by Cathy OíBrien
AN OPEN LETTER
Mind control is absolute. Under MK-Ultra Project Monarch
trauma-based mind control, I lost control over my own free will
thoughts - I could not think to question, reason, or consciously
comprehend - I could only do exactly what I was driven to do. Those
who controlled my mind, and ultimately my actions, claimed to be
"aliens," "demons," and "gods". But it was my experience
that these perpe-TRAITORS of
New World Order controls were/are bound by fully,
human confines, despite their terror-tactic claims and illusions.
The true laws of nature, and the same laws of man do, indeed, apply
While they manipulated me by my religion, my maternal instincts, and
my genuine concern for humanity - they never "possessed" my innate
being. They could make me one of them. They never took into
consideration the strength of the human spirit. They did not even
know it existed. Ask why.
This book is for Kelly, in order that she is understood and granted
her right to qualified rehabilitation for the MK-Ultra Project
Monarch Mind-Control abuses she endured at the hands of our
countryís so-called leaders.
This book is dedicated, as am I, to Mark Phillips for rescuing Kelly
and me from our mind-controlled existence, and clearing the way to
recovery for Kelly by lovingly assisting me in the restoration of my
mind, memory, and ultimately my free will.
A special thanks to those unseen, whose presence have been evident.
And a special thanks to those unsung - you know who you are.
TRANCE-FORMATION OF AMERICA
My name is Cathleen (Cathy) Ann OíBrien, born 12/4/57 in
Muskegon, Michigan. I have prepared this book for your review and
edification concerning a little known tool that "our" United States
Government is covertly, illegally, and un-constitutionally using to
implement the New World Order (One World Government).
documented tool is a sophisticated and advanced form of behavior
modification (brainwashing) most commonly known as MIND CONTROL. My
first hand knowledge of this TOP SECRET U.S. Government
Warfare technique is drawn from my personal experience as a White
House "Presidential Model" mind-control slave.
Much of the information enclosed herein has been corroborated and
validated through brave and courageous "clean" members of the
law enforcement, scientific, and Intelligence communities familiar
with this case. These individualsí efforts helped me to understand
and corroborate what happened after a lifetime of systematic physical
and psychological torture orchestrated to modify my behavior through
totally controlling my mind. Some of these courageous individuals
are employed by the very system that controlled me and live in fear
of losing their jobs, their families, or their lives.
They have gone
as far as they dare towards publicly exposing this tool of the
engineers of the New World Order - to no avail. This book is a
grassroots effort to solicit and enlist the public and private
support of Human Rights advocates, the recognized, respected doers
in America to expose this invisible personal and social menace. This
can be done by well organized, cooperative citizens with a passion
for justice, who have expressed interest in restoring our
Constitution and taking back America. This copy you hold is for your
edification and action.
While these pages have been condensed for your quick perusal, there
an literally thousands of files of documentation that support much
of what I am reporting. Thanks to those dedicated individuals who
found a means of manipulating the system more cleverly than the
perpetrators, the documents referred to were declassified for release
right at the source! It is my patriotic respect for the principles of
truth, justice, and ultimately that freedom on which America was
founded that compels me to expose the world domination motivations
of those in control of our government, commonly referred to as
By taking back America NOW, we can maintain the
integrity of our countryís history and future by detaining
its destined course of being recognized world wide for the
mind-control atrocities unleashed on humanity that literally begin
where Adolph Hitler left off. Hitlerís version of world domination
that he termed in 1939 the "New World Order" is currently being
implemented through advanced technologies in, among others, genetic
mind-control engineering by those in control of America.
Daniel Inouye, (D. HI) commented about the operations of this secret
government before a Senate Subcommittee and described it well as,
"...a shadowy government with its own Air Force, its own Navy, its
own fund raising mechanism, and the ability to pursue its own ideas
of ínational interestí, free from all checks and balances and free
from the law itself."
The expertise of my primary advocate and skilled deprogrammer,
Phillips, developed through his U.S. Defense Department knowledge of
"Top Secret" mind-control research and researchers, was responsible
for the restoration of my mind to normal functioning. As a result, I
have recovered the memories related in this text, and having
survived the ordeal, have reached this point of enormous
In 1988, through a series of brilliantly orchestrated
events, Mark Phillips rescued me and my 8-year-old daughter, Kelly,
from our mind-controlled existence and took us to the safety of
Alaska for rehabilitation. It was there that we began the tedious
process of untangling my amnesic mind to consciously recall what I
was supposed to forget, Many U.S. and foreign government secrets and
personal reputations were staked on the belief that I could not be
deprogrammed and rehabilitated to accurately reveal the criminal
covert activities and perversions in which Kelly and I were forced to
participate, particularly during the Reagan/Bush Administrations.
that I have gained control of my own mind, I view it as my duty as a
mother and American patriot to exercise my gained free will to
expose the mind-control atrocities that my daughter and I endured at
the hands of those in control of our government. This personal view
of inside Pandoraís Box includes a keen perception of how mind
control is being used to apparently implement the New World Order,
and a personal knowledge of WHO some of the so-called "masterminds"
are behind this world and mind dominance effort.
Most Americans old enough to remember recall exactly where they were
and what they were doing when President John F. Kennedy was shot.
His assassination traumatized the nation and provides an example of
how the human mind photographically records events surrounding
trauma. The traumas I routinely endured during my mind-controlled
victimization provided me the latitude to recover my memory in the
photographic detail in which it was recorded. The direct quotes I
have included in the following pages depicting carefully selected
events, are verbatim. I apologize for any obscenities quoted, but
this was necessary to maintain the integrity of the statements and
accurately reflect the character of the speaker(s).
