"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things."
In order for my birth to be accomplished on presidential inauguration day, January 20th, 1951, my mother's labor was induced at St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica, California. My parents named me Susan Lynne Eckhart. The selection of inauguration day for my birth was especially meaningful given the position I would be groomed to one day fill. My parents told the story for years that my first words were, "I like Ike." Even at the early age of one, they were training me to be politically-minded and had me cheering in a campaign effort for the President-elect.
Once my mother and I were released from the hospital after my birth, my father began the rigorous training and intentional torture required to shatter my base personality with the goal of creating many separate and individual personalities for training and use by others as I grew older. When my mother left my father to babysit me, he withheld all food until I was starving. Then he held my bottle in front of me, but instead of allowing me to have the bottle, he would slip his penis into my mouth for me to suck. I felt I was dying through suffocation, as my airway was blocked and I gagged for breath. There were many such traumas to follow, most often on a daily basis.
For you to understand how I came to trust the things I began remembering at age 35 about my earliest childhood, I will share the following experiences. In meditation, I began remembering small, inconsequential things at first, like the time my mother left my father to care for me when I was four months old. He laid me on top of the dining room table and watched as I fell off! I clearly remembered the panicked feeling of terror as I was falling and remembered the overwhelming sharp pain that resulted in my body as I hit the floor. I also remembered the color of the carpeting, the design on the wallpaper and other details about the room. We moved from this house in Santa Monica when I was 6 months old, and I never saw it again.
Unable to fathom what these earliest of childhood memories could mean, I began reading about the experiences of Vietnam veterans and how they suddenly relived flashbacks of traumas they witnessed in war. I thought this might be the same type of memory phenomenon. In order to test my recall of this particular incident, I shared the details of this memory with my mother. Her reaction was one of amazement although she seemed terribly confused about my father's actions. She said I had described our first house and was surprised I could remember so accurately details from an event that happened when I was only an infant. Being the third child to a very busy mother, there were no pictures taken of me in that house that I could have seen. The validation she gave me made me feel more trusting of the other memories that soon began flooding back into my awareness.
Memories of trauma too overwhelming to bear as a child unfolded for me to deal with as an adult. Bit by bit, piece by piece, I began to remember and understand just what had actually happened to me as a child, but in no way did the memories come neatly packaged in chronological order. It took the test of time, as each memory fit into ones before and after them and, like a puzzle, with all the pieces laid in proper place, I began creating a more complete yet horrifically devastating picture.
Armed with that first validation from my mother and the support of two therapists, I began daily therapy remembering heinous tortures, terrifying abuses, and strange details that were painfully yet neatly compartmentalized into the reality of separate child and adult personalities programmed within me. Many had separate names. This was in 1987, two years after my initial «awakening» first began. And I was, now, for the first time, accurately remembering my earliest childhood. I was referred to Stuart Perlman, Ph.D., a Westwood clinical psychotherapist, and began seeing him a few sessions a week until the self-harm and suicidal crises I was attempting to live through, triggered by remembering things I was programmed forget, quickly required my sessions with him to escalate to seven or more per week. I was also having weekly sessions with Margaret Paul, Ph.D.
At the time I began therapy, neither of my therapists was familiar with dissociation, Multiple Personality Disorder, or ritual abuse. The vivid, painful and often terrifying flashbacks and abreactions of the traumatic memory I retrieved in and out of their offices left all of us in a quandary, trying to make sense of what was happening to me. Dr. Perlman wrote an article on MPD/ritual abuse for a psychoanalytical journal, where he shared that as time went on he came to understand that Multiple Personality Disorder was not as rare as he had been taught it was in school. Although his quiet, aloof, non-interactive, psychoanalytical stance often made me uncomfortable during therapy sessions, I was later grateful that he had not interjected his own reality into my memory retrieval process and kept to himself his initial belief that I was delusional. My first session with Dr. Perlman was deeply touching as tears fell from his cheeks when I recounted instance after instance of childhood abuse. His wise words to me that day were, "Everything you need to heal is within, you have all the answers inside of yourself."
My other therapist, Dr. Paul, and I were continually perplexed as to what all the memories meant and didn't have an answer until a year later when I attended a Victims of Incest Emerge as Survivors (VOICES) conference in New Jersey by myself, where I heard a female minister speak about satanic ritual abuse. At the end of the lecture, I felt numbed, as the speaker recounted many tortures similar to those I had remembered from my childhood. The "big, beautiful, perfect fairy tale life" I thought I was living began to crumble, one memory at a time. The following is a carefully compiled documentation of my past.
When I was six months old, my father and mother decided to move to a more rural setting to raise their young family. My brother Jim was eight, my brother Rick was four, and I was six months old. My father borrowed money from my mother's mother to purchase a three-bedroom ranch home located in the midst of a walnut grove in Woodland Hills, California. This home was to be the base for hidden and extreme torture and trauma for me over the next 19 years. Those years of trauma should have been enough to kill ten children, but somehow it didn't kill me. My father told me each time he hurt me that he was doing it to toughen me, to strengthen me for the future. In response, I was split into many personalities to cope with the overpowering physical and psychological pain and betrayal.
