Snapshot #9: Systems and the Grid

Notice: although this chapter is not graphic (in my opinion), of all the chapters of my bio so far, this may be the most triggering to survivors of TBMC. Please read with caution. Furthermore, no information on this site should be used to diagnose, treat, prevent, or cure any disease or condition. Please see my Disclaimers.

This chapter is speaking of a particular part of my system that I call “the grid,” which I will explain as I write. But when I speak of “the grid” within my system, I am NOT speaking to the network that marks the boundaries of satanic systems that are spread across the earth (what Carolyn and I have referred to as “The Grid”… see:Point Seven” of our book.) The “grid” that Dr. A programmed inside of me, and “The Grid” that covers the earth, are two completely different things.

Moving (Again)

Several years ago, in my journal, I wrote down every instance that I could remember of all the different houses I have lived in throughout my life, from birth into adulthood, including temporary housing due to homelessness for various reasons.

I counted 31, although I may be missing one or two. It’s just too much to keep up with….

But that wasn’t the amount of moves I’ve made. The amount of moves averaged about 30% more (give or take) than 31 houses, mostly due to homelessness while married to my first husband. The first couple of years or so that we were married, after residing in our own apartment for four months, we jostled around several times between my mother’s house and his parent’s house. Then we had a short stay at the house of one of his friend’s, before we finally settled (if you want to call it “settled”) in our own apartment once again  for a year (or did the trailer house come before the apartment…? I can’t recall exactly) … before moving again.. then again… and then once more. Or was it twice more…?

There were so many moves, it’s confusing, and I’m not even sure if I have correctly documented the sequence of moves. It’s one of those things that is hard to keep up with, but since it’s over and done with, I don’t feel it matters so much if I give a precise and 100% correct narrative concerning each move. The point is, we moved. A lot.

And then, as an adult, after divorcing my first husband, I moved back to California for a few months, staying at the house of a “boyfriend” I had met online, and then moving into a hotel for a few weeks, before finally moving back to Texas, first back into my ex-husband’s home, and then into my own apartment.

(None of that was a great idea, by the way. I was very foolish to have been involved with all of that, and it’s not a decision that I’m proud of, and I hate even bringing it up. But as embarrassing as it is, it’s part of my life, so there it is….

It was also during a time where some of my programming was starting to break down, although I didn’t recognize that at the time, and I felt a strong and inexplicable urge to move back to California and reconnect with old places, where much of my programming as a child had taken place. But I didn’t realize that back then, of course.)

As a child, there was also a short period of time when we moved in with one of Mother’s friends because she had decided to leave Tom… only to move back in with Tom a few weeks later, after he came calling on Mother. So that was a “double move,” I guess you could call it, moving from one place, to another, then back to the first place again.

Once everything is added up, there are plenty of “double moves,” and throughout the years, especially as a child, I have gauged time not by the year or by the month, but by which house we lived in at that time.

No, we weren’t military, and we certainly weren’t missionaries… We just moved. A LOT.

It was very stressful, and is one of the major factors in why I do not like change and why I do not make friends easily.

I’m sure for some people, having moved around a lot as a child might have been a positive experience. And I don’t begrudge them their feelings about their own life experiences. For me, however, moving around a lot was not a positive experience.

But there was one curious move as a child

a double move

that puzzled and confused me for a long time, and I wasn’t able to finally put all the pieces together until after I started journaling about it several years ago.

The move occurred when I was around seven or eight years of age. I know it was that period of time because I have two old school progress reports, one dated January 20, 1984 and the other dated March 23, 1984, that shows the exact address of that house we had moved to for about a year, give or take a few months. I was seven in January and March of 1984, and I turned eight in June.

It was a curious move.

We had been living directly across the street from our church and school, and then we moved all the way across the city to what I sometimes thought of as “The Watermelon House,” because the house was near a large, tree-lined street that I called “Watermelon Avenue.”

(The name of the street wasn’t actually “Watermelon,” but as a child, that’s the nickname that I gave to the street. It was close enough to the real name, it sounded more interesting than the real name, and it’s what stuck with me.

And yes, I do know the real name of the street, but I am choosing to not share it at this time. “Watermelon Avenue” will be sufficient for now.)

I also thought of the house as “The Basement House,” because it had a large, full-sized basement, a feature that wasn’t very common with the houses around there.

But after living near “Watermelon Avenue” for a short period of time (I’m not sure how long, but I believe it was around a year, give or take a couple of months), we moved back to our old house that was across the street from the church.

That used to puzzle me.


The Watermelon House

Memories of living in the Watermelon house are mostly good, with a couple of traumatic exceptions.

For one thing (although, perhaps my memory is faulty on this point), I don’t remember any fights between Mother and Tom. Or… well, if there were fights, they were at least more-or-less reasonable, and didn’t include fists, nails, teeth, and even the occasional weapon, such as a gun or a knife, being brought into the equation.

Not that I remember, at any rate.

Furthermore, aside from one awful afternoon when Tom raped me, I don’t recall being accosted by him at all in that house.

(I hope I don’t come across as being casual about that awful afternoon, and if I do, please forgive me. But as a child, it was unheard of to go several months without many sexual assaults by my stepfather, Tom, who also directed at least one of the sexual assaults with his two boys from his previous marriage(s?) who came to visit with us for a short while. So as ridiculous as it may seem, having Tom sexually assault me “just once” within a long period of time seemed, as a child, to be a reprieve from the usual constant assault. As an adult, I know that NO sexual assault is acceptable, of course, regardless of how many times it occurs and to what extent. But as a child, I was glad that “only one” sexual assault — that I currently remember — occurred in that house.)

