The Castalia Foundation hopes that the illustrations and testimony on this page will give other survivors hope and encouragement. This survivor shows that it is possible to heal even from the most extreme levels of abuse.
Healed-survivors become free to speak out about what was done to them, openly and in public. The only shame is to be felt by those who perpetrate these crimes; the institutions that misguide survivors; and the predator-class who has used child-abuse to further their political and financial aims.
This shame is also to be felt by those associations who profit from pharmaceutical fraud by ignoring the underlying psychological-causes of widespread-disease in our communities.
I wrote the following poem, and drew the above illustration, after memories of abuse at my childhood-best-friend June's house were being processed in adulthood. These memories were so terrible and overwhelming to me as a child that I escaped into my internal world of imagination.
Around this time at school, I listened to a mythological story about being imprisoned in a tower. In order to escape, the protagonist, Icarus, used wax to make wings out of birds feathers which drifted into his prison cell. With the wings and the bright light of the sun encouraging him, Icarus used their power to fly free and escape. This story was very hopeful to me. When unimaginable horrors took place, I escaped, like the mythical being with feathered wings, out of my cage.
Like the wounded deer with ribs broken
I came to you
bearing all the treasures
that you had taken from me. I sat
pouring tears of crimson.
You, hiding behind your concepts, rules
A language I had stopped speaking.
So I didn’t speak.
I sat, holding my hummingbird.
Feeling, my feet.
I would try to explain the hurt that you caused me
But, it is useless.
Because you aren't listening.
All I can do to connect to your dormant life within,
Is to show,
Not pointing fingers
Through my tears.
I was very little. I had been picked up by Richard, as was custom, and taken to his 'haunted' house after school. Often, as children we would be isolated and taken away to be abused. Abuses often unfolded in Richard's study. He had many 'toys', and objects that children would find interesting, to lure us to him. For example, there was a steam train that ran all around the walls of the study and it was a point of fascination for us as children.
On this occasion, Richard took me into his study and sat me on his lap. He then proceeded to load disgusting and degrading images of women and me on the screen in front of me. I had no clue what this was, but I felt sick to my stomach and struggled to run away. I was frozen in panic.
Sometimes, he would rape me while watching these type of films. At other times, he would force me to touch him and force me on him. Other forms of abuse included touching my genitals with his disgusting tongue. An occasion that sticks in my mind, was being raped as a punishment, after June and I had been innocently playing, laughing and having fun sliding down the long, banister of the staircase in their house at Ennerdale Road in Kew, London. We were around six years old.
tonight
I have no time to sleep
moon-viewing by Matsuo Bashō
My parents decided to go away for the weekend. They left me in the 'care' of Richard Hart. I felt very nervous and nauseous the whole week before spending the whole weekend at his house with his daughter, June. I anticipated more abuse happening. On the first day, Richard took me down into the basement to "show me something" that he had made. I was uninterested in this. He got very angry and clamped my hands to the work bench. He then proceeded to rape me.
That evening he pulled me out of bed, where I was sleeping, sharing the bunk bed with June. Richard carried me downstairs into the basement. There, he slammed me to the floor and kicked me. He then raped me again. I had been violently sick and there was feces also in the room (not my own).
Richard tied my hands together and left me there all night alone and with no clothes on.
Other types of abuse happened in the basement. One time, June and I were sexually abused there and then were forced to dress up in costumes. Richard then forced us to participate in sexual acts. Richard filmed us while doing this.
This drawing relates to sexual abuse that happened to me while I was a child. In order to cope with the unimaginable cruelty that I was subjected to in that underground cavern, I used the power of my imagination to transcend my captivity. I focused purely on the moonlight and meditated on that the whole evening. While I was imprisoned, naked and helpless, the strength of the light from the moon gave me the courage to stay alive.
Lizzie (the sister of my best friend as a child June) celebrated her birthday party at a swimming pool. I remember witnessing the abuse of Lizzie through a window in the changing room. I saw a group of men, some of whom were lifeguards, standing around Lizzie. It looked like they were about to abuse her, as she was lying in the middle of the floor and the men were standing around her threateningly.
I remember the taste of the 'Maids of Honour' cake in the car home from the birthday party at Brentford pool. I imagined the little figurines (small animals) skating around on an ice rink of sugar frosting. The image of this in my mind comforted me, as I took in Lizzie's abuse by the men at the pool.
June hosted a halloween party one year at her family home. We ate spagetti that looked like death because it was black. This would foreshadow the later abuses, we the children would experience during Halloween 'games.'I remember being whipped by Mr Hart and raped after participating in apple bobbing. I also witnessed the abuse of Lizzie: her being carried out to be raped and her being beaten with a whip after apple bobbing.
This drawing represents strength to me. It was the strength I had as a child to continue fighting the abuse that happened to me on a regular basis. I never stopped fighting. I kicked and screamed and bit and fought very hard. I tried to intervene when I saw other kids being abused. I drew this piece after remembering being sexually assaulted at school.
When the other kids were being led back to the changing rooms to put on their school uniforms after gym class, me and two other children (Aly-Khan and Satpreet) were led into a back room by the caretaker Mr Morley. He told the teachers that we were helping him to clear away some of the Gym equipment.
Once alone inside the gym cupboard, I was groped by Mr Morley. Mr Morley then lined the three of us up and selected Aly-Khan, who stood trembling in his underwear: Fragile and tiny. I could not bear to see my friend being hurt, so I jumped in and started pulling Aly-Khan from the care-taker. I kicked and screamed and bit. Unfortunately, as I was so small (five years old), I was unable to save Aly-Khan from him. Aly-Khan was raped in that dusty gym cupboard.
When I was in primary school, a teacher called Mr Marsden led the choir. The choir was very popular when Mr Marsden was running it because the songs we sung were fun and playful. Mr Marsden used his charmisma and musical talent to lure children for abuse. For example, whilst Mr Marsden was my form tutor when I was in year four, I witnessed Mr Marsden taking boys from my class out of the classroom to a bathroom to be abused. When I confronted Mr Marsden on what he was doing, he pulled a pocket knife out of his trouser pocket, and threatened to kill me if I told anyone about what I had seen.
I was part of the school choir and I was excited to be singing the songs we had been practicing in front of an audience. Mr Marsden had collaborated with a song writer, who wrote the songs for our performance. I can't remember her name.
I took part in a choir performance at the Star and Garter hotel. I enjoyed singing and it had been fun. That was until I went back into the changing rooms with the other children. I had to leave early. However, I saw children being taken off to be abused by people at the Star and Garter (I assume the residents there, as they were old people.)
I went to vist Osterley Park with my mother and father one weekend as a day out. I remember finding visiting old houses very boring. This time I was not bored; I was terrified. When we were wandering around the different rooms, I remember hearing children screaming for help beneath the floorboards. I wanted to help them and so asked my dad if we could help rescue them from underneath the floorboards. He got angry and said that we couldn't. He dragged me away by the hand.
I had a strong feeling that my father had been abused at Osterley Park when he was a child. That perhaps we had come to visit this austere building for him to remember what had happened to him there. I have no way of knowing if this is the case. He never talked to me about abuse happening to him at Osterley Park.
Oh, wise little one
How you know
Exactly what to do
In your abstract way
You led me back
Instructed me in
How to feel
Encrypted in symbols
Golden girl
Let me sit with you
A while
Let you fill me in
Wounded girl
I listen to you today
In the spirit of my pain
Let me reconnect to you
Golden girl
Severed past
It was you all along
You are the me, who was the you
Broken and beaten till numb
To resent my adult form--
I hear the abuser's voice in my ear.
You are the split in me.
But you are me
Let me never forget
The violence that you remember
Is my self, identical
The bird cage represents a memory of being a kid at my grandmother's 80th birthday party.
At my grandmother's birthday celebration, all my family members were there. My great uncle Bill tried to lure me and my kid cousin into a room to abuse us. We held hands and ran like the wind. I made up a story about going to feed the birds so that we could escape. I was delighted by our ingenuity.
Lauren and I tried to call for help using the telephone directory, but we got shouted at.
I wanted to jump off the bunk bed to kill myself.
Lauren and I drew different types of wounds and were really excited about it. We wanted to heal our wounds.
I was coaxed into Les' study by the promise of watching Mr Bean video tapes with him. After watching Mr Bean, Lauren and I were told to stand in a corner. Then, our trousers were lowered and we were raped. We were then, each separately, laid down on the table and pins were stuck inside our genitals. While one of us was being tortured in this way, the other was sat trembling under the table. I stared at the table leg. We were also made to masturbate Les and put our mouths on him. We tried to escape through the door, but we were grabbed back again, and again.
My father came to pick me up. Les showed him his "architectural drawings". This was on the very same table where we had been abused.
I buried my own
sending myself down a river
the Ganges in India
Like a mummy
floating on a paddleboat
flowers shrouding me
The drawing is of me, shrouded in flowers, floating down the Ganges in India. My mind took me to a safe, beautiful place where I could not be hurt during the following abuses. My spirit died at the time and it often felt like death would be more serene and exquisite then life in this world.
When I was around the age of fourteen, my best friend at the time was Ellie.
One weekend I was to stay with Ellie and her family by the sea. We traveled to Weymouth in England, where we stayed in a mobile home. At the end of our trip, on the Sunday, we traveled back home by car. On the way home, we stopped at a friend of their family’s house, where they were having a party. I drank orange juice in the kitchen, whilst Ellie had gone into the garden to talk to her friend. Ellie's dad (Peter Metcalfe) started stroking my hair and then asked me to follow him upstairs. We entered into a room where all the guest’s coats had been stored away during the party. Peter Metcalfe proceeded to rape me.
On another occasion, Ellie's dad raped me at their family house on Strawberry Hill Road, Twickenham. I was raped in the living room on a chair, after school, when I had come back to do homework and spend time with my friend.One of my other best friends as a kid was called Geoffrey. I used to play at his family’s apartment on Willoughby Road, Richmond, overlooking the River Thames. Geoffrey and I played dressing up in the living room. We were both five years old. Geoffrey's father, Chris Milne, dragged Geoffrey into the study and started beating him. I was sitting by the fireplace trembling and could hear what was happening.
On another occasion, Geoffrey and I were playing in the garden when Chris Milne interrupted us abruptly and very angrily. He dragged us upstairs to their apartment. Chris Milne took us into their bathroom and forced my hand onto Geoffrey’s genitals. There were other occasions when we would be playing in Geoffrey’s room, when Mr Milne would take one of us to be abused by him.
Another time, I remember going up in the elevator, to the Milne’s house. I was alone with Chris Milne and he forced me to touch his penis. He then pressed the button in the elevator, so that we would continue going up, preventing us from stopping at the correct floor. He further sexually abused me in the elevator.
At my primary school, I became friends with a girl called Annoush. Her mother often picked us up from school, and took us back to her home until my parents could collect me.
One time after school, me and Annoush were playing in the living room when her father came in. Her father, Zari, made us take off all our clothes. Then we had to lie on our fronts on the sofa. He hit us severely and then raped both of us.
We were angry after this attack. I threw up my dinner of swede into the bowl where it came from. That evening, we chopped off the hair of our Barbie dolls, angry at being female. We ridiculed the 'Teletubbies' by pulling our trousers down and 'mooning' the TV. We were just kids and didn't know how to express what had happened to us, so the trauma came out in these ways.
I drew this mandala to represent some of the dream-like, metaphorical images that came to me whilst healing the sexual abuse by my father. The spider and the snail often emerged from my subconscious as symbolic representations of the abuse I could not understand. I had no way of understanding what was happening to me, as the sexual abuse began before I had any language to express it. My memories of it were encoded in a mythic-poetic language of symbols.
One Christmas Eve as a kid, I went over to my friend Molly's apartment on Richmond Green. Here, we were excited for Christmas the next day. Molly showed me all of her presents in a massive sack that her mother had given her instead of a stocking, as she had so many gifts!
We were chatting excitedly. Molly wanted to lay out cookies and milk for santa claus. As I had already been abused by my father around Christmas, when father christmas was supposed to fill the stocking in my room. Instead, my father 'filled my stocking' and raped me.
So, I never believed in Satan's Claws. Molly, however, was very excited so I tried to join her in her cheer. However, our cheer turned to terror, as the boyfriend of Emily (Molly's mother) came into Molly's bedroom where we were sleeping and abused us, dressed up as Satan's claws and stumbling around drunk. This image of 'Santa Claus' will forever stay with me.
When I was a very young baby, my father (Robert Frey) would use the excuse of changing my nappy (diaper), to poke objects inside of me and touch my genital area. He also took my cuddle blanket away from me, leaving me exposed, and touched my genitals.
When I was older, around three years old, I remember my father calling to me to come to him, while he was in the bathroom. He said he wanted to show me something. He had left the door open and was urinating. He then forced me to touch his genitals.
Sometimes, I would fall asleep on the sofa in the living room after watching television in the evening with my parents. I used to look forward to my father carrying me upstairs to bed after I had fallen asleep on the sofa. But, this feeling soon turned to terror as he kissed me on the head and then, turning the lights off, held a hand over my mouth so that I couldn’t scream and raped me.
This routine of kissing me on the head, turning the lights off and raping me, would continue often throughout my childhood in this house. On birthdays, it was especially terrifying, as my father would come into my room with a piece of the birthday cake that he had bought to celebrate my birthday. He would bring me a piece of cake, when I had gone to bed after my birthday celebrations with all my friends. I remember the taste of the cake in my mouth as he turned the lights off and raped me. It felt devastating.
A particularly traumatic event, where I was not abused, but forced to witness abuse was with my mother. I remember hearing my father violently raping my mother (Heidi Behrens) in their bedroom. This was terrifying for a small child to hear and witness.
I went into the room to try to help my mother and found her lying unconscious on the bed. My father became panicked at this point and made me help him carry my mother downstairs where we put an ice pack on her head. I was crying and crying and felt so much compassion for my mother. We then carried her back upstairs and my father made it seem like she had become ill for some other reason. This was very confusing for a me as a small child, because reality had been deliberately distorted by my father to cover up his sexual assault.
Bath time was also seen as an opportunity to abuse me. When I was a very young child. Whenever I was in the water my father (Robert Frey) would sexually assault me. One time, in a fit of rage after touching my genitals, he pushed my chest down into the water, so my head was submerged. He kept pushing down on my chest, so that I couldn’t breathe. He kept me there for a very long time and then, eventually, pulled me out, just before the brink of drowning. He tossed me onto the bathmat and I was left to recover alone.
In the middle of the night in the 1990s, I was taken with several other children around my age to the pool area of the Lensbury Club, Teddington, London. Here, men wearing long, dark robes, with their faces covered, tied the hands of each child together with rope. We were then pushed into the deep-end of the swimming pool. The knots were sufficiently tight to cause intense distress and panic and I felt like I was drowning. The other children managed to undo the knots in the rope underwater. I felt like I was underwater for a long time, but also managed to undo the ropes and return to the surface. It felt like I almost drowned.
The same near-drowning abuse took place at Pools on the Park, Old Deer Park, Twickenham Road, Richmond, London, TW9 2SF. This was a public swimming pool. At nighttime, once again, I was submerged in the water of the pool and had to try to escape the ropes holding me down. This time my father 'rescued' me from the water to induce a trauma-bond between us. Now, he was not only the abuser but a rescuer, too. This type of abuse keeps victims loyal to the abuser, as they are seen as a 'Saviour'. I later learned that this technique is often used during ritual abuse.
In the 1990s, I was sexually abused several times at The Lensbury Club, in different ways. My father was a member of this club on account of his employment by the Shell oil company (who owned the property).
On one occasion in childhood, my young cousin and I were taken to the Lensbury Club by my mother. This was during a school holiday. At the time, my cousin had her arm in a plaster-cast on account of an injury she sustained elsewhere. Normally, we were taken together to the Lensbury Club's children's 'play area'. But, because my cousin had injured her arm, I was left in the 'play area' on my own. This 'play area' included objects to climb on and structures for children to crawl through. While crawling through a structure in the 'play area', I fell though into an area beneath the floor level.
This area was contained within the basement level of the Lensbury Club. Here I was subjected to torture including being tied up and restrained with handcuffs. This area of the club contained sadistic paraphernalia, and resembled a dungeon of sorts. Eventually I was allowed to exit the area via a metal staircase. This area seemed to be used regularly to entrap children from the play area above.
On another occasion, I was taken to a hotel room with my cousin (Ali) at the Lensbury Club. In this room there was an access door to another room in the building in which the sexual abuse of children took place.
The first time I was taken to the Surbiton Freemason's Lodge, I was a kid and my dad pretended it was something called an 'Open House' weekend. This was just an excuse to take me to the Freemasonic Lodge. We visited it in the daytime and we were given tea and cakes.
I was subjected to ritual abuse at the Masonic Lodge (sometimes referred to by different names, such as Glenmore House) located at 6 The Crescent, Surbiton, Surrey, KT6 4BN, London. Rituals were held there on Saturday evenings. I would often go to the Rose Theatre in Kingston and then come home. Later in the night (around 2am), I would be awoken and taken in my pyjamas to the masonic Lodge in my dad's car.
One of the ways that the Freemasons 'marked' me as an abuse victim, was by breaking my nose. This abuse happened at the Masonic Lodge in Surbiton, after a 'ceremony' (a sequence of ritual abuses), had taken place. I still have a slight bump in the middle of my nose, to this day. I believe that they do this to children to 'brand' them with the type of abuse they have been subjected to: Abuse by the Freemasons.
My cousin Ali once said to me, that the bump in our noses was a 'family trait' inherited by my grandfather. I wonder whether the same type abuse was done to him, and then he was 'marked' by having his nose broken?
One time, we arrived there and there was a pre-planned event happening, for Freemasons. The event was a recreation of the Nazi times. All the adult men were dressed in German Nazi uniforms. The children were meant to be like the Jews and were abused sexually. It was like one big orgy for the child abusers.
There was a simulation gas chamber and I was dressed as a concentration camp prisoner in stripped pyjamas. The children in the stripped pyjamas were put in a waiting line. Then, we were led into a bathroom with showers, which we were told was the gas chamber.
I thought that I was going to die, like the prisoners in the concentration camps. The Nazi guard, or the person dressed as one (who was one) told me that I would die when he turned the shower on. I believed him. He turned on the shower laughing as he did this and water poured all over me.
On one occasion there was an ‘oriental-themed’ evening at the Masonic Lodge. Here, me and other young children were made to dress in belly dancing costumes. The participants appeared to be members of the Freemason society. We had to dance on the tables. There was money tucked into our costumes.I was subjected to violent rapes at this same location.
All participants were, like my father, members of the Freemasons.
At the same location, on a separate occasion, I was hung by my foot on a rope tied to the ceiling and violently spun. I later learned that this spinning torture is commonly used in ritual abuse.
During the spinning, there was a low, large, paddling pool filled with water below me. I was repeatedly dropped into the water and my head was banged forcefully on the floor.
I was often taken to the Masonic Lodge in Surbiton in the very early morning for rituals. On one occasion, I was encased in a box full of insects. This made me feel very claustrophobic, and I now understand that this abuse was designed to instill in me a fear of insects, instead of the real abusers who were the Freemasons at the lodge. The insects were as terrified as I was in the box, and I felt that they provided me with support and understanding. The insects included various types of bugs and eels.