My father worked for others as a welder until 1957 when he decided to be his own boss, prompting the opening of his own welding shop. This business, Eckhart's Welding Shop (located on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles), initially was our only source of income, since my mother stayed at home as a fulltime housewife and mother. We lived simply and frugally, getting by on the amount of money my father earned. Sliced in between and existing parallel to the everyday conscious reality we shared as a family, was a very dark, secret and painful reality shared in sub-consciousness and in pain. I will share many of these slices of darkness with you so that you the reader can understand how this all came about.
When I was a year old, my father placed me in a blanket that was suspended by a rope from the high ceiling in our living room and spun me around and around and around until I was completely dizzy and disoriented. He then introduced a trauma, like putting something sharp up my vagina and my young psyche shattered, splitting off another personality to withstand the pain. He began sexually abusing me in my early months, by inserting objects into my vagina, gradually stretching it so that I would be able to accept a full grown man's penis by the time I was two. I was being groomed for early child prostitution, pornography, and a position in the "inner circle" at church.
When I was just months old, my mother recounts that she tearfully handed me over into the arms of her brother John who took me for a week to Santa Barbara. When she told me of this incident she always sounded like she had no choice, no free will from where she could command that no one could take her new born baby away from her. The memory of what happened in Santa Barbara with my Uncle John remains inaccessible to me at this time, yet I know it must be significant.
Unfortunately as you can well understand, my poor mind-controlled mother never had a chance and was totally manipulated by my father who I believe suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD/DID), had been ritually abused himself, and was most likely also under mind control. Much of the time my mother was a loving, caring, gentlewoman, but she was controlled. She spent her daytime hours obsessively cleaning house, ironing everything that she perfectly washed, scrubbing floors, washing windows, cooking, and attending to our needs. After dinner, while my mother did the dishes, my father sat down to watch television and read the paper. While he was relaxing, my mother began her next job doing the bookkeeping for my father's business; she didn't stop her duties or sit down until she collapsed into bed at 11:00 o'clock at night.
When I began recovering in the 80's, I asked my mother why all she did was scrub and clean the house and didn't pay attention to me as a child. Her response was, "Sue, looking back, I felt like there was something really dirty about our home."
My mother was able to feel what she wasn't allowed to think about, and she was right; there was something dirty. She subconsciously tried to take care of the problem in the only way she knew how; by cleaning it away. She slept through, was programmed, drugged, or was in a dissociative daze when I was being abused or when she was being beaten by my father or abused by others. She obsessively listened to music, which helped her to tune out and mellow. Knowing what I know now, most likely she was listening to music she was told to listen to in order to keep her memory of our actual life locked deeply within her subconscious mind, while the programmed reality of herself and our "perfect happy family" was kept alive through programmed phrases in the music.
My father made medicine for my mother. She followed my father's orders and programming to a tee. Dutiful to her programming, she delivered me to and from places where I was to be prepared, trained, programmed, and used, without ever being consciously aware of what she was doing. To this day, if asked about it, my mother cries and says that, while she believes and feels the allegations of what happened to me are true, she just can't remember.
Around this time, my mother joined the First Baptist Church of Woodland Hills, and began taking me with her to church. Later, in therapy, I remembered and drew pictures of tunnels that I remembered running under the church that connected with neighboring homes of inner circle church perpetrators. On Sunday mornings, my mother left me in the nursery while she went to the sermon. Members of the church staff, some of them neighbor women and the minister, ritualistically abused me in that church. The elder minister who abused me was Rev. Grant B. Yeatman.
By age two, I was out of the church nursery and attending a small Sunday school class with other children. One Sunday, when I was a bit older, Rev. Yeatman walked into my Sunday school class and watched as we played a game and drew pictures. He pointed to me and said that I was "God's chosen" and told me to follow him. Once we were outside in a protected area, he forced my head down under his robe to perform oral sex on him like my father had prepared me from birth to do. After I was finished, he wiped my mouth with a handkerchief and told me that I was going to hell for what I had just done, but that I would be forgiven if I never told anyone about it. He further offered to pray for my soul and then sent me back to my Sunday school class.
Another Sunday, after being sodomized in a back room by Rev. Yeatman, he took me by the hand back to my Sunday school class, bent down and pointed to a picture of Jesus sitting with the little children around him and whispered, "Jesus will never love a little girl who is as bad and evil as you." From then on I believed there was something terribly wrong with me and that I would never fit in with other people. I figured Jesus couldn't love me because I was so bad. Parts of me died inside. But deep within my soul, in my innermost hidden and protected self, angelic beings continually reminded me of God's love for me and of their support. When I was tortured to the extent of being projected out of body due to the extreme pain, Jesus' Angels spoke lovingly to me and explained that I needed to go back into my body, that some day when I was older I would understand. But subconsciously, in my limited child understanding, I believed I was unlovable and hideous in the eyes of God.
Other Sundays, different children were "God's chosen" and had to leave the room with the minister.
Many of the people who worked at the church, the church secretary and the Sunday school teachers, were neighbors of ours and, I now understand were most likely ritually abused as children and were carrying out their violent actions via their own unconscious childhood programming.
