Mind Control and Me

I don't know exactly how this happened to me, but somehow I have a program, like a computer program that runs in my brain. It makes it so I don't always have free will, and I am terrified of this program.

I realize this is what psychotic people say, but I will say it nonetheless, and if you need to believe I am psychotic, it is certainly your prerogative.

Every day for as long as I can remember, I fear people who might do something to alter my brain. This comes out in situations where someone wants me to put on headphones, has medical instruments on their desk, does guided meditation, says certain statements, or wants me to do therapies like neurofeedback, brain spotting, or EMDR.

It is terribly distressing for me, and no matter how much I try to convince myself that there is nothing to fear, I get filled with overwhelming fear.

I don't know exactly how, but I know my brain was programmed when I was a child. I suppose everyone's is to a certain extent. For me, though, I think mine is a little more like the Manchurian Candidate if you have seen that movie.

My brain works kind of like this: it can be free-flowing along like a normal brain and then someone says or does X. My brain stops the free-flow and a program becomes activated in my brain. These programs are never any good, especially for me. My brain's program is activated as if it something that I must do, and it was not my idea, nor do I have free will to decide to do it or not.

Today, I was working with a therapist, and she was talking about guided imagery as a skill to relax or be mindful. I don't understand much about the programming in my head, but I do know guided imagery is the quickest way someone can access my programs, and so I avoid it at all costs.

Unfortunately, with the therapist from earlier today, we had different ideas of guided imagery, and so she started into something that in my mind was guided imagery, which puts me into an instant trance or hypnotic state, and my brain went crazy from there.

I am fairly sure she was rambling about some safe bubble around me, but my brain deciphered that into meaning I was supposed to cut my wrists. And down the spiral with that command did I go.

And though I have not carried out that command from my program, not doing so has made me incredibly mentally sick.

I am preoccupied with cutting my wrists and imagine what that would look like here. My brain is filled with psychotic feeling thoughts, and I imagine myself as a very young child sucking my thumb as bad stuff is happening around me or to me.

People want me to be optimistic about stopping the programs that are in my head, but the truth is most people don't understand what I am talking about, and there are only a handful of people in the world who help unprogram a programmed person.

So my optimism is low. And the world is a terrifying place at the moment.

Sigh.

The Box


My being lives in a box. It is the size of a box of matches. It is really small because I was meant to be small no matter how big the human body becomes. It is hard to breathe and move and be human in this box.

People sometimes want me to come out of this box. They don’t understand how hard or impossible that is for me. They want me to be bigger. To live bigger. Or something like that. They don’t understand the box is all I know. It is all I am allowed to know.

I am safer in the box no matter how uncomfortable it seems to other people. It is what I know. It is what I am allowed to keep me from getting killed.

The box doesn’t allow self-expression. That is very wrong when you live in the box. When you live in a box you are expected to be invisible, with as little life force coming from you as possible. Breathe small. Speak small. Move nothing.

When your mind lives in this tiny box, there is no room for joy, play, happiness, or even sadness. There is just self-acceptance that you belong in the box, and are to take up no more room on planet earth.

It doesn’t matter that I did not choose the box. It is my life. God’s plan. It is my coffin for while I am still alive on earth. I guess there is solace in knowing I have a place to lay down in the box, no matter how cramped it is.

I hate that people try to get me out of the box with forced behaviors. They don’t realize how painful it is for my little being to expand against nature. My brain breaks down like an old car when this is forced upon me. They think they know better than me. But, I have lived my life, and I know how to survive it.

Though it is always questionable why I continue to survive this life.

I can’t expect anyone else to understand. They do not live in the box. It is only my purgatory. Not to be shared. Not to be fixed. It just is.

The mistaken survival of the soul-less child

 

681b5a8aa699a740d4474eb363281471I have walked through my entire life a fraud. A nonexistent soul using the mortal body of no one. I am a fraud because from time-to-time, I would use this body to pretend as if I was a normal human being. Though, I always return to my place of nothingness. The place where those without souls return.

As a child I tried my best to be as invisible as possible. I tried being very still and quiet. I do not want to be noticed because I know I do not belong to this world. This world is confusing and cruel and scary. I don’t like it, so I am happy to not really belong to it. Yet, somehow, I got stuck with this mortal body that always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There is no making sense of the life this mortal body was given. The people who come in and out of it. The constant desire for it to die.

To be human is to claw your way through everything to survive. This soul-less being does not wish to survive this cruel human world.

This body does not know love, comfort, happiness, safety, or anything that would be good or pleasurable. This body knows darkness, sadness, hatred, pain, evil, death, anger, and a strong desire to turn out the lights on this mortal body.

Without hope, there is death.

