CHAPTER
1 - MY INTRODUCTION TO HUMANITY
My pedophile father, Earl O’Brien, brags that he began substituting his
penis for my mother’s nipple soon after I was born. My multigenerational
incest-abused mother, Carol Tanis, did not protest his perverse actions
due to (reportedly) having similar abuse as a child which caused her to acquire Multiple
Personality Disorder.1 My
earliest recovered memory was that
I could not breathe with my father’s penis jammed into my little throat.
Yet I could not discern his semen from my mother’s milk. I do not recall thinking, but I am aware through education that this early sexual abuse distorted my primitive concepts of feeding, breathing, sexuality, and parental perceptions. I recall as a toddler being unable to run (I could barely walk) to my mother for help as my instincts demanded.
Through my gulping sobs, my terror rose as I tried to clear my throat of my father’s semen and draw a breath of air. My mother finally arrived at my side. Rather than comfort me, she accused me of throwing a temper tantrum and "holding my breath". She responded only by throwing a glass of cold water in my face. I was shocked! As the water splashed my face, I knew she would not help and it was up to me to save myself.
I automatically Multiple Personality Disordered. I was, of course, too young to logically understand that what my father was doing to me was wrong. I accepted his strangling sexual abuse as a normal and natural part of my home life, and split off a personality to deal with the pain and suffocation to satisfy his perversions. Therefore as a child, I was dissociative of my father’s abuse. I was totally unable to recall his sexual abuse, even in his presence, until 1 saw and felt his penis.
Then
the terror, which was my conditioned response, triggered access to that part of
my brain that previously endured the trauma, I was remembering the abuse and how
to deal with it. This part of my brain developed into a personality of its
own-which belonged to my father-which he rented out and later sold to the U.S.
Government as will be explained and detailed in the following pages.
Other parts of my conditioned mind dealt with other abusers, abuses and
circumstances. My father was (as revealed by my own investigations) apparently a
multigenerational incest child from a large, poor, and horribly dysfunctional
family. His mother earned a living as a prostitute for local lumbermen after his
father died when he was two years old. My father’s brothers and sister were
all sexually and (occult) ritually abused just as he was. They grew up to
be drug addicts, prostitutes, street derelicts, and pedophiles who also sexually
abused me and my brothers and sisters. I developed more personality splits to
deal with the traumas of these torturous relationships.
My mother’s dysfunctional family also appears to be multigenerational, but of
a slightly higher socio-economic class. Her father owned the building occupied
by a Masonic Blue Lodge he led, and managed a local beer distribution
business with her mother after completing his military career. Together they
sexually abused my mother and her three brothers, who in turn sexually abused
me.
My family often went camping on the vast wilderness acreage surrounding my
grandfather’s Masonic Lodge in Newaygo, Michigan. Large bluffs referred
to as "The High Banks" overlooked the White River flowing through his
property, which is where we pitched our tents. My mother’s brothers, Uncle Ted
and Uncle Arthur "Bomber" Tanis, often accompanied us and sexually
abused my brother and me.
It was deer hunting season in or around November, 1961, when my father took the
family camping on The High Banks to hunt with my uncles. That night, as my
brother and I were being sexually passed around the campfire to satisfy
pedophile perversions, a lost hunter stumbled into our camp. My father shot him
when he attempted to run; the rifle’s blasts piercing my brain and further
fragmenting my mind. I sat dazed in a dissociative trance while my mother
methodically picked up the campsite and my father and uncles disposed of the
body.
As my father drove us away from the crime scene, we were stopped by several
hunters who had the road blocked in a desperate attempt to locate their missing
companion. They described the man I saw my father kill, and said they heard
gunshots. Reality intruded on my dissociative trance, and I screamed and cried
hysterically until I no longer knew why I was crying.
My Uncle Ted 2 soon became a
street derelict. Uncle Bomber died a few years later from alcoholism in his
early forties. And my father became more financially and politically connected.