Mrs. Winkler, the church secretary, lived across the street. In addition to Christianity, she also practiced sorcery and witchcraft in her darkened home, isolated and protected from outside intrusion by drape-covered windows. As a toddler, my father would wake me, early on Saturday or Sunday mornings and take me across the street along with a carrot, to "feed the horsies." We always did feed the horses but the actual purpose of these outings was to get me out of the house to go see Mrs. Winkler for what they called "my training and preparation."
Mrs. Winkler lit candles and laid my tiny body down on her table, performing chants over me, while she was sticking sharp needles in my feet, burning me with the hot candle flames, or scaring me with spiders. She would say, "Hold real still, Susie, so this potion can get in. You will be powerful and very special one day. Your father is paying for this, for you to be made special because he loves you. You will be known."
She told me at other times that I was chosen by God to fulfill some mission. Instead of organized Satanism, she practiced her own perverted form of Christianity with the purpose of "purifying me" to rid me of all evil. She never directly addressed Satan, but instead spoke of hell and damnation; it was a fire and brimstone style of fundamental Christianity, mixed with witchcraft. Mrs. Winkler cut pieces of my hair and saved them for rituals that were held with other «inside» church members and my father in outdoor rural places, in the middle of the darkened night.
For years, my father performed a variety of brutal, ritual-type physical and psychological abuses, among them: confinement in closets, cages, and a coffin, while I was told I was being left to die; near drowning; isolation; needles inserted in sensitive body areas; food and sleep deprivation; electroshock via electric wires, welding equipment, cattle prods, etc.; drugging; sophisticated hypnotic and electronic programming; tying me upside down to walnut trees out in the isolated walnut groves and other places; forcing me to participate in torturous rituals and orgies; and sexually abusing me, each time in more perverted ways.
At that time, Woodland Hills was still in its own infancy. At first, there were only two or three other houses built on our street, insuring my father and others plenty of wide-open spaces to conduct their crimes. In 1952, what is now known as the "101 Freeway" had not yet been built. The area was still largely undeveloped and rural, allowing for these crimes to easily go undetected.
While I was still very small, my father had an affair with another church secretary named Selma McGrew who lived in the house behind ours. She participated in my «preparation» by allowing my father to include me in the sex they were having. Being so young and small I often felt I would be killed during these encounters, and so I split off more personalities to endure it.
Nighttime was never intended for sleeping at our house but instead was a time of training. My mother was the only one allowed and/or commanded to sleep. My two older brothers, Jim and Rick, and my father came into my room night after night, creating an endless array of different forms of sexual abuse, all under my father's direction. My brother Rick, who is four years older than I, was selected to participate more often and my father used him to help «prepare» me for use as a child prostitute and for my approaching debut in pornography.
The two of us were sexually abused together and were both electroshocked with bare electric wires to our genitals. I painfully remembered my brother sitting robotically while my father attached a bare wire to his penis and then inserted the opposite end in the electrical outlet, sending his little body into uncontrollable spasms. Tears flooded my brother's eyes and ran down his cheeks as he then was forced to watch as I was electroshocked. For years my mother told the story of how she continually found my brother hiding behind the couch shocking himself by inserting bare wires into the electrical outlet. She laughed a kind of confused, questioning laugh as she spoke this. She probably couldn't think to question where the bare-wired cord came from or why her young son was continually seeking to electroshock himself. I stuck a table knife in an electrical socket so often that there was a knife in the kitchen drawer that was notched from being repeatedly inserted into the outlet. This unconscious act reinforced our programming.
I was often awakened and drugged in the middle of the night by my parents in order to attend rituals that were performed in the empty lot behind the church and at other locations around Woodland Hills. Many of the gullies and outdoor places that were used for rituals when I was a young child have since been developed into homes or large cement drainage areas, but in the 50's these areas provided seclusion for this group. The whole congregation did not participate in these nightly horrors, only a select inner circle was allowed in.
At two, I was initiated into the inner circle with a celebration dedicating me as the bride of Christ. I was drugged, dressed in a long white lace gown, and passed around the circle of drugged members as they sat around a bonfire in a vacant lot, during the middle of the night. Each member fondled me sexually, then I was lain on an altar to be raped and dedicated to Christ and the group. The inner circle members wore black robes and participated in sexual orgies and the killing and ingesting of animal and human flesh. Their belief was that these cannibalistic and sexual acts would transfer the energy or life force from the victim to them in order to make them more powerful.
I was involved in endless rituals that included being burned with candles, having crucifix's jammed up my vagina as I lay on an alter or hung upside down on a cross, having pins inserted into every area of my body including my vagina and the roof of my mouth, and having animals and babies killed in front of me and being forced to eat their raw flesh and drink their blood or urine. Other children were involved in the rituals, and when we reached a certain age we were forced to participate in killing animals and babies. In order to psychologically survive these experiences, many additional personalities within me were created. Nothing was ever as painful as being forced to inflict pain on another or watch as others were tortured or killed.
I had a doll cabinet that my father had specially made for me. It was filled with dolls from all over the world, that were given to me to love. My father used my dolls to program different personalities within me, as he abused me night after night. Often when my father tortured me he would hand a different doll for me to hold in order to create different parts of me with different identities that in my young mind I could relate to the doll I was holding. He told me the doll in my hand was part of me but separate and then he would call it by name. There was the little doll with the red hair and freckles, the baby doll, Cyndy the bride doll, Rebecca, Sally, Thumbelina, Barbie and Madame Alexander, to name a few.
