I was frustrated when teachers wrote on the backs of my report cards that
I was shy. I couldn’t help it!
My inability to socialize created other problems. I was usually the last
child chosen to be on a dodge ball team during recess. I tried not to
cry when the leaders of the two teams argued about who would have to
Still, school was important to me. It was my safe place. I do not yet
have any memories of having been abused by any of my elementary
teachers. They were my lifeline to sanity and morality. 4
Because I received positive attention from the teachers, I worked hard
to please them. They treated me as a good girl, worthy of attention and
praise. From them, I learned to treat others fairly and to obey rules. They
proved to me that some adults were fair and honest. I’m grateful that they
cared about me, because they laid the essential foundation for my sense
of morality and social responsibility.
I transferred to a distant middle school for fifth and sixth grade, after
being tested and placed third highest in its top, accelerated class. For the
first time, I rode a bus to school. Although I was proud of my good
grades, I now became the daily target of a snobbish clique of girls. For
two years, whenever they harassed and belittled me in front of the other
students, I didn’t know how to respond assertively. I did try to become
friends with the blond leader, but when she just laughed at me, I wished
the floor would swallow me up.
One afternoon at home, I sobbed to Mom that I couldn’t take their
torment anymore. Instead of comforting me, she said I should do as she
had in school: “Laugh with them; then they won’t know they’re getting
to you.” The next day, the clique made fun of me for laughing at myself
when they did. Every day after that, I cried and stayed as far away from
my classmates as I could.
Although we were told to eat lunch together at the same table in the
cafeteria, no one in my class would allow me to sit with them. I made books
my new friends, because they didn’t hurt me or make fun of me. I went to
the school library and checked out every book I could, regardless of its
content. I read each one from cover to cover. I read every encyclopedia and
book in our home, including Mom’s adult Reader’s Digest Condensed
Books. I read cereal boxes at the breakfast table. I read books during lunch
in the school cafeteria, pretending that I preferred being alone.
Even when I went to Girl Scout meetings and troop campouts, I still
had difficulty socializing. I continued to read books at every opportunity.
They were my escape when reality was too painful to endure.
Although I was almost always in emotional pain and had difficulty
connecting to others, I successfully blocked out all memory of why I was
that way. I still believed I led a normal life.
Although I had only one close friend, I did have my extended family.
Whenever he could, Dad drove us to Laureldale on Sundays after church
to visit with my mother’s parents in the afternoon and with my father’s
parents at night.
On most weekdays (except for the summer), I went to school, then
came home to feed and pet my cat, do my homework, perform chores for
Mom, and then play outside with my brothers and the neighborhood
boys-if they’d let me.
I didn’t know that I had amnesia about psychopathic Friday night
rituals that Dad officiated. 5 In most of those rituals, cats or dogs or
humans were tortured and sometimes killed; adults raped me and other
children and even animals with abandon; blood was smeared and drunk
after it was mixed with opium and red wine; and knives and stabbings
were an integral part of the group structure.