My mother’s oldest brother, Uncle Bob, was a pilot in Air Force
Intelligence and often boasted that he worked for the Vatican. Uncle Bob was
also a commercial pornographer, producing kiddie porn for the local Michigan
Mafia, which looped back to Mafia porn king and U.S. Representative Jerry
Ford. I split off more personalities just to deal with my Uncle Bob, his
"friends," and the perverse business he shared with my father.
My father’s sixth grade education had earned him a job as a worm digger for
local sport fishermen. By the time I was six years old, however, his
pornographic exploitation of my older brother, Bill, and me had provided enough
income to move us into a bigger house nestled in the Michigan sand dunes. My
father was right at home there. The tourists and drug dealers who littered the
eastern shore of Lake Michigan further supplemented his income by paying for
perverse sex with us children. My father also became involved in illicit drug
sales.
Soon after we moved, my father was reportedly caught sending kiddie porn through
the U.S. mail. It was a bestiality film of me with my Uncle Sam O’Brien’s
Boxer dog, Buster. My Uncle Bob, also implicated in manufacturing the porn, out
of apparent desperation informed my father of a U.S. Government Defense
Intelligence Agency TOP SECRET Project to which he was privy. This was Project
Monarch.
Project Monarch was a mind-control operation which was "recruiting" multigenerational incest abused children with Multiple Personality Disorder for its genetic mind-control studies. I was a prime "candidate," a "chosen one". My father seized the opportunity as it would provide him immunity from prosecution.
In the midst of the pandemonium that ensued, Jerry Ford arrived at our house with the evidence in hand for a meeting with my father.
"Is Earl home?" he called to my mother, who nervously stood behind the screen door, hesitating to let him in. "Not yet," my mother replied, her voice shaking. "He should have been home from work by now. I know he’s expecting you."
"That’s OK". Ford turned his attention to me. I was standing outside on the front porch, and he crouched down to my level. Patting the large, brown envelope containing the confiscated porn tucked under his arm he said, "You like doggies, huh?"
"Buster is a nice doggy," I replied. "He’s funny."Not understanding why the dog had been whisked away when the porn was confiscated, I complained, "Buster’s gone."
"Buster’s gone?" Ford asked. "Yeah. My Uncle Sam took him away," I told him.
Ford laughed loudly at the irony of my statement. In my limited view, I thought he found it humorous that Buster was gone. My father pulled into the driveway, honking the horn of his new, tan convertible. Ford stood up. With his fly eye level to me, I noticed his penis was erect and reached for it as conditioned.
"Not now, honey," he said. "I have business to tend..." Ford went inside with my parents to officially seal my fate.
Not long after that my father was flown to Boston for a two-week course at Harvard on how to raise me for this off-shoot of MK-Ultra Project Monarch. When he returned from Boston, my father was smiling and pleased with his new knowledge of what he termed "reverse psychology". This equates to "satanic reversals," and involves such play-on-words as puns and phrases that stuck in my mind like, "You earn your keep, and I’ll keep what you earn."
He presented me with a commemorative charm bracelet of dogs, and my mother with the news that they "would be having more children" to raise in the project. (I now have two sisters and four brothers ranging from age 16 to 37 who are still under mind control.)
My
mother complied with my father’s suggestions, mastering the art of language
manipulation. For example, when I could not snap my own pajama top to the
bottoms in a childish effort to keep my father out of them, I asked my mother,
’’please snap me". She did. She would snap her forefingers against my
skin in a stinging manner. The pain I felt was psychological as this proved to
me once again that she had no intention of protecting me from my father’s
sexual abuse.
Also in keeping with his government-provided instructions, my father began
working me like the legendary Cinderella. I shoveled fireplace ashes,
hauled stacked firewood, raked leaves, shoveled snow, chopped ice, and
swept—"because," my father said, "your little hands fit so
nicely around the rake, mop, shovel, and broom handles."
