Victoria S. Hardy

Victoria S. Hardy

Tuesday, April 05, 2022

Healing Loudly Part Two

I should have known. It always happens. I should have known. The day after I posted my last blog my back tried seizing up several times, and I was left with what I will refer to as that pre-seize pain, afraid to move much in case it decided to fully debilitate me for days or longer. Thankfully, after some slow, long, stretches, and breathing exercises, it has calmed now, but it always happens or something similar, when I speak out.


More than a decade ago my articles were very popular on the Internet, and when I’d see how many views they were receiving and I’d get the emails that always came, I would have massive anxiety attacks, trembling all over. It was the fear of being seen, of being known, of getting in trouble by drawing attention to myself, a legacy of growing up under narcissist abuse.


And it seems I’m not alone, most children growing up as I did, both the scapegoats and the golden children tend to end up with medical issues. I know that I have certainly suffered vague, apparently impossible to diagnose sicknesses and physical ailments, and I’ve had a lot of surgery. The constant drama, the gas lighting and confusion, the fear of being caught, even when you’ve done no wrong, and the constant fight or flight stimulation leaves victims of abuse in poor physical states. We tend to suffer autoimmune disorders, constant rigid muscles, depression and mood swings, anxiety, digestive and heart problems, and a myriad of other stress related issues. 


There are biological reasons we survivors of childhood abuse suffer throughout our lives, and it has to do with the development of the brain, and the chemical reactions that occur when we are under threat. Our bodies and minds are poised to remove ourselves from the threats, but as children there is nowhere to go, no safe place to escape, we are trapped, and the body holds on to that and does not forget. Over and again we experience the trauma, and over and again it remains trapped in our bodies, and soon we find that we are constantly in pain.


The legacy of child abuse does not end when we become adults as our brains have literally been changed by the abuse, re-wired by the abuse, and in my case, I also have the damage done by many concussions.  The changes done by childhood abuse affects the cells in the anterior cingulate cortex, which plays an important role in the regulation of emotions and mood. Studies have shown significant changes in the white matter of the brain, which is made up of myelinated nerve fibers that, much like the electrical wires in our homes, conducts the brain’s electrical system. The myelin is the nerve fibers’ protection, and those who suffered childhood abuse have a stunted myelin system.


Childhood abuse also affects the development of the amygdala, our system to emotional regulation and to reward and satisfaction, as well as the hippocampus. The hippocampus helps with memory, cognition, and learning new things, and studies have shown that in childhood abuse survivors that part of the brain is shrunken and it has to do with the repeated and unexpressed fight or flight reaction that bathes the area in cortisol and retards its growth.


Although the abuse does cause physical changes in the brain, it is my belief that consciously healing also changes the brain, for the better. When I was younger, before I knew anything about Complex PTSD, before I realized that I was raised and abused by a covert narcissist, and when I still worked diligently to fit in with my family, pretending the abuse never happened, I was in poor physical and emotional shape. I suffered many physical ailments, had strange debilitating illnesses that defied diagnosis, and felt sure that I was crazy. I took handfuls of daily medications, and never found much improvement for my issues.


Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and it has been at least a decade of consciously working to be physically healthy, and the changes look vast from where I sit now, but it was a slow and steady, step by step, process of cleaning up my diet and lifestyle. Still, though, I felt ‘off’ until I confronted the abuse and began to acknowledge the damage done and the traumas that I experienced.


I know that there is hope on the other side of these realizations, and I know that although the abuse and concussions caused brain changes and damage, I can heal. When my son experienced brain damage from a fungal infection in his cranial fluids and central nervous system, I saw the improvements achieved through simple puzzles and exercises that reopened neuro-pathways, so I know it’s possible to heal. All it takes is intention, prayer, and hard work, and consciously moving forward.


We can’t heal what we don’t acknowledge, and acknowledging the abuse has been one of my more challenging experiences, but I am determined. Let us not give up hope, and know that there is light at the end of the dark and scary tunnel.



Monday, March 21, 2022

Healing Loudly From Narcissist Abuse

I never wanted or expected to be a spokesperson for healing from narcissist abuse, but here I am. I read a statement recently that we should heal loudly so that others can use our experience for their own healing, and it’s been stuck in my head and in my heart, that I have some responsibility to help others heal. It goes counter to my programming and training to speak out, to really speak out with the truth, and I have to admit it’s an incredibly hard and frightening thing to do.


These last six months have been difficult, the realizations and the full context memories have literally knocked me on my ass a time or two, and the anxiety has been nothing like I’ve ever experienced – the fear and trembling of working out my own salvation. I was asked not to write about my abuse as it may hurt my abuser’s feelings, and for the last six months I’ve held my tongue, once again isolated, and working against my own best interests. Working against my own best interests was how I was trained, and the lies and pretense is the wardrobe I was expected to wear for the rest of my life.


I knew speaking out would cause others to turn their backs on me because that is simply the way it is when you grow up in narcissist abuse. Growing up as I did you have this entire world of pretense and lies thrown over you, and you are expected to uphold those lies to the world, and as the abuse started so early with me, you carry those lies and pretense just because that’s simply the way it is. You carry the pretense even when everything inside is screaming that it’s a lie, you put on a smile and face the world and pray no one sees the truth.


I am done, I can no longer pretend, and the truth is I was one of the scapegoats in my family. The other scapegoat was my oldest brother, and when he grew into a man, dangerous and unpredictable in our abuser’s eye, the role fell onto me, as I was just a kid and a very easy target.


I have avoided looking into the topic of narcissism for years, both consciously and unconsciously, knowing that once I opened Pandora’s box there was no returning to the way things were before. And strangely, there was a bit of a mourning period of letting those old illusions go, realizing that things were never the way they were presented to the world, and acknowledging that I was never the person my abuser insisted I was.


