He then spends time explaining the CIA's mentality over "paramilitary" exercises. Paramilitary is sometimes a more secretive group but usually includes airplanes. So where I was concerned, with use of me at an military airport or inside of a plane even, there is a connection. He says he criticized this and the CIA told him the operations were approved by the "highest authority" (i.e, President of the United States) at the White House. So what he might be saying, is that Gerald Ford with Nelson Rockefeller, and Ronald Reagan approved my abuse and torture. Jimmy Carter was in between them but I think I was not as exposed at that time and then later, it was everything from stragetically blowing out my arm to having me throw up. But who knows, Carter may have been involved in the meantime and probably was.
E.H. says the CIA did whatever they wanted basically, to get covered if they wanted to "stir up foreign mischief." Then he says given the attitude of the ex-military members in his class, he didn't comment again. My thoughts would be on "foreign mischief" because he was talking about what was done outside of the U.S., not specifically inside the U.S. However, I was a U.S. citizen tortured in the U.S., and outside of the U.S. in Canada and potentially other international sites. I also think of my second cat that I had, because I had one named "Mittens" that my mother named, and the one I named was "Mischief". Mittens was solid gray with white socks and mittens and Mischief was a striped gray tabby. It was Mischief who scratched up my arms, and when I asked my Dad how I had some of the scars when most of the scratches went away he said he didn't know. Mittens was given to me and Mischief I tamed from being a wild kitten, and she had a lot of energy and would get stirred up playing and would attack and scratch my arms up and get wild again at times. It was when I was looking at scratches from her that I started to wonder where major knife and razor cut scars were from.
If I follow E.H.'s suggestion, it was "foreign mischief" paid for by the CIA and approved by the White House. That would mean I was taken outside of the U.S. to be tortured and/or I was tortured by people who were not my own people inside the U.S.
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UPDATED 8/20/13
Pg. 36. Strangely, picking up from Camp Peary, one of the Spanish words that comes to mind is "lampera". Lampera is one of the very first words I learned in Spanish, aside from colors and numbers. It's pronounced "lamb-pair-uh". Like a lamb and then a pear or pair of two and then "uh" you know....uh,...whas up? I guess, oddly, it came to my mind as I was sitting down to write from Camp Peary and thinking about the lamp and how it fits this nice space in the photo where I do a backbend, and then I thought "lampera". Which came to mind, considering the fact I was tortured and continue to be tortured with a variety of technological means.
I feel my entire life in this country has been a waste. Before Edward Howard defected, my Dad was always telling me how he didn't know anyone that had more natural talent than I did, and I could do anything I wanted. I didn't take it seriously and now I realize, it's true, and that with the amount of talent I had, what has this country done to support this? This country deliberately tore me down and tried to use me a surveillance "spook" for transmitting their messages between spies and then tortured me and in between trying to kill me, raped me and tried to transform me into some kind of government hooker after premeditating rape multiple times and forcing me into a position of telling me THAT is what this fucking country has to offer a talented and intellectual woman: forced slavery to be a prostitute for the CIA, State Department or FBI if they couldn't kill me...and then maybe, maybe, they would give me my son back.
Pg. 37 E.H. says he worked as a clerk in the European department for the CIA. He says he did his own filing. The only thing that comes to mind is Mrs. Raugust showing me the "secret files" about me that the school was keeping. She did this later though, after this time. She showed me a drawer that came up to about my chest level, at the height I was at then, and it was a narrow file box and very long and then there was a normal one. I remember this one box was smaller than usual, more like the width of a post office box. It had report cards in it, and psychological notes and observation write-ups of me by teachers. Teachers were not just marking a report card for me, they were writing records and documents about me, such as "Today Cameo was working with C and showed her how to write an ending to a story." So it was just note after note about my every action, word, and move. It was incredible. Even as a kid I knew it wasn't normal. They were also confiscating and keeping some of my work and drawings. I don't know why the one box was narrower than usual, but it was, and it was up high. It was sort of as wide as a post card, horizontal width. Which is interesting, because later the Maiers family decided to send me post cards from various European countries. So it went from my seeing this secret file of me in a file cabinet with report cards and boxes about that wide, and high up, in 1981, to later, getting these "European post cards" from Stephanie Maiers from 1987-1990. I believe it mostly began in 1988.
