known Project victims. We clung together in a close knit group, herded around like the proverbial sheep by those in the school who knew we were MPD/DIDed and under mind control. We each switched personalities as circumstance demanded, most often in unison. We were ritually traumatized, constantly tranced, and then programmed during school hours. Since I no longer had my singular 'school personality' and was constantly switching instead, the compartment of my brain that held school memory was no longer consciously retrievable. Therefore, I had no basis for continued learning aside from what I could photographically memorize from class. My grades appeared erratic, ranging from A's to failing. And some A's received I did not earn academically.
In my required religion class, Sister Ann Marie bad been leading us in study on the topic of Confession, This was to prepare us for the kind of Confessions we were to be giving Father Vesbit, who was also our school principal. The day Sister ordered us to Confession, I refused to go. I unconsciously feared I would be sexually assaulted again in the Confessional, this time while my teenage peers waited impatiently outside the door. Sister made an example out of me to the class, saying I was a «Satanist» and that I was 'going to hell'.
With seemingly no escape from the occultism that proliferated at the school, I could no longer differentiate between Catholicism and Satanism.
Whatever Senator Byrd's purposes in sending me to Catholic school, no one seemed to notice that I had no reason to religiously adhere to Catholic principles. Therefore, the applied reversal of Satanism held no 'spiritual magic' to it either. The wedge of anti-superstition that the Catholic school was inadvertently driving into me only served to discount the occult principles and superstitious traumas that they were attempting to use to control me,
Satanism is often used as an extreme pain/violence trauma base in Project Monarch Mind Control, reportedly due to the previous German Nazi Himmler Research. I did not adhere to the desired helplessness attitude that this was 'spiritual warfare' and out of the realm of mankind's ability to stop. Regardless of my religious beliefs or disbeliefs, I experienced the «results» just the same. Being subjected to and witnessing trauma so horrible, while my body was raped, tortured, and ravaged by men literally drove me out of my mind.
Catholic Central did increase my endurance capabilities as planned, however. I signed up for the two-mile run in the girls' track team as ordered. Muskegon Catholic Central led the state of Michigan in high school athletics, using mind-control technique to «modify» their star athletes and cause them to excel beyond pre-established records. The school gained national recognition for its contribution to professional leagues with their manufactured programmed athletes. But, like Tommy LaSorda's Dodgers, Catholic Central's consistent victories began to raise suspicions and questions. This created a public scandal for the school that threatened to close its doors in 1975.
The girls' and guys' track teams converged after school for practice. I was among the few females singled out for coaching by Coach Cheverini and his hypnotic mind-control methodisms due to my Project Monarch victimization. I was instructed to run 13 miles per day (another corny satanic ploy) to get in shape for my two-mile race. I often ran with a male friend who was the record holder for the two-mile in guys' track. He and I were friends, sharing much due to our similar Project Monarch victimizations. Together we learned how to shut out pain and fatigue when we ran. We tranced into a fast pace set in our minds by Coach Cheverini with no comprehension of time or distance. We perceived the track as our 'Yellow Brick Road' in accordance with the Oz theme programming. Senator Byrd's plan for building my physical endurance through Catholic Central's coaching methods proved successful for allowing me to survive his intensely torturous sexual perversions.
In addition to routine trips to Mackinac Island and Niagara Falls, my family often took camping trips to 'get away from it all'. In reality, I was taken to key places for ritual abuse, prostitution, and pornography. In the fall of 1974, my father announced we were going to go camping 'back in time' to an old fashioned festival in the small remote town of Cedar Springs, Michigan for their annual Red Flannel Days celebration. My mother told me to pack my jeans and sweaters and my Catholic school uniform which she had washed and pressed for the occasion.