One of the closest friends that I had when I was a kid was called Fritjof. He was the son of a friend of my mother's Barbara. I went to stay at Barbara Hilgenfeld's house in Illmensee in the South of Germany many summers when I was a young teenager. I became good friends with Fritjof, her son, who was my age.
He came to visit me one summer in London. I thought that this was because we were friends, but the real reason was because Fritjof was to be ritually abused by the Freemasons. I remember being taken to a ceremony late on Saturday night at the Surbiton Freemason's Lodge. In this ceremony, Fritjof was asked to sexually abuse me on a checkerboard floor. There were other girls and boys of about thirteen years old. All the boys were asked to abuse the girls. Many refused to, being utterly disgusted by this violence. Some complied. Fritjof refused absolutely. Nothing could break apart our friendship.
The Freemasons wanted to indoctrinate us with the idea that boys abused girls; and later men would abuse women. Some children they managed to indoctrinate in this way, by the sheer volume of trauma they had been subjected to since birth. It is testament to the human spirit, that most children will refuse to perpetrate violence on others even after extreme threats of violence and having been through extreme torture throughout their childhoods. Fritjof was one of the ones who refused to comply. He was an angel.
I drew this picture of my father taking me into the attic space of my childhood home. As a small child, he would take me up there and then strip me naked. He then proceeded to take photographs of me. I felt very scared and helpless. In the drawing I hoped to convey my terror and my anger.
When I was a teenager, I was often taken on holiday in France. One time, when I was about twelve years old, my father involved me and my friend (June) in child prostitution. He ‘sold' me and June to some truck drivers who were also staying at the Formule 1 Hotel (this hotel chain is now known as HotelF1). Unbeknownst to me and my friend, my father had given these men a key to our room.
That night they came in to where we were sleeping and raped us, covering our mouths and holding our throats so that we couldn’t scream. It was a deeply degrading experience and I felt an intense sense of betrayal towards my father.
In adulthood, the image of an angel appeared to me as I began to process feelings about my mother. I felt that during this time, and other crucial times in my healing journey, a guardian angel has been looking out for me.
I decided to draw my angel and also my own angelic nature. This illustration, which I drew on my bedroom wall as an adult, gave me strength and protection in difficult times as I faced the reality of what had been done to me as a child.
Throughout my childhood, my mother and my father sexually abused me. When I was a small baby, my mother would rub my genitals while I was having a bath. As a toddler, she sexually abused me opportunistically at different locations. Later on, as I got older, she often abused me in changing rooms when she was trying on clothes.
She went shopping a lot and, as a kid, I was dragged along to different changing rooms of expensive clothes shops like Jigsaw in Richmond. Here, my mother would ask me to come into her changing room under the guise of looking at her outfit choices. Here, she would abuse me by touching my genitals.
We often went up to London to Harvey Nichols, for my mother to try on clothes. I enjoyed the glamour and elegance of the glittering department store. When we got to the women's section, I remember the sales assistants being particularly kind, and doting on me. They told me that I was pretty. I felt so loved and happy. The sales ladies went to get a camera so that they could take my picture. They said that they were looking for child models for their shop. My mother felt an intense resentment about this and I believe, that as a former model, she was terribly abused in the Fashion Industry. She never talked about what happened to her. Instead she chose to repeat it on a small, defenseless child. When we entered the changing room, she abused me.
This drawing shows me, silenced, in my high chair. Not only was this a horrible form of abuse that my mother subjected me to, when I was not doing what she wanted me to be doing, but it is also a powerful symbol.
As a child, I lost my voice, not being able to talk about what was happening to me every day. My hands were tied, and my mouth was muzzled, literally and figuratively. I remained in this state until, as an adult, I began to heal.
This is so often the case for the abuse survivor. Both as children, and as adults, our hands are tied; our voices are lost; and our faces are masked. As an adult, I have made a strong effort to regain my self-expression through drawing, and writing, and speaking about what happened to me.
I am no longer the silenced child. I no longer wear a mask. I can speak freely and openly about what the abusers put me through as a child.
As a child, I was never safe in my family home on Manor Gardens in Richmond, London. As an adult, after I had processed experiences of abuse at friends' houses, I understood why my parents had never protected me from this. They were part of the problem. Children who are abused at home are wide-open to abuse elsewhere. My family home was deeply dysfunctional.
I used to play with Sylvanian dolls when I was a kid and I loved their sweet, furry natures. I processed a lot of the feelings connected with being abused as such a young child when, as an adult, I returned to playing with similar Sylvanians and making an art piece to represent how I felt as a child: Very alone.
Living at home with my mother and father, I was subjected to physical abuse by my father. These attacks were very spontaneous and included incidents of severe beating and rapes. One time I was pulled into the living room by my ear and was kicked repeatedly on the living room floor. My father then defecated on me and locked me in the room. So often, abusers did things like this to me. I later learned that it is common for abusers to do 'unbelievably' abusive things to children. This is partly so that, if the child speaks out, their account of the abuse sounds all the more incredible, and are more likely to be ignored.
When my parents had guests over for dinner at our family house, I was not allowed to be seen. I remember this was pushed to the extreme one time, when I was forced inside a dressing-up box in my room and was locked inside for the duration of the dinner party. This was incredibly distressing as it felt like an eternity; there was no light; and little air to breathe.
During piano lessons, when I was a young child around the age of seven, my knuckles were hit with a stick if I made a ‘mistake’. My father also slapped me and spit at me.
My father said he was an ‘engineer’ and often worked in the garage of our house when I was a teenager on Broom Road in Teddington. He would supposedly repair things for the house in the garage. Sometimes, I would go to the garage to ask my father a question about my homework. He would get angry when I disturbed him here and one time, this anger lead to a brutal outburst. I remember being tied up from the garage ceiling and whipped. I was also raped on a work surface. My father was addicted to smoking and he used to smoke in the garden, next to the garage. This time he burnt my lips with cigarettes. As an adult, I learned that child rapists often use cigarettes and other hot items to burn children after abuse and create traumatic splits.
This drawing is of a sweet, little boy who was killed by the Freemasons in London.
When I was around eight or nine years old, my father took me to a Freemasonic ceremony at the ‘Grand Lodge’ in central London. It is the largest Freemasonic Lodge in the UK. Here, they held a special ceremony for Easter, where many of the symbols from the Christian religion were inverted.
The Great Hall where the ceremony took place was very imposing with a black and white checkerboard floor. There were seats on either side of the hall, going up in rows. Drapes had been hung in purple and yellow to mark the occasion.
The ceremony took the form of a sermon, like how speeches are given at church. They laid a lamb on the altar that had been killed. They inverted the tradition of new life at Easter, to conform to their own view of the world. Freemasons worship death, and the symbol of the lamb slaughtered on the altar is a disgusting symbol of their destruction of innocence.
The lamb on the altar would also prefigure what was about to happen. The Freemason adults formed a line, and drunk the blood of the lamb out of a goblet.
Once, this was done, they cleared away the lamb and then put a little boy on the altar. He was very young, about the same age as me or younger. He had tubes running out of his nose, like he was sick. They said that he had a children's cancer called ‘Leukemia'. I now feel that this just means that a child has been so badly abused that their body becomes physically ill because of it. 'Leukemia' is likely a lie.
Then, the Freemason fathers got the children (all were little boys except for me, a girl) to line up in front of the altar. We stood in one long line, not knowing what was about to happen.
The Freemason standing next to the altar handed the first little boy a knife and showed him what he was supposed to do. The adult Freemason stabbed the fragile, little boy lying on the altar in the heart. The boy let out a loud scream. He quickly pressed the knife into the first little boy's hand and forced his hand into the boy's heart.
The little boy doing the stabbing burst into tears and ran away. A Freemason caught him and walked him to the back of the line. Then, the next little boy had to do the same thing. Most of the children, resisted strongly and cried and tried to run away. Some made the fatal movement with no emotion (mainly the older children) as they had become hardened to what was happening.
I was trying to think of a way of to escape. When it was my turn, I screamed, and bit, and ran away, and hid under the chairs in the hall. The Freemasons tried to catch me, but I was good at running and hiding.
I watched how the little boy was killed from beneath a chair. I saw how the light went out of him, and it seemed as if an angel carried him away in their arms. It was too terrible for there to be no divine intervention. This little boy was too young, too innocent. I sat crying and howling in pain, as if I had been stabbed in the heart also.
After this, the Freemasons carried away the body of the little boy. Then, they rounded up the children (the masons paired off with the little boys and me) and took them to a back building, behind where the altar was.
I was taken into a small room with a bed in it by my uncle Andrew Elliot-Frey. There, I was stripped of my clothes and my uncle raped me. My uncle Andrew sexually abused me on other occasions during my childhood.
This drawing is of a girl I used to know called Melanie. We used to attend the German School (DSL) in Petersham, near Richmond Upon Thames in London. Every Saturday they had German classes for children who had a German parent, and wanted to learn about the language and culture.
When I was a very young child, around four years old, I was made to attend a synchronized swimming club at the German school. My mother was a gymnast in her youth, and she wanted me to learn this type of gymnastic sport too. Melanie also attended the synchronized swimming club.
Later, when I was older, around eight years old, I was taken to the German school one Saturday for the annual summer fête. I drove in the car with my parents and we arrived at the German school early in the morning. I thought that it seemed strange because there were not many people around yet.
My parents took me into the private swimming pool, where I had previously attended the synchronized swimming club. When I got inside, there were other parents there also associated with the German school. One of the men worked for the German school, as my synchronized swimming teacher. He let me and my parents into the building.
There, my parents told me to get changed into my swimming costume. I did as they said, as they were very stern. I then followed my parents into the swimming hall. The other parents were waiting there and there was another girl, Melanie, who was around seven years old, one year younger than me.
The parents told us to get into the water. One of the parents who used to teach both Melanie and I synchronized swimming was standing there and instructed us to perform a routine that we had learned in classes together. We did as we were told, out of fear of the adults standing threateningly and ominously around us.
At the end of the routine, our synchronized swimming teacher got into the water. There, he gave us a choice as to who would die. I remember the shock of this information and not knowing what to do; it was so overwhelming. Melanie was incredibly brave, and although I begged her to let me die, instead of her, she was adamant that it should be her.
She seemed to let me know that it was her time to go. I felt that she was exhausted at all the abuse she was facing at home and through the Freemasons. She felt that she was not meant for this world. She gave me the sense that I had to be strong, that I was strong and that one day I would tell her story and change things for all children. I cried and knew that she was telling the truth.
Melanie volunteered to die, and the synchronized swimming teacher pushed her down under water. He held his hand to her mouth, until she struggled no more.
I felt like I was dying with the pain of losing my friend. It felt like I had been punched in the chest. After this point, my father got me out of the pool and took me to the changing room to get dressed. My head was arush with Melanie's murder.
After I had got changed, we left the building and went back to the car. The other parents went their separate ways, and agreed to meet again at the Summer fate. They didn't want to make it look like they had been seen together where Melanie's murder had taken place, to cover their crime.
We waited in the car, where I curled up in a ball and howled. I cried and cried for what felt like hours on end. Eventually, more cars arrived in the car park and we left the car to go to the summer fate.
The summer fate had a light, breezy atmosphere as if nothing sinister had taken place on the grounds that morning. I remember hiding under the tables of the fate, which had low, white table cloths hiding me from sight, where the German school parents had set up tables for the food.
From under the table, I could see the headmistress of the German school talking to the parents who had participated in the murder of a little girl, over potato salad. They were well integrated into the parent-teacher community of the school.
Although adults will struggle to understand the inner world of children who have been abused in this way, and will be inclined to dismiss my experiences at this point. Our planet has become so disenchanted on account of widespread abuse that we tend to dismiss the experiences of children who have yet to self-censor their perceptions of a wider, more magical reality: I have the strong feeling that Melanie's ghost appeared to me after she was killed, and told me to follow her. I followed her and we ran towards the part of the Berlin wall that stood in the grounds of the school, just next to one of the classrooms. Melanie and I played together for the last time, sharing our innocent friendship.
I felt that Melanie let me know that it was time for her to go to the other side. I asked her what it would be like over there and she said she was going to a very peaceful and happy place. I need not worry about her, she would be much happier there. This gave me a sense of peace and trust that everything would be okay.
Melanie left this world and joined the world of light, passing from in front of the Berlin wall, to behind it.
Once the autumn term had recommenced at the German Saturday school, I was taken on a school trip to the Goethe Institute in London. On the coach going there, one of the teachers announced Melanie's death. They said that she had been suffering from leukemia for a long time and that this was how she had died. I knew that this was a lie.
Before Melanie's murder, Melanie's hair had been cut in a Freemasonic ritual. To disguise this, her parents pretended that she had cancer and gave her a fake tube to put up her nose to make her look ill. She did look ill and weak in fact, but not because she had cancer. She was ill and weak because of all the sexual abuse and rituals she was subjected to by her parents and the Freemasons.
This last drawing, which forms part of the angel trilogy depicts a little cat that was murdered by the Freemasons. Her name was Wilbur. One of the most difficult ways in which the Freemasons abused me was by allowing me to befriend a kitten called Wilbur. They then tortured Wilbur and forced me to be present at her murder.
My father attempted to force me to kill my friend. He was not successful. As I was unable to kill my friend, he had to make the fatal movement (and force my hand) to end her life. He then programmed me after this abuse with repeated messages telling me that I was a murderer. I subconsciously believed this messaging for a long time.
It was only after I remembered the true memory of what had happened, and mine and Wilbur's innocence, that I could forgive myself, as I could see that I had done nothing wrong. If you would like to know more about Wilbur's story, I have illustrated a story called 'Wilbur.'
On another occasion, my father killed two cats 'Luke' and 'Leia'. They were my neighbor's cats. He pretended to everyone that they had died in a car crash, but he brought the bodies of these two angel cats to my bedroom at nighttime, to show me that he killed them. I am disgusted at him.
My childhood cat 'Charlie' was a best friend and surrogate parent to me as a child. He was the kindest person I knew. He looked after me and took care of me when my parents couldn't. My father was physically violent towards Charlie, and one Christmas, he threw Charlie into a glass door. I was devestated. I loved Charlie more than anyone else in my 'family.'
For now, I would like Wilbur to be remembered as part of the three innocent children who died at the hands of evil. I could see each of them had angelic spirits and I wanted to transform all of the negative, religious dogma that the cult tried to install in me.
When I was a kid, I felt I could see spiritual entities like angels, so this formed my understanding of the universe. A true religion for me is one that is connected to the whole and based on personal experience, not lies handed down through generations.
The little crosses made out of colored tape represent bandages that I would like to use to heal these three friends. It is also an ironic take on the symbol of the cross, which I saw hanging above me when being abused on an altar inside a church. There was nothing transcendental about it for me in that context.
I called these three angels X, Y and Z. For me they were great friends and it broke my heart to see them abused and robbed of life. For the Freemasons, they were anonymous letters. They could not see them as divine and loving beings. X, Y and Z also refers to Mathematics. At the time when these abuses took place, I was at school and learning about algebra. I wanted to highlight the absurdity of these murders in the context of 'normal' life and going to school.
When I had just finished university, my uncle Ian Frey invited me to stay with him and his wife in the south of France during the summer. I went there with my best friend at the time, and we thought that we would have a relaxing holiday by the sea.
I did not realise that my uncle would sexually abuse me at nighttime, during this holiday and that I would be taken away for more programming. At this point in my life, I was in a state of such confusion and I was trying to escape somehow from my environment of abuse. I was spending a lot of time with my boyfriend at the time, to be in a different environment where I was not abused. He turned out to be abusive, so it was not really an effective escape, but at least it was not rooted in Freemasonry and mind control programming.
So, my father organized for me to be retraumatized on this holiday in a local church in the Pau/ Bayonne area. I was taken from my bed at nighttime and driven by my uncle Ian to a local church. When I woke up, there was a pregnant lady lying on a table. She looked like she was about to give birth. My uncle held me to prevent me from escaping, as I saw cult members cut into the lady's belly and take out the child. I believe that the child was still-born, as I could not hear it kicking or screaming after such an abrupt birth.
They then took the the baby's mother away screaming and laid the baby on the table. I kicked and screamed and bit my uncle, trying to escape. He carried me to the table and put his hand over mine on a knife and stabbed the baby. He then tossed the baby into a wastebin.
I remember the child as an angel. I am certain that they are now in a world of light and peace. I drew many paintings in yellow to remember the light and love of this baby. The baby's spirit never incarnated on Earth, but it's spirit is free and eternal in this mysterious universe.
When I was below the age of ten, I used to go to a German Saturday school. This was at the Deutsche Schule London (DSL) in Richmond. One Saturday, when I thought that I was going to German school, my father said that the school was cancelled this Saturday and we had made a mistake in coming. He suggested that we go for a walk, so we walked down a side street in Petersham (a village in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames) just across from where the German School was. We walked down this road and I thought that we would go on a quick walk and then would go home again.
Instead, we stopped at a very fancy house. Inside the living room, were old men, and I think that they were members of the council or local politics scene.
The government people were getting ready to go somewhere, and were acting like they were having a kind of high tea (behaving in a stiff, stilted way) in the living room.
The next thing I remember, later in the day, is being taken to the Montrose House when it was dark outside. Here, I entered the house with my father. There were other children there, too. Someone put a collar around my neck with metal spikes on it. It looked like a dog's collar. The adults then led me and the other children around the house with the leads.
I was then promenaded around by my father on a lead, that attached to the collar they had put around my neck.
All around me were members of the local government, like the town mayor of Richmond at that time. It seemed to be the local mayor of Richmond because he was wearing the traditional costume of a local mayor: a red outfit with a gold chain around his neck. It was reminicent of the scenes in 'Eyes Wide Shut' by Stanley Kubrick. There was massive abuse and violence happening in all the different rooms of the house.
After being promonaded around and abused in the rooms of the house by the adults at the party, I was taken downstairs by my father to the basement. Here, there was a line of children. The children seemed like they had been severely abused because they looked so weak and ill. There was a film set arranged in the room, with cameras all around. The adults took the children and put them in the film set and forced them to do sexual things with each other. The children only did what they were saying because of the authority and power that the adults had. I just remember feeling so sick and I threw up. So, I wasn't made to do anything because I was physically unable to do anything. I was shouted at a lot, kicked and urinated on. I was beaten up. Then, my dad came to collect me and he was very angry because I hadn't done what they said. Then, I was taken to a bathroom upstairs, washed and clothed, and taken home.
Before my birth, when I was still inside my mother's womb, I remember a ritual ceremony taking place within a forest, either in Germany or in England. Our culture repeats the lie that children cannot remember their earliest years, and this serves ritual-abusers well. When, as adults, we process these experiences, we suffer both the pain of healing the original trauma, and also the pain of not being believed.
The ceremony contained elements which I now understand could be described as 'satanic'. The cult members poked long needles into my mother's pregnant belly just before I was born.
