Relationships

The first person I met when I arrived in the US in 1985 was the son of a family where I spent Thanksgiving. Even though we dated, I never wondered if we were an official couple and we did not spend much time together since he lived in Westchester while I was in NYC. In 1987 I moved to Los Angeles and in 1991, on a flight to Europe, he came to say hello during my few hours of layover at JFK and we kissed again. When I got on the plane, I sat on the runway for hours until the flight was canceled due to a technical problem and all passengers were shuttled to the airport Hilton hotel. The brown room severely triggered me and I called my friend. By that time he was almost home but he turned back to pick me up and bring me to his place.

The circumstances were extremely familiar. 19 Years earlier, when I had been nine years old, I had been in a similar scenario, being flown to JFK on the private jet of a billionaire perpetrator, taken by a handler who looked like a secret service agent to a similarly brown Hilton hotel room by the airport where I was left for one hour or so. Since I had not been told where I was being flown or why, I had assumed that I was to be killed. During that hour alone in the brown hotel room I was convinced that I next would be taken to a place to be sacrificed. I was fetched by the same handler who had brought me to the hotel straight from the runway. He guided me from the room back through the busy hotel lobby, me believing I was being walked to my death with unsuspecting tourists all around. He guided me to a waiting sedan, with the owner of the private jet in the backseat, happy and excited to see me again. I had first come across him three months prior, knew that he liked me and felt indescribably relieved. As the chauffeur drove us to the billionaire’s Westchester estate in that summer night of 1972, I took in the atmosphere and surroundings like manna from heaven, believing myself to be deeply loved because, contrary to my expectations, I was not going to die, but instead received nurturing touch and praise; sexual abuse for sure - but of the kind most confusing to a child - the kind that calls itself love.

On that same drive up the Sawmill Parkway as an adult on a summer evening of 1991, once again leaving behind the brown room in the same hotel as 19 years earlier, I was triggered back into that blissful feeling from my past as my friend drove me north on the very same long and winding road. While I awaited another flight, we spent two days in unexpected romance, inadvertently fueled by my past, as I experienced the same out-of-this-world high.

The way the past informed my attachment to that friend confused our entire relationship. In my young adult life I don’t believe I ever entered into any romance that was not on some level a repetition from some aspect of my abusive past. Sex invariably would bring out either the intoxication and substitute nurturing or the apprehension and fear. I could never see my lovers just for who they were, without some projection that did not belong with them.

What I believe was most harmful to my relationships was my program from the mind control training I received one month after the blissful days spent with my perpetrator in Westchester, which he had organized so he could turn me into an elite sex slave and spy for his and the network’s purposes. That program was meant for me to draw men in and have them believe that I was their dream girl. In my young adult life this would translate as their soulmate.

The doctor in the German facility enjoyed this part of the training the most; it showed in his sadistic smile, which during these days had some excitement behind it. I was strapped onto some sort of deathbed in the basement, stuck full of needles attached to IV bags with all manner of drugs of which he controlled the flow, and electrodes to drive up my pain to maximum levels - his true expertise.

The pain of the electrocutions had me call out for my mother. The doctor yelled at me:

“Your mother is stupid and vulgar! Forget her! You will be in control of her. We will control her. You don’t need your mother to live, you need men!”

The doctor told me that If I would survive what he was about to do, emphasizing the word “if,” I would come back differently. I was going to leave my body and would be floating about the area. Only men could keep me alive, he said. I needed to psychically attach to all the men I came across in my spirit journey, plead with them for my life because only if they loved me could I live. They were my lifeline. Men meant life. My mother meant nothing. She was nothing. I had to forget her.

Then he turned dials to let drugs flood my bloodstream and drive up my pain through electrocuting every part of my body, so much that it became impossible to remain in that body. I dissociated and saw my bruised and tattered, lifeless self lying on that deathbed from above, where I felt no pain and was fully conscious. As had been instructed, I did float out of the building, across the grounds and across the Heidelberg area, and did psychically cling to every man I encountered. I don’t know if my state was purely drug-induced and if these men were real or not, but they seemed real, and it seemed as if they let my psyche in to protect me from dying.