Anyway… I also don’t remember my brother or I receiving any “spankings”


from Mother. In fact, I don’t even recall Mother hardly raising her voice at us.

Instead, we had “family nights” where certain nights of the week my brother, Mother, and myself would sit on the couch (or lounge on the carpet) and listen to old radio shows, such as “The George Burns and Gracie Allan Show,” or “Dragnet,” or “The Lone Ranger.” Mother would make popcorn balls for us sometimes, and my brother and I enjoyed the special treat while we listened to the shows. My brother usually sprawled across the carpet and I relaxed on the couch next to Mother while she cross-stitched.

My brother and I played board games together at the kitchen table while Mother cooked dinners or Saturday morning breakfasts.

One unusually rainy southern California afternoon, my brother and I took Mother’s umbrella outside, turned it upside down in the water, and rode inside it like a boat in the flooded street.

Well… my brother rode inside the umbrella.

I, on the other hand, kept insisting on trying to get inside the umbrella boat, even though I clearly couldn’t fit. On that day, I was dissociative, and in my mind at the time, I thought I was only two or three years old instead of my actual age, which was around seven or eight. So I couldn’t understand why our little make-shift boat kept capsizing beneath my weight, and I continued trying to float down the street inside the umbrella with my brother, incapable, because of dissociation, to realize that I was literally too big to fit inside.

By the time it was all said and done, I was crying, my brother and I were hollering and shoving at each other, and Mother’s best umbrella was ruined.

But if Mother was angry, she didn’t show it. She didn’t even holler at us for ruining her umbrella. Instead, she brought us inside the house, wrapped us in clean fluffy towels, and made us some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

So, as far as I was concerned, living in the Watermelon House was as close to idyllic as one could get, aside from a couple of “hiccups.”

Other than the afternoon when Tom raped me

an afternoon that I have never been able to forget; although, as ridiculous as it may sound, for a long time — up until just a few years ago, as a matter of fact — I had a very hard time describing the sexual assault as actually being rape. it’s been been a very long journey to get to the place where I feel safe enough to admit the truth, even to myself.

one of those “hiccups” occurred late one afternoon when Mother went absolutely nuts on Timothy, Tom’s eldest son, who I believe was about 16 at the time, violently attacked him and tried to shove him down the basement stairs.

Mother and I had been sitting at the kitchen table, and she was asking me questions that I knew she already knew the answers to

did Timothy touch you?

yes, I already told you that.

where? when? how? why didn’t you tell me?

In the other house! I already told you when you asked me about it before!

because I had already told Mother some time before — weeks before? months? — of one incident where Timothy molested me, but she chose that day in Watermelon House to finally confront Timothy in the most spectacularly frightening manner.

He had walked into the house from school, I think it was, backpack in hand, and strolled unsuspecting through the living room and into the kitchen, where Mother and I were sitting at the small kitchen table.

Mother went very quiet as Timothy walked past us, and I felt the tension in the air dramatically increase. But she sat at the table, motionless and silent, until Timothy opened the door to the basement and began his descent into his bedroom. And then she suddenly went into violent action, springing from the chair, leaping onto Timothy’s back with a piercing, bone-chilling screech.

I’m going to kill you!

She began beating him with her fists, yanking at his hair, and clawing at his face, screaming and spitting and cursing and calling him all sorts of vile names.

Timothy stumbled down the stairs with Mother on his back, wailing and crying, arms flailing, trying in vain to push my mother off of him.

It was incredibly frightening and traumatic, and I was screaming and crying and begging Mother to leave him alone.

At the time, I was at war with how I felt about her reaction. On the surface, it seemed as if she were just a “normal Momma Bear”

“normal” being a subjective term, of course…

who was reacting to protect her daughter from someone who had perpetrated an offense against her.


Her and I had already had that same conversation before, and she already knew what Timothy had done to me!

(Well… she knew of the little that I could remember up until that point, because there was certainly more to the sexual abuse than what I had told her. But at that point, I was dissociated from the other, more awful abuses that Tom had orchestrated between myself, himself, and his two boys.)

Up until that point, she had not reacted negatively at all, and had been just fine around Timothy, although she wasn’t fond of him living in our house and wanted him gone.

So why the sudden change? Wouldn’t her “reaction” have been more appropriate when she first heard of what had happened, rather than weeks or months later? Why was she choosing that time, that day, to suddenly “come to my defense”? Had she dissociated from the first conversation we had concerning Timothy’s behavior and truly did not remember?


Although, looking back over not only this event but many others, if Mother was dissociative to whatever degree, then she certainly knew how to turn her “dissociation” on and off, using it to her best advantage. Which isn’t a dissociative disorder, is it…? — but is manipulation, coercion… perhaps indicating some sort of personality disorder or narcissistic disorder… but certainly not an involuntary dissociation.

Regardless, I’m not a psychologist, so I’m not trying to diagnose Mother with a mental illness or disorder. All I know is that the entire situation didn’t sit well with me, even as a child. But I didn’t know how to articulate those thoughts at that time, even within myself, and I actually felt sorry for Timothy having been attacked so viciously by my mother, I felt embarrassed that my mother had acted in such a horribly violent way, and I felt guilty for the entire traumatic episode that day.

Feeling sorry for and trying to defend one of my perpetrators isn’t acceptable, I realize that, and it’s not normal.

On the other hand, those who are in ongoing abusive situations often fall prey to what is commonly known as “Stockholm Syndrome,” so in that sense, feeling sorry for, identifying with, and trying to defend one’s perpetrator is a “normal” response, and one that is born out of self-preservation.

