THE RITE TO REMAIN SILENT
On May 7, 1966, I was dressed in white from my Catholic veil to my white patent leather shoes as was mandatory for making my first holy communion. I was standing outside the newly built, twisted concrete structure of Muskegon's St. Francis of Assisi Church waiting for the ceremony to commence when Guy VanderJagt, who was affiliated with the church, strode across the lawn towards me.
Crouching down on one knee, VanderJagt said, "You look beautiful today. You are as beautiful as your name. Cathleen is Gaelic for "the pure," and it is clear to me that you are flawless in your purity. Ann means «grace». It is by the grace of God, not your actions, that you are pure. Pure at heart. You are covered by the blood of our Lord and Savior, just like the cross on which he hung. This is for you." He opened a black velvet box, revealing a rosy cross necklace. Like the Kennedy inscribed pen he had presented me with at the state capical, the meaning behind the rosy cross necklace would lead me through the rest of my mind-con trolled existence.
VanderJagds pedophile comrade in Project Monarch, Father Don, joined us, reaching deep into the pocket of his robes to present me with a delicate blue charm of the Holy Mother. It was to be worn in conjunction with the rosy cross "to symbolize your service to the holy Catholic church," Father Don told me, which I would "promise to serve and obey".
As VanderJagt fastened the rosy cross and blue virgin around ray neck, he told me I was now dressed appropriately for the ceremony in red, white, and blue. I could feel his breath on my neck as he fastened the necklace and instructed, "When Father says 'Body of Christ' and you say 'Ahhh men'… you acknowledge that Christ is God made man, and that you know what men are for. When Father gives you the host, it will stick to the roof of your mouth unless you suck it off his thumb."
I hurried to line up with my Catechism classmates for the procession into the church for our holy communion mass.
"Body of Christ," Father Don said, holding up the host.
"Ahhh… men," I responded as instructed, sucking the wafer off his thumb. After services, VanderJagt and Father Don talked with me briefly while my parents congregated with other parishioners. Father was telling me, "…God has chosen you for work within his holy church. You are a Chosen One, my child…"
Later that evening, VanderJagt attended the reception that my parents were holding for me at our house. He talked with my father awhile, but spent most of his time talking with my Uncle Bob, who had recently flown in from "a mission over seas". My Uncle Bob and VanderJagt were friends, and remained so throughout the years. As the party dispersed, VanderJagt drove me back to church for a "special evening service with Father Don."
VanderJagt unlocked the rectory door of the old church across the street from the new St. Francis structure, explaining that we had to "have a very important talk now that I had eaten the body of Christ." The talk, blood trauma, and sexual abuse that ensued conditioned my mind to readily accept prgramming throughout the years that deliberately merged both U.S. Government and Jesuit mind-control efforts for New World Order controls.
"I work for the Vatican, and now, so do you," VanderJagt told me. "You have just entered into a covenant with the holy Catholic church. You must never break that covenant."
Still capable of questioning at that time, I asked, "What is a covenant?"
VanderJagt answered, "A covenant is a promise to keep secrets, the secret that the church knew all along. The Pope has all the secrets locked away at the Vatican. Your Uncle Bob and I have been to the Vatican. It is time you entered into the holy covenant and learned the secrets of the church that were written long before Christ even came into being. The Dominican monks kept the covenant that Noah carried into the new world. They kept the secret with them. It was written on parchment and kept in a secret place in the Vatican. They took a Vow of Silence to never reveal its location, or its content. You must enter into the covenant. You must carry the secret to your grave. Keep it secret from your mom, dad, everybody."
VanderJagt proceeded to fill my suggestible young mind with biblical interpretation that laid the groundwork for future "inter/inner dimensional" programming themes utilized by Project Monarch programmers to control the compartmentalization of memory synonymous with MPD/DID.