While I am free to speak my mind, Kelly, now 17, is not so
fortunate. Kelly has yet to receive rehabilitation for her shattered
personality and programmed young mind. The high tech sophistication
of the Project Monarch trauma-based mind-control procedures she
endured, literally since birth, reportedly requires highly
specialized, qualified care to aid her in eventually gaining control
of her mind and life. Due to the political power of our abusers, all
efforts to obtain her inalienable right to rehabilitation and seek
justice have been blocked under the guise of so-called "National
As a result, Kelly remains untreated in the custody of
the State of Tennessee-a victim of the systemóa system controlled
and manipulated by our abusive government "leaders" - a system where
State Forms make no allowances to report military TOP SECRET abuses
- a system which exists due to federal funding directed by our
perverse, corrupt abusers in Washington, D.C. She remains a
political prisoner in the custody of the State of Tennessee to this
moment, waiting and hurting!
Violations of laws and rights, Psychological Warfare intimidation
tactics, threats to our lives, and various other forms of CIA Damage
Containment practices thus far have remained unhindered and unchecked
due to the National Security Act of 1947 AND the 1986 Reagan
Amendment to same which allows those in control of our government to
censor and/or cover-up anything they choose. Now, with our country
free from outside threats as a result of the fall of the Soviet
Union, our "free press" is reportedly no longer encumbered by
censorship. This fact alone should free us to pursue justice, but it
has not. Please ask why.
Hence the purpose of releasing this book at this time. After seven
long years of being unjustly and painfully separated from my
daughter, while our abusers have had full access to her through a
corrupt and manipulated system, it is my fervent hope and intent to
solicit help from you in the form of advice, expertise, and public
outcry concerning this very solvable problem.
I could not prevent the traumatic mind-control abuses Kelly endured
due to my own victimization, yet she is depending on me now to expose
the truth and enlist the help that the Juvenile Court has restrained
her from seeking. I dedicate this book to Kelly, and all others like
her, and to every American unaware of the mind-control atrocities
prevailing in this country.
What Americans donít know is destroying
them from the inside out. Knowledge is our only defense against mind
control. It is time to WAKE UP and arm ourselves with the
truth, restore the constitutional values of freedom and justice for
all, to retroactively enforce the 13th Amendment, and take back
CHAPTER 1 -
MY INTRODUCTION TO HUMANITY
My pedophile father, Earl OíBrien, brags that he began substituting
his penis for my motherís nipple soon after I was born. My
multigenerational incest-abused mother, Carol Tanis, did not protest
his perverse actions due to (reportedly) having similar abuse as a
child which caused her to acquire Multiple Personality Disorder.1 My
earliest recovered memory was that
I could not breathe with my
fatherís penis jammed into my little throat.
Yet I could not discern
his semen from my motherís milk. I do not recall thinking, but I
am aware through education that this early sexual abuse distorted my
primitive concepts of feeding, breathing, sexuality, and parental
perceptions. I recall as a toddler being unable to run (I could
barely walk) to my mother for help as my instincts demanded.
my gulping sobs, my terror rose as I tried to clear my throat of my
fatherís semen and draw a breath of air. My mother finally arrived at
my side. Rather than comfort me, she accused me of throwing a temper
tantrum and "holding my breath". She responded only by
throwing a glass of cold water in my face. I was shocked! As the
splashed my face, I knew she would not help and it was up to me to
I automatically Multiple Personality Disordered. I was, of
course, too young to logically understand that what my father was
doing to me was wrong. I accepted his strangling sexual abuse as a
normal and natural part of my home life, and split off a personality
to deal with the pain and suffocation to satisfy his perversions.
Therefore as a child, I was dissociative of my fatherís abuse. I was
totally unable to recall his sexual abuse, even in his presence,
until 1 saw and felt his penis.
Then the terror, which was my
conditioned response, triggered access to that part of my brain that
previously endured the trauma, I was remembering the abuse and how
to deal with it. This part of my brain developed into a personality
of its own-which belonged to my father-which he rented out and later
sold to the U.S. Government as will be explained and detailed in the
Other parts of my conditioned mind dealt with other abusers, abuses
and circumstances. My father was (as revealed by my own
investigations) apparently a multigenerational incest child from a
large, poor, and horribly dysfunctional family. His mother earned a
living as a prostitute for local lumbermen after his father died when
he was two years old. My fatherís brothers and sister were all
sexually and (occult) ritually abused just as he was. They grew up
to be drug addicts, prostitutes, street derelicts, and pedophiles
who also sexually abused me and my brothers and sisters. I developed
more personality splits to deal with the traumas of these torturous
My motherís dysfunctional family also appears to be
multigenerational, but of a slightly higher socio-economic class. Her
father owned the building occupied by a Masonic Blue Lodge he led,
and managed a local beer distribution business with her mother after
completing his military career. Together they sexually abused my
mother and her three brothers, who in turn sexually abused me.
My family often went camping on the vast wilderness acreage
surrounding my grandfatherís Masonic Lodge in Newaygo, Michigan.
Large bluffs referred to as "The High Banks" overlooked the White
River flowing through his property, which is where we pitched our
tents. My motherís brothers, Uncle Ted and Uncle Arthur "Bomber" Tanis, often accompanied us and sexually abused my brother and me.