But this was different, somehow, if only in a small way.

(Although… as I write this down now, maybe it’s not so different after all… but I’m not sure.)

I felt sorry for Timothy because I didn’t understand the sudden and violent change in my mother, from seeming to be basically okay with Timothy up until that point (for the most part), and then her odd questions about Timothy as she feigned ignorance of the previous offense, and finally, going on such a sudden murderous rage, all supposedly in “defense” of me.

And I felt sorry for Timothy because, in a sense, I could identify with Timothy at that moment, having been on the receiving end of Mother’s unexpected and violent wrath myself many times before. It wasn’t a situation I wanted anyone to have to endure, no matter who they were or what they had done. I didn’t feel like anyone deserved that type of abuse, especially considering how delayed Mother’s response had been in regards to Timothy’s actions towards me.

So, there were a lot of conflicting emotions churning inside me that day, and Mother’s rage felt… well, it felt fundamentally dishonest, mainly because I knew that she already knew what Timothy had done! So, it seemed there was something more going on than I could wrap my mind around, but as a child, I couldn’t figure it out.

Looking back now at the way everything played out with my programming, I realize now that Mother’s seemingly “maternal protectiveness over my innocence being tarnished” was simply to get Timothy out of the house, because she certainly didn’t show concern any other time about my innocence being tarnished!

First, Mother didn’t like Timothy living with us. He had been living with us for a short while in the house across the street from the church, and when we moved to the Watermelon house, since there were only two bedrooms (plus the basement), Mother thought that Timothy wouldn’t be staying with us anymore. (And I say this based upon conversations I overheard between her and Tom.)

But when Tom moved Timothy into the Watermelon House with us, Mother was not happy about it. Therefore, Mother used the knowledge of what Timothy had done to me as an opportunity to not only get him out of the house, but to also play the role of “Momma Bear,” a part that was good to have on her public “What a Good Mom I Am” résumé, and whip out any time she wanted to make sure everyone was clear about what a “good mom” she was.

So, given all the facts, I don’t believe that Mother’s “defense” of me had anything to do with me at all, but more because she wanted Timothy out of the house.

But secondly, and more importantly, I realize now that Timothy being in the house certainly would have made it a lot more difficult to conceal my visits to Dr. A, a man who was one of my mind-control programmers. Therefore, Timothy was summarily ejected from the basement of our house, and presumably, he went back to live with his mother, although I’m not really sure where he went.

I do not think that my mother consciously made the decision to go nuts on Timothy that day and subsequently kick him out because it was easier for the programmers. I don’t think that consciously played into why she did what she did, although I could be wrong, of course.

This is only conjecture, but I do think it’s possible that she was manipulated into finding a reason to get Timothy out of the house. By whom, I can’t say with absolute certainty, but since she was in touch with my programmers to differing degrees, it’s highly likely that one of them convinced her… or someone close to her who was being used by the programmers to influence Mother convinced her, as a handler might.

At any rate, since Mother didn’t like Timothy living with us anyway, I don’t believe it would have been hard to convince her to find a way to get Timothy out.

Regardless of Mother’s conscious (or unconscious) involvement, it’s evident to me that Timothy being out of the house was vital to keeping the visits to Dr. A a closely-kept secret. In fact, while I was going through the bulk of the programming, even my brother spent a lot of time at babysitters during the days of the summer/s while we were living in Watermelon House. So, most of the days, it was just my stepfather and I, and he would transport me back and forth to visit Dr. A.

So, although many of my memories of living in Watermelon house were pleasant, it doesn’t mean all was well. It just means that, for reasons that are very clear to me now, my home life was less tumultuous while we lived in the “Watermelon House,” and that is chiefly because Mother was more friendly towards myself and my brother during that period of time.

Putting Together the Pieces

After living in Watermelon house for a short period of time, we moved back into our old house that was across the street from the church.


Why did we move out of the house across the street from the church and into Watermelon house, only to move back into the same house by the church that we had just moved from?

If the moves are taken at face value, they seem illogical.

I can only guess as to what Mother’s excuse would be for why we actually moved back and forth between the two houses. Perhaps she would say it had something to do with repairs being made, which might sound reasonable… but it wouldn’t ring true to me.

(Not much that has come out of Mother’s mouth rings true….)

The only major repairs done on the house across the street from the church were to replace the roofing that had allowed water to leak all over the house every time it rained (although, it didn’t rain a lot in SoCal). And from my recollection, those repairs were made when we were living in the house.

So the “why” of that double move puzzled me for a long time, because I only had odd snippets of memories that, as a child, I didn’t necessarily recognize as actually being memories of a hospital nor of programming nor of doctors. I recognize it now, but for a long time, I didn’t. This lack of connection was partially because of dissociation, but also partially because of my perception as a child, as well as my inability, as an adult, to safely process those memories and perceptions until recently.

But regardless of the excuses that might be given, and regardless of any physical reason that would explain why we made such a strange and seemingly unnecessary move back and forth, the moves certainly gave my programmers more convenient access to me, and this is what is very clear to me now, as an adult who is now processing things and putting together the pieces of my life: the most important reason for the moves was because of the programming.

The house across the street from our church was just about a 30 minute drive from Pamela, the “Good Witch,” as I called her, so that was very convenient for her to access me.

And the Watermelon House was just a very short walk (five minutes or less, even with a young child in tow) from one of the hospitals in that area, making it even more convenient for Dr. A to access me.

Tom, as always, played the “mule,” toting the goods (me) back and forth from whichever house we happened to be living at to whichever programmer was working on me at that moment.

