without the use of Novocain. Who could have known then that, when I grew up and married, my «chosen» husband would be first 'in line' to purchase these successful dental practices, which is just what happened.
After I started kindergarten, my mother informed me that a group of people from the First Baptist Church were going to leave the church and form a new church called the First Presbyterian Church of Woodland Hills. In the beginning days, the church met at my elementary school, while we waited for our new church to be built on Platt Avenue. Our new minister's name was Rev. Alden McKelvey, and nothing seemed to change much, except the minister had a different name, we had a bigger building, and now more people were involved.
School was somewhat of a respite, but even there I was not always free from abuse. Starting in first grade, I was taken out of my class at Woodlake Avenue Elementary School (located a mile from the church), to attend 'choir practice' at the children's choir director's home a block from school. Her name was Mrs. Rebecca Muir. At her home, in conjunction with practicing church songs for performances at Sunday church services, I was trained to perform and participate in rituals and was forced to participate in child pornography films when a group of men entered her house and took over. Snuff pornography where little children or babies were killed was also filmed at her house. Like the other women involved, Mrs. Muir, publicly, a meek, gentle woman, dutifully complied with the direction of these men.
One day just after returning to school from Mrs. Muir's house, I went straight to the principal's office. Her name was Mrs. Stella Greer. For some unknown reason, the threats of death if I told were not consciously available to keep me silenced and switched out of the personality who had just witnessed the pornography, and I told her everything I had been forced to do at choir practice. I had seen Mrs. Greer talk sternly to us kids at assemblies and just knew that she was a person of great power who would be able to stop the bad people from hurting all of us children. But, her response was enough to reinforce everything my abusers had threatened over my young years. I will never forget it. Mrs. Greer's face turned red with anger as she wrathfully shook her finger at me, sternly warning in no uncertain terms, 'Young lady, I don't ever want to hear such filth out of your mouth again. You stop making up these horror stories and get back into your classroom where you belong!'
At that moment, I realized that what my abusers said was true. No one would help me. People would think I was crazy if I did tell, and I had 'no where to run, and no where to hide.' I couldn't survive without them and there was no one to help, just like they said. I was trapped. Why this adult woman, my school principal, was unable to logically question how a child of my young age could be privy to or know such adult and pornographic language, never seemed to cross her mind.
Our pediatrician, Dr. Cusack, located on Ventura Boulevard in Woodland Hills, participated by suturing up my vagina when it was torn from abuse, and cared for me in other ways when the abuse became too physically obvious. When I requested my childhood medical records several years ago, I was told that Dr. Cusack had moved out of the state and that all of his records had been destroyed.
At home in the evenings, while my mother was picking up my grandmother from work at Lockheed in Santa Monica, and in the middle of the night, my father continued his own form of tortures; raping me, sodomizing me, filming me pornographically with my brother, submerging me in the bathtub or swimming pool until I was nearly dead, torturing me extensively at his welding shop with the use of electroshock delivered through hot welding equipment inserted into my vagina, and leaving me outside all night alone during rain storms. He also kept dead bodies under our home for his sick perversions. He tortured and «trained» me under the house lots of nights before dinner, and would lock me into boxes and leave me there for long periods of time, often with body parts from cadavers he kept. One night he took me to a graveyard and forced me to watch as he dug up a coffin, opened it, forced me inside and reburied it. I split off more personalities. One personality split wasn't enough to handle this trauma.
One Saturday my father took me and one of my dolls out to the old refrigerator that was in the corner of our garage. Quickly, he shoved me inside and clutching my blond baby doll, I begged, frantically clinging to my father's shirt, 'No Daddy! Please don't.'
Slapping my hands away, my father scolded, 'Now, show Daddy what a big girl you can be. If you try to get out,' he knelt down beside me, 'Daddy will have to beat you.' He slammed the door shut and I could hear him taping it closed with the black electrical tape he used on endless mechanical things. When I cried out from inside the cold refrigerator, my father angrily pounded on the door, yelling for me to shut up.
Petrified in the dark, cramped cubicle, I listened for any sound that might indicate that my father was opening the door to set me free. Ominous silence prevailed. Feeling unbearably cold and unable to take another breath, I experienced the intervention of three ethereal beings, transparent yet sparkly, misty-blue colored angels who suddenly materialized outside the refrigerator and appeared to reach through the insulated metal to infuse me with life-sustaining energy. In a transcendent state, it was as if I was held in suspended animation as these angels lent their life energy to me.
Some time later, when my father came to release me, probably thinking that, like all the other times he had taken me near death, I would emerge fragmented yet grateful to him for saving me, he checked the pulse on my neck, and finding none, he panicked. He carried my limp body across the garage and laid me on his workbench. 'Now I've done it, damn it,' I heard my father say to himself from my out-of-body vantage point. 'I've gone too far and killed her, now what am I going to do?' Quickly he slid my lifeless body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off, carried me out the side door, and placed me in the crawl space beneath the house.
The rescuing angels reappeared and one telepathically communicated that it wasn't time for me to leave my family, that I needed to get back into my body and go on up for dinner. Unbeknownst to my father, I still had a spark of life left in me, and God, knowing His plan for my life was not yet complete, fanned that spark until I came back to life. When I reunited with my body, it ached and I felt nightmarishly sick but crawled out of the bag, wobbled out of the crawl space and walked in a dissociated state, back into the house where my family sat eating dinner. My father looked up at me as if he had seen a ghost and my mother, unaware of any of the «incidences» of the day, smiled and told me to sit down to eat.
The trauma and torture was endless, occurring nearly every day and night of my childhood. The tortures were so numerous that it would require a separate volume to chronicle all those I have remembered so far. Leaving my body in order to 'dissociate' from the pain and continuing to create separate personalities, often alongside personalities my abusers intentionally created for their own use, was my mind's way of keeping me alive to function in the day-to-day world.
I had two worlds: one secret world that I lived and knew only when I was triggered into it; and a second, 'normal' conscious world of day to day experiences. These worlds were kept separate by the use of trauma and programming. I was my father's and other people's project for the future. An investment that provided him access to high-tech hypnotic information, financial security, and most probably immunity from prosecution for charges involving pedophilia, child prostitution, and child pornography.
'He shall give His Angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.'
Chapter Three: We’re Off to See the Wizard
Hand signals are a common mode of control for victims of ritual abuse and mind control. There was a hand signal program I was taught when I was very little, that was sung to the song Frere Jacques, with the nursery rhyme, Where Is Pointer? The common song/game is played by singing; 'Where is Pointer? Where is pointer?' And then you put up your pointer finger and say, 'Here I am, Here I am. How are you, today sir? Very well, I thank you …run away, run away…' Then you put your hands behind your back. I was taught the version:
'Where is silencer?' With a finger held up to the lips commanding silence.
'Where is kingpin?' With large pin inside the middle finger, that I was poked with just before singing, 'run away, run away.'
'Where is little man?' Holding up a pinky finger while singing, 'Little man can't run away.'
