Free Intelligence is Costly
Judicial Witness or Hagsack Punching Bag?
When I started MK Ultra Girl Campaign in 2013—the first time I wrote publicly about my mother’s MK-Ultra psychiatric abuse on my travel blog—I did not know how much information I would gather from the “MK stew.” At the time, my worldview was an amalgam of intuition, an effort to suppress the MK knot my family had genetically bequeathed to me, and a fierce insistence on my personal rights and freedoms.
The world makes it difficult to survive without capitulating to systems—employment, conformity, belief, authority. Follow the money.
Much of the machinery behind the narcissistic abuse I experienced was designed to ensure I never had enough financial security to protect myself, fight back, or even rest.
The second generation of the particular strain of MK my family received was treated far worse than the first, even without drugging or electroshock. We were marked.
I identified with every social-justice cause, every underdog, every introspective or psychoanalytic framework that stood outside conventional thought - a quintessential libtard. I was the id before I became the ego.
I had points of recognition with other survivors, but I overshot our togetherness, all boats rise tide… sentiment. There was more support for the phantom children and ritual abuse stories. I thought we could discover together but there was more going on than a renaissance of information.
Why didn’t I let anyone get too close? Because my love is permanently wounded. I was only 14 when my sister Ruth was drugged and electroshocked into a ruined life. This affirmed the whisper campaigns of my parents’ generations that their children would be crazy like them. I didn’t know this at the time. I was left with a bewildering hurt.
8 years later my brother would drown at 19 in a canoeing accident in Muskoka. This became overwhelmingly awful and isolating. Still no one let me in on why this was happening.
If this is what happened to the people I loved and no explanation was given, I didn’t want any more replay templates over my good faith trajectory. So, I played it safe and didn’t commit to relationships or have children.
Fulfilling my mothers unlived boho artist life and fulfilling my father’s intellectual power house unlived life, I excelled in creative entrepreneurship. I constantly hit the survivor firewall but I bounced back every time like blow up bozo the clown.
Until I saw that picture.
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