Chapter Eighteen: Between Death and Life

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The military had a consistent way of dealing with failed Pet Projects. That summer after my senior year in high school, I underwent a complete shutdown of my mind. I was no longer suitable to achieve their orders, so instead, I was washed out. I spent the next few months in and out of the various “specialists.” They were Family Initiated neurologists and technicians who began to wipe out the work I’d been doing for them, ensuring I would self-destruct. To be sure there would be no loose ends, I was under no circumstances supposed to survive what would come next. The Secrets in my head and work I’d done could shake some of the pillars of power that ran deep into the heart of this nation’s capital, Little Rome on the Potomac, The Greater Harlot in Vatican City, and the Lords of London.

I first saw an Air Force neurologist as I had been referred to him even though this was in no way per Army regulations. I had spent extensive time in my teenage years “working” within SAP’s with the Air Force and commanders at N.O.R.A.D, and as such, they knew my inner mind best. At The Academy I met with this particular neurologist and his specialized machines; he programmed me with a need to stage a break in home robbery where I would shoot and stab myself. Within The Trade, this type of programming being activated is referred to as Omega.

Much of the internal programming systems personalities are based on the Greek Alphabet: Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta, etc. For example Beta, also called Cat, or Kitten programming, is a seducer and sex slave personality. Delta programming is advanced militaristic, infiltration, exfiltration, and assassin training program. This program is mirrored within Joint Special Operations Command as an entire branch within our elite operators. Active or former Delta Force or CAG operators are regularly brought in as training consultants when Delta programming is being conducted.

Omega being the end of the alphabet entails the programmed self-destruction of an asset. It is hallmarked and often seen after mind controlled individuals almost always under the direct handling of a military or defense contractor are staged to go on a shooting rampage, but afterwards become completely committed to self-destruction unto total suicide. Their mission completed, they are to eliminate themselves and any potential Blowback. Operators in the field are given specially crafted cocktails buried beneath the skin, implanted within teeth, or injected into veins to ensure this occurs.

The activation of my Omega firmly implanted, the doctor sent me out with a note in one hand and a paper bag full of heavy medications, and I went back to school. Within two weeks, all the fail-safes of coping and control I had established over the years dissolved as the medications and programming fractured what little sanity was left in my mind. The usual student binge drinking back at college was not helping and I went to see an Army Neurologist. She was a light Colonel who oversaw just such a carnal house of suicides for used up Company or Military assets. She added to my madness with more mind-altering medications and her re-enforcement of the break-in.

The cocktail of drugs I was put on combined with the drinking drove me off the deep end of reality and into the blurred world of madness. In my chaos, those thoughts were perpetually whispered into my mind, and I became obsessed with the idea.

I lied to my parents who were going to celebrate Thanksgiving with Grandpa Brute down in the deserts of Death, by saying I had training and could not join them. Instead, while they were gone, I threw a party in my parent’s house and many drank all night until one by one they all left. I woke up, took my handfuls of pills as prescribed, then preceded ever so carefully to clean the house. Just as the psychotropic medications took full effect, I procedurally watched my body go through the very motions of murder.

I watched as I walked upstairs and picked up a fighting knife and put it in my pocket. I watched as I got my bolt-action rifle out of its carrying case. I loaded a single round into its chamber, slammed the bolt home, and carried it downstairs. I then walked out onto my parent’s basement patio, picked up the biggest rock I could find, and tried to smash the back window out of the door. After five massive hits, the glass refused to even crack. Stumped but not defeated, I walked back into the basement, grabbed the rifle, and sat down on the carpet. Then I shoved the muzzle against the meat of my leg, switching the safety off, exhaled and pressed the trigger.

The silence of the morning shattered as the rifle bucked in my hands; instantly I felt an explosion tear into my thigh. As the smell of burning gunpowder met my nostrils, the pain erupted into my mind.