During this extreme pre-birth trauma, my soul floated high up in the sky with the birds, woodland creatures and spirits, looking down at everything that was happening from a safe vantage point.
By sticking needles into my mother's stomach, the cult members wanted to provoke an early birth on 21st June. There is a story that babies born on 21st June are 'changeling' babies; that they are swapped with a devil. They wanted me to be born evil. I was not. I was just born a baby.
This is a drawing that I made while healing the experience of being near-drowned in the River Thames in London. I was seven years old. My mother had become pregnant with another baby and I had overheard plans by my parents to get rid of me. I heard them planning to kill me by drowning.
One evening, I was taken with my father to Richmond riverside, by Richmond bridge for a ritual with a group of Freemasons. I was woken up in the night, drugged, and put in the back of the car, still wearing my night clothes. My father took me to the River Thames. There, the group of horrible men tied an anchor to me, so that I would descend to the bottom of the water. I remember sinking lower and lower into the depths of the river. I went into a timeless state and it felt like I was there for an eternity. I was not rescued, but I knew that this does happen in other mind control abuses (being near-drowned and then rescued). It had been done before to me during a Freemasonic ritual in a swimming pool.
I believe that my father and the Freemasons had the intention of killing me. But, at some point whilst I was sinking down in the water, I became conscious and fought back. I felt I was given a choice, seeing a tunnel of light and asked whether I wanted to join the world of light and peace, or whether I wanted to return to the physical world. Some part of me knew that I had to fight, so I decided to return to the world, with all its evils, in the hope of changing something and to one day speak out about what had happened to me that night.
I fought with the ropes and anchor tying me down and swum up to the surface of the water triumphant. I was delighted at my victory and the water had been my friend.
Upon reaching the surface, the group of Freemasons were very shocked that I had survived and not perished, like they had hoped. My father then threw me back into the water and then raped me. Pictures were taken of me on the riverbank in a white nightdress, I was only about seven years old. Then, I was taken home.
They were not able to humiliate me, or crush my spirit. I now knew that I could transcend death.
The drawing is made out of several calendars stuck together. On the reverse side of the drawing, you can see the calendar, with it's dates and times. I liked using this as a material because this trauma took place in the everyday militaristic schedule of school: A mundane hum of homework, weekends and after-school activities. In short, 'regular life'. It's just that amidst these 'normal' things that were happening, I was also being taken to rituals at night by my family.
This particular trauma happened on a Wednesday, and I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened. Everything continued as normal. I was forced to forget what had happened to me to survive.
The calendars are stuck together using sticky tape. This reflects the fragmentary nature of processing this type of trauma. It is like putting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle so that you can see the whole picture.
The sticky tape pieces are in little crosses that look like bandages. Part of remembering what had happened to me that night and transforming the memory by drawing it out, was healing and has aided my complete recovery. The bandages, like the art, heal the wound.
The Hart family were obsessed with 'intelligence', or what they took it to be. They were obsessed with the IQ type of intelligence. On one occasion, in the study, Richard made June and I answer exam questions to test our 'intelligence'. Richard tied our hands together behind our backs and asked us many questions. Then, when I answered a question incorrectly, he untied my hands and put me on the table and raped me.
June's family were very interested in looking like cultured, smart people. We were taken on holiday to Paris for the week when I was a kid, and we visited many museums and art galleries together. We ate out at fancy restaurants. We were expected to sample the new cuisine and be polite to one another offering each other 'bites' of our food. Richard would tell us lots of information about 'scientific' things at the museum. Later, he would do cross-words with us in the kitchen. Everything centered around his confused idea of learning'.
It was in this atmosphere, where I was taken to a shed at the back of the Ennerdale Road house. June’s grandfather Tony was still alive. Richard and his father (Tony) would abuse me together in the shed in their garden.
I had a natural aptitude for mathematics when I was little. Richard picked up on this and so I was instructed to complete mathematics tests. Richard Hart had studied Mathematics at Cambridge University in his youth. Electric shocks were applied to my head, when I answered incorrectly. I was also violently sexually abused in the shed and defecated on. A rabbit was killed with a knife in front of me, to show me what would happen to me if I defied them, which I often did.
The electric shocks being applied to my head, continued even as June moved house when she was a teenager. Their next residence was 42 Spencer Road in Twickenham, a suburb of London. Here, Richard continued his torture of me, which took place, once again, in the shed in the garden.
Richard abused me in his garden shed, along with Tony Hart (Richard's father and June's grandfather).
As a part of the ‘mathematical testing’; which he put me through, Richard and his father continued this form of 'testing' with more extreme torture in the shed. I remember Richard asking me difficult mathematical questions, and when I got the answer "wrong", he would electrocute me. His father Tony guided him in using the electroshock machine.
At the end of this torture, Richard and Tony stripped me of my clothes, raped me and then defecated on me. Several abusers in my life followed this same pattern of sexual assault followed by defecation. It appeared to be designed to deepen the humiliation of the child that they were subjecting to this abuse.
At the next house where June lived in Twickenham, Richard continued this abuse of me in the shed, once again using an electroshock machine.
In my drawing, I drew a picture of a small house, a garden shed with alarming lines coming out of it, and smoke from a fire inside the shed coming out of the chimney. I later learned that this is a common way that children express abuse happening at home: Through the symbols they choose in their drawings. When a child draws smoke billowing out of the chimney of their house, this is a potential indication that something dangerous is happening inside the child's home. However other indicators in the child's behaviour must also be present for a kind adult to definitively conclude that the child is being hurt.
I was a very typical teenager in many respects, and like many teenagers, I was interested in being cool. And cool at that time seemed to be wearing 'Abercrombie and Fitch' clothing. It seems very strange and sick to me now, but that's what it was like at the time. Abercrombie and Fitch, like other 'lifestyle brands' projected the image of what a 'perfect' life should be.
As a teenager, just becoming aware of the adult world, desperately trying to escape the reality of abuse that I was living in, this dream-like, beach-inspired clothing seemed idyllic. So, I went to the Abercrombie and Fitch store in the heart of London near Bond Street. There was a being standing outside who you could take photographs with. Not realising how strange this was, my friend and I obliged. Then we went into the shop. It was reminiscent of a club, with coloured flashing lights and beings dressed in an Abercrombie uniform, dancing and pretending to have fun. We looked around distractedly for a while, trying not to be disturbed by the flashing lights (something that was used in my abuse).
My friend wanted to try on a top in a different size and asked one of the people working there. They led her back into a stock room at the back of the building, where there was a door open and men in suits lined the cramped space. My friend was taken to one of these 'businessmen' and he told her to take off her leggings. Feeling terrified and intimidated, she did this, he then molested her and touched himself. The same was done to me by another man in a suit. We were then pushed back into the shop where we looked around, disorientated.
This, like so many other experiences of abuse, receded into my subconscious. The whole culture and environment in London made this an essential defensive mechanism to allow me to continue living without breaking down.
When I was at Waldegrave school for Girls in Twickenham, London, some of my teachers operated together in abusing us. Teachers who were liked, for example my mother, Heidi Behrens, and an English teacher Mrs McCann. Both were pretty and wore nice 'cool' clothes and seemed to be sparkly and kind.
When you think about pedophiles you rarely picture women in their thirties and forties. Mrs McCann, for example, was pregnant, and seemed to be much-loved by some students. You tend to think about depraved men, outcasts from society, who are poor. This conception is very much promoted by the media. The reality is that women abuse children too. Often they are well-spoken, they come from a ‘middle-class' background, have a lovely house to go home to, which you may walk past on the street and admire for its good-taste and design of furniture. This is how they operate without being easily detected.
I could never focus in English classes with Mrs McCann, I felt very dissociated and scared. When we had writing assignments to do, I could barely write any words on my page because I was scared of what was about to happen. What was about to happen was that, along with other students, we would be sent out to a house which was effectively a child-brothel, on the same road as my school, Waldegrave school for Girls, to be abused.
My mother, Ms Heidi Behrens, would take us over there, then we would be stripped of our school uniforms and made to sit along the wall of the living room, running parallel to the corridor. It was a typical, small terraced house of the Victorian era. From the outside, it looked just like all the other houses on the road. I remember adults coming in and surveying us children, we were fourteen to fifteen years old, some children even younger, our hands were bound behind our backs and our feet were tied togther.
I heard some voices saying I was "too skinny" and "too much like a child". They then selected another child to be ruthlessly abused in the bedrooms upstairs. All of the children sitting silently below could hear her screams. Afterwards we were changed back into our school uniforms, and taken back to school, as if nothing had happened.
When I was in year eight (twelve to thirteen years old) I had Maths with Mr Farrah. Mr Farrah was a child abuser and once he made me stay behind after a lesson for some made-up reason. He then lowered his trousers and forced me to put my mouth around his genitals. It was disgusting and I felt very sick and ran to the bathroom to vomit afterwards. There were no consequences for this inhumane 'teacher' in our school: Pedophilia was ignored and even encouraged.
I understand now that the reason why children are so often sexually abused in school is that the governments and businesses who control schools often derive their power from wounded adults who, previously abused as children, will not stand up to the perceived power of 'authority'.
I also realise that abusing children is vital for those in power if they are to maintain their reign over a scared and stupid public, who cannot clearly remember what was done to them as children. Most adults cannot remember the childhood causes their of their utter submission to 'authority' as adults.
I can remember.
Here, I have drawn an evil chair. This evil chair was in the basement of the BRLSI (Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution). I was first recommended to visit the BRLSI by Richard Hart (the father of my friend June), who was one of my main childhood abusers.
As I was in a state of depression and confusion on account of all the abuse I had suffered, I remained in a state of permanent denial, and part of me still believed that Richard was letting me know of an interesting place where I could learn more about Philosophy and other areas of knowledge that interested me.
I visited this institute and enquired about volunteering there. I felt that it might be an enlightening experience, and I wanted to do something good.
I met Bob Draper on my first visit there and he said that he would like to show me the full collection of artifacts that they stored at the museum. He led me into the basement. There, he opened a large museum cabinet with wide, flat drawers. After each drawer, he paused to see my reaction.
In one drawer containing pressed butterflies, neatly flat-packed and preserved, he paused for an extra long time. He had received the information from me that he needed: My instinctual freeze reaction, having been subject to a project Monarch style mind- control program where images and symbols of butterflies had been traumatically associated with violent sexual abuse.
Draper then knew that he would be able to have power over me that I was, at the time, unable to guard against.
As with many other memories related to abuse, I hid from myself the traumas that had encoded this fear reaction in me, and I was susceptible to these types of attacks by others who knew of the methods that Freemasons were using to traumatize children. Later, I came back as planned to begin volunteering during one of their evening talks about Science.
During the break, he took the volunteers to one side and started rambling on about volunteering. Draper then gestured to me and indicated that I should follow him downstairs into the basement. I did as he said, believing it was something to do with volunteering. Once in the basement, he locked the door behind us in a small room across from the stairs. It was pitch black.
I was tied to a leather chair (the evil chair). Draper showed me tarot cards (the Magician and the High Priestess). I was then assaulted by a mechanism in the chair. Men in black robes with masks on stood around me and watched. I was electrocuted. I was made to repeat certain phrases to pledge allegiance to the Freemasonic cult. I refused. The torture increased.
The men kept repeating the torture until I decided, internally, that if I was to leave the room alive, I had better pretend to believe in the words they wanted me to say. In my heart, I knew that everything they wanted me to believe and say were twisted, evil lies. I explain, in more detail, what I feel is the meaning of the tarot in my reinterpretation of the tarot cards later in this account.
Again, it is worth remembering that abusers in the Freemasonic cults specifically use these horrific methods to traumatize young people because splits are induced in the psyche under extreme duress. The more intense the ritual abuse, the more permanent the split. Afterwards, the survivor is unlikely to be believed, even if she does mount the courage to speak out. The Freemasons rely on the bizarrity and extremity of their ritual abuses to ensure that the survivor sounds 'unbelivable'. In my experience, the Freemasons specialise in appearing like 'good' and 'ordinary' people, while doing the most depraved and disgusting things to children behind the scenes.
I later learned that organisations like The Scouts and The Catholic Church use precisely this same method of predating on children. Outwardly, they claim to be saintly, while behind the scenes, we now know, they abuse children en-masse.
This drawing is a picture of me as a kid being very embarrassed and humiliated. I was in the last year of primary school and Mr Rosewell, who 'taught' me art had marked me out as an especially sensitive child. He noticed this because of my interpretation of an impressionist painting by Pissarro, that I had drawn with oil pastels. I had felt very connected to Pissarro's artwork and Mr Rosewell had complemented my work and held it up to the class to see.
After this point, he could tell that I was an easy target for his predation. One time after lessons, he held me back and made me touch his genitals with my mouth.
I felt humiliated and ashamed. The shame was all for him to feel. I was just a kid. I had done nothing wrong.
In this picture you can see me holding hands with my kid cousin Ali. When we were teenagers, I often used to take the bus over to Hammersmith to have a sleepover at her house. We often baked gingerbread with Betty Crocker icing and watched re-runs of the TV series ‘Ugly Betty’. Ali's parents were divorced and she spent half her time at Sophie Esjmond's house—her mother; and half at my uncle Gordon Frey's house—her father.
At Ali's mother's house, her mother's boyfriend David was often around. He was a disgusting child abuser. One night he took Ali from her bed to abuse her in his and Sophie's bedroom. During this, her mother pretended to sleep soundly. I wanted to help Ali so I followed her upstairs. David was a lot stronger than me and pushed me easily to the ground, here he raped both of us. Ali and I held hands the whole time in solidarity.
My dad liked music and we used to watch the 'Jools Holland' show together, I always felt anxious while watching it because I knew that I would be abused afterwards. He would turn off the television and then rape me on the sofa. And then he would 'clean himself up' in the small downstairs bathroom of our house on Broom road in Teddington, a suburb of London.
As a part of the "Bronze award", we children of twelve and thirteen years old were dropped off in a forest and were expected to map read and find our way through the forsaken English countryside.
I hated every moment of it, as I had been so dissociated during the preparation, that I had no idea how to read a map. Suffice to say, my group got very lost and returned back to the campsite very late in the evening. That was all bad enough, but then what was to happen even later that night was much worse.
During the middle of the night, my teachers Mr Farrah and Ms Greenhalgh got me out of bed and led me into the forest. Other children were waiting there in a scared huddle. We were stripped of our clothes and then tied by the hands and feet, whilst lying on the ground forming a large circle. Here, the aforementioned teachers, and other adults I didn't know, danced around the circle, chanting freakish things and rubbing blood over their bodies. They then proceeded to do strange things to our naked bodies.
We couldn't run away, hide or scream because we had been gagged and our hands were tied. It felt like this went on for an eternity, but it eventually ended. We were washed, clothed and put back into bed in our tents.
Everything went back to 'normal' the next day.
Both these teachers taught me in class at Waldegrave School. Ms Greenhalgh had groomed me, by paying me compliments on my intricate, paisley coat. She also gave me sweets for my birthday. A well-known trick abusers use. I did not see that this was happening, as all children want to be loved and respected. I thought that she was one of my favourite teachers, with her fashionable style and cool English lessons.
Mr Farrah was my Maths teacher in year eight. He sexually abused me at school, too. I have previously written a detailed account about this.
I went to school every day, just like a 'regular child'. But, at night time, often mid-week, my father would drive me to the small graveyard in Teddington, opposite the Landmark Art's Centre, formerly a church.
Here, the Freemasons wore long, dark robes and masks covering their faces. They often lit a bonfire and performed 'dark magick.'
On one of these occasions, I was taken to one of the tombstones, my head covered with a sack and tied at the neck with rope. Then, I was thrown into an open grave and the lid was shut on me. They kept me there for a very long time, maybe all night. I felt very claustrophobic and scared.
As the morning approached, I was taken out of the grave, washed and taken home.
I believe this ritual was done to invoke in me, an extreme fear of death. Every time I would see a gravestone, I would be reminded of my torture there. It is useful for those in power to make people fear death. If there is only this world, then people are more likely to submit to their control, to avoid being hurt further.
With a real knowledge of the after-life, we have no need to fear death. Only Freemasons fear death because of the destruction they have caused on this planet. Other innocent souls who have lived kindly and fully, have nothing to fear.
The Freemasons could not make me fear death, for it is only a transition, and I know that there is another world of peace and light out there. They have no power over me.
I am on the floor of the graveyard, on top of a tombstone and I wake up from being passed out. I can feel the hard, stone surface beneath me. I am lying on my front with my head turned to the left. I am still wearing blood and sick stained clothing and I can smell the stench coming from them. I feel sick and like I want to escape, to be clean, to be safe. When I look to the left, I see a group of about five men standing across from me.
It is dark but they have a torch, which they are shining on me. There is some moonlight which enables me to see something, but it is very dark. The men are wearing long, black robes with masks covering their faces. One man comes forward and ties a bag around my head with rope around my neck to secure it. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I am going to die, I am so scared and the anxiety in my chest is so big and I can't see anything. It feels like I don't exist.
I feel someone slowly taking my leggings off and I feel even more panicked, if that is even possible. I know what is going to happen and it feels like I will just have to endure it because there is no way for me to escape. One man places a hand on my back to hold me down. I feel his hand crushing me into the gravestone- he is very strong, in one sense of the word. He then begins to rape me. It is very painful and I feel very sick. It feels like my soul leaves my body entirely and flies high up above so that I am safe.
I feel like I can see the Freemason cowards down below attacking me and I feel pity and disgust. What pathetic creatures they are, hurting a child. They wear cloaks and masks because they are ashamed of what they do.
I can hear the idiots cheering each other on and their shouts and grunts fill the night air. Other men rape me too. At some point, they start whipping me with a leash. I pass out. It finally ends and I am surprised that a human being can survive so much pain.
This drawing is of a lizard, this image was projected onto screen in a basement in the Royal Crescent in Bath. At the time, I was attending Bath University and had become interested in the BRLSI (Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution), as they held some interesting talks on Philosophy, a subject which greatly interested me.
As I wrote about previously, I was taken to be abused by Freemasons at the BRLSI, mainly by a handler called Bob Draper, a former university lecturer at the University of Bath who worked at the BRLSI.
On a subsequent occasion, after having heard a talk on Philosophy at the BRLSI, I was forcibly driven to one of the Georgian houses on the Royal Crescent in Bath. Here, I was shown a projection of a lizard on a screen, and some men in long, black robes with masks, presumably Freemasons, as this was their typical costume, told me that I was to "bear a lizard child."
Then, I was dressed in ridiculous ornate clothing and taken upstairs. Here, were other Freemasons (men and women). They were having a celebration for me becoming the next "Queen" in their sick cult. They lavished me with gifts.
I felt horrified and disgusted by it all. I would never be the "queen" they wanted, nor have a cult baby for them to abuse and torture.
The Freemasons in the long, black robes with hoods took me back downstairs to the basement. Here, the men put me in a sack and drove me to a small creek in a park a ten minutes drive away.
When at the entrance to the park, they tipped me, in the sack, onto the floor and pulled me by my feet to the creek. Here, they performed a near-drowning ritual on me. I was then driven back, cleaned and taken home.