So how would Stephanie Maiers and her family know about Mrs. Raugust showing me these things, and then replacing it with the idea of post cards from Europe, unless they were trying to humiliate me or observing me to set me up later....you know, to go down their "slippery slide" naked and everything. The entire time, I just thought "Oh look! Stephanie sent me a post card!" and I was happy to get them and I had no idea they were Middleton colluders. Maybe England was getting my personal belongings while I was getting...alas, a post card of a photo of their town.
This section
input in this specific paragraph is from 9/10/13 and it’s to add to this
because another section I wrote about the same thing when it triggered my memory
later, was deleted. What I want to add
here is that I had thought another reason for getting the postcards from
Europe, with photos of European locals, was because one day I discovered a
letter between my Mom and a “Katie” from England, with a parent also writing
named “Mike”. It was left on the stove
or by the counter where my Mom was writing a response and I noticed because my
Mom was looking secretive about it and when she went around the corner, I went
over to look. It was a white piece of
paper and inside a smaller paper on recycled blue paper that was in a kid’s
printed writing and it said she was getting ready for school and learning to
write and I think she said her age was 5 but I’m not sure about the age. It was signed “Katie” and the letter with it
was from her guardian, “Mike” and next to it was an opened envelope with the same
name on the return address and a stamp from England on it. I looked at the stamp a long time because I
hadn’t seen international mail at the house before. Then I also found another letter from Edward
Howard and with a normal U.S. stamp from what I recall and it was written in an
exciting story kind of way and was in an envelope with a return label that was
metallic and had a sheen when turned, like on the spine of his hardback book “Safe
House”. My Mom was writing to “Katie” on
pale green steno notebook paper that was in a spiral notebook and had a line
straight down the middle on the paper. I
remembered because at first I was shocked because I thought why is my Mom
writing Katie Fallon? Katie Fallon was
the Katie I knew or had known. But then
I read the letters and saw it was from some younger “Katie”, from England. After this was when the Maiers family
suddenly decided to take “European vacations” and send me post cards from
Europe with photos of places and I think they all wanted me to think of the
postcards and not the letter with the stamp.
I noticed my Mom was keeping a separate notebook about me and about what
I said and did and it was regular sized and I wondered why she was doing this
but possibly I thought it was because she knew I started keeping a diary of my
own.
The file cabinet with the open drawer, in the interview Princess
Diana had with Martin Bashir, is the same height of the box that was opened for
me to look into. Think about it. Top to bottom, if it was
alphabetical, that's where I was. Up at the top. hmmm. Now you're thinking. So, E.H. also says it was joked that "James Bond" was really a GS-5. As she was looking at the boxes, she said the letters out loud before pulling out the one with my card and reports in it. To the "G's". It was either A-C, D-F, G-I or two letters at a time. If it was G-I, H for Howard was in the middle. This was shown to me before "Middleton" was ever born.
E.H. writes about 2 cafeterias at Langley, which seems strange to me. No commentary on him, but what is the point? He says one was for overt (known employees) and the other for covert (undercover) employees. I mean, first of all, all of those coverts see each other, and then it's not like the overt ones don't know who the covert ones. They have separate tunnels underground or something? Or is it just that anyone who is normal isn't even allowed to have prenatal care in Falls Church, VA or anywhere near Langley, VA. I guess it makes sense for more coverage for coverts, but it isn't totally secure. As soon as you go to the "covert cafeteria" you have no cover. I don't see how the CIA trains anyone anymore. Anyone with sense who wants to know who the spies are, would keep an eye on who goes and comes from there. So is everyone traveling there after ducking into convenience stores and donning fake mustaches and beards first? Or maybe, you give them all the slip in another country and then take a cargo seat in a plane, and then don a burka or hat and glasses and scarf and then go to a darkened window car and end up in Langley. Anyway, at my high school, I got sucked into a government kid's lunch group. I had no idea why anyone would think they could "score" points for themselves by gaining proximity to me, as I had no idea why I would be important in any way. But as it turned out, I was enveloped into a group of high school students whose parents already worked for the U.S. government and some of them, as teenagers, were likewise already employed. Also, at this high school I went to, they started having 2 separate lunch breaks. At my elementary school, at this same time, there were 2 separate lunch breaks. I was in the second one. Then, later in high school there was one lunch period and later it was split. In elementary school I was always one of the very last students there. Some of the students ate fast and were outside on the playground right away and I was taught to chew my food so I did. I also was too cold to play outside in the winter and wanted to stay inside as long as possible so I didn't have to be outside in the freezing weather and snow. I was cold all the time. I remember being so cold I didn't want to play outside, starting in the 2nd grade (1981). I was kept warm enough in kindergarten and 1st grade. I remember running and playing, and making all kind of games and forts. In 2nd grade, this is when I was suddenly being beaten, deprived of food, and made to freeze in inadequate clothing for the weather. The cold was so severe, and I was so under-clothed for it, the memory of how cold I was all the time, has never left me. My fingers were freezing cold and I no longer had gloves but thin cotton gloves or thinly lined gloves that got snow inside and were not insulated, just thinly lined. My coat looked puffy and had no insulation though, as well. My boots were the same way, substandard, too small for my feet, and not insulated. I was no only freezing outside, I was cold inside the classroom but I avoided every single recess, especially beginning in the 3rd grade. In 2nd grade I still went outside and by 3rd grade, I was so underclothed and freezing it was like torture to be outside. I spent my entire recesses in the girl's bathroom.