Cedar Springs was quiet, with the festival events including dilapidated amusement rides set up in a small parking lot, and contests where local farmers pitted their mules and horses against each other to see whose could pull the most weight. The main (and only) street of town was lined with the few local businesses, including the town's red flannel underwear 'long Johns' factory. In the center of town, a mock, single, jail cell had been erected to hold any and all parade participants who failed to wear the required red flannel underwear. The jail was guarded by quasi Keystone Cops. I was amused when the townsfolk began lining up to march in the parade, with very few remaining to watch it, A mentally retarded man carried the baton to lead the parade, followed by kids on bicycles, hay-wagons of old folks, a grade school band and people walking-all in their red flannel underwear. The grand finale' of the parade, the town firetruck, was approaching, surrounded by numerous motorcycle police. I heard folks whispering 'the President is coming'. I assumed they meant the President of the underwear factory. I was wrong. I watched in horror as the firetruck rolled to a stop, and Secret Service helped then President Gerald Ford as he stepped down to the pavement.
My father was excitedly tugging on my arm, half dragging me through the wall of Secret Service agents, to talk with President Ford. I looked around nervously as my father made the necessary arrangements with Ford to prostitute me to him later that evening. VanderJagt, who never missed a parade it seemed, was signing autographs. As he smiled at me, someone roughly grabbed my arm. Nervous and startled, I screamed. The crowd laughed as a Keystone Cop threw me in the jail, scolding me for not wearing my red flannel underwear when I was talking to the President. I was trying to be inconspicuous in hopes no one would see me with the likes of Ford, but then, they did not know him as I did. The Keystone Cop rattled on and on about 'how lucky' I was until my father paid my bail and I was released from the cell.
That night, I wore my Catholic uniform as instructed and went into a dissociative trance as my father drove me to the local National Guard Armory where I was prostituted to Ford. Ford took me into an empty room, pushed me down on the wooden floor as he unzipped his pants and said, 'Pray on this'. Then he brutally, sexually assaulted me. Afterward, my memory was compartmentalized through use of high voltage. I was then carried out to the car where I lay in the back seat, muscles contracted, stunned, in pain, and unable to move.
When we got back to Muskegon, my father sent me to the beach as always, to let the repetition of crashing waves against the beach 'wash my mind free of memory' while I watched the sun set. I was totally locked into the belief that truly there was 'no place to run,' not even to the President of the United States.
I remember that the «sane» part of 'me'-my innate personality-seemed to die after seeing Ford as President. I recall walking up the steps of Catholic Central High School one morning, reaching for the door, and crying uncontrollably. I cried myself into a heap at the top of the stairs. I did not even know why I was crying. As an MPD, I rarely cried at all. But I was still sobbing hours later when school let out. Someone found me, but I do not recall to this day ever leaving the school steps. I never really experienced «emotion» after that day until I was rescued, deprogrammed and reintegrated in 1988. Now all of my brain was functioning through a wide variety of memory compartments, also known as multiple personalities, with no part of me left «free» of abuse. Now it was as though I had 'no place to run,' not even in my brain. This drove me out of my mind which is exactly what my abusers needed for total control.
CHAPTER 4
THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
When I learned of a pending rendezvous with Senator Byrd in Traverse City, Michigan (VanderJagt's headquarters), I stole some candy at a local convenience market hoping to go to jail and escape my encounter with Byrd. I was caught, and the police were even called. But, of course, my poetically powerful abusers would not allow for me to have a police record. The entire matter was not-so-mysteriously and suddenly dropped. My only «punishment» was to have a conference with the school principal, Father Vesbit.
Father Vesbit knew I was part of Project Monarch, and handled the matter accordingly. He raped me in the school's private chapel after school while holding a Satanic ritual involving several of my project friends. Kids often attached nicknames to their teachers, and there were only a few of us who knew the reason why Father Vesbit was called Father «Fuzzbutt». His backside was covered with thick black hair. He «counseled» me on several occasions, once remarking, 'I thought kids in your situation were all part of the Exchange Student program.'
My Uncle Bob Tanis was visiting our house soon after that. He had flown in from what he claimed was a
