"Going Off the Reservation" - an Awakening story of a TI and cautionary lessons

Hello Avalonians,

I have chosen to share some old stories from my old blog ArtemesiaSpeaks, my targeted individual, Milabs, Eugenics Agenda and Illegal Human Subjects testing disclosure narrative that I shared during the 2011 to 2013 timeline. Let's just say the new energy field that was opened today by the incredibly significant US Congressional UFO Whistleblower hearing has made it feel relevant for me to keep soldiering on with bringing to light the small piece of the incredibly complex story of what has been happening to humanity that I have to share. Its just one piece of peace, of course.

What will follow is the text from posts 21, 22 and 23 from my 80 total post blog, a series I call:

DEACTIVATING THE A.W.O.L. PROGRAM

When one is a mind control and undisclosed government project experiencer, such as I AM, there is a huge hurdle to overcome when one is newly awakening and choosing to 'go off the reservation', to use the term Dave Corso liked to use when discussing the complex maneuvers required to break programming, get out of the projects, get away from the control forces, disable the installed, destructive and abberent programming they have colonized one's entire mind body spirit and emotional soul being with via soul fragmentation and trauma tactics, and move on with living a life in alignment to one's original organic blueprint soul mission, away from all the alien interference.

What follows is a cautionary tale of how that went down for me. It was a personal journey, and thus totally unique, but there are some take away points that I feel may be useful or significant for others at this stage in their own process, or for those observing from a witness standpoint the chaos they may know is being experienced by people around them, maybe those they love or care for. If you don't understand what the very real barriers to liberating oneself from the mind control projects entails, the way in which important family support systems will be hijacked and used against you without even the knowledge of the person acting as a sleeper enforcer to keep you penned in, silent and disempowered, if you don't understand the complexity of reading the incredibly vague but significant clues and signals being communicated by the ENTIRE energy field of the hologram existence we inhabit requires to make a safe exit, or any attempt to do so at all, the way in which survivors have to use all their skills, abilities, prior experience sets, subtle rhythm awareness to accomplish disclosure IF ONLY FOR THEMSELVES, FOR TO BELEIVE ONESELF AMIDST THE ONSLAUGHT OF DISCREDITING AND SUPPRESSION IS BY FAR THE HARDEST TASK OF ALL, then the story that I detail will perhaps enlighten you to some of that.

I thought about outlining the key take away points that I see now, reading this story over 14 years after these events transpired, and about 10 years since I came forward with this information publically and the extreme targeting I was subjected to yet again for doing so, but really I feel that just letting it be what it is and respecting you as the reader to engage with it from neutral zero point as you see fit would be more reflective of the evolution and powerful transformation I myself have undergone since those early days. In seeking to no longer be manipulated myself, I no longer choose to manipulate others. In seeking to be beleived, I taught myself how to beleive myself, no matter what. And so as a gesture of unconditional love and self determination, I am sharing this here in Avalon (which sometimes really just acts as a major danger toilet, I will state in full honesty) in hopes that maybe just one person will benefit.

For all others, enjoy a fun wild narrative read into Mr Toad's Wild Ride of disclosure stories. Its a doozy.

Deactivating the A.W.O.L. Program – Part One

By 2009, on the heels of two rounds of post-partum depression and the baggage from my crazy life of adventure, some serious spiritual, mental and emotional housekeeping was in order. As it turned out, a trauma-recall induced spontaneous kundalini awakening, battles to override suicide programming, and the ‘the final straw’ of attacks from my handlers/family would make for an interesting year – the year I finally ‘woke up,’ and as some survivors would say, ‘went off the reservation.’
In November of 2008, while deep in the throes of depression and in the wake of a half-assed suicide attempt, I made the enormous mistake of inviting my parents to come help. A two-week visit from my father and one week visit from my mother really put things into perspective. Obsessed with his own business dealings, essentially oblivious to my physical and emotional needs for support, I found myself tasked with keeping my father ‘occupied’ with busy-body duties when he wasn’t involved in running his own life as an industrial recycling business owner and middle man. It was exhausting, and by the end of his stay I felt I’d mostly been taking care of three little boys (my father, husband and son) and a baby, rather than having received assistance and a break to restore myself and my increasingly tenuous emotional states.

