My father's sixth grade education had earned him a job as a worm digger for local sport fishermen. By the time I was six years old, however, his pornographic exploitation of my older brother, Bill, and me had provided enough income to move us into a bigger house nestled in the Michigan sand dunes. My father was right at home there. The tourists and drug dealers who littered the eastern shore of Lake Michigan further supplemented his income by paying for perverse sex with us children. My father also became involved in illicit drug sales.
Soon after we moved, my father was reportedly caught sending kiddie porn through the U.S. mail. It was a bestiality film of me with my Uncle Sam O'Brien's Boxer dog, Buster. My Uncle Bob, also implicated in manufacturing the porn, out of apparent desperation informed my father of a U.S. Government Defense Intelligence Agency TOP SECRET Project to which he was privy. This was Project Monarch. Project Monarch was a mind-control operation which was "recruiting" multigenerational incest abused children with Multiple Personality Disorder for its genetic mind-control studies. I was a prime "candidate," a "chosen one". My father seized the opportunity as it would provide him immunity from prosecution. In the midst of the pandemonium that ensued, Jerry Ford arrived at our house with the evidence in hand for a meeting with my father.
"Is Earl home?" he called to my mother, who nervously stood behind the screen door, hesitating to let him in.
"Not yet," my mother replied, her voice shaking.(4) "He should have been home from work by now--I know he's expecting you."
"That's OK". Ford turned his attention to me. I was standing outside on the front porch, and he crouched down to my level. Patting the large, brown envelope containing the confiscated porn tucked under his arm he said, 'You like doggies, huh?"
"Buster is a nice doggy," I replied. "He's funny." Not understanding why the dog had been whisked away when the porn was confiscated, I complained, "Buster's gone."
"Buster's gone?" Ford asked.
"Yeah. My Uncle Sam took him away," I told him. Ford laughed loudly at the irony of my statement. In my limited view, I thought he found it humorous that Buster was gone. My father pulled into the driveway, honking the horn of his new, tan convertible. Ford stood up. With his fly eye level to me, I noticed his penis was erect and reached for it as conditioned.
"Not now, honey, "he said. "I have business to tend..." Ford went inside with my parents to officially seal my fate.
Not long after that my father was flown to Boston for a two-week course at Harvard on how to raise me for this off-shoot of MK-Ultra Project Monarch.
When he returned from Boston, my father was smiling and pleased with his new knowledge of what he termed "reverse psychology".
This equates to "satanic reversals," and involves such play-on-words as puns and phrases that stuck in my mind like, "You earn your keep, and I'll keep what you earn." He presented me with a commemorative charm bracelet of dogs, and my mother with the news that they "would be having more children" to raise in the project. (I now have two sisters and four brothers ranging from age 16 to 37 who are still under mind control.) My mother complied with my father's suggestions, mastering the art of language manipulation. For example, when I could not snap my own pajama top to the bottoms in a childish effort to keep my father out of them, I asked my mother, "please snap me". She did. She would snap her forefingers against my skin in a stinging manner. The pain I felt was psychological as this proved to me once again that she had no intention of protecting me from my father's sexual abuse. Also in keeping with his government-provided instructions, my father began working me like the legendary Cinderella. I shoveled fireplace ashes, hauled and stacked firewood, raked leaves, shoveled snow, chopped ice, and swept-"because," my father said, "your little hands fit so nicely around the rake, mop, shovel, and broom handles."
By this time, my father's sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to his friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists, strangers, and police officers. When I wasn't being worked to physical exhaustion, filmed pornographically, prostituted, or engaged in incest abuse, I dissociated into books. I had learned to read at the young age of four due to my photographic memory which was a natural result of MPD/DID.
Government researchers involved in MK-Ullra Project Monarch knew about the photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well as other resultant "super human" characteristics. Visual acuity of an MPD/DID is 44 times greater than that of the average person. My developed unusually high pain threshold, plus compartmentalization of memory were 'necessary" for military and covert operations applications. Additionally, my sexuality was primitively twisted from infancy. This programming was appealing and useful to perverse politicians who believed they could hide their actions deep within my memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as personalities.
Immediately after my father's return from Boston, I was routinely prostituted to then Michigan State Senator Guy VanderJagt. VanderJagt later became a U.S. Congressman and eventually chairman of the Republican National Congressional Committee that put George Bush in the office of President. I was prostituted to VanderJagt after numerous local parades which he always participated in, at the Mackinac Island Political Retreat, and in my home state of Michigan, among other places.
My Uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white, and blue paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in scrambling my mind according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy tale themes were used to confuse fantasy with reality, particularly Disney stories and the Wizard 0f Oz, which provided the base for future programming.
I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality, a personality for incest, a personality for withstanding the horrendous psychological abuse of my mother, a personality for prostitution, and the rest of "me" functioned somewhat "normally" at school. My "normal" personality provided a cover for the abuse I was enduring, but best of all it had hope--hope that there was somewhere in the world where people did not hurt each other. This same personality also attended Catechism, a weekly class at our Catholic church, St. Francis of Assisi in Muskegon, Michigan.
My Catechism teacher was a Nun, or 'Sister". Although I could not consciously think to protect myself from abuse, I had decided that becoming a Nun would provide me with the kind of life I sought. I could not rely upon my family, the police, or politicians to protect me. The church appeared to be my answer, and I listened diligently in class and prayed religiously. I learned all about the political structure of the church, and was prepared for my first Confession.
The Catholic beliefs I was taught include the idea that man is not fit to talk to God (the Father) directly, but must have a priest intercede instead. This is the purpose of going to Confession. I was instructed to tell my sins to the priest (also referred to as Father), who would relay the message to God. He would then supposedly tell me how many "Hail Marys" and "Our Father" prayers to say as my penance, or punishment. My Catechism teacher gave the class several examples of "sins," which included "sex outside of marriage". When the Priest, Father James Thaylen, slid open the little screened partition in the closet sized confessional, I began as I had been instructed, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...." I then proceeded to tell him that I had sex with my father and brother, to which he responded that I should "say three Hail Marys and one Our Father and I would be forgiven?!"
I knew then that I had to either believe that this Confession thing was a hoax, or that God condoned sexual child abuse. That night, my father had a talk with me. Apparently he was the "Father" that the priest had interceded to. My father instructed me that "from now on," I was to simply say "I disobeyed my parents" when I went to Confession and nothing more!
The next time I went to Confession, I did exactly as I was told. The veiled screen came off the Confessional partition between me and the priest, and a penis was stuck through the window. 'God said that your penance is to treat me as you would your father. And remember, 'whatsoever you do to the least of your brothers, that you do unto me'." After performing oral sex on Father Thaylen, I emerged from the Confessional where all the other kids were waiting very impatiently for their turn. My teacher scolded me for taking so long and told me to add a few extra "Our Fathers" to my penance. When I told her I already did my penance, she told me again the "order of things" to the Confessional ritual--which did not fit anything I had just experienced! Without ever consciously knowing why, I abandoned the idea of becoming a Nun as that part of me, too, split off from what was left of my "normal" base personality.
I continued to maintain an illusion of normalcy for school,(5) excelling in my studies due to my photographic memory and in spite of my chronic "daydreaming". I had plenty of friends and played enthusiastically at recess, expending large amounts of energy in my subconscious effort to escape my own mind. And I lost myself in the books my father suggested I read: The Wizard 0f Oz, Alice In Wonderland, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Disney Classics, and Cinderella--all of which were used in conditioning my mind for what soon would become mind-control programming.(6)
My television viewing was restricted and monitored in keeping with my father's gained knowledge. I was, however, permitted to watch the "best" of movies: The Wizard Of Oz, Disney Classics, Alice In Wonderland, and Cinderella--over and over and over again.
When I was in second grade, my Brownie Troop marched in the Memorial Day Parade in which then Michigan State Senator VanderJagt also participated. At the end of the parade, he took me into a nearby motel and had me perform oral sex on him before sending me back to where my Brownie Troop was waiting. My Brownie leader and peers thought it commendable that VanderJagt took me with him. They gathered around to hear all about it. I noticed a white splash of semen on my sash, and hurriedly explained that he had "taken me for a milkshake" as I wiped it away. Having to cover for his perversion to my Brownie Troop infringed on my school personality, and the "normal" remainder became even smaller.
With the memory of this incident compartmentalized in my mind, I made no conscious association to VanderJagt when my third grade teacher announced that we were taking a field trip to the State Capital in Lansing, Michigan where he was in session. Once at the Capital, I was ushered away from my classmates and taken to VanderJagt's office where he was waiting along with his friend and mentor (soon to be President) Gerald Ford. VanderJagt lifted my skirt, pulled down my panties, and placed me on his desk for sex with him and Ford. Afterward they laughed as VanderJagt placed a small American flag in my rectum and instructed me to wave it. He then presented me with a Kennedy pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest of my mind-controlled existence, "Ask not what your country can do for you, Ask what you can do for your country."
VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature where my classmates were gathered. He put his arm around me in front of all my classmates and presented me with the American flag he had just had me wave for him and Ford with my rectum. My school personality split off again, but I still maintained the hope that somewhere, someday, I would find a place where people didn't... what? I could not remember what I was seeking to escape.
(1) Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), now known among mental health professionals as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) is the mind's sane defense to an insane situation. It is way of dealing with trauma that is literally too horrible to comprehend. Incestuous rape violates primitive instinct and surpasses pain tolerance. By compartmentalizing the memory of such horrendous abuse, the rest of the mind can function "normally" as though nothing had happened. This compartmentalization is created by the brain actually shutting down neuron pathways to a specific part of the brain. These neuron pathways are triggered open again when the abuse recurs. The same part of the brain that is already conditioned to the trauma deals with it again and again as needed.
(2) Uncle Ted had also cried hysterically the night of the murder. Several years later, he almost killed himself when he drove his car into the White River near the place of the murder.
(3) Gerald Ford, aka Leslie Lynch King, Jr., served on the appropriations subcommittee for the CIA and was appointed to the Warren Commission to investigate the assassination of President John F. Kennedy while I knew him only as a porn boss!
(4) My mother often voiced complaints that she "could not see faces," which personal experience has taught me indicated that she was suffering from on going physical and psychological traumas, and therefore was not in control of her senses.
(5) Had my teachers been educated in the obvious signs of child abuse, my "illusion of normalcy" would have been interpreted as a cry for help. Dissociative trance daydreaming, tones of helplessness and sexuality in drawings, and the electric prod marks on my face should have been recognized.
(6) These same themes were routinely used in creating Project Monarch slaves. This fact emerged through years of networking with mental health professionals.
Soon after Kelly was inducted into George Bush's "Neighborhood" through horrific sexual abuse, Bush enforced his controls on me. Our mind-control handler, Alex Houston, had taken Kelly and me to Washington, D.C. for separately scheduled meetings with Bush. Kelly had already been escorted by agents to her rendezvous with him that morning, during which time I had been ordered to one of U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd's offices located in the nearby FBI Hoover Building. There, Byrd reinforced his holds on me by claiming control of the Justice Department and "proving" once again that I had "no where to run and no where to hide". My horror reaction was compounded when Byrd looked at his pocket watch and notified me in Alice in Wonderland cryptic language, "You're late, you're late for a very important date, " referring to my meeting with Bush.
I sprinted from the Hoover Building, encountering Houston who waited just outside. Houston hurried me to the Smithsonian where I waited for my escorts as instructed at the "Face Changing" exhibit. This computerized exhibit illustrates how an individual's face can take on a radically different appearance by slightly altering any single feature.
The exhibit fascinated me as a programmed MPD since multiples often experience the unnerving phenomena of routinely not recognizing themselves in a mirror due to switching personalities. A multiple's face often changes slightly with each switch, which "validates" the religious communities' perceptions of so-called "demonic possession" in occultism. Logic quickly dispels this belief when it is realized that everyone's expression changes according to emotion, by skin color and tones, blood pressure, and by tightening or relaxing specific micro muscles. An MPD's face changes are more exaggerated when these natural conditions are combined with the results of sophisticated programming. "Charm School" teaches subconscious control over these natural phenomena as a ready-made disguise on government slaves such as myself, as well as to enhance sex slaves' "beauty" to their maximum potential. I was incapable of thinking or logically understanding my fascination with the display, as I stood totally enthralled, waiting for my escorts as ordered.
As the escorts approached, I was relieved to see Kelly with them. Though she was visibly tranced and traumatized, the fact that she was alive was all I was capable of grasping. When she saw the "Face Changing" exhibit, she excitedly exclaimed, "Uncle George just read me a book about this!" Before I could hear anymore, I was led away, leaving Kelly with our handler, Houston.
