I hate remembering things.  It usually happens when I’m waking up.  Things just fall into place.  When my mother didn’t like how I acted, she’d let Michael know where I lived and what my number was.  I lived across the country but near a military base.  He visited me when I was pregnant with my daughter.  My body never worked with my husband.  I spent so. many. years. wondering what was the matter with my body.  Vaginally, I was pretty much numb.  It turns out, Michael could switch my brain’s connection to my body on and off. It worked when he was raping me, but not when I tried having sex with my husband.  I remember wiping my feet off on the concrete in my backyard before going back in with my wet blank.  He had me meet him in my backyard.  I told him when my husband would be gone.  He came back.  This time, I let him in.  I opened the door to a stranger and he flicked his wrist down while asking me a question and I was forced to open the door to him.  He raped me, and then he went after my daughter.  It was one thing to rape me, it was quite another to go after my newborn baby, which he did with his fingers.  I guess he could see me fighting against his hold on my brain.  My mama-bear was even stronger than his threats on my life and all his hours of torturing me since I was a little kid.  He could see I was about to crawl out of my head and attack him, so he paused his attack on my baby.  He electrocuted me vaginally and threatened my daughter’s life and that he’d make it look like I went crazy and killed her.  I “calmed down” and he finished raping her.

I didn’t remember this stuff until a couple years ago.  But I always remembered after.  My husband was out of town for the week and I was terrified to sleep in my house by myself.  A new Harry Potter book had come out that day.  I really wanted to read it but my daughter wouldn’t stop crying.  I couldn’t figure out why she was so inconsolable for hours.  I put her in a carrier and held the book above her little head on my chest and read, jostling her up and down, praying that she’d stop.

*******

When I started remembering, I wanted to die.  Throughout her childhood, with this daughter especially, I wondered if something had happened to her.  I’d ask my husband or family, “Is this normal?  Are you SURE she’s never been sexually abused?”  Something didn’t feel right.  At the time I remembered, she had been cutting and wanted to die.  She’d wondered for years why she hated herself so much.  There’s more, but writing about this makes me too tired.  At the time I remembered about my daughter, I kept remembering what Michael said, “I don’t like little boys.”  Oh, good!  I held on to that: he didn’t get my son.

But then I remembered more.  He dressed my son as a girl before he sodomized him.  He was about three at the time.  He was sick throwing up afterward.  One morning he woke up, felt all better, and began chattering on about how much fun he had with a recently deceased relative and how my son wanted to write him a letter.  We NEVER spoke about this relative, but here, my three year old son was chattering about him like he had actually known him.

At one point, I was made to hold me kids down while they were assaulted.  I had to hold my daughter’s mouth closed while she was gang raped under the threat that if her brother woke up from her screams, they’d slit his throat.  I was made to do things to my kids.  I barely survived those days.  And so did my kids.  I’m so glad I’m finally remembering, even though it also makes me want to die.  My kids have some attachment issues.  I wondered what I’d done wrong because I adore them, and so does my husband, so how could they possibly have attachment issues?  Now, I understand.

This is another pit of hell.

My mother took me on another weekend getaway.  What with her being a psycho, my dad was happy to have her gone.  He didn’t ask too many questions. I was around 1st or 2nd grade.

Here is when my memories get mixed up.

I earned a bunny rabbit.  They said if I were good and did their race, I’d win a bunny.  Some of the bunnies in the hutch bit, but the one I chose didn’t.

Oh, the things I did to earn a bunny rabbit!

I had to swim naked through a cold pool.  I had to climb over a small, chain-link fence after the swim and the pokes of the fence really hurt my private area.  That was at the end to get to the bunny hutch.

Before then, I was in a classroom-type place.  It was actually a military barracks, at Fort Ord (Thank you, Uncle Sam!), and that’s why I was surrounded by so many men.  A few other kids and I were on chairs.  There was a mattress in front of us.  I felt like we were at summer school.  I knew that to be “good” I couldn’t scream.  It helped that they put something over the bottom part of my face.  It was leather and had a spike that was placed just under my chin.  There was a leather piece that went over my head and connected to the back.  It was latched on, like you would buckle leather sandals to your feet, so there was no way to get away from the spike.  There was also no breathability to it, so it got wet in front of my mouth.  On the back, where it buckled, there was also a dog collar type thing.  Later, they chained us together to bring us to the lunch room.  The chain hooked to the back of my mask.