The visit with mother was no different. The prior suicide attempt I’d made involved ideations of slitting my wrists in the bathtub. Just before getting into the tub, my baby asleep in her crib and her brother playing alone in his room, I’d made a final demand of God or whatever divine presence it was that lived in the beyond: “get you’re a** down here, and do it NOW!” Interestingly, moments after this command, Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on the front door. They came by my house often back then, and were some of the few adults I’d speak to on a regular basis while serving my sentence as stay-at-home-mother, isolated from society and healthy support systems. I couldn’t bring myself to answer, but I took it as a sign that at least someone, somewhere, was listening. I did still get into the tub and flirt with a blade, but mostly I just mentally fought off some elusive band of demons in my mind, who’d been sent to plague me for unknown reasons.

During her visit, in an almost uncanny imitation of what I’d gone through in the bathroom a month earlier, my mother was frenetically cleaning out our recycling bin at the sink one night. She cut her hand on some glass as she scrubbed it. Startled and bloody, she left the kitchen sink water running as she ran to my husband, who took her to the bathroom to get bandaged. She somehow managed to splatter little drops of blood all over the bathroom walls, while meanwhile water flooded onto the floor. What I hadn’t done when alone, she’d mirrored with everyone around. Curiouser, and curiouser.

I muddled through until March of the following year, but not long after my 33rd birthday, things got worse again. My husband spent 10 days away from home working out-of-town on a big-time Hollywood movie. It was a post-apocalyptic western about a blind man who possessed the last remaining copy of the Bible, and he traveled cross-country while battling demonically possessed people, before arriving at the new seat of the republic: Alcatraz. More than just a little bizarre in symbolism, I had been left alone to nurse my children, and my cracking mental stability, alone. By the 10th day when he was finished and could have already been home, I reached my breaking point. I pulled out my old paramedic books to check lethal doses for Tylenol and aspirin, and poured myself a cup of the same, being sure to leave the amounts well under that of a fatal dose. Grabbing the bottle of cheap rum my father had left over from his visit, I vowed that if I got any more detached or unstable, I would take it all. Not long after this, during a diaper change my son was protesting, he smeared feces on my face and bit me. He sensed to sense my strange auric field and resisted care from me, acting out in his own defense. Incensed and soiled, I bit him back on the cheek as I kissed him. Horrified at having done this to my own flesh and blood, and astonished since it was a behavior that was SO entirely NOT ME, I finished up, put in the dinosaur movie “The Land Before Time” for him to watch, and downed the poison I’d prepared.

I called my midwife and told her what I’d done. She then called my husband, who began the trek back Carrizozo, NM, a small town located between the Trinity Site where the first atomic bomb test was conducted and the alien crash town of Roswell. Our neighbor had also been summoned, but for some odd reason, though I sat on the floor right in front of the French doors of our sitting room, she did not see me. Had I become completely invisible?

Arriving home to find me not dead yet, he and his EMT-licensed movie buddy left me lying on the bed, while they sat on the front porch smoking. I’d had it. I knew then, staring at the clock watching the seconds tick by, that no one else was going to help me, that I alone was responsible for saving myself. I hopped out the bedroom window of our single story pueblo-style house, and walked myself down to the nearby fire station in flip flops. Disheveled, crying, and begging for help, I explained what I’d done to the firefighters. Though I too had stood in those shoes, offering compassion and emergency care to those in need, they stood looking at me like an alien possessed, and then almost grudgingly put an IV in my arm and loaded me into the ambulance for a ride to the hospital I’d worked at as a paramedic the year before.

