reader can understand how this all came about.
When I was a year old, my father placed me in a blanket that was suspended by a rope from the high ceiling in our living room and spun me around and around and around until I was completely dizzy and disoriented. He then introduced a trauma, like putting something sharp up my vagina and my young psyche shattered, splitting off another personality to withstand the pain. He began sexually abusing me in my early months, by inserting objects into my vagina, gradually stretching it so that I would be able to accept a full grown man's penis by the time I was two. I was being groomed for early child prostitution, pornography, and a position in the 'inner circle' at church.
When I was just months old, my mother recounts that she tearfully handed me over into the arms of her brother John who took me for a week to Santa Barbara. When she told me of this incident she always sounded like she had no choice, no free will from where she could command that no one could take her new born baby away from her. The memory of what happened in Santa Barbara with my Uncle John remains inaccessible to me at this time, yet I know it must be significant.
Unfortunately as you can well understand, my poor mind-controlled mother never had a chance and was totally manipulated by my father who I believe suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD/DID), had been ritually abused himself, and was most likely also under mind control. Much of the time my mother was a loving, caring, gentlewoman, but she was controlled. She spent her daytime hours obsessively cleaning house, ironing everything that she perfectly washed, scrubbing floors, washing windows, cooking, and attending to our needs. After dinner, while my mother did the dishes, my father sat down to watch television and read the paper. While he was relaxing, my mother began her next job doing the bookkeeping for my father's business; she didn't stop her duties or sit down until she collapsed into bed at 11:00 o'clock at night.
When I began recovering in the 80's, I asked my mother why all she did was scrub and clean the house and didn't pay attention to me as a child. Her response was, 'Sue, looking back, I felt like there was something really dirty about our home.'
My mother was able to feel what she wasn't allowed to think about, and she was right; there was something dirty. She subconsciously tried to take care of the problem in the only way she knew how; by cleaning it away. She slept through, was programmed, drugged, or was in a dissociative daze when I was being abused or when she was being beaten by my father or abused by others. She obsessively listened to music, which helped her to tune out and mellow. Knowing what I know now, most likely she was listening to music she was told to listen to in order to keep her memory of our actual life locked deeply within her subconscious mind, while the programmed reality of herself and our 'perfect happy family' was kept alive through programmed phrases in the music.
My father made medicine for my mother. She followed my father's orders and programming to a tee. Dutiful to her programming, she delivered me to and from places where I was to be prepared, trained, programmed, and used, without ever being consciously aware of what she was doing. To this day, if asked about it, my mother cries and says that, while she believes and feels the allegations of what happened to me are true, she just can't remember.
Around this time, my mother joined the First Baptist Church of Woodland Hills, and began taking me with her to church. Later, in therapy, I remembered and drew pictures of tunnels that I remembered running under the church that connected with neighboring homes of inner circle church perpetrators. On Sunday mornings, my mother left me in the nursery while she went to the sermon. Members of the church staff, some of them neighbor women and the minister, ritualistically abused me in that church. The elder minister who abused me was Rev. Grant B. Yeatman.
By age two, I was out of the church nursery and attending a small Sunday school class with other children. One Sunday, when I was a bit older, Rev. Yeatman walked into my Sunday school class and watched as we played a game and drew pictures. He pointed to me and said that I was 'God's chosen' and told me to follow him. Once we were outside in a protected area, he forced my head down under his robe to perform oral sex on him like my father had prepared me from birth to do. After I was finished, he wiped my mouth with a handkerchief and told me that I was going to hell for what I had just done, but that I would be forgiven if I never told anyone about it. He further offered to pray for my soul and then sent me back to my Sunday school class.
Another Sunday, after being sodomized in a back room by Rev. Yeatman, he took me by the hand back to my Sunday school class, bent down and pointed to a picture of Jesus sitting with the little children around him and whispered, 'Jesus will never love a little girl who is as bad and evil as you.' From then on I believed there was something terribly wrong with me and that I would never fit in with other people. I figured Jesus couldn't love me because I was so bad. Parts of me died inside. But deep within my soul, in my innermost hidden and protected self, angelic beings continually reminded me of God's love for me and of their support. When I was tortured to the extent of being projected out of body due to the extreme pain, Jesus' Angels spoke lovingly to me and explained that I needed to go back into my body, that some day when I was older I would understand. But subconsciously, in my limited child understanding, I believed I was unlovable and hideous in the eyes of God.
Other Sundays, different children were 'God's chosen' and had to leave the room with the minister.
Many of the people who worked at the church, the church secretary and the Sunday school teachers, were neighbors of ours and, I now understand were most likely ritually abused as children and were carrying out their violent actions via their own unconscious childhood programming.
Mrs. Winkler, the church secretary, lived across the street. In addition to Christianity, she also practiced sorcery and witchcraft in her darkened home, isolated and protected from outside intrusion by drape-covered windows. As a toddler, my father would wake me, early on Saturday or Sunday mornings and take me across the street along with a carrot, to 'feed the horsies.' We always did feed the horses but the actual purpose of these outings was to get me out of the house to go see Mrs. Winkler for what they called 'my training and preparation.'
Mrs. Winkler lit candles and laid my tiny body down on her table, performing chants over me, while she was sticking sharp needles in my feet, burning me with the hot candle flames, or scaring me with spiders. She would say, 'Hold real still, Susie, so this potion can get in. You will be powerful and very special one day. Your father is paying for this, for you to be made special because he loves you. You will be known.'
She told me at other times that I was chosen by God to fulfill some mission. Instead of organized Satanism, she practiced her own perverted form of Christianity with the purpose of 'purifying me' to rid me of all evil. She never directly addressed Satan, but instead spoke of hell and damnation; it was a fire and brimstone style of fundamental Christianity, mixed with witchcraft. Mrs. Winkler cut pieces of my hair and saved them for rituals that were held with other «inside» church members and my father in outdoor rural places, in the middle of the darkened night.
For years, my father performed a variety of brutal, ritual-type physical and psychological abuses, among them: confinement in closets, cages, and a coffin, while I was told I was being left to die; near drowning; isolation; needles inserted in sensitive body areas; food and sleep deprivation; electroshock via electric wires, welding equipment, cattle prods, etc.; drugging; sophisticated hypnotic and electronic programming; tying me upside down to walnut trees out in the isolated walnut groves and other places; forcing me to participate in torturous rituals and orgies; and sexually abusing me, each time in more perverted ways.
At that time, Woodland Hills was still in its own infancy. At first, there were only two or three other houses built on our street, insuring my father and others plenty of wide-open spaces to conduct their crimes. In 1952, what is now known as the '101 Freeway' had not yet been built. The area was still largely undeveloped and rural, allowing for these crimes to easily go undetected.
While I was still very small, my father had an affair with another church secretary named Selma McGrew who lived in the house behind ours. She participated in my «preparation» by allowing my father to include me in the sex they were having. Being so young and small I often felt I would be killed during these encounters, and so I split off more personalities to endure it.
Nighttime was never intended for sleeping at our house but instead was a time of training. My mother was the only one allowed and/or commanded to sleep. My two older brothers, Jim and Rick, and my father came into my room night after night, creating an endless array of different forms of sexual abuse, all under my father's direction. My brother Rick, who is four years older than I, was selected to participate more often and my father used him to help «prepare» me for use as a child prostitute and for my approaching debut in pornography.