There are many kinds of scapegoats in the narcissist dynamic, and I am beginning to understand that I am the truth teller. The other types of scapegoats are the rebel, the caretaker, the problem-solver, the protector, the perfectionist, and sometimes another covert narcissist is born under the selfish and incredibly damaging abuse. Being a scapegoat is a very hard and damaging road to follow, and it is the scapegoat who carries the burden of all the frustrations of the family, and the blame anytime anything goes wrong. The energy has to go somewhere, and the scapegoat is the receptacle where all that gets dumped. 


The dynamic is very clear, written about in books, shown in movies, and yet I avoided looking into it for years, the fear of facing the truth almost greater than the pain of being scapegoated my entire life. There are several types of narcissist, and narcissism is defined as a personality disorder in which the narcissist is selfish, lacks empathy for others, has a sense of entitlement, a need for admiration, and an inflated sense of self-importance. People growing up under that dynamic are very damaged, both the golden children (the chosen favorites) and the scapegoats are damaged. No one does well in a narcissist family, except for the narcissist themselves, as the children have long been divided and conquered, and have learned the hard way that keeping the narcissist happy is the only way to find what resembles peace, but that semblance of peace is always short-lived.


Some may ask, why now? Why talk about it now? It’s in the past, it’s over, why dredge up the old ghosts now? But the truth is it’s not over until the injured parties say it’s over, and it sure isn’t over for me as I now have to wade through the years of my life, the traumas I swallowed as something I deserved, and consciously begin healing my mind and my body. It’ll be over when I say it’s over, and not a second before.


I was asked to hold my words, to not write the truth of my own life on my own blog, and to keep silent until the narcissist died, and I had planned to do that, but something broke. Something inside could no longer hold the pretense, my body was giving out, my body was rebelling against the lies. It is completely unjust to expect another person to carry lies, and the simple act of asking me to do so is just another textbook example of being scapegoated. Once again the comfort and selfishness of the narcissist becomes more important than my health, my recovery, and my entire existence. Once again the narcissist’s feelings outweigh everything else, including my own health, but that is nothing new to me as my medical needs were neglected in childhood by the narcissist. I’m not going to continue down the path that says I am less than, my needs less important because others, outside of me, deem it so. 


The answer is no. I told that person that I would write what God inspired me to write, but the fear of speaking openly held me back, fear of retribution, slander, and rejection. God has been pressing on me to heal loudly, to help others in what I am an expert in, and I will no longer remain silent to protect the feelings of the person who went out of their way to hurt me and make me struggle. I will no longer protect the person who deliberately and with intent made my childhood a living hell, and I will no longer pretend simply to appease others who are invested in maintaining the lies.


If my words can help one person, then I must put myself out there, no matter how uncomfortable and afraid that makes me. So for a while this blog will be dedicated to overcoming and healing from narcissist abuse, there are more of us out there than I ever imagined.





Monday, October 11, 2021

Old Injuries and Healing

God is good all the time even when we don’t understand His mysterious ways. And I fully admit I don’t understand, but I trust God. In the world of faith we don’t always understand what is good or bad, often what we perceive as bad turns out to be good, or even great, for us in the long term.


I am in the process of learning this lesson again. A couple weeks ago our very large dog (80+ lbs) hit me from behind, running full speed, and at my age and size it could have easily killed me, or at least seriously injured me. Thank God I only suffered a severe ankle sprain, a bit of whiplash, and bruising. At first I thought it was really bad, but I am finding that it is good.


I have been asked NOT to write about my childhood experiences to spare feelings. I have been asked to wait for the death of the perpetrator before I speak of the abuse and neglect I suffered as a child, and honestly that had been my plan as well, but sometimes God’s timetable is different than our own.


As I have struggled to learn to maneuver on my first pair of crutches, battling a nerve damaged and atrophied uninjured foot and leg, I have been thrown back to a time in childhood where I felt more than helpless, ignored, and unloved. The truth of that time is ugly, it almost defies belief, and it is hard to write or even think about, but God has decided it is time for me to heal the emotional, mental, and physical wound.


I have experienced about every emotion there is in the last couple weeks as I’ve been stuck on the couch unable to do for myself. Beside the feelings of helplessness, sadness, and fear, there’s also been abandonment, rejection, and heartbreak, all the emotions I felt at twelve years old when medical care was withheld from me for months. I do not understand why an adult would choose to withhold medical care from a child, or maybe I do, and what I see is so dark that I cringe even thinking about it.


Looking back on that time through the eyes of an adult, and a mother, it is worse than I’ve let myself remember, the cruelty and lack of empathy toward me hurts both my heart and my soul. The short version (because the full version is still very difficult for me to face) is that I slipped, barefooted, on the deck, unearthing a very large splinter that essentially shot into the soft spot under my toes and disappeared inside. At first I don’t think anyone believed me, even though I was crying, limping, and in awful pain. This happened in the last days of sixth grade, to my club foot (a birth defect), and I was made to walk to school anyway, as everyone has had a splinter before and didn’t act like a whining baby.


Within a week a knot began forming on the bottom of my foot, between the ball and heel, in the arch, and it was quite painful. I was limping, and I’m sure complaining, and the knot was obvious, but it was ignored. Day after day, week after week, the knot grew painfully, and I soon learned to not talk about it, and not to be showing everyone my “boo boo”.


As I understand it scar tissue had begun to encase the 3 inch splinter to prevent it from moving deeper into my system, and for the entire summer, from the end of May to the end of August I limped, the knot growing larger, my foot swelling, and it was ignored. Finally, the week before school started again I had surgery to remove the splinter, and the huge knot of infected tissue. The neglected injury was bad, and the surgeon had to scrape down to the bone to remove the mass, and I was sent home with strict instructions not to put any weight on my foot, as there was an empty, fleshless, hole under the stitches that needed time to fill back in.


It was decided that instead of crutches I would use an ancient office chair with small metal wheels to move around over the deep shag carpet, and as that didn’t work, I ended up hopping or scooting around on my butt. I have no idea why I wasn’t given a pair of crutches, but I wasn’t, and I was not to complain.


