Between 1985 and 1990 my husband and I often went to Two Bunch Palms, a spa resort in Desert Hot Springs, which is a neighboring desert city bordering Palm Springs. Craig and I would go for a few days to rest in the mineral pools and utilize the luxurious massage therapy and green clay facemasks that were a part of the resort's celebrity reputation. Once before I went, I watched a King Arthur video and when a shaft of white light shown down on the oracle as he kneeled to deliver a message from God to the king, I began crying and knew at once I needed to go to Two Bunch, alone. Witnessing this, my husband said, "Fine, it's okay. Just go. Do what you need to, honey." I left immediately. Arriving at Two Bunch in the dark around 10 o'clock at night, I was terribly afraid, but didn't know why.
"Two Bunch" as we referred to it, was a 'double edge sword' where I was accessed by Bob Hope and a group of men, including the Council. At the same time I was receiving intense bodywork from professional practitioners, which helped shake loose memories at a cellular level, other dedicated parts of my personality structure who were skilled to withstand torture and humiliation continued to do so on an increased level so that I could continue therapy and healing. I prayed daily for the Holy Spirit to bring to mind those things that needed healing in the perfect time frame, and that is just what occurred. These personalities cooperated over the years of my battle for freedom by absorbing the threats and abuse and, in addition, kept it separate from my conscious mind so I could continue my quest for freedom, unencumbered by fear or resistance. After an intense session with a gentle little old man who was an expert in Trager bodywork, my memories began to increase. During the same visit, I was instructed to attend secret meetings at Two Bunch where I stood back while a group of men talked. My husband was seldom there. I believe one meeting was "The Palm Springs Civic Committee." Bob golfed with them and they had business dealings together.
There were times I was picked up in the parking lot by a silver limo and taken to Bob. Sometimes I wouldn't even get out of the limo; I'd wait for Bob and he would enter to direct me. Other times I would spend the day with him. One night I was directed to a bunch of palm trees late at night to look for the White Owl. Bob Hope ended up being the White Owl I was looking for. At the time, I was unaware that this was a program. I walked outside into the late night breezes to report to the Palm Trees and to Bob, the White Owl.
Late on another night at Two Bunch, in a nightmarish reminiscence of the movie, Stepford Wives, that I had been required to watch years before, I robotically responded to programming as I trekked out to the parking lot in the white robe provided by the spa. A limo pulled up and mindlessly I climbed inside where a man immediately injected me with a drug. When we arrived at a big warehouse-type building in the desert that was like a robot reconditioning facility, the man had to help me out of the limo because I was so drugged. Once inside, doctors in surgical greens placed me on a gurney and started an IV. It may have been filled with a truth serum drug, because that is the type of questions they fielded me. They were trying to identify what I was doing in therapy, what I was remembering. Repositioning me to a chair, they slapped me over and over and I wasn't allowed to go to sleep. If I began to fall asleep, they slapped me again. They were very upset about the therapy and told me lots of lies while they made me look into bright white lights. If I didn't keep my eyes open long enough, they would hold my eyes open and face me directly into the bright lights. They kept injecting my arm, as they yelled at me.
A man, approximately 35 years old, dark-skinned with brown hair, wearing a green tie, tan tweed jacket, white shirt and tan pants, entered the room. He directed the doctors what to do and told them what he wanted to find out, then they supplied the drugs, electroshock and lights. Returned to a metal gurney, he asked me questions over and over that didn't make sense to me, while I sat on the edge of the gurney with my head hanging down, totally out of it. He showed me pictures of people, men usually, and asked me questions about them and kept slapping me. Parts of my personality system would not comply and talk to him and it was making him very angry. In response, he took something sharp to the bottom of my feet. Then he called in the bright lights, and when my eyes could no longer stay open as he commanded, he had another man hold my head up, prop my eyes open and direct the lights in my eyes. They kept this up for what felt like forever. Then he laid me down and put a long rod up my vagina to shock me as he said, "She'll talk, just give her time — we have all the time in the world."
But I was dissociated deep within myself and really didn't care if they killed me or not. I had been conditioned from birth to take what they dished out and if I died, I just wouldn't have to endure any more. No more suffering, it would be over. His frustration level saturated, this man instructed his assistants to lay me down and they took an electric sheer, the type you use to clip a dog, or prep a person for surgery and ran it up my pubic hair, up my stomach, all the way up to my chin. He said it was something to remember him by, "To keep remembering what happens if you don't comply."
After I'd given up and was «gone» they pulled a plastic cap dotted with little metal electrodes over my head. They told me over and over that they would make it much easier on me if I would just cooperate and quit therapy. But I didn't stop. They had to carry me out to the limo and when we arrived back at Two Bunch, the man accompanying me snapped his fingers in my ear and commanded, "Snap out of it!" and followed up with the suggestion that I was very, very tired and wanted a nap. Slowly, I trudged back to the room and went to sleep. I don't know where Craig was.
Desert Hot Springs was a place of horror for me as I attempted to get well by working hard in therapy with Stuart and Margie. I remember Stuart saying to me after I continued to show up day after day with more pieces of my painful past to process in therapy, "I have never seen anyone who is more motivated than you; it's like you're running a marathon."
I responded, "I don't feel like I'm doing this fast enough." No wonder — neither he nor I consciously knew that I was still being tortured and reprogrammed; reporting to the Federal Building, to UCLA, to my political abusers and to Bob Hope when assigned. Consciously, I thought Two Bunch Palms was a place where I went to get rejuvenated to do more abreactive work in order to recover. But even in the midst of the chaos there was a divine plan and timing to my life; I just had to be extremely patient.
As my healing defiance continued, I was returned to Two Bunch. One night I got dressed to go eat in the restaurant. There was a very large clock that hung over the entrance of the restaurant and my instructions were to, "walk to the clock at 6 o'clock." But instead of going inside, I was instructed to turn and walk to the parking lot where a man in a white suit drove me by limo late at night to a club. He took me inside and seated me in a maroon colored booth tucked away in the darkened club. Sonny Bono came out and told me to enter the cleared area. He was twirling a whip like he was going to lasso something. Then he cracked the whip. He did it over and over and it terrified me, because I felt he was going to hit me with it. Sonny said there was nobody there to hear my screams. "Scream all you like," he said laughing. Jokingly he added, "I kinda like it." He went on to explain that he was "giving me what I deserved for trying to break the mold."
I was helped up off the floor where I was huddled and delivered to a group of men in suits. They said I was the guest of honor, but it wasn't fun. They said I was stirring up a bit of trouble back there in Southern California and they just wanted to make sure that nothing bad happened to me. They took a long time to tell me all this, slowly, calmly and smoothly, before another man took me to a dressing room type of partition in a back room and, holding me up by one arm, threw me up against the wall and beat the living breath out of me. I ended up in a heap on the floor with my mouth bleeding. Giving me one final kick with his pointed boot, he said, "There, that ought to do ya."