It was an interesting experience to be on the other side. The charge nurse got me situated, but when I was refused water to drink and was mostly ignored, I pulled out the IV, went to the bathroom where I took off my robe and patient ID band, and used my knowledge of the pathways through the hospital to escape. I was caught, and back in my patient room, was left sobbing behind a trashcan I used to shield myself. I overheard the nurse out at the desk complaining that, “she SAYS she used to be a paramedic. I think she’s full of crap and is just plain crazy.” Yea well, after you’ve worked through trauma your whole life, one tends to get that way. P.T.S.D among emergency responders, let alone mind-controlled subjects, is probably the most scorned and forgotten illness of all. As for compassion? I found none.
Just before being released to my husband, who was eventually contacted by the hospital, a young psychiatry resident came in to clarify some points of my story. Details of the suicide of an administrative supervisory nurse I’d worked with were questioned. “What about the ambulance driver you knew, who you saw shot in the head in the ER?” Seeing he was truly sensitive to my feelings, and concerned for detail regarding a fellow employee of mine who had been a Vietnam Vet that finally cracked after nearly 30 years of being a trauma R.N., I gave a similarly cold, rational reply. I asked for a drink of water, knowing that flushing my body with fluids would solve my poisoning issues. Until then, I had received no treatment for this condition and my ears were beginning to ring with hallmark salicylate overdose tinnitus. He returned with a Styrofoam cup filled with barely one inch of water. “It was all I could find,” he stated bluntly. In a huge hospital full of equipment, the doctors yet again could barely meet my needs, leaving me thirsty for more. It was a metaphor for my whole life, and everything I had been recalling about the traumas of childhood inflicted by my mother-the-doctor’s hand. How useful. As with most things, it was a moment that was holographic to the whole.

Deactivating the A.W.O.L. Program – Part Two

As the summer of 2009 wore on, things proceeded to get ever more bizarre.

On a weekend drive in the Jemez mountains, I felt like I was channeling some kind of invisible force as we cruised the dirt roads through the Santa Fe National Forest near Los Alamos and Bandelier NPs. On our return voyage, driving the ridges out of Cochiti Canyon near Kasha-Katue Tent Rocks, a lightening storm broke out. As the downpour quickly turned the roads into slippery mud troughs, bolts of electricity kept striking all around the car, narrowly missing our vehicle as we raced to escape the torrent. I knew what this meant. It was an activation. Deep in some kind of trance, I had images of space ships, not unlike those depicted in the movie “Independence Day,” descending into the Rio Grande Valley in Albuquerque where we lived, while I became some kind of ambassador to communications with the beings who lived aboard the craft.

Other events transpired, but I’ve described these in other posts on this blog such as “The Rainbow Gathering 2009, Cuba, NM” and also “The Arrival of an Anomaly.” Needless to say, by August I was more than just a little weirded out by my surging psychic abilities, the little pin prick waves of energy that would often flow through me, and the middle-of-the-night wakeup calls where I’d promptly vomit, just like when I’d had morning sickness, and then fall into some kind of wakeful reverie and dreamlike state where aliens, monsters and memories of traumatic events from my life were revisited.

This whole time, my husband was pretty much beside himself with what to do about me. I was very erratic, wasn’t eating and had lost 30 lbs in a few weeks, and could barely take care of myself and the children. Visits with the attachment-healing therapist who came to our house to do restraint-holds ‘treatments’ with my son, to get him to accept me and my care giving, were doing little to help. I began to see a psychiatrist at her behest, but I let the prescription for Zoloft sit on my desk, knowing full well that pharmaceutical drugs would only make things worse. I’d been forced down that road as an adolescent, and I wasn’t about to fall for those tricks again. During this time I began to dissociate regularly, and sometimes as I lay on my bed in the afternoon for a rest when the children were napping, I would be pulled out of my body to enter a dream where gray aliens had me aboard their craft, and were trying to put my soul into an extraterrestrial body that was dying because their race had lost it’s spirit. I’d open my eyes and see the room around me, but I knew I was also someplace else. I felt powerless, and also kind of intrigued at my fortune to be special enough to attract their attention. Pretty much the only relief from the abductions, psychic and paranormal phenomena, and physical, mental and emotional torture I was enduring was to spend most of the day taking little ‘pick-me-up’ hits of marijuana. For some reason, this seemed to block the invasive thought forms from taking over, and relaxed me to the point where I could somehow manage to function as a housewife and mother, performing the cleaning, grocery shopping and zoo trips expected of me.