When you fire a bullet out of a gun, all that is happening is a cloud of superheated gasses are pushing a piece of lead and copper out of a grooved steel tube. This wall of expanding gasses diffuses typically into the air just outside the barrel, resulting in a fireball. However, when you place something directly against the end of that same barrel, those gasses have nowhere to go except into whatever is in their way. The expanding gasses found themselves erupting into the flesh of my thigh, expanding inside the muscle, tendons and flesh of my leg and searing my skin leaving a “star stamp” burn. As I thought about the distant pain, I could not help but think of the vivid color of my blue jeans and the smoke rolling out of the fresh hole in my leg. Then I went back into watching as my body took over.

I racked the bolt on my rifle, pocketed the brass, and looking at my thigh, I placed my pinky and index finger deep inside the bleeding holes on either side of my leg. I pressed into the flesh until blood was no longer gushing out. I picked up the rifle and walked up multiple flights of stairs, cleaned my rifle, after returning it to its case, and disposed of the brass shell casing by flushing it down the upper floor toilet. Walking back downstairs, I stood in front of our computer desk where I pulled the fighting knife out my pocket and plunged it multiple times into my stomach.

The blood came slowly at first as I had pressed my hand so tightly against the seeping wounds. Standing on the patio outside the basement I looked down at my shaking hands. With coaxing, I peeled them off my stomach, and the hot red life gushed out of my body seemingly burning my bare feet. While the blood pooled upon the ground, he came. Death, that cursed spirit I’d been enslaved to, came for me.

Death came to harvest my soul on the concrete patio of my parent’s basement. But I was not alone on that patio because the truth is that I was never alone. Even in the grips of my madness and murder, I was never alone.

As I watched The Family spirit come to harvest my soul,
I witnessed The Angel of Yahweh appear and stand between Death and me. He never turned to me, but I saw fear in Death’s eyes for the first time in my life. I heard The Most High’s authority speak and the words He spoke purchased my surrender.

With the fullness of authority, He said,

“He is mine; you can’t have him.”

There was no cosmic battle and there was no bloody war; it was The King of Kings commanding a defeated foe to submit. The Living God wrenched my programmed mind out of its death code and gave me life. The sanity that had been stripped from me returned for a moment, and I heard,

“Nathan, you are going to die; call 911.”

Though I had been programmed to die and to leave my Family with a more significant inheritance, God my real Father was not willing that I should perish. Instead, He helped me survive Death’s dealings that day. Because of His intervention, I was able to slow the bleeding enough to endure the nearly 30 minute “slow roll” response time of the paramedics. I had to be flown in a medical helicopter out of the mountain pass where my parents lived and down to the hospital where I was stabilized and later that week released.

On my way through this whole ordeal, I maintained the lie that had been so carefully placed within me about the breakin and robbers. The news ran with the story though it would take only a cursory investigation to realize the truth. My dad against whom I had carried bitterness and resentment up to this point in my life swooped in as a messiah figure. He made sure I knew he “would handle everything and take care of it now.”

Three days later, he drove me down to the police department to meet with Initiated Fraternal Order of Police detectives who were assigned to my case. My dad talked to me privately down in their interrogation rooms and told me in no uncertain terms that I now needed to share the truth – a truth my father knew all along – with the detectives.

Always quick to obey my father, I told them that I had fabricated the story and done the deeds to myself. Determined to verify my account on the spot, I pointed out to the detectives the fighting knife I’d used, which they had been unable to find. Even well-trained investigators are susceptible to a common weakness, which is why if you want to hide something, put it in plain site.

After stabbing myself with the fighting knife, I quietly closed it and set in on the desk directly next to the chair I would be found bleeding out in. I then identified the knife in the pictures of the crime scene. My dad then met with the detectives, and before I knew it, I was being driven back home and my dad was explaining to me that he would take care of me now and make sure everything was dealt with. Thanks to my father’s Familial ways, I had no charges filed against me and I was sent home without immediate legal repercussions.

The military would want to wipe its hands clean of me as quickly as possible. My dad would provide his solution to this problem by finding a psychologist who would play their part. My dad prepped me by telling me new stories I’d never heard about his father who he now said was bipolar and manic and had killed himself. And he insisted this is what happened with me.

