Spring 1973, after mind control training.
The challenge was to leave the structure of the present and its triggers behind in order to focus exclusively on the past. Any heightened emotional charge is an indication that present circumstances have come to invite you to return to the origin of that charge. The veil of maya - referring to the deceptive nature of the world in the Hindu scriptures - makes it all seem so very real. Arriving in this world, our lives gradually unfold. When trauma occurs, we cannot remain present. Whatever emotional charge needs to be subdued for the sake of survival will rear its head later on in different circumstances, when a subtle or blunt cue will awaken the trauma and the body/mind system emotionally launches itself into the story of the past.
My charge was terror, and my story was training.
Training in a small, secret facility in Heidelberg, Germany under the auspices of a doctor who officially specialized in Eugenics, who had belonged to the Nazi party, and who ran mind control programs to train a small number of slaves for one powerful American.
In a torturous program, I was trained to link physiognomy to men’s underlying tendencies. I watched movies, first focusing on different men’s faces, their body language, to eventually see them as perpetrators, revealing their sexual preferences and perversions for the sex slave program. The following week, for the spy program, I saw men first as free citizens, filmed surreptitiously, next captured and tortured to the breaking point, and, reverting to a childlike state, utterly powerless and helpless, crying, begging, or screaming for help. Iron restraints attached my forearms to a chair and metal clasps pried my eyes open, forcing me to see and hear everything. At first the weaknesses were easy to spot. Then it became more subtle and hard to tell. Based on increasingly little visual information, I had to state what the man on the screen’s greatest weakness was, and if I got it wrong, I was suffocated, even though this suffocation was also part of the training. Breath retention. Splitting. Leaving the body. Facilitating intuitive recognition of men’s weaknesses.
What is weakness in the network, is in real life vulnerability - the tender space in one’s psyche where the inner child is still seeking for the love, acceptance and nurturing it never received. In the cold, bloodless domain where psychopaths rule, where humanity is reduced to the hunter-prey level, a person’s weakness is the prey’s wound, the gateway to their downfall.
Later on during this mind control training, I was put in a sense-deprivation tank, for what seemed like days on end. The salt water was too deep to go to sleep, then I would drown. I was directed to let my consciousness, easily exiting from a weightless body, enter the body and mind of a man whose photo had been shown to me before entering the tank. Through my intense attunement, I should be present with the man’s innermost thoughts, to manipulate him, to guide him to think of me, see me as his dream girl, the love of his life, his soulmate. I should get this close to these men, knowing their sexual preferences and weaknesses, to better spy on them.
I was returned home from Germany to my parents in Belgium towards the end of the summer of 1972. I entered the fourth grade that September, in the class of Mrs. Vermeiren who was rather strict. However, I remember little of that school year, often absent, out sick, especially on Mondays. Several weekends, I was transported to Germany that year as a newly minted elite sex slave, for further training, or put into action with a top German politician, who brought me along to little hotel-pensions in idyllic settings. The owners were thrilled to host this VIP, and I was expertly trained not to draw attention to myself. It may still seem strange that no one would have had questions about the quiet, nine-year old travel partner of their guest, who shared the bed with this VIP. If there was a cot in the room, this man only laughed, never making the effort, for example, to muss up the sheets on the cot to make it appear I slept apart from him. I guess this was part of the thrill, that he loved getting away with pedophilia right under the people’s noses, people who had probably voted for him.
My “owner,” a powerful American, had similarly taken me along in public, introducing me here and there as his niece from Paris. He, too, thought it was great fun to show me off, even taking me shopping to a children’s clothing store on Madison Avenue in New York City, where the sales ladies were overjoyed to wait on him and me.
When this American asked me what the German’s weakness was, I answered that he sincerely believed that he was a good man. The American instantly smiled, pleased with me. For a brief moment, I wondered if he thought that no man who has sex with children is also a good man, but when I attuned myself, I reflected the smile of someone who, without access to their own innocence, assumes that no one is truly good, and anyone who believes it, is stupid.
The American switched to speaking German and looked proud when I answered swiftly and fluently.
The first time I had met the powerful American perpetrator had been in 1972, in the week leading up to April 30, the most important calendar date for Satanists. The Bilderberg meeting that year, on the weekend before the 30th, had been in Belgium and was the context of his visit. The following year, in 1973, at age 10, I was part of these week-long Satanic festivities building towards the great celebration of the 30th, this time on an exclusive property on Lake Como, meant to coincide with the finalization of my yearlong training: my induction into the cult.