When I 'worked' as a model in London there was a lot of pressure put on me to be very thin. I would compulsively weigh myself and compare myself to other models. This was because of the horrifically abusive environment. Instead of turning their attention to the sleazy photographers and designers who raped child models (most are below the age of 18) the attention was turned to the child's body and how 'fat' they are.
Anything could be worked around, except for 'fatness'. The Fashion Industry makes it clear that these poor children are competing against each other for abusive jobs. The child model is encouraged to displace all of their anger at the industry onto other wounded children, rather that towards the abusers: Often 'big name' photographer-rapists and designer-pedophiles.
Encouraging malnutrition in children impairs their ability to focus on anything other than survival. The perfect conditions for abuse to be perpetrated in.
This is a drawing of me in my bunk bed as a child. I often could not sleep at night, so I listened to audio-books at night on repeat to fall asleep. I was plagued by anxiety and night terrors. I felt trapped and suffocated at nighttime as this is when the abuse by my family would happen.
This drawing shows the occasional fun times that June and I spent as models in London. We loved to dance and escape into the city lights. We escaped like this one weekend freeing our souls of all the abuse, entranced by the music. When I got home the next day, my parents were mad and cut my telephone line so that I couldn't contact my friends.
When I was a kid, I was taken to visit Germany most summers from the age of eight to the age of twelve. On the surface, it appeared that I was to visit an old friend of my mother's called Barbara Hilgenfeld. She had three children: Merle (one year older than me); Fritjof (the same age as me) and Valentin (younger than me).
This drawing is of a forest in Southern Germany. It shows the terrors that took place there. Barbara and my mother took Merle and I to the forest to ritually abuse us. They were part of a women's cult. I remember strange ceremonies happening around a fire. The older women made Merle sexually abuse me. It seemed like Merle enjoyed having power over me.
I felt very alone. They brought in the body of an adult and then hacked it brutally into pieces (dismembering it). They then proceeded to eat the body parts at a ‘feast’ around the fire. Again, I feel that I was wounded twice by this trauma: The first time by having to experience this disgusting behaviour; the second time by having to recount it and it not be believed. As I have already described in previous writings, one of the reasons that ritual abuse is so common in our societies is that children who speak out about it are not believed.
Often, abusive groups choose to use such extreme abuse tactics because they want the child's account of this abuse to sound 'unbelievable'. Sadly, this tactic often works.
My father 'enrolled' me into a government mind control program for gifted children. It took place underground in the centre of London and spanned a series of tunnels between the Houses of Parliament; the Shell building; and the National Liberal Club. These tunnels connected these three buildings together. My father often took me through these underground tunnels, below the river Thames, near embankment on one side, and Waterloo station on the other side. It seemed like they were built for this purpose: to funnel children to 'elite' centres for abuse.
If you do some research, you can read a bit about the history of these tunnels (called PINDAR) of course the information publicly available is a heavily distorted version and does not tell the full story.
The Castalia Foundation notes: The British Government is built on child abuse, and several Prime Ministers are now known to have been notorious child-rapists (Edward Heath), close associates of child-rapists (Jimmy Savile) and others instrumental in covering up the rape of children by British Members of Parliament (Margaret Thatcher, David Cameron etc).
Even today, the British Aristocracy is full of pedophiles, the most recent example being Prince Andrew's systematic rape of children together with Jeffrey Epstein. Previously, Prince Andrew's father, Prince Phillip ran the Outward Bound child-torture camps together with Jimmy Savile. Prince Andrew has now been forbidden from associating with Outward Bound, and the group hopes to cover-up their crimes.
I understand that this account may sound difficult to believe, and that is one of the reasons why these abusers choose such methods. It is important to remember the historical context in which I was abused. At the same time, a few miles away in London, the BBC (the UK's State Broadcaster) was allowing Jimmy Savile to freely roam the BBC buildings and rape children. The entire city was institutionally corrupt and many of the Freemasons who abused me were also 'police officers'.
To this day, the police in London wear the checkerboard symbol of the Freemasons around their hats. The police and the Freemasons are interchangeable groups. The men who abused me were free to do whatever they pleased on the city streets, with no repercussions for them.
This drawing is of me crossing a bridge at nighttime. I was nine years old and it was a Sunday. I had been taken to London by my 'father.' We often went on trips like this, to 'walk around parts of London' where he used to work. In reality, these trips were a disguise for taking me to be programmed, as part of a Government-led mind control operation for children.
Programming by the Government took place below the Houses of Parliament. There are a series of underground tunnels connecting various key buildings which were used for coordinated child abuse by politicians. I have described this network in other drawings.
Underneath Houses of Parliament, men in black robes and hoods performed torture on me under the guise of 'experiments' and 'training.' The programmers said that they were trying to teach me something. I now know that this programming is called: 'Alice in Wonderland' programming.
After one programming session, I am kept until late at night. There is a bridge that has been closed off, and it is covered in dust sheets and external building support. I believe it to be the Waterloo Bridge.
I am stripped of my clothing by the men. Then, they put a collar on me and tie my hands and feet together with hand and feet cuffs. Afterwards, a black material, fabric sack, is placed over me and I am bundled up and carried into a car with black, shaded windows. We arrive at the bridge. There is a lot of space where the cars or pedestrians would normally be. Instead of where the cars and pedestrians would be, the men, now wearing long, black robes and with masked faces, are standing on the bridge.
I am taken out of the sack and tipped out onto the beginning of the rail of the bridge, which is concrete and slightly pebbly.
I land on my knees and it is hard to get my balance because my hands and feet are tied together. I am told to get up and I can see there is a man behind me holding a gun. He tells me to walk. I see that what I have to do is to walk the length of the bridge on the narrow elevated side of the bridge to get to the other side.
Beside me to the right is water, and I will surely drown if I fall down there. I later understand that this is called 'suicide training.' If I am to remember this part of the training, I should drown myself by jumping off a bridge.
I start to walk and my whole body is filled with fear. I feel paralyzed, and trapped, and like I can't move, but I know that I have to because otherwise they could easily push me into the water or shoot me dead.
I feel the anxiety in my chest; it is crippling. Instead of focusing on this, I decide to focus on the stars above me. I can see them shining bright. They are my home; where I am safe. The stars are my friends and they guide me.
I know that they are all cheering for me. I am on the brink of life and death. At one point, I stumble and fall onto my knees. I feel very scared and shaking, I rise up: A phoenix from the ashes. I keep going with pure focus and clarity. I have absolute knowledge that I will be fine. I reach the end, and I am smiling for joy and my resounding triumph.
I am quickly bundled back into the bag and taken by a man in the car and back to the building where I am clothed and driven home with my 'father.' I am so exhausted that I fall asleep in the car.
I drew this mandala to represent how I felt after being taken away by my father in the night. I was drugged and semi-conscious when I was forced to be 'inspected' at a Masonic lodge. It felt like my true-spirit had been crushed and I was like a robot, being led around to different places. In this drawing I have represented my true-spirit as a sweet, gingerbread man. I put a scarf and mittens on my hands, so that I would feel cozy and safe. On the journey to be abused, as a child, all around me were bright lights and taxis and movement. I wanted to stay still.
When I was older, twenty-three years old, my father took me on a trip to Brighton. One night after we had gone to sleep, I remember him drugging me so that I was unconscious and him taking me to the masonic lodge in Brighton. He carried me as I was unconscious and put me in a taxi, going out the back entrance of the hotel. At the lodge, I remember there being other men present, presumably members of the freemason group and my whole body was examined.
They were looking for something, perhaps, a microchip. They then told me to go back into a sleep state and my father put me in a taxi once again back to the hotel. Under hypnosis, he commanded me to be awake when walking up the stairs in the hotel, to make it seem like nothing had happened.
The Castalia Foundation would like to remind readers that someone who has not had personal experience with the techniques of trauma-based mind control this survivor is describing may find it hard to understand how humans can be programmed in such a way. A good place to begin in researching this topic is to look at Pavlov's work in conditioning his dogs. What the Freemasons subject children to is merely a more complex system of these associative conditioning methods, using more extreme trauma.
You may also be interested in researching the MK-Ultra program in America. Although many records of this government-funded system of traumatic-abuse and mind-control have been destroyed, there is plenty of remaining evidence that has been released to the public. Enough to show that there is no doubt that abusive groups are able to induce a traumatized child to react to programming.
Another useful reference on this subject is the book In the Name of Science: A History of Secret Programs, Medical Research, and Human Experimentation by Andrew Goliszek. In his book, Golisek describes exactly these same mind-control techniques being used, based on publicly available records from the CIA which are not in dispute.
I went to Brighton many times as a child. I was taken there on family 'holidays' or weekends away. Brighton was not far from where we lived in London. I used to love 'the Lanes' and the bohemian, creative side of Brighton.
Unfortunately, Brighton was infested by an underbelly of child abuse. I believe that, through my father's various child abuse networks, he was able to locate businesses that promoted child abuse. For example, we once stayed in a 'bed and breakfast' where, when I was sleeping, I was awoken by someone entering into my room (they were given the key). This person then abused me. I was effectively sold to this creepy, human abuse ring in the form of a 'bed and breakfast'.
This survivor is not alone in reporting this type of abuse to The Castalia Foundation. The Foundation has determined that there is a widespread parallel-society of child abuse in which abusers communicate with each other using a set of signs and symbols that indicate to other abusers that children are available to be abused at a location, or that the proprietors of a business will ignore abuse of children at a location.
The Castalia Foundation does not wish to provide a list of such symbols here, but instead invites the reader to look out for recurring symbols at locations where child abuse is known to occur. Different symbol sets are used in different regions, but we have gathered sufficient evidence to determine that there is undeniably a system of 'code' being used by these networks of child abusers to covertly signal to each other in public spaces. Typically such code takes the form of logos or placards, sometimes these are known 'brands' which are themselves entrenched in the abuse networks.
On another occasion, I returned to Brighton after having begun to heal. At this point, I had not yet fully accepted the role of my 'family' in the violence that surrounded me. On this occasion, my 'father' and I ate at a Fish and Chip shop. I remember the place being greasy and dirty. Before the meal, and after ordering, I was led into the kitchen by one of the workers there. He then proceeded to rape me and threaten me with a knife.
This type of abuse had occurred to me before in a 'Greasy Spoon' in Twickenham. There, the exact same violence was performed. In both cases, it felt like an abusive person had coordinated things, knowing that the people there were abusive and would pay to be able to hurt a child like that.
Thus, again, this indicates an abusive network operating below the surface in Brighton and London. Abusers are connected in these networks and they coordinate amongst themselves to harm children and to profit financially from it. They communicate with each other using logos, words and signs which would not necessarily be noticed by those who are not part of the abusive networks, but are easily recognized by abusers in the groups.
I was subjected to abuse at the hands of my uncle Ian Frey, the brother of my father. We were visiting him and his wife Christine at their home on the premises of the Mary Hare School for deaf children, Arlington Manor, Snelsmore Common, Newbury, RG14 3BQ, England.
My uncle worked at the school in 'maintenance'. He and his wife lived in a small cottage on the large grounds of the school, which extended into a forest. I went on holiday there with my parents and we stayed with them in their house. One evening, while everybody was asleep, my uncle took me out of my bed and led me out into the forest. There were other children there, presumably from the school. He made us watch as he tortured a rabbit and a cat. This drawing is to commemorate all innocent animals that have been hurt at the hands of abusers.
A similar type of abuse happened to me at Christmas in my childhood home at 10 Manor Gardens, Richmond, London. In the middle of the night, my parents and a 'friend of the family' David Cooke, took me out into the garden and performed horrific abuses on me. Part of this abuse was to kill an innocent rabbit. I loved the rabbit, and in my thoughts I prayed for his safety and ascension into the world of light.
I used to enjoy creating safe places in my mind and would often play in my room with the door locked, having found a key to the door. I would draw endlessly and play with my special things. One day, my father discovered that I was doing this and marched me out of the house holding the key in one hand.
Garbage-collection men were out doing their work and he tossed the key into their rubbish van. I started screaming and crying and ran to one of the bin men, who had a kindly face. He became very worried when I wouldn't let go of his leg and refused to return me to my father. He stroked my head and reassured me that everything would be okay. He called the police; they came; they did their usual nonsense and left. The bin man felt very ashamed and angry at the police, but there was nothing he could do. He did a lot showing me so much love. I will never forget him.
I feel that the bin man and his family prayed for me that evening and I could feel their love and light, and I was protected by this energy.
In this series of posts, a survivor of childhood abuse describes, through writing and drawing, her healing journey.
This illustration is of me, saying: 'Fuck you' to the women's cult my mother dragged me into. I was never a part of it, and I felt completely alien during their cruel events. I always refused to participate and sat apart from everyone else: A true outsider. I managed to escape and run away through a forest, with nothing but the clothes I had on. I remember feeling immensely free and happy to have escaped these monsters. I walked along the highway in total bliss.
From the age of nine years old, my mother began sending me to Germany to be programmed. Of course, it was disguised under another name; just a normal summer holiday, where I could get to know my 'roots' (my mother is German). I went to stay at her old school time buddy Barbara Hilgenfeld's house. I got on well with her children Fritjof and Valentine.
We would pass idyllic summer days cycling to the local lake, the Illmensee, baking and playing in the garden. I didn't speak much as I sensed the atmosphere of tension at the dinner table, with Barbara, the mythological monster throwing out pessimism and anger. Walter, her husband, was quiet and we didn't see him around much. He was kind to us.
One summer at the age of thirteen, after this ritual of visiting Germany for two weeks had been surely established, I remember Barbara talking to me in hushed tones about puberty. It scared and disgusted me; I still felt like a child. It felt like she was pushing something onto me and, indeed, she was: Psychological warfare.
My mother had decided to visit us this year, as she was traveling in Germany. She and my mother got on well and reminisced about old times- I wondered what these times were and how they could ever have been good? One evening, when we went to bed, my mother and Barbara got me and Merle (the two female children) awake and bundled us into a car.
I remember vividly being inside Barbara's hospital (she was a midwife). Here, we were taken into one of the operating-theatres. There were other girls of around the age of thirteen there too, about the same age as Merle and I. What followed was sickening. My mother and Barbara simulated a fake pregnancy on us children, asking us to lie on the operating bed and they then simulated a baby doll being born out of us. I have no idea why they did this. It seemed like they wanted to scare us into not getting pregnant. This was important because we were being raped all the time. It would definitely be our fault if we did become pregnant.
Continuing with the theme of the women's cult, the summer before the pregnancy fear induction, my mother and some more of her cronies all met up in a German town to meet with their pseudo-psychologist guru, Walfred.
I hated Walfred from the moment I met him, and could see through his ploys instantly. This strange holiday mainly involved my mother and her friends getting massively drunk in dark, underground bars, while us children sipped sparkling water nervously. I ended up having to take my weeping mother home, as she was severely inebriated. I felt disgust at her corruptibility. She was so easily controlled by this man, who told her what she could and could not wear. In fact, that was a major theme of the seminar that was happening.
In the day time, we would sit around a long table, mothers and daughters together, and Walfred would lecture us on dress codes using an old, overhead projector with dusty slides of hideously tasteless garments of clothing. It hit a high point of absurdity, when Walfred claimed that wearing capri pants (3/4 length trousers) was too seductive. I laughed a lot about this internally. I was too scared to speak out there.
Another key part of the seminar, a part not openly advertised, was the sexual abuse Walfred subjected me to in his study. I don't know if he did this to the other kids, but at the end of the week, he wanted to have a private meeting with each child, so probably yes, he abused them too. My mother went away for this, as she had a separate meeting with him. Once in his study, he lectured me, I don't remember what about, as I was terrified of this large man with repressed anger. Then, he sexually abused me.
I forgot this happening, as it was so traumatic. My mother talked to me about her meeting with Walfred and how he had recommended for me to go to a "special school" for "gifted" children. I felt very scared and angry at the thought as part of me remembered that he was an abuser. Luckily, it never happened that I got sent away to a special boarding school that he talked to my mother about. I now believe it would have been a "correcting" school, sort of place. For the kids that are too resistant to the abuse and programming. I would be subject to a lot of "correcting", as my plans and wish for freedom did not fit in with what these psychopaths had in mind.
During an intense middle-stage in my healing, I started really struggling and some of the original programming that I was subjected to started to regain its grip on me. It was very difficult for me to realize this at the time, as I was not aware of this programming. I felt very helpless and just wanted to be looked after like a child.
I decided to go to a clinic for one month. I had been recommended this clinic by a psychotherapist at the organization ‘Lara’ in Berlin. It looked like a good option for me because they focused on ritual abuse. The abuse I experienced a a child was of an organized nature, by a women's cult in Germany. I am convinced now that, within my internal system, there was a code which told me to shut down and be unable to function if memories of ritual abuse were to arise and to seek 'help' at a clinic.
At the clinic, I was taken, with my roommate, to the forest surrounding the buildings at Havelhöhe in the middle of the night. There, I was raped by some of the other patients during a night time ritual coordinated by the clinic’s employees, Dr Quetz and Dr Biesenthal-Matthes.
My ‘the-rapist' at the clinic, Frau Schneider, was a part of this reprogramming. The 'professionals' showed us tarot cards before the rapes began. Tarot cards are often used in ritual abuse, as associative symbol sets which can then be used later to subconsciously re-traumatize a child, or to elicit a specific pre-programmed response. Another 'technique' that the abusers used, were having the patients stab an already dead animal (a stag). I refused to participate in this.
The whole thing was designed to brainwash us and to terrify us back into our dissociation because we were all beginning to process what had been done to us as children; the clinic’s re-traumatisation would put you back to sleep again. There were some members of the survivor-group who were abusive. The therapists and doctors at the clinic seemed to know exactly who these members of the group were, and they coerced these members to perpetrate violence.
The clinic hid its nighttime operations during the day. It was very very manipulative. We all had to go back to our rooms, back to sleep as normal. The normal, light daytime world continued after this as if nothing had happened, but re-traumatization was the real purpose of the clinic.
I was in the young adult’s section. Everyone that was there was a young survivor of abuse (whether they acknowledged this consciously, or not), most between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven. We had a special program, which was very regimented, like a military academy at times. Havelhöhe is a center for ritual abuse at nighttime, disguised as a 'clinic' during the daytime.
Havelhöhe clinic is located on outskirts of West Berlin, by a lake called the Havel. The buildings were formerly used to train the air force in Nazi Germany. The clinic is located opposite an active military base used extensively during the Second World War. Havelhöhe describes itself as an ‘anthroposophical’ clinic — this is a term describing a philosophy invented by Rudolf Steiner, an occultist; Freemason; ‘school builder’; and white supremacist.
If you’ve been severely abused, ritually abused, you are not able to trust your instincts regarding these kind of experiences. You might think: "Oh, these are good people at this clinic they smile at me and act like they are listening". But that means nothing. They smile while they are abusing you too.
Following my re-programming at Havelhöhe, I emerged from the clinic apparently brainwashed into thinking that I would like to continue my government-funded return to the world of sleeping-civility. The clinic had recommended that I seek immediate 'therapy' after leaving the clinic. They recommended me going to see a trauma 'therapist', who was working at the 'Freie' ('Free') Universität (Berlin) therapy center (Hochschulambulanz) where I was studying. I could now fit in 'therapy' between my Philosophy lectures.
