I’ve been thinking about the first meetings I remember having with my main programmers, as well as an individual who I believe was the one who facilitated those meetings. But in order to give a proper explanation, I have to give a certain amount of background detail, as well as explain the basics of how and why I moved from my hometown in Texas to Southern California.
I will probably go into detail later (maybe), but my mother and father separated some time right before my third birthday. My brother was around two or three months old.
There was a lot of abuse both ways between my mother and father. My father was an alcoholic, and I was told that he became physically abusive when he would come home drunk.
Which is probably true.
The times I remember seeing and hearing my parents fight, all I ever remember seeing was my mother jumping on my father’s back, beating him with her fists, scratching him with her nails, and yanking his hair. And then he retaliating by shoving her away from him.
Point is, I never saw my father hit my mother or lay a hand on her except in self-defense. I’m not saying he never did. I’m saying, I never saw it.
What I do know, however, is that he wouldn’t come home sometimes. I remember them arguing about it, and him insisting that he was staying at Bill’s house, and then my mother laughing sardonically, and screaming back at him that he was “using Bill as an excuse,“ and that he was “staying with the whore he met at the bar.”
(I’m not trying to be offensive, but those are the words my mother used).
Which probably has truth to it, as well, seeing as that when my brother was just a couple months old, my dad left my mother, and the young woman he moved in with had just given birth to their own little girl a few months prior. So… he was obviously having an affair on my mother.
I remember when I met Bill, my father’s best friend at the time. I believe I was still just two because I don’t believe my brother was born yet, particularly because I remember at the unfortunate and dramatic end of the evening, Bill’s wife was trying to calm my mother by reminding her to not get so upset because it might hurt the baby. Reminders which just seemed to incense my mother even more.
But if my brother was born, he was barely a newborn.
Bill and his wife lived on a big stretch of land in west Texas (that’s pretty much the only way land comes in that area of west Texas: in big, dry stretches). Their house had a wide porch that extended the entire length of the front, and they had planted bright flowers in what looked like large half-barrel pots situated on either side of the steps leading to the porch.
At that age, I was impressed. I had never seen flowers planted in big barrel pots before, and I thought the splashes of color looked pretty against the darker wood of the house.
Aside from the outside of the house, the main thing I remember is being shown Bill’s beer cap collection. He had beer caps from all different sorts of beer companies all over the world, and I thought it was pretty neat until my mother wrinkled her nose in disgust and yanked me away from peering too closely at the caps. She made a sound of disgust and mentioned something to Bill’s wife about the smell, asking her how she could stand living around that smell.
It didn’t smell bad to me, even with my nose squished right up against the glassed-in cases, but I figured Momma just hated beer.
After a barbecue lunch, Bill and Dad were getting comfortable on the couch with another beer, and my mother got upset at something. Since I wasn’t paying attention at the time, I’m not sure what set her off. Probably the entire trip to Bill’s house was what had her on edge, period, because she didn’t like Bill, for reasons that are obvious to me now, as an adult, the least of which because he was helping to cover up Dad’s extra marital affair with the woman he had met at the bar. And, of course, because he was encouraging my dad’s drinking.
But my mother and father ended up arguing on the porch, started struggling over who was going to hold me, and we ended up leaving Bill’s house with my mother screaming at everyone and my dad acting like he didn’t understand why she was upset.
Somewhere around 1982, when I was around five or six and my brother around three or four, we left Texas and moved to California.
My father and mother had been divorced by that time, and she had been given permission by the pastor of our church there in Texas to marry a man, Tom, who attended the sister-church in Southern California. It was practically an arranged marriage, for all intents and purposes (arranged marriages were common in that church, from my understanding), but not quite as arranged as the failed marriage between my mother and father.
(Yes, from what my mother has told me, her marriage to my father was an arranged marriage. However, her story on how her second marriage with Tom came about [specifically, whether it was arranged or not], has varied throughout the years, and I’m not entirely sure of the truth. I do believe that there was certainly at least a pressure to marry Tom, and in this way, it could be said that her second marriage was covertly arranged. But that’s a whole other story, and since I’m not sure of which “truth” my mother has told is actually The Truth, this is probably all that I will say on the matter.)