Given almost no recovery time I started seventh grade in the three-story building where the stairs were an absolute nightmare. I never received any physical therapy, and although I had gone to doctors for my birth defect previous to this, I never went to another “foot doctor” until I was an adult and could pay for it myself. Before the injury I could balance on either foot with my opposite leg in the air, afterwards I became the brunt of the clumsy and klutzy jokes, and I have fallen down more stairs than I care to remember, as my foot was no longer trustworthy or dependable. Only my big toe could move freely, and the rest of my toes only moved as a unit, up and down just a bit, and I lost a lot of mobility in the whole foot.


I have been aware of the physical loss for years, my inability to balance on that foot and leg, but my right leg, my tree trunk, took up the slack until a dog, happily running full speed, knocked me ass over teakettle. I have thought many times over the years that I need to work on the balance issues and lack of mobility, but never took the time to focus on it. Now, it seems, God has put me into the position to heal my left foot, and the accompanying soul wound that comes when a child’s pain, needs, and health are ignored for months by those who are supposed to love them. 


At the beginning it’s a miracle I didn’t fall again trying to use crutches, and keep the weight off my right side, but I am slowly gaining some balance, and I’m feeling muscles in my left calf, ankle, and foot that I haven’t felt in decades. As I am beginning to heal the old injury, and the injury to my heart, mind, and soul, I am grateful that God has given me the opportunity to address them all. Healing can be messy, acknowledging the buried emotions from being neglected left me in tears for days, but things are looking up, thank God, and although I don’t understand his mysterious ways I trust Him implicitly.

Sunday, September 26, 2021

The Other Ten Commandments


Life is funny, isn’t it? For months now I’ve been praying for the world, the people in the world, and especially for the children, lost, abused, broken, and alone. I have asked God to shine the light on the ugliness so the good people on earth can truly see what hides in the dark crevices that is so easily overlooked. And as God moves in mysterious ways, he answered my prayer by saying, “You first”.


I am used to God answering my prayers in this manner, all the way back to the days of my cynical teens and twenties when I knew I had seen it all, and could no longer be surprised by the darkness or the actions of people. Even then, God would first show me the things I didn’t want to see, but needed to understand, and now with my faith stronger, He pulled back the veil in my own life. Ugly things hide in the dark, secret, destructive, things happen behind closed doors, and as I’ve prayed for the light to shine, He’d been giving me hints, but I was blind, or was simply too afraid to look.


My health has not been great this year, and as I try to live naturally I’ve cut out some things, added others, but that pain in my gut just wouldn’t go away. I was beginning to think it was the beginning of the end for me, and after my life it really wasn’t that bad of a thought, we all crave that sense of home, don’t we? But recently when I decided to cut someone out of my life, the pain stopped instantly, just stopped. It didn’t ease up and slowly get better; it just stopped when I told this person not to call me any more. Amazing.


I had noticed that the pain would ease up on the weekends, when I was not obligated to talk to this person, but the weekdays I was drained and in pain, and spending a scary amount of time in the bathroom, and often rushing to the bathroom the moment the call ended. Day after day I was getting sicker, and it simply didn’t occur to me that one simple, non-food, change could improve my health.


There are certain statements I’ve heard describe and define me since I was a little girl, I heard them so often that they became my own inner voice. The statements to me were often relayed with violence, with hair pulling and hits to the head, and after years I no longer fought against the words or questioned them. My mind just repeated them back to me as fact, constantly, and most especially when bad things happened, or when I was struggling to improve any aspect of my life.


The words told me I didn’t deserve a good life, that I was a terrible person, a person without conscience or soul. An ugly, selfish person, with no real worth, certainly no moral worth, and completely undeserving of any goodness in life. I was mean, ugly, awful, and nothing I could do or achieve could change this person’s words, still being repeated, or their voice inside my head that echoed their dark image of me. I was a dirty, crazy, whore, and no decent man would ever want a thing to do with me. I was dumb, slow, fat, ugly, without compassion or empathy, had no sense of humor, no one liked me, and I was impossible to love.


And for a very long time I believed those words, I lived those words.


Despite all the information and all the interactions with other people that showed me I was none of those things, I still, deep down, believed. I was told if I did something nice for another, that I had ulterior motives, and I learned to question my actions and myself at every turn. Why did I help that old person with their groceries? I’m such an awful person, I must be trying to get something out of it. Why didn’t I help that old person with their groceries? I’m such an awful, selfish, person…


I was trapped in a brutal war with myself and with my thoughts that surely didn’t come from God, but a far darker place where little girls are abused, shamed, and broken.


I’ve spent a long time being broken; I’ve spent too many years under the thumb of horrid definitions that were never true. I’ve spent too many years supporting lies that our family abuse only came from one source. And lately I’ve spent time pondering exactly what the word honor means.


In the Greek language honor means value or worth, in a literal sense. Honor was a culturally constructed evaluation of a person’s actions, which determined a person’s worth, as in their price, or value to the community. In Hebrew the word honor means to give weight to. And in English the word is defined as honesty, fairness, or integrity in one's beliefs and actions.


I believe that I have met the obligation of that very important commandment, and I know that God doesn’t want me to hate His creation – me. I will now be honest, because these lies, secrets, and ugly dark words have no place in a God focused life. I asked God to shine the light into the dark places, and as often happens, God has answered my prayers a little bit differently than how I expected.


I also know that by going against the old, ingrained, rules and airing the family secrets, a different commandment from a darker place, I may lose a lot more than an abuser, and ugly words, but I’m going to trust God on this one. I’m going to trust that God will replace the darkness with light. I’m going to trust that God didn’t make a mistake with me, and I certainly know that He has saved this life of mine more times than I can count.


If God sees value in my existence, then my biggest sin has been in not believing Him. My prayers have changed a bit in recent weeks, and now I am asking for forgiveness for hating myself (His creation) for so many years.


