Chapter Six: The Pains of Remembering

Two weeks later I began to ask forgiveness for the sins of my ancestors, to repent for oaths spoken by Family members and myself. I asked The Father to wash away my sins, to cleanse me of my transgressions, and to remove all my ancestors’ iniquities. (Exod. 34:7) I renounced the oaths that had been spoken, the curses over children, and the cutting out of tongues. I asked for cleansing and healing to be given to my wife, daughter, and myself. I wept at times during that prayer and shook uncontrollably. I trembled from head to foot like I’d dove beneath the waves of an icy tomb. I felt things cracking loose in my heart. Waves of nausea, sorrow, and pain washed over me. I wanted to stop the prayers; something else was screaming out within me demanding I desist. I knew I needed to continue to renounce these wicked oaths of “I so solemnly swear and this I will do.” I needed deliverance and I could feel there was a force of resistance stronger than any I’d ever known. I continued to cry out to The Great Redeemer Jesus and ask Him to cleanse us and purify us. I stopped periodically and read out loud different passages from Psalms washing away the defilement that had come against me. After nearly an hour I collapsed into the chair exhausted beyond description yet knowing there was more freedom now then I’d had in my entire life.

It wouldn’t take long for the once pressed away memories to come flooding back. With them would come understanding of the realities of these dreams, these terrors of the night, the blood in the toilet, and the unexplainable fears and pains. With it would come retribution of the most brutal kind.

The memories solidified in brutal terror. I had promised you at the beginning of this book that I would not let this be the book where I discussed the specifics or went into details about the depths of depravity I had suffered. The reality is that my grandfather was a very active member of a brotherhood freely operating within the Knights of Columbus who engaged in Satanic Ritual Abuse of children while doing occult rituals and ceremonies. The fiery serpentine entities they chose to worship and obey do not deserve to be named. I was one of their “chosen ones.” Not every member of a Family is selected. However, the ones that are selected, are then brutalized in horrific ways, in order to create a slave which believes it’s free.

I began to trudge through the memories and come to grips with an understanding of my past. The memories of these abuses and these rituals started to flood through me and they left me crippled with emotional pain. With the memories came parts of my soul I’d thought long lost to the despair and sorrow.

After finishing the prayer, my mind was flooded with understanding about some of the objects that were all around my house. There were little totems that had been given to me by my grandfather, now a heralded Fourth Level Knight in The Knights of Columbus. He was a man who’d used my body and those of other Blue Blooded children to advance in rank, power, and control.

I screamed, I wailed, and I wept. The agony was tearing my soul; it was rending my heart to pieces and leaving me collapsed on the floor. Chelsea had gone to work and left me to the memories. She didn’t know what I was going through, not yet. I curled up beneath my desk and let the sorrow seep out of my pores as my eyes showered me with past pains finally relived. I didn’t want to tell her; how could I tell her what I saw? How

could I not? How could I trust her not to leave me? How could I know she wouldn’t hate me for what I had done? The thoughts pounded through my head as I finally grieved the death of a stranger, a man I didn’t even know.

“MURDERER!” The identity was in my bones; it leeched out of my skin; it became me. What else was I but a murderer? A child burning with rage from the incest and the touch of abusers’ hands on his bare skin. Into his boiling cauldron of anger an outlet is placed in his hand. They gave me a blade and forced me to do the inconceivable. The priest was pressing on my palm and showing me how to end a life. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to spit, I wanted to rid myself of all of this. But how do you rid yourself of yourself ? How do you cast out your soul? They don’t teach you this while getting your degree in psychology or in the dispensational Sunday school classes. They skip over this “disorder” and say it’s just rare and so uncommon. So what was in my mind burning away the voids and filling it with understanding? Who was the man in the mirror? Who was the man staring back at me? Where had I gone? Answers come from within,

“We ran away.”

We ran away like we always do; we ran from the terrors of the night, from the burning in our belly, from the pain in our heart, which was too much to bear.

We could not fight back when they pressed down on us or shackled us to the chairs. We could not stop our grandfather from drowning us in their bathtub. We could not fight back when The Family dentist drugged us into oblivion. We were weak, oh my God, we were so weak, and we had no way to fight back. How much longer could we hold out? How long can you resist the pains of torture? Not long enough. Never long enough. So we ran away, we slipped into the cracks that fissured into our mind; the splitting of our soul was a gift from the Creator given to His children who would have to face unimaginable horrors. It was a way to survive the death blows of sorrow, pain, and shame that would have stopped my heart from beating. Survival for us came from one word: dissociation.

As the book progresses, I will go into greater depths of explaining this, but for now, I will give you, the reader, a brief overview. The clinical name for it is Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly called Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) of which millions of Americans alone meet all the criteria for. Dissociative Identity Disorder develops when a child, generally before the age of seven or eight, is being abused or sustains a sufficient trauma they cannot physically escape from, so they will instead run away internally to a world no eye can see.