The Hospital

Depending upon the exact dates that we moved back and forth between the two houses, we spent either the summer of ’83 (when I was seven) in the Watermelon House, or we spent the summer of ’84 there (when I turned eight). It’s also possible that we spent a portion of both summers in that house, but, as usual, when it comes to exact timelines, I can’t ever be 100% positive.

There are two possible scenarios I can think of that took place with the programming during the summer/s: either the hospital itself near “Watermelon Avenue” was the place where the programming took place; or, Tom brought me to meet up with Dr. A at the nearby hospital, and then from there, I was transported to Dr. A’s programming site.

At this time, I’m not sure which scenario is true.

On the other hand, it’s most likely that both are true.

Part of my wavering on this point is because it is nearly unfathomable to me that such a place could be used for programming young children, and knowing that others have the same type of testimony as myself doesn’t cure the feeling of… well, a feeling of unreality, almost, that overcomes me when I think of the very real possibility that a local hospital was/is used as a programming site. I don’t want to believe it to be true; therefore, in spite of what logic tells me (that the hospital was used, at least occasionally, as a programming site), my emotions cause me to doubt.

On the other hand, I did go other places than just a hospital setting for programming, for training, and for special projects I was involved in… so it’s very possible that although at least some of the programming took place in the nearby hospital, some of it also took place elsewhere.

Regardless, I do remember many times the summer/s we spent in the Watermelon house that Tom walked me to the nearby hospital.

Walking back, he’d sometimes let me get an ice cream cone (single scoop) at Baskin-Robbins, which was right near our house, on the main street.

(Tom would also sometimes take me for an ice cream after a visit with his coke-snorting buddy who also shared his fetish for little girls… but those were different trips to a different ice cream store.)

I remember one of the times we went to Baskin-Robbins as a family (a treat which was rare) I was excited to have a second trip for ice cream that day, and said something to the effect of, “Yay, I get two ice creams today!” and Mother was surprised, but my exclamation was brushed off and ignored, as if I, as a young child, couldn’t have possibly been correct in my memory. Instead, I was given a double scoop of ice cream, and my brother as well, because he was there on that second trip to the ice cream store, and in an odd way, my statement of “I get two ice creams today” was ostensibly “fulfilled” by being given a double scoop.

Looking back, I consider that second scoop to be almost like “hush cream,” as in: “hush, little girl, you don’t know what you’re talking about and even if you do, we don’t want to hear it, so enjoy a special and rare second scoop of ice cream and be quiet about your first trip to the ice cream store today and everyone will  just pretend you were talking about two scoops, not two trips.”

But walking to the hospital, Tom would usually hold my hand as we walked down the sidewalk of the busy street. The hospital was just a couple of blocks to the west of us, but across the street, and since Tom didn’t want to walk to the street light to cross at the crosswalk, we’d run as fast as we could across the street when there was a break in traffic.

I hated dodging traffic like that. It didn’t feel safe or wise, especially since there was a crosswalk just a couple minute’s walk away. But I was glad for the reprieve of being forced to hold Tom’s hand.

Once, after seeing Tom nearly be hit by a passing car, I refused to follow him into the street. Instead, I marched to the crosswalk while Tom waited for me across the street, fuming. But I didn’t care. He could fume all he wanted; I wasn’t going to get hit by a car.


At this time, most of my memories of Dr. A and the programming with him are in the form of what I call “snapshots,” in that they are memories that are difficult to connect together to form a cohesive narrative that can easily be placed in a format such as: “he said one thing, then she said another thing; and then he did this, and she did that.”

But as scattered and incomplete as the memories may be at times, they do form a clear picture, nonetheless.

Snapshot: the waiting room

At the hospital, Tom and I sat on the bench-chairs in front of a frosted glass window of one of the offices. We were waiting for my doctor in a waiting area of the hospital that was away from the main waiting room where everyone else sat, waiting for their doctors.

A woman opened the glass window

may I help you?

and asked us who we were waiting for.

Tom walked up to the window and murmured a response I couldn’t hear, and I studied the short-piled carpet, contemplating whether or not I should ask permission to walk to the book rack that was a short distance down the hall that stretched to my left, and pick up the “Highlights” magazine to read while I waited; although, based on what I could see of the cover of the magazine even from that distance, I was pretty sure I had already read that particular issue.

After a short wait, the door beside the glass window opened and my doctor came out.

He addressed Tom briefly, then motioned for me to follow him, leaving Tom behind.

I watched his shiny shoes as we made our way across the carpet and down the hall.

Snapshot: the hall in the hospital

The hall in the hospital that led from the waiting area to the programming room was “L-shaped,” with the “L” making a left turn down another hallway with doors dispersed intermittently down either side. Whether this hall was in the hospital near our house or in another hospital setting, I can’t say for certain, but because of the book rack, I believe the hall was in the hospital near our house.

I don’t know how long the hallway was or how many other turns it made, but I believe that after we made that first left turn, the programming room was the second or third door to the right, although I could be wrong, of course. My memories of this are based upon my perception as a child, and my memories of where the programming room was in relation to the waiting bench could have been skewed. Most likely is skewed. But that’s what I’ve always remembered.

Will I ever remember the full truth? Maybe. But I’ve remembered enough to begin to heal from the trauma, and that’s what is most important to me.

Snapshot: the helicopter

I do not know how often I rode in the helicopter, and I do not believe that I rode this helicopter every time that Tom brought me to the hospital near our house, but I remember sometimes I was covered with a large coat and shuttled to a helicopter. Even though I don’t remember much of the rides at this point, I remember that I looked forward to riding the helicopter. It reminded me of my favorite uncle who was a pilot and who gave me a helicopter ride once when I was very young and still living in the deserts of west Texas.

