I was born April 30th, 1941, in Cedar City, Utah. My birth was attended by a doctor, who worriedly asked my mother with his thick German accent, "Did you feel that baby kick?" His concern was not without reason The pitocin with which he forced the birth, caused me to be born in the amniotic sac and my mother to loose most of her hearing. But then such was the price of the Great Depression. My parents no longer owned me, they had sold me to the nazis for a house. At barely six pounds, I was their Walpurgisnacht baby. And my parents went from living in a dirty motel, without a refrigerator or radio, with their two older kids (and this was the part of the year while my father's job as a school teacher paid the bills, during the summer they lived with my mother's parents) to owning a house of their own. Wow!
"Oh, I just can't make up my mind. Do I want the baby or the house? The baby or the house? The baby or the house? I guess I'll take the house, it's bigger."
What were my parents thinking? It's the Great Depression. The bombing of Pearl Harbor may be happening at this very moment. And I'm having my picture taken in a hand-done 1930s style white batiste christening gown similar to or the same as those made in Madeira, Portugal, and by a commercial photographer. Who is going to pay that bill?
Oh look! My mother, for some reason I can only imagine, has five more of those christening gowns tucked away just in case. And according to her they were all for me. Six christening gowns, it seems a bit expensive. I wonder if she has told my father?
I can only speculate why my mother had six christening gowns just for me. She gave them to me when I was pregnant with my daughter, with the story that she made them when she was pregnant with me. No way did anyone make these gowns except ladies that did that kind of work for a living. That handwork is tiny, intricate, and would require great skill, skills my mother did not have. But the really curious thing is that the gown in the photo is not among those given to me. Was each christening gown good for only one wearing? From my memories I suspect that was true. I just got the leftovers. And as to why the fancy photo, my guess, again, is that it was to remember me in the most traumatizing way possible.
My abuse began in the cradle. My father proudly told how he had held my mother to keep her from picking me up when I cried. After all it was in the "Government Pamphlet" not to cuddle babies. My first traumatic memory was when my mother knocked out my first tooth, satanic style. It injured the bud and the permanent tooth came in brown. I suspect more than just following the rules that they were being careful not to get close, expecting never to raise me.
Like most adults I have pleasant memories of my childhood. I remember a bright sunny room where I played with a toy not my own. I sat on a stool and hammered pegs into a board while my mind filled with the odors of reds and blues and greens. I knew I wasnít in our house, as I didnít remember having toys, and our house was never bright and sunny. I remember standing by the train tracks in the snow having a temper tantrum because I wasnít allowed to go with the other children and play. I even remember playing in the front yard of the house, then wetting my pants as I did cartwheels. And I remember the barn with the stairs leading to scary places. I remember the pea patch, sitting in a field of green, opening the sweet pods and plucking the treasure within. Some of my favorite memories are of food; the sweet cream atop a small bottle of milk, and graham crackers. The biggest thing I remember about grade school was what they had for lunch. Nothing stimulates the appetite like starvation. The only memories I have of eating at home are of the hot cereal we had every morning for breakfast, and an occasional holiday meal. Food Glorious Food! But one meal with my family does stand out. I remember huge chairs and a huge table. I look up from the floor where I beg for the food. It is thrown, for me to eat like a dog. I remember my mother and father, brother and sister making fun of me as I crawl between the huge chairs and under the large table searching for the food, but I grab it because I am hungry. I feel alone and not a part of this world, just hungry. I soon learned to do anything to survive. I guess that was the lesson.
The anything to survive included sex. I remember the scary bedroom of my parentís house in the city of my birth. A huge penis in my face, two tree-like legs on either side of me, they belonged to my father. At three years old, I had felt like a prostitute, a whore. None-the-less, I liked my father. He was sometimes nice. But as a small child he did rape me. I remember with horror. My mother knew too, but was in denial. She kept telling me the story of how one day when I was little she came in and found me asleep, and I was bleeding from my vagina. Then she added she thought I had broken the hymen from playing too hard. Years latter, when confronted by me, my parents said a "hobo" did it. I think on this issue, my father felt some remorse. He said when the town found out what had happened, they had the hobo locked up. But then later the sheriff let him go. The town was so outraged; some of the men got a shotgun and a shovel. They found the hobo and shot him, then buried his body just outside of town. But of course my father was not included. Unfortunately, the "hobo" I remember died by the knife in a large ceremony in the barn just around the corner from our house. I suspect he was not a hobo, more likely a member wanting to leave their glorious group. Perhaps they did bury him just outside of town. I found some truth in almost every story my parents told.