It was deer hunting season in or around November, 1961, when my
father took the family camping on The High Banks to hunt with my
uncles. That night, as my brother and I were being sexually passed
around the campfire to satisfy pedophile perversions, a lost hunter
stumbled into our camp. My father shot him when he attempted to run;
the rifleís blasts piercing my brain and further fragmenting my
mind. I sat dazed in a dissociative trance while my mother
methodically picked up the campsite and my father and uncles
disposed of the body.
As my father drove us away from the crime scene, we were stopped by
several hunters who had the road blocked in a desperate attempt to
locate their missing companion. They described the man I saw my
father kill, and said they heard gunshots. Reality intruded on my
dissociative trance, and I screamed and cried hysterically until I
no longer knew why I was crying.
My Uncle Ted 2 soon became a street derelict. Uncle Bomber died a few
years later from alcoholism in his early forties. And my father
became more financially and politically connected.
My motherís oldest brother, Uncle Bob, was a pilot in Air Force Intelligence and often boasted that he worked for the Vatican.
Uncle Bob was also a commercial pornographer, producing kiddie porn
for the local Michigan Mafia, which looped back to Mafia porn king
and U.S. Representative Jerry Ford. I split off more personalities
just to deal with my Uncle Bob, his "friends," and the perverse
business he shared with my father.
My fatherís sixth grade education had earned him a job as a worm
digger for local sport fishermen. By the time I was six years old,
however, his pornographic exploitation of my older brother, Bill,
and me had provided enough income to move us into a bigger house
nestled in the Michigan sand dunes. My father was right at home
there. The tourists and drug dealers who littered the eastern shore
of Lake Michigan further supplemented his income by paying for
perverse sex with us children. My father also became involved in
illicit drug sales.
Soon after we moved, my father was reportedly caught sending kiddie
porn through the U.S. mail. It was a bestiality film of me with my
Uncle Sam OíBrienís Boxer dog, Buster. My Uncle Bob, also implicated
in manufacturing the porn, out of apparent desperation informed my
father of a U.S. Government Defense Intelligence Agency TOP SECRET
Project to which he was privy. This was Project Monarch.
Monarch was a mind-control operation which was "recruiting"
multigenerational incest abused children with Multiple Personality
Disorder for its genetic mind-control studies. I was a prime
"candidate," a "chosen one". My father seized the opportunity as it
would provide him immunity from prosecution.
In the midst of the
pandemonium that ensued, Jerry Ford arrived at our house with the
evidence in hand for a meeting with my father.
"Is Earl home?" he called to my mother, who nervously stood behind
the screen door, hesitating to let him in. "Not yet," my mother
replied, her voice shaking. "He should have been home from work by
now. I know heís expecting you."
"Thatís OK". Ford turned his
attention to me. I was standing outside on the front porch, and he
crouched down to my level. Patting the large, brown
envelope containing the confiscated porn tucked under his arm he
said, "You like doggies, huh?"
"Buster is a nice doggy," I replied. "Heís funny."
why the dog had been whisked away when the porn was confiscated, I
complained, "Busterís gone."
"Busterís gone?" Ford asked. "Yeah. My
Uncle Sam took him away," I told him.
Ford laughed loudly at the
irony of my statement. In my limited view, I thought he found it
humorous that Buster was gone. My father pulled into the driveway,
honking the horn of his new, tan convertible. Ford stood up. With
his fly eye level to me, I noticed his penis was erect and reached
for it as conditioned.
"Not now, honey," he said. "I have business
to tend..." Ford went inside with my parents to officially seal my
Not long after that my father was flown to Boston for a two-week
course at Harvard on how to raise me for this off-shoot of MK-Ultra
Project Monarch. When he returned from Boston, my father was smiling
and pleased with his new knowledge of what he termed "reverse
psychology". This equates to "satanic reversals," and involves such
play-on-words as puns and phrases that stuck in my mind like, "You
earn your keep, and Iíll keep what you earn."
He presented me with a
commemorative charm bracelet of dogs, and my mother with the news
that they "would be having more children" to raise in the project. (I
now have two sisters and four brothers ranging from age 16 to 37 who
are still under mind control.)
My mother complied with my fatherís
suggestions, mastering the art of language manipulation. For
example, when I could not snap my own pajama top to the bottoms in a
childish effort to keep my father out of them, I asked my mother,
ííplease snap me". She did. She would snap her forefingers against
my skin in a stinging manner. The pain I felt was psychological as
this proved to me once again that she had no intention of protecting
me from my fatherís sexual abuse.
Also in keeping with his government-provided instructions, my father
began working me like the legendary Cinderella. I shoveled fireplace
ashes, hauled stacked firewood, raked leaves, shoveled snow, chopped
ice, and sweptó"because," my father said, "your little hands fit so
nicely around the rake, mop, shovel, and broom handles."
time, my fatherís sexual exploitation of me included prostitution to
his friends, local mobsters and Masons, relatives, Satanists,
strangers, and police officers. When I wasnít being worked to
physical exhaustion, filmed pornographically, prostituted, or engaged
in incest abuse, I dissociated into books. I had learned to read at
the young age of four due to my photographic memory which was a
natural result of MPD/DID.
Government researchers involved in MK-Ultra Project Monarch knew
about the photographic memory aspect of MPD/DID, of course, as well
as other resultant "super human" characteristics. Visual acuity of
an MPD/DID is 44 times greater than that of the average person. My
developed unusually high pain threshold, plus compartmentalization of
memory were "necessary" for military and covert operations
Additionally, my sexuality was primitively twisted
from infancy. This programming was appealing and useful to perverse
politicians who believed they could hide their actions deep within
memory compartments, which clinicians refer to as personalities.