"Christ saw them all," VanderJagt was telling me, "They are dimensions, places you can see on your way to death. - That's why they're called die-mentions. You must remember that Christ died and came back to tell us everything he saw while he was on his way to heaven. He was gone three days, but it was much longer than that where he was because time isn't the same in other dimensions. Purgatory is one other dimension. Hell is one. And there are lots of others in between. Oz is another dimension. The sky is not the limit to all the worlds out there wailing to be explored. You can travel in and out of ail these dimensions, learning the secrets of the universe. You have been chosen to explore these oilier worlds for the church. Listen in the stillness and you will hear his voice guiding you on your missions. The rosy cross is like Dorothy's ruby slippers. Never take your rosy cross off, Cathy, when traveling other dimensions and you will always be able to return home."
Father Don joined VanderJagt in a ritual which bathed me in the blood of a slaughtered lamb, and subsequently, through this hideous blood trauma, locked their stated perceptions and a basis for mind-control programming deep in my mind. This basis for programming was anchored in the Vow of Silence which the Jesuit monks take "not only to keep secrets, but so they can still their mind and hear their inner guidance." Certain that the "Rite to Remain Silent" which they had performed would ensure that I keep their secret Father Don and Guy VanderJagt subjected me to their pedophile perversions. The two joked that I had become "a good Cathy-lick".
After the Rite to Remain Silent was installed, the voices of my multiple personalities that I had previously heard in my head ceased. In the silence of deliberately created memory compartments, I could only hear the voices of my abusers who created them… commanding my silence.
Silence for who and what I knew was involved in Project Monarch Mind Control.
My family routinely vacationed at Mackinac Island, Michigan which is a small island positioned in the Great Lakes close to the Canadian border Mackinac Island, with the Governor's Mansion and historical Grand Hotel, was a political playground where I was prostituted by my father to, among others, pedophiles Jerry Ford, Guy VanderJagt, and later U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd. The mind-controlled part of me that was prostituted there perceived Mackinac as another dimension, the timelessness of which was enhanced by the island's antiquated styling. Automobiles were forbidden on the tiny island, which relied on horse drawn buggies or bicycles for transportation. Once when Lee Iaccoca was attending a cocktail party at then Governor Romney's Mansion, I overheard him comment, "What better place for auto execs to get away from it all than on an island with no cars?"
Mackinac Island, due to its geographic location, provided an air of friendliness between the U.S. and Canada that formed my childish perception that our countries knew no boundaries. This political view was further enhanced by my father always taking the family to Niagra Falls where my mind was to be symbolically "washed of all memory" or what had occurred in Mackinac. Niagara Falls' numerous, powerful waterfalls were in reasonably close proximity to Mackinac Island, and shared the border between the U.S. and Canada.
When Pierre Trudeau was elected Prime Minister of Canada in 1968, I often heard it said, "Pierre Trudeau is one of Ours, you know." I first heard this phrase cryptically referring to Trudeau's loyalty to the Vatican when Father Don was discussing h im with my famer one Sunday after mass. This fact circulated quickly among those I knew who were involved in the Catholic/Jesuit aspect of Project Monarch.
The summer after Trudeau was elected, my father took the family to Mackinac Island as usual. Climbing on a large statue on the grounds of the Governor's Mansion, I could see across the field to the Grand Hotel. I noticed Canadian flags flying amongst the American flags that lined the front of the old hotel. As I slid down off the statue, Guy VanderJagt approached with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. Palling my hair into place he said, "Straighten your shirt, I've got someone important for you to meet,"
"I knew someone important was here because of those flags," I said, tucking my shirt in my pink shorts.
"When I was at the Vatican," VanderJagt began, "I was told that Prime Minister Trudeau is a friend of the Pope. He thinks like one of us. A true Catholic. He likes Cathy-licks."
VanderJagt led me upstairs in the mansion, where Pierre Trudeau was lowering the window shades in a dimly lit bedroom crowded with antiques. VanderJagt closed the door behind me. Trudeau's tuxedo coat was neatly draped over a chair, which left him in his formal pants, while shirt, and a bright red cummerbund which caught my eye. "I like your sash," I said. "Hasn't anyone taught you Silence yet?" His somber, gruff attitude was softened by his smooth, silky voice.