I put together the time frame on this because of a racist feeling I’d had when I was doing a sport after first grade.  I’m white, and I had to hold a black girl’s hand.  I got really nervous and it kept coming to my mind that she was dirty and stinky and never showered.  I knew that wasn’t the case, but it just kept coming to my mind.

Now, let me tell you something about my mother–she may sell her child for sex, but she is not racist.  My dad isn’t racist.  None of my close family were racist.  Race issues weren’t really a thing.  So, where on earth had I heard that black people were dirty and never showered? Why, our most wonderful government’s military base, Fort Ord!

The little girl sitting next to me, all tied up and masked, was black.  She was before me.  I wondered what she’d done wrong to be in summer school.  What had I done wrong to be there?  I didn’t know.  We were silently crying and in shock.  The army guys were going in the half circle, gang-raping the next child in line on the mattress.  There were bright lights shining on the mattress and a video camera rolling.  Each child was going to have a turn.  It didn’t matter what race you were, or sex, they would scream racist/sexist things at you while they were raping you.  The rest of us watched and were intermittently terrorized by a man jumping out and scaring you, getting in your face.

I don’t know if they had stations in different rooms, or they just changed things up in the same room.  There were flashing orb lights with people scaring you.  Electric shocks out of nowhere.  They’d shout in your face.  They took pictures of you with a deer head on your head.  A seemingly real deer head. I also had some pictures with the deer’s antler parts up inside me.  They’d show you pictures and scream at you to answer about what it was.  If you answered correctly, they’d zap you.  They dressed up as policemen and screamed at you to tell them what was done to you that day.  When you’d answer truthfully, they’d zap you.  Then remind you to tell the truth, didn’t you want that surprise?  Or the the bunny?  And you were so exhausted and zapped and confused, you didn’t know what to say and you almost went out of your head with insanity.  I think they made sure to stop right before then.

I remember the church they brought me to.  They carried me in a basket.  I remember being in the trunk of a car at one point, and being carried up the steps on the side of the church.

I don’t know when my mother picked me up.  I stayed at a hotel with her that night.  I lay awake in the middle of the night, not really knowing what had happened and what I’d done wrong.

My whole childhood was spent terrified of two things: Being possessed and being kidnapped.

There’s something more frightening than having your body be damaged and have all your control be taken away.  It’s being possessed by an evil spirit.  I would wake up in the middle of the night and sing songs about Jesus until I could fall asleep again.  I don’t know how long I was awake, but it felt like hours and I remember being so depressed about going to sleep because I knew I’d have nightmares and then wake up in the middle of the night and be alone for several hours.

A follow up to the last post, I believe I posted about Mikey locking me in the dark for hours and hours.  After he took me out, he gave me lots of snuggles and love.  He was my daddy and I was his special girl.  Then, Lillith gave me a bath with the requisite near drownings.  I sat on the couch with my hair drying, watching TV.  I believe it was Muppets or Sesame Street–I never watched either at home.  Mikey had somewhere to be, as he left he walked over to me on the couch.  I was so tired.  So, so tired.  I just wanted my mom.  Mikey came over and grabbed my hands.  He made me look at him in the eyes and squeezed my finger tips as hard as he could while he told me he loved me and I was so special to him.  It was so confusing because it hurts so much I started to cry but I had to repeat back to him that I was his special girl and he loved me.

Mikey left like he had something to do besides destroy innocent souls.  Lillith was in the kitchen.  Finally, my car pulled up.  I kept looking out the window but was pretending to watch TV because I’d get in trouble if I asked to go home or when my mom would be there.

I remember driving pulling away in my mother’s car and looking at the apartment.  I thought, “That poor little girl in there!   I wonder why she keeps being so naughty and what she did so wrong that they had to punish her!  I’m so glad that’s not me!”

Other times at Mikey and Shamby’s included drinking chocolate milk–a treat for me–that was mixed with blood.

