In my early teens, one of the places I was taken to was a hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. Two men in suits met me at the airport, drove me there and waited while a nurse helped me out of the car and took me into the emergency room. I was doubled over in pain, having trouble walking because the men in suits had just slugged me in the stomach. They told the old greyhaired nurse in the pink uniform with the little white apron, that I had appendicitis and to take me immediately into the emergency room. I don't know why but the men put a blond curly wig on me. I had on blue jeans, tennis shoes and a T-shirt.
I was terrified and couldn't help myself. The nurse took me in and waved me through all the paper work. Two doctors, clad in full surgical garb met me at a door to emergency surgery. They told the nurse they'd take over from there and laid me directly on an operating table and put a mask over my face and a needle in my arm. I had needles put in my arms all the time so that wasn't anything new, but it hurt. They told me they weren't who they appeared to be and then they put me to sleep with some sort of anesthetic, but parts of me from inside watched and knew exactly what was happening. There was great fear that they would really cut me open and take out my appendix when I didn't need it taken out. But instead, they put electrodes on my forehead, temples and head, and headphones on my ears that delivered one sound to one ear and another sound to the other. Then they varied the sound volume, quickly bringing the volume up so loud that it was excruciatingly painful. I felt like I would go crazy. They kept delivering electroshock to my head. Then they inserted something into my vagina and shocked me vaginally, then shocked my head, and they kept that routine up for what seemed like eternity. I could smell the alcohol and could feel when they put a cold scissors-like thing up my nose. It tickled and itched. Then a doctor said, "It's in place."
Everything inside of me felt psychedelic from the drugs they gave me. There were lots of colors and flashes of light that caused a very unreal feeling. I don't know how long I laid there. Eventually, they called for a nurse and told her to help me back out to the car. They said that I checked out fine, that I must have just eaten something that made me sick. The nurse put my arm around her neck and helped me outside. I had trouble walking but managed and she delivered me back to the two men in suits.
They, in turn, brought me to a darkened room all alone for awhile and then hooked me up to some of their own equipment. I sat in a chair while they put a band around my head and wrists, and shocked me while I listened to something they played through headphones on my ears. I couldn't understand the words I heard, as they were all mixed up and it made me nuts to try to understand. Then they unhooked me and said it was time to go home. I was put onto a military helicopter with two rotors, one at the front and one at the back and transferred to another plane that didn't have regular seats like a commercial airplane. There were just a few seats on either side and all sorts of straps and equipment on the floor. I laid on the floor during the whole flight.
My mother picked me up at the airport and I slept in the back seat of our Cadillac all the way home. She put me to bed and I could hardly move. I was in lots of pain and was nauseated, sick, and exhausted for the next two days. I couldn't eat or get out of bed. I just slept it all off in a hazy, drugged sleep. Mom just thought I had the flu again.
There were lots of times I was taken to places for programming. They had all sorts of schemes to get me to the programming sites — even getting me to pull my car over to the side of the road, after I learned to drive. I remember how one man told me to get out of the car, while another man pulled my hood up before taking me away in an ambulance to Westlake Hospital. Then they flew me from there to wherever they wanted me to go.
I remembered an incident where I was on an operating table and I saw a whole roomful of women like me who were also laying on gurneys with white sheets over them, and we were all linked up together through a single wire. There were mirrors all around and while I was deprogramming I realized that these other women were all parts of me; they all looked like me but had different lives and different jobs. That's what my programmers told me in order to create and enforce my multiple personalities.
Sometimes there were groups of doctors or scientists watching from chairs in a circular arena that extended upward. In this setting the doctors made presentations on their findings in order to display the research and show their progress so they could get additional funding or permission to do more mind research into areas they wanted to explore. The stage where I was being tested and displayed to the doctors in long white lab coats was low and as I looked up there were rows of ascending circular chairs in the arena from where they watched. Sometimes while I laid on the gurney, they would shine lights into my eyes and tape them open so I couldn't avoid the lights. They blinded me with one color for a long time, like white, and then added in another color like red or green. It was painful, so I escaped like I had been trained from birth to do, into mental dissociation so I couldn't feel the pain. Often they paired electroshock with the bright lights and music or word phrases. At appropriate times, they displayed a picture of Craig onto a holder in front of me while I sat in a chair that spun around and around. They played love songs while they spun me and when I came to a stop, I would see the picture of Craig and feel relieved. They told me Craig was my lifeline and to sever a connection with him was equal to death. Later on in my life, they did that sort of programming with my children's pictures.
