In the first three years I was used in the Belgian network, labeled a throw-away child, I came across plenty of disgusting men who found pleasure in treating me as that label. Their projections of disgust, their actions meant to prove my worthlessness, their words of scorn did reach me, only I did not entirely believe them. My six, seven or eight year old self kept a measure of distance between their treatment of me with the simple clarity that it was they who were acting disgustingly, they who were doing filthy things, they who were depraved. Though I felt everything, I also always knew I was just a little girl, and couldn’t possibly engender such intense negative reactions from these strangers on my own merit.
I lost that distance at age nine, when a global networker to whom I had been gifted, to be thrown away if he wished, suddenly, through a miraculous circumstance completely outside of myself, took an interest in me. Instead of filth or worthlessness, he saw beauty and value. He proceeded to expertly prepare me, so as to maximally exploit all the positives he discovered. I was flown to the US and spent time in his private quarters, habituating to the luxurious lifestyle and environment of the wealthiest on earth. While I had finally found a father figure who saw and praised my qualities, he was busy with an extensive triage, figuring out all the ways in which I could prove profitable and useful to him and the network.
From 1972 to 1973, age nine to ten, I was intensely trained for my public role as a French singer and actress, and for my inside roles as an elite sex slave, spy and more. The training had me dissociate as easily as my perpetrators. The network’s horrors, with the help of vast quantities and varieties of drugs that had been part of my induction from the start, were pushed deep into an extreme fog, shrouded, hidden from myself, never to be revealed.
Against all network directives, right before my role was to become official, at least in the secret network sense, I was severely humiliated by a jealous singer and her husband. It was rather like they had destroyed my owner’s new toy, which had been wound up in a very specific way, so that it, in turn, could wind up specific men in specific ways. After the couple was done with me, I felt broken, and in that state had to perform a rite, the final touch that would have perfected the toy: sunny, pretty and sexy for the public, and mean, murderous and unconscionable for the network.
Though I knew better than to refuse performing the rite, its purpose failed; my conscience awakened, I regained a measure of distance, and the next time I saw my owner, this broken toy rebelled.
The man who on the sunny surface was a kind father figure, and in the secret, hidden shadows had raped, drugged and sold me, reacted instantly and forcefully. I guess sometimes when another kid breaks your toy, in a terrible tantrum, you stomp on it and wreck it completely.
In the network, humiliation is a many-faceted tool, since so much of the illustrious members’ motivation for participating in the first place is to escape their own, initial childhood humiliations, gain power exponentially, so as to never feel that profound, painful, shameful discomfort ever again. The local secret societies that feed, through their own system of triage, the global network, use humiliation rites for every step forward, embedding their ridiculous system of hierarchy deep into their members’ psyche. In the higher circles of that hierarchy, after some important internal level has been completed, members with a public persona may go through public humiliation rites, amply heralded by the press to ensure the inside joke gets across to all those in the know. Slaves they may be, but good slaves get good rewards, and those are easily measured in increased success, visibility or lack of consequence for whatever scandal befalls them.
Bad slaves and broken toys, however, are humiliated as punishment. In my case, after my brief moment of rebellion, I was humiliated continually for several days to reprogram me, to unwind the toy and make sure it would end up in the trash. It took place in a large, official building somewhere in Germany. In a large basement hung cages, and I was placed in one. Then I was moved to a level beneath the first basement, a dungeon with medieval cells, where I was chained onto the wall, arms spread out, wrists locked in irons. My cell had a heavy wooden door with a barred viewing window. I heard screaming from adult male voices. It sounded like they were being interrogated and tortured.
Recently I had been experiencing pressure on my chest, a rapid heartbeat and even difficulty breathing. Listening to a graphic testimony of an SRA survivor, the strong feeling of having to throw up was added to these symptoms. The physical discomfort remained, and then I took note of a subtle put-down by someone who previously had been respectful in a way that had made me uncomfortable. I have a long history with people looking up to me just like the networkers did when I was an elevated sex slave and treated like a star. The stand-ins invariably change their view of me, and on the other side of their exaltation hides their negative projection, their disrespect.