Triggered into the part of me that endured the Rite to Remain Silent, I assumed Trudeau knew all about interdimensions according to my deliberately formed perceptions. I could not/did not understand that interdimensions actually equated to the inner-dimensions of my own compartmentalized mind. Likewise, I did not understand that "Keys to the Kingdom" referred to knowing the codes, keys, and triggers to my controlled mind. "Guy said you like Cathy-licks," I said, repeating what VanderJagt had told me. "Are you the Keeper of the Keys?"
Trudeau seemingly bore his cold, dark eyes right through me. "You can learn more from the school of thought than you can by asking precocious questions. Haven't you learned that children are to be seen and not heard?"
"Is that a precocious question?" I asked. "What is a precocious question?"
Trudeau sighed with impatience. "That is irrelevant. What matters is that you shut your mouth, still your mind, and enter the school of thought. Silence is a virtue. Listen to the silence in the stillness of your mind. Go deep inside your mind," he slowly led. "Deeper and deeper where it's quiet and still…"
Trudeau expertly manipulated my mind with sophisticated hypnotic language. Not only did he enlist my Silence for the pedophile perversions he indulged in, but he instructed my "school of thought" in a manner that equated to programming. He laid a foundation for Air-Water programs that is a mirror-dimensional theme often used by NASA and others involved in Project Monarch. Playing off his own name "Pee-Air," he added a perverse twist to the theme that he accessed each time I was prostituted to him.
Had I been capable of fear, I would have been afraid of Pierre Trudeau. Trudeau's slow, deliberate movements masked the brutal power of his body much the way his smooth, soft voice pierced my mind and intruded on my thoughts. The icey cold touch of his effeminate, manicured long fingers contrasted with the heat of his perversion… a perversion for which he blamed me and my "temptuous, contemptuous ways".
In my childish ignorance, I believed Trudeau's demeanor and forward combed hair were characteristic of his French descent. "I know all about the French," I had bragged to my new «Grandpa» Van while visiting his home in Milwaukee, Wisconsin,
My mother's father had died shortly before Kennedy was assassinated, and my Grandmother quickly latched onto a wealthy, highly political businessman from Milwaukee. She met Grandpa Van Vandenburg on the passenger/cargo ship that traveled the waters of the Great Lakes, the Milwaukee Clipper. The Clipper transported cargo including Cadillacs from Vandenburg Motors to Canada, as well as the drugs sanctioned by the local Coast Guard via the U.S. Government that my father distributed. Sometimes I accompanied my father to the docks in Muskegon to pick up the drag shipment, which usually involved prostitution. Jerry Ford and Guy VanderJagt combined business with pleasure in the ship's casinos on occasion, which is where the connection between my Grandma and Grandpa Van was reportedly made. Grandpa Van knew Jerry Ford, and subsequently was acquainted with Pierre Trudeau.
"What do you know about the French?" Grandpa Van asked me as I sat on his living room floor petting the dog he just brought home. Improperly cued and dumfounded by his question I remained silent. "I know you've met Pierre Trudeau," he prompted. "I also know you love doggies. So I bought this dog for your grandma now, so you could enjoy him, too. His name is Pepe. He's a French Poodle,"
"I know all about the French." I said, mentally comparing the large French Poodle in front of me to Trudeau. "They have pretty nails…" I stroked Pepe's painted toenails. "They have funny hair…" I petted Pepe's clipped fur. "And they pee a lot," I giggled.
"You'd better take him outside, then," Grandpa Van told me, attaching Pepe's leash. After walking the dog past what felt like every tree in the neighborhood, I announced that I would call him "Pee-pee".
