The Story Of A Failed Mind Control Subject

Chapter 1
Before the Beginning

Like every story, mine really starts before I was born-- even before my mother was born. My grandmother, Edna, gave birth to a daughter. The father was Edna's stepfather, who raped her. A few years later, she left to get married, leaving her firstborn daughter, Ava, behind. Ava was raised as Edna's sister-- not daughter. But in the way that families have, she eventually was told who she really was. Kids have never been the best at keeping secrets.

As I understand it, this was the beginning of the blood feud between my mother and her sister. Except that my mother didn't know about her sister. Edna never told her about Ava. So the blood feud went only one direction.

Fast-forward a few years, and my mother Olivia was born. Then there was Theresa, and then Samantha.

The years passed, as they always do, and a deep hatred grew between my mother and my grandmother. My grandmother, Edna, would accuse my mother of trying to steal her husband away. Yes, that's my grandfather, George-- my mother's father. Edna did crazy things, like hiding the girls' shoes, and threatening them, and abusing them. Mostly mental abuse. Her favorite was to call my mother a ***** and to scream profanities of that nature at her.

George and Edna were Seventh Day Adventists, and they were on the fringes of extremism. They did allow music on Saturday, but they didn't allow dancing or jewelry.

The other girls managed to conform for the most part, but my mother was violently opposed to these rigid practices and rebelled. Edna was often violently infuriated by Olivia's rebellion, and the fights were numerous.

Before I continue, I should point out that much of what I've just told you had to be reconstructed from various family members' statements to me. So I would state that to some degree, the accuracy of it could be questioned to the same degree to which my family members' comments and stories can be questioned.

Like me, they based their comments on their memories. Like all of us, especially those with difficult histories, it's easy to blow us off. But my memories are surprisingly accurate, as you'll come to see later on. Again, I wish I could prove it to you, but to do so would expose my family to things that I am absolutely unwilling to expose them to.

But I do have reason to believe these things, because all of them came from random comments that weren't intended to expose anything that they did. They were comments made alone in many cases, which without the rest of the information wouldn't mean much. I'm pretty good at putting things together, though.

Edna adamantly denies that Ava is her daughter, yet all of the rest of the family supports the statements. Therefore, I leave you to make your own best guess on it. What comes later seems to indicate that, at best, there was a major hatred from Ava towards my mother. I think there's a larger reason why besides she just didn't like her.

I was told by family that the reason was because Ava was left to be raised in poverty while Edna went off and raised Olivia in relative wealth and comfort. Being abandoned by your mother in a terrible situation might be enough to infuriate you, I would think.

Back to the story, though. My mother eventually left the household, and went off on her own. She chose deliberately to become a prostitute. She got married to a man named Jacob R-. They had a supposed open marriage, wherein she could continue her trade, and he could have any sexual relations he wanted. This was the late '60s, it was all the rage, you see.

My youngest aunt, Annette, was born a few days before my brother was. Edna was 42 when she had her, so she was essentially an only child. This becomes relevant later, I promise.

So my mother had Jacob the 3rd, and life went on. Jacob the 2nd was happy with his boy, and they were carrying on with their lives. Except that Jacob Jr. was abusive. My mother, however, stayed, and seemed to sink deeper and deeper into drugs, alcohol, and prostitution.

When she found out she was pregnant with me, she only ramped it up more. She didn't want to be pregnant, so she began to take heavy amounts of LSD and increased smoking pot. I was born slightly premature, in San Diego, CA. I had an open pallet, so that you could see my brain through my mouth. I also had no bone on the back of my skull.

Because of these birth defects, and the fact that my spine was bent, the doctors put me into another room by myself, and left me to die. My mother, however, thwarted their efforts when she demanded to hold my cold, dead body... oops. Only, I wasn't dead. So with a nurse's unauthorized assistance, my mother saved me.

It's a strange thing, though. She tried to kill me while pregnant with me, but then saved my life once I was born. It was the first of many such odd instances in my life-- where someone who wanted to kill me saved me.

There was another problem, too, though. Jacob Jr. decided that I wasn't his. I was born, you see, with a full head of coal black hair. My mother's a redhead, and Jacob Jr. is blonde. So he decided I couldn't be his, so open marriage be damned, he didn't want a thing to do with me.