Trying to meditate through the physical discomfort, a small voice told me that I had attracted the negative projections from such people “to get it over with.” I instantly saw that I had always done something, drastic or subtle, that would have such persons switch from looking up to looking down on me. Asking myself what it was then, what did I want to get over, I immediately felt my ten-year old self, chained in the dungeon, my owner dumping a large bucket of blood and human remains over my head, accompanied by the German doctor who had been in charge of my mind control training in Heidelberg. I could not collapse, roll up in a ball and hide my face, or wipe the blood off my skin. My breathing became more belabored as the murky liquid doused my face. My stomach turned. Though this memory was not new, the physical sensations and the deep realization of lifelong patterns stemming from this trauma, was.
I heard my owner yelling that these were the remains of my victims, that I was so vile, so bad that I did not deserve anything good. My first reaction was that it was not possible that he could even say this to me. Without his interest in me, without his training there would have been no victims at my hands. He was responsible for all. I had even complained about the mind control to him once, and he had told me that it had been to make me stronger. That is how I had found out it had all been under his direction, and he was even at that moment standing there with the very man who had forced me, by inflicting unthinkable trauma, to perform the murders that had been part of the training. Next I got terribly confused, unable to imagine that these body parts would have been preserved just in case they would be needed for this unlikely purpose. It never occurred to me that he might be lying. He continued to scream, his face deformed by disgust, repeating that I was worthless, that I was evil, that I was bad, and that I could never be successful because of it. And since he was like a father to me, I came to believe him.
Whenever he left the cell, the German doctor took over, forcing more programs into my system, to forget the dungeon, to forget the network, to forget I ever had a future, and to kill myself if I ever did remember. And then I was left alone, without getting cleaned off, with the contents of the bucket on my skin and at my feet. And in those long hours, the messages solidified.
In sharing with a friend, I expressed the possibility that the humiliations I had suffered at the hands of the singer and her husband had left an energetic stamp on me, that I already appeared like a loser to my owner, and that his forceful reaction to my rebellious moment was in part because my vibration was one of a loser, of a broken toy. My friend emphatically disagreed. He said that he knew without a doubt that it was never any weakness on my part that triggered this perpetrator, but my power, that he must have seen in my rebellion all the strength I have today, strength connected to spirit that threatened to reveal his own truth.
I do believe that it is that little girl in me who has always feared she was a loser, and that the thinking of winning and losing is part of the insecure, trauma-based paradigm maintained by insecure, unhealed trauma victims, who need at any cost feel that they are winners. Though if I were in fact a loser, it would make much more sense than the truth. My first reaction to what came up when I asked myself why I would want to get it over with, why would I get people to look down on me, was utter disbelief; not because the memory was beyond-belief nightmarish. I certainly could never think up such a horror story on my own, but it is not so unusual for the network to use such medieval, utterly grotesque methods. I was in disbelief because it is hard for me to accept that the father figure I thought to be so big, so smart and so powerful was in reality so stupid, so insecure, and so incredibly threatened by a ten-year old girl. Every healing comes with yet another disappointment, as this icon, this parental figure, is shown for what he truly was.
He may have needed little girls to make himself feel important inside the network, in the world he was a man of great renown. Many adult men and women would absolutely believe that every word coming out of his mouth was a rare nugget of wisdom to quote and cherish. And he was and remains often quoted and much cherished. As a little girl he was the best I’d ever known, and I very much cherished him. I’m sure that many men and women might suppress, as I did inside that chamber of horrors, their initial, intuitive reaction to him, a flash of truth, like when I saw his hypocrisy. And then, by force of his repetitions, I went into confusion, to eventually believe him. World events are increasingly traumatizing, while the press and influencers, constantly on repeat, churn the ether with what will occupy the minds of the public.
The dissociation of these power figures is such that they cling to their own image and their curated story with all their might so as not to see the truth about themselves, the pitiful truth that keeps them running from their childhood humiliations while trying to keep the entire toxic power structure in place with all their toys and tricks, all just to accommodate their personal escape. The reality of evil is that those who engage in it are so immature that it is beyond comprehension, beyond a normal person’s ability to link that truth to the lies we are shown.
Anyone with a large platform, anyone with stupendous reach and visibility requires our scrutiny, and the humbling notion that we may never begin to imagine how crazy they really are, what they really do when we’re not looking, and how dark their secrets.