So, she married Tom, and we moved from the small-town desert of Texas all the way to Southern California, in the greater Los Angeles area, specifically, in the San Bernardino valley.
Tom, as it turned out, was a Satanist. But, of course, by outside standards, he was a “good Pentecostal man.” In fact, before we moved to SoCal, I remember my mother proudly telling other people (her sisters, I think it was, but I can’t recall exactly who) that Tom was such a good man that he was teaching a weekly Bible study at his house on Tuesdays. After we moved there, however, I never saw him actually teach a Bible study. Instead, as I realized later, Tom was being trained to teach Tuesday night Bible study. But he never actually did. He had all the paraphernalia. I even remember Tom laying it out on the kitchen table one evening and someone (Brother Bob, I think it was) came over and went through the material with Tom. But the ambition to teach home Bible study didn’t last very long, like most things with Tom.
Satanists and Degrees of Separation
There’s a lot more I could write about all the stuff that came before our move from Texas, and I’ll probably get around to it at another time. But lately, I’ve been thinking more about my unfortunate associations with three people in particular; four, if you count my ex-stepfather.
In trying to understand my life as a child and how everything fits together, I have wondered how I came across particular people in my life. It’s surreal to me, growing up in what I thought was a normal, simple “Pentecostal/Apostolic” lifestyle, but then, looking back and realizing that I was involved with some pretty nasty and infamous Satanists. By most people’s accounts, the two groups of people don’t match: Pentecostals and Satanists. But, if you understand anything about the charismatic movement, and if you understand anything about occult infiltrators, then you understand that it’s not such an odd thing, after all. Many Luciferian and Satanic infiltrators (by whatever name they do or do not go by) are quite comfortable in “Christian” environments, no matter the religious name or sect with whom they choose to affiliate, because many “Christian” environments are not Christ-like at all!
This was how it was with Tom, and my mother, too.
Because of Tom’s close association with Satanists
and, of course, my mother’s affiliation with Satanists, as well, because her hands aren’t clean by far, although that admission is still very difficult and painful to wrap my head around
I came across three main people who were key in my subsequent programming:
1. A woman who I call Pam. She was a Satanist of some sort or the other (although it’s likely that she had a Christian cover, but I’m not sure), and was one of my programmers.
2. A man who I refer to as “Dr. A.” He was a well-known and self-proclaimed Satanist (no Christian cover needed), as well as one of my main programmers.
3. A man who I call “the bald guy” or “Baldy.” He also was a well-known and self-proclaimed Satanist who, by my current understanding from piecing together all of my experiences, acted nearly as an “agent” of sorts (I’m not sure how else to describe it…!), putting me into contact with both Pam and with Dr. A.
I’m not sure of the degree of separation between Tom and the two men, and since I am very doubtful that Tom personally knew Dr. A before everything went down with me, I wonder who Tom personally knew first: Pam or Baldy.
I go back and forth on this.
To most people, I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other what the degree of separation. But to me, it matters very much.
First, it matters because I want to know the truth. I listen to other people reminisce about things that happened to them in their childhood, and I wonder if they appreciate the fact that they know the timeline…? Or, if they don’t remember the timeline, do they appreciate the fact that they can just go ask Mom or Dad or Sibling or Grandparent, and that someone will tell them the truth…?
I didn’t grow up knowing what it’s like for people to tell me the truth. All I ever got as a child were lies and gaslighting and manipulations and mind games. So as an adult, the truth is very important to me, and that’s why I often obsess over things like timelines or names — things that most people maybe wouldn’t bother with — because the truth matters to me.
Second, it matters because I want to know “why.” Why did those things happen to me? And I want to know the answer to “how.” How was it that I got involved with these crazy people? And the degree of separation and the particulars about how everyone was interconnected matters, because it goes a long way to understanding the “how” and the “why.”
So, in trying to figure it all out, I know that Baldy and Dr. A were close acquaintances/friends. This isn’t my assumption, nor is it my perception. It is a well-documented and known fact.
But I don’t know if Baldy and Pam were friends, and I don’t know if Dr. A and Pam personally knew each other.