Immediately after my fatherís return from Boston, I was
routinely prostituted to then Michigan State Senator Guy VanderJagt.
VanderJagt later became a U.S. Congressman and eventually chairman of
the Republican National Congressional Committee that put George Bush
in the office of President. I was prostituted to VanderJagt after
numerous local parades which he always participated in, at the
Mackinac Island Political Retreat, and in my home state of Michigan,
among other places.
My Uncle Bob helped my father decorate my bedroom in red, white, and
blue paneling and American flags. He provided assistance in
scrambling my mind according to Project Monarch methodologies. Fairy
tale themes were used to confuse fantasy with reality, particularly
Disney stories and the Wizard of Oz, which provided the base for
I had personalities for pornography, a personality for bestiality,
a personality for incest, a personality for withstanding the
horrendous psychological abuse of my mother, a personality for
prostitution, and the rest of "me" functioned somewhat "normally" at
school. My "normal" personality provided a cover for the abuse I was
enduring, but best of all it had hope- hope that there was somewhere
in the world where people did not hurt each other. This same
personality also attended Catechism, a weekly class at our Catholic
church, St. Francis de Sales in Muskegon, Michigan.
My Catechism teacher was a Nun, or "Sister." Although I could not
consciously think to protect myself from abuse, I had decided that
becoming a Nun would provide me with the kind of life I sought. I
could not rely upon my family, the police, or politicians to protect
me. The church appeared to be my answer, and I listened diligently in
class and prayed religiously. I learned all about the political
structure of the church, and was prepared for my first Confession,
The Catholic beliefs I was taught include the idea that man is not
fit to talk to God (the Father) directly, but must have a priest
intercede instead. This is the purpose of going to Confession. I was
instructed to tell my sins to the priest (also referred to as
Father), who would relay the message to God. He would then
supposedly tell me how many "Hail Marys" and "Our
Father" prayers to
say as my penance, or punishment.
My Catechism teacher gave the class
several examples of "sins," which included "sex outside of
marriage." When the Priest, Father James Thaylen, slid open the
little screened partition in the closet sized confessional, I began
as I had been instructed, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...."
I then proceeded to tell him that I had sex with my father and
brother, to which he responded that I should "say three Hail Marys
and one Our Father and I would be forgiven?!"
I knew then that I had to either believe that this Confession thing
was a hoax, or that God condoned sexual child abuse. That night, my
father had a talk with me. Apparently he was the "Father" that the
priest had interceded to. My father instructed me that "from now on,"
I was to simply say "I disobeyed my parents" when I went to
Confession and nothing more!
The next time I went to Confession, I did exactly as I was told. The
veiled screen came off the Confessional partition between me and the
priest, and a penis was stuck through the window, "God said that
your penance is to treat me as you would your father. And remember,
íwhatsoever you do to the least of your brothers, that you do unto
meí." After performing oral sex on Father Thaylen, I emerged from
the Confessional where all the other kids were waiting very
impatiently for their turn.
My teacher scolded me for taking so long
told me to add a few extra "Our Fathers" to my penance. When I told
her I already did my penance, she told me again the "order of
things" to the Confessional ritual ó which did not fit anything
I had just experienced! Without ever consciously knowing why, I
abandoned the idea of becoming a Nun as that part of me, too, split
off from what was left of my "normal" base personality.
I continued to maintain an illusion of normalcy for school,5
excelling in my studies due to my photographic memory and in spite of
my chronic "day-dreaming". I had plenty of friends and played
enthusiastically at recess, expending large amounts of energy in my
subconscious effort to escape my own mind. And I lost myself in the
books my father suggested I read: the Wizard Of Oz, Alice In
Wonderland, Island of the Blue Dolphins, Disney Classics, and
Cinderellaóall of which were used in conditioning my mind for what
soon would become mind-control programming."
My television viewing was restricted and monitored in keeping with
my fatherís gained knowledge. I was, however permitted to watch the
"best" of movies: The Wizard Of Oz, Disney Classics, Alice In
Wonderland, and Cinderellaóover and over and over again.
When I was in second grade, my Brownie Troop marched in the Memorial
Day Parade in which then Michigan State Senator VanderJagt also
participated. At the end of the parade, he took me into a nearby
motel and had me per- form oral sex on him before sending me back to
where my Brownie Troop was waiting. My Brownie leader and peers
thought it commendable that VanderJagt took me with him. They
gathered around to hear all about it. I noticed a white splash of
semen on my sash, and hurriedly explained that he had "taken me for a
milkshake" as I wiped it away. Having to cover for his perversion
to my Brownie Troop infringed on my school personality, and the
"normal" remainder became even smaller.
With the memory of this incident compartmentalized in my mind. I
made so conscious association to VanderJagt when my third grade
teacher announced that we were taking a field trip to the State
Capital in Lansing, Michigan where he was in session. Once at the
Capital, I was ushered away from my classmates and taken to an
office where he was waiting with his friend and mentor (soon to be
President) Gerald Ford.
VanderJagt lifted my skirt, pulled down my
panties, and placed me on his desk for sex with him and Ford.
Afterward they laughed as VanderJagd placed a small American flag in
my rectum and instructed me to wave it. He then presented me with a
Kennedy pen inscribed with the motto that would lead me for the rest
of my mind-con- trolled existence, "Ask not what your country can do
for you. Ask what you can do for your country."