Mikey knew about my church’s religious beliefs so he’d play tricks on me.  He’d tell me that he was heavenly Father and clap his hands and the lights would go off.  He’d tell me he could read my  mind and knew that all the time I was a bad little girl.  He knew that I’d masturbate.  He taught me to pray to satan.  He told me I was satan’s little girl because heavenly Father didn’t want me.  He knew I was no good.  If I prayed to heavenly Father, He would make bad things happen to me.  But if I prayed to Satan, that was where I really belonged.  And then I’d know I was loved.

I was dedicated to Satan.  I remember having to take a bath in their tub and I think it was pig’s blood.  It was disgusting and sticky and I wasn’t allowed to wipe it off.

One time, I was probably five and my dad would kneel down with me at night to say prayers before bed.  I had just been to Michael’s house, and the knowledge that heavenly Father wanted NOTHING to do with me was fresh in my mind.  My dad tried to get me to pray.  I really, really didn’t want to pray to satan, but I was too scared to pray to heavenly Father.  I just cried and threw a little fit.  My dad didn’t understand what was the matter with me, so he said my prayer for me.

Even today, as a bonafide adult, I have to make sure that when I pray in my mind, I have to at least whisper, or just say out loud, “In the name of JESUS CHRIST, amen.”  My worst nightmare is that I’ll say: in the name of satan.  And then that will give him an excuse to possess me again.

So, they get in your head.  At a young age.  And there’s just no way to win.

Mikey and Lillith sometimes had me call them “Mikey and Shamby.” One morning, I woke up early in my house and watched TV. I saw an episode of “Gumby.” I was terrified because of how similar the names “Gumby” and “Shamby” were. Another time, I watched an old episode of the Addams family. The characters on there terrified me because they also reminded me of Mikey and Lillith.

My first time spending the night there was relatively calm compared to the visits that followed. He introduced me to his friend, the lightning stick, or the “zapper” as I called it. I was willing to do anything in this WHOLE WORLD to avoid being stuck with the zapper. I can’t emphasize that enough. The zapper was, and is, the most terrible thing in the world. It was actually a cattle prod that electrocuted me, but to me, it will always be the zapper.

Mikey raped the hell out of me and I had to give him a blow job. He hit me for not going “fast enough” on his blow job. I was only three. I went as fast as I could. He told me if I did it well, then I wouldn’t get zapped. After finishing the blow job, he threw me on the bed and zapped me. I felt so hurt. I had done my best and he had said he wouldn’t, but then he did.

I left my body. I remember looking down at myself and thinking, “That little girl must have been so bad because he is doing that to her. She must not have listened!” I had a supernatural experience where an angel reminded me what was going on and that I had done nothing wrong. I had a hard time believing that was me on the bed.

This must not have been the first time the he zapped me because, while talking to the angel, it occurred to me what was going to happen next. I begged and begged the angel to not to let it happen. I couldn’t stand it again. It was so terrible! I didn’t want to go back into my body. Blood and other fluids were coming from my private parts and I was so embarrassed. But, I had to go back into my body. The angel promised that another angel would be with me and I wouldn’t be left alone.

I went back into my body and was in so much pain. Mikey grabbed me by the arm because I wasn’t listening. He tried to make me stand but my legs were too shaky from being electrocuted vaginally. He hit me on the bottom until I could force myself to walk. He threw me into a closet or a cellar type thing. All I knew is that it was pitch dark, I was naked and bloody, and hungry, and knew I’d be in there for a long time.

My angel was there. She sang to me and told me stories about funny things I’d done and reasons she loved me until I fell asleep. I know I was in there for at least a day. I was cold, bloody, naked, hurting, and hungry. It was terrible.

Another time, he and Lillith gathered around me on their bed. They made me repeat, “Come into me, come into me.” I don’t know how long I was possessed, but I was. It was like being raped, but having your whole soul be violated instead of just your body.

I don’t know which came first: my mother molesting me or her interest in the Temple of Set. My grandfather raped me. My mother molested me. Her brother raped me. I don’t know if my grandfather ever touched my sister, but I know that my mother and her brother molested her, too. “It ran in the family” I like to say. It’s about the most twisted family inheritance one can receive.