One-night things got bizarre to the extreme. All day I had been walking around saying I was the antichrist, saw a burning bush on a stroll around the neighborhood (an effect created by a firecracker being lit behind a shrub in someone’s yard), and was announcing events moments before they happened. For example, I told my husband the phone would soon ring with a call from our insurance agent, and then it would. I also became paranoid that aliens or government agents were driving by the house, looking in the windows. That night, I stayed up late into the night re-reading journals I’d written as a teenager, when I first began to awaken to the world around me and found myself shut-down, chastised, medicated and institutionalized. Valuable clues lay therein that I needed once again as the same thing happened to me. Sensing a presence in the house, I was told to get up and see the demon in the bed with my husband. I went into our room, and noticed his left foot and entire leg was suspended almost vertically in the air, though he lay on his stomach sleeping. I was told by a disembodied voice that the devil was inside, stomping its hoof on the ceiling. I freaked out and returned to the guest room where I had been holed up (seen in the video which I recorded around this time in the post entitled “Dissociated States – Dissecting the Self”). I then was told the ninjas were coming, and I went out to the backyard to see a group of no less than 9 cats suddenly run off from near the guest room window. It was too much. I barred the door with a heavy wooden trunk, waking my husband. He barged in and I swore I saw some kind of overlay creature in his face, menacing me with its disdainful stare.

The next day, I asked for a divorce. Apparently both my parents were quite alarmed by my behaviors, which my husband had been calling to tell them about behind my back. When I first began remembering the childhood traumas in March which they’d been party to, I cut off all contact with them, refusing to speak, write or interact with them at all. However I hadn’t been entirely successful, and on several occasions I had switched into some form of ‘snitch alter,’ which was very childlike, almost of the mentality of an 8 year-old girl wanting to be a teacher’s pet, and told them weird things like I’d been in a hostage scare, I’d been locking my son in the closet to protect him when demons were around, and that I was refusing to take the medications the shrink had given me.

Exhausted from the previous night’s psychic warfare, I passed out around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, when my husband came home from work. Asleep in my bed, he would later tell me that some policemen came to our house, supposedly sent by my father who had placed an ‘endangerment call’ to authorities in the area. They wanted to take me to a mental institution, I was later told, but my husband felt I should make that decision myself. Barred from physically taking me into custody, they demanded to see me even though I was asleep, to do a ‘welfare check,’ they insisted. I’m told my husband talked to me that night and even shared that he’d called my mother, but I was completely out of it and have no memory of any of those events.

The next morning, my mother showed up on my doorstep. The same person I’d been telling my husband had drawn blood from me for her experiments against my will while sleeping when I’d been a child, left me to die on ox cart rides through the African desert, and who had involved me in all measure of institutionalizations, neglect, food and water deprivation and other tortures, was the one he turned to when he felt I needed ‘help’. This breach of trust and secret contract between them was the last straw.

In a frantic state of wanting to escape and run for my life, I grabbed some camping gear, an enormous drum I’d been given by my father, art supplies, paper, clothing, my recent journals and scrapbooks, some toy cars from my son’s collection and water. For good measure, I threw in some powdered hummus, to serve as manna from heaven. I was going A.W.O.L., and I was going to need a way to summon some divine assistance. I wasn’t going to let them institutionalize me, didn’t plan on letting the old suicide programs they’d tried to activate take over, and I wasn’t planning on leaving my children to my mother and the beasts she worked for. I was going to need some space to sort myself out, figure out how to overcome the mind control that by then, I knew I was under. Yet again in my life, I was on the run with next to nothing.

Deactivating the A.W.O.L. Program – Part Three

Finally free of my oppressors who had somehow managed to co-ordinate my family into a full-on attack against me, I headed Southbound down I-25, feeling gloriously free from the stifling confines of my home where I’d been kept like a prisoner under guard by demons. I knew exactly where to head: The Very Large Array.

Years before I had been riveted when I watched the movie “Contact” by Carl Sagan, the preeminent cosmologist of our time, after completing a backcountry trip in the Sierras near Bishop, California. In the film Jodi Foster’s character lay out in the open country near the giant radio telescope dishes, where she at last made ‘contact’ with the aliens. After everything I’d been through, I was ready for a UFO ride outta this place, thinking my space brothers would gladly rescue me from the insane family called humanity I’d been living amongst.

Making little stops along the way in my white 1988 Volvo station wagon, I would place small markers – the toy cars I had borrowed from my son -- denoting my presence, not unlike Hansel and Gretel as they escaped the fairytale witches’ lair. I stopped in at the Bosque del Apache reserve museum, where a taxidermy wolf and cougar loomed, watching me with their glass eyes, over the lobby entrance. A naturalist clerk told me I’d have to give my name and address. “We hold you hostage until you sign in,” she told me. I was certain she too had been possessed, and was somehow involved in the stalkers chasing me, as she spoke to me in terms that were at once both bizarre and totally understandable. The ‘other ones’ presence was undeniable. They knew where I was, and I was being monitored.
I spent some time in the small town of Socorro, marveling at the strange metal pyramid in the historic town plaza, placed alongside some old artillery guns leftover from the military presence in the area. White Sands Missile Range bordered the area, and the Trinity site, where the first atomic bomb had been detonated, was also in the vicinity. Obviously I was in a region of awesome power, which had great significance in the play of events of the 20th century.