VanderJagt then escorted me back to the balcony of the Legislature
where my classmates were gathered. He put his arm around me in front
of all my classmates and presented me with the American Flag he had
just had me wave for him and Ford with my rectum. My school
personality split off again, but I still maintained the hope that
somewhere, someday, I would find a place where people didnít... what?
I could not remember what I was seeking to escape.
1 Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD), now known among mental health
professionals as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DTD) is the mindís
sane defense to an insane situation. It is a way of dealing with
trauma that is literally too horrible to comprehend. Incestuous rape
violates primitive instinct and surpasses pain tolerance. By
compartmentalizing the memory of such horrendous abuse, the rest of
the mind can function "normally" as though nothing had happened.
This compartmentalization is created by the brain actually shutting
down neuron pathways to a specific part of the brain. These neuron
pathways are triggered open again when the abuse recurs. The same
part of the brain that is already conditioned to the trauma deals
with it again and again as needed.
2 Uncle Ted had also cried hysterically the night of the murder.
Several years later, he almost killed himself when he drove his car
into the White River near the place of the murder.
3 Gerald Ford, aka Leslie Lynch King, Jr., served on the
appropriations subcommittee for the CIA and was appointed to the
Warren Commission to investigate the assassination of President John
F. Kennedy while I knew him only as a porn boss!
4 My mother often voiced complaints that she "could not see faces,"
which personal experience has taught me indicated that she was
suffering from on going physical and psychological traumas, and
therefore was not in control of her senses.
5 Had my teachers been educated in the obvious signs of child abuse,
my "illusion of normalcy" would have been interpreted as a cry for
help. Dissociative trance daydreaming, tones of helplessness and
sexuality in drawings, and the electric prod marks on my face should
have been recognized.
6 These same themes were routinely used in creating Project Monarch
slaves. This fact emerged through years of networking with mental
- THE RITE TO REMAIN SILENT
On May 7, 1966, I was dressed in white from my Catholic veil to my
white patent leather shoes as was mandatory for making my first holy
communion. I was standing outside the newly built, twisted concrete
structure of Muskegonís St. Francis of Assisi Church waiting for the
ceremony to commence when Guy VanderJagt, who was affiliated with
the church, strode across the lawn towards me.
Crouching down on one knee, VanderJagt said, "You look beautiful
today. You are as beautiful as your name. Cathleen is Gaelic for
"the pure," and it is clear to me that you are flawless in your
purity. Ann means "grace". It is by the grace of God, not your
actions, that you are pure. Pure at heart. You are covered by the
blood of our Lord and Savior, just like the cross on which he hung.
This is for you." He opened a black velvet box, revealing a rosy
Like the Kennedy inscribed pen he had presented me
with at the state capital, the meaning behind the rosy cross
necklace would lead me through the rest of my mind-con trolled
existence. VanderJagdís pedophile comrade in Project Monarch, Father
Don, joined us, reaching deep into the pocket of his robes to
present me with a delicate blue charm of the Holy Mother. It was to
be worn in conjunction with the rosy cross "to symbolize your
service to the holy Catholic church," Father Don told me, which I
would "promise to serve and obey".
As VanderJagt fastened the rosy cross and blue virgin around ray
neck, he told me I was now dressed appropriately for the ceremony in
red, white, and blue. I could feel his breath on my neck as he
fastened the necklace and instructed, "When Father says íBody of
Christí and you say íAhhh mení... you acknowledge that Christ is God
made man, and that you know what men are for. When Father gives you
the host, it will stick to the roof of your mouth unless you suck it
off his thumb."
I hurried to line up with my Catechism classmates for
the procession into the church for our holy communion mass. "Body of
Christ," Father Don said, holding up the host. "Ahhh... men," I
responded as instructed, sucking the wafer off his thumb. After
services, VanderJagt and Father Don talked with me briefly while my
parents congregated with other parishioners. Father was telling me,
"...God has chosen you for work within his holy church. You are a
Chosen One,1 my child..."
Later that evening, VandeJagt attended the reception that my
parents were holding for me at our house. He talked with my father
awhile, but spent most of his time talking with my Uncle Bob, who
had recently flown in from "a mission over seas". My Uncle Bob and
VanderJagt were friends, and remained so throughout the years. As
the party dispersed, VanderJagt drove me back to church for a
"special evening service with Father Don."
VanderJagt unlocked the rectory door of the old church across the
street from the new St. Francis structure, explaining that we had to
"have a very important talk now that I had eaten the body of
Christ." The talk, blood trauma, and sexual abuse that ensued
conditioned my mind to readily accept programming throughout the
years that deliberately merged both U.S. Government and Jesuit
mind-control efforts for
New World Order controls.
"I work for
the Vatican, and now, so do you,"
VanderJagt told me.
"You have just entered into a covenant with the holy Catholic
church. You must never break that covenant."
Still capable of questioning at that time, I asked, "What is a
"A covenant is a promise to keep secrets, the
secret that the church knew all along. The Pope has all the secrets
locked away at the Vatican. Your Uncle Bob and I have been to the
Vatican. It is time you entered into the holy covenant and learned
the secrets of the church that were written long before Christ even
came into being. The Dominican monks kept the covenant that Noah
carried into the new world. They kept the secret with them. It was
written on parchment and kept in a secret place in the Vatican. They
took a Vow of Silence to never reveal its location, or its content.
You must enter into the covenant. You must carry the secret to your
grave. Keep it secret from your mom, dad, everybody."