This soul-less body was created from birth with lies, pain, shame, fear, and brutality. It was programed to be obedient, to never disobey, and to serve the greater human species to which it did not belong.

How can an entire species be so cruel, even to the soul-less body who was never one of them? But it is true, and that is the way it is.

A wrecked soul-less child body who mistakenly survived. It was never supposed to survive. There is not upside for this being. There is no better. No nothing. Especially a real life on the human planet.

It is so confusing to figure out what to do with this fraud of a soul-less body. Oh children, why did you survive? I suppose some instinct, or maybe they made you with their confusing lies. I don’t blame you. I promise I hold no anger toward you. You were only babies and toddlers and youngsters doing what you thought you were supposed to do.

Now we have this fraudulent body built through evil lies, and there is nothing for it to do but to lay in bed until it dies. Oh wise one, you are correct in that we could take it from this earth sooner by our own hands. But, they say it will ruin the human children in this new family.

I know we don’t belong. But there is a speck of dust, maybe love, in this soul-less body that makes me think how sad it would be for these human children to be ruined by our actions.

We may know we never belonged, and wouldn’t have ever wanted to belong to this world, but now we have somehow become connected to these two children who look to us to keep behaving in a fraudulent way because they need us to.

Why, with no soul inside, do we have to always be the good guys? Why?

Because that’s the way it is.

 

Exit

Serial killers aren’t born that way, they experience a lifetime of shit that turns them into those people. Yet, most of society blames them and believes they should be extinguished from the planet.

Everyone experiences their own lifetime of stuff that turns them into who they are. There is no questioning our experiences shape who we become.

This makes us different from one another. The woman who was abused as a child may find that if she found out her husband had been abusing her little girl, she might want him dead, and may indeed chop him up into pieces and put him in her basement freezer. Or maybe her experiences didn’t turn her so dark, so she just throws him out and calls the police. 

The point is, we all become a product of our environment, and some of our DNA. I lean more toward the environment as the greater influencer.

So, if you are subjected to horrific abuse and mind control, should you really stay on this planet as this potentially dangerous person you became?

If you did it once or twice or more as a child,  who is to say you won’t do it as an adult? No one, if they are truly honest. Of course,  we all know we don’t operate on honesty as a society. 

The ones we pay to say the nice things to us, the therapists, they are full of shit. If they continue to say nice things, we keep paying them. It’s a living.

We are who we are, and some of us would be doing the world a favor by exiting.

Better off Dead?


I have been MIA lately because my mind has been on fire with flooded emotions and fierce suicidal planning.

I have learned this was a result of my protector parts actions to save me from myself since I had the medical procedure 2 weeks ago that was scary, dangerous, and reminiscent of past bad memories.

Protector parts are designed to protect the host or system when we were children. They do a very good job at helping us survive overwhelming trauma. As an adult, it often doesn’t work out so well despite their good intentions.

I have been beating myself up for doing the medical procedure to begin with, but I have learned that the decision to do it, and the aftermath meltdown of my system was in large part my protectors trying to tell me I make terrible decisions. 

I have been experiencing the usual onslaught of emotions and messages, but much more intensely : “I am stupid. I can’t be trusted with the system. I don’t matter. The system would be better off if I was dead.”

These have been unusually strong messages. I really thought I was going to kill myself, and I couldn’t function I was so highly dissociative. I think because so many parts were triggered by so many different aspects of the medical procedure. 

It is true, I should not have done the procedure with the red flags I had, but the only message I could really focus on was that “I had to obey” the doctor who said “I had to do it.” That outweighed every reasonable message that told me to not do it. I am programmed to obey, especially doctors.

Interestingly for me, I realize now that my protector parts were giving me both messages: “you must obey,” and afterwards “you make terrible decisions.” I thought both those messages were my own, which made me feel terrible about myself and life in general. But, it turns out, the protectors can blend with me enough to confuse me so I think they are my own thoughts.

My therapist reminded me protector parts still think like children or adolescents, and that I am truly the most equipped to make adult decisions. Deep breath with the thought of that since it is opposite of everything I have known my entire life.

I have always believed I am weak, not to be trusted, and lucky to be alive as a result of the others. I was told I was too incompetent to do life, and I heard it enough times I believed it.

Even though it has been a horrific couple of weeks, I am glad this has happened because now I can work on forming a different relationship with my protectors, and possibly start believing in myself little by little.

Why was I born?

I never mattered. My family ensured I understand this. I figured this out early. My brain became dizzy and lost and alone. Early on I didn’t know suicide was an option. I thought I had to stay on this very horrific planet where life didn’t make any sense to me.