I finally made it to the V.L.A. after having to make many stops to let my car cool down, as it was repeatedly overheating in the 100 degree Fahrenheit temperatures of the New Mexican desert. At every rest stop I took, I was called upon to perform strange little rituals with available artifacts in my car; I made a memorial to Woodstock with a tape case from the show, since it was the anniversary of the historic concert that weekend. I did a ceremony to honor the cows that had been penned up for slaughter at the historic stockyards in the town of Magdalena. And I’d even reenact the moon landing, placing a lost tennis shoe I found in a tumbleweed on top of a large ant hill, symbolizing the human presence on an alien landscape.

After leaving the V.L.A. museum where I placed a $1 bill in their donation bin that I’d stolen from a roadside shrine I’d come upon, I headed out to the fields where Jodi Foster had heard the unmistakable sounds of extraterrestrial intelligence. While sitting looking at some photographs of myself in happier times, an antelope with large, dark eyes approached my car. Was it an animal, or was it another kind of creature, inhabiting the form of an antelope so as not to startle me? I didn’t know.

I kept driving and felt called to do some artwork. I had to wait something out; something important was about to happen. Parking on the side of the road bound for Roswell, I climbed over a small hillock where I’d be out of view from the roadway, where I began to paint a picture of three sets of eyes. Swirling in a trance, I felt something approach. In the distance, the wail of approaching sirens began their Doppler effect. As I heard them pass, I felt like a large imaginary rattlesnake lurking behind me whispered to tell me that the emergency call and sirens had been about me, that I had just crossed my double, or doppelganger, at the intersection of two parallel timelines. The mission complete, I carried on. It wasn’t long before I passed not one, but two enormous dead rattlesnakes that had been splattered across the yellow lines that dividing the highway. It was ominous, indeed.

Lights from a town ahead appeared in the distance, as darkness had now fallen upon the desert and stars appeared in the sky. I thought I was close to Roswell, a town I’d visited once before in my early 20s while on my first cross-country road trip. There, I’d met the director of the International UFO Museum, who had been ordered to write and then retract the press release which stated that aliens had crashed on Earth. Maybe he would still be there, maybe he could help me. If anything, I could stop for the night and rest in a cheap hotel, that is if they accepted my maxed-out credit card.

It was not to be. The car sputtered to a stop, and I steered it off the edge of the highway into the dirt, sandwiching it between the barbed wire fence and eternity. A long night ensued, punctuated by the strange glow of red lights in the sky, the feeling that I had to be on alert for some kind of predator, who an inner voice assured me, “I’d see coming a mile away.” Not unlike the tales told by Castaneda of death and the flyers, at one point I saw strange headlights appear behind me, and I knew they was coming for me. After glaring in my direction for a while, they seemed to turn around and go elsewhere.

By the next afternoon, after nearly 17 hours alone on the side of the road, dehydrated and hungry because the water and manna had long-since run out, I decided to summon for help. I was towed into a run-down auto salvage yard by a passer-by who’d agreed to hook up my tow cables to his pickup and haul me in. The owners quickly assessed that I’d burned out my engine due to lack of fluid in the radiator, and they went back to their business, ignoring me completely in favor of more profitable affairs. A huge hairy dog lay nearby trying to hide in the shadows from the noonday heat. He let me approach to collect his water dish. I filled his bowl and my own water bottle at a spigot I found on the side of the shop. Carrying it back to him, I noticed a small, perfectly round hole on the bottom, which was pouring the liquid treasure out onto the dusty ground. Just like the hospital, it seemed this whole place lacked the decency to provide the most basic need, the essence that composed 90% of our physical being.