VanderJagt proceeded to fill my suggestible young mind with biblical
interpretation that laid the groundwork for future "inter/inner
dimensional" programming themes utilized by Project Monarch
programmers to control the compartmentalization of memory synonymous
"Christ saw them all," VanderJagt was telling me, "They are
dimensions, places you can see on your way to death.- Thatís why
theyíre called die-mentions. You must remember that Christ died and
came back to tell us everything he saw while he was on his way to
heaven. He was gone three days, but it was much longer than that
where he was because time isnít the same in other dimensions.
Purgatory is one other dimension. Hell is one. And there are lots of
others in between. Oz is another dimension. The sky is not the limit
to all the worlds out there wailing to be explored.
You can travel
in and out of ail these dimensions, learning the secrets of the
universe. You have been chosen to explore these oilier worlds for the
church. Listen in the stillness and you will hear his voice guiding
you 3 on your missions. The rosy cross is like Dorothyís ruby
slippers. Never take your rosy cross off, Cathy, when traveling
other dimensions and you will always be able to return home."
Father Don joined VanderJagt in a ritual which bathed me in the
blood of a slaughtered lamb, and subsequently, through this hideous
blood trauma, locked their stated perceptions and a basis for
mind-control programming deep in my mind. This basis for programming
was anchored in the Vow of Silence which
the Jesuit monks take "not
only to keep secrets, but so they can still their mind and hear
their inner guidance."
Certain that the "Rite to Remain Silent"
which they had performed would ensure that I keep their secret
Father Don and Guy VanderJagt subjected me to their pedophile
perversions. The two joked that I had become "a good Cathy-lick".
After the Rite to Remain Silent was installed, the voices of my
multiple personalities that I had previously heard in my head ceased.
In the silence of deliberately created memory compartments, I could
only hear the voices of my abusers who created them... commanding my
Silence for who and what I knew was involved in Project Monarch
My family routinely vacationed at Mackinac Island, Michigan which is
a small island positioned in the Great Lakes close to the Canadian
border Mackinac Island, with the Governorís Mansion and historical
Grand Hotel, was
a political playground where I was prostituted by my father to,
among others pedophiles Jerry Ford, Guy Vander Jagt,
and later U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd.
part of me that was prostituted there perceived Mackinac as another
dimension, the timelessness of which was enhanced by the islandís
styling. Automobiles were forbidden on the tiny island, which relied
on horse drawn buggies or bicycles for transportation. Once when Lee Iaccoca
was attending a cocktail party at then Governor Romneyís
Mansion, I overheard him comment, "What better place for auto execs
to get away from it all than on an island with no cars?"
Mackinac Island, due to its geographic location, provided an air
of friendliness between the U.S. and Canada that formed my childish
perception that our countries knew no boundaries. This political view
was further enhanced by my father always taking the family to
Falls where my mind was to be symbolically "washed of all memory" or
what had occurred in Mackinac. Niagara Fallsí numerous, powerful
waterfalls were in reasonably close proximity to Mackinac Island, and
shared the border between the U.S. and Canada.
When Pierre Trudeau was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1968, I
heard it said, "Pierre Trudeau is one of Ours, you know." I first
phrase cryptically referring to Trudeauís loyalty to the Vatican
Don was discussing him with my father one Sunday after mass. This
circulated quickly among those I knew who were involved in the
aspect of Project Monarch.
The summer after Trudeau was elected, my father took the family to
Mackinac Island as usual. Climbing on a large statue on the grounds
Governorís Mansion, I could see across the field to the Grand Hotel.
Canadian flags flying amongst the American flags that lined the
front of the old
hotel. As I slid down off the statue, Guy VanderJagt approached with
and a cigarette in his hand. Palling my hair into place he said,
shirt, Iíve got someone important for you to meet,"
"I knew someone important was here because of those flags," I said,
tucking my shirt in my pink shorts.
"When I was at the Vatican," VanderJagt began, "I was told that
Minister Trudeau is a friend of the Pope. He thinks like one of us.
Catholic. He likes Cathy-licks."
VanderJagt led me upstairs in the
mansion, where Pierre Trudeau was lowering the window shades in a
dimly lit bedroom crowded with antiques. VanderJagt closed the door
behind me. Trudeauís tuxedo coat was neatly draped over a chair,
which left him in his formal pants, while shirt, and a bright red
cummerbund which caught my eye. "I like your sash," I said. "Hasnít
anyone taught you Silence yet?"
His somber, gruff attitude was softened by his smooth, silky
voice. Triggered into the part of me
that endured the Rite to Remain Silent, I assumed Trudeau knew all
about interdimensions according to my deliberately formed
perceptions. I could not/did not understand that
interdimensions actually equated to the inner-dimensions of my own
compartmentalized mind. Likewise, I did not understand that "Keys to
the Kingdom" referred to knowing the codes, keys, and triggers to my
controlled mind. "Guy said you like Cathy- licks," I said, repeating
what VanderJagt had told me. "Are you the Keeper of the Keys?"
Trudeau seemingly bore his cold, dark eyes right through me.
can learn more from the school of thought than you can by asking
precocious questions. Havenít you learned that children are to be
seen and not heard?"
"Is that a precocious question?" I asked. "What is a precocious
Trudeau sighed with impatience. "That is irrelevant. What matters is
that you shut your mouth, still your mind, and enter the school of
thought. Silence is a virtue. Listen to the silence in the stillness
of your mind. Go deep inside your mind," he slowly led. "Deeper and
deeper where itís quiet and still..."
Trudeau expertly manipulated my mind with sophisticated
hypnotic language. Not only did he enlist my Silence for the
pedophile perversions he indulged in, but he instructed my "school
of thought" in a manner that equated to programming. He laid a
foundation for Air-Water programs that is a mirror- dimensional
theme often used by NASA and others involved in Project Monarch.