I was the 3rd child in my family, the first two being older brothers. My parents tell the story that they wanted a girl, which is why they had a 3rd child, and I naively thought for years they wanted a girl for the “normal” reasons families typically want a certain gender. I was wrong.

What I could never understand is why if my mom wanted a girl, then why did she hate me so much? And why did everyone in my life treat me so poorly, and it seemed to be ok, and my role in the family.

From as far back as I can remember, my mom was always upset with who I was and how I looked. She would yell at me in her bathroom making me look in the mirror and tell me all the things wrong with me. One thing that especially infuriated her was that I didn’t hold in my stomach all the time like a proper young lady. Otherwise, I was showing the world I was fat. The fact that I was malnourished and skin and bones didn’t enter into this repeated criticism.

I was born into this family, never to understand it. I never understood why my older brothers who were constantly in trouble were treated special and as if they were loved, but I hardly existed as a wanted child in my family. Well, at least not the right kind of wants.

I don’t ever remember being loved or cared for by this family as a child. No one cared where I was, what was happening to me, or whether I had appropriate food or medical care. I was always more of a burden expected to keep my mouth shut under every circumstance. No one wanted to hear or cared what I had to say.

Love in any kind of normal way did not exist for me. As close as I have to love in some kind of caring way was once in a while my middle brother would pull off my older brother for things he was doing to me.

I didn’t have any caring neighbors, relatives, people at school, or anywhere else. It was as if I was a ghost, and didn’t matter to anyone.

No matter how many times my therapist explains it to me, I can’t seem to comprehend that my parents would intentionally have a baby to harm it for their sick, personal gain. I know we all see stories of this kind of stuff on the news from time-to-time, but this can’t be my story, despite all the evidence that says it is.

I guess it seems incomprehensible to me partially because I am a mother of two, and I just can’t imagine harming them in any way. I would step in front of a train for either of my children, whereas my family of origin was the train coming right for me all the time.

I suppose I have to explain I was born to two active alcoholic parents , and my two brothers became alcoholics/drug addicts at a rather early age, and later drug dealers. This alone brought in lots of violence to our home, but it also brought in lots of other strange and sick people, amongst other things.

When I tell people this story, which I actually never do outside my therapist’s office, people assume I grew up in poverty. I guess to be correct, my family lived in an upper middle class neighborhood, but I did live in poverty in my own little world.

My mom was President of the Junior Women’s Club and pack leader for my brothers’ Cub Scout pack. She entertained lots of hot shot business men at fancy parties and over cocktails at our house. From time-to-time, she would be in the newspaper for her fancy parties and philanthropy work.

My brothers were in the newspaper twice as children, once for taking an overdose of my aunt’s “diet pills,” and the second time because they intentionally lit our house on fire in the middle of the night. The fire story leaves out that they left the family for dead, and many fire fighters endangered their lives looking for them in the fire. The story also leaves out that my drunk, passed-out parents were more annoyed with me than anything for waking them to tell them the house was on fire.

My father was missing a lot from the house. He just wasn’t there. I believe this was part of the dark life he was living. When he was home, he was drunk and my parents fought a lot after their drinking buddies left.

My mom grew up during the depression, and has several siblings who I would describe as all mentally unstable in a religious kind of way (like psychotic). All of my cousins on my mom’s side were drug addicts and some were mentally ill in scary ways, all except two, and those two cousins were adopted, but still describe their childhood as something they had to escape from.

My mom was by far a very attractive woman, and she used this to her advantage her entire life, and wasn’t afraid to tell you so. To this day she looks about 20 years younger than she is. She also says she was sexually abused as a child.

She is a classic narcissist. Everything is about her. No matter what is happening, she manages to turn the story back around to her. She requires constant attention, and has no respect for anyone’s wishes but her own. Just tonight my mom called and I told her I had neck surgery this week, and there were some complications with the anesthesia. Without a beat, her reply was to tell me she has red dots on her leg and wants me to come up with some type of solution for her problem, and my issues never exist unless she is blaming me for a problem.

But here’s the key, to everyone on the outside we were this upstanding family mostly respected in the community. No one would ever guess what went on behind closed doors unless they were participating in it.

My mom has been called a sadist, too. I grew up in a fairly large beach town, so there were always a lot of transient or seedy people around. I wandered among them and received my share of abuse from them. But my mom liked to do a special thing to me. When I was about 5-6 years old, she would drive me about 5-10 miles from my home and leave me there. At that age, I didn’t have the wherewithal to know what to do, so I would just sit and wait for many, many hours. Usually by nightfall my father would find me and bring me home. We never spoke of this, but I was always terrified to be left somewhere. My sick mother thought this little joke was funny. I don’t know what my father thought, but I know at the end of the day he always picked her over me.