Things just went from bad to worse, though. I was a difficult baby from the start. I was sick all the time, and finally my mother handed me over to Edna in a fit of post partum depression. She couldn't cope, and I was dying, despite the early save. My bone had grown in by now, and bone had grown across my pallet. So much, in fact, that it dangled into my mouth. This is called a Torus, and mine was large enough to give me problems with drinking a bottle.

Not only that, but Edna finally figured out that I was allergic to the milk. I was put on soy, and I slowly began to get better. My mother got me back.

The earliest memories I have are of my mother and Jacob Jr. fighting. He would beat her, and Jacob III and I would hide in the coat closet. These memories are characterized by the other man who would come over. He was their "third partner," and he would finally calm them down-- usually shortly after my mother was passed out on the floor, bleeding. Then they would find us, and threaten us if we told anyone.

I did tell after I was grown, a few times. But it was hard; I was still scared of the "Other Man."

They nearly always fought over me. I felt guilt about that. It was just the beginning of my feeling that I wasn't supposed to exist-- to live-- to survive. I was meant to be dead from the beginning. Because I didn't die, I was told in both direct and indirect ways, I ruined everyone else's lives.

Chapter 2
I Seem to have Lost My Mother

When I was three years old, my mother was arrested in Colorado for prostitution and possession. I was born in November of 1971, so I suppose it was sometime in '75.

By this time, Edna wouldn't take Jacob III and I anymore. They were fed up, and weren't going to "support" my mother's habits anymore by helping with us. Jacob Jr. said he wasn't going to take us. He'd take Jacob III, because Jacob was HIS. But me? No way, he wasn't going to take me. The Other Man supported Jacob 2's decision, and suggested that they find other family for me.

But my mother wouldn't allow us to be separated. So this was how Ava and Bill (her husband-- foster son to Edna's mother/stepfather) got involved. They came down from Idaho and picked us up. They promised my mother that after her year sentence was served, they would give us right back.

Now, my life up to that point hadn't been great. But things took a real turn for the worse at this point. Bill and Ava Robertson got us because she was my mother's aunt (and in reality, my grandmother's daughter, remember).

The first thing that they did was to change our names. It was at this point that they began to clearly show the differences between my status and Jacob 3's. Jacob got to choose his new name. He chose Rodney. Then I got to choose a name... I chose Elizabeth. I admired Elizabeth Taylor, and since I had no choice at all in having my name changed, I wanted to be just like her.

Jacob became Rodney, as he requested. I became Joanne, as I didn't want and didn't like. So now my name was Joanne Robertson.

Here, it becomes a bit more difficult to make the information clear, because this is based entirely off of my own memories. And my memories are quite extensive, but they are a child's disjointed memories, which I must carefully disseminate for you with an adult's mind. So please forgive me if they don't come out in any particular order, as that's sort of how they're organized (or not organized) in my mind.

I suppose the easiest part to begin with is the regular, daily abuse that I experienced. I think these will be the easiest to relate to and understand. And relay.

One of the strongest memories, that sticks with me the most, is eating with the dogs. I ate dog food mostly. I was scum, after all, and I barely deserved even that. So I fought with the dogs for dog food. I ate on the floor, never at the table. And when I got food, it was bacon (my favorite, just like the other dogs!), white bread, beans sometimes, and on rare occasions, a hot dog. Food was often my reward when they decided to use reward versus punishment.

This brings me to my first very strong positive memory. We were talking about how there are good people out there, too. I definitely met one, and I bless him and his family with my whole heart.

I was a starving little kid. A scrawny, poorly dressed, starving blonde haired, blue-eyed waif. I saw that when I looked at pictures of myself. There weren't many.

One day, us kids went to a store. I only remember that there were only a few of us-- Raymond (now known as Ramon), Jacob, and me I think. Anyway, we went into the store, and I stole some bread. I looked up and realized I'd gotten caught-- the owner was staring at me in shock. I dropped the bread and ran away to hide behind Jacob. The man never said anything.

We went back to that store every few days. For smokes, I think, but I'm not sure. But a strange thing happened when I was there. The man would go into the back room, and shut the door. Then he'd come out of the door, and leave it open. Sitting on a barrel back there, or a bunch of boxes (whatever was in my view), would be some food. A sandwich. A bowl of mac & cheese. Pork and beans.

He'd leave, and I'd sneak back and eat as much of it as I could, as fast as I could. Raymond and the man would chat up front until I came up from eating. The man never acknowledged me in front of him. He never said a word to me; he never looked at me. But he always made the same "mistake" of leaving his lunch sitting out for me to "steal."