Playing off his own name "Pee-Air," he added a perverse twist
theme that he accessed each time I was prostituted to him.
Had I been capable of fear, I would have been afraid of Pierre
Trudeau. Trudeauís slow, deliberate movements masked the brutal power
of his body much the way his smooth, soft voice pierced my mind and
intruded on my thoughts. The icy cold touch of his effeminate,
manicured long fingers contrasted with the heat of his perversion...
a perversion for which he blamed me and my "temptuous, contemptuous
In my childish ignorance, I believed Trudeauís demeanor and forward
combed hair were characteristic of his French descent. "I know all
about the French," I had bragged to my new "Grandpa" Van while
visiting his home in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
My motherís father had died shortly before Kennedy was assassinated,
anomy Grandmother quickly latched onto a wealthy, highly political
businessman from Milwaukee. She met Grandpa Van Vandenburg on the
passenger/cargo ship that traveled the waters of the Great Lakes,
the Milwaukee Clipper. The Clipper transported cargo including
Cadillacs from Vandenburg Motors to Canada, as well as the drugs
sanctioned by the local Coast Guard via the U.S. Government that my
Sometimes I accompanied my father to the docks in
Muskegon to pick up the drag shipment, which usually
involved prostitution. Jerry Ford and Guy VanderJagt combined
business with pleasure in the shipís casinos on occasion, which is
where the connection between my Grandma and Grandpa Van was
reportedly made. Grandpa Van knew Jerry Ford, and subsequently was
acquainted with Pierre Trudeau.
"What do you know about the French?" Grandpa Van asked me as I sat
on his living room floor petting the dog he just brought home.
Improperly cued and dumfounded by his question I remained silent. "I
know youíve met Pierre Trudeau," he prompted. "I also know you love
doggies. So I bought this dog for your grandma now, so you could
enjoy him, too. His name is Pepe. Heís a French Poodle,"
"I know all about the French." I said, mentally comparing the large
French Poodle in front of me to Trudeau. "They have pretty nails..."
I stroked Pepeís painted toenails. "They have funny hair..." I
petted Pepeís clipped fur. "And they pee a lot," I giggled.
"Youíd better take him outside, then," Grandpa Van told me,
attaching Pepeís leash. After walking the dog past what felt like
every tree in the neighborhood, I announced that 1 would call him
Uncle Bob filmed Pepe and I pornographically on numerous occasions,
producing bestiality films that I would later learn Pierre Trudeau
was privy to. Pepe remained a part of my experience long after
Grandpa Van divorced himself from my Grandma, and long after I
developed beyond Trudeauís perversion for little children.
I was slow to grow into adolescence. By the time I was thirteen
years old, my breasts were tender and beginning to swell, which made
me "too old" for VanderJagtís pedophile perversions. When my father
brought me to Mackinac Island for routine prostitution at the
Political Retreat, VanderJagt introduced me to a new friend he had
made now that he was in Washington, D.C. as a U.S. Congressman-U.S.
Senator Robert C. Byrd, Democrat from West Virginia.
Byrd had been a
U.S. Senator as long as I had been alive, serving as Senate Whip and
later as President Pro Tempore of the Senate and as the all powerful
Senate Appropriations leader. Byrd commanded attention and respect
from all who came in contact with him, particularly from my father.
When we were left alone in his room, he loomed over me in a
threatening stance. His cold, blue slitty eyes locked onto mine. I
undressed and climbed into his bed as ordered. I was momentarily
relieved to find that his penis was abnormally tinyóso small it
didnít even hurt! And I could breathe with it in my mouth! Then he
began to indulge himself in his brutal perversions, talking on and
on about how I was "made just for him" due to the vast amounts of
pain I could withstand.
The spankings and police handcuffs I had
previously endured were childís play compared to Senator Byrdís near
death tortures. The hundreds of scars on my body still show today.
With VanderJagt, sex was a matter of "how much I could give," whereas
with Byrd it was "how much I could take". And I was forced to take
mote pain than any human could logically withstand. I was dedicated
to Byrd at age thirteen which meant he would be directing my future
in Project Monarch, and my father would raise me according to
My MPD/DID existence became more regimented from that point on. I
was kept physically worn down to the point of exhaustion in order
that I be sufficiently receptive to my fatherís limited hypnotic
programming capabilities to condition my mind for mind control. The
pornography I was forced to anticipate in became much more violent
immediately after Byrd, switching me from predominantly pedophile
and bestiality themes to torturous versions of sadomasochism (S&M).
My father and mother worked in tandem daily to "break my spirit,"
destroying any remnants left of my self-confidence, tearing down my
self-esteem, and thus annihilating my free will urges. They
conditioned/taught me my dreams were reality and my reality were
dreams, that black is white and up is down. "Good night, sleep tight,
dream about your mommy and daddy" is what I heard every night. This
was intended to confuse my mind to believe incest in the middle of
the night was "just a bad dream".
My television, books, and music became even more strictly controlled
and monitored that before. This was not only to infringe on my last
minuscule freedom of choice, but for total mind-control conditioning
purposes. For example, the annual televising of Judy Garlandís Wizard
Of Oz was celebrated as a grand holiday around my house.
This was to
prepare my mind for future base programming on the theme that I, like
Dorothy, could "spin" into another dimension "Over the Rainbow".
After all, "Birds (Byrds) fly over the Rainbow..." was a theme that
became a part of my life.