Understanding the chronology and understanding the relationships each had with the other would certainly help explain why I met Baldy, because otherwise, there doesn’t seem to be any logical reason why I would have met him. He didn’t play a part in the actual programming I went through — not that I currently recall, anyway — and I only remember formally meeting him once, when I was forced to enter into a contract with him and “sign” it, of sorts, in my own blood. I think I may have seen him a few times (maybe just once…) after that, in situations that I have had recurring obsessive thoughts and nightmares over, but can’t be one hundred percent positive right now. Those horrid memories are still very fuzzy to me, and I’m not at a point where I want to explore them just yet. Maybe at another time in the future. But not just yet.
I do know, however, that he wasn’t a good man, that’s for sure, regardless of the façade he wore, and regardless of how many people have been fooled into thinking his “Hollywood style” of Satanism was just a joke. Here’s something people need to know: it wasn’t a joke!!!
But even still… I don’t have a satisfactory reason as to why I met Baldy and signed a contract with him, unless we’re looking at degrees of separation. And in this case, it does matter who I met first.
By my current thinking, the most logical explanation is that Baldy was acting as an “agent,” of sorts, for both Pam and Dr. A (and presumably others, because the web is very large…), and Baldy is who I met first. Then, Baldy facilitated the meeting between Pam and I, and after a time of programming, Pam reported my progress and the sort of talents I was showing; and finally, Dr. A came on board.
(None of this probably matters to anyone else but me, but since this is my blog, I guess I decide what I write about. 😀
But, too, in the unlikely event that my brother ever comes across my writings— well… maybe what I write will help him make his own connections, and maybe understanding the ins and outs of the ever-elusive “how” and “why” will help him not think I’m crazy for exposing the insanity that I lived through… that we both lived through, in our own ways.)
Anyway, this is just my best guesswork, and it’s what makes sense to me based on everything that happened. I know there has to be a reason for what happened to me, and I know there has to be a specific way of how everything came about, but I try to not obsess too much over the timeline. Because the truth is, regardless of the sequence of events, those four people, especially, who I met in SoCal — Tom, Pam, Baldy, and Dr A — forever changed my life, and whatever the degree of separation between all of them, and however the particulars of the arrangement, there was definitely a connection between all of them, with me stuck in the middle.
A Campaign of Gaslighting
Before I share some of the details surrounding meeting those three people -—Baldy, Pam, and Dr. A — I’d like to make it clear that writing or talking about these things is not easy.
First, some of these people (or their families) are still alive, and repercussions, of course, are always possible. Yet, I still share, because it is what happened to me. I try to be careful, at the least by not sharing real names, but I’m still aware that there may be negative consequences to whatever degree by sharing, the least of which is people trying to discredit me. But, I will keep on doing what I have to do; and I assume that those who try to discredit me, or even do worse to me, will keep on doing what they have to do, as well.
God will sort it out in the end.
Second, I’m still working through the process of healing from all this, and talking about it brings up a lot of emotion that churns on the inside of me… and it stirs up alters who are feeling discarded and worthless and who are looking for a purpose and a reason for being and a reason for having gone through what we have gone through… and just all sorts of painful things that are not easy to talk about.
It’s just not easy, period.
But the third reason why these things are hard to talk about is because of gaslighting.
In case you aren’t familiar with gaslighting, here’s the definition:
Gaslight is defined as “to psychologically manipulate someone so that they question their memories, perception, or sanity.”
So, here’s what I mean about gaslighting and why it can make it difficult to explain my life.
When I share what happened to me as a child, I am sharing based on the perspective I had as a child. Which is normal for anyone, of course. After all, I was a child when these things happened to me, so of course I’m sharing what happened to me based off of my perception I had then!
But as an adult, I am trying to process through everything with the understanding that I now have as an adult. And that isn’t always easy!
I don’t suppose it would be easy for anyone, but imagine for a moment, if you will, that throughout your life, particularly as a child, your perception was purposefully skewed by abusive, evil people who were purposefully trying to deceive you? How do you think this would affect you, as an adult, not only in trying to later process through all the trauma, but also in trying to sift through the layers and layers of lies, and come to the truth?