The therapists that I met at the trauma centre (Frau Dr Maja Steinbrink and Frau Dr Simon), 'specialized' again, in young people. They were smiley and bubbly; talking to me as if they cared and as if they could help me.
I was invited to fall into a childlike-roll again, where these parental like figures simulated the relationship I had had with my mother. A psycho-therapeutic cliché.
These 'therapists' were just like the medical psychopaths at Havelhöhe, who smiled and nodded while they sedated me for further abuse. Here, memories were coaxed out of me and I shared so honestly and diligently what had happened to me. I did not know that they were abusers. Just as how, at this point, I had no conscious recollection of what befell me at the clinic. So, I trusted, naïvely, hopefully, and was failed once again by society and an abusive system, aiming at intentionally harming patients.
With Frau Dr Simon, I was reprogrammed with electroshocks. Having shared some of my most terrible life events with her, she manipulated me, gaining all the information she needed to traumatize me further. The intention was to put me back to sleep and get me back on track to be a 'good student' and good 'obedient' worker bee.
Other programming routines she used were to kill a pigeon and to use my hand to stab its already dead body. This was a horrific reenactment of abuses I had already experienced as a child. She monitored the ways that I had already been programmed and then repeated them, to re-enforce their strength. She also used Tarot cards, making me take home two of the tarot cards that had been used in my abuse, to re-traumatise me.
No transformation took place, no healing was done. The six months that I was there, were a complete waste of time and worse, they were incredibly painful and distressing. I lost hope in the medical community, thankfully, and any belief that they could be the solution to my problems.
It appeared to me that therapists, or 'the'-'rapists' are accurately named.
Some of the most difficult programming that I have had to process is programming under the Houses of Parliament in London, in what seems to be the British State's 'PINDAR' tunnels.
I was taken here by my father, typically dropped off at Embankment station in London or Charing Cross Station, where a black car would pick me up and take me to this secret location.
Here, the name they gave the program was ‘Alice in Wonderland’ programming. The main intention seemed to be to use the psychic abilities of children for their own government-purposes. For example, they would ask me to intuit messages and use the information to determine whether it was a good time to make a political move or economic decision.
The Castalia Foundation would like to remind readers that although this information may seem difficult to digest, that 'scientific' work studying human psychic-abilties has been extensively undertaken by groups, including the CIA. While the psychic phenomena itself may be in dispute, the fact that these research studies have taken place is a matter of public record and not in dispute.
Then, electroshocks were applied to my head, so that I would forget the programming that had taken place. There were other children there who were going through similar mind-control programming. When we were waiting to be used for their 'research', they sat us in front of televisions playing the Disney animated film of ‘Alice in Wonderland’. The Cheshire cat's great smile is imprinted in my memory and the terror of this clinical, harshly lit, underground environment.
When I was fourteen, and then later as an adult, I wanted to know what ‘Alice in Wonderland’ really was about. So, I read the book. I loved the story. I loved little Alice's courage and her search for the truth. I wanted to be just like her and defy the British establishment. It made sense to me why the British Government would set up a traumatic-association between the Alice in Wonderland book and abuse. We would be driven away from reading this extremely-awakening novel.
The Castalia Foundation invites readers to consider whether the original ‘Alice in Wonderland’ book is, in fact, a powerful psychedelic-awakening tool. The work appears to be a children's story, but on closer reading is also a complex critique of both the British Crown and British society itself. The book presents the reader with the reality of the world for many children: A place where The Crown has created a land of social and legal nonsense, where courts reach verdicts before the cases are heard, and The Crown always wins; because The Crown rules only by violence or the threat of violence, preserving itself above dignity, or liberty.
It makes a perverse sense then, that the British Government would invert the meaning of such a book and use its motifs to harm children rather than help them.
As a child, I was taken to the MI5 building on the Embankment in London. This is also known as Thames House on Millbank. I remember the location because afterwards I was walked down a street in the area which had huge London Plane trees lining it. My father told me that these trees had survived the Great Fire of London. I remember the bark of these trees so vividly, perhaps I, like the trees, could also survive the great fires of my childhood.
When we entered the MI5 building, I got taken into a room with my father. There, a member of MI5 asked me and my father questions about the programming that I was being subjected to under Parliament. It appeared to be a status-report to determine how I was doing in their mind control program.
The little doll slashed-up was an image that they would associate with trauma, when they wanted to threaten us children. It reminded us of what they would do to us, if we were ever to remember what was done to us by the programmers in London.
When I first started remembering memories of abuse, I remembered abuse at childhood friend's houses. I did not at that point realise that my own mother and father were part of the abuse that I experienced. So, having confronted these difficult memories internally, I decided to tell my parents about what I was remembering.
Both my mother and father, although shocked, were extremely supportive. They made special preperations for me, when I returned from Berlin to spend the Christmas holidays with them.
It was our custom to spend Christmas Eve at June's house. However, this was no longer possible, as I had remembered the horrible tortures that her father had subjected June and I to.
Instead, my father arranged for the three of us (he, my mother and I) to go to the ODEON cinema at Leicester Square. Here, we watched a fantasy movie.
During the movie, my father invited me to go and get some sweets from a nearby shop. Once outside, a black car with black windows pulled up. My father forced me into the car, where I was blindfolded and fabric was put across my mouth.
The next thing I remember is being inside the Grand Lodge, masonic hall in London. There was a long table set up, and along the table were sat various 'important looking' people. I believe that they were members of parliament. One face I remember was that of the ex-prime minister Theresa May.
The people at the table, looked like they were about to eat a dinner. What I didn't realise, was that they would be roasting two human beings on a spit-fire.
The two human beings, were survivors of childhood abuse, who had been forced to live on the streets because of addiction to drugs. They were good, kind souls, and they told me this telepathically, after their souls had departed from their bodies.
I was hung by a rope from the ceiling. The members of parliament sat at the table and 'feasted' on the remains of these two radiant human beings. They drank their blood. I was terrified and disgusted by this. I thought that I was going to die, being hung upside down for so long.
But, then the image of the 'hanging man' tarot card came to me. I crossed my leg over the other one, as is typical in the 'hanging man' tarot card. This gave me a feeling of contemplative bliss and strength. I felt that if I could transcend this, I could transcend anything.
I went for a job interview at Jack Will's clothing store, in Richmond, London. Shortly after I had arrived, the manager took me into a back room and raped me standing up. My cousin Tom Elliot-Frey (who molested me as a child when he was a teenager) had recommended me for the interview, as he was working in a management position at Jack Will's.
The manager of this particular Jack Will's store was tipped off by my cousin, who indicated to him that I would be an 'easy target' for abuse. I believe that he expected me to accept the abuse, and see this as a part of the job interview. I strongly suspect, that other employees may have been 'tested' in the same way, to see if they were 'right for the store.'
However, instead, I threatened him with a Stanley-knife that was lying around in the store cupboard. He said. "Oh, you're a pretty girl. We need pretty girls who can keep quiet around here." Then, he took the knife from my hand, turned the blade away and said "Shall we?" and opened the door to go through to the shop front. This was the real reason for my extreme nervousness during the job interview.
In my drawing, I have shown me as a kid riding on the lion Aslan from 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' book. I am holding a sword to symbolize my courage in defending myself. I used just the right amount of force to protect myself, and yet did no harm. I had the strong sense of there being three enlightened beings (angels) in the room with me. They guided me at this moment and protected me from harm.
I felt that the abuse I experienced at Jack Will’s was institutional in that company.
I was taken to the Savoy hotel in London, by my father on a weekend or a school holiday, when we used to do day trips "up to London." We went into the hotel and someone took our coats and we waited in the lobby. Other children were walking in and out with their parents, or with one parent.
We sat in the lobby for a long time, and I was getting more and more scared that something bad would happen to me. Then, a butler came to us and pretended to put a suitcase on a golden birdcage-crown shaped cart. This was the sort of cart where rich-people put their things when they go to hotels. The butler took me and my father up in a elevator to a high floor. It was a floor with a special access code, so could only be accessed by staff with a special key. This key was manually put into the elevator button panel, to make the lift go to this secret level.
This special-access floor was made to look as if it was a store room where cleaners could keep their cleaning stuff. There were mops and cleaning wagons around to block the floor from being traversed easily. On this floor, there were multiple hotel rooms.
Here, I was led into one of the 'hotel rooms' with my father. Inside, there were men in black suits, shirts and sunglasses like something out of the film 'Men in Black.' Often, iconography from the hidden cult world turn up in movies. Persumably this was done intentionally, to make people think that these things are not real. It is also very triggering for survivors of such abuses to see aspects of their abuse on the cinema screen. This is likely another reason why these costumes are used during abuse rituals.
The men in black told me to sit down on a chair and they discussed something with my father. I could see them arguing.
One of the men, one not wearing sunglasses but wearing an old-fashioned navy suit with a waistcoat told me to undress. He then touched all over my body.
He then said to my father:
"She is too young, too 'scrawny.' She needs to come back when she is older. My clients do not like children as young as this."I felt so relieved that I would not be abused further.
My father got very angry and tried to punch the guy with black sunglasses. His bodyguard noticed first and hit my father square in the eye (giving my father a black-eye.) I was glad that my father had been punched in the eye and started laughing. My father got angry and slapped me, but I could not stop laughing at him. He was embarassed and fled the building, only stopping to get our coats from the reception.
When we were outside, I could not stop laughing. He started shouting at me, but this did not work. So, he took me to a side street and raped me against a brick wall. I stopped laughing.
I got taken to a cotillion event at the Savoy hotel in central London. There, some people put me in an 'elegant ball gown', and they did my hair and make-up for this 'occasion.' The pupose of this cotillion or 'debutante' ball was as a venue where children of cult families could mix, now as young-adults. It was an event solely for children of cult members. It was an event without ritual abuse. The cult's intention was to coerce us into believing that joining the cult as adults would be "fun and glamourous." The ball was very similar to the ball scene in the movie Labyrinth, where the Goblin King is trying to trick Sarah into believing that he is good.
Again, I feel that the world of cinema either inspired these groups to hold events with a similar-look; or the movies were attempting to expose the horrors of the occult world.At the ball, there was a dance and all of the girls had to partner with the boys to do some kind of strange ballroom dance. I really struggled at this because I had not been to any of the dance lessons that the other kids had gone to before. My dance partner "excelled" at it, so I didn't have to "look stupid."
I now understand that this event was designed to interbreed bloodline-families. My family was a bloodline family through my Dutch grandfather..
One of the boys at the ball followed me to the bathroom and tried to kiss and push me into a cubicle, to assault me. I pushed him out and fled, terrified.
I could not relate to any of the boys there. They all seemed so absent and confused.
My aunt, Sophie, tried to set me up with 'an eligible bachelor.' I refused as I could see the corruption and deceit behind it all. I didn't want it, I wanted something real. I didn't want to repeat the cycle and be married off into some cult family. In their world, that would have been my only purpose: to be a good cult wife and 'loving mother.' Everything was distorted. Everything was for show. Love was inverted into hate. Love only seemed to represent abuse. It was disgusting.
One morning at the weekend, I was forced to go to brunch at the Ritz by my parents. My mother and father took me there and then did something else, while I was having the brunch.
A similar thing happened, as at the Savoy hotel, I was dressed once again in a conservative outfit (this one looked like it had all come straight off the racks in the shop Jigsaw).
At the brunch, we were taught to eat with the right knives, forks and spoons etc. This was to teach us to think that we were above other people who did not know the 'correct way' to use cutlery. It was meant to be another 'nice' little cult gathering. Where I was supposed to find a 'nice boy' to date and later to marry and continue the bloodline family of my grandfather. This bloodline obsession, skipped a generation with my mother to try to integrate 'more humanness', if she could be called that. But, in their eyes I was on track to marry a full bloodline family.
The whole event made me feel uncomfortable and nautious. I threw up the whole brunch in the bathroom. No abuse happened here, as it was meant to show the priviledges and glamour of cult life, so that there was something to aspire to, and to feel like you were progressing on from being a child and just being ruthlessly abused.
Much of the abuse I was subjected to as a child was a prelude to my future career in the Fashion Industry as a model. When I was fourteen, my mother's friend Sarah Mullen scouted me to be a model. Mullen was a teacher at my secondary school Waldegrave School for Girls.
She took polaroid photographs of me, as is the custom for modelling photos. She passed them on to the modelling agency that her daughter, Kate, was working for. It was called Profile Model Management and was based in central London. Whilst taking these polaroid photos of me, Mullen abused me in the bathroom. I could hear her husband ruthlessly abusing her daughter Kate in the bedroom above.
Kate was an angel. She tried to stop me getting abused by her mother by showing me abusive photographs of herself. These were pictures that a photographer at the modelling agency had taken of her. I was so shocked. I said I did not want to be part of it. Her mother insisted, and drove me over to Kate's house to get the "perfect photograph" of me outside in natural lighting.
I have recreated the model card that is typical for young models. In this drawing, I show what is really being displayed when a young girl is paraded in this way.
Another time I was in central London, I was doing a fashion shoot with another model. We did a campaign shoot. After the shoot, I was taken by the photographer into another room. Karl Lagerfeld was there. He raped me.
Afterwards, he told me that I was beautiful, but that my skin was bad: I had to "fix my skin." He also implied that I had to get used to being abused if I were to "go far" in the Fashion Industry.
I am seven or eight years old. I have been taken to London with my parents to go to the Science Museum. We look around parts of it and there is a talk about Einstein's work. I find it interesting, but I can't concentrate because I feel very scared.
I feel very scared because whenever I am taken up to London on a Sunday, it is normally because something bad is going to happen to me. This time is no exception. We walk out of the museum and it is dark, nighttime already. My mother makes an excuse to get away, saying that she has some shopping to do and that she has to "mark the school books" (she is a teacher) before tomorrow. So, I am left with my father. He takes me across the road to a church. It is a very odd building and it doesn't look like a church.
On the front, it has the name The Church of Latter Day Saints written on it in big letters. My father takes me inside and it looks like a regular church. The main building is dark and windowless and there are two blocks of seating and an altar area at the front.
In this room, there are lots of parents with their children. The children look pale and worried. One-by-one the children are asked to come forward to the front of the room. There, the children are asked to perform their "special abilities". The cult believes each child is capable of a skill that goes beyond what are considered 'normal' human abiities: The cult believes some of the children are "psychic"; can "see ghosts", or are able to "talk to the dead". Everyone is watching them from the seated area and people are leering and making loud noises. It is like a freak show.
The Castalia Foundation has been unable to determine if children subjected to this type of ritual are actually being traumatically-conditioned not to use latent psychic-abilities. There are two possible explanations: The first magical; the second mundane.
First the 'magical' explanation: Concievably, such psychic abilities, if they exist, would threaten existing power structures on Earth. On this basis, we can speculate that the Crown, via the Freemasons, might be running these operations to ensure it is not overthrown.
Second, the mudane explanation: This tyoe of ritual may be performed simply to confuse and traumatize children in a variety of elaborate ways; the result being that survivor's accounts of abuse sound impausible.
Whichever is the case, we have reports of other 'ceremonies' where the stated intention of the abusers was to eliminate the child's "special" abilities. These abilities may be supernatural, or conventional. For example, children who are talented at computers or electronics may be abused in conjunction with iconic aspects of this field of interest: In a computer lab, for example.
After each child shows their ability, they are tortured with an electroshock machine and they scream in pain and terror. I feel very anxious and it is unbearable to see the other children suffer. Eventually, it is my time to go up. My father takes me to the altar and I have to lie down. Then, he puts his hand over me and pretends like he is making me levitate.
Afterwards, my father forces me to sit up and they put electrodes on my head, and passed electricity through them. It feels excrutiatingly painful and I have a really strong headache. I can't think clearly anymore. When I wake up, I think I passed out from the pain, I can't remember what happened or where I am. I am taken back to my seat. Time passes and I feel very confused. I can't concentrate on anything.
I see that the children are now being taken up to the front again, and this time there are people from the church and they are chanting strange 'spells'. They say that they are trying to remove "the devil" from the children. I feel that I am hallucinating, like they have given me a drug. This is presumably what the adults in the room want me and the other children to think about if we ever use our special "abilities". It feels very disorientating and scary. It feels very overwhelming and it feels like I am in a trance state. Half awake and half asleep.
My father drags me to the front. I am made to lie on the altar. Then, the adults say strange curses around my head and I see strange hallucinations of the devil. I feel very panicked and trapped; the adults around me say that I am in hell. Eventually, it ends. I am given a drug injected into my arm to make me calm. Then, my father takes me by the hand and we walk through the underground tunnel to go to Waterloo station. We ride the train home.
In the 1990s, when I was a child, me and a small boy, together with other children, were prostituted in one of several small rooms above 3A, 35- 38 George Street, Surrey, Richmond Upon Thames TW9 1HY above Russell and Bromley shoe shop. There was a small corridor, with rooms leading off from it. Inside each room, was a metal bed. A child was chained to the bed in each room. My father took me into one of these rooms and also a little boy into another. He then profitted from me being abused by men in this room. He was paid in cash.
After this experience, I was taken to the (old) police station in Richmond Upon Thames. I was with my father, my mother and a little boy. My father gave the impression to the attending police officer that the little boy was lost, and my father told us to go with the policeman into a small office with blinds. Here, the policeman abused both of us and then the policeman made the little boy abuse me. We were both in such a state of shock and dissociation after the experience of being prostituted above the shoe shop, that the police man seemed to regard us as puppets. We were unable to protest. I felt completely drained.
The little boy couldn't look at me, he was so ashamed, as was I, of what the adults did to us. I felt completely powerless as a child to do anything to stop these people. They had such power over us, and I had tried protesting in the past and it only brought about more abuse. I felt completely numb and overwhelmed by the way in which 'adults' had control over me and the children around me.
I felt deeply terrified being taken to the police station. We were told, as children, to look up to and respect police and do what they say. This day shattered the illusion that they were doing the right thing. The memory that lingers most strongly is that of the leering faces of the men who abused us, including the police officer. They seemed to be laughing about it, as if nothing could stop them. They seemed to feel they were on the right side of the law and that they were great citizens.
The reality was, of course, that they were using the authority conferred by uniforms and 'adulthood' to rape and abuse children.
On the topic of fancy clothes shops in Richmond (such as Russell and Bromley), I had another memory related to a shop on the Richmond high street, opposite Waterstones bookshop. The last time I was in Richmond, there was a Wagamama in the building. This fancy clothes shop sold expensive clothes and one other thing, belts made out of children.
How did I know this? I was taken to this clothes shop by my parents one Saturday when they usually went mindlessly shopping in Richmond. I was just a kid and I remember one of the staff taking me into a backroom and molesting me. I overheard a conversation that my father was having about the belts in the shop. The belts, the store owner whispered, were authentically made out of children's skin.
I don't know what else to say. How have things come to this? Perhaps, it was never such a far off idea having lizard or snake skin belts, that they made the leap to children? The abuse of any animal or human for making belts is uequivocably wrong.