My father insisted I watch the Walt Disney movie Cinderella with
him, paralleling my existence to Cinderellaísó"magically
trance-forming from a dirty little slave to a beautiful Princess". In
typical "reverse psychology" humor, he referred to pornographic
photos when singing "Someday my Prince (prints) will come," or by
placing literal sexual emphasis on "will come".
My brother, Bill, who was often featured in kiddie porn with me, was
not a "chosen one" for Project Monarch (beyond supplying more
children to be dedicated in later years). Yet my father figured that
"what was good for me would be good for my brother". He took us to
see Walt Disneyís Pinocchio, explaining that my brother and I were
his puppets still in the carving stage. The distortions of reality
that these and other Disney theme movies provided when coupled with
my fatherís government trained conscious and subconscious
influence, began to further erode our ability to discern fantasy
My brother, now 37, remains psychologically locked into
those traumatic childhood years and is obsessed with Disney themes
and productions to this day. His house is decorated in Disney
memorabilia, he wears Disney clothes, listens to my fatherís
instructions on his Disney telephone, and maintains "When You Wish
Upon a Star" as his favorite song, which has locked his children
into the same theme.
My father also instructed me to watch Alfred Hitchcockís horrifying
movie The Birds with him. This reinforced in my mind the movieís
theme that there is "no place to hide from the birds/Byrd".
I was quickly beginning to lose all ability to question anything but
my own judgment. It was easy to believe that there was indeed "no
place to run, no place to hide," which is a necessary and primary
psychological basis for government/military mind control. In later
years, "who yaí gonna call?" and Ronald Reaganís quip "you can run,
but you canít hide" echoed deep within my mind. After all, even if I
could think to seek help, who would help me? The police? The church?
My parents? Relative? Politicians? School? There was no one left that
would help me, I sensed.
My television programming was then expanded to include the shows
that every Project Monarch Mind-Control slave I knew had to watch: I
Dream Of Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, Gumby And Pokey, and Bewitched. I
could relate to the Genie pleasing her master, who was a Major for
the Air Force in I Dream Of Jeannie.
This served to confuse the
reality of my own experiences with the fantasy of television
production. I told all outsiders that my family was "just like the Bradys". Through Gumby And Pokey I was led to believe that I was
as flexible as these animated clay performers. Therefore, I was
capable of being physically maneuvered into any sexual position.
mirrors depicted a doorways to other dimensions and adventures
interlocked with my Catholic conditioning and Alice In Wonderland and
Wizard Of Oz theme programming. In Bewitched, it is the normal new
door neighbor that is considered crazy rather than the witches. This
is another reversal that was applied to my bizarre existence. I was
one of the only kids in my school that listened to country music.
then, Senator Byrd fancied himself a country music fiddler and it
"my duty to love what he did", I was ordered to listen to country
music or no music at all. Music was my psychological avenue for
escape, a dissociative tool. But this, too, was used in setting the
stage for my future as a Project Monarch "Presidential Model"
As suggested, I read the Boxcar Children Series over and over again,
I empathized with the trials, traumas, and tribulations the children
they fended for themselves from their boxcar home along the railroad
tracks. My father often made train sounds at me in passing to
subconsciously remind me that I was currently "in Training" on the
undeterable track of the "Freedom Train."4 This term, taken from
Harriet Tubmanís underground railroad for slaves, reversed the
meaning of the word "freedom" to confuse oneís "one
track mind" and
instill the belief "I am free to be a slave".
This also reinforced
my training to stay on track-the plan (track) laid our for me. My
father would often quip, "When God passed out brains, you thought he
said ítrainsí and got in the wrong line". Convicted (capital crime)
career criminal, country music entertainer, and CIA operative
Haggard often used well documented cryptic language in his songs
pertaining to government mind-control slave operations. He released
songs including "Freedom Train" and "Over the-Rainbow". My father
told me repeatedly that Merle Haggard was my "favorite" singer, and
his songs reinforced my programming.
Of course, Senator Byrd remained my "favorite" fiddler as ordered.
He played train songs like "Orange Blossom Special" while making
train sounds on his fiddle. Sometimes I was his captive audience,
bound and gagged, while he played his fiddle. Other times he
instructed me to spin round and round like a music box dancer in
order to add "new dimensions to our sex".. These new dimensions
included more and more physical pain through "kinky" torture.
My father took advantage of his new political connections and
advanced himself occupationally, manufacturing camshaft auto parts at
a local factory. Soon he was promoted to a sales management position
due to his connections within the Pentagon Procurement Office and
General Services Administration, coupled with what he had learned
about double bind hypnotic persuasion. He continued to supplement
his income by sexually exploiting us children. This I now included
brazenly prostituting me to Muskegon Coast Guard officials while on
cocaine runs to and from the base.
Meanwhile, my father took us all
to church every Sunday, and my mother stayed busy having babies to
raise in the Project. In true pedophile fashion, he surrounded
himself with children by coaching little league sports, chaperoning
school and Catechism activities, and becoming involved with the Boy
Scouts. All of this made him appear to be a model citizen and "pillar
of the community". The illusion was fonned. The parts of me that
knew otherwise had no choice but to remain Silent.
1 Project Monarch slaves were referred to as "Chosen Ones".
2 Torture to the point just before death, such as with Deathís Door
programming, was jointly used by the Catholic Jesuits and the CIA in
3 It was the voices of my mind-control programmers and handlers that
I later heard guiding
4 "Freedom Train" is the internationally recognized cryptic code term
for Project Monarch slave operations that I heard repeatedly
throughout my victimization.