Snapshot: a simple trick

During one visit to the hospital, we paused in the middle of the hallway a few feet from the door to the programming room to speak to another programmer, a man who, by my recent research, was supposed to have been dead at that time.

But even though it seems absolutely improbable and highly unlikely, I remember seeing him in that hallway: Josef Mengele.

Was he really Mengele? Or was he someone else?

I don’t know.

I don’t recall being given his name at the time, so I can’t be for certain. In fact, I don’t recall anyone using names. I’ve heard some say that programmers use code names, but I never heard names mentioned at all, whether real or coded. It was simply “Doctor” this or “Doctor” that, or other generic titles, such as Sir or Nurse or Colonel. If real names (or code names) were used, I don’t remember them at this time. If in the future I ever remember code names, perhaps I’ll talk about it then, but right now, I don’t.

Regardless, since records indicate that Mengele was supposed to have been dead at that time, it seems highly improbable that I met him in that hallway that day.

But I still remember seeing him. Or at the least, I met someone who looked exactly like the pictures that are supposed to be of Mengele as an old man. And, given another interaction later (I’ll probably go into a small amount of detail at another time), I do believe that, regardless of how improbable my testimony seems, I did meet Mengele that day in the hospital.

I remember his hair. His extra-bushy mustache. His soft smile and the kind twinkle in his eyes, like a sweet, mild-mannered old grandfather. Like the other doctors, he wore a white lab coat. But, unlike the other doctors, he carried candy in his left breast pocket, as I came to find out.

The day I met him down the hallway of the hospital, close to the programming room, Dr. A showed him a skill I had been taught.

Dr. A gave instructions: one of his assistants (Dr. A always had at least two assistants with him) was to pull the book rack from down the hallway by the waiting area, and place it where the hallway made the “L” shape; the assistant was to then randomly pick a book or magazine from the rack and place a piece of paper between the pages; in the meantime, Dr. A instructed, I was to turn my back to the book rack and close my eyes tightly — no peeking! — while the assistant followed orders; and then, when Dr. A gave the word, I was to turn around, walk to the rack of books, immediately pick the book or magazine where the paper had been placed, and return it to Dr. A so he could examine the book and verify that was where the paper had been placed.

So we did as instructed. With my back turned and eyes closed tightly, the assistant followed the orders Dr. A had given him.

I remember floating out of my body and arguing, of sorts, with a couple of the other parts of me.

How am I supposed to do this? I don’t know how!

I’ll do it!

No, guys, I’ll do it! It’s my job. Everyone knows that.

Okay, that’s fine by me!

I never get to do it! That’s not fair!

You guys don’t know how to do it right! You’ll mess up, then we’ll be punished! You don’t want to be punished, do you?

Okay, fine… you do it, then….

I stood to the side — between my physical self with tightly clenched eyes and a turned back, and myself who wanted to do it but couldn’t — and watched as the other part of me ran (of sorts…) quickly down the hall after the assistant. I watched through two sets of eyes — my eyes and her eyes — as he picked up a book and hesitated with a glance behind him (which alarmed me at first, until I remembered that he could only see the body part of me, and not the rest of me). Then he put the book down and picked up another one… then another one… then finally, he placed a piece of paper inside one of the books, between the pages.

(And no, I don’t remember which book it was. The exercise was to retrieve the correct book, not memorize the title…)

When Dr. A gave the word, the parts of me flew back inside my body and I ran down the hallway, grabbed the book where the paper had been placed, and ran back, putting the book into the hands of my programmer.

Dr. A turned the book upside down and the paper that the assistant had hidden came floating out.

The mustachioed doctor clapped and cheered, his eyes twinkling merrily, and I blushed and smiled, feeling timid yet proud. It was a very simple trick, I knew, but impressive in its own way.

Dr. A bent to pick me up in his arms, and I rested my head against his shoulder, smiling at the other doctor with the bushy mustache.

The other doctor made a show of patting around his chest, feeling for something, then reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of candy — a red-and-white swirled hard peppermint candy, if I recall correctly.

“You did very well!” he exclaimed with a smile and a soft pinch of my cheek, holding out the piece of candy. “Good little girls get candy.”

“Do you have Skittles instead?”

(Skittles candy was used as a programming cue with Dr. A, and it was the candy I was most used to getting in that environment.)

He looked a little taken aback, and I was immediately sorry I had asked, realizing that I had been rude and ungrateful, and I thought I had probably hurt his feelings, which made me feel badly.

“No, no Skittles. Just this,” he said.

It wasn’t my favorite, but candy was candy, after all. “That’s okay, I love this candy, too,” I lied with a smile. I looked at Dr. A. “Can I?” My voice was silent but my eyes were entreating, waiting for permission to eat my candy.

“You earned it,” Dr. A said aloud, placing me back on my feet. “So eat it.”

He spent a few minutes talking to the other doctor, and then we said our goodbyes and I followed Dr. A into the programming room.

Snapshot: the programming room

The programming room in the hospital was rectangular and not very large, and it had white floors — probably linoleum, but I didn’t know the word for it at the time I was a child — and plain white walls.

To the right of the room, black equipment lined part of the wall, situated behind a black chair. Several thick cords and cables snaked along parts of the floor from the equipment to the chair, but the floor leading from the entrance to the chair was clear of obstruction.

(Well, it was free from obstruction until the large white screen was brought into the room and placed in front of the programming chair, but that happened later, after I was already strapped into the chair.)

There were three doors and one glassed window in the room.

One of the doorways, the one we passed through to enter into the room, was the entrance/exit to the room.