He publically labeled my entire incident a manic episode and sitting in the office of the psychologist, he reiterated this to me. The psychologist had me fill out a ten-point questionnaire about bipolar disorder, and after giving it to him, he told me I needed to change three of my answers. After less then thirty minutes of consultation, I obeyed him, and he diagnosed me as bipolar with a manic episode even though he did not take into account the drugs, alcohol, and prescriptions I had been under the influence of. This was a severe violation of diagnostic methods as outlined in the actual manual for this process at that time, called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM-4).

My father spent the next few weeks with me in a private hotel room where he kept me at his side except when I needed to take my exams. He had me placed on heavy prescription medications that caused my hair to fall out and my skin to break out, in addition to massive weight gains and horrible bouts of sickness. The medications clouded my mind with confusion and turned me into a blubbering mess. By the time I finished my freshman year’s first semester, I was a shell of a man.

My father put me into counseling at a Family run center where the elite can keep their Pet Projects in order. The counselor he placed me with was someone who would not validate or substantiate the previous diagnosis of bipolar disorder over the next 18 months I worked with her. Instead, six months into working with her, I overcame some of the fears of my father’s retribution and secretly went and titrated myself off all my medications. I soon learned how to dodge or muddle the blood and urine tests they had me on to ensure I was complying. Within a matter of days, I found my mind cleared up and all the horrible side effects of the pharmaceuticals to be the root of my troubles.

For less than one year of my life, I was on heavy medications: everything from psychotropic anti-depressants, anti-seizures, stimulants, barbiturate painkillers, anti-anxieties, sleep aids, to experimental Parkinson’s drugs and even heart medications to counter the irregular tachycardia I was suddenly experiencing. This in no way is a complete list, but at one point in time, I was prescribed 18 pills to take on a daily basis.

It was never a manic episode or mental health disorder that caused my year of hell but an intentional use of medications and manipulation to produce massive cognitive splits and behaviors I would never willingly engage in. It may have lasted less than a year, but it was the most destructive year of my life. Into that destructive path, The Father would help guide my feet back onto His Redemption Road, and less than a year later Chelsea took those first steps down the path on Hillside Road.

The reason I zoom in on this portion of my testimony is that this whole supposed manic episode would be the ace in the hole my dad and other “concerned Family Friends” would use to attempt to discredit me or dismiss me from that day forward. It is unfortunate that my Family and many others can be so easily beguiled by someone saying “mental health disorder” or manic episode and throw out an entire person’s testimony. Those who have ears to hear will know what truth is and what is not.

My family and their “Family Friends” categorically reject the mere utterance or existence of DSM-5 Titled Diagnosis, Dissociative Identity Disorder (or D.I.D.). It is a genuine and not uncommon personality disorder caused by massive trauma and abuse at an early age. Its primary characteristics can be a gradient but require for full diagnosis, the development of at least two separate and distinct personalities, the unexplainable loss of time or understandings of occurred events. My Family rejects its applicability as a diagnosis for me insisting instead that I have been in a manic episode for years and years. To this day, my dad desperately waves around 10-year-old news stories from that Thanksgiving to prove I went crazy once and am dangerous or someone to be concerned about.

Unfortunately, most of the world and other Family members have no idea what a manic episode is and what it is not. They do not have any training in the mental health field or with people who do struggle with bipolar disorder. I spent nearly a decade being trained and equipped to work in the mental health field, with clients who were ages four to eighty-two. I have learned and applied real individual treatment protocols for clients with this disorder and have personally never exhibited any quantifiable symptoms of it in more than ten years.

In the years since I’ve been receiving appropriate counseling for S.R.A/D.I.D., I have found freedom from addictions, restoration in my marriage and redemption of my fractured soul. No longer is my soul buried in bitterness, heart-rending grief, hurt, or sorrow. In that time, I have begun to receive the fullness of life and the wholeness I was always made for.

