Around Christmas, I will be publishing my book, Stories When Little: Growing Up Under MK-ULTRA.
It is an epic, twenty-four chapters, telling the story of my first twenty-two years, from my birth on Michaelmas to my graduation from college.
I will price it reasonably, and I hope you will buy a signed copy.
Here is an excerpt from when I was about six years old….
My abusers tried to make me undress, suggesting another story from the book, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” in which the emperor parades naked through the town because he’s been conned into thinking only a fool cannot see his magical clothing. Even though he cannot see the clothes himself, he does not trust his own senses, letting others tell him what to believe. People do this all the time. They see what they are told to see, not what they see. MK-ULTRA depends on it.
“All right. It’s your turn to be the emperor.”
I was having none of it. If my brother wanted to play the fool, that was his business. Not understanding the gravity of the situation, I was happy to laugh at my brother, but there was no way I was going to take my clothes off.
“No. I want her to be the emperor,” I said.” Like Lady Godiva. She rode naked through the town, and she wasn’t ashamed. She did it to save people. Her husband was an evil lord. Peeping Tom saw her naked. That’s a good one. He should be the lord,” I said, indicating my male abuser. “You be the lady. I can be Tom. Let’s leave my brother out of this one.”
“We’re not doing that. Look: She’s going to talk with you a while. I’ll see to your mother, your brother, I mean. I’ll see they’re all right.”
The woman spoke to me as the male degenerate, whom I had cast as evil lord, left the room.
“Will you do it?” I asked. “Now that he’s gone?”
“All right. I’ll take off my clothes next time. First I want you to do something for me. I want you to masturbate every day. I want you to handle your penis in the way he showed you.”
“It’s a deal,” I replied, thinking I had gained something. “I’ll see you next time. I can’t wait.”
In a moment she returned.
“All right. I’m back. Did you do what I said?”
“No, you’re not. What are you talking about? You were just in the other room. You were with my dad or something.”
Something happened, and I blacked out, mumbling, struggling, intoning my refusal over and over again.
“You’re not my father. You’re not my father. You’re not my father. He would never do that. He would never ask me to do that. I don’t believe you.”
The bitch who invaded my house, and sexually abused my family, spoke to me, lying through her teeth, trying to set my father up.
“This is your father. Stop lying. He just did something to you. He did something bad. I want you to blame him. I want you to tell other people if you ever remember this.”
I refused. I would never do something bad, and I would never believe ill of my family.
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Our enemy depends on silence.