On the near left wall, closest to the entrance door, was Dr. A’s small office area with a viewing window that allowed for a clear line of sight into the programming room. Beside that viewing window was the door that led into that office.

On the far left side of the room, several feet away on the other side of the office door, was a door that led into what I believe was a storage closet, or a room that was used as storage for various types of equipment.

Snapshot: the programming chair

On the far right side of the room, situated no more than perhaps a few feet from the right wall, a seemingly simple black chair was centered.

(And, by the way, the picture I have on this page does not represent the exact chair. The programming chair was more high-tech than the chair pictured here, and had features that were tailored for a programming chair. But from a distance, it did look pretty much like a regular chair… at least, from my perspective as a child it did.)

Sometimes when I entered into the room with Dr. A, I balked at the sight of that chair, afraid, remembering what was soon to come.

Other times, however, when I saw that black programming chair, I happily undressed, leaving my clothes crumpled in a heap in the middle of the floor by the entrance door, humming or quietly whistling a little tune as I skipped my way, naked, to the chair.

It all depended upon which part of me was out at the time we entered into the room.

When I balked, Dr. A would bend down and speak some words to me. I don’t recall what the words were, but I remember at the end of his few words, he would snap his fingers or clap his hands together, quickly, and I would switch into a part of me who was compliant and quiet. Not “happy and whistling and stripping down naked to run to the chair without first being commanded” compliant. But compliant, nonetheless. Hypnotized and subdued, one might say.

I remember once, when a couple other doctors were visiting

(it wasn’t unusual to have observers)

Dr. A’s words and his hand movements didn’t work as well as was expected, and I still balked and cried. Although Dr. A was an expert at hiding his true emotions, I could sense that he was very angry at me that day, so I tried to pretend that I wasn’t afraid, and I tried to feign compliance. But it was clear that his hypnotizing techniques weren’t as effective on me that day, for whatever reason. So Dr. A bent down and whispered quietly in my ear. I don’t recall the words. I just recall that I felt afraid and threatened.

Dr. A stood straight again, while I stood there, motionless and afraid, and had a good laugh with the other men. Then he motioned to his assistants, and they grabbed my arms and walked me to the programming chair.

Snapshot: the straps

Dr. A had two assistants who would strap me into the chair while Dr. A oversaw their work and fiddled with the equipment behind me.

After they finished strapping me in

head into the special helmet, upper arms/chest, forearms, wrists, fingers, upper legs, calves, ankles, toes

Dr. A would examine their work, looking at each strap, and ask of me: “Are you comfortable? Is anything too tight? Let me know now, because it’ll be too late to fix later.”

Most of the time, the straps felt fine, but I remember once, I hesitated, unsure if I should say something.

“What is it?” Dr. A asked. “Is it too tight? Tell me now.”

After another moment’s hesitation, I indicated with my eyes, because my head was already strapped into place inside the helmet: “My arm. The right one. It’s okay, but it pinches a little. Just a little.”

Dr. A adjusted the straps. “Is that better?”

I smiled. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good girl.” He patted my arm and finished examining the machinery, a pen and clipboard in hand.

Snapshot: a white plastic container

During the process of being strapped in, one of the assistants would hold a small white plastic container filled with some sort of wet substance that I dipped my fingers into, and toes, too, I think. Then they continued securing the straps.

One day, I was all strapped in when I realized they had forgotten to have me dip my fingers into the wet. “Wait!” I said. “You forgot the stuff! On my fingers!”

Dr. A wasn’t happy they had missed that step, and they had to undo some of the straps so I could dip my fingers (and toes, too, I think) into the white container.

Snapshot: lights, camera, action

There were lights… flashing lights that would change colors.

Pictures… flashing pictures of all sorts that I will not describe.

Noises that seemed to be all around me.

And then the pain… it seemed to come from my toes and fingers, and then it shot through my body.

Through it all was the voice. His voice. Dr. A’s soft, steady, calm voice coming through the earpieces of the helmet that was strapped on my head. His voice seemed to be inside of me… a soft whisper coming from inside my own mind. I was like a ship in the middle of a roaring sea, and his voice was the light from a lighthouse that I sought, knowing that if I could hold on to his voice and listen to his commands, the pain would go away and I would be safe.

And so that is how Dr. A walked me through building an entire system inside of my mind, where parts of me were trapped and hidden for a long time.

The Rainbow, Skittles, and Sprite

Through the process of being in the chair, as I’ve briefly described, I would become dissociative, and the only thing I could hear was Dr. A’s voice. There was no more pain. No more confusion. No more fear. It was simply Dr. A.

It was very similar to the times when my mother would beat me so badly that my entire body would become numb to the pain, my hearing would go dull, and I would float outside of my body. The only difference between going dissociative from Mother beating me and going dissociative with Dr. A, was that Dr. A used technology, whereas Mother used her fists, belts, and other objects that were handy.

And, of course, the other difference was that when I went dissociative with Mother, she didn’t give commands in the way that Dr. A did… unless one is counting “look at me when I talk to you!” or “don’t look at me like that when I’m talking to you!” But those were different sorts of commands, of course, that didn’t hold the same function as Dr. A’s commands.

The first thing Dr. A would have me do is “ride up the rainbow.” Some people have reported that their programmers told them to “go over” the rainbow, and perhaps those are the words Dr. A used with me, too, but I remember “riding up” the rainbow, because at that moment, I was a little girl name R.B. (also “Arby”), who was fashioned after Rainbow Brite, and she would “ride up the rainbow” on her white unicorn.