There were dolls everywhere around me, especially in that doll case that my father had made for me with the sliding glass window front so the dolls could be seen. Each doll was «displayed» which my father said meant they couldn't play until he said it was time for them to come out of the case. At night when he woke me for abuse, he took out the doll whose personality was to be the front, or presenting, personality of my inner system of created personalities. As he pulled a doll out of the doll case he'd say, "she's no longer on display, she can come out and play now," and at that tender age, I would switch into the personality my father called forth. Then he would say, "You Susie, will step aside as Doll fully enters your body. Whenever I snap my fingers three times, Doll will enter the body and Susie will step aside, like this now," and he would snap his fingers three times and I would follow my father's command, totally and completely.
Holidays always signaled times of trauma. One Christmas I awoke excited to see what Santa had brought for me. My two worlds and the personalities that lived in them were continually subjected to different realities, and this day was to be no different. Susie in her red velveteen robe got special treatment while other personalities had "Xmas," a very different painful and evil reality. While Susie got a Christmas stocking full of goodies, Sharon got razor blades and coal and parts of dead animals. «Sharon» was another one of my inner personalities my father created, which he developed as my "inner twin" to Susie, my conscious everyday personality. One Christmas ritual trauma I vividly remembered was when my father laid me down on the rug in front of the fireplace and placed his finger inside my vagina while he readied a hot poker in the fire. Somehow putting me in a trance-state, he began, "You won't feel this. You will only continue to feel the pleasure, just like I am rubbing now. Does it feel good?"
"Yes Daddy," I robotically answered.
"Good, then when I do this it will only increase the pleasure," he kept his finger in place until he got the hot poker out of the fire and as he put it inside me, he took his finger out and as hypnotically commanded, I felt only the pleasure of the hot inside me. Very lovingly he said, "Very good, honey. You're doing very well. Now take a deep breath and count to three and feel like you have to pee. Then when I take this out, you will feel even more pleasure. Okay?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said putting my little hand up in front of my face while I counted off, "One," as I held up one finger, then "two," putting up two fingers, then, "three," and when he had taken the poker out, I felt really happy. It didn't even hurt. I couldn't feel the pain of the red-hot thing. In months that followed, I reached out and touched a piece of red-hot angle iron when my father was welding, and when it burned my hand badly, I was surprised. I didn't understand that it would bum me. My father was an expert at those "games."
At other times he put something scary in front of my face to startle me before he did something traumatic to me. Then he would tell me to feel numb while he put a silver metal band around my wrist and forehead and would shock me with the black box that was attached to the bands with wires. He'd say "you're doing very well," but my face would be sweating and it stung when he gave me what he called "a jolt."
At odd times, even when other people were around, my father would say, "Do you want a jolt?"
I'd say, "No," while I giggled nervously, acting like it was a game but it wasn't.
Often after one of these jolting experiences, I felt so sleepy and my mom would say, "What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"
"I dunno," I'd say, because I didn't know anything. To know was to 'know, and to 'know' was very bad and you got very hurt. So certain personalities within me took the pain and torture after which I would be switched back to Susie who had no knowledge of any of it.
There were nights my father would wake me out of sleep and devise ways to spin me until I was totally disoriented, after which he took me to look at myself in front of a mirror and called me by another name other than my own, "Sandy, that is you in the mirror, and Sandy is my friend. She is going to help us. She is a friend of Susie's, but Susie doesn't know Sandy exists. Susie doesn't even need to think about you, Sandy." And these were some of the tactics used to shatter and then create alternate identities within me from a very early age.
In hypnotic trance I was told, "The balloons will take you away, take you to the rooms with the many personalities, but as you look at each one, you know that they are you. They are all you. But only one at a time. One room and one person at a time."
Other nights, I was awakened from sleep and sexually abused to create the dissociative barrier and to create more personalities or attitudes. I was told, "Now look into the first room. There's Darla. Isn't she cute and pretty, and she is always happy. Darla's dedicated to the stars. She always knows just what to say and do to make others feel good, to make them happy. Now look into the second room. There's Sandy. She's the dancer. She can dance very well and she is able to bend in all different directions … to everyone's amazement. She's not at all embarrassed to take off her clothes in front of people. She likes that, it makes her feel good. But she can only do that when the time is right." My father also placed stars on my ceiling that lit up at night to remind me of the programming.
Over the years my controllers created programming for every single thing they could dream up. And they programmed in angel personalities intended to handle the pain when I could not.
But their spiritual short-sidedness left them in the dark when I transcended their created angelic personalities, and left my body escorted by real Angels. I owe my life to God and those beautiful loving Beings who kept my soul and my love intact as they continually interceded for the little girl they witnessed tortured unceasingly.