To survive the un-survivable, the soul of the individual splits and tears away from the core personality. During this terrible moment, a blank identity, personality, or fragment is created whose reality and understanding of the world is birthed in this atrocious traumatic event. Because the other personality comes to the surface to endure the trauma the remainder of the individual’s core identity can survive. This fragmented piece of the soul can go on its own, or under someone else’s manipulation to develop into a complete identity separate from the core person.

DID is not a psychological disorder like Narcolepsy or Agoraphobia. It is not a disorder at all; instead it is without question a gift of the most beautiful of kinds. It is an incredible survival mechanism built into people, which helps them endure unspeakable trauma that would kill even the strongest among us. The doctors and technicians call it “dissociation.” We called it the “fade”, the slipping of our mind from one reality to the next. Once we have split, we have the forced ability to switch from one personality to another.

This fade gave us the ability to endure the butchering of our innocence and the pains of a life lost to many abusers. Dissociation created in us numerous personalities like one who was familiar with the pain of hunger, the regret of not being able to stop them from hurting the ones we loved or from hurting us. We could not stop the perpetrators physically, so we would slip away into the inner world of our shattered mind. We would crawl away into our familiar space and up would come another part of our soul, one who held the pains of betrayal and abuse, who did not know there was a rational world where dads protected their sons from abusers. Instead they became my Night Walkers those personalities who hide in plain site. Those parts of my past whose enlisted “uncles” delivered them like Cheese Pizza to parlors, pastors, and priests all around The Bridge famous desert town.

The trips down to my grandfather’s house during the solstices and other high occult days would sometimes last weeks. All too often my parents would leave us there unprotected, ready to be taken into the depths of their dark chambers and back Oasis rooms. My body, blood and will was a commodity, sold for a high price, never high enough to wash away the shame from our soul and the depths of The Secrets they stored in my mind. I was their altar boy. It was the blood of The Chosen Children that christened their Lady of The Lake’s communal cups.

I was not born into a home of safety; there was no roof of refuge over my head. I was not born with free choice. Instead, I was shackled to the walls of wickedness from the day of my conception. I was the “chosen one” in my Family; I was bred and selected so that the blood in my body would fuel the furnaces of secret rituals and power-hungry perverts climbing their ways to the top. I was born into the world of shadows. It is The Underworld of our society where children are taught to seduce strangers and secretly record what they do next. It is The Underworld where people document their ancestry and obsess over their bloodlines, deciding which chosen “Family” to breed with next.

These are not your every-day criminals. These are not the bosses or kings dressing in fur skin and acting hard while they rat out soldiers to detectives for cash and control. These are generations of depravity groomed and carefully cultivated. These individuals are extraordinarily intelligent in their cunning and subtle ways. They are masters of manipulation, experts on human behavior who know how to wear dozens of masks to match every occasion.

They know how to walk in the light of ordinary day looking like your upper-middle-class neighbor next door, while they fuel this empire of insanity at night. They frequent our churches and make sure the pastor, deacon, or bishop knows how steady and substantial their tithe check is. They are the eyes and ears of an Underground army serving their dark prince, a prince who demands from his follower’s secrecy, silence, and subterfuge, and my Family has served him with excellence since the ancient days.

Now was the time for those Secrets to be revealed. The memories may have brought back pain and sorrow of the unimaginable kind but with them came something greater. It was stronger and more powerful than anything I’d ever known. They brought courage. They brought a fierceness I’d forgotten. They brought love, peace, and hope. These shattered pieces of my broken soul once they found healing and restoration would find the Word of God spoken over them give them their new identity. Our Heavenly Father would teach us that “He has not given us a spirit of fear but of power, love, and a sound mind.” This courage could not be contained; it looked in the face of insurmountable odds and chose to find faith in The Almighty God.

With this courage, I finally began to walk out my faith. I looked at The Way Jesus lived and stepped out hoping the dust of His sandals might fill my vision and cover me with His understanding, boldness, and Truth. For the first time in my life, I was finding freedom from the bondage of my fears, guilt, and shame. I was a new man, and finally I was living in joy, hope, and peace. I could not contain the excitement and needed to go and share the power of forgiveness and Yahweh’s hope. Where does a son of Belial go when he is translated from the Kingdom of The Fallen Ones into The Kingdom of The Redeemer? He takes his light and runs back into the squid ink darkness he was familiar with. I looked for the darkest corners of my community and I went to the streets to share the hope of Messiah. I began to share my passions for freedom to all I could, and in doing so, I found out my Family’s Secrets were still protected from blowback by the spilling of innocent blood.

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