Upon waking on the deathbed, it felt as though I had clung to about 200 German men for my life. The doctor was pleased. He reveled in knowing the exact doses of drugs and pain he should deliver so that a subject would go into a near-death experience and create a disembodied part that could effortlessly achieve the network’s goals of trapping men into romance.

However, the doctor’s work was not done; the femme fatale persona was not complete if she was to be deployed in elite circles. Those men, as well as many others, would only fall head over heels with a woman who is ultimately unattainable. The damsel-in-distress would disgust most men without the dichotomy of her natural distance, which would multiply their desire to rescue her, because it would feed into their ambition, their need to win - to win her.

The doctor told me that this time, I was going to descend to the bottom of hell. Again, if I survived - if - I would return a different person. I would be unattainable. Again, with enormous doses of drugs and unbearable pain from electrocution, I went away. Laying down on my back, the deathbed seemed to disappear as I descended. Scary demons surrounded me, showing their distorted ugly faces, gnarling and hissing at me, their bodies hulking or slithering all around me. Their eyes were wide with fury, ready to attack. I heard screams no horror movie could reproduce. They kept coming at me as I felt myself going down deeper and deeper. I was very afraid, very afraid indeed. Only, after the first furious demonic faces disappeared to be replaced with other, even uglier and fatter creatures in the even deeper and darker underworld, my fear stagnated somewhat, because though the threats were in every look and movement, I just kept sinking, untouched. The entities became more macabre as I went down further into the dark, with less of a body and more like black smoke in blackness with red eyes that were more creepy and felt more dangerous somehow than the loud demons above.

I slowly sank down for what seemed like endless hours, through a two-miles-thick layer of demons. The last ones at the very bottom, silhouettes sliding around me, disappeared with a biting laugh - which somehow gave me the greatest fright of all. The descending sensation ended. I had landed, but did not feel any surface underneath my back. I could not tell where I was. It was as though there was absolutely nothing, like the air and the elements were missing from this sphere of darkness. I had ended up in emptiness and felt more isolated than I could ever accurately describe. I was stuck at the bottom of hell. Awake in that nothingness underneath a thick layer of demonic entities for what seemed like an eternity, I doubted that I could ever return to the world. And would I want to go up through the two-mile band of demons anyway? Desperation and loneliness made me almost crave for their company.

When I opened my eyes I was back on the deathbed, with the doctor smiling self-satisfied. The experience, again, perhaps a drug-induced hallucination, left a permanent sadness in my eyes. It was exactly the kind of sadness that the doctor had meant to obtain, the sadness of the unattainable beauty, who forever needs saving by men while a part of her remains entirely unreachable at the bottom of hell, where no man can ever come to rescue her.

From that moment on, something indeed did change in me, in that I was unaware of what my psychic parts did to draw men in, but as soon as I returned to my regular life in Belgium I did notice that men were smiling in a way that was friendlier than before, and that I felt comfort from men that was new.

In my young adult life, I had more than one boyfriend, or sometimes men I wasn’t dating, or even someone I might have just met, who believed that I was their soulmate. Once, at an event, the wealthy organizer smiled at me from across the room and I found myself responding as though we had something together, while I had not even been introduced to him. I left wondering what part of me had been active without my conscious awareness and got in touch with the psychic part that was operating in the ether, apart from me. This part did not like to be caught. She also initially had no interest in communicating with me, an older woman; she was only interested in men. I gave her the time and space she needed and she eventually led me to these memories of the mind control training, that were the basis of the elite sex slave persona.

The little girl who was forced to abdicate her mother and to make mothers out of all men would have grown up to look like an expensive sex object to incite men and boys to give in to their lower nature, while on the inside she would have been an insecure little girl, jealous and angry. Surely it is our job as women to heal, find self-respect and connect with the divine feminine to spread that most beautiful and intuitive motherly love and compassion to all mankind. What else could elevate this perturbed societal disease that is based in immaturity and indulgence?

Recently, I met with my friend whom I had first dated just after moving to the US in 1985. It was nice to catch up. We hugged to say goodbye and for a moment all the feelings, expressed and unexpressed over all these years rose in a surge of energy and emotion, and then we parted.