There is a different set of commandments in abusive families, and I’m flipping the table on those evil, destructive, rules, and I will be turning my back on anyone who tries to enforce those rules on me. Here are the rules that no longer fit into my life:


1)      Image, and what other people think, is the most important thing

2)      Do not air the dirty laundry

3)      Everything you say and do will be held against you

4)      Your suffering is meaningless

5)      You must serve the king or queen

6)      Hypocrisy and gossip is the family language

7)      Direct communication is off limits, all information is disseminated by the king/queen

8)      It is always someone else’s fault

9)      You have no right to boundaries, feelings, choice, or individuality

10)  Do not think of leaving or you will be dragged through the mud and slandered



And I will close with a few bits of wisdom; insults are still insults even if you laugh when saying them. Gossip and slander are very destructive sins, even when spoken under the guise of concern. If you didn’t see it or experience it yourself, you really have no idea what the truth is, and to speak of and share secondhand and third hand “truths” makes you either deceived or a liar or both.


Prayers going out to all who grew up like I did, please know you are not alone, and that there is hope and goodness in the world for you. 





Wednesday, September 15, 2021

Child abuse, Sobriety, and Triggers


 In January of 2019 I made the decision to quit drinking, it wasn’t the first time I made that decision, and with the exception of one stressful, temptation-filled, night a few weeks later, I have been sober since then. Sobriety is an interesting place to be after my life, a slice of happiness, calmness, contentment, and innocence that I have never really experienced. 

    My problem with alcohol didn’t develop until my only child died, and I was severely injured by a surgical mistake a few months later, and while before that I was just a social drinker, after those losses it changed, alcohol because more of a need than a want. Something inside me changed, perhaps chemically, or perhaps emotionally, but for whatever reason, alcohol became my crutch to get through the days. 

    I didn’t tell anyone that I had quit drinking, I didn’t post a sober day count on the social medias, as I had seen how that works… sometimes announcing your intentions to the world brings all manner of chaos around, like a light turned on the in dark, the moths will come. So I quietly, secretively even, went about getting myself sober. 

    It was easier this time than the others, it was almost like God reached down personally to take all the longing, pain, and angst away, and I was doing an awful lot of praying. I felt light, clean, inspired, and uplifted, completely foreign to what I referred to as my depressed normal. And thankfully, after a lot of hard work, my life, and lifestyle, is set up to maintain and support a sober, healthy, life. I’m sure my way is not the way for most, but for me living simply, with nature and prayer, has given me a new perspective and a new life. 

    The thing about being given a new life, though, is that the old one is still there, it still exists whether I am participating or not, people gotta people, after all. 

    What never really dawned on me was that the alcohol was just another symptom of a deeper issue. They say addiction is a disease, and I do think there are some genetic components to it, but I feel it is mostly just a symptom, one of many used to avoid a deeper pain. 

    I realize now that I had been full on running since I left home at seventeen, running to avoid feeling some uncomfortable and ugly truths. Running like the devil was on my heels, piling fresh traumas onto the old. There was literally no calm oasis from ages seventeen to thirty-six, no time for my body and mind to relax, but going into a deeper level of thought, running was the only way to escape the deeply ingrained fear, shame, and hatred of myself. The pain all abused kids feel, I imagine.    

    When my son, Steven, died, I hit a wall. I couldn’t function, and then the surgery threw me so low there was nothing but the bed, my thoughts, and me, and that was a terrifying place to live. When I recovered physically, Chardonnay and Merlot were my new best friends. I had successfully gotten up on my running feet again without looking down into the deep abyss inside, I had simply shoved some more stuff down in the hole, and took off in a new direction. I am nothing if not resilient. 

    You can only run so long, though, you can only stay so busy, and I know how to stay busy… Thankfully God has been quite gentle with me this time, no bruises, no concussions, no open wounds, no terrible tragic events, just a strong, loving, man, gardens, flowers, trees, water, and animals. And you know what? I still didn’t look; I buried the abyss under a hundred things to accomplish everyday, and knew I was healing and on the right path, still blind, but not self-injurious besides a few pulled muscles. 

    I always thought the word “triggered” referred to some entitled kid who became offended by a flag or a sign or a statue, it was never a part of my vocabulary, but then a text came, and I looked at the word triggered in a new way. It’s funny how your body reacts sometimes, long before your mind or emotions catch up, and I suppose that visceral physical reaction has saved my ass more than a few times in my life, but it’s different when there is no real, physical, threat. 

     I had an anxiety attack, followed by what can only be described as a complex posttraumatic syndrome event. There was nothing to fight, nowhere to run, but my body sure reacted, and I’ve learned that the word triggered is more of a psychological term to describe the reawakening of repressed traumas. Suddenly the rug was pulled out from under me, and I wasn’t just peeking down into the abyss, I was swimming in it. 

     Repressed memories are not forgotten memories, it’s more like the memories are all there, you just don’t look at them all at the same time, you look at one, occasionally, if you have to, and avoid the others. You compartmentalize them; you divide them into smaller, manageable, pieces, and set them back in the furthest corners, out of sight, out of mind. And once they are placed on the shelves, way in the back room of your mind, you slam the door, lock it, and turn forward while putting on your running shoes. 

     For the last weeks those memories, all of them, have made themselves known, in what could be described as vibrant flashbacks, or what is definitely known as nightmares. I’ve not been tempted to drink them away, though, which is a real blessing. Suddenly, it seems, God has given me the strength to face them head on, and deal with the issues that have kept me in self-destruct mode for all of my life. 

    What I am finding is that a lot of the definitions I’ve used to describe myself are not my words, and are not the truth. I feel like I’m unburying the person I was meant to be, and burying the person created through violence, brain injury, dissociation, trauma, and fear. 