(I’m aware that the cartoon character has a white horse, not a unicorn… but in my mind, as “Arby,” I had a unicorn. It seemed more exciting than a regular horse…)

I also had a little white, cloud-like “sprite” beside me, helping me ride up the rainbow.

(Although the dictionary defines “sprite” as being a harmless little elf or fairy, it’s just another name for a demonic being, regardless of what form they choose to take. Demonic assistance is very much a part of mind control programming, and they can take what seems to be a benign or even a helpful form.)

Reinforcing this programming script, Dr. A would sometimes give me Skittles candy

remember the rainbow

and a Sprite soda pop

don’t leave the demon behind

to prepare me for dissociation into the alter “Arby,” and from Arby, he would pull up the part that he wanted to work with for whatever purpose he had at that moment, whether it was for training, for additional programming-type exercises, for special projects that he had me work on, or whatever.

The Grid

(Note: as I have already mentioned, I don’t believe it’s always a good idea to make public too many details of one’s internal system. However, I share just a few things here, with the purpose to explain some of the complications of the programming and to then compare it with the solution of finding freedom from the programming, a solution that is actually very simple.)

One of the major things I, as “Arby,” did with Dr. A at the very beginning of programming, was to build a “grid” inside my system. Through trauma, Dr. A would cause me to become dissociative; then I would “ride up the rainbow,” and he walked me through the process by first having me “go to the closet door” that was across the room.

(And in case it isn’t clear, I didn’t literally walk across the room to the closet door. That was impossible, since I was strapped into the programming chair. But I went to the closet door in my mind.)

He talked me through visualizing a coded lock on the door, then he took me (in my mind) into the closet, where he talked me through building that area to his specifications.

I never knew what the actual, literal closet in the programming room looked like or how large it was. But the closet in my mind was infinitely large and arranged abstractly — no walls or floors, but simply a space where everything that was placed in there sort-of floated or hovered in mid-air.

There were hidden “doors” that accessed levels that were 13 high and 13 down, and the doors (and the levels) were only able to be accessed by codes. Dr. A walked parts of me through memorizing, hiding, and protecting the codes.

(No, I don’t consciously know any of these codes, neither am I worried about it any longer. As I will talk about in a moment, it’s not necessary to know codes in order to find freedom, deliverance, and healing, and if you try to “find the codes” in an attempt to destroy them and disarm programming, that’s like fighting witchcraft with more witchcraft. Trying to fight and destroy mind-control programming by using programming techniques, is not of God, it is not Biblical, nor is it wise, and you are likely to end up bringing harm upon yourself in one fashion or another, at the least by triggering hidden programming.)

Among other things, the doors led to hidden rooms that housed what would be considered by programmers to be “throw-away alters/fragments,” as well as access to a “beast system” that kept me tied to the demonic, specifically, the spirit of the antichrist.

(I know all of this probably sounds weird to some of you… I’m not trying to sound weird, and I hope I haven’t lost you, the reader, but I’m just saying what it was.)

The “grid” itself was arranged in the middle of the floating closet space, looking as if it were a bunch of cubicles all connected together, with no way in or out of each box, arranged in a fashion similar as the picture below, except it was all white.


Each box on the grid was assigned a letter from A to Z , and given a number from 1 to at least 26, so that the first box on the first row was A-1, the second box on the first row was A-2, the third box on the first row was A-3, and so on.

(it’s possible that the numbers are higher… but I’m confused about the exact number for reasons that are too complicated to get into right now without going way off topic, but I don’t suppose the exact number really matters.)

Each box had an alter (a part of me) that was placed inside that area, and they were held in place by a demon.

Illuminating the space of the closet, high in the sky, were three special alters who were given the roles of “sun,” moon,” and “star.” The ones who had the role of “sun” and “moon” were basically just used as placeholders, to give context to the most prominent one who called herself “Starla,” who was very adamantly and blatantly Luciferian.

Finding Freedom

During the process of “deliverance counseling” with a self-proclaimed “DID expert,” Dan Duval, we went through this particular system

it is not Biblical nor wise to work through your system with someone else in such a fashion. see:

freed the alters from the grid

freed…? well, they went from the grid that had been programmed inside me by Dr. A, to the glass boxes of so-called “living water” that had been programmed inside me through the “counseling” process with Duval. so, now that I’m thinking about it, there were no alters that were “freed.” they simply went from one prison in the system to another.

supposedly beat up all the demons and kicked them out

I found out later that this wasn’t true, and besides, the way it went about, it wasn’t Scriptural at all

started to open the hidden doors

a task that not only was dangerous, but also was never completed

with the help of the so-called “Jesus” in my system

a fallen angel (demonic being) that was actually an antichrist

and sent forth supposed “angels”

not Biblical

to destroy the beast system and computer systems, a mission that was never completed, because it was a sham!

And after I finally got away from such emotionally, mentally, and spiritually abusive “deliverance counseling” with Duval, I realized that the “angels” were actually demons, and there was no freedom from programming or from the influence of the demonic or from being connected to the spirit of the antichrist! Instead, the demons, at the bidding of my “counselor,” who I foolishly believed was helping me, were keeping my “counselor” and myself distracted with all the foolish and unscriptural “spiritual warfare,” while the demonic were completely taking over my mind, will, and emotions, strengthening the programming, not destroying it!

The entire two-year ordeal was a grueling task that never brought me true healing. Instead, everything got worse.