My father and other so-called “Family Friends” hate and forbid my other Family members from learning about D.I.D. and instead they errantly label everyone as bipolar or mentally ill. It is the fabric, which makes up my broken Family members’ tapestry of deception and control. They cannot allow those truth-riddled threads of understanding and realizations to be pulled. It is a sad reality; one that grieves my heart to this day.

It was not about the truth – it never was – it was always about control. I surrender that power to you the readers, the listeners, or watchers. There is no power in keeping any of my past or present a secret, and that is why I tell it to you now.

I choose to deny my Family their three methods of control through fear, guilt and shame. This is why there is power in exposing the secret skeletons in your closet. When you let the world see the worst you’ve ever been, the bindings of shame fall off, and with it goes the fear and guilt. Instead, you become a free person able to learn how to do good to those who spitefully use you and say all kinds of evil things about you.

I will not unnecessarily degrade my Family members – not past or present. That being said, I will not conceal their detestable acts any longer. They are accountable for every word they speak, as am I. They are responsible for their actions, and I am responsible for mine. Let Yahweh judge between us whose words are right for He alone is The Righteous Judge who has the power to throw us body and soul into His flame or into eternal freedom.

I tell this to you all now to strip my accusers of their desperate rebuttals and character assassinations. I am not ashamed of my testimony; The Redeemer has washed away even my worst days and deepest shames. Only in the light of truth can this be made the case for each one of you. Then let these next words of my testimony ring loudly to all who can hear.

For those who wish to expose the wicked works of darkness pay close attention to what I say next. I was made to be a brother of the blade, a guardian, blackmailer, chameleon, and thief for The Underworld. Even while I was still young by worldly standards I became a highly prized pet-project to the black budget world of military, religious and State sanctioned assassination and infiltration work. I was used as a wolf who hunted down literal pounds of flesh, rings of authority, totems, “cattle” and especially pure traumatized blood to bring back to my Family members who traffic and consume it for supernatural and physical strength. My Southwestern Family Trade was to produce, process and deliver those Cheese Pizza’s and other pedophilic appetites and artistic expression so many are now learning to uncover and expose. I hope you with eyes to see and ears to hear will look closely at where the money goes and in whose names their lodges, halls and chambers are founded. Keep a keen eye out when searching over those desert places and bridges where the jackals and coyotes still cross over. Hidden beneath the scorched soil and inky abyss lies remnants of my many Families deeds.

I am not here to convince people my story is true or that Satanic Ritual Abuse and Dissociative Identity Disorder is real. I am here because of my unrelenting love for the victims, for the Survivors of The Families, Brotherhoods, Knights, Catholics, Christians, Mormons, and Masons. I am here for all the Atheists, Scientists, Buddhist, pagans, new agers and witches alike. I am here for those dissidents who need to know there is hope in breaking out. Powerful freedom and restoration is waiting in the arms of The Messiah. I am here to make sure people know there is nothing The Enemy has done to you, which Yahweh can’t undo and nothing fractured which He cannot make whole.

This does not come free. The price I choose to pay for speaking The Secrets is not cheap. But don’t you remember? True love knows nothing of cost. True love throws banquets for beggars, murderers, and thieves because He loves “the least of these.” It broke my heart to see my Family members choose to hide in the darkness, but I love them enough to speak the truth and show them The Way out. I love them still even though what they did next cut deeper than any blade could.

After I decided to disobey my father and continue to speak The Secrets, the gloves came off. It was no longer a subtle war waged in the shadows. My Family would send the depths of The Abyss against their rogue asset. They would launch spiritual wars that sought to drain the blood from my body and choke the air from my newborn daughter’s lungs. Chelsea and I would spend the next few years in the thick of war. The battles would test our marriage to its core and in the testing prove the power of perfect love casting out all fear. The ravenous counterfeit lion would be loosed against Chelsea, Naomi, and me. It was no longer a question: either Yahweh is still The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, or He is not and we would all die.

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