Dick Hof was a marine in the reserves. He and his family moved in next door when I was around three years old. He told me he didn't, know exactly how to treat little girls because he only had boys. On certain weekends he wore his uniform and took me to military bases where the men wore tan uniforms. They saluted him when he was around and he acted very normal until we were out of the other men's sight. He took me into top-secret places where he showed some sort of pass to gain entrance. Once we were in the secret place he put me into an empty, cold, cement room and restrained me to a metal examination table. There were bright lights overhead and the men that joined him put bands around my wrists, ankles, and forehead, then turned out the lights and left while they shocked me real bad. They had a screen I had to watch and messages I listened to immediately after I got shocked. Sometimes Dick carried a briefcase that had some of my favorite dolls and toys inside, like my dolly with the red hair and freckles and my sock monkey. When they hurt me they often pretended to hurt my dolls and toys, too, and told me that my dolly friends would keep reminding me every day about what happens, "if you don't obey and follow the rules — then you get zapped," and they would shock me again. Dick also threatened me with his gun and said that all the men had them, and if I "stepped out of line" it would be over for me, so I'd better listen up and obey the rules. The doctors played tricks on me while I was drugged. They played day and time tricks trying to mess me up. They told me over and over that someone other than the person who really brought me there did. Most of the time I knew it was Dick Hof. They told me this astronaut brought me and a man in an astronaut suit would walk in and say, "I am the adult who brought you here."
I'd say, "No you're not, my neighbor did." So they would inject me with more drugs and keep hammering verbally at me over and over until I'd break and agree wholeheartedly with them. But inside I had to remember to keep the truth hidden in a part of me, so I'd not lose control of reality and believe their lies. Sometimes I felt like I shattered and went over the edge and couldn't really tell what was happening. At those moments I'd pray to God that another part of me was remembering what was really happening because I couldn't maintain myself any longer. After they were through with me I was so messed up that I needed their help getting off the table and then to walk, and the next week I'd have to stay home from school because I was throwing up and very sick. My mom said I just had "the flu." All this torture and mind manipulation kept my inner and outer worlds far apart.
There was a cabinet way up high in our kitchen and Dick Hof told me that I could be like a monkey and climb up there to get the little white candy pills that would make me feel better, but I couldn't tell my mommy because he said she wasn't really my mommy because she was born of lower class and he said I was upper class, like my father. He said my mom didn't know enough to help me, so if I hurt I could climb up and get the pills and eat them and feel better.
There was another military base I was taken to when I was about five. A doctor in a white lab coat examined me there. He questioned me a lot in order to check all my "systems." As you can see, this abuse was very intentional and very premeditated, with long-range plans and goals.
The trauma was ubiquitous and involved all the people who were close to me, and others who were strangers. Threats of consequences if I remembered or told, made during times of extreme trauma, were buried deep in my subconscious mind and dictated my actions daily. Huge amounts of my own subconscious vital energies were used to keep my personalities in control and to keep secret the activities in which I was involved.
By the age of four, I was taken to my father's friend, Andy the policeman, where I was instructed to perform oral sex on Andy, in exchange for a courtesy card my father proudly carried in his wallet that pardoned him from any violation he might acquire, should he ever be stopped by a police officer. At a very young age, I was subconsciously aware that everyone was in on these activities and that policemen wouldn't even protect me, but that knowledge was kept from my conscious awareness because I believed the reality, as my programming commanded, that I had a perfect life.
When I was less than five years old, my father took me to Long Beach for what my mother was told was a visit to my father's Aunt Maude. We did go to visit Aunt Maude, but really we were there to meet with Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie was very distinguished looking and wore very formal clothes, even though this was just a family gathering. At this young age, although I sensed this was a very important event, I had no way of knowing how pivotal this meeting would factor into the design of my life. In a complete nightmarish horror, I watched as my grown father looked retarded and became very childlike when this relative, Charles Lilley Horn, spoke to him. And when the talk turned to subjects I could not fathom, and Uncle Charlie held out a paper for my father to sign, I pulled on my father's hand and begged him, "Daddy, stay big, this is really important, please Daddy." But due to my father's own early childhood abuse, he could not maintain his adult mental state because he, too, had Multiple Personality Disorder, with many wounded, fragmented, hurt children inside of him whose consciousness had also been programmed for use by others. And so, when Uncle Charlie asked him to sign the paper, he reached out robotically, and without thought, signed it. Somehow I knew that this event was a very important moment when I needed my father to pull himself together to protect me. But he was not able to, due to his own dysfunctional state of mind.
Uncle Charlie further directed my father where to take me for the early programming that involved machines and told him about the arrangement with Bob Hope and the connection to the government. My father continued to look retarded and just kept robotically shaking his head, nodding in agreement, while Charlie told him what to do.
Elitists in the market for mind control slaves attend auctions that appear at first like children's fashion shows and then progress to striptease acts. I made «appearances» in many shows before I was actually sponsored or sold.
My father took me to a slave «model» auction where I wore a fancy white taffeta and black velvet polka-dot dress, a hat and matching purse that my mother had bought for me at the expensive Stardusters clothing store.