     I also know that the world doesn’t accept personal change well, those flapping butterfly wings disturb the darkness in the universe and in people, and I know by speaking openly I will be inviting chaos, and I pray that I am indeed strong enough, but it is time… It is past time for me to start the healing process. 

    My life seems to have been divided into sections, eighteen years a child, eighteen years a mother, eighteen years a grieving, suicidal, self-destructive, mess, and I am really beginning to look forward to the next eighteen years. Things are looking up, but first I just need to turn on the lights and trudge through the abyss for awhile. 



Sunday, August 15, 2021

I Do Not Consent


I’ve spent the last fifteen years stepping away from medical practice, sick, scarred, and in daily, constant and changing, pain, I said screw it, enough is enough. I was tired of being poked, tested, and drained by the medical experts, who always had multiple vague answers and lots of pills and surgery. Medical “care” had left me at death’s door, mildly schizophrenic, suicidal, fat, weak, dependent, broken, and scared. And it dawned on me when my doctor wanted to do more, and more frequent, tests on my colon, suspecting (or perhaps praying for) cancer, that they were going to kill me. 


It dawned on me in a complete moment of clarity that it was insane to give any person so much control over my life. It was insane that I allowed any person who I spent mere minutes a year with to instill such fear and sickness in me. It was insane that I was listening to people I don’t know, and I was only getting sicker and weaker, and still going back for more. Doctors are human beings who spent a lot of time in school, and they are human beings with the same issues as everyone else. Going to medical school does not make one a saint or a genius, and it was all ridiculously insane how much control I had given them over my life and my health.


I spent my years from birth up to age forty-one listening to doctors, I took the pills they prescribed me, had the surgeries they recommended, and frankly, always felt poorly. Being born with a birth defect I encountered surgical intervention at an early age. I spent a lot of time with doctors over the years, had a lot of surgeries, a couple horrific and debilitating, and my son developed a neurological disorder at 9 years old that required surgical intervention many, many, times. So many surgeries, and some in such quick succession, that I literally lost count. Through the years I have seen the best of doctors, and the absolute worst.


In our society we tend to idolize our medical providers, and that comes from a lot of television programming. Exactly how many medical dramas, soaps, and comedies have there been over the years since everyone put a flashing box in their homes? And how many were on radio before that? They are the miracle workers and heroes that we all respect, when they talk, we listen. And some doctors truly are miracle workers and heroes, but they are few and far in between, and the system is set up to weed them out. 


The truth is that pharmaceutical drugs, and medical “care” are the second and third cause of death in this country, and literally hundreds of thousands of people die every year due to their direct influence in our lives. Medicine is a business, a multi-billion dollar business, and buyer beware.


We have been trained, programmed, to believe that doctors are benevolent. We are trained, programmed, to ignore the giant corporate machine that doesn’t make money if we are healthy. We are trained, programmed, to be sick, to ask our doctor before we do anything, to think and worry about our health continuously. We are trained, programmed, to believe that a stranger in a white coat knows more about our body than we do, and we allow them to commit almost any atrocity on our person in the name of good health.


It is my belief that doctors are wonderful in emergency situations - broken bones, car wrecks, head injuries - yes, you need a doctor, but in that moment of clarity I decided to remove the middle manager between me and my health.


It wasn’t easy as I wasn’t starting from a fresh slate, and I was injured. I could even say I had been brutalized by a surgical mistake for which no one was liable as I had signed my rights away listening to medical advice, so I had to figure out my healing and recovery on my own. And it has been a long, hard, journey to bring myself back to health.


Not only have I gotten the pharmaceuticals out of my life, I removed fast and processed food, sodas, alcohol, fluoride, MSG, dyes, harsh cleaning supplies, and toxic soaps, lotions, and cosmetics. I cook from scratch everyday, and have removed most unhealthy carbohydrates, breads, white potatoes, chips, cereals, etc. And I started researching things for myself, and experimenting on myself. As I had been letting the medical establishments practice on me my entire life, I found I was a much better doctor to me than they had been.


Stepping away from the scheduled routines of medical poking and prodding changes your perception of those events. I didn’t realize the power the medical community held over me until I was so ill by their mistakes that I couldn’t even get out of bed and go to the bathroom, tubes and bags carried my waste away, and the only movement I could make without excruciating pain was turning my head.  I have never been as weak, sick, and broken as when I put my health into the hands of another, and I shudder to recall giving my strength and power away.


I learned my lesson, though, and I stay away from medical “care”, but now I am being told that I have to accept medical practices in my life, and in my body. I have to take their drugs due to a virus with a 99.5% recovery rate, I have to take their drugs in my blood despite the fact that I have had the virus, recovered, and am now more protected than the shot takers.


I am being threatened that if I don’t partake of their medical sorceries (aborted fetal RNA and chimpanzee adenovirus, to list a couple ingredients) then I may not be able to travel or as some have suggested, go to the supermarket. I am being told that I am ignorant and dangerous, and that I do not understand the science of being healthy.


Well, I do not consent. I’ve worked too hard on my health to become a guinea pig for Big Pharma. I do not consent to a witch’s brew of dead babies and monkey shit (*tips hat to an acquaintance) as well as other unknown agents and chemicals to be injected into my blood. I do not consent because I have seen first hand the damage the medical mafia can do to the body, and I keep a delicate balance after the injuries I have overcome.


I do not consent to allow man (and the world) to come between my spirit, my health, my mind, and me. I do not consent because this body is mine, and mine alone, and as a survivor of sexual abuse it took me a long time to reclaim my body, and I won’t now be needle raped by some perceived authority figure. I do not consent to going backward.


I do not consent because I am made in the image of God, and I am not going to trust man to begin making alterations to that creation. I do not consent because we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. 


