This piece was hard to write for me, it is very personal. There are triggers of some of the worst kind of childhood memories, so be warned. If issues of satatnitc ritual abuse are triggers for you, or are upsetting for you, please do not read on. I just felt with the information coming out about the Pope right now, this part of my life needs to be shown some daylight so others know how real and pervasive it is in our society, and has been for some time.
I am now 50, and these events happened when I was approximately four through five years old, would state that in late sixties, 1967 and 1968, this shit was really happening. This is not modern day horrors, but stuff which happened behind closed doors, and in a time when there was more trust given to all adults and children were not to be believed or heard from unless called upon.
This begins as well as can be remembered. Things may get disjointed, out of space, out of context, but this is how they lie dormant in my head. A disclaimer of sorts: these are my memories, which were not psycho-induced through suggestion or hypnosis. I was suddenly having this memories blasting me out of no where, depreciating me so badly at work, I was asked many times to just return home instead of trying to finish my shifts. I have never watched really scary gory movies, and have fled the room whenever a movie commercial would come on which involved satanic practices. Exorcist was a big problem for me since I was of the age where my piers were sneaking into the movie and everyone was talking about it.
What I will attempt to put on paper here will in no way even touch on the fears and terror of the events for me, which is one real reason I have hesitated for so long to do this. Believe it or not, but after Shaun’s latest article revealing many church leaders who have participated in this lifestyle and gone unnoticed for so long should be some affirmation for all of us who have suffered in silence for so long.
Like I said, believe if you will, makes no difference to me. If you slam my events in your comments, well I will delete the comments simply because I don’t need to see haters and disbelievers (lived with them all my life) and others need to see love and compassion for what we have been through.
For many years I would wake from a horrible dream, sweating, screaming my self awake. The dream basics were always there: a stairway made of stones, walls made of the same hand laid stones, candle torches on the walls and one being held by the adult in the front of me. Often there were others who appeared to be about my age who were going down with me. I seemed to be about 4or 5 years old. I somehow knew this area we were descending to was under the house I lived in. I also knew I was not living with my parents at the time.
Upon reaching the bottom steps, we would turn a corner in which a whole myriad of a sick community of sorts existed. At times I remember looking into some of the rooms, which were only partitioned by a thin gauge drapes. Behind certain drapes would be children whom I always referred to as the invisible children. They were so thin, bones protruding from all over, and their skin seemed to be almost a blue hue. When they would look at me, it was always was such great sadness and total loss of any lackluster in their looks. They scared me and made me pity them at the same time. I was so young and had no idea of what their looks meant, only that they were not happy. I always got the feeling they were not going to live very long.
I was sometimes thrown into a cell with another drape curtain where there were other more healthy children like myself. Their ages ranged from some younger than me, to some who appeared to be in their pre-teens. We talked some, but there was a pervasive feeling talking would lead to trouble for one or all of us. We had enough cohesiveness between us, even as strangers, not to want to get another in trouble. We would often hear screams of kids and screams of dogs, while we waited behind our curtain. I don’t ever remember any of us taking a peak out side the curtain; I really think we had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Sometimes we would be thrown bread in chunks for us to eat, and we did so quietly and without argument or fuss between us.
At some point, if feels as if it was after a birthday of mine, I was allowed to see more of what was going on in the ante chamber of this underground community. I watched as a full grown German Sheppard was placed on this stone altar. People crowded around the animal, words I did not understand were chanted, and the animals squealed, and then the only noise was of the adults in the robes around the animal. I saw the dog had been killed, bowls of red liquid were being taken away, and then the dog was being removed in a not so gentle manner. I think this is where my great love for large dogs started; never fear in my being when working with big dogs; as I would always see the poor dog who had been desecrated that day.
I was told things by these people, things about how I was supposed to be special, and how I would be able to perform or great miracles would come from me. All this talk frightened me more than what I had seen of the dog. I was coming and going more frequently to this underground community, always getting a good look at the invisible children. The visits were so frequent I was beginning to recognize if certain faces didn’t appear in the group of invisible kids. Once I asked where certain children were only to be ignored and moved along in the journey.
I could tell I was being prepped for something important as the adults in charge of me, the foster parents I had during this time, were giving me everything I could want. Not too far from the legend of Hansel and Gretel, I was also fed a lot of ice cream and snacks. I have pictures of me at about the age of 5, chubby, eating ice cream. What is really unnerving about the pictures is the look of total lack of life in my eyes.
I had no great intervention on my part to get me out of there, the State just decided to return me to my mother who had just served her time in Prison. I never went back there again. There were some questions, I found out much later in life, as to why I ended up in a New Mexico foster home when my case should have been kept in Colorado. These questions were never answered.
For years I would have nightmares in which I would see myself being led down these stone stairs, touching the stone walls. I would hear the screams, feel the heat of the place, and see the invisible children. I have woke many a night screaming for someone to help me stop the cloaked figures from hurting the dog, and other times it is a child on the altar.
I finally had to seek out therapy as the memories were coming in the middle of cashiering customers out of the store. I would find myself on the floor, tucked into a small ball behind the counter. A couple of times ER was called to help, and others times the management was able to get me to the back room. Either way, it played havoc with my job.
After much intense therapy, my therapist and I came to the conclusion if they were real for me, then they had to be handled as real events and not ignored or belittled. There was no one I could confront on any of the events as they happened so long ago, my mother was in prison at the time, and there wee not records to be found from this stay in foster care. The only proof I have is the photo booth snap shots of me eating the ice cream, and my horrid memories. As time has progressed, and I have come to the realization of the strength within me, I can recall more detail now, and have actually drawn much of what I can remember.
There is so much more back there in those memories, things I never want to touch, and at this time in my life, do not feel the need to poke at the memories any longer. I understand what I was subjected to, and what all the other children and animals who were there were subjected to as well. I have no idea who survived, who died down there, or died later in life due to the memories. I can honestly say I was close to suicide many times due to the memories. They were so horrifying, unbelievable, and were not something I could just open up to with a friend over coffee. I have never attempted to discuss them with my mom because I know this would just be too much for her to deal with. She can barely wrap her head around the idea her ex-husbands sexually abused me, so there is no way she could even comprehend this part of my childhood. It would also be unfair to throw this onto her already fragile self-esteem, when it was not totally her fault it happened in the first place. So, this is my burden to carry throughout my life, like it or not. Oh, and for the strong church goers, I did attempt to come out with my story twice, and both times I was handled as a hysterical female. Yes, even in this day and age, I was told I needed more rest and some psychiatric help. There was no understanding or embracing of what I revealed as truth. I wish they would have just prescribed the Laudanum and been done with it.
I have sought counseling, and was very fortunate to have found a wonderful therapist who worked with what was real to me, and then attempted to give me tools to deal with all the trash of my life. She has kept me here, alive, and sane. I am able to laugh, love, and find joy in life, but there are very dark places in my soul, make no mistake.
This is all related to offer hope to others who have lived this horror, or something akin to it. No one is asking you believe everything they say, just believe how it has damaged and shaped their personality, their coping mechanisms, and their view of the world. I seriously do not believe too many people are going to make this shit up. I never looked for vengeance, upon those who perpetrated it, upon the social system which let this happen, or on my mom for her follies which let to me being taken away and put in foster care. I am sure there are many who are victims of this ritual/satanic/cult abuse who do not seek anything more than understand and unconditional love of family and friends. If the Pope can be challenged with enough findings to make International media of this shit occurring, why should we be surprised when one of our own comes out with memories and pain from these types of horrific events.
Accept and love those around us. It is not for use to judge, but to embrace and love.