How It Began

September 30, 2019

This is a world in which children are a teased, prodded, tantalized, traumatized, tortured, raped, cannibalized and eaten alive and murdered in order that the fallen angel “alien” dieties (the Annunaki of Mesopotamia and Sumer provide the most evidence, but it precedes those ages), who do not have the mitochondrial capacity body type to metabolize light energy in food, so they harvest children, adults, animals – all living things.

My first memory was waking up at age nine months, tied into a metal-barred white-enamelled crib spread-eagled, held down in an X-shaped crucifix form of ACE Bandages, in pain, unable to move. That is my first memory.

My mother was a Washington, D.C. cardiac research nurse and I was used in government experiments to monitor my reaction to what was being done to me. My body functions of urination and defecation were controlled with diuetics, laxatives and enemas. I was kept sedated on Paregoric, a Class-5 liquid opiate, and forced to live on my back.

After two years of this, my mother’s brother who had been an Air Force Pilot in the Korean War, and had become an architect an gentleman farmer who built the grotto in Emmittsburg, MD, the Marian Visions of the Black Sun took place at, discovered what was being done to me after I had been released from the crib and my father raped me on the kitchen counter. When he left for the day (he had been in the US Navy in their band for four years on a ship, and was getting his Bachelors Degree in Music at the U of MD), I went to the bathroom and got the bottle of Bayer’s children’s orange-flavored aspirin and ate the hole bottle, to try to kill myself. I had already pulled the shells of my two turtles off, hiding behind the couch, so see what dying was. My mother has told me, because I liked the orange taste of baby aspirin, and apparently had a lot of it those two years in the crib being data-collected for the CIA’s MK Ultra pilot projects Monarch and Mannequin, that it would kill me. I needed to know what dead was. So I killed Tinkerbell and Sam, and, crying, ate the baby aspirin, crawled under my parents bed, and a thunderstorm came. My stomach hurt and I cried. My mother found me and made it all even worse by making me drink some awful yellow syrup (Ipecac), and I vomited. When my father came home I was whipped with a belt. I couldn’t count yet, but at some point I passed out.

Have you seen this face? That’s my mother.

My uncle took me from my parents to his farm in Flintstone, Maryland. Since I was only two, and he had to work (he was the architect and contractor building the hospital that was in Cumberland,), and my three cousins (one, Phillip, was in the Montauk projects while he was in the Navy, and was severely damaged, and he became a medical officer at Fort Detrick, where in 1997 he would tell me they made AIDS) were not much older than I was, my uncle put a dog harness on me and attached the dog chain to it and an old bulldozer tire which he filled with sand and toys, and placed it at the edge of the tributary to the Potomac River that ran through his farm. A cooler with drinks and sandwiches was there and the chain was just the right length to prevent me from drowning. That was the summer of 1961 and I was two. He knew that was a much safer existence for me that what my parents were using me for. This caused a lot of tension, but I am grateful for his intervention, although it didn’t last long, it saved my life, I am sure. I was able to visit his farm until age ten. He too was under attack, like his own uncles, he resisted the cabal, refused to become a Freemason, and he died an unnatural death prematurely.

My nightmares were of hiding from Nazi stormtroopers with dogs, and I was protecting my brothers and other kids, hiding us in walls, cabinets, cellars, and hanging upside-down from the silver-plated box springs of beds, the aluminum-flake metal getting into

my eyes, holding onto their arms and legs as they were discovered and pulled out of our hiding places. The dogs ripped at our clothing, bit our faces and bodies, snarling. Many were lost like this. I learned to use my forearm to pry open their jaws, and with my left hand, push their snout back, poking my fingers into their eyes. It only slowed them down, but it was self-defense.

This is just the beginning. Now I have decoded much of it. Here’s my “bio”, leaving out the part about my “second husband”, a newsman in the nation’s capital who is secretly a wanna-be transgender (he uses herbs and dresses cross in private, afraid to be discovered) who conspired to have me murdered in 2012. Miraculously, the shotgun shell missed my skull by a fraction of an inch, although it burned me. After the lifetime of MK Ultra, V2K, the satanic ritual abuse, the sabotage, destabilizing, the persecution, the killing of loved ones, the surviving “accidents:, arson attempts, being targeted by the gang in Fulton Hill in Richmond, losing my business, my animals, my home my art my lifetime of work my vehicles my health – LYME AKA MORGELLONS INFECTED WITH SMARTDUST BY THEM – I lost my family.
I DO NOT BACK DOWN.