At this particular show where Bob Hope bought me, there were lots and lots of little girls and boys competing. They said these children were what they called «sponsored» if they were chosen. And they said it was better to be chosen early because then the sponsors (owners) could mold you the way they wanted. There was a modeling ramp where all of us children were displayed. I modeled casual clothes, then sophisticated evening clothes, and then sensual/sexual attire and, finally, appeared totally naked. First I performed Swan Lake Ballet in pink feathers for my casual and wore black velvet for my formal and my naked performance was called "the tiger dance." I won first place at this show and was sold to Bob Hope on the open market. They put a white cape around my naked body and Bob came up and stood with me while everyone in the audience cheered. Somehow it seemed like a sport for some of these people to attend auctions. Then I was seated again next to my father. When the whole show was over, an older man dressed in a tuxedo came and escorted me to Bob Hope who shook my hand and said, "Hi ya, Honey. Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, Mr. Hope." I answered like I had been instructed.
"I'm going to be your man, but we'll have to talk more about this later … when you're a little older." He laughed.
I smiled at him and said, "Thank you, Mr. Hope. My father will be very proud." But my father never came over to meet Bob. He stayed in his chair until the man in the tux ushered me back to him.
Throughout my formative years, I was molded to be extremely sexual through the sexual abuse with my father and others. The personalities that were created from that abuse didn't always experience the encounters as abusive, because that is all they knew. Bob later told my father through an instilled message delivered through me during an incestual encounter with my father, "Daddy, Bob says he wants me to really love sex and have a lot of it. Okay?"
"Sure honey, whatever you want. You're the boss," my father answered from his own split consciousness.
Bob was Catholic and so was the part of me that performed. She was my "inner twin sister" for programming purposes, to keep that part of me separate from my created «normal» reality and her name was Sharon. Bob said he liked Catholic girls because they were easy and he liked "em like that."
Bob was always racy until he got to acting old around 1987. I had a lifetime of Bob Hope and his antics, and over the years, he lost his funny and happy persona and became just a mean and nasty old man. And then, he became cruel to me, there wasn't anything fun left in him. He was just real old and mean.
Consciously unbeknownst to my parents, I was in contact when necessary with my "Uncle Charlie." He escorted me to many affairs when I was a child, even in Europe. Often they were arenas where the mind control elitists gathered to share their latest creations. At these gatherings, I walked out on a ramp on Uncle Charlie's arm. I was the "latest in human technology," and all the «uncles» were there to display their "wares." It was a fashion show of sorts for what they called "children attendants." Men in the audience held little placards and they held up certain numbers for different things. I think they were like judges. I don't think they wanted to buy me because someone else already had. While I was presenting, a man announced I had already been sold to, "…a very funny man they say, called Bob Hope. Do you know him?" And everyone in the audience laughed.
When I asked Uncle Charlie why those people were there and what we were doing there, he said, "This is a show for Cadillacs and you my dear," he took a hold of my chin, "are my Cadillac."
"I am? What is that?" I asked very enthusiastically, straightening my blue satin dress and pushing on the skirt that kept popping up on the other side due to the hoop around the bottom.
"A car," he answered. When I kept asking questions he said that big word others also used to describe me, "My, you are precocious, aren't you? Well it's time for you to run along now," at which point another man in a suit took my hand and led me away.
Later that day when we were alone, Uncle Charlie very secretly and with great import informed me that he was my real father and that my dad wasn't my real father, but had adopted me for some very specific purposes. He said it was my destiny, but I didn't know what that word meant either, and didn't ask because I was still pretty upset about my dad not really being my dad. Uncle Charlie said he had the money to take care of me in the ways I deserved and that my father never would have the money to do what he was going to be able to do for me. I didn't understand what this all meant then but he made it sound good. (Forty some years later through my constant search to piece together the actualities of my life, I would discover that Charles L. Horn was the owner of Federal Cartridge Company, which later funded Olin Foundation, where he sat as President.)
When I asked Uncle Charlie who my mother was he just nodded quickly and said, "You don't have one, it doesn't matter." He seemed busy like I was bothering him by interrupting his thoughts or something. I guess he didn't understand the needs of a child my age. So I went ahead and made up my own imaginary mother. I created her to be sort of plump and happy and she made great apple pies and cookies and all sorts of candies that we ate anytime we wanted. She was 'the perfect mother' for "Sharon."
So as I understood it from the other side of my personality structure, Charles L. Horn was Sharon's — my inner twin sister's — father. Uncle Charlie said he wanted me to call him Uncle Charlie instead of dad because he had "… some very important business contacts that just wouldn't understand if you called me father, so call me Uncle Charlie." Often he introduced me to people as his niece, Sharon Weatherby. Sharon, the wild personality, is who Bob Hope purchased from Uncle Charlie and it was Sharon who was trained to be stunning, smart, sexual, comfortable with wealth and elite family members. Uncle Charlie, who lived in Minneapolis in the summers and Scottsdale in the winters, said he loved me but couldn't spend a lot of time with me because of business, though he would be a powerful part of my life.
Uncle Charlie physically introduced me to Henry Kissinger one day in an open grassy park-like area when I was very little. I shook Henry's hand and Uncle Charlie explained that Henry was my "Uncle Henry." So I, as Sharon Weatherby, began to have a whole new family and it just kept growing and growing, adding «uncles» here and there and everywhere.