My life growing up from a very young age was nonstop physically, sexually, and religiously abusive, neglectful, and psychologically torturing. As a result, my mind decided to survive by creating Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), which was formerly called Multiple Personality Disorder. I developed “parts” or other inside people to break up my life and handle things I couldn’t. I didn’t do this consciously, it just happened. It is what allowed me to survive.

As an adult now, my mind is filled with “parts” or other people. Some have more expansive identities than others. Though it helped me survive my childhood, it is by no means an easy life, and many days I have thoughts of suicide. My memory is severely impaired due to the DID. It is something I try to hide everyday. I have to negotiate between the parts of me who will be “out” on any given day or moment. As a result, this body has no clear sense of who it is. Not having a cohesive sense of yourself is a depressing predicament to be in for your entire life.

Loneliness is the prevailing feeling when things are good. Because if you don’t have this disorder, it is not something the rest of the minions on this planet understand, or even believe in.

Ghost Child

 

Imagine growing up in an environment where you don’t really exist. Most of the time no one sees you, hears you, or even thinks of you and your basic needs. You don’t exist, but you do.

You know you exist because you can see them. Sometimes they sound muffled, sometimes you are drifting away, but you know you are there. You can feel some things like hunger, pain, and fear. You have to be real to feel those things. But most of the time the world acts as if you don’t exist, unless it is one of those times when the people want something from you.

As an adult, I am always fearful when someone asks me a basic question about my childhood. I am afraid my secret will be exposed. My secret that the things I could discuss with a regular inquiring human don’t exist for me. I don’t remember the normal happenings of any given day from my childhood, though I am sure I must have had some. I only have memories of the bad, or the quiet moments when it seemed like the world stopped and I was just walking around in it alone.

I don’t tell people that I can only remember 3 memories of Kindergarten, and have no memory of 1st through 6th grade, except for a few traumatic memories that involved school.

Now that I know I have DID, I suppose the logical explanation is that those memories are stored somewhere in my brain as experiences of another part of me. I try and try to remember, but I can’t. It is hard to make sense of things when you don’t have complete memories.

There is this really shitty group out there called the False Memory Foundation. They would dismiss all my memories because of the significant gaps in memory I do have. They like to say people with DID are faking it because they are trying to avoid responsibility for a crime, or perhaps the fake DID person just wants attention. We won’t go into their motives for saying that here.

I am not avoiding responsibility for a crime, and I certainly don’t need attention, especially of this nature. There were times when I denied it was real, but there is just too much that meets the criteria for Dissociative Identity Disorder that I experience.

I have distinctly different parts who have distinct personalities, cognitive functioning, and beliefs about the world. They have different names, genders, sexual orientations, ages, bodies, and so much more. Though we experience ourselves as separate people, we do know there is only one body that we all share. We just don’t all agree on what the body looks like. Younger parts actually see small bodies when they look at our body.

Almost all of us experience terrible amnesia that affects us just about every day. We have learned techniques to hide it, but anyone who has any insight into this disorder would easily spot it with a few questions. I tried to write it off as dementia at one point, but then that doesn’t explain the parts who have very good memories and can recall all sorts of details I would never be able to recall.

My DID helped me survive horrific abuse, neglect, constant exposure to violence and alcohol/drugs, and mind control. By the time I reached 7th grade, my DID seemed to settle down some and I remembered more of my life from that point on, but definitely still experiencing periods of amnesia.

My parents decided for reasons I will probably never know to move to another state and start the family over in 7th grade. We became this new fake family that just tried to blend in with the rest. For the most part we did, considering so much was still going on.

I was still being raped by a family member during that period, but that seemed tolerable compared to my younger years.

Though I never mattered much to my family of origin, my life did become a little more normalized despite the ongoing abuse, violence, police interventions, drug dealing, suicide attempts and prostitution that still went on in our family.

Though I had friends my entire life, I have always felt alone because of the disconnect between my fake world and real world. I was taught early on that the real world I lived in was never to be discussed with anyone. And it wasn’t until recently.

So, I have always sort of felt like this ghost person, one who was there and at times interacting quite normally in the world, but one who had no real identity and no connection to anyone, except maybe my pets. It is hard to explain. Some of my friends would describe me as quite social, but that is because I have parts of me who can do that without being our authentic selves. When you can’t be authentic, it is like you are not really there, but just playing a part of what we think a “normal” person would do in those situations.

Sadly, I have been disconnected from other people my entire life. My children are probably my closest connections, but even then it doesn’t feel 100% connected or authentic.

I have always known I was abused and neglected, but I used all my energy to push that away from my everyday thinking. The memories stayed everyday, but the feelings and thoughts about them stayed far away until my Senior year of college.

And that began the official deconstruction of my life.