I hated Walt Disney films: FANTASIA was my trigger film father forced me to watch for two days.
I hated caves, and still do. And parking garages, and tunnels. And sleeping bags. You know why. And suffocating and drowning. I have drowned three times and been revived, but that’s not the only count. Yet I love to climb the mountains!

I began speaking out in 2007 on MySpace, telling the world about the Bee Colony Collapse. When Facebook launched, I told all my “friends” repeatedly that it
is a voluntary CIA surveillance input database we are feeding ourselves into”.
I was ridiculed for that.
Now it is common knowledge.
For some reason, the only media I am “allowed” to use is WordPress, and that onlyand even then, it is hacked, posts are edited or removed. The youtube channels I have started are jammed. Videos have words replaced, moved around, lose meaning, no views, subscriber counts cap. Channels deleted.  And I am constantly hacked. At first I thought it was my newsman ex, who I had to inform the VA state police and IC3 about in 2016. Now it’s the social credit scoring done by the cabal.

I have seen the UFO crafts – all kinds – since age 3 or 4 (at the farm first) and as recently as last month, twice in one week here. I have had premonitions of the coming cataclysm that we are facing now, my brother’s death, my mother’s suicide attempt when I was 10 (I stopped it, she was in a coma, naked, beet-red, covered in foam, slimy clear froth coming from her mouth).

I have experienced ghosts, poltergeist and demons in my space since childhood as well. Once a woman died while I was drawing her blood when I was in pre-med at a Johns Hopkins Hospital (it was peaceful, her spirit passed through both of us and circled the ceiling and left. It was tranquil and affirming, I was 22).

At age 5, on a Baltimore childrens’ television show called The Lorenzo Show on WJZ13, I loved to watch at home on Sunday afternoons, the host was a kind hobo in a gray suit.   During each show, the children would all free-dance to classical music the likes of Erik Satie: interpretive. At home I danced my heart out. My father got me a ticket to be on the show, drove me there in the Dodge in the photo on this page and when it was time to dance, I wouldn’t. I felt as if I didn’t belong there then. Lorenzo (the “hobo” host – Gerry Wheeler was his real name) knelt in front of me as I sat in a folding chair alone, all the children dancing, and askjed me – the cameras rolling – why I wasn’t dancing with the other children. “Because I’m not a child”, I answered. I was beaten for that, and once home, received lashes with the buckle end of the belt on my bare bottom.

At seven I began calling the police on my parents, but after the second call, I stopped, I couldn’t walk for the wounds from the belt buckle and broken yardsticks on my buttocks, thighs and calves. I stopped crying then, a silent rebellion.

The church was an escape, and the school ignored every word I said. I dared not tell anyone else.

Occasionally I would awake at a different age, time or place. I’d draw it, write stories, and it was said that I had a great imagination, was a dreamer.

By age ten, my parents were divorced. My father, high in the Elks Lodge heirarchy, MA in Music Howard County teacher, deacon of our church impregnated a young neighbor and it gets worse. Mother, an ICU night nurse fulltime, made me stop playing anymore and be her personal slave Cinderella and she was Mommie-dearest. She had a man move in who was a Roman Catholic from Highlandtown, John Anthony Baronowski. He and she were big-time swingers. I was drugged alot and used at his parties when she was at work. He was a pimp in Baltimore and had a string of hookers, passing off a fake career as a Baltimore City Police Detective with a fake badge. I found this out from my best friend Susie Collum’s dad, who worked as an engineer at Westinghouse nearby. He had compassion for me because I was kind, and had the three brothers and running the house on my young shoulders. I did everything by sixth grade. Everything. My mother and “Mr. John” ‘swung’.

Mr. John drugged me and tried to burn the house down with my brothers in it, and I saved us. He had left. That was in the middle of the night in February of 1970. My dog Dutchie saved us really. She jumped on my bed, barkig, despite the two “hot toddies” he had me drink because “couldn’t sleep because I feel like something bad is going to happen”. That something bad was pouring gasoline all over the kitchen curtains and setting the house on fire so they could collect on the Gerber Child Life Insurance Policies my mother had just taken out. She had had me bring her home the papers from Catonsville Elementary School. I asked for them in the office, Miss Hall gave them to me.

Someone in a video just said people are having problems remembering their past(s). Not me.