As an adult I asked my father what he remembered about me as a child in Utah. He replied that I would go hide in the bushes at the neighbor's house for hours on end. It made me wonder what he thought I might have been afraid of. The answer of course was everything. I didnít remember hiding in the bushes, but I did remember hiding at the pre-school when we came to California, sitting quietly in a large wooden box, hidden safely from view. I was teaching my little friend how to hide from the adults. We both got in trouble.
Just around the corner from my house in Utah was the barn. All of the three separate aspects of my personality remember the barn. Walking on platforms that moved slightly would trigger feelings of falling, followed by thoughts of running after my brother and sister into the barn. They ran to the stairs on the side of the building that led to a room in the loft area. Knowing I would no longer follow, they laughed as they went up. I stopped at the staircase and looked between the treads of the rickety wooden stairs to see another set of stairs leading down. These were made of cement and ended at a door with a broken window. The jagged glass from the window was lying ominously on the cement floor below. The barn was around the corner from our house in Cedar City. But for all the fear the memory generated, for many years that was all I knew.
Barns, Holidays and Full Moons
I remember when I was very small walking barefooted in a swampy area. I could feel the mud ooze up through my toes and the wet at my ankles. I looked up and saw a full moon in the sky. I looked straight ahead, and a big bon fire burned brightly. I felt cold as my mother pulled me roughly forward. I felt scared but not defiant. That was how life was. My safety was the sky and the stars. They were watching over me, protecting me. Heaven was my parent, Guardian angel never further away than my mind. Abused children often to get to know their Guardian Angel. Mine was a lady with the body of a dove, huge wings of white light, and she could change her appearance at will. I remember I had originally called her Fairy God Mother because I recognized her from the Cinderella story. In my first memory of her, Iím being rocked in her wings of white light, as I lay injured in my crib. I think I was very small.
In another memory in the wilderness, I feel about three. Iím a part of a group of naked children standing around a bon fire. Chains connect us all around our necks just like animals. In the memory, I feel so frightened I feel my bowels let go. A baby is supposedly being murdered. I think it was a small pig instead. Then they brought out a blood covered baby or small child and cut off its hand. I felt the child was already dead because the hand didnít bleed when they cut it off from the arm and it was a funny bluish color. The hand was thrown into the fire. The memory was so scary not all of it was entirely clear.
Next to the wilderness, the barn was a favorite ritual spot. I remember standing in the barn cold and naked surrounded by people in black. They all held a whip in their hands, and every time I tried to run I could feel the sharp sting of the whip hitting my body. I assumed I was being taught obedience. If it was time to torture me, I had to learn to stand still and take it. In another memory the witches surrounded me and were pelting me with marbles. My core (one of three separate aspects to my personality) shuffles when she walks and is afraid of toys. In another memory Iím in the barn, with bales of hay, and the witches brought in a very large cross with a dead baby nailed to it. We also practiced bestiality in the barn with the barnyard animals. In another memory Iím laying in a manger of hay. They slaughter a cow and threw its blood on me. I think I was Baby Jesus. Then they mutilate the cow, removing it's sex organs, and threw that in my face. In another memory, Iím tied to a wheel they are spinning around while they hit at my body with a sharp stick. Perhaps they were teaching me spin programming, but by that point I had probably already left my body. I hated the witches, still do. In another barn memory I could hear the children chanting "Hecabeing, Hecabeing" as I stood coughing on smoke. Hecate in Greek mythology was the goddess of ghosts and witchcraft. I was the Hecabeing being conjured up in a puff of smoke to impress a group of children with their magical powers. Always the Magicians assistant, there was little reason to brainwash me as my days were numbered.