Not long after this, some men in desert camouflage military fatigues appeared and stood around some of the other broken cars in the lot, which were for sale, talking to the salvage shop’s owner. Somehow I just knew this was a ruse, and they were actually there for me. I was, after all, A.W.O.L. I tried to escape by hitchhiking on the side of the road, begging for a ride on my knees with a sign I’d drawn which sported a little gray alien bedecked with a pink bow, that read, “help ME now.” I had no takers. Finally, I called my husband to tell him where I was. Three hours at least, I was told, to come get me. It wasn’t soon enough. I did the absolute no-no, and placed a 911 call. After years of responding to emergency calls with prompt professionalism, the dispatcher on the line told me that unless I was having a heart attack or was diabetic, being stranded in the desert, dehydrated and nearly psychotic was not going to buy me an ambulance ride. Sorry.

In complete distress, unable to understand why everywhere I turned, I found inadequate help, was completely written off and ignored, and was even threatened. I turned within for guidance. From out of nowhere, in what I now understand to be either psychic thought-form transmission or voice-to-skull technologies, I heard a voice tell me, “A car will appear shortly, and the driver will get out and leave his keys in the ignition. This is your ticket out.” I was ready. I got out of my car, grabbed the bag with my clothes, phone, art supplies, journal and dwindling marijuana stash, and locked it. Almost immediately upon completing these tasks, a stake-bed truck pulled in. The driver went inside the shop. I approached the car with a confident stride, saw the keys through the opened window, opened the door, put my bag in the passenger seat, started it up and took off, squealing the tires and creating a cloud of dust as I departed.

I was back on the road at last! I headed out the way I’d come in, bound for God knows where, just happy to be out of that forsaken salvage lot that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one depicted in the movie ‘Sling blade’. As I left town, I saw a sign that said ‘Carrizozo’. Turned out I had been in the same place my husband had been when I’d attempted suicide back in March. So that was it. At that moment I understood all too well -- this was about trying to get the suicide program to trigger again.
I looked down on the seat next to me, and saw a handgun. All around me were boxes of bullets. I threw it all out the open window, just like Hansel and Gretel. If they were going to target me and get me to go on the run again, I was going to leave evidence. Glancing around, I saw a bumper sticker on the window, which stated, “Don’t laugh, your daughter may be in here.” Damn right she was. I reached under the seat for some reason and instantly laid my hand on yet another firearm – a small revolver, befitting the ‘wild west,’ where I happened to find myself. Out the window it went, along with all the tools that littered the floor of the truck. Apparently I’d stolen the tow truck owned and operated by the shop. I’d later find out the driver had been sent to find me when a concerned citizen, who’d passed me out on the road when I was looking forlorn, called AAA on my behalf. He ended up lending me a ride out of hell, just as he’d given up his search and returned.

After gaining an astonishing lead of 20 to 30 miles, I noticed I was being pursued by another, larger tow truck. The owners wanted their vehicle back. I threw a large jug of iced tea I found on the seat out the window at them, and waved. I honked at every car passing in the opposite direction to let them know something was not right. Not long after this, the tow truck operators backed off to let the Sherriff I saw parked on the side of the road into the line of angry men bearing down on me in attack mode. Luckily, I had trained for this moment. Back in Ranger Academy, we’d practiced felony takedown car stops, trading roles as cop and robber. I knew what these officers expected, and would do it, ‘by the numbers’ just like my instructors had taught me to do.

I pulled over. Several officers blocked the road and jumped out of their cars with their guns drawn down on me. I put my hands up where they could see them, threw the keys out the window, reached out, opened the door from the outside, got out, backed up, and lay down on the yellow lines of the baking hot asphalt under the New Mexico sun, just like those rattlesnakes I’d seen, only I wasn’t going to end up splattered and dead, if I could help it. I didn’t miss a move, and beat them to the punch line of their commands each step of the way.

They hauled me off to the jail in Socorro, which was located just behind that big metal pyramid I’d seen before. I got triggered one more time while there, and ended up drinking some Pine-sol cleaning solvent. This bought me a trip to the local ER, a prescription for an anti-psychotic and Zoloft, and a 24-hour stint in solitary confinement when I got back to the jail. It was enough, and eager to get rid of me, the judge agreed to release me to my husband after 9 days, provided he promptly deposited me in a mental hospital. A nice note from my mother and the worthless psychiatrist I’d been seeing, which claimed that I was ‘highly emotionally disturbed’ and unpredictable with a long history of ‘delusional and suicidal ideation’ sealed the deal. How thoughtful of them to think of me in my time of need.
Rather than choosing a hospital in Albuquerque, where I’d be close to my family and able to receive visits, they sent me to Mesilla Valley, an institution way down in Las Cruces, right smack up against the Mexican border and White Sands military base.