I was then quickly taken to Bush's Residence Office, which here-to-fore was unfamiliar to me. Although it had slate blue, plush carpets and fine furnishings like the White House office, lattice work and smaller rooms provided a different air. I sat in a hard-back wooden chair as ordered, while Bush carefully positioned himself in front of me on a little wooden footstool. This allowed me clear visibility of the large book that he held in his lap. All illustrations faced me, while all text except the last page was printed in the holder's direction. This book was a unique, high tech piece of art specifically designed to enforce Bush's favorite method of programming, "You Are What You Read". The juvenile face depicted on the front of this hardcover book gave it the appearance of a children's storybook. It was entitled About Faces.
Bush explained the dynamics of "changing faces" and "becoming what I read". Although I had been conditioned to this idea all of my life through Disney stories, The Wizard Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, etc., I was not prepared for Bush's version of "You Are What You Read" programming explanations. The illustrations themselves were elaborate, consisting of mirrors and hypnotic depictions. He seemingly made the book come alive in my mind as he read page after poetic page of hypnotic, metaphorical language, all the while creating powerful illusions. His impersonations of the characters further enhanced the desired affect of fantasy becoming reality. This extraordinary effort to scramble reality would have worked--perfectly--had it not been for another victim and myself discussing it only a few days later. The purpose of Bush's book was clearly explained within the first few pages, which included the following passage:
I am the Vice President when circumstance demands,
And I am your Commander, you'll follow my commands.
The first command's important - It is one you will heed,
When I send you a book, you are what you read.
Throughout my tenure as a Presidential Model mind-controlled slave, I was provided specific books according to Bush's program. These books, delivered through pre-established channels such as Ken Riley, Alex Houston, and even Ronald Reagan, came complete with specific commands on how they were to be interpreted and used. Some books were used to instruct me on operations; some were an attempt to scramble my memory with fantasy; others were used to load my mind with pertinent data such as bank account passbook numbers, and so on.
I was provided a paperback book entitled Afghanistan, from which I absorbed history, current political events, and the strength of the Afghany[Afghani] Freedom Fighters. I have since learned that the book I read was never publicly released in the text it was provided me. According to instruction, the book was delivered back to Bush as quickly as I finished memorizing it. I wonder in retrospect if any part of it contained fact beyond how I was supposed to perceive it.
I read stories of espionage, including Robert Ludlum's Bourne Identity, and William Diehl's Chameleon. Mostly I was provided steamy sex novels for further training as well as scrambles. Kelly was conditioned to fairy tales, Steven Speilberg's ET, NASA NSA operative George Lucas' Star Wars, and the nightmarish Never Ending Story. Steinbeck's classic Of Mice and Men caused Kelly constantly to quote the dependent character of Lenny for years saying, "Tell me what to do, George". She still does this each and every time I am allowed to visit with her in the mental institution. The attending therapist overseeing the visit has yet to pick up on this programming cue, and I am forbidden by Juvenile Court order not to discuss Kelly's past or therapy.
Bush's most effective example of "You Are What You Read" in his book About Faces occurred during his reading of the page depicting lizard-like "aliens" from a "far-off, deep space place". Claiming to me to be an alien himself, Bush apparently activated a hologram of the lizard-like "alien" which provided the illusion of Bush transforming like a chameleon before my eyes. In retrospect, I understand that Bush had been painstakingly careful in positioning our seats in order that the hologram's effectiveness be maximized.
U.S. Army Lt. Col. Aquino's occultism provided trauma sufficient to maintain my Project Monarch Mind-Controlled existence despite his inability to affect my core spirituality. Therefore, I was not routinely subjected to the other favorite "trauma of choice"--alien themes--like many slaves (including Kelly) I knew had been. The effect of Bush's illusion hologram on such victims is binding and strong. Even Aquino envied the mind shattering effects of Bush's alien theme visual traumas to the extent that he wrote and published his own comic book sequel to Lucas' Star Wars. While occultism is easily dispelled with reason and fact, Bush's alien theme continues to be reinforced through NASA's involvement in mind-control atrocities. Additionally, California's 24-year incumbent Senator Alan Cranston of the Select Committee on Intelligence has perpetuated this trauma base for decades, as have others. Despite my having escaped routine "alien" theme traumas, Bush's "You Are What You Read" hologram proved devastatingly sufficient for him to gain total control of my robotic mind from that moment on until my rescue in 1988.
By the time Bush reached the last page of his About Faces book, I was so traumatized I instantly "became what I read" when I read the last verse aloud as ordered:
I am a True Patriot living an American Dream,
I will become my role when you pull my string.
I will become my part, so I can 'be all I can be'
'Cause just like the Vice President, I am what I read.
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