When I was in year three, (seven to eight years old) I was taken on weekly trips to the Bank of England swimming pool in London. The trips were organised by my primary school The Vineyard School.
Here, my class took swimming lessons. The one thing that stays with me is the anxiety of the changing room. I was terrified to get changed into my swimming costume. The reason for this, is that there were 'peep holes' cut into the walls of the children's changing room. Club members at 'The Bank of England' swimming pool were watching the children get changed.
This made me feel terrified and vulnerable, like an animal in a cage. I focused on the kind teaching assistant Miss Vin Laden (I am not sure of the spelling of her name), who had a tatoo of a lion on her arm. This gave me strength.
I met Dahlia Degner at a clinic on the outskirts of Berlin called Havelhöhe. I spent a month there in 2019 when I was twenty-five and was suffering from the effects of all the trauma that I had been subjected to in my childhood.
At that point I had so much anxiety that it felt like the only option available for me was to go to a hospital to try and recover from this. Looking back, I realise that I was programmed to do this. If at some point in my life, I became overwhelmed by the after-effects of being violently abused as a child, I should go to a 'hospital' to further repress the violence of the cults.
The Freemasons; the 'Governments' and other institutions have a perfect system entwined neatly with the 'mental health' institutions, police and many other state controlled aspects of society.
The whole network is designed to cover up the horrific violence perpetrated on innocent-children by these cults. These cults are not some fringe aspect of society, as often portrayed in their representations in the media. They are the very fabric of the 'higher echelons' of society. They are members of the police force; the government; teachers; hospital workers; photographers and fashion designers. In short: In most areas where there is power involved, these people flock like a virus.
I have already detailed my experiences at Havelhöhe clinic, in the 'Psychosomatic' department. This clinic was a front for a ritual abuse cult which reprograms ritual abuse survivors. Many of the 'staff' there were high-level programmers, orchestrating sick rituals in the forest next to the lake where survivors of ritual abuse would be re-traumatised.
It was in this context that I met Dahlia, another ritual abuse survivor and unbeknownst to me, an active cult member. The clinic purposefully paired us together, so that Dahlia could try and bring me back to the cult.
We became 'friends' as, on the surface, she seemed to be a child-like, creative, bouncy person. Her energy and lust for life were enchanting. However, I repressed her dark side, her anger and violence that would only manifest itself after we had left the clinic.
We shared a love of Paris and the French language, both of us having lived in Paris for some time in our early twenties, a few years ago. On a whim, we decided to book a trip to Paris to reward ourselves for having worked so hard in the clinic healing ourselves. Unfortunately, all of this was a grand illusion, but I will come to that later on in this book.
A few months after the clinic, we set off to Paris to enjoy the 'delights' of the city (pâtisseries, bookshops, art etc.). We also planned on doing an illustration project together based on healthy eating and good principles for living in a big city as a highly sensitive person.
We stayed with a friend of Dahlia's sister, Martin. The daytime world was a world of exploration, laughter and finding magical postcards in little shops. The nighttime world plunged me back into the cult scene, a universe I thought I had left behind in London.
The person that we were staying with turned out to be a cult member. He took me from my bed and drugged me with a tranquiliser in a syringe. He then took me down the stairs into a car with blacked out windows. We drove to Notre Dame church. Here, there were other cult members and a ritual sacrifice took take place. I saw the people line up, and stab at a poor cult survivor human being called Timothée.
They then dismembered his body with a knife, and wanted me to assist them. I refused; crying and screaming and protesting. I thought that I would throw up. The cult members then all sat around a table drinking the blood of Timothée in wine glasses and eating his body. They force fed me pieces of Timothée. I couldn't get away. I screamed. They forced me to eat it. I threw up all their evil and rottenness (pourriture).
I felt that I heard Timothée's spirit speak to me as an angel. He was glad that I was there and that I cared about him. I loved him and never wanted him to die. He wanted me to remember him and to tell his story. He said he was at peace now and that his whole life had been misery because of the cult. Because he was 'useless' to them (he could never become bad), they decided to sacrifice him at twenty-seven years old. He had a bright and playful energy and seemed to be extremely intelligent.
I will never forget him.
The Castalia Foundation reminds readers that these ceremonies are performed by cults not merely to re-traumatise the children they subject to this abuse, but are structurally designed to sound 'unbelievable' should a child speak out. We invite the reader to do their own research into ritual abuse, and the widely reported incidents of similar crimes that have taken place. Many survivors have reported this type of abuse to The Castalia Foundation.
After Princess Diana was killed, my family came back from holiday early and we went to lay flowers at a specified spot in London. The 'media' was telling everyone to lay their flowers in the same spot. I understand this now to be part of the ritual they were enacting designed to subject society to the trauma of Diana's murder. We stayed up in London the whole day. When evening came, we went in a black car to a private member's club.
When we were inside, the adults sat around in a big dining room hall. The children were taken out and stripped of their clothing. Then, they put chains around our necks. When the men and women were finished dining (it was an event for Freemasons and their wives), they were congratulating themselves on Princess Diana's murder. The Freemasons, in connection with the Crown, had planned and executed this murder. It was all a big celebration for these sick individuals.
Then, the usual thing happened where the Freemasons ate canapés and drank cocktails and abused the children: In back rooms and on the floor of the large lounge. When they were ‘done’ with a child, the Freemasons left them in the middle of the room. We, the children, held hands in solidarity with each other, but the adults didn't like that and slapped us and tore our hands apart.
Much later in the evening, I was clothed and showered, and a black car came to collect me; my mother and father, and took us home.
The Castalia Foundation draws the reader's attention to this survivor's opportunity to see how the murder of Princess Diana was perceived within the cult networks that perpetrated this crime. Her murder was celebrated by the Crown in private; while publicly, they put on a circus show. Notably, this included forcing Diana’s children to walk behind her coffin. This, in itself, was a form of ritual abuse, and a means by which the cult sought to traumatise those closest to the princess.
It is worth, in retrospect, considering whether the BBC and other institutions who offered no public resistance on their 'television' channels to the public abuse of Diana's children were therefore criminal participants in her murder, and the subsequent public-humiliation of her children.
At the time, the BBC was allowing Jimmy Savile to freely, and openly, rape children on BBC property. This has been well-documented and is not in dispute.
One way in which I was to prevent myself from ever speaking out was to cut my wrists (and end my own life) to stop me speaking out about abuse in connection with parliament. After particularly difficult memories came up of being severely tortured and mind controlled by the British government, this programming would resurface. I had to be strong, and meditate, and fully process this programming to avoid acting on it. I never injured myself by cutting my wrists, as I knew that this act of harm would only cause me more pain.
I remember other children being trained in the same way. When I was at Havelhöhe Clinic in West Berlin some of the survivors of extreme abuse starting cutting themselves. I feel that it was likely that they were trained in the same way as children; to cut themselves as the result of memories of childhood trauma resurfacing that might threaten the 'government' or some other group believing itself to have power over the people.
Another type of programming that I experienced at the 'facility' under British-government control involved a small doll that looked like what I believed a voodoo doll to look like.
This doll had many slits in it which the abuser had cut into the doll. They then showed me this doll after some of the torture they subjected me to in the basement. It was a threat which indicated to me what they would do to me if I told anyone what they did to me. The image of the doll flashed into my mind as I was processing the tortures they subjected me to in the basement. I was able to process these traumas without hurting myself because I remembered the circumstances under which I was threatened with the slit-doll.
The Castalia Foundation has received other reports of similar abuse, and worse, from other survivors. In light of the frequency with which we receive reports of programming that involves instilling the subconscious instructions to self-cut, we invite the reader to consider what the origins of self-harm may actually be.
The mainstream 'medical' community tends to view self-harm as a relatively abstract act, without a formative cause. In talking with many survivors of childhood-abuse, The Castalia Foundation offers the hypothesis that self-cutting actually has its origins in specifically-programmed routines designed to provoke the survivor of ritual-abuse into self-attack.
The prevalence of self-harm may appear, at first glance, to suggest that its origin in ritual-abuse would be statistically improbable. However, research by The Castalia Foundation, indicates that the prevalence of ritual-abuse in our cultures is far higher than commonly thought. Indeed, our Western 'culture' is, in large-part, itself a form of overt ritual-abuse in which citizens are brainwashed by television 'programming' and entrapped in a socio-economic ballet of self-harm. These are merely the most visible signs of self-harm programming.
Citizens of Earth are routinely drawn to poison themselves with cleaning-fluids (alcohol), toxic gases (cigarettes). Self-harm on this planet is 'normal' and stems from varying degrees of childhood abuse.
The smaller group of citizens who actually take blades to their skin are not aberrations in our culture, but are instead simply undertaking a slightly more radical-form of the self-harm that is popularized everyday in television adverts and 'lifestyle' magazines. That said, this more radical-form of self-harm appears to have its origins in more extreme abuse. In short: A human who actively cuts themselves is almost invariably acting-out a programmed routine and will have a history of ritual-abuse, even if this history is not readily accessible to the survivor.
In an effort to stop me speaking out about the torture and mind control that malevolent groups enact on tiny children, I was subjected to programming designed to induce a sense in me that I was an abuser. As a child of below-ten-years-old, I was shown a video of someone abusing a child. You could not see the person's face. The abusers told me that I was the person abusing the child in the video.
As I was only a child at the time, I knew in my heart that I would never abuse a child. But as I was forced into an extremely suggestible state after the abuses that the programmers were subjecting me to, I believed this to be true. This was their intention: To convince me, through the sheer intensity of their apparent conviction that I was the abuser. As a child, we look to the adults around us to give us a sense of our reality. It is then, very confusing, when a child is told that they are the abuser.
No child deserved to be subjected to this type of torture, and it was extremely distressing. I took on much of the shame of the abuser and was, through this abuse, taught not to show myself love or compassion.
I was never a child-abuser nor will I ever be a child-abuser, and all the shame is to be felt by the adults abusing me. I have absolute love and compassion for what I went through and I know that I was a good, kind child that would never hurt other children.
I transformed this experience, as an adult, by drawing myself holding hands with other children and animals. This was to show my true, kind nature, and that I would never hurt another living being.
At the time when I was confronting, some of the worst aspects of my programming, I watched the film 'Alien' and it helped me to find a way through this most difficult chapter of healing. At this time, I was unaware of the strength of the defences in me, that would try to sabotage my healing, my friendships and my life. This programming was so strong that it led me to do very difficult and annoying things like thinking that I had forgetten my passwords for my banking (denying myself access to funds to be able to live) and also, ordering food to the wrong address when I was living in the countryside, and had no other way to obtain food.
A saboteur part of myself was acting in these instances, to stop my path to healing. It was very frustrating and demoralising, as it felt like I had become a different person. I felt so estranged from myself and scared that I had become bad.
I read the book 'The Alchemy of Wolves and Sheep' at this time and it helped me understand what was going on inside of me. I could see that the perpetrators that were external to me had become internal, and were acting to prevent myself from ever healing. It was affecting the people I cared about the most and so I was desperate to stop this internal sabotage.
The best way that I found to circumvent these attacks, was to process my anger on a daily basis, creating a structured routine where I would go for a daily run and then stamp and listen to rock music, to release all of the anger inside of me. This way, there was less of a pressure valve and I could be a much more peaceful person. Realising that anger is just an energy to be felt and expressed safely, helped me enormously. I had never learnt how to safely express anger, so often I would shut down or become a black hole of energy when it arose. Learning this new method of dealing with my anger has transformed my life and I can feel in control again of the saboteur programming.
In this drawing, I have drawn myself as Ripley from the film 'Alien'. I admire her strength and courage fighting off the alien, which is really a metaphor for abuse. I drew myself as Ripley, holding myself as a child, with Jones wrapped around my neck for protection and strength. It helped me to visualise Ripley when this sabotage programming was at its strongest. I have transformed this programming now, and what a relief it is to say that it is possible!
I drew this drawing after a series of attacks in my adult life. These attacks came from people who I had previously believed to be close friends. During the first years when I was healing from the abuse that I was subjected to as a child, I spent some time trying to live freely and make friends, as most people would do.
Unfortunately, I kept being drawn towards abusive people. This is because I could not see that the repetitive-patterns of abuse in my friendships were the result of childhood trauma perpetrated by my mother.
My mother was an extremely violent and perverse person. As an adult, I often unconsciously made friends with people who mirrored these characteristics although in a slightly different form.
My mother was covertly narcissistic and gave the superficial impression of a warm-hearted, child-like person. To survive as a child, and in early adulthood, I blocked-out many of her horrible and dangerous aspects. This allowed me to survive my childhood with the necessary belief that I was cared for and loved. It would be death to the soul if this false-belief were not there for a child at this critical time.
In a seemingly unending horror, I spent the first few years of my growing freedom as an adult with friends who were like mother-substitutes. I desperately tried to resolve the question of why my mother would hurt me. I did not know that these mother-replicas would not be able to answer my question, but instead plunge me further into pain that was similar to my mother's abuse.
To stop this repetitive cycle in adulthood, I had to fully feel the pain of what my mother had done to me as a child. I had to understand that abuse does not happen in isolation. I believed, internally, that it was just my family-system that was abusive, and that if I left 'home' I would be returning to a loving and kind world. This was not the case.
There are many hurt and abusive people on our planet. If you are trapped in a repetitive psychological-loop, it is very easy to find these destructive 'mother-replacements' in wider society. I found myself unconsciously drawn to them, many times.
To escape this pattern, it helped me to remember that none of this was my fault. The initial abuse by my mother was never my fault, and it was no more my fault that these adult-friends abused me as an adult. Internally, I was just a hurt kid, looking for my mother's love.
I drew this illustration to represent the negative, hyper-masculine aspects within people that I was unconsciously drawn to before I began to heal from my childhood. These relationships were unconscious repetitions of the abusive culture that I lived in as a child. Throughout my childhood I was abused by many men. Then, as an adult, I had some very strange relationships with men. Although some of these men seemed to be the opposite of the hyper-masculine ideal in society, they were nevertheless very abusive. Beneath their veneer of 'metrosexuality', they covertly believed in the same power structure as the more overt abusers.
In my illustration, the vampire with the fangs and feathers surrounding it represents my ex-'boyfriend' who was very abusive towards me. He presented the facade of a carefree, hippy-artist type figure. When in private, however, he was very controlling, degrading and forceful.
The letter 'G' in flames represents me burning a Freemasonic symbol. The Freemasonic abuse network is where I feel the parasitic core of this hyper-masculine phenomena is forged in many men. The Freemasons are essentially a pedophile-club which breeds more pedophiles. Just like the Scouts, or the Catholic Church, the Freemasons have crafted a public-image of being wise, godly men. But, as a child, I saw exactly what depraved sickness goes on behind the scenes in their clubs.
The illustration of the belt represents a teacher that I had whilst at sixth form college (between the ages of sixteen to eighteen). Henry Walink was my History teacher and he invited his students to participate in 'Meditation'. He said that these 'classes' would count as part of the creativity part of the 'International Baccalaureate', which I was studying at the time.
During this 'Meditation' group, which took place during one lunchtime, Henry Walink asked us if it was okay for him to remove his belt. My friend Malin and I, and probably the rest of the group, thought this was quite strange. However, he seemed calm and like he knew what he was doing, so we said it was fine. We then started meditating, after he chimed a gong.
With my eyes closed and thinking about a great many things (my crush who I had seen walking down the corridor in the college etc.), I didn't realise but Henry had approached me and Malin. He took his trousers down and forced my head to his genital area. He abused me here. He then did the same thing to Malin. We were both so shocked (and used to continual abuse), that we did not cry out or say anything. The power-dynamic was very clear and as sixteen-year-olds, we felt quite powerless next to this teacher. None of the rest of the class reacted.
We never returned to meditation. Henry Walink continued to teach History for the International Baccalaureate and the rest of the college (Richmond Upon Thames College in Twickenham, London).
This drawing shows the symbol of infinity. I drew it massive across my bedroom wall in Berlin. I was living in an altbau (old-build) apartment with crisp, white walls and high ceilings. I made my drawing big to give me courage to continue my journey while healing the trauma of my sexual abuse as a child.
I depict my spirit animal which is a hummingbird. I used the colour purple, which is a colour I resonate the most with. Hummingbirds' wings make the shape of infinity when they fly. I wanted to capture this sense of freedom and endless possibilities when it felt to me like things were closing in. Hummingbirds are also a symbol of hope. Hope kept me alive as an abused child.
In this series of posts, a survivor of childhood abuse describes, through writing and drawing, her healing journey.
I made this illustration of Teddington 'Mental Asylum' (in the words of the local people; not mine). This place was near to the river Thames. Formally it was known as Normansfield Hospital.
I deliberately used the words of the oppressor here. In this case, the oppressors were many of the 'middle-class' residents of Teddington. This is an affluent suburb of London where many people living there, beneath their facade of pretty-gardens and jewelry, were psychopathic Freemasons.
As a child, I saw how these abusers were networked together through groups such as the choir. This 'choir' met at the Landmark Arts Centre (a big, old gothic-style former church). They exploited vulnerable people living in the area, many of them, like me, were the survivors of ritual abuse which the Freemasons regularly perpetrated in this area.
During nighttime ceremonies conducted by the Freemasons, I witnessed patients taken from the 'Mental Asylum' or 'Loony bin' (both terms that the Freemasons would use). I now suspect that many of those people housed in this warehouse for troubled-souls were actually survivors of horrific childhood abuse. I describe it as a warehouse because it was in fact this.
Patients would be selected according to their maximum-sensitivity and vulnerability to exploit. I was forced to watch as two human beings were taken in wheelchairs from the warehouse and to the docks (the banks of the river Thames). Here, they were pushed into the river and drowned. I saw this with my own eyes. The Freemasons then collected the bodies to be used for 'ceremonial' purposes.
As the Freemasons in Teddington were intrinsically connected with the hospital-prison, it was quite easy for them to talk to the people working there; 'the staff'. It appeared to be easy for 'the staff' to make up some story about how these two individuals died. For all intents and purposes, they never existed.
I also witnessed some of the other adult-survivors of ritual-abuse that were imprisoned in the 'hospital' taken by the Freemason priest-class of choir-goers to ceremonies opposite the Landmark Arts Centre church in the graveyard. They were also used as victims in gang-rapes and orgies.
From my perspective, as a child, it seemed as if the whole town of Teddington was involved in ritual abuse to some extent. The most vulnerable residents were children, animals, and adults with particular sensitivity (what they would call a 'disability'). These people were supplied to the ritual abuse ring. The Freemasons also grabbed innocent people for their bullshit-ceremonies from across the road from the Landmark Arts Centre in St John's House, on Ferry Road. This was a house for people with 'disabilities', or as I saw it: increased sensitivity.
This house was conveniently situated across the road from the graveyard at ‘St Mary with St Alban’ (another favourite haunt of the Freemasons), and the Landmark Arts Center. The latter hosted the choir events where I was forced to watch the Freemasons meet up and laugh in glee at all the destruction they were causing in the town and how seemingly unnoticed it was all going.
As I have mentioned in previous posts, my father was a notorious Freemason and it was under his coercion that I was made to witness the abuses here in Teddington.