I do not consent because in the last fifteen years I have grown to see the pharmaceutical makers as witches standing around a cauldron, tossing in the strangest, and most disgusting, ingredients. When I discovered that the sorcery the Bible warned us to avoid comes from the root word pharmakeia I was not really surprised. And reading this passage in Revelation makes a lot more sense to me now than it did in the past: “And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and of the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee: for thy merchants were the great men of the earth; for by thy sorceries (phamakeia - Strong’s concordance #G5331) were all nations deceived.”


I do not consent because I place my faith in God, not man.



Friday, May 01, 2020

Why I Started Writing Fiction ...

More than a decade ago I wrote for an online newspaper. There was no money involved, but it was the age of exposure, and my various articles received well over a million views in a short span of time. I enjoyed doing it because there was a lot of research involved and I wrote about anything that captured my attention or my imagination.

I would get excited when I saw my articles picked up by bigger websites and the view count would jump by hundreds in just minutes, and I would read every email sent my way (it is amazing how many people write to the authors of articles).  I tackled serious subjects - 9-11, medical care, psychological care, and politics, but I also covered conspiracies. My article on chemtrails received over 25,000 views in less than 24 hours and was picked up by Jeff Rense’s website, going on to receive well over 100,000 views in days.

At the same time as I was writing for that now-defunct “paper”, I was the drummer in a duo with my husband and we traveled the southeast performing approximately two shows a week. We put out CDs, did You Tube videos, and competed in a contest on The CBS Early Show for upcoming musical acts.

All was going along fine until I wrote the article that I will post below. I don’t even recall the title I released it under, but in my files it was called simply “missing kids”. I also can’t recall how I stumbled into the subject or what string I pulled that twisted up in my mind, soul, and imagination, but life changed after I released the article.

When Nietzsche warned of staring into the abyss he knew of which he spoke and it’s no wonder he died crazy and alone. After the article was released I had strangers at the door, people on the phone when I tried to make a call, and a deluge of email. The notes ranged from sad stories of victims, veiled threats, and odd invitations. I was overwhelmed and terrified. When conspiracy theorists speak of the rabbit holes, I truly felt as though I had stumbled into the main thoroughfare.

What I figured out is that the abyss isn’t just the things of man, the abyss is also that supernatural force that we learned about in the Bible - the literal fight of good and evil. I also learned that once you’ve opened the door you are forever changed, it is impossible to unsee what has been seen.

I’m leaving the article as it was when I originally released it, and not fixing the dead links. When people ask me what inspired the book “Kicking the Goat Silly” this will give you a good idea.

Do we only see what we want to see?  Or do we only see what we are shown?  Many admit to knowing there is both good and evil on this earth, but it appears we feel that evil exists only in individuals or small pockets of like-minded people. Never can we conceive, it seems, that evil may be pervasive, systematic and organized.  I know, in this day and age, the debate about evil is long - does it exist? And what constitutes evil versus lifestyle choice? I’ve always figured in the end it is only my own actions I will have to be responsible for, so I try not to judge others, but I have to state that I find the ritual torture, molestation and often, murder of children to rest fully in the realm of evil.

According to the reports from the US Department of Justice 797,500 children (18 and younger) were reported missing in a one year period studied, resulting in an average of 2,185 being reported missing each day.  National Center for Missing & Exploited Children This is an shockingly high number, considering those numbers only represent the United States and only the children that are reported missing, not the throwaway kids that exist in every town and city across America.  So where are all these children going? 

It seems in the 1980s we received a few clues from the mainstream media about what may be happening, but the stories were called hoaxes and disappeared from view, dismissed and supposedly debunked.  Where this sordid tale begins and ends is still a mystery for me, but I will start with the disappearance of Johnny Gosch on Sept. 5, 1982, one the country’s first milk carton kid.  Johnny was a good-looking 12 year-old boy when he disappeared from his route delivering the Des Moines Register Sunday paper.  At the time of his disappearance police did not immediately begin searching for him and waited a 72-hour window before considering him officially missing. 

Ms. Gosch maintains that Johnny was taken as part of a huge and well-organized human trafficking ring used for the purpose of satisfying pedophiles for profit.  In recent years she has received photographs in the mail, made at the time of Johnny’s disappearance, of he and other boys tied and gagged.  She has had contact with Johnny only once since he was kidnapped, when, as an adult, he turned up on her doorstep late one night and explained that he was involved in something too deep and dangerous to ever escape.  She is the author of the book, “Why Johnny Can’t Come Home”.  Johnny Gosch Foundation

In 1984, a woman accused employees of the McMartin Preschool of molesting her young son when he came home bleeding from his rectum. A doctor verified that the child had been sodomized and thus became the longest criminal trial in American history.  The story made headlines for years, as hundreds of preschool attendees came forward with stories of satanic ritual sexual abuse, animal mutilations, and tunnels under the school, which whisked the kids off to unknown locations to participate in sex with adults.  Shock and outrage swept the country, but the defendants maintained their innocence throughout the long years of investigation, hearings, and trials.  Eventually, charges against all defendants were dropped, except for the son of the owner, Ray Buckley, and after two juries deadlocked, he was released. 

We, across America, relaxed knowing that justice was served and that no satanic, occult or sexual rituals had occurred. Many believed that the McMartin family deserved an apology, despite the claims of hundreds of children who had stepped forward.  The newspapers declared it was a witch-hunt brought on by mass hysteria. Many books and documentaries were made siding with the McMartin family and headlines like “Indict the Children, Jail the Parents” appeared across the country, including The Wall Street Journal.  Although a task force was created, little media attention was given to the fact that the McMartin Preschool was not the only school in the area under investigation.  7th Fire

During the investigation, 460 children reported being sexually abused and 80% showed physical symptoms including vaginal and rectal scarring, anal bleeding, and sexually transmitted chlamydia infections.  The children’s stories were remarkably similar concerning the nature, location, and perpetrators of the abuse.  Although the media held our attention, the public was never informed that teenagers and twenty-year-olds, former students of McMartin’s Preschool, had also come forward confirming the claims of the children, but were not allowed to testify due to the statute of limitations.  The judge in the case ruled that the children (aged 2 to 11) could not testify on closed circuit television, but had to face the attorneys and face them they did, each child was grilled by all the defense attorneys, one after another.  And as the parents of the children next in line watched, they decided pull their kids from the proceedings. 

