"Yes Daddy," I robotically answered.
"Good, then when I do this it will only increase the pleasure," he kept his finger in place until he got the hot poker out of the fire and as he put it inside me, he took his finger out and as hypnotically commanded, I felt only the pleasure of the hot inside me. Very lovingly he said, "Very good, honey. You're doing very well. Now take a deep breath and count to three and feel like you have to pee. Then when I take this out, you will feel even more pleasure. Okay?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said putting my little hand up in front of my face while I counted off, "One," as I held up one finger, then "two," putting up two fingers, then, "three," and when he had taken the poker out, I felt really happy. It didn't even hurt. I couldn't feel the pain of the red-hot thing. In months that followed, I reached out and touched a piece of red-hot angle iron when my father was welding, and when it burned my hand badly, I was surprised. I didn't understand that it would bum me. My father was an expert at those "games."
At other times he put something scary in front of my face to startle me before he did something traumatic to me. Then he would tell me to feel numb while he put a silver metal band around my wrist and forehead and would shock me with the black box that was attached to the bands with wires. He'd say "you're doing very well," but my face would be sweating and it stung when he gave me what he called "a jolt."
At odd times, even when other people were around, my father would say, "Do you want a jolt?"
I'd say, "No," while I giggled nervously, acting like it was a game but it wasn't.
Often after one of these jolting experiences, I felt so sleepy and my mom would say, "What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"
"I dunno," I'd say, because I didn't know anything. To know was to 'know, and to 'know' was very bad and you got very hurt. So certain personalities within me took the pain and torture after which I would be switched back to Susie who had no knowledge of any of it.
There were nights my father would wake me out of sleep and devise ways to spin me until I was totally disoriented, after which he took me to look at myself in front of a mirror and called me by another name other than my own, "Sandy, that is you in the mirror, and Sandy is my friend. She is going to help us. She is a friend of Susie's, but Susie doesn't know Sandy exists. Susie doesn't even need to think about you, Sandy." And these were some of the tactics used to shatter and then create alternate identities within me from a very early age.
In hypnotic trance I was told, "The balloons will take you away, take you to the rooms with the many personalities, but as you look at each one, you know that they are you. They are all you. But only one at a time. One room and one person at a time."
Other nights, I was awakened from sleep and sexually abused to create the dissociative barrier and to create more personalities or attitudes. I was told, "Now look into the first room. There's Darla. Isn't she cute and pretty, and she is always happy. Darla's dedicated to the stars. She always knows just what to say and do to make others feel good, to make them happy. Now look into the second room. There's Sandy. She's the dancer. She can dance very well and she is able to bend in all different directions … to everyone's amazement. She's not at all embarrassed to take off her clothes in front of people. She likes that, it makes her feel good. But she can only do that when the time is right." My father also placed stars on my ceiling that lit up at night to remind me of the programming.
Over the years my controllers created programming for every single thing they could dream up. And they programmed in angel personalities intended to handle the pain when I could not.
But their spiritual short-sidedness left them in the dark when I transcended their created angelic personalities, and left my body escorted by real Angels. I owe my life to God and those beautiful loving Beings who kept my soul and my love intact as they continually interceded for the little girl they witnessed tortured unceasingly.
Dick Hof was a marine in the reserves. He and his family moved in next door when I was around three years old. He told me he didn't, know exactly how to treat little girls because he only had boys. On certain weekends he wore his uniform and took me to military bases where the men wore tan uniforms. They saluted him when he was around and he acted very normal until we were out of the other men's sight. He took me into top-secret places where he showed some sort of pass to gain entrance. Once we were in the secret place he put me into an empty, cold, cement room and restrained me to a metal examination table. There were bright lights overhead and the men that joined him put bands around my wrists, ankles, and forehead, then turned out the lights and left while they shocked me real bad. They had a screen I had to watch and messages I listened to immediately after I got shocked. Sometimes Dick carried a briefcase that had some of my favorite dolls and toys inside, like my dolly with the red hair and freckles and my sock monkey. When they hurt me they often pretended to hurt my dolls and toys, too, and told me that my dolly friends would keep reminding me every day about what happens, "if you don't obey and follow the rules — then you get zapped," and they would shock me again. Dick also threatened me with his gun and said that all the men had them, and if I "stepped out of line" it would be over for me, so I'd better listen up and obey the rules. The doctors played tricks on me while I was drugged. They played day and time tricks trying to mess me up. They told me over and over that someone other than the person who really brought me there did. Most of the time I knew it was Dick Hof. They told me this astronaut brought me and a man in an astronaut suit would walk in and say, "I am the adult who brought you here."
I'd say, "No you're not, my neighbor did." So they would inject me with more drugs and keep hammering verbally at me over and over until I'd break and agree wholeheartedly with them. But inside I had to remember to keep the truth hidden in a part of me, so I'd not lose control of reality and believe their lies. Sometimes I felt like I shattered and went over the edge and couldn't really tell what was happening. At those moments I'd pray to God that another part of me was remembering what was really happening because I couldn't maintain myself any longer. After they were through with me I was so messed up that I needed their help getting off the table and then to walk, and the next week I'd have to stay home from school because I was throwing up and very sick. My mom said I just had "the flu." All this torture and mind manipulation kept my inner and outer worlds far apart.
There was a cabinet way up high in our kitchen and Dick Hof told me that I could be like a monkey and climb up there to get the little white candy pills that would make me feel better, but I couldn't tell my mommy because he said she wasn't really my mommy because she was born of lower class and he said I was upper class, like my father. He said my mom didn't know enough to help me, so if I hurt I could climb up and get the pills and eat them and feel better.
There was another military base I was taken to when I was about five. A doctor in a white lab coat examined me there. He questioned me a lot in order to check all my "systems." As you can see, this abuse was very intentional and very premeditated, with long-range plans and goals.
The trauma was ubiquitous and involved all the people who were close to me, and others who were strangers. Threats of consequences if I remembered or told, made during times of extreme trauma, were buried deep in my subconscious mind and dictated my actions daily. Huge amounts of my own subconscious vital energies were used to keep my personalities in control and to keep secret the activities in which I was involved.