When I was little, with a short pixie haircut, Henry Kissinger would call me on the phone at home. In those days, those personalities who were created by and for him thought he was funny. He set up times of connection by telling me beforehand, "meet me on the comer at 7:00 p.m." and that meant to be standing at the direct corner of the kitchen cabinet desk at home at 7:00 p.m. to answer the phone. So I'd stand there when it was 7:00 p.m. and when he called I'd pick up the phone real fast like he had instructed me to do. Henry, who communicated to me as «Susan» rather than "Sharon," then said, "Hello Susan, how are you this evening? I am just testing."
"Oh, hi," I said as I smiled and twisted my short hair.
"You can hang up now, I was just testing." So, I hung up and went off to play in my room. Henry was in contact with me often. I think he had studied lots of psychology so he knew how to best control me. He used positive psychological means because he said he felt it would work better.
My mom said, "Who were you talking to?" She had on her red Christmas dress and her slippers. Her hair was still brown.
I shrugged and said, "No one," because due to the programming I was already under, my normal everyday conscious personality didn't house the phone experience with Henry Kissinger. I wasn't lying, the event was registered under a different personality than the one that interfaced with my mother. Henry could call anytime and 'get me. When I saw him in person he always said right off, in a silly teasing voice as he reached out and tickled me, "I'm gonna get you." Which switched me to the personality he wanted and in that way he accessed, or "got me."
Henry set up a group of personalities to be my neighbor's, "Joe's and Mary's child." He told people it was an experiment he was performing to see if one person could be brought up in two ways from two different perspectives to see how the physical/genetic influences really did work since both personalities' mindsets shared the same physical body and genetic structure. It was a controlled experiment about the role environment and behavior versus genetics played in IQ. They wanted to see how strong the mind could be — if it was the overriding factor. They were trying to see if thinking you were elite and being brought up elite would increase IQ or if a common child would have the same IQ if not stimulated as much. Susan was the common experience part of the experiment, the control; and Sharon, the inner twin personality counterpart, was the elite. More on this twin programming in the next chapter
I was instructed by Henry Kissinger to eat alphabet cereal on certain mornings and do mental exercises that he gave me. For instance, I had to get the alphabet sorted from the box and all lined up on the kitchen table. Then I had to put a piece of cereal that was shaped into an 'a' on my tongue and then hold up a mirror and look at it in the mirror. I had to do 20 of the alphabet backwards and 20 of the alphabet forward while I was looking in the mirror. It was usually only 20 because often some letters were missing from the cereal box, so Henry said to just do 20. I don't know why I had to put them on my tongue and then stick my tongue out with the letter on it and look in the mirror, but I did it just like Henry said. My mother got mad at me because she said I should eat my food not play with it, but she didn't understand my need for training. Henry said she was uneducated and ignorant, and that he was making me into a genius. I didn't know what that meant. Other times, I had to focus my eyes on a pin that was stuck into the top of a pencil eraser and follow it back and forth and up and down. And I learned to cross one eye. leaving my left eye looking straight ahead. All this was done in preparation for my later use as Henry's 'mind file'.
Following instructions, my mother took me to «meetings» at a church lady's home who lived behind our church. The purpose of these meetings was to instruct my mother how to "train me." She was given instructions on forms of punishments and abuses to give me at home if I didn't do what was "prescribed." Those punishments included being locked in a dark closet for long periods of time, having food withheld sometimes for a day or two, being slapped across the face or burned by a cigarette if I resisted any of the rules. Often I was abused in these ways, as my mother carried out her own programmed instructions, in spite of my "good behavior."
I was taught to write backwards at the age of four because my programmers felt that I would be more intelligent if I was forced to use both sides of my brain. In addition, I was given special eye exercises to perform several times a day. I began ballet at five and endured years of ballet training from a perverted ballet teacher named Madame Olga. Episodes of sex rituals and traumas were laced into our dance classes. At times the entire ballet class was abused out behind her little dance school that was located just off Topanga Canyon Boulevard in Woodland Hills.
My dentists, the Phillips brothers, had a dental office also located on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, around the corner from my ballet school. Acting independently of the church, but being friends of my father, they participated in my «preparation» by torturing me with sharp dental instruments by drilling my teeth and poking exposed nerves without the use of Novocain. Who could have known then that, when I grew up and married, my «chosen» husband would be first "in line" to purchase these successful dental practices, which is just what happened.
After I started kindergarten, my mother informed me that a group of people from the First Baptist Church were going to leave the church and form a new church called the First Presbyterian Church of Woodland Hills. In the beginning days, the church met at my elementary school, while we waited for our new church to be built on Platt Avenue. Our new minister's name was Rev. Alden McKelvey, and nothing seemed to change much, except the minister had a different name, we had a bigger building, and now more people were involved.
School was somewhat of a respite, but even there I was not always free from abuse. Starting in first grade, I was taken out of my class at Woodlake Avenue Elementary School (located a mile from the church), to attend 'choir practice' at the children's choir director's home a block from school. Her name was Mrs. Rebecca Muir. At her home, in conjunction with practicing church songs for performances at Sunday church services, I was trained to perform and participate in rituals and was forced to participate in child pornography films when a group of men entered her house and took over. Snuff pornography where little children or babies were killed was also filmed at her house. Like the other women involved, Mrs. Muir, publicly, a meek, gentle woman, dutifully complied with the direction of these men.