The summer of my 16th year, our family physician, Dr. Stoddard referred my father for brain surgery to UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute. Dr. Robert Rand was the Neurosurgeon who performed the operation. My father never had a chance. Suited men came to visit and monitor us at crucial times. They were always watching and they gave him shots in his thighs and then asked him questions over and over, and told him what to do with me. Very scary and frightening events happened there to keep me further under control. I can only imagine what they did to my father's brain. The day before his scheduled surgery, a nurse came into his room while the whole family was visiting before surgery. He held out a box and explained very matter-of-factly that the hair in the box was my father's, just shaved from his head, and in the event that he didn't make it through the surgery they were keeping his hair to put back on his head in his casket. These insinuations, coupled with the ritual abuse I had previously endured, were enough to further dissociate me. There were other horrifying events performed to frighten me into further dissociation, creating even more control.
My mother and I were told to wait in the hospital lobby until they came to tell us the surgery was over. They called a code name for me over the loudspeaker and responding to the call, I walked up to my father's hospital room. A doctor in a white coat met me in the room and said he wanted me to enter the surgery room and watch. As I entered, I saw my father with his head cut open, with tubes in him everywhere; in his head, in his nose, in his arm, and they told me that my father would no longer hold authority over me. Now he was totally under their control and, now they would be in total control of me. Then they strapped me into the bed next to him and gave me some sort of gas through a mask they put over my nose and mouth. They told me to turn my head so I could watch everything they did to him that day — they took my real father away from me and the doctor said that they would be in charge of everything that happened to me and all my progeny from then on. I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it was bad. They performed some sort of surgery on me, too. They inserted something under my nail bed and later they told me they moved it somewhere else and I would find places on my body with skin flaps where I figured they had put them in. They tested and experimented with implant after implant on me. With some implants they were trying to see if they could totally control me from a distance.
Later when my mother came to look for me, she found me sitting in my father's room bent over with my head down to my knees, while a nurse standing by me explained, "She fainted, that's all. She'll be all right." My father made it through surgery and was placed in intensive care.
Soon after, my controllers told me my father had died in the surgery, that all I had to do was remember how he looked with his eyes closed to realize he was dead. They told me that my 'real' family would take over now and that I needed to understand that it was really best that way. And, although everything outwardly appeared to remain the same, nothing ever was again. The life essence of my father was totally gone; he was not in control of himself any longer. My brother Rick took over the family business and I began traveling more, internationally.
Months after my father's release from the hospital, he came into my room and sat down on the floor next to my bed while I was studying. Upset and very emotional, which was very unusual for my father, he said, "Honey, big things are happening and I've lost control of you." Tears were streaming down my strong father's face. I didn't know how to react. My macho father never cried. I couldn't think to question him or to wonder just what it was he was trying to tell me. So I let it go, along with hundreds of other questions and thoughts that any normal, unprogrammed daughter would have thought to ask.
Sometime later, I was taken to a hospital in Montreal. My controllers called it an "Institute of Higher Learning," but instead of higher learning, I was put in a hospital gown and kept drugged and in restraints. A very important French personality inside of me was created and enhanced there. If I didn't cooperate they put me into a padded cubicle in the dark until I "came to my senses" and began behaving properly. I'd seen over the years just what they had done to my father and I couldn't take anymore. I had nothing to lose by not cooperating. From one of his personalities that was 'in the know' and before brain surgery took his free will away, my father told me, "You don't have to do anything they say honey, they want to take your mind." Years later as I retrieved pieces of my memory that allowed me to see the bigger picture, I remembered numerous occasions when my father laid in programs to help me exit my abuse. He even gave me suggestions to heal and bring my personalities together. I've often wondered if this was a more significant contribution to my successful healing than I could ever imagine.
"All that is now hidden will someday come to light!"