Uncle Bob filmed Pepe and I pornographically on numerous occasions, producing bestiality films that I would later learn Pierre Trudeau was privy to. Pepe remained a part of my experience long after Grandpa Van divorced himself from my Grandma, and long after I developed beyond Trudeau's perversion for little children.
I was slow to grow into adolescence. By the time I was thirteen years old, my breasts were tender and beginning to swell, which made me "too old" for VanderJagt's pedophile perversions. When my father brought me to Mackinac Island for routine prostitution at the Political Retreat, VanderJagt introduced me to a new friend he had made now that he was in Washington, D.C. as a U.S. Congressman-U.S. Senator Robert C. Byrd, Democrat from West Virginia. Byrd had been a U.S. Senator as long as I had been alive, serving as Senate Whip and later as President Pro Tempore of the Senate and as the all powerful Senate Appropriations leader. Byrd commanded attention and respect from all who came in contact with him, particularly from my father. When we were left alone in his room, he loomed over me in a threatening stance. His cold, blue slitty eyes locked onto mine. I undressed and climbed into his bed as ordered. I was momentarily relieved to find that his penis was abnormally tiny — so small it didn't even hurt! And I could breathe with it in my mouth! Then he began to indulge himself in his brutal perversions, talking on and on about how I was "made just for him" due to the vast amounts of pain I could withstand. The spankings and police handcuffs I had previously endured were child's play compared to Senator Byrd's near death tortures. The hundreds of scars on my body still show today. With VanderJagt, sex was a matter of "how much I could give," whereas with Byrd it was "how much I could take". And I was forced to take mote pain than any human could logically withstand. I was dedicated to Byrd at age thirteen which meant he would be directing my future in Project Monarch, and my father would raise me according to his s pecifications.
My MPD/DID existence became more regimented from that point on. I was kept physically worn down to the point of exhaustion in order that I be sufficiently receptive to my father's limited hypnotic programming capabilities to condition my mind for mind control. The pornography I was forced to anticipate in became much more violent immediately after Byrd, switching me from predominantly pedophile and bestiality themes to torturous versions of sadomasochism (S&M). My father and mother worked in tandem daily to "break my spirit," destroying any remnants left of my self-confidence, tearing down my self-esteem, and thus annihilating my free will urges. They conditioned/taught me my dreams were reality and my reality were dreams, that black is white and up is down. "Good night, sleep tight, dream about your mommy and daddy" is what I heard every night. This was intended to confuse my mind to believe incest in the middle of the night was "just a bad dream".
My television, books, and music became even more strictly controlled and monitored that before. This was not only to infringe on my last minuscule freedom of choice, but for total mind-control conditioning purposes. For example, the annual televising of Judy Garland's Wizard Of Oz was celebrated as a grand holiday around my house. This was to prepare my mind for future base programming on the theme that I, like Dorothy, could «spin» into another dimension "Over the Rainbow". After all, "Birds (Byrds) fly over the Rainbow…" was a theme that became a part of my life.
My father insisted I watch the Walt Disney movie Cinderella with him, paralleling my existence to Cinderella's — "magically trance-forming from a dirty little slave to a beautiful Princess". In typical "reverse psychology" humor, he referred to pornographic photos when singing "Someday my Prince (prints) will come," or by placing literal sexual emphasis on "will come".
My brother, Bill, who was often featured in kiddie porn with me, was not a "chosen one" for Project Monarch (beyond supplying more children to be dedicated in later years). Yet my father figured that "what was good for me would be good for my brother". He took us to see Walt Disney's Pinocchio, explaining that my brother and I were his puppets still in the carving stage. The distortions of reality that these and other Disney theme movies provided when coupled with my father's government trained conscious and subconscious controlling influence, began to further erode our ability to discern fantasy from reality. My brother, now 37, remains psychologically locked into those traumatic childhood years and is obsessed with Disney themes and productions to this day. His house is decorated in Disney memorabilia, he wears Disney clothes, listens to my father's instructions on his Disney telephone, and maintains "When You Wish Upon a Star" as his favorite song, which has locked his children into the same theme.