(And, by the way, I have heard of a few people who claim that Duval’s counseling techniques have made them feel better, not worse. They have a right to feel the way they feel, and I 100% believe them if they say that they feel better. Who am I to argue with how someone else feels? But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: what feels good is not always what is good. “Good feelings” do not necessarily equal Biblically sound and spiritually safe. The fact is, Duval’s “counseling” techniques were occult. And those occult techniques do not line up with the Word of God. Therefore, there may be some of Duval’s clients who “feel good,” but it is a path that will eventually lead to their destruction, making their “feel good feelings” to be useless and temporary. I pray they — both the clients, present and past, and Duval himself — will one day heed the warnings, heed the voice of the Spirit of God who calls us to repentance, and submit to the Heavenly Father, lining themselves up with the Word of God, as Christians should.)

Instead, I ended up having a nervous breakdown because all the alters that had been freed from the grid were extremely occult, with a definite bend in the so-called “light” direction — Luciferian, in other words — and extremely vocal about it. For several weeks, they were so loud in my head that I went just a little bit crazy for a period of time. It took me a long time to recover from all of that insanity, and it wasn’t until I finally got away from Duval, Bride Ministries, and Duval’s associates that I started to heal.

Anyway, I don’t feel like getting into a lot of detail of how my so-called “life coach” counseled me during this very painful process, because not only does it sound nuts, it was nuts…. Furthermore, I’ve already gone into quite a bit of detail here: So there’s no need for me to continue to rehash.

But suffice to say, nothing actually helped me, and although I thought, at the time, that the programming had been broken, that the beast system was destroyed, etc…, I found out later that nothing had changed at all.

Except— well… except that through the programming being triggered, and through the  heavy demonic influence I was under, and through the doctrines of demons that my “counselor” was teaching me in sessions, and through the occult exercises he was taking me through in sessions, I got very deep into even more “christian” witchcraft.

Eventually, I reached another breaking point, and realizing that if I didn’t stop “counseling” with him, that I’d either end up in a mental hospital or in the grave, I fired him.

Once the fog started to clear from my mind, I began to realize the truth of the insanity I had been involved in, and the Spirit of God began to slowly show me His truth that was found in His WordHis truth that I had once rejected as not being “powerful enough” to deal with the very complicated problems of mind control programming and ritual abuse.

And I submitted to His work within my life, and I began to heal.


Why do I say all of this?

I say all of this because, as a survivor, what I find most frustrating — angering at times, even — is how complicated other people try to make finding freedom from mind-control programming to be.

Some prominent people (prominent within particular circles, at any rate) believe they need to know special codes to break the programming.

Or find hidden entrances or doorways into the system (a “back door”) in order to access the system to “reprogram”  or “deprogram” the survivor.

Or they believe that they have to find and speak to each alter and integrate it with the whole, ASAP, by whatever means.

Or that they have to find each alter and have each one say a “prayer of salvation,” which usually involves an ungodly and unbiblical view of salvation by “asking Jesus into their heart/s.”

Or they believe that they have to travel to other dimensions (astral travel… but they call it “spirit travel”) to find alters that may be hidden there.

Or that they have to search all throughout the system to find each demon and beat them up.

Or search throughout other dimensions to find dens of demons that are presumed to have a connection to the person’s system, and supposedly “beat up and destroy” those demons, much like a Marvel comic book hero… 🙄

The list could go on, ad nauseam!

It’s angering to me that such people claim such ridiculous things, and are fooling (and often terrifying) survivors into thinking that THEY (and sometimes “only they”) have the “special touch” needed in order for survivors to break free of programming and to find deliverance, freedom, and healing.

But the truth is, you don’t need all that junk!

All you need is the truth that is found in the Word of God!

I’ve written about this many times over, but here I go again… 😊

Freedom, healing, and deliverance from mind-control programming begins at salvation through Jesus Christ, and it continues as we submit to the working of the Holy Spirit within us!

That’s it!


Too simple?

Yes! It’s simple!

It doesn’t mean it’s easybut it is simple!

And since I’ve already written tons about it already, here are some links for you to read where I go into detail about this freedom, healing, and deliverance process:

1. Before You Email Us: Deliverance is Not a Destination (there are several other links to follow at the bottom of this page)

2. Spiritual Battle / Spiritual Warfare

3. Finding Freedom (this is a chapter in our book that is divided into two sections: one for the non-dissociative individual, and the other for those who are dissociative)

4.Deliverance and Spiritual Warfare 101” (this is a video series Carolyn and I produced that goes into more detail about the information in the chapter in our book titled “Finding Freedom”)

5. How to Pray 

6. Christ Crucified: Foolishness… or the Power of God?

7. Snapshot #8: Systems and the Main Hall and Snapshot #6: A Blood Contract (I talk about the healing process in most of the chapters of my bio, but these are probably the most prominent thus far)

Satan complicates. God simplifies!

Stick with what is True, with what is Biblical, with what is safe, even when dealing with mind-control programming. The healing that comes from the Father, through His Spirit, is something that programmers nor the demonic can ever take away!

Consider this Scripture:

John 4:26-27 (BSB)

“But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in My name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have told you. Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled; do not be afraid.”


According to Strong’s Concordance and HELPS Word-studies, the full definition of “peace” is:

one, peace, quietness, rest; 1515 eirḗnē (from eirō, “to join, tie together into a whole“) – properly, wholeness, i.e. when all essential parts are joined together; peace (God’s gift of wholeness)

Isn’t that amazing?! Wholeness comes from the Father! It is His gift purchased for us through Jesus Christ and given to us freely by His Spirit!

So don’t try to complicate the matter. Accept the gift of salvation through Jesus Christ and simply submit to the working of the Spirit of God within you. He brings you wholeness. He brings you healing. He brings you freedom and deliverance.

If the material on this page has brought up issues for you that you would like to talk to someone about, please follow this link to find the appropriate hotline:

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