My death was planned and I knew it, and I was to die over and over again. I remember for Thanksgiving, in front of a group of small children, they put me naked in what felt like a big roasting pan. Their intention was to roast me alive. In the memory I was so scared my bowls let go and then I was gone. I'm convinced that whatever they served the children for dinner they said it was me. My next death was at the hands of my brother. He shot me in the head with a gun. When it was my sister's turn to kill me she was blind-folded then given a knife and asked to cut out my heart. She cut up a small pig instead. Even my cousins got in on the act. In the loft area of the barn, a rope was put over my head, and an older cousin was told to push me so that I am hung. Her younger sister is beside her. My cousin pushes, I swing and leave my body once again, appearing quite dead. Now that half the town thinks they have murdered me and I am gone, the real murder attempt is to come next.
My next memory of the house in Utah came to me wrapped in sheer unadulterated terror. It was of my mother drowning me and came to me as a flashback, complete with horror and pain. I was sitting in a bathtub, a small child again. The tub was full of water to the top of my chest. I felt a peaceful quiet as I watched the floating toys in the tub hit the sides then start back toward my small body. Without warning, two large hands were on both of my shoulders. I felt the hands on my shoulders as if at that moment they were actually there. With sudden force, those hands shoved me under the water and held me down. I knew the hands. They belonged to my mother. My body began to shake and then convulse, as I was pulled deeper into the flashback. I felt my oxygen supply being cut off by the water covering my head. And then the pain began, the horrible mental anguish that was beyond description. In my next trance I felt a deadly calm. I looked but could see nothing because of the blinding white light. Then I was in the light, its brilliance wrapped around me. I knew on the other side was my mother, but only her shadow was felt. I looked in her direction and thought, now you canít hurt me ever again; I have escaped into the protection of the light. A sad feeling engulfed me that I didnít deserve what she was doing to me. When I turned to the light I realized it was more than just a brilliant white light. I was wrapped in my Guardian Angelís wings. The euphoria of her presence embraced me. My memory continued with observations from above, having left my body. I was taken outside and many other people were there, as it was a big celebration. I clearly saw a big yellow pumpkin at the side of the house by the water faucet and a large bucket full of water with apples floating on top; it was undoubtedly Halloween. Next I remember my self at the hospital, my body was lying flat, stiff and heavy as though it weighed a million pounds. I couldnít move my limbs. Nothing about my body any longer worked. Four very large people surrounded me. I could hear their masculine and feminine voices converse as they hit on me. They hit, I bounced like a rubber doll. They began acting like what they were doing was futile. I heard them repeatedly refer to me as dead. I escaped to the other side. The dimension beyond the three of the physical world, or heaven, has a feel about it that is unique to itself, like coming home. I remember being in a classroom and I was happy because I knew the other spirits there. I feel I was given the choice if I wanted to return to Earth. I didnít have to come back, but if I did I would be given a garden at some point in my life. I love the feel of the Earth, the smell of nature. I felt cheated of that, so I came back. I came back to enjoy the feel and the smell and the taste of the green peas.
I opened my eyes, and I felt my tiny naked body lying flat on a hard cold object without sides. I sat up pushing back the white sheet covering my head and then looked around the small room in which I lay. I felt peaceful and relaxed as my eyes focused on the walls that were made of shiny clean white tiles spaced with clean white grout. Except for a sink and the equipment in the room, I was alone, hidden and safe. I assume I was in the hospital morgue. But in the next memory my mood changed drastically. I felt myself in the same room but I was hitting and banging and knocking things over. I felt angry and desperate as I tried to break up the room. I assumed my parents had come to get me. I felt rage at the thought. The good people at the hospital were returning me to them. And for the rest of my life, whenever I looked at my mother I painted her in my mind as the ugliest woman on Earth.