Nor was it brought to the public’s attention that a couple key witnesses died suspicious deaths before they could testify.  Judy Johnson, the first parent to raise concerns of molestation was declared a paranoid schizophrenic by the media, although she had no such medical diagnosis and was later found naked and sprawled out in her kitchen floor, dead of alcohol poisoning.  And Paul Bynum, a prosecution witness and private detective hired by the defense was found dead of a single gunshot wound the morning he was scheduled to testify.  His death was ruled a suicide, although friends and family declared it was not something he would do. McMartin Preschool Revisited

"Neither side is going to like what I have to say," Bynum told a reporter before he died.  Bynum wanted to know how his citation books, the official police records kept from his time as a detective, had turned up in Ray Buckley’s desk when he was arrested for molestation.  And he could corroborate a key point in the children’s testimonies.  The children had stated their attackers killed turtles and other small animals to scare them into silence and Bynum, while retained by the defense, found numerous turtle shells and other small animal bones buried in the yard of the preschool. 

According to the editor of the Los Angeles Times, Noel Greenwood, the widespread media coverage was “a mean-spirited campaign” organized to discredit the kids and their therapists.  Besides the ridicule the media heaped on Judy Johnson before her death, they also belittled the children’s claims, deeming the idea of a tunnel under the preschool impossible.  But when the parents hired an independent excavation team and that team found the back-filled tunnel system, the media issued one short paragraph mentioning “evidence” of a tunnel and promptly quit covering the story.  The discovery of the often-ridiculed tunnel was also not admitted into evidence at trial due to a myriad of reasons.

Due to the fact that the preschool had recently changed hands and was set for demolition, the excavation team was given little time to complete the dig, but discovered that tunnels ran under several of the classrooms and uncovered the larger “secret room” that the children had described.  An additional tunnel was also discovered leading out from under the preschool, to the triplex apartment next door and coming up into a bathroom under a moveable tub.  Archaeological Investigations of the McMartin Preschool

In a interview on L.A.’s Pacifica Radio, Jackie MacGauley, mother of a McMartin student, said, “It was interesting because a lot of the child development specialists, psychiatrists, and therapists across the country thought that it was some psychological phenomenon that the kids would talk about tunnels. Somehow that idea got 'planted,' and they had all these theories as to why all the kids would talk about something like this. It obviously couldn't be true. And the district attorney at the time just flatly did not believe it, and really didn't want to look.”  History now states that the McMartin Preschool ritual abuse case was nothing more than a hoax perpetrated by deceitful therapists, lying children, and mass hysteria.  And interestingly enough, of the hundreds of children who came forward and were interviewed, only one has recanted his story.

In 1988, Franklin Credit Union in Omaha, Nebraska was raided and upon examining the books it was found that close to 40 million dollars was missing.  The credit union was run by Larry King (not the talk show host), who at the time was a fast moving Republican star and sang at the Republican conventions in 1984 and 1988.  Not only did investigators discover falsified books, they also found a large cache of child pornography.  Due to newsprint publicity (television news didn’t touch this event), eighty children came forward with stories of ritual sexual abuse by high-powered community and political leaders.  The Boys Town School featured prominently in the claims and was said to be a hunting ground for rich and powerful pedophiles.  As the strands of this scandal reached all the way to Washington DC, John DeCamp, former state Republican senator, was sent to disprove the case, the results of his investigation, and an attempt to save his life after many threats is the book, “The Franklin Cover-Up: Child Abuse, Satanism and Murder in Nebraska”.  Alex Jones interview with John DeCamp

As the witnesses came forward stories of children being transported across the country to exclusive parties where they were molested, auctioned off, and even murdered came to light.  At these events where orgies, satanic rituals, and endless drugs were available many photographs and videos were made, later to be used for blackmail, to ensure silence or for profit.  John DeCamp had his doubts when he began investigating the allegations, the claims seemed too wild to be true, but then he met one of the victims, Paul Bonacci, who had kept a very detailed journal from the time he was 12-years old. 

Bonacci’s diary contained information about locations, events, and named high powered leaders, not just politicians, but heads of banking, publishing, and from the entertainment field.  As Bonacci described a particular Washington party, DeCamp was amazed; he had attended the same party as a senator and remembered that children had been present at the event.  Of course, DeCamp didn’t witness any of the ritual abuses described, because those, Bonacci explained, happened after the party, when the crowd had slimmed down considerably. 

In 1989, the front page of The Washington Times screamed a shocking headline, “Homosexual Prostitution Inquiry Ensnares VIPs with Reagan, Bush” the subtitle states, “ ‘Call boys’ took midnight tour of the White House”.  The Times confirmed that Washington lobbyist Craig J. Spence had arranged for four midnight tours of the White House for young boys.  The Law Party Paul Bonacci stated he had been on two of those tours and was able to describe rooms in the White House that are not typically seen by the public.  Bonacci clarified that he did not have sex in the White House, but afterwards he was taken to party and forced to have sex with adults.  Craig J. Spence was later found dead, the death was ruled a suicide.

Gary Caradori, an investigator for the Nebraska State legislature, met with Russell Nelson, a former photographer for Larry King, in Chicago.  Nelson handed over video and photographic evidence to support the claims of ritual abuse, but on the return trip home Caradori’s plane disintegrated in air killing both he and his 8 year-old son.  A local deputy, the first on the scene, claimed that the crash site was littered with photos of child pornography, but soon federal agents appeared and retrieved all the evidence, warning the deputy to keep his mouth shut.  The deputy had trouble keeping quiet about the strange events until he had a head on collision several months later, he survived, although severely injured, his wife did not.  The Gunderson Report

Four victims eventually agreed to testify, Paul Bonacci, Alisha Owens, Troy Boner and Danny King.  Danny King, often described as “pathetic” he was so broken by the abuse, recanted his story and Troy Boner also recanted after his brother was found dead, it was ruled suicide after it was decided the boy had lost a game of Russian roulette.  Boner insisted his brother was afraid of guns and never would have touched one, he also confided to friends that he had to “lie or die”.  After recanting before the grand jury he disappeared, it is rumored that he later turned up in a mental institution in 2003, was sedated and found dead the next morning. 