By
this time, my father’s sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to his
friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists, strangers, and police
officers. When I wasn’t being worked to physical exhaustion, filmed
pornographically, prostituted, or engaged in incest abuse, I dissociated into
books. I had learned to read at the young age of four due to my photographic
memory which was a natural result of MPD/DID.
Government researchers involved in MK-Ultra Project Monarch knew about the
photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well as other resultant
"super human" characteristics. Visual acuity of an MPD/DID is 44 times
greater than that of the average person. My developed unusually high pain
threshold, plus compartmentalization of memory were "necessary" for
military and covert operations applications.
Additionally,
my sexuality was primitively twisted from infancy. This programming was
appealing and useful to perverse politicians who believed they could hide their
actions deep within my memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as
personalities.
Immediately after my father’s return from Boston, I was routinely prostituted
to then Michigan State Senator Guy VanderJagt. VanderJagt later became a
U.S. Congressman and eventually chairman of the Republican National
Congressional Committee that put George Bush in the office of President.
I was prostituted to VanderJagt after numerous local parades which he always
participated in, at the Mackinac Island Political Retreat, and in my home state
of Michigan, among other places.
My Uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white, and blue
paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in scrambling my mind
according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy tale themes were used to
confuse fantasy with reality, particularly Disney
stories and the Wizard of Oz, which provided the base for future
programming.
I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality, a personality
for incest, a personality for withstanding the horrendous psychological abuse of
my mother, a personality for prostitution, and the rest of "me"
functioned somewhat "normally" at school. My "normal"
personality provided a cover for the abuse I was enduring, but best of all it
had hope- hope that there was somewhere in the world where people did not hurt
each other. This same personality also attended Catechism, a weekly class at our
Catholic church, St. Francis de Sales in Muskegon, Michigan.
My Catechism teacher was a Nun, or "Sister." Although I could not
consciously think to protect myself from abuse, I had decided that becoming a
Nun would provide me with the kind of life I sought. I could not rely upon my
family, the police, or politicians to protect me. The church appeared to be my
answer, and I listened diligently in class and prayed religiously. I learned all
about the political structure of the church, and was prepared for my first
Confession,
The Catholic beliefs I was taught include the idea that man is not fit to talk
to God (the Father) directly, but must have a priest intercede
instead. This is the purpose of going to Confession. I was instructed to tell my
sins to the priest (also referred to as Father), who would relay the message to God.
He would then supposedly tell me how many "Hail Marys" and "Our
Father" prayers to say as my penance, or punishment.
My
Catechism teacher gave the class several examples of "sins," which
included "sex outside of marriage." When the Priest, Father James
Thaylen, slid open the little screened partition in the closet sized
confessional, I began as I had been instructed, "Forgive me Father, for I
have sinned...." I then proceeded to tell him that I had sex with my father
and brother, to which he responded that I should "say three Hail Marys and
one Our Father and I would be forgiven?!"
I knew then that I had to either believe that this Confession thing was a
hoax, or that God condoned sexual child abuse. That night, my
father had a talk with me. Apparently he was the "Father" that the
priest had interceded to. My father instructed me that "from now on,"
I was to simply say "I disobeyed my parents" when I went to Confession
and nothing more!
The next time I went to Confession, I did exactly as I was told. The veiled
screen came off the Confessional partition between me and the priest, and a
penis was stuck through the window, "God said that your penance is
to treat me as you would your father. And remember, ’whatsoever you do to the
least of your brothers, that you do unto me’." After performing oral sex
on Father Thaylen, I emerged from the Confessional where all the other
kids were waiting very impatiently for their turn.
My
teacher scolded me for taking so long and told me to add a few extra "Our
Fathers" to my penance. When I told her I already did my penance, she told
me again the "order of things" to the Confessional ritual — which
did not fit anything I had just experienced! Without ever consciously knowing
why, I abandoned the idea of becoming a Nun as that part of me, too, split off
from what was left of my "normal" base personality.