Some of my earliest memories of Mikey’s apartment are from when I was three. Oh, it was terrible to be handed off to the devil in human form by one’s own mother.

I saw Mikey and Lillith as my babysitters while my mother went on errands. Other times, I spent the night.

I was to call them “Mommy” and “daddy” even though I didn’t call my own parents anything other than “Mom” and “Dad.” They raped me and molested me and made me breastfeed like I was little baby. I was so embarrassed. They made me pretend to be born from Lillith. I had to sleep between them. They recordered everything. I hated her long black hair over my face.

The next day, they took me to a park near their house. I had to do the “spider” with him on the swing. He had a blanket over us because it was the morning and the “spider” was him raping me under the blanket around our waists. I never wanted to do the “spider” again after that. I remember walking hand in hand with him to the park. I wanted to die inside and didn’t know when “all this” was going to end and someone would pick me up.

After the end of my stays, usually Lillith would give me a bath in that big, claw footed bathtub. She’d hold me under the water until I thought I was going to pass out even though I was terrified. Then, she’d raise me up out of the water and stroke my hair and ask me if I was all right and show me love and tell me what a good girl I was. But as soon as I felt better, she’d shove me under the water again. It was so confusing.

I still haven’t put together how my mother met Mikey. I’m assuming my father’s military connections had something to do with it. I know that she adored him. I know that she always wanted to be “somebody.” She wanted power, prestige, wealth, and connections. I think she believed that membership in the Temple of Set would achieve all that she wanted in life.

I don’t know that she knew Mikey was affiliated with a satanic temple in the beginning. I know there was a retreat in Tahoe. I also know that she said she believed in the Mormon church that we went to every Sunday. But satanic temples and the Mormon church (regardless of your personal opinions) really don’t mix.

My mother latched onto everything Mikey said. In order to become a member of the temple, you have to be vetted for years. You also have to give the temple something in exchange for allowing you to begin your membership to show that you are trustworthy and serious about wanting “in.” My mother gave Mikey my sister and me. Not permanently, of course. We lived at home. We had a dad that cared about us and had no idea what was going on. He worked a lot.  But we made visits to Mikey’s house. And it was more terrible than one can imagine.

My father was in the military. He ended up in San Francisco, California. This was the early 80’s. There is ONE man who was the head of the Temple of Set in the 80’s. He was also the head of the CIA’s mind control program.

When I first read that, I thought it was a joke. Nope, not a joke. He was an expert, and is an expert of mind control. AND the head of a satanic temple.

I lived in the suburbs and remember first visiting his “apartment.” I lived in a wealthy area in a house. Houses had lots of space between the next house. Apartments were for poor people who had to live with other apartments. Their homes were squished together. It was only recently that it occurred to me that I referred to Temple of Set’s president’s house as an apartment. This San Francisco house is worth millions, yet I’ll continue referring to it as an apartment.

I remember one thing about the first time I went to his apartment: his bathtub. My sister was there and we pointed at the bathtub and giggled. It had clawed feet on top of a ball. We’d never seen such a thing! I’ve never forgotten it.

I’m a survivor of satanic ritual abuse for most of my life.

I know other survivors.

I’m a survivor of satanic ritual abuse for most of my life.

I know other survivors.

I’m frustrated by the lack of information on the internet for survivors. Much of the information is mixed in with crazy conspiracy theories.

Satanic Ritual Abuse isn’t a “satanic panic” of the 80’s. It happened. It is STILL happening.

I’m not crazy. I’m not a conspiracy theorist.

I have social skills. I have an education. I have a family. We look like the average American middle class family.

I also have terrible memories that I’ve never known what to do with. I try to sleep at night and more memories come to the surface. It’s been a terrible life and I wish I could make the memories go away.

I’ve told friends, “Either I’m completely psychotic, or I’m telling the truth.”

Through friends of friends, I’ve met other survivors. They have similar memories. They’ve said the same thing, “Either I’m completely off my rocker, or I’m telling the truth.”

We are telling the truth. We couldn’t make this stuff up. If I were to sit and try to think up the most evil things someone could do to another, I still wouldn’t be able to conceive of these things.