When I was eight years old, my parents forced me to go on a holiday with our Dutch cleaning lady, who initially had been responsible for bringing me into the network, two years earlier. Having tried to tell my mother what had happened with my six-year old vocabulary, strangely, led to her picking up a drivers license, purchasing her own car and driving me to network events herself. From then onward, my mother acted as my pimp, while the Dutch woman kept cleaning our house on Thursdays.
Two years later, that cleaning woman and her husband offered to take me on a camping trip not far from the Dutch town Eindhoven. Though I made it clear to my parents in every possible way that I did not want to go, I had no choice, and became this Dutch couple’s object, to do with what they wished, for three whole weeks.
One trauma I am left with from that trip is when the woman screamed at me that I had seduced her husband. Always part of her vicious screaming matches preceding violence, she had me know that I was a hoity toity rich snob kid and deserved all that was coming to me. She then ordered her husband to take me to the river bank, where he beat me to a pulp with an oar. Exhausted, I dropped down on my knees, then sunk into unconsciousness.
Another event during the same three-week trip was that one day, the husband drove me to Eindhoven, to a large hangar with enormous trucks parked inside. There were about five men waiting for us there, extremely big and bulky especially compared to the cleaning lady’s husband who was small. They smirked knowingly when they saw me. With a creepy laugh, a dirty mechanic in greasy overalls lifted me up on the hood of a Mustang. A camera on a tall tripod was pointing right at the front of the car. I underwent the extreme shame of being filmed as I was being undressed and pawed by the gross mechanic, my skin getting increasingly covered with oil stains. The men joked in a way that made it clear that they, like the cleaning lady, were getting their revenge on one little girl, representing in their mind the entire upper class which they hated with such fervor.
The perpetrator’s fingers were black, thick and rough. When he molested me, I was completely frozen. In this state, my consciousness cut off from my body. I was barely present underneath the unbearable shame of being exposed, filmed, smeared and mocked. I was not in touch with pain or fear, but apparently, in that survivalist state, my body responded to the sexual touch. The creepy mechanic laughed and the others followed, all deriding the “upper crust little bitch who always wants it.”
Generally, when I was abused in the network and then driven home the next morning, I had a cleansing ritual for which I locked myself in the bathroom, to help me physically and mentally clean up and forget. At the camp site, the common shower stalls and sinks were a far cry from the privacy I required, and I was unable to clean off either some actual oil stains or the mental issue of feeling incredibly soiled.
Less then a year after the fateful three-week camping trip in Holland, I was on a sailing yacht which docked at a private home on an island on the North East Coast of the US. The house was spotless, the views incredible, the atmosphere quiet and the colors muted. The billionaire who had been teaching me to be comfortable with an elitist lifestyle introduced me to our host, a kindly British gentleman-type who managed to make me feel truly welcome, as if I had always belonged there.
When I was invited alone into a salon with the Brit, I was offered a seat across from him, to have a conversation. This was very unlike what usually happened when I accompanied any man into a private space. During this conversation, I had an experience of being seen and accepted for who I am. This man, in less then twenty-four hours, became a father figure.
He had told me how important family was to him, and invited me to join his. I would be respected and protected. All I had to do was to obey; if I could manage that, my life would be as he described; it would be heaven on earth.
As a balmy breeze caressed my skin in this most perfect setting, I felt cleansed. It was a peculiar, particular sensation, as if his acceptance of me, which made me feel loved, cleansed my spirit and body alike. From that day forward, I would never again have to deal with people like the gruff, dirty workmen who had so thoroughly humiliated me. Being part of this family, I would be safe.
I previously thought that I had never seen that kindly father figure again and in one way that was true. Programmed in mind control, I had parts that did not need for me to be conscious in order to observe what was happening. One such part showed up in the past month; she had seen him in a salon inside a great Manor in the UK while I was also present - only, I was out; drugged. A famous singer and her husband, after they had horrifically humiliated and abused me, had helicoptered me out there from Monaco, to redeem themselves with the head of the family. My part let me know that he was there with several goons, as befits a mafia family boss. I was laying unconscious on the end of a sofa. My part informed me that firstly, the singer suffered consequences that affected her career in punishment for her treatment of me. Secondly, I learned that the boss decided during that meeting that he was going to test me.
Considering that he was the man I loved most in the world, if I had come to on that sofa, looking up at him, and he had put a kind hand through my hair and apologized for all that had happened, I cannot say with certainty that my path would not have been different; our one-day encounter had left such a strong impression. But that would be the action of a real man, with a heart.
Instead, reminded of our first meeting, of his observation that I had craved respect, of his suggestion that my handler was not the smartest tool in the box but that I should nevertheless obey him - reminded of his promise that I would be respected while he had actually described my future life to be one of fame and flattery - he decided to test me.
If I really wanted fame, I would pass the test. If I really wanted respect, I would fail. He decided that I should wake up in the park of the manor, with arrows being shot at me, hunted as prey. Frightened to death, I would run for my life. Then, some handlers with a strong Cockney accent would stop the hunt, stop me from being the prey. They would give me a crossbow and invite me to become the hunter. For this purpose, they would release a small animal that would be my target. When I would kill that animal, they would loudly declare: “See? You always end up on top. You always end up being the victor. You’re a winner.”
Finally, the Cockney handlers would put me on a helicopter with a very clear directive: “Don’t tell anyone about anything that has happened. Nothing, you understand?”
If I had wanted power, if I had wanted the fame and flattery that the family boss had promised me, I most certainly would have swallowed the humiliations and obeyed. However, since I wanted respect, I would never accept such horrifyingly coarse and vulgar reprogramming, only concerned with crude power and the idea of winning through violence alone. I was utterly disgusted.
As soon as I intended to open my mouth to tell the billionaire handler what had happened, at least the part about the singer and her husband, he attempted to make it as clear as he could without saying the words that I should shut up. He was adamant. But I had been through too much; I needed someone to hear me, and I spoke. His immediate turn-around, the unbelievable anger he instantly displayed, was partly due to him having been forewarned; if I was going to talk and disobey, I was out.
In processing these clarifying memories to the events that led to my violent rejection from the family at the core of the network, every cell of my body now knows that the wealthy, famous elite and all members of this so-called family are essentially just as profane as the child pornographers in the hangar - they all do exactly the same thing. Their motives are vulgar. The noble ones are the regular, sincere people the network despises, those who humbly try to be more honest, more giving and who do their best to be better. The gentlemanly Brit was never any better than the oily mechanic; his class was all pretense. The network bosses and their minions are weaklings and liars.
The physical world is never safe. We never know what may happen next. True safety lies beyond the physical world; it lies in our faith in God, in our knowing that beyond the world of appearances lies greater truth which is that we are and always have been immaculate and immortal. We cannot know greater truth until we overcome our own darkness and expand our own consciousness, so that we can be one with the light, and know that we are safe.
The network promises safety through obeisance, false loyalty and a sense of belonging, while they keep busy making the world less safe for everybody.