I continued to maintain an illusion of normalcy for school,5
excelling in my studies due to my photographic memory and in spite of my chronic
"day-dreaming". I had plenty of friends and played enthusiastically at
recess, expending large amounts of energy in my subconscious effort to escape my
own mind. And I lost myself in the books my father suggested I read: the Wizard
Of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Disney Classics, and
Cinderella—all of which were used in conditioning my mind for what soon would
become mind-control programming."
My television viewing was restricted and monitored in keeping with my father’s
gained knowledge. I was, however permitted to watch the "best" of
movies: The Wizard Of Oz, Disney Classics, Alice In Wonderland, and
Cinderella—over and over and over again.
When I was in second grade, my Brownie Troop marched in the Memorial Day Parade
in which then Michigan State Senator VanderJagt also participated. At the
end of the parade, he took me into a nearby motel and had me per- form oral sex
on him before sending me back to where my Brownie Troop was waiting. My Brownie
leader and peers thought it commendable that VanderJagt took me with him. They
gathered around to hear all about it. I noticed a white splash of semen on my
sash, and hurriedly explained that he had "taken me for a milkshake"
as I wiped it away. Having to cover for his perversion to my Brownie Troop
infringed on my school personality, and the "normal" remainder became
even smaller.
With the memory of this incident compartmentalized in my mind. I made so
conscious association to VanderJagt when my third grade teacher announced that
we were taking a field trip to the State Capital in Lansing, Michigan where he
was in session. Once at the Capital, I was ushered away from my classmates and
taken to an office where he was waiting with his friend and mentor (soon to be
President) Gerald Ford.
VanderJagt
lifted my skirt, pulled down my panties, and placed me on his desk for sex with
him and Ford. Afterward they laughed as VanderJagd placed a small American flag
in my rectum and instructed me to wave it. He then presented me with a Kennedy
pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest of my mind-con-
trolled existence, "Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what
you can do for your country."
VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature where my
classmates were gathered. He put his arm around me in front of all my classmates
and presented me with the American Flag he had just had me wave for him and Ford
with my rectum. My school personality split off again, but I still maintained
the hope that somewhere, someday, I would find a place where people didn’t...
what? I could not remember what I was seeking to escape.
1 Multiple
Personality Disorder (MPD), now known among mental health professionals as
Dissociative Identity Disorder (DTD) is the mind’s sane defense to an insane
situation. It is a way of dealing with trauma that is literally too horrible to
comprehend. Incestuous rape violates primitive instinct and surpasses pain
tolerance. By compartmentalizing the memory of such horrendous abuse, the rest
of the mind can function "normally" as though nothing had happened.
This compartmentalization is created by the brain actually shutting down neuron
pathways to a specific part of the brain. These neuron pathways are triggered
open again when the abuse recurs. The same part of the brain that is already
conditioned to the trauma deals with it again and again as needed.
2 Uncle Ted had also cried hysterically the
night of the murder. Several years later, he almost killed himself when he drove
his car into the White River near the place of the murder.
3 Gerald Ford, aka Leslie Lynch King, Jr.,
served on the appropriations subcommittee for the CIA and was appointed to the
Warren Commission to investigate the assassination of President John F. Kennedy
while I knew him only as a porn boss!
4 My mother often voiced complaints that she
"could not see faces," which personal experience has taught me
indicated that she was suffering from on going physical and psychological
traumas, and therefore was not in control of her senses.
5 Had my teachers been educated in the
obvious signs of child abuse, my "illusion of normalcy" would have
been interpreted as a cry for help. Dissociative trance daydreaming, tones of
helplessness and sexuality in drawings, and the electric prod marks on my face
should have been recognized.
6 These same themes were routinely used in
creating Project Monarch slaves. This fact emerged through years of networking
with mental health professionals.