Alisha Owens did not recant, despite the fact that her brother was also found dead by yet another suicide.  Due to Owens testimony that she had sex with the chief of police at 14-years old, as well as other allegations, she was convicted of perjury and sentenced to 9-27 years.  The grand jury threw out all allegations of child abuse and declared the charges “a carefully crafted hoax...scripted by a person or persons with considerable knowledge of the people and institutions of Omaha”.  No conspirator was ever named and no further investigations were undertaken.  Wikipedia

During Owens’ imprisonment, which began in 1991, she was kept in solitary confinement longer that any other woman in the history of the State of Nebraska.  Owens was released on parole in 1997, but then the show “Inside Edition” aired an episode discussing the idea that Johnny Gosch may still be alive and she was picked up a week later, she was informed she had to complete her sentence in jail.  During pre-trial interviews, Owens stated that she had seen Gosch, as well as several boys from Boys Town, at the exclusive parties where she and others had been abused.  Owens was released in 2000 and said she only wants to lead a “normal” life.

Larry King was convicted of embezzlement and sentenced to a 15-year prison sentence.  In 1999, Bonacci sued King in civil suit in which he alleged child abuse, mind control, satanic ritual abuse, and sexual abuse.  Bonacci was awarded a $1 million dollar default judgment because King did not appear to defend the allegations.  All told, 14 people connected with the Franklin cover up have died, including DeCamp’s friend and mentor, William Colby, former CIA director, who was discovered floating in a pond in 1996. 

In 1993 the Discovery Channel contracted a British documentary team to investigate the story, Yorkshire Television spent 10 months in Nebraska interviewing witnesses and reviewing taped testimonies.  The documentary, Conspiracy of Silence, was slated for air in 1994 and was listed in the TV Guide, but it was never shown.  It is said that influential and connected people put pressure on the cable industry, fully reimbursing the production company and the Discovery Channel and that all copies were destroyed. Luckily, an unfinished version later turned up on John DeCamp’s doorstep. Conspiracy of Silence

And in a stranger twist of an already strange story, a young reporter appeared in White House briefings in 2003 going by the name Jeff Gannon, he caught the attention of the other reporters for the “soft” questions he asked the president or his press secretary.  Controversy was stirred when it was discovered that the name Jeff Gannon was a secret service approved alias for James Guckert, who had been granted remarkable access to the White House.  Gannon/Guckert claimed to be a reporter for Talon News, but at the time he made his first appearance in the briefings, he had never published a single article. The Raw Story 

It quickly came to light that Gannon/Guckert advertised himself on pornographic gay websites as an escort charging $200 an hour.  Washington Post And then rumor and speculations began flying on the Internet that Gannon/Guckert was really kidnap victim Johnny Gosch.  Whether or not Gannon is actually Gosch, no one seems to know, but I understand that Gannon has refused DNA testing.

Both Gannon and his business partner, Bobby Eberle, owned the now defunct and admittedly partisan Talon News.  And in another coincidence, a couple named Eberle were some of the most outspoken defenders of the McMartin family during the preschool scandal.  They have published two books, “The Politics of Child Abuse”, about false allegations of child abuse in day care facilities, in 1986 and “The Abuse of Innocence”, supporting the McMartin family, in 1996.  Since the publication of the books the Eberles are considered experts in the field of childhood sexual abuse.  Interestingly enough, the Eberles have also published many hard and soft-core pornographic magazines. Excerpt from 1988 Ms. Magazine In a book review of “The Abuse of Innocence”, a writer for the Tampa Tribune stated, “For a period of time during the 70s, Paul and Shirley Eberle were the most prolific publishers of child pornography in the United States.”  Wikipedia Whether or not these Eberles are related, I have no idea, but if not, it sure is a curious coincidence. 

There you have it, the tip of a very complex and dangerous mystery.  So do we choose not to see evil in our society or does the media simply do a fine job in hiding the ugliness from us?  Dozens of some of the most powerful people in America were accused and identified in these cases and never charged with a single crime.  Hundreds of children told the same or very similar stories, displayed physical and emotional symptoms, and evidence was presented confirming their claims, yet somehow, the courts and the public decided they were all lying.  We want to believe that the pedophile is the lone stranger that we can warn our children about, we want to believe the abductions and molestations of our youth are just disturbing, isolated events, but the truth is, it is a huge and lucrative business. 

If we choose to believe what is written in this article and within the many links provided, many will assume that the scandals from Nebraska and California could never happen in their town, in their neighborhood or with their children, but how do we really know?  The pedophile, child pornography, and human trafficking networks are organized by well connected people, working in unison with other seemingly upstanding community leaders and backed by more money and resources than most of us, struggling to pay our bills month to month, can imagine. 

Are we forgetting that just recently Mark Foley, who was once considered a crusader for abused and exploited kids, was caught propositioning and writing sexually tinged emails to teenage pages?  Are we forgetting the Catholic Church scandals?  The truth that no one wants to accept and the media makes easy to ignore, is that this is happening all across our country, remember those 2,185 children that disappear everyday?  And in the McMartin and Franklin cases, the children were mostly just used, threatened, fondled, raped, filmed, brain washed, and returned to their homes and most parents had no clue.  I think it is time we begin looking at the real evils in this world and learn to recognize it for what is it, because if we cannot or refuse to see evil, then how can we protect our children and ourselves?