Well, let me tell you from personal experience: it’s horrible!
You see, in looking back at my life and trying to process and work through what happened to me, there are times where I’m not certain if the truth is one thing… or if it’s another. I try to avoid sharing these types of things unless I’m absolutely certain that it’s true. Or if I’m not sure, then I just come right out and say “I’m not sure.”
But this can make telling the story of my life a very difficult and complicated task indeed! Trying to properly explain the sticky web of lies is difficult! And when I come across yet another lie that incorrectly colored my perception as a child; and when, as a result, I find out that in spite of my best efforts, I might have been believing yet another lie this entire time; well, not only is this frustrating to me, but it is infuriating! I feel like screaming, “ALL I WANT IS THE TRUTH!!!!”
I have to constantly remind myself that the only reason why the lies and deceptions are there in the first place is because there was and is something for the liars to hide! After all, what do liars do, except lie? And what do programmers do except play psychological games with their victims?!
That’s what they do!
There are many times as a child that I was purposefully told lies so that my perception would be off, and not only would I not be certain of the truth, but I would question my own ability to even know the truth.
This is gaslighting at its finest, and to know that I was gaslighted as a child infuriates me! But it infuriates me even more when those gaslighting games cause me confusion in even my present day!
But I have to remind myself that the lies and deception that still sometimes cause me confusion, were absolutely a purposeful psychological mind game that was played to cover up the truth. And I then have to grab hold of myself, mentally and emotionally, and remind myself of truth.
The ability for me to discern what was truth in my life as a child sometimes boils down to one thing: the point of origin. In other words: FACT. What do I know without a doubt to be FACTUAL? Where is that “point of origin” that is, without a shadow of a doubt in my mind, The Truth?
It might be an event, such as a trip. For me, in one case, my point of origin is: “I know without a doubt that we came DOWN the mountain, so I know we must have gone UP! Therefore, the awful ritual that happened with the “Good Witch” DID happen; it wasn’t my evil imagination!”
Or, the point of origin might be a sound. Or a word spoken and remembered. Or an object remembered. Or a person seen.
To give another example, in one instance, my point of origin is: “I know I saw those two men in my doorway at night! They were there! Therefore, them kidnapping me at night sometimes and taking me away from my home to be programmed wasn’t my imagination! It DID happen!“
So finding that point where I knew what the truth was — that’s where I am able to separate the truth from the lies I was told.
But sometimes that can be hard. And it’s always a process! A process of remembering and of learning to face and discard the lies that you have been told.
Facing and discarding the lies can be SO hard… and I’ll probably have to write about it later, but suffice it to say for now that sometimes facing and discarding the lies that we have been told is hard because we are so desperate to hold on to what we believe is truth, that when we realize it’s a lie, we hold on even tighter, desperate to not feel or be seen as a liar ourselves.
But if we can learn to separate ourselves from the lies that we’ve been told and the lies that we’ve desperately clung to, discarding those lies can be freeing!
I know from first hand experience how difficult this process can be, however, because a campaign of gaslighting causes you to question the truth of reality around you. It also causes you to believe that you have to depend on other people (the abusers) to tell you what reality and truth is, rather than trusting that you can discern the truth for yourself.
I’ve experienced this many times over throughout my lifetime, and meeting the “Good Witch” was just one example.
Meeting the Good Witch
As a young child, I first met a woman whom I then identified and now refer to as the “Good Witch.”
I believe I first met her at the place where she worked in the mountains nearby, but as I will explain later, I might have met her before, at a meeting my mother had in a museum.
I do not use the real name of this establishment, but I simply call it “Christmas Town,” and that’s close enough to the real name.
It was basically a small amusement park with shops with goodies and treats and toys to admire and buy, if one were lucky enough to have parents with the money to pay for such treats.
I was not that lucky.
Aside from the miniature train ride, they had maybe two or three rides which were broken. Either that, or since we didn’t have the money to spend on rides, I was told they were broken.