Drowning victims were occasionally taken for dead, when in fact they werenít. I had experienced something called the mammalian diving reflex. I must have satisfied all three of the requirements for stimulating the response. I was young, my face was suddenly submerged and the water was cold. Apparently, until you warmed up, you appeared quite dead even to trained medical personnel. And you could be submerged as long as 38 minutes with little or no brain damage if the reflex was stimulated, which under perfect conditions occasionally happened. In my reading, one version of the Black Mass was similar to a Catholic Mass, but instead of wine, water, from a well in which an unbaptized baby had drowned, was used. That would explain why the water in which I was drowned was cold. Perhaps they had filled the tub with well water, which would have been the ambient temperature of fall, or cold. It might have also explained the toys in the tub. They were there to keep my mind off the cold water. I didnít think I was allowed toys. Such meticulous worshipers, their adherence to detail may have saved my life. Undoubtedly their intention, like good little depression era witches, was to save every drop. Over and over, they could put up my picture, drink a little Unholy water, and wallow in how evil they all had been.
The books by Aleister Crowley said the satanic sacrifice was done to release energy through the death agony. I interpret that to mean, the more agony, the more energy, the better the ceremony. Ritualistic deaths were most often performed by fire, by drowning and by blood letting, according to the literature. All were potentially slow and painful ways to go, lots of death agony. It was a religion in which life meant nothing more than a twenty-minute ritual ending in someoneís torture and death. Whatever they did in the ritual after my death, if I was sticky with semen or dirty, they could simply dunk me back into the water or hose me off, put tears in their eyes, wrap my nude body in a blanket and dispose of my corpse at the local hospital. The system would take care of the rest. They were always good at making the system work for them.
Why a drowning? I had a birth certificate, two loving grandmothers, and most of my large extended Mormon family was not cult, so my death had to look like an accident. When the cult got wind of the fact that I survived, after all the trouble and expense they had gone to, my family was in big trouble. Within six months that nice nazi doctor relocated us two states away in sunny California.
When I was four my parents packed their old black sedan and moved to California. I remembered sitting in the back seat of the car as it crossed the desert, feeling lost and a little frightened. My parents hated the town we were leaving, a fact they frequently expressed to me. They never said exactly why, but I knew it had something to do with the people there.
I remember my first Christmas in California, just like it was yesterday. My aunt and uncle with my two cousins from the barn hanging came to visit. It was Christmas eve night and they arrived baring gifts that never seemed to end. I got a doll and blankets and doll clothes plus a fancy baby buggy to put them all in. I remembered wrapping the doll in her soft blanket and holding her for hours on end. Then Iíd wrap her again. The doll couldnít have been more loved or real to me if she had breathed air. My older cousin wouldn't look at me, and I never remember talking with her again. Her younger sister, who was two years older than I, kept going on and on about how cute I was. She seemed genuinely happy I was alive.
The relations with my family greatly improved. I remember sitting on my fathers shoulders combing his hair, while I was in one of my typical moods in which I was gripped in uncontrollable fits of laughter. The pain of my childhood may have been deep, but so was the occasional joy.
Things have never been better. I'm rich. I have my doll and a coat.
But the joy was short lived. I next remember that my mother and I were at a ritual, and she was trying to force me to hold a knife. They wanted me to cut up my own precious doll. I held my hand firmly open, the knife falling to the ground. They cut the doll and broke it to pieces, and then they burned it along with the buggy. As the doll went up in smoke so did all memory of how she had looked. I guess things were getting back to normal. But I had made a stand that would last for a lifetime.
Apparently they couldn't keep me from developing a conscience. I think feelings of morality develop naturally in most people. I remember, when I was about five, dropping my cat from a second story window to see if it would land on its feet. I was always the scientist. Right after I did it, I felt enormous guilt that I had been mean. It was an ah-ha moment that came upon me naturally. I remember another incident. When I was about six, the child up the street from me suggested we break into a neighborís house while they were on vacation. I felt flattered that he wanted to play with me. So I did what he said. First we put dirt all over the porch and then we got a ladder and broke into a window. We found some candy and ate it. When the family returned, the whole neighborhood knew we had done it. We were teased because we had left the refrigerator door open. I remember I felt low self-esteem at putting dirt on someoneís porch, guilt at leaving the refrigerator open, and strange that when my parents found out they didnít reprimand me. Wow, I thought, they should have told me what I did was wrong. I knew from that moment on, I was in charge of my own moral development.
© 2004 by Mauri
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