During this week, many people visited whom I later recognized on photos, famous in the entertainment industry, in politics or by birth. Though I was treated with reverence as though I were already a star, I was very busy with work, having sex with guests in order to let my American owner know about their preferences or weaknesses.
Regarding an American singer with whom I had spent several hours, I could report that he was a great fan of my owner who, in spite of his fame, suffered from imposter syndrome, feeling innately inferior to everyone at the gatherings. He also believed himself to be alone in this, though I already knew that he was not. Afraid he would be found out, he felt so lucky to be part of the club, it made him extremely loyal, ready to do anything my owner could wish.
Reporting back about the prime minister of a large country, I shared that I had not been able to please this man, and would not be able to truly satisfy him as long as he had to make sure I remained alive. This was important information for my owner, who could now offer this politician an expendable child, tape the murder, and own that man forever after.
At the time, my thoughts didn’t carry through to any consequences of my reporting; I enjoyed the closeness with my owner. Ever since he had come into my life, I had been treated far better than ever before. In the Belgian network, I myself had been an expendable child, but the American had found out about my bloodline, and decided that I belonged in his club. My blood had been drawn and analyzed, and my mother had likely been asked who my father was. Though I myself did not know, it appears that the network was aware that I came from French nobility. Many of my family had been successful in the arts; my father and both his parents were classical musicians. I was to become a watered-down, super sexualized pop version as a French singer-actress, as per my owner’s need for control in the arts, business and politics, and the network’s agenda to sexualize and control the masses.
Before the mind control training, I had always been able to have something of a distance from my rapists, holding on by a thin thread to my sense of right and wrong, knowing that what they did was wrong. During the torture in the mind control facility in Heidelberg, trained by the sadistic doctor and the young men that were assigned as handlers, that thread nearly disintegrated, except for a tiny knot here and there, a vague thought that something was off. I did not consider the sex as wrong anymore, and, as taught by my training, believed myself to be a consenting participant. I had even been impressed with the effectiveness of the training, observing and feeling myself transform into the archetype that I would come to represent. I enjoyed the intense intimacy with these powerful men, which gave me as much pleasure and fulfillment as it did them. As a mind control spy, you believe 100% in the narrative you create with your target. Just like actors, in the moment, everything is emotionally real. And, just like actors, that emotional truth is not grounded in the day-to-day reality of your life, so that it can shift instantaneously, when a new narrative is needed. In a personal relationship, for example, the emotional truth created by a narcissist would create intense connection, which leaves the other party shocked when the narcissist moves to a different narrative, blaming, harming or abandoning the other, unconcerned with commitment or respect, which anchor a relationship in day-to-day reality. As a child sex slave inside a group that eschewed day-to-day reality like the pest, I was treated as special; the perpetrators smiled and seemed happy, even proud to be with me. It made all the difference from earlier, when I was often treated as less than a piece of dirt.
Right before my induction, during the busy week leading up to the greatest Satanic holiday of the year, I was horribly humiliated by a couple. It put a huge knot in the thread that tied back to my own self and sense of right and wrong. In the network, I was not even supposed to be used by women, and, even though technically, this world famous singer-actress had not physically touched me, her husband did. She was the instigator, verbally participated in the abuse, and made me touch her.
Afterwards, I thought about my programming, the tremendous effort that had been put into creating my life’s role as a sexy singer-actress. Why would my owner spend all this money, use all these resources, engage all these people, apply all these secret sciences, transport me around the globe to secret facilities - why would he go through so much trouble to create my persona, to then allow one envious woman to treat me so disgustingly as to have me question everything? It had me thinking that maybe he was not that smart. Maybe these sciences were not so impressive. Maybe this group was not so special. Maybe this life was not so desirable.
The ceremony of my induction into the Satanic cult was the final knot tying me back to myself, knowing I never could or wanted to be part of this club, no matter how seductive the many detailed descriptions I’d heard about my glamorous life as a French star.
After being rejected from the seat of the world’s power, and out of the life role which had been assigned to me by the network, I never sang again. Not so long ago, I started singing chants as part of leading meditations, and the journey back to my singing voice sent me on a months-long inner exploration, yielding deeply repressed memories, answering questions and clarifying time lines.
Today, fifty years after the facts, I still feel like a spy, using my observational and reporting skills to relate to the public how the network operates from within, how power affects people, and how those in the most enviable positions in the world are perhaps not to be envied at all.