But there were animals to look at (goats and deer, if I remember correctly), a train to ride, and lots of fun characters walking about, so the lack of money to spend on extra treats wasn’t all that bad, as far as I was concerned. Some of the characters that traversed the grounds were: Santa and his Elf, the Pumpkin Man, Alice in Wonderland, a Rainbow Man, and a Good Witch who worked at The Good Witches Bakery (a building that was decorated like a gingerbread house). The Good Witch wore a pretty pink dressed that flowed around her like cotton candy, and she passed out huge spiral-shaped lollipops to children whose parents or guardians were able to pay for one.
Everything was decorated as if it were perpetually Christmas, and huge, fake red toadstools dotted the terrain, adding to the magical thrill of the fantasy. So for that reason alone, I enjoyed myself.
Years later, in thinking through that entire trip, I started thinking more seriously about it, and I questioned: since we had little to no money to spend there on anything, then why were we there?
In fact, we didn’t stay long at all. We rode the train (which probably cost a certain amount of money), but we didn’t even have enough money to spend on feed so that we could feed the deer! Then we met who I thought was the “Good Witch,” whose name was Pam, I asked to go on a ride and was told it was broken, we walked around for a short time, and then left. I think we maybe got some apple cider, too, but that was about the extent of our trip.
So what was the point? Why were we there?
After all these years, I finally realized that we were there so I could meet with the person who I thought was the Good Witch.
But here’s where it gets sticky. Here’s where the gaslighting really comes into play.
Fast-forward some time after the initial meeting…
It was days or weeks later. I don’t know the length of time that passed, and the time frame isn’t that important anyway. But sometime after my initial meeting with who I thought was the “Good Witch who worked at the Gingerbread House in the mountains,” my stepfather, Tom, brought me back up that mountain to visit with the person I was told was the “Good Witch who was living in the Gingerbread House” — the lady I thought I had met previously.
(I wasn’t aware then, of course, but that was the day of my first programming ritual with her and her goons, but that’s a different topic that will wait for another day.)
I remember picking up on the words “living in,” and so I asked Tom if we were going back to the Gingerbread House at Christmas Town.
Tom told me no, but that we were going to visit her at her REAL house — the house she lived in, not the house she worked in.
I asked if she lived in a Gingerbread House.
He said something to the effect of, “Sure.”
As an adult, of course I’m aware now that Tom’s casual and non-committal “sure” wasn’t exactly a positive statement of reassurance. But as a child, I took the “sure” as meaning “yes.” Furthermore, I had remembered my mother exclaiming excitedly at one point during a previous trip to the mountains, how the snow on the steep rooftops of the houses made all the houses look like little gingerbread houses. So, in my imagination, I felt like everyone who lived in that area with steep roofs on their houses lived in a “gingerbread house,” of sorts. I knew they weren’t literally gingerbread houses; but the fantasy of living in a house that could, given certain weather conditions, resemble a gingerbread house — that’s what captured my imagination.
So for these reasons, the least of which because I was told that we were going to meet the “Good Witch,” who I knew worked in a pretend gingerbread house in the mountains, and who I then knew lived in a gingerbread house in the mountains, too, I believed we were going to meet the Good Witch, Pam, who I thought I had previously met at Christmas Town.
So, naturally, I was excited and anxious to see her. I had liked her when I had previously met her. All the kids liked her. Heck, the entire town loved her! They loved her entire family! They were pillars of the community!
(Probably still are…)
They were philanthropists!
(Probably still are…)
She was nice! Her husband was nice! He played the part of Santa (so I’ll refer to him as “Santa” from now on) at their Christmas Town, and she played the “Good Witch” who worked at the “Good Witches Bakery” that was a gingerbread house, and passed out lollipops to children, and everyone thought it was fabulous! Everyone loved it! I loved it too!
So, I was excited to go visit her in her in what I was told was her “real home” — her “gingerbread home.” I thought it was fabulous that she not only worked in a gingerbread house, but that she got to live in one, too!
Once we got to her home, however, and she opened the door to welcome us in, I was immediately surprised. Then confused, and finally, sorely disappointed.