It turned out to be an interesting stay, and gave me an overall perspective with clues to everything I needed to know about what was happening, who was in charge, who was being targeted, and how to move beyond it all. While there I met a man who was depressed and had physical disabilities that developed not long after he’d had an interesting encounter of his own. A photographer for the oil companies out in the Navajo petroleum fields, he’d been taking some time-lapse photos one night when he felt a strange surge of static electricity. Upon developing the images at home later, he had clear-as-anything shots (which he showed me and anyone else who would listen) of a small spacecraft with a shadowy outline of some kind of being aboard. Soon after this discovery, his ailments began.
I also met a former army soldier who was in for a ‘medication adjustment’. Seems family events had gotten stressful again and he was triggered into his old ‘killing machine programs’ that weren’t so acceptable now that he was an ordinary civilian and father. Another active-military soldier stationed at White Sands was in for drug rehab. His little prescription drug habit had gotten out of control. It wasn’t his fault, he’d tell me in art therapy class as we painted side-by-side, he was sent on special covert missions and then upon return, traumatized by atrocities he’d committed on the government’s behalf, they would inject him with sodium pentothal to help him go night-night and forget about all the nasties. This left him more than just a little confused as the suppressed memories ate away at him from within, his only relief the endless narcotics the base docs supplied him with. He was in awe at my tales of total recall I’d lately been living, and thanked me for the advice I gave him on how to reconnect dissociated mind parts during panic attacks with some helpful techniques the attachment therapist had shown me.

The doctors and therapists I met were less than helpful or compassionate, to say the least. I successfully ‘fired’ the first shrink I’d been assigned, who I later found had called Child Protective Services on me because my children had been around when I’d had suicidal ideations. Truly made me want to reach out and share my story with still more people who might be so ‘helpful’.

Other patients were all ‘targeted individual’ types. A young man in the early phases of spiritual awakening, a drug dealer from the streets who’d already served hard time and wanted to get his habit in check so he could fulfill his dream of becoming a lab technician. I was even roommates with a woman who had been a flight nurse at the same hospital I’d worked at. Turns out domestic violence and the endless trauma of emergency medicine left her with a potent taste for cocaine, which she was ready overcome. The ‘sickest’ patients were a young woman who’d run away from her home in some far-off state when she went into psychosis, and an older Russian guy who was somewhat a bipolar genius. The usual suspects, to be sure.

After 7 days on the psych ward, the maximum allowable stay, I was sent home with a prescription for Risperidol (an anti-psychotic which recent studies show is no more effective than a placebo) and Zoloft, suggestions to ‘get myself a good therapist’, and an erroneous ‘diagnosis’ of a psychotic episode of unknown origin. I gathered my resolve. I knew I wasn’t crazy. I knew I had been depressed, and this did end up going manic and even psychotic, at times. But I also knew there was something else lurking behind it all. These arbitrary pronouncements from so-called ‘medical authorities,’ who clearly had nothing of my own health or welfare in mind, were not descriptive of the real me I knew within. Sitting back at my house under our big sycamore tree next to the Japanese garden pond I’d painstakingly constructed, I contemplated life in the fishbowl. The people I’d met, the strange paranormal visitations and burgeoning psychic powers I’d been experiencing, were not figments of my imagination.

Somewhere amongst the rubble of my story there lay answers. I finally got around to educating myself on the finer points of the global socio-political-economic scene, reviewing research from folks like David Icke and Stewart Swerdlow. I began to research the illuminati, aliens and UFOs and abduction accounts, and in the process of this stumbled upon other survivor’s stories of government mind control, dissociative alter states, ‘kill switch’ suicide programming and of course, my recent nemesis, the A.W.O.L. routine. It was all there, hidden out in the open. I only had to look for the answers. And somehow, with a little manna from heaven and my tough-as-nails spirit that will fight for its right to live no matter what, I managed to overcome the suicide commands, deactivate the A.W.O.L. program, and live to tell my long-winded tale.