One day just after returning to school from Mrs. Muir's house, I went straight to the principal's office. Her name was Mrs. Stella Greer. For some unknown reason, the threats of death if I told were not consciously available to keep me silenced and switched out of the personality who had just witnessed the pornography, and I told her everything I had been forced to do at choir practice. I had seen Mrs. Greer talk sternly to us kids at assemblies and just knew that she was a person of great power who would be able to stop the bad people from hurting all of us children. But, her response was enough to reinforce everything my abusers had threatened over my young years. I will never forget it. Mrs. Greer's face turned red with anger as she wrathfully shook her finger at me, sternly warning in no uncertain terms, "Young lady, I don't ever want to hear such filth out of your mouth again. You stop making up these horror stories and get back into your classroom where you belong!"
At that moment, I realized that what my abusers said was true. No one would help me. People would think I was crazy if I did tell, and I had "no where to run, and no where to hide." I couldn't survive without them and there was no one to help, just like they said. I was trapped. Why this adult woman, my school principal, was unable to logically question how a child of my young age could be privy to or know such adult and pornographic language, never seemed to cross her mind.
Our pediatrician, Dr. Cusack, located on Ventura Boulevard in Woodland Hills, participated by suturing up my vagina when it was torn from abuse, and cared for me in other ways when the abuse became too physically obvious. When I requested my childhood medical records several years ago, I was told that Dr. Cusack had moved out of the state and that all of his records had been destroyed.
At home in the evenings, while my mother was picking up my grandmother from work at Lockheed in Santa Monica, and in the middle of the night, my father continued his own form of tortures; raping me, sodomizing me, filming me pornographically with my brother, submerging me in the bathtub or swimming pool until I was nearly dead, torturing me extensively at his welding shop with the use of electroshock delivered through hot welding equipment inserted into my vagina, and leaving me outside all night alone during rain storms. He also kept dead bodies under our home for his sick perversions. He tortured and «trained» me under the house lots of nights before dinner, and would lock me into boxes and leave me there for long periods of time, often with body parts from cadavers he kept. One night he took me to a graveyard and forced me to watch as he dug up a coffin, opened it, forced me inside and reburied it. I split off more personalities. One personality split wasn't enough to handle this trauma.
One Saturday my father took me and one of my dolls out to the old refrigerator that was in the corner of our garage. Quickly, he shoved me inside and clutching my blond baby doll, I begged, frantically clinging to my father's shirt, "No Daddy! Please don't."
Slapping my hands away, my father scolded, "Now, show Daddy what a big girl you can be. If you try to get out," he knelt down beside me, "Daddy will have to beat you." He slammed the door shut and I could hear him taping it closed with the black electrical tape he used on endless mechanical things. When I cried out from inside the cold refrigerator, my father angrily pounded on the door, yelling for me to shut up.
Petrified in the dark, cramped cubicle, I listened for any sound that might indicate that my father was opening the door to set me free. Ominous silence prevailed. Feeling unbearably cold and unable to take another breath, I experienced the intervention of three ethereal beings, transparent yet sparkly, misty-blue colored angels who suddenly materialized outside the refrigerator and appeared to reach through the insulated metal to infuse me with life-sustaining energy. In a transcendent state, it was as if I was held in suspended animation as these angels lent their life energy to me.
Some time later, when my father came to release me, probably thinking that, like all the other times he had taken me near death, I would emerge fragmented yet grateful to him for saving me, he checked the pulse on my neck, and finding none, he panicked. He carried my limp body across the garage and laid me on his workbench. "Now I've done it, damn it," I heard my father say to himself from my out-of-body vantage point. "I've gone too far and killed her, now what am I going to do?" Quickly he slid my lifeless body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off, carried me out the side door, and placed me in the crawl space beneath the house.
The rescuing angels reappeared and one telepathically communicated that it wasn't time for me to leave my family, that I needed to get back into my body and go on up for dinner. Unbeknownst to my father, I still had a spark of life left in me, and God, knowing His plan for my life was not yet complete, fanned that spark until I came back to life. When I reunited with my body, it ached and I felt nightmarishly sick but crawled out of the bag, wobbled out of the crawl space and walked in a dissociated state, back into the house where my family sat eating dinner. My father looked up at me as if he had seen a ghost and my mother, unaware of any of the «incidences» of the day, smiled and told me to sit down to eat.
The trauma and torture was endless, occurring nearly every day and night of my childhood. The tortures were so numerous that it would require a separate volume to chronicle all those I have remembered so far. Leaving my body in order to 'dissociate' from the pain and continuing to create separate personalities, often alongside personalities my abusers intentionally created for their own use, was my mind's way of keeping me alive to function in the day-to-day world.
I had two worlds: one secret world that I lived and knew only when I was triggered into it; and a second, 'normal' conscious world of day to day experiences. These worlds were kept separate by the use of trauma and programming. I was my father's and other people's project for the future. An investment that provided him access to high-tech hypnotic information, financial security, and most probably immunity from prosecution for charges involving pedophilia, child prostitution, and child pornography.
"He shall give His Angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."