I wasn’t disappointed because her rooftop wasn’t decorated with pretend pink icing, like the gingerbread house at Christmas Town was. I knew that pretend gingerbread houses were different from real ones, and I thought her real house was very pretty, and I could imagine that once the snow fell on the rooftop, the house would look very much like a beautiful gingerbread house.
But I was surprised, confused, and disappointed because she didn’t look like the person who I remembered being the “Good Witch.” In my mind at that time, she wasn’t the “real” Good Witch.
No one said anything to clear up my confusion, however, and my disappointment was ignored.
In fact, Tom said something like, “You remember her, don’t you?”
And the lady who was supposed to be the “Good Witch” knelt down at eye level with me and smiled. “It’s nice to see you again!”
So I played along and nodded, ignoring the fact that she didn’t look like the Good Witch that I had remembered. I had well-learned by that time that contradicting the adults in my life would likely lead to punishment. And besides, a constant campaign of gaslighting throughout my lifetime had started to make me believe, even at that young age, that I was incapable of knowing the truth.
And certainly, abuse reinforced this. Contradicting the “truth” that I was told at any given moment would get me punished. So I learned to stay quiet and to pretend that the lies I was told were the truth.
Healing from this is a process, and has taken me realizing that I do know what the truth is, and I don’t have to continue to pretend to believe the lies just to make everyone else around me happy. But this has been and continues to be a long process.
Fast forward again, some 30 years or so later…
As an adult, in desperately trying to hold on to truth, the only possible reason I could think of why I, as a child, was disappointed in the woman’s appearance was because she wasn’t wearing her pink costume dress.
Which may be partly true. I did love the dress, after all. And all those many years ago, I remember asking the lady, “Where’s your dress?” in an effort to get to the truth.
She had laughed and said, “I can’t wear my pink dress every day!”
That answer had mollified me somewhat, since it was obviously a true statement and it made sense to me. But it didn’t settle well with me. Not all the way.
So for a long time, I fell victim to the gaslighting and decided that my confusion and disappointment was centered around her dress… and not centered around the fact that she wasn’t the woman I had been told I was going to meet.
It’s only now that I’m able to realize that my first reaction as a child all those years ago — surprise, confusion, and finally, disappointment because she wasn’t the lady who I thought she was going to be — was correct. But I fell victim to gaslighting.
Why? What would have been the point of gaslighting a child?
Well… what’s the point of abusing people at all? Of abusing children? What’s the point of lying at all? What’s the point at all in playing psychological mind games with people? With children? For many people, the point is very simply because they can.
Furthermore, the point of gaslighting children is because programmers and people who are working for programmers do what they can to cover their asses.
This is what abusers do, and it’s what liars do: they lie. They bring confusion into the situation, not only to protect themselves (the abuser), but to cause their victim to doubt themselves and their own sanity, and to also cause other people to doubt the person and their sanity.
So, all that to say this: in trying to come to the truth, I’ve researched out as much is as publicly available for me to research. And my research shows that it wasn’t “Santa” and his wife, Pam, who were living in his family house at that time; but it was his sister who was living there around the same time that I was brought to that specific house for programming. So, it’s more likely that Pam’s sister-in-law was my programmer, since she was the one who was living in the house at the time.
However, it’s also possible that it was Pam. Or, perhaps both women were in on it. “Santa” certainly was in on it, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility that his wife was, too.
Will I ever know the exact truth? Probably not. At least, not until the Heavenly Father reveals it once and for all at the end.
But for the sake of telling what happened to me, here’s what I know for sure. Here is my point of origin:
The lady who I believed at the time to be the “Good Witch” ended up being one of my programmers; and regardless of her real name — and regardless if it was one woman or two women who were programming me, or even more — I was programmed and abused by that person and the people who were working with her, in places that included not only their “Christmas Town,” but also at their family home, a place I thought of as “The Gingerbread House.”
So, regardless of whether or not my programmer actually lived in that house, and regardless of the job she had, and regardless of the name or nickname that she publicly used, the name I will use to refer to the female programmer in the mountains who I always thought was the “Good Witch who lived in the Gingerbread House” is Pam.
It’s as good a name as any.
Back — My Memory Album
Update: due to memories I have recently processed, this page was slightly updated on 6/16/19.