I cry even now, remembering this precious man and his "mistakes." As an adult, I know now that he planned for me. He expected me. He diverted Raymond or Rocky (I just don't remember for sure which one it was that always took me there) until I could finish up. And I'll remember that look on his face the first time he saw me, and the compassion in his eyes. I was scared of being caught, but I still saw it. And on some deep level, I understood it.

I think he called CPS, too (whatever it was called back then). I can't be sure, as my child's mind doesn't recall any connection, though I sense there was one. Nothing came of it, though.

More to come-- lots and lots more, I'm afraid. It's not a short story by any means.

Chapter 3
It Really is Life or Death

The next thing that strikes me is not actually about me. It was something that was done to another kid who was living with Ava and Bill. His name was Kevin. I don't even know how to relate the depth of how deeply his experience bothered me.

Kevin was chained to the wall in his room, or to the floor in other places that we lived. The point being, he was chained in his room. He would claw to get away, trying to climb the wall to the window in one place that we lived. It was a small window, and very high. He would bleed, and he cried and yelled a lot.

I would sing to him. Nonsense songs. Kid songs. Sometimes songs with no words. But I had to be careful not to get caught. He would calm down when I sang, and sometimes even talk to me. It became something I did often, and for a while it helped me.

Until they let him off of his chain one day (as they sometimes did, when he got "time off for good behavior"). I didn't want to watch what he was watching on TV, and so he beat me so badly with an electrical cord from a toaster that it ripped big chunks out of my ribs. I quit singing to him then. After that, I was afraid of him. I cried sometimes at night, because I missed comforting him.

They beat me, too. He told them what I'd been doing. He called for me often after that, and I cried, but I never went. I gave up on him out of fear, and even then, found it difficult to forgive myself for doing so.

He wasn't the only one to beat me with electrical cords, though. Bill and especially Ava would beat me with pretty much anything that came in handy. I tried to hide as much as possible. Usually, though, it wasn't very possible.

The worse part was that I wasn't potty trained, and so when I came to them, they began to punish me whenever I didn't use the potty. A typical punishment for wetting myself was a freezing bath. They would run the cold water, throw ice from the freezer in it, and make me sit in it until long after I was shivering so hard my teeth were chattering and I couldn't hold a washcloth.

Then I'd get beaten for dropping the washcloth.

I have several over-lapping memories of getting put into "time out" and asking to go potty. They wouldn't let me go, and then would beat me severely (usually with a piece of wood) for peeing myself because after several hours, I couldn't hold it anymore. It was after one of these that the episode at the swampy pond behind the house happened.

Ava became infuriated that I had wet myself, so she took me out back to the pond there. She made me ***** myself, then gave me a sledgehammer and told me to break the thick ice. When I couldn't, she beat me, kicked me, and slapped me until she was tired. Then she broke the ice.

I had to bathe in it and wash my clothes. I slipped and fell. There is a current there, not a big one, but there is one. It swept me into the water and under the ice. Ava caught me by the hair and dragged me back out. Another time someone who wanted to kill me saved me.

It was during this time, with Ava and Bill, that I started to predict things, and see people. I know the official stance would be that I'm crazy, that I was schizophrenic. But I didn't see them with my eyes; I sensed them with my mind. And I predicted things regularly.

I was too young to keep my damned mouth shut.

I told them, and when I was right, I got rewarded. Mmmm, bacon.

When I was wrong, I got punished. But I got punished in a very specific way upon these events. When I predicted something, and it was wrong, they would strangle me until I died. Then they would resuscitate me. I don't think that it's possible to know a greater terror than that which seizes you as you slowly lose all ability to gain oxygen.

But as time went by, something very strange began to happen to me. I lost the fear. I still struggled for my life-- and lost, of course. I still fear drowning or strangling today. But I don't fear the actual dying. In fact, for most of my life since then, I've wanted it. Hoped for it. I've even tried for it.

Clearly, since I'm here, they were successful every time in bringing me back. They were clearly trained for it. But... I don't think they ever realized that they destroyed utterly any fear I have of dying.

Because it's better there. It's peaceful; it's calm, yet it's like the happiest moment of your life. Better, in a way, because you don't remember anything until you come back. I had, and remember, many NDEs during these experiences. They sustained me through much of what happened to me.

You'd think that dying would be a terrible thing. It is. But being dead isn't. So for all those years where I was suicidal... I didn't so much want to die, as I wanted to be dead. It's a subtle difference, but I'm sure you can see it.