This is Timothée. He was a child-like soul and is now flying with the stars in the infinite cosmos. He has found peace in the afterlife, which he could never find here on earth. He always was an angel and remains one in his transcendence.
These three paintings represent the reality of the Fashion Industry in London. On the surface it is all bright lights and glamour, but underneath lies darkness and pourriture (rottenness). As a young girl, it was hard for me to recognise both of these realities at the same time.
For a long time, I idealised the glamour of the photographic-image. I felt that the images in the 'high end' fashion magazines, like Vogue, pointed to a better reality then the one I was living in.
This reality turned out to be an illusion. A hall of mirrors. Beneath the surface was the sexual abuse from agents and photographers. I experienced hell as a teenager, working as a model.
In this series of posts, a survivor of childhood abuse describes, through writing and drawing, her healing journey.
The summer I finished high school-I was eighteen years old-I spent a lot of time in central London doing fashion 'shoots'. One 'shoot' was for the fashion photographer Rankin. This was a swimwear shoot. I was angry because I has said that I only wanted to take photographs where I am wearing clothes. My interest was in style, not in nudity. I feared being abused by fashion photographers; abuse where my clothes were removed. I thought that if I insisted on wearing clothes (doing Fashion Photography) I would be saved from the abuse.
Unfortunately, this was not the case. Whether I was clothed or not, I was abused. In this particular case, Rankin made me and another model do a swimwear shoot. I thought that everything had gone okay because I had not been abused.
Later that night, there was an after-party, in Covent Garden, near a Cafe Nero, just off the Strand. I saw Rankin at the party and he had a bird on his shoulder. I tried to avoid him all evening, as I was afraid of him.
Eventually, he "got to me" and he insisted that I follow him into a room. I didn't want to go, but I felt scared by his power and celebrity. I felt that there was no way out.
In the room there was a bed and Rankin still had the bird on his shoulder.
Rankin raped me on the bed.
The bird flew into the corner of the room.
At that time, the summer of 2011 in London, I was watching a TV series called Dirty, Sexy, Things, which was about models living in London. It was strange for me to watch a series which mirrored my own life so closely. These other young models, I felt, faced the same abyss that I was experiencing.
It is clear from the title of this TV series how little respect was given to models and how they are treated as 'things' to be used and abused.
Some of the trauma-based programming that I was subjected to as a child involved brainwashing and manipulation in association with the symbol-set of the popular tarot card deck.
For a long time after the abuse, when I saw certain tarot cards, I would become sub-consciously triggered into a sense of panic or total submission. Far from being a form of 'magic' this was merely traumatic associative-conditioning at work; exactly as demonstrated by the psychologist Ivan Pavlov in the 1890s. I now understand that those people who abused me specifically used tarot cards as they likely contain archetypal information drawn from the collective-unconscious. This was certainly the perspective of Carl Jung.
Child-abuse cults, like the Freemasons, know about the power of symbols. They combine these symbols with torture, subordinating people through classic associative-conditioning. It didn't fully work on me.
Later, as an adult, I decided to draw some illustrations which would transform the tarot cards into something positive and bright. I was inspired by the philosopher, Osho, whose modern re-imagining of the tarot deck brings a more uplifting dimension to the tired symbology. In my re-imagining of the tarot, I tried to make the cards whimsical and carefree, whilst retaining their original power.
The worst abuses that I ever experienced as a child were in the trauma-based mind-control centre under the Houses of Parliament in London. I have previously written about this.
This illustration depicts my adult healing from, and transformation of, the abuse I experienced as a child. It relates to the time I was taken down in an elevator, very deep underground. The child-abuse centre itself was underground, but the black box torture room that I was taken to was even deeper under the ground. As a child, it gave me the feeling that I would never be able to escape from this hovel seemingly near the centre of the Earth.
During this experience of torture (one of many) I was left in a black room which was shaped like a large box. It had no windows or furnishings. The walls were black and it was pitch black. I was left alone there all night. I befriended a rat that lived in the box.
The programmer saw that I had befriended the rat and was angry. It was bad for me to make friends with anyone. It was bad to love.
The programmer killed Rattie (my friend the rat) in front of me using a trap to murder animals with. He wanted me to do it, but I refused to kill my friend.
I feel that Rattie is now free and in a safe, more beautiful place then the world that he was born into here on Earth.
One of the most traumatic abuses I experienced under the Houses of Parliament, was being abused in a dark room, far underground. Here, I was raped by a group of adults, each wearing a mask of the face of famous American presidents and British prime ministers. This was terrifying for me. I believed for a long time, until I had fully recovered this memory that various famous political 'leaders' had abusd me. I now see that it was people wearing the masks of famous politicians.
I believe that they did this to distort my memories. One day, if I were to recall this abuse, I might mistakenly say that so and so famous president abused me. They could then falsify my account. However, I see the mechanism of what my abusers were doing. I am not afraid to speak out about how true power hides and how we are made to fear political 'celebrities', who are seen as absolute in their power over us.
Even though I was not actually abused by these political celebrities, I can see the whole environment of Politics, as one in which abuse festers, as I was abused bt the institution of Government (under the Houses of Parliament.) Now, I see the reality: Politics is mainly a club of pedophiles, desguised as people in suits doing important things for our country.
Two of my childhood friends, Annoush and James, were also 'selected' to be models. We were taken to Mick Jagger's house as children. This house was close to where I live, and was situated on top of Richmond Hill, adjacent to the Vineyard school, overlooking Terrace Gardens. Here we were 'coached' on modeling as our career path.
Later in life, when I was a teenager (sixteen to eighteen years old), my father took me to a party at the Mick Jagger house one evening. There were many people there who I recognized as prominent figures from the Fashion and Music Industries, such as photographers and other models.
I started drinking to try to escape the situation because it was so overwhelming. The party seemed to be preperation for entering the world of modeling. My other two friends from primary school (now the same age as me), who were also 'selected' when they were four to five years old, Annoush and James were also at the party. They forced Annoush, James and I to perform sexual acts and then they filmed everything. I believe the intention of this horiffic abuse was to make pornography to sell for financial gain.
When I first spoke out about this abuse in public, other survivors contacted me to say they had also been abused at the Mick Jagger house.
The Castalia Foundation has received independent confirmation from another survivor of abuse connected to Mick Jagger and he is the subject of ongoing surveillance. We are also aware of Jagger's close friendship with notorious pedophile, Jeffrey Epstein, and this relationship is a matter of open, public record, as you can see here.
This illustration depicts my adult transformation of a childhood experience of sexual abuse at Brownies (the younger division of 'The Girl Scouts'). In the illustration, I have transformed this abuse from an experience of pain into one of triumph and strength.
As a child, I was taken, with my cousin Ali, to Brownies in the area around Barnes, London. Her father Gordon Frey took us there.
All the children had to sit in a circle and play a memory game. I felt very anxious, Ali seemed to be very scared too, and so were all the children in the room. Afterwards, I was taken outside into a shed-like building when I couldn't remember any of the memory game when it was my turn to repeat the list of objects seen. I was forcefully taken outside by the nuns running the group. They took my trousers off.
Then, with my trousers off, I was handed over to dark-clothed and hooded men who violently raped and beat me. I was then washed in the outside building bathroom and taken back into the Brownies hall by the nuns.
The Castalia Foundation invites readers to research ‘The Boy Scouts of America; to learn more about the degree to which these institutions have relentlessly, and systematically raped children in their care. Many of these groups now face bankruptcy on account of the number of adult-survivors of childhood abuse who are now taking legal action against them.
This survivor's account of abuse at 'Brownies' can be viewed in the context of what we now know to be a global network of child-rapists engineered by the apex-predator class to traumatize and dis-empower the citizens of planet earth. In many cases, survivors of this type of abuse never fully process and recover from what was done to them. This survivor's account is, based on our interviews with other survivors, typical of children's experiences in such groups; what is unusual is this survivor's willingness to confront the trauma and speak out about it.
As a child, during one of my abuse sessions at a 'facility', I was subjected to torture combined with negative messages. I was put in a black box and left inside it, without any food or water, for hours on end. The abusers did not let me use the bathroom, so I had to sit in my own excrement. It felt terrible and degrading.
Abusers who looked like doctors were closely monitoring me from outside the box. There was a camera in one corner and they watched me through this live video stream. Men dressed in black and wearing masks would rape me.
They would play horrific messages into the box, for example: "You are disgusting and dirty." This felt almost to be true, as I could not associate my condition of lying in squalor there, with the abusers who put me there. They also played messages such as, "You can never escape" and "Stop resisting."
I believe that they set up the dark box as it was to simulate the mind. Being in that box and hearing those messages, when you were shivering, cold, hungry, tired and surrounded in dirt was very overpowering.
In this drawing I have transformed the hold the abusers intended to have over me. The eye symbolizes the camera of control being reversed into an eye of awareness. By remembering what the abusers did, putting me in the box and playing those messages to me over and over again, I was able to cut through the programming. I was able to see that the abusers put these ideas into my head. They never came from me. I continue to fight and refuse to believe in their insidious messages.
The Castalia Foundation reminds readers that this type of trauma-based mind control system has been used on multiple children. We invite the reader to study the available documentation on the CIA's MK-Ultra project and it's systematic abuse of children. This will allow the reader to gain a deeper understanding of the context in which this survivor was abused. Other survivors have reported similar incidents of abuse to The Castalia Foundation and we believe the type of abuse described by this survivor to be a common method by which citizens of Earth have been degraded and traumatized by the apex-predator class.
While such abuse is common, the ability to process and speak out against such abuses is unusual. The abuse itself is designed to evade easy detection as it typically causes irreconcilable splits in the psyche of the traumatized child. What consciously remains of the experience is often fractured, and the survivor may never fully piece together the truth of their past.
A part of the organized-abuse that I experienced as a child was perpetrated by the British Government. A tactic used to prevent me ever speaking out about what had happened to me was to disorientate me. In part, this was achieved when the abusers took me to different locations blind-folded in the dead of the night. I would arrive at a so-called 'facility' and have no sense of where I was exactly. These locations always appeared to be within the UK England, however; judging by the fact that we always drove to locations and it never seemed like we crossed water; or flew; or drove for lengthy periods of time.
The abuse at these 'facilities' was well-planned. There were people at the locations who appeared to be doctors (wearing medical clothing) performing the torture on the children.
During one torture experience at a 'facility', I was put in a glass box in a white room with intense fluorescent lighting. I sat there for hours and around me along the perimeter of the room were other children each sat naked in a glass box, just like mine. The people that looked like doctors, would come in and select a child at random. They would then be dragged out of their box kicking and screaming.
This random selection process was so terrifying, and the fact that there was no pattern to the child they chose, made it even more anxiety-ridden. The fluorescent lighting was extremely uncomfortable to my eyes.
In the midst of this floodlit, terrifying experience, I felt that we, the children, metaphorically joined hands in our spirits and escaped our prisons. We drew strength from each other. The abusers could separate us physically, but they could not divide our consciousness. It felt like we were all united in spirit in these moments of torture, and that we somehow transcended the alienation which the abusers wanted us to feel.
The Castalia Foundation wishes to make readers aware that we have received other, independent reports of very similar trauma-based conditioning using the method described above. The torture this survivor was subjected to appears to combine several known abuse-tactics: Isolation; excessively-bright lighting; the random-selection of children to be subjected to acts of violence; imprisonment. In short, this method of abuse is a form of the ‘lockdown’ torture that is a well-established trauma-based conditioning technique used by the apex-predator class and their operatives.
One of the worst traumas I was subjected to at the 'facility' in an unknown location, likely somewhere in the countryside of England, was being asked to turn upon my friends. Jim, Betty and I were three children selected for their experiment. They tried to get us to turn on each other and abuse each other. We all refused adamently. The doctors were angry that we would not comply and not turn into monsters like them. So, they put tape across our mouths and raped the three of us. We lay holding hands in solidarity on the floor.
It was a test to see what type of children we were and what type of adults we would later be. If you took the violence out on another child, you may become a perpetrator in the cult group, enforcing violence on other victims and continuing the circle of abuse.
If you didn't perpetrate violence, like Jim, Betty and I, the abusers wanted you to become eternal victims to the group, where they would control you with 'handlers'.
Jim, Betty and I tried to escape from the facility by running out when we saw the opportunity to escape. We ran as fast as the wind, and got into a back yard where there were trash cans (with bodies of children and animals in them). We climbed on the trash cans, apologizing to any of the poor beings who lay beneath us victims of this sadistic place, and tried to climb up out over the fence.
However, when we started climbing, flashing lights came on in the back yard and sirens started ringing out across the facility alerting the evil doctors as to our attempted great escape. The flourescent lighting had been used in our abuse and was very unsettling along with the loud sirens. We were taken down from the fence and put back into our cages. However, the feeling of near escape and freedom and solidarity between us never left me.
In this drawing, I depict another type of torture that I was subjected to by the people who abused me in the UK. During this form of abuse, I was in a metallic room. I was stripped naked and left on the floor. I was around seven years old when I was first subjected to this type of trauma-based conditioning.
The 'scientists' observing me first raised the temperature, so that I thought that I would die of heat. Then, they lowered the temperature so that I thought that I would die of the cold. I survived both. I expect that some other children did not.
The Castalia Foundation wishes to make the reader aware that we have received additional, independent reports of the same type of hot/cold torture that this survivor describes. This method of trauma-conditioning has been reported to us in two forms: The first is as this survivor describes, where specialized equipment has been used at a location at which many children are abused. The second form is one in which abusers use 'makeshift' equipment. Specifically, we have independent reports from survivors who were forced into household fridge and freezer equipment. It appears that this method of using extreme heat or cold to induce traumatic splits in the human psyche is known both to government-level abusers, and to domestic-level abusers.
As a child, I was subjected to trauma-based mind-control at many different locations in the UK. This illustration depicts the time I was taken to a 'facility'. This building was located in the countryside in the Lake District.
My family took me to a small, wooden cabin in the Lake District. At night, I was taken from my bed by men in black leather motorcycle outfits. They drove me on their motorbikes and took me to a room which was very dark. Inside the room was a cool, blue light which had a horrible frequency to it, which made me feel scattered and confused.
The men put me in a large glass tank approximately seven meters square. It was totally sealed up so that you couldn't escape. The men then opened the glass door to this tank and put me inside. I was scared because I didn't know what was going to happen to me in there. The blue light was shining on me.
The men left the glass tank with me inside it. Then, they started to fill the box with water, so that it was puddle-deep. I was only three years old and I didn't understand what was happening. Initially, I thought it was fun splashing around in the water.
On either side of the glass tank, in two separate rooms either side, were people dressed in doctor's clothes. They seemed to be monitoring what I was doing and laughed and smiled in encouragement, when I was splashing around. The men in black motorcycle clothing, who had taken me to this 'facility' were now gone.
The 'doctors' then raised the water to my neck. I started to get scared at this point. Because I was so young, I had not yet learned to swim. So, I fell and then struggled to get up again and then fell over again. I was just a small child and I struggled to stand on my feet, let alone in water. I kept gulping in water and then panicking that I was drowning. I couldn't breathe. The 'doctors' showed no mercy and just kept recording me, with no empathy.
I kept fighting until I was able to stand up in the water without falling down. Once the doctors saw that I could do this, they raised the water level so that it covered my mouth and I kept having to jump up to be able to breathe. They did this for a while, then they raised the water to just below my eyes. I became even more panicked and started hyperventilating. They then raised the water above my eyes and filled the tank for quite a while, so that it was about halfway full.
This was a real struggle for me because I couldn't yet swim properly, so I was left floating and sinking each time. Each time I reached the surface, I gasped for air and then would be submerged again.
At this point, I felt confused and panicked, and started drifting into a delirium, as I was not getting enough oxygen, and my whole being was scared and trapped and anxious. When they could see that I could not keep my energy up to float and I was losing consciousness, they lowered the water so that I could breathe again. They wanted to torture me, but not to kill me.
Now, as an adult, I understand that this torture was designed to induce a fear in me of not being able to escape, ever. They did this to create a traumatic-split, induced by the primitive fear of drowning. Children become traumatized after this type of torture.
After this torture, I was transported back to the cabin where I was staying with my parents.
The Castalia Foundation has received numerous similar reports of this type of traumatic-conditioning. The near-drowning methods used by the abusers who hurt this survivor may have their origins in the discoveries of psychologist, Ivan Pavlov, who inadvertently subjected his dogs to a similar torture experience when the animals became trapped during a flood.
Alternatively, this type of abusive-conditioning may predate Pavlov by centuries: Although earlier uses of near-drowning may not have been understood with the level of psychological sophistication we can now apply to analyzing the phenomena, it is extremely likely that the effects would have been observed by cults operating on Earth for, potentially, many centuries.
Other variations of this type of hydro-torture reported to The Castalia Foundation included the use of metal cages rather than glass rooms. In these cases, the entire room was flooded, causing water to rush into the cages where children were held. Typically, this method is used in basement spaces and at locations where the abusers know they are unlikely to be disturbed. Obviously, these methods require that the abuser(s) have access to water pump systems and other equipment.
To avoid attracting attention during non-operational hours, the cages used in this type of abuse may appear to have another use during the time that children are not being tortured at the location. For example, it is common to use the cages for 'equipment storage' at other times. Popular locations for this type of torture-equipment are at premises where there is plausible deniability for both cages and water-pumps being present in a basement area.
Making an assessment of whether a location is being used for hydro-torture will require a careful examination of the architecture of the space. Long-term surveillance of the location may be necessary as many such locations with cages have been designed to appear as if they serve a non-hostile purpose. One strong indication that a location with basement and cages warrants surveillance is if the location is both isolated and commonly used for children's activities. Adventure camps and sailing clubs are examples of commonly used facilities in which children are abused in a way similar to that described by the survivor writing above, and others who have made reports to The Castalia Foundation.
As a child, I was often sexually abused at locations my Freemasonic father took me to. One of these places was called The Coal Hole, and I have made an illustration of it above.
The Coal Hole was a pub in London, near the Embankment. It was a hang-out for Freemason London office workers. My dad, along with his cronies at Shell, would meet there and get outlandishly drunk. As a kid, I would hide under the table in the pub basement as grown men rolled around in their misery and beer. Another small child hid under the table with me. They were also a child of a Freemason office worker.
The men got drunk and passed me, and the other little girl, around under the table to molest us. One drunk man in a suit, urinated on us because he saw us hugging and comforting each other. My dad got super angry and started yelling at him because he was worried about how it would look on the train home. He thought it would make him look like a bad parent.
One of the men who was at this gathering was a colleague of my father at Shell, he was called Carl Rich.
On the train home, my dad tried to explain away the reason that I smelled like I had been urinated on by a fully grown man. He told people on the train that I had rolled around in "dog's piss" in a park. I felt humiliated and angry by this.
A kind woman and man on the train looked very concerned for me. The woman stroked my head and said that everything would be okay. She seemed to understood that I was being abused by my dad.
I will always remember their kindness. It gave me the strength to continue living.
My father worked at ‘The Shell Centre’ which was on the Waterloo station side of the Embankment in London. Sometimes, he would take me to visit his work, and then I would be taken underground through a tunnel network that connected the Shell building with other buildings on the other side of the River Thames.
One of the buildings that ‘The Shell Centre’ connected to, through the underground tunnel network, was the 'National Liberal Club'. I was taken there one day via the underground passages. I entered through a basement wine cellar. I then was taken up to one of the lavish rooms of this private member's club. The blinds were down and the curtains were closed. It felt like it was nighttime in the room, but it was actually daytime.
There were other children in this room and we (me and the other children, already there) were stripped of clothing and given some alcohol to drink. I refused to drink what they gave me and then they tied me up in the middle of the room. The children were arranged in an oval shape in the centre of the room, each child facing out into the room with their hands tied behind their backs.
Members of the British Parliament and other 'club' members entered the room. They were drinking. it was a party atmosphere, except for the obvious fact that there were naked children standing in the middle of the room with their hands tied behind their backs.
One adult, who was fat and looked like the MP Cyril Smith, untied my rope, raped me on the floor in front of everyone, at which point all the adults cheered. All the other children looked horrified.
Then, I was taken into a back room and raped. I was also hit with a whip. It really hurt and I dissociated from the pain. At the end, the fat man who had abused me, punched me in the head and I lost consciousness temporarily.
When I half-awoke, I was slumped in the corner of the room. The other children, who were standing in the oval circle before had probably been taken into other rooms and abused. I pretended to be unconscious, but I could feel the horror and violence in the atmosphere.
After what felt like a long time, a woman came to get me. She showered me and clothed me in a bathroom. Then, I was taken to my father and he took me back through the wine cellar and back to The Shell Centre. We then went home.
The Castalia Foundation invites the reader to note that MP Cyril Smith has been generally acknowledged to be a notorious child-rapist, although this information had previously been concealed by the British 'Police' Force; MI5; the current British Government; and the 'media'. Source: The Telegraph, 14th November.
The reader is therefore invited to consider what it means to be a 'Member of Parliament'. Is a precondition of entry either direct participation in these crimes against children, or silence regarding these crimes? The latter is also a form of participation.
Source: The Daily Mail, 29th May, 2014
In other words: Is Parliament itself effectively a pedophile club serving as a public puppet-show for the string-pullers who wear gold crowns?
This video here explores the formative psychodynamics of those who are drawn to 'politics' in Britain. It should help readers to gain a deeper understanding of how British Politicians are groomed as children to occupy roles of 'power' precisely because these 'politicians', beneath their public-facade, feel powerless on account of childhood trauma.
I was often dropped off at Embankment or Charing Cross Station and put into inconscpicuous looking cars and driven to places in the central London area around Embankment to be abused by the Government.
I was blind-folded in the car but I would often have some sense of where they were taking me to. Most often, I would be taken to the testing centre under the Houses of Parliament. To get to this underground place, I would enter through a side-door and then be taken down in a lift. I remember flourescent lighting and generic hospital-like pictures on the wall. It very much felt like a hospital or a laboratory, as the people dressed like doctors or scientists in lab coats.
There were even dormitories there for children to stay in while they were being tested/ tortured. I rememeber staying in a bare, clinical room with flourescent lighting and a metal bed and nothing else. I would escape into my internal world of animals and hope to bear the pain of this prison.
The main thing I remember is long corridors with white walls. Other children were taken there, too, to be mind-controlled. They isolated the children to avoid any form of human contact, solidarity and empathy. This created the feeling of being alone, very bad and sick, which were all things that the 'doctors' told me.
Making the torturers and psychopaths dress up in doctors costumes and scientists clothes, was supposed to give them more authority and credability. It would make me fear the medical community later in life, who I saw as synonomous with torturers and psychopaths. This is not too far away from the truth.
Unfortunately, many doctors today are financially invested in the sickness and death of their patients. They bear the insignia of the snake and staff, a Freemasonic death cult symbol. The medical profession seems to have strayed far away from the hippocratic oath they took to 'First, do no harm.'
This drawing is an amalgamation of different traumatic experiences I had in London. They focus on some well-known places, that might have quite a different reputation to the one imprinted in my memory from the abuse I suffered there. I wanted to reimagine these places, and show people what they were really like.
When I was a teenager, I liked going vintage clothes shopping up in London and scouting out interesting pieces of clothing at the second hand shops in the area. I would also like to frequent art galleries and be immersed in a world of beauty and pleasing aesthetics. One time, I went to the King's Road to mill around the area and doing some 'window-shopping', I went into Starbucks to buy a Frappucino.
When I was inside, I got stopped by a man who said that he was the famous fashion photographer David Bailey. He spoke to me and said that I was very beautiful and that he would like to photograph me. He asked whether I had been signed by a modelling agency. He gave me his card and said that I should contact him if I wanted to have my picture taken, and that he could: 'Make me a star.'
I took the card home to my parents and they either personally made contact with him or they got in touch with David Bailey through the model agency that I was linked to which was Profile Model Management.
Then, it was arranged that I would go to his studio on the King's Road for a fashion shoot. I had just turned eighteen years old. The other model and I, a teenager of around the same age as me, were told to put on swimwear that the assistants had laid out for us. We were offered champagne and cocaine to "loosen us up." As I was so nervous, I accepted it and there was a feeling of pressure, due to the power dynamic, so I felt like I had to accept their offer.
At the beginning of the shoot, Bailey said that we both looked stiff and like we were going to a funeral. I could then feel the affects of the alcohol and drugs and we started having fun playing with the props that they had put on the set, like inflatable rings for swimming. It felt like we were at the beach, as we were pretending to be.
Then, we had to change for another scene which was rock music themed and he told us to wear guitars and pretend like we were in a band. He said that the photos would be used in Elle or Vogue. At the end of the shoot, he patted us on the back and laughed gleefully and said that we had done well.
Abruptly, he pushed us into the changing rooms and locked the door behind us. He proceeded to rape us both. When the other model and I came out of the changing room the assistant looked worried, but pretended not to see what had happened, both of us models smelled of sick, having vomited after the abuse.
The photographer left me with a wad of money, but when I returned to collect it after having a shower, I was only left with one hundred pounds. I felt so angry and disgusted at what had happened, that I tore up the note when I got outside on the high street. It had never been about the money and I felt like I had just been paid to be abused.
This drawing refers to Earl's Court in London. When I was a teenager, I was sent on some modeling assignments in London. Following on from the work that I did with David Bailey, the fashion photographer, I was asked to do another shoot with him, this time in Earl's Court. He said that the pictures would be used in a magazine like Vogue. Here, a very similar thing happened to me. I was offered champagne and cocaine, as seemed to be the standard in the world of fashion. I got put in a pretty, floral dress and was asked to do some 'ethereal' looking photographs in the dress. Afterwards, Bailey lured me into a bathroom and raped me again.
I feel critical now of the whole Fashion Industry and the poisons that they ask models to ingest to facilitate their rape. I drew myself as a zombie and a ghoul because that is what the industry made me into. I was no longer alive, and had to repress the true horror of what was happening. Still, I took a strong stand against it by stopping modeling after these abuses had taken place. I hope to raise awareness of what is really happening behind the scenes through this account.
I think my story is not rare. I am sure this has happened and is still happening to many teenagers, some much younger than eighteen, as I was when I first got involved with fashion shoots. There is an assumption that in fashion it is 'normal' for models and photographers/ designers to have sexual relations. This disguises the truth of what is happening, in that many young girls (and boys) are coerced or forcibly raped by high-profile people in the industry. Often, there is no confusion. It is very clear. Adults who should know better are abusing teenagers and children.
I sometimes used to visit Harrods with my parents to show kids who would stay with us from Germany the tourist attractions in London. One of these 'attractions' was Harrods. When we went into the lavish food court, I got swept into the kitchens by one of the chefs and molested. I then got pushed back into the food court and re-entered 'real life'. I felt a lot of empathy for the lobsters who were about to become a soup. The world was swimming: Full of people pushing around their shopping trolleys.
I would often go to brunch with my parents and my older cousin Ali. One saturday morning we visiting Crocs, a cafe which was in the West Kensington area of London. My cousin and I got taken into the kitchen and molested by one of the chefs. It seemed to be normal at that time for children to be on the food menu.
This was a restaurant I once visited. I believe that this restaurant abuses children who come to the restaurant. I was able to prevent a child from being abused, by being present in the kitchen, while an adult 'friend' of mine was having intimate relations with a chef. I went looking for my 'friend' and found her in the kitchen. There was also a child there from the restaurant above. The chefs took delight in stabbing an already dead stag, which was lying on the kitchen worktop. They then wanted to abuse the little boy, but I prevented this from happening by standing in front of the little boy to protect him. He then ran upstairs to his family.
I had as a child been in so many kitchens where the same thing was happening. There was an 'understanding' between the parents and the chefs in the kitchen, that it was 'okay' to abuse children in their restaurant. I am glad that I was able to stand up for this little boy and prevent him from being hurt by the chefs. I wish that someone had done the same thing for me when I was a kid.
The Royal Horticultural Society's "Chelsea Flower Show" was another place that my parents took me as a child, as if I was one of the flowers that was being exhibited. In a sense, I was a flower waiting to be 'picked' by one of the hungry gardeners.
We wondered around the flower show, filled with strangely ornamental and decadent flower beds, more remeniscent of an antique shop then something as vibrant and alive as plants. It was here, that my father made a back-hand deal with someone at the flower show and I was taken into one of the greenhouses and abused. The Greenhouse was transparent, so it can't have been difficult for the visitors of the flower show to see what was happening. But like the thin illusion of transparent green glass, they averted their eyes and pretended like nothing was happening.
When I was a kid, my mother would take me along with her when she used to visit fancy clothes shops. One of these shops was Jigsaw in Richmond and in Kingston. Here, she would take me into the changing room and molest me.
This was not the only time I was abused at a 'Jigsaw' store. My parents would often go shopping on Kensington High Street, London. One of my mother's favourite shops was Jigsaw and she would drag me around this shop as a young child. On one occasion, she was in the Jigsaw branch on Kensington High Street and I was taken into a back room. Here all the babies of some of the parents in the shop were lying on the floor, crying and isolated into sections. The shop assistants ignored the children's screams.
When I was older, the abuse perpetrated by my mother and other people working at Jigsaw drew me to compulsively return to the store. I decided to work for this company. Whilst working there, my colleague was a man called Greg and he harassed me in a changing room at the store. He made inappropriate remarks about me being 'beautiful'. The other assistant told me that it was a pattern of Greg's to lure in "young, pretty girls" and "seduce" them. This word "seduce" is a byword for sexual-abuse in much of the Fashion Industry. I learned this as a model while working in London.
Instead of getting mad at his own inappropriate behaviour, Greg got mad at me for avoiding his advances. He critiqued me on my clothes folding ability. This happened later that afternoon, when I had escaped his "seduction". This is a common tactic of abusers: To place the blame on the victim, rather then to look at themselves as an abuser.
The Castalia Foundation notes that this survivor is describing a pattern of behavior in people working for major 'chain-stores' in the UK. Based on her experiences, we invite the reader to consider the likelihood that institutional abuse pervades not only the political establishment in the UK, but also the apex-predator class who own and operate major businesses across the country. We have received other reports from survivors of the 'Fashion Industry'. These reports leave little doubt that this 'Fashion Industry' is so corrupt and harmful that it is questionable whether it would exist in any rational, caring society.
The Castalia Foundation invites further investigation into the connections between the 'Fashion Industry'; the clothing manufacturers (many of whom have been repeatedly evidenced to use child slave-labor in communist dictatorships); and the shop-floors of the outlets who sell these clothes; and those who work in managerial roles throughout those companies. In short: The reader is invited to ask: What is the purpose of 'fashion' in our ‘cult’ure?
I was taken here by my parents. So that they could 'sell' me into the fashion industry. I would not comply with the sexual abuse that one of the modelling scouts wanted to force on me, so my parents were not successful in signing me up into this particular branch of fashion slavery. I was under the age of sixteen at the time.
A friend of my father was called Nick and his family owned a mansion in the countryside of England (Sussex). Davina McCall later bought this house.
In this house, at Nick's mother's birthday party, my father collected money from many of the guests and they were able to abuse me in one of the mansion's archaic rooms. There was a four-poster bed and dozens of the party guests abused me there.
This is a drawing about Nick's wife Lou, who helped to try and save me as a kid. She could see what was going on and tried to alert social services. The system is so broken, that even when an adult reports child abuse to social services, with the child present, they cannot act.
My father threatened to kill me and Lou if I told about what he had been doing. So, I had to lie when the social worker came. She should have seen through this anyway and Lou forgave me.
Lou was like an angel to me. She was Brazilian and her outsider perspective on British 'cult'ure, broke through the seeming normality of abuse for me. She was one of the few adults that I knew as a child, who actually cared about me not being hurt. I will never forget her.
I believe that I was around thirteen years old when abuse by a maths teacher at my secondary school, Waldegrave School for Girls, happened. The memory that I had was of Mr Frank Cassidy, calling me back to talk to him after the maths class that he taught. I thought that it was about my work in class. He let all the other students leave the room and then proceeded to open his trousers and make me touch his genitals. He also touched my child's chest.
Another teacher who worked on the languages corridor was Madame Cretjan-Jones. She was also involved in child abuse, whether through her silence, or through the active abuse of children. She orbited my mother and the French department at Waldegrave school.
One summer, I was invited to spend some time at her house in France with my mother and father. Whilst we were at their house, Madame Cretjan-Jones' husband went into the bathroom to try to abuse me, but I ran away from him and escaped. In this drawing, I imagined pushing him into their ginormous swimming pool.
Ms Lyon was another languages teacher at my secondary school, who taught French. She was a child molester and I remember her French classes, where I would feel terrified of her picking on me in class.
She intimidated and abused a girl called Sally. Sally reacted to the abuse by being 'naughty' in class and causing a lot of "chaos in the classroom." The real chaos was caused by Ms. Lyon being a pedophile.
When I was a teenager at Waldegrave School for Girls in Twickenham, one of my English teachers was called Ms Moore. She taught me when I was fifteen/ sixteen years old for GCSE. Ms Moore was a child abuser. She sexually molested me after class, when I was called behind for not completing homework or some other negligible reason.
During this time of school abuses, there was a kind cleaning lady from South America who had empathy for me as a kid and could see what was going on. The "staff" room was full of predator-teachers, hoping to gobble up children at the school.
When I was a teenager, I wore braces. When I went to see my orthodontist on Richmond Hill, near my primary school 'The Vineyard School', he would molest me. I remember being freaked out my all the boxes in his cupboard containing the teeth moulds of other children. It was a very creepy place.
I was taken here on a school trip when I was a kid with the Vineyard school. In this museum, me along with some other children (Aly-Khan, Satpreet and James), were singled out to be abused in a room intended for school art projects. We were all abused in there by adults working for the Victoria and Albert musueum in London.
One of the strangest abuses I ever experienced, was being smuggled in a suitcase through London City Airport to be taken onto a private jet, where there were a load of men in suits. The idea was for me to be a 'hostess' on the plane. The handlers put me into a horrible short skirt and top and expected me to act in a certain way to please the men in suits. I was so appalled by this idea that I vomited everywhere, and evaded this abuse by being put inside a cupboard on the jet for the duration of the flight.
The other children being forced to work on the plane had to 'entertain' the business men.
Another part of the mind-control programming that I was subjected to involved watching a weird cult film. In this film, there was a woman riding on a horse and at the end of the film, she stabbed herself in the stomach, killing herself, live on film.
This was incredibly disturbing and arose as certain layers of programming abuses by the government were revealed.
This film was meant to be an instruction manual for me, as to how I should kill myself if I were to remember the abuses and particularly mind-control perpetrated on me by the British government.
I am still alive. I chose not to kill myself. I want to live.
In this illustration, I have attempted to transform the trauma I was subjected to as a child in the Shell Oil canteen. My father used to take me to work sometimes, when I had school holidays. We would go to his place of work: Shell Centre, in central London near Waterloo station. I remember getting lunch in the canteen on one occasion.
As a kid, I hoped to block out all else that followed and tried only to remember the round, green and red sweets filled neatly in a glass bowl at reception or, the free hot chocolate that I drank from a machine.
What I tried to block-out was getting lunch at the canteen and what happened afterwards.
After lunch, during which I remember feeling exceedingly uncomfortable because all the eyes of the men in business suits (Shell employees) were on me, my father led me into a bathroom adjacent to the canteen, so that the Shell employees were able to abuse me in a toilet cubicle.
A good friend of mine when I was a kid was called Emily. She lived next door to me and her father was also sexually abusing her. Emily and I used to love playing Harry Potter video games together.
Her father took Emily upstairs and abused her when he came home from work in an office in London and locked me downstairs so that I could not help Emily. I heard her being abused in the bedroom above.
In this drawing, Emily and I are cursing her father, so that he can never hurt Emily ever again.
An abuse I remember happening at the RAF air cadets squadron in Twickenham, which used to be on Stanley Road opposite the Fulwell station bus garage was a programming trauma.
I was taken here in the middle of the night, on a school night, whilst I was still attending Waldegrave School for Girls, which is located ten minutes walk away from this RAF base. I was then taken on board a fake alien UFO and abused in a dark room, after being shown alien-like puppets.
I believe that this abuse was intended to instill a fear in me of extra-terrestials. It was also, perhaps, used to discredit accounts of UFO encounters, particularly, as these present a massive threat to the prevailing power structures on planet Earth.
A girl that I used to play with when I was a kid was called Isabella. I used to go round to her house after school. She lived on Manor Road near North Sheen train station. Isabella was half Spanish. She had a very kind nanny who used to play with us and cared for us greatly.
Isabella's father was sexually abusing her, as were so many fathers in my neighborhood of Richmond, London.
Very late one night, I was taken to Richmond station car park. Many business men were coming home from work in the offices of London.
My father had organized it, so that I would be raped by these fully-grown men in a car park at night.
The Castalia Foundation notes that these type of abuse experiences appear to be typical for many children. We invite the reader to walk the streets of any major city to witness the disregard with which the general public treat a child who is in distress. Far from being difficult to believe, we find this survivors account to match the experience of many other survivors who have contacted us. It is very easy for abusers to target children in our 'cult'ures.
As a teenager, my father tried to involve me in his criminal activity. For example, he was involved in distributing child-pornography. He had arranged to sell some of this child-pornography.
He forced me to act as a courier and give the child pornography DVDs to some men in a Starbucks (opposite Richmond station) in Richmond, London.
I was determined to sabotage this transaction. I did so by destroying the DVDs in the bathroom of Starbucks in Richmond, so that the discs would be un-readable and therefore, would protect the dignity of the child slaves who were forced to make these horrible films. I managed to get out of this meeting alive and without the men suspecting that the DVDs had been damaged. They handed me a bundle of cash (thousands of pounds worth of money) to give to my father.
The damage done to the DVDs was not traced back to me. I know this because I was not punished for it by my father.
The Castalia Foundation notes that other survivors have reported being used as 'couriers' for those who were abusing them. You have now reached the end of the article by this survivor and her public account is now complete.