My father also instructed me to watch Alfred Hitchcock's horrifying movie The Birds with him. This reinforced in my mind the movie's theme that there is "no place to hide from the birds/Byrd".
I was quickly beginning to lose all ability to question anything but my own judgment. It was easy to believe that there was indeed "no place to run, no place to hide," which is a necessary and primary psychological basis for government/military mind control. In later years, "who ya' gonna call?" and Ronald Reagan's quip "you can run, but you can't hide" echoed deep within my mind. After all, even if I could think to seek help, who would help me? The police? The church? My parents? Relative? Politicians? School? There was no one left that would help me, I sensed.
My television programming was then expanded to include the shows that every Project Monarch Mind-Control slave I knew had to watch: I Dream Of Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, Gumby And Pokey, and Bewitched. I could relate to the Genie pleasing her master, who was a Major for the Air Force in I Dream Of Jeannie. This served to confuse the reality of my own experiences with the fantasy of television production. I told all outsiders that my family was "just like the Bradys". Through Gumby And Pokey I was led to believe that I was as flexible as these animated clay performers. Therefore, I was capable of being physically maneuvered into any sexual position. The mirrors depicted a doorways to other dimensions and adventures interlocked with my Catholic conditioning and Alice In Wonderland and Wizard Of Oz theme programming. In Bewitched, it is the normal new door neighbor that is considered crazy rather than the witches. This is another reversal that was applied to my bizarre existence. I was one of the only kids in my school that listened to country music. But then, Senator Byrd fancied himself a country music fiddler and it was "my duty to love what he did", I was ordered to listen to country music or no music at all. Music was my psychological avenue for escape, a dissociative tool. But this, too, was used in setting the stage for my future as a Project Monarch "Presidential Model" mind-controlled slave.
As suggested, I read the Boxcar Children Series over and over again, I empathized with the trials, traumas, and tribulations the children endured while they fended for themselves from their boxcar home along the railroad tracks. My father often made train sounds at me in passing to subconsciously remind me that I was currently "in Train-ing" on the undeterable track of the "Freedom Train." This term, taken from Harriet Tubman's underground railroad for slaves, reversed the meaning of the word «freedom» to confuse one's "one track mind" and instill the belief "I am free to be a slave". This also reinforced my training to stay on track-the plan (track) laid our for me. My father would often quip, "When God passed out brains, you thought he said 'trains' and got in the wrong line". Convicted (capital crime) career criminal, country music entertainer, and CIA operative Merle Haggard often used well documented cryptic language in his songs pertaining to government mind-control slave operations. He released songs including "Freedom Train" and "Over the-Rainbow". My father told me repeatedly that Merle Haggard was my «favorite» singer, and his songs reinforced my programming.
Of course, Senator Byrd remained my «favorite» fiddler as ordered. He played train songs like "Orange Blossom Special" while making train sounds on his fiddle. Sometimes I was his captive audience, bound and gagged, while he played his fiddle. Other times he instructed me to spin round and round like a music box dancer in order to add "new dimensions to our sex".. These new dimensions included more and more physical pain through «kinky» torture.
My father took advantage of his new political connections and advanced himself occupationalIy, manufacturing camshaft auto parts at a local factory. Soon he was promoted to a sales management position due to his connections within the Pentagon Procurement Office and General Services Administration, coupled with what he had learned about double bind hypnotic persuasion. He continued to supplement his income by sexually exploiting us children. This now included brazenly prostituting me to Muskegon Coast Guard officials while on cocaine runs to and from the base. Meanwhile, my father took us all to church every Sunday, and my mother stayed busy having babies to raise in the Project. In true pedophile fashion, he surrounded himself with children by coaching little league sports, chaperoning school and Catechism activities, and becoming involved with the Boy Scouts. All of this made him appear to be a model citizen and "pillar of the community". The illusion was fonned. The: parts of me that knew otherwise had no choice but to remain Silent.