Every single recess, and that was 2 recesses and 1 lunch recess, was spent in the girls bathroom by me. I usually got one other friend to stick with me, by trying to make it "fun" however I could. However, I loved being outside and playing games outside, but because of how cold I was, I was the ONLY kid in the entire school that was spending recess in the bathroom just because it was warmer. No other girl, in an entire school, was in the bathroom every recess every winter, and I know, because I was there, and I was the only one, except for one other girl I usually convinced to go there with me. I was even cold during lunch, in the drafty lunchroom and sometimes, when shooed out too soon, I would take it to the bathroom and eat my lunch in the bathroom. Why? Because I liked eating next to toilets? No, because that is how cold I was.
That is how great the U.S.A. is. There was no reason or excuse for what they did to me, and the U.S. military and CIA were directly involved. They retaliated against me to punish others they thought were 'defectors' and to harm me and out of hate. Despite being forced to eat in the bathroom and spend my recess in the bathroom, I did my best to make it "fun" and would talk with another girl, or bring make up in to try on for fun when we weren't supposed to, or sing. This is where Mrs. Bailey walked in when I was throwing a spitwad at the ceiling because we had nothing to do but try to find out how much water would make a spitwad from paper towels or toilet paper, stick to the ceiling and not fall back down. Most of what we did, in the bathroom, at lunch and recess, me and one other girl, was make spit wads. In third grade, which was 1982 or 1983 for me, every day I made spit wads or talked, or sometimes, if no one went with me to the bathroom I would take a book and read in the bathroom by myself.
Spit wads for lunch and recess, because I was too freezing cold to play outside. And when Mrs. Bailey came into the bathroom, knowing exactly why I was there, she mocked me from her adult stature of 5'3" and said, "Cameo, I thought you were a NICE little girl."
Well, I thought the U.S. was a NICE little country too. I win Mrs. Bailey. I win the debate. You can know now, that you proved my point. I still remember her blond curly puffed up short hair and the way she sneered at me when she said this, in a fake-sweet tone even kids would understand, as she looked me up and down while washing her hands.
She washed her hands, at the sink, as she sneered and said, "I thought you were a NICE little girl". She's certaintly had a few male U.S. government rapists who followed her model.
I have enough to expose about my own childhood to prove my point that my son is endangered in this country. The United States has abused him and paid their employees to do it, since he was born and it's the same thing they did to me. I always knew he needed political asylum.
The only girls that would go with me and keep me company in the bathroom were Mexican girls or half Mexican girls so they were my best friends at that time. In the warmer weather of early Fall or late Spring, I played outside.
I remember worms all over the sidewalks in Moses Lake. It rained in Moses Lake, in thundershowers and hundreds of hundreds of worms came up from the ground and covered the sidewalks at the school. When we had to walk from classroom to classroom, I tried not to step on any worms. They were crawling all over, like a morbid haunted house. It was really gross, how many there were and they all wanted to be on the sidewalks and not in the earth anymore.
So when E.H. says he talked with people in the cafeteria and gossiped, I did a lot of talking with whatever friend was