There's this part of me that's horrified that anyone could do this to a young child. There's another part of me that wants me to believe it was all a big lie. Imagined. That no one CAN do that to a child.

But children are killed every day, and not resuscitated. For Ava and Bill, this was just another form of punishment.

I try not to wonder what dying so often did to my brain tissue. Then again, I have learning disabilities and other problems... maybe I don't really need to ask, hey?

If you're asking yourself the question right now, I can't say that it really did much for my psychic accuracy, honestly. In fact, sometimes it made me lie and make something up just to have an answer-- any answer. If it was wrong, they'd do it to me anyway. And yes, it's a very strange and surreal feeling to consider typing... "If I was wrong, they'd still kill me, even though they claimed they just wanted me to try."

Somehow, it's something that you shouldn't ever have to write. Once you're dead, you should be dead, and stay dead. I tell myself that I wasn't really dead, just unconscious. Sometimes it works for me, but most of the time I have to be honest with myself. You don't have to have mouth-to-mouth and get bruised ribs from resuscitation when you're just unconscious.

And I watched them have discussions about me, too… while I was dead. Talking with the doctor a couple of times, while I was dead. Their upset that I was, and would stay, dead. Then I chose to go back to my body. Not just to spite them, though.

It was many years before I stopped taking "I'm going to kill you if you..." comments seriously. I still find the phrase distasteful and not overly funny or cute. It could really just go away. Death is kinda cool, but like I said, dying sucks.

And then again, there's another insidious thing about this. I mean, who's going to believe me? I've only told one person about this. I got heavy silence and then the pronouncement that it's not possible. Funny how toddlers have been proven by science to be able to regrow fingers and toes... but apparently they can't be resuscitated?

This, for me, is the great struggle. I find myself both desiring to talk about it... yet living with the perpetual knowledge that no one would ever believe me. It's too fantastic. It's too unimaginable.

When I look at my daughter who's 3 years old, I cannot, for the life of me, fathom ever doing any of those things to her. I couldn't kill her once, even if I thought I could resuscitate her. How could anyone do it? It traverses the limits of imagination that anyone could bring themselves to do such a thing to a precious child.

Here's the link where the rest can be found, as it is far too long to post here in entirety:

ExposedSecrets ExposedSecrets
6 Responses Jul 22, 2010

ritualmorgan, I'm glad to hear that you got away safely. I'm sorry you had to go through that.<br />
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(by the way, your comment double posted, so I deleted the duplicate, just so you know)

I have psychic abilities after repeated threats, some beatings, and constant fighting: I did almost end up the subject of an experiment when a martial arts instructor discovered my psychic abilities and was someone involved in either a Freemason or Satanic order. I escaped at 25. Lucky, I wasn't a child by the time I was nearly murdered, or sought after for ritualistic purposes, but I'm still traumatized; Fifteen years later, I still remember the mind control experiements, the things I began to hear in my head, the surveillances, the electronic eavesdropping, and the stalking.

ahhhh i seee, it all makes sense in a way. I cant believe you survived that, your such a strong person... I would love to have had psychic abilities (:

If you follow the link, and read up on the rest of what happened (the link has to be copied and pasted, I'm afraid), you'll see that I was diagnosed as autistic when I was a child. <br />
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I definitely have some psychic abilities. I believe this may be why I was targeted for the ritual abuses. I think they were attempting to harness those abilities, but they couldn't make me split into multiple personalities.

Also do you think you could have personality disorder?<br />
i think you have psychic abilities too...possible due to the repeated trauma and electrocuting?

I have read your story and i would like to say that i believe every word.. im a lawyer from england and i have done much research on this topic...i wish i could somehow take the feelings, memories, pain away..i wish this did not happen to you..<br />
it is sad how terrible some people can be on this world that they will do such things to youn girls...dont they fear their afterlife with God?<br />
keep your faith please i realy hope you can...i know it is so diffecult to have faith in situations like this but i promise you the reward will be yours from the point your soul leaves your body at death....and those people who done this to you -- they shall burn in pits of fire, God wil NEVER forgive them, they will beg for your forgivess on the day of judgement, they will cry and scream 'why did i let satan lead me astray'<br />
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i hope Allah keeps you in peace and faith and happiness .. i pray to him to help you ..<br />
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if you can keep your faith then you are a MARTYR... please take care of yourself, and please remember - it was NEVER your was not fair that this was done to you...i am angry at those disgusting ugly people... xxx