In the late 80's early 90's whenever I saw Saddam Hussein or Gaddafi on TV my first thought was always, I know him, he can't be that bad he was nice to me'. I remember big round tables with Baath party members, rape and torture from their sons, gold taps and serious levels of opulence. The casual disregard for life that I was already familiar with although it wasn't used to it being so public and in the open.
Bloody hell I would think if this is what they are 'publicly' what the fuck is the Satanism going to be like? There generally wasn't any. In my memory the responses of middle eastern dictators to ritual abuse was extremely refreshing, they weren't fazed much. They thought it was all fucking mental, Gaddafi, Saddam, indignant in response to the inhumanity, the basic anti social nature of Satanism. I had to laugh.
They reminded me of my Scottish Grandads sometimes. Of course the vast majority of contact was over the phone and you never really know who your talking to. All a bit different beyond North Africa, much more monochrome.
I was told about 9/11 sometime in the early mid eighties by two men I believed to be British intelligence officers, they said I would be involved. I wasn't up for it. They said I would be doing it anyway. So I did that trick in my mind when I convince myself that when someone was telling me how awful things were for me it was because they had to not because they wanted to. If they had a choice they would not be involved in a career that involved standing in woods in the middle of nowhere with a victimised 6 year old in a nightie. They just needed help to get out. It was convenient for all of us to see the towers as an evil that would prevent much greater evils and by being involved I was buying a ticket out. On a spiritual level I felt it was justified to stop the spread of violent political abuse within and across modern states and cultures. It was war. War against Satanism.
I had to convince myself of that of course to survive. The closer it got to September the harder I found it to maintain any pretense that I would flying out of Scotland to a life with people I that loved any time soon. So I switched priorities, from fighting 'Satanism' whatever the fuck that is, to staying alive. There was lots of people who thought that the moments those towers fell I (who was a bit of an inconvenience) had served my purpose. I would be weakened until I could be piked of, worked to death. I stayed on the phone for days at time whenever I could. I dreamt about the towers collapsing for years before I watched it on TV.
Early in 2001, I gave up on uni and split up with my boyfriend, I had work to do. I remember going into a bank in Aberdeen and handing over some sort of money transfer slip to a bloke, he was about as young as I was, I remember announcing as loudly as I could 'I can't get money for cat food but can get for acts of international terrorism is okay'. He just smiled.
I told people for years that it was going to happen, on the day it happened and the days after the phone was very busy. Celebs, bands, footballers, criminal friends and foes, security types and others, jokes about 'only blowing the bloody doors off', feeling unnerved at how cool the members of 911 all seemed to think it was. Some freaked out, asking me if this meant that everything else I had told them was true as well. NY port authority, firemen <3. Others giving instructions, working my muliples. I had believed for years that after the towers I would be free, I could be me, I was very wrong.
Friends, my shrink, my family all told me that I hadn't told them about the towers, that I was ill, that I should get help, that I should sort myself out. The phone stoped ringing, the sexual abuse is always among the last tings to stop. I was taken back to the concil flat I had abandoned, face down, head between the toilet and the bath, trying to count the dates (14th November, 15th November). No rituals, no fancy dress, no ancient looking tombs, or beatufifil carved sexual torture tools. Just men in designer clothes who all had flash phones with loads of numbers on them drugging, raping and forcing a young woman into prostitution. A young woman who doesnt have a flash phone or designer clothes but was having a mental breakdown. Fistfulls of paper money being handed around, the usual back slapping, networking.
Something that did stop in 2001, was the dreams. I call them dreams but they didn't feel like that. Usually involving rape, mutilation, and murder. The only difference between them and reality was that I didn't/ couldn't split during the 'dreams'. I had my throat split thousands of time, womb ripped out often by people I knew, experienced being skined alive and much much more. Then I would wake up, aparently unharmed. Sometimes I would see pictures of missing women on the TV sometimes and feel certain I knew what happened to them. I used to be able to forget most of them when I woke up, but in 2001 that stopped. Maybe it was part of me figuring out a way to stop it. Whatever it was there is no way those pictures, those feelings, those acts on flesh came from me. It was part of the programming, the mind control.
I'm not scared writing this, I've no evidence for any of it. If I get threatened or hurt they mulitples come back and that means all the memories to, of where the bodies are buried, of phone numbers, how to drive, how to fly, all those Jedi like mind tricks to get people to do whatever you want them to do. Where the documents are, where the money is. I have no intenion of being a martyr, I've lost enough, I just want to know me and this is the only means I have of attempting it. Telling a shrink about this sort of stuff is unlikly to help.
It was agreed I would walk away and be left alone, but I could say what I liked, it wouldn't matter anyway its to unbelieveable. I am also the first to question whether or not I was a reliable witness or not, I'm too split.