So here we were, me, Jay, Charlie and David, barefoot in snow, and I ran to Miss Bruchey’s next door and banged, calling the police and fire department. Mr. John came running up just as they arrived, and must have watched from a distance around the corner, then gone around the alley and come down the driveway from the back. He ran up and said “Thank God you got here, it’s horrible”, and pretended to cry. He threw himself on the ground and pretended he was suffering. I looked at him, a sixth grade girl, still outside in the snow barefoot, and screamed “YOU DID THIS!”

It gets worse… My mother drove up and he became a crisis actor.
After that I began to imagine them dying in a car accident, praying for forgiveness for the thoughts. In my dreams I tore his and other men’s eyes out, jumping on their backs from behind. I was staunchly virtuous, and suffered constant beatings, being burned, bruised, bones broken. My brothers… oh my god.

Charlie was driven to commit suicide at age 20, and event I had a vision of but could not stop. The other two are still alive, if you call it that.

So when the CIA came to collect their supersoldier in her twelfth grade year, I said no.
Those are just a few high spots.
Here I am.
They (the Annunaki interdimensional parasites who rule this world) don’t let a person succeed who does that.
My great uncles suffered similar fates career-wise, Uncle Homer even losing his entire valley because he left the DuPont wing of Post WWII Operation Paperclip. He tried to get so far from them he bought an entire valley in California, and had to go in and out by plane, helicopter, or guywire and pulleys. (I even met a man online last year in Zen Garcia’s DISCORD group, Larry Champion) who, and his brother also, both older than I am, grew up hearing about my great uncle Homer Lung and his property) – the movie Chinatown, about Los Angeles’ water grab is about that land they flooded. They took his land. I ended up living with Uncle Homer on the farm he had after that in St. Mary’s County, Maryland. It’s Amish now. He’s long passed.

The early days of the projects involved extremely invasive methods with drug classes and handlers who had less finesse than the eighties and nineties. Also, the saturation and vernacular of commercial pop culture and children in the gamer world hadn’t biased interpretation of what was happening.

The MK Ultra ran out of Spring Grove State Hospital, just across the beltway bridge. We used to go watch the Leary LSD experiments on the weekends, and saw and heard what I don’t like to describe. The Catonsville Nine draft record burning was done with chemicals mixed by a member who became my UMBC Physics instructor. Small world. My high school friend Will Wilson went on to paint Michael Jackson’s BLOOD ON THE DANCE FLOOR album cover. He’s the one who took me to the CIA’s Forever Family cult.

I remember when the entities would visit me, and their forms which went through walls, or came through radios and televisions, like now, but more evident then. More visible.

My children made art about the cloning centers before they went to the dentist, who gave them fluoride treatments, calcifying their pineal glands. Dear GOD I wish I had known then. I should have listened to their father, Jamie, my husband. He told me fluoride was used by the Nazis in concentration camps, but I didn’t understand yet. But he had already been fractured, himself a butterfly from DC used in sex trade as a child by his father, the then-Chaplain of Fort Meade Military Base. The clientele they were passed around in included being at the *author Tom Wolfe‘s home, and they were still friends with his clone son of same name, dress (white suit) and affectations. We “partied” together.

The images of my two children are black and white photographs I took, developed and printed. My daughter’s is infrared, my son’s is Tri-X. Note the starfish… sure you have.

After I was left homeless by this reptilian mass media shill whose YouTube banner literally is the station’s mast truck he operates, set up at Sandy Hook, the whole setup behind – he is the one who wrote “I’m in news, I lie for a living” publicly, in 2013 – and then I was targeted with Lyme and developed Morgellons Syndrome, the canary-in-the-coal-mine reaction true children of the Light with a high VMAT2 gene expression have. Because we are extra small, atom-sized, atom-us.

I’ll stop there. I’m grateful others speak out too. It helps to be specific. Makes a person more believable. Of course in the case of a child, then that’s different. I love you all, and each of us is a wayshower. There is great deception, and we cannot even conceive of what joy awaits us soon. We are refined by The Purifier, so stand. Or as I said in last night’s post, RISE <3

Namasté.

*A bonfire of the vanities is “a burning of objects condemned by authorities as occasions of sin“.  Now there’s a Luciferian inversion for you, them passing us through the fire.

Category: Satanic Ritual Abuse, True History
Tags: ascension,autobiography,bases,Catonsville Nine,children,CIA,deception,DIVINE LIGHT BEINGS,family,human cloning,Leary,LSD,matrix,mind control,MK Ultra,programming,SSP,Secret Space Program,supersoldiers,Spring Grove State Hospital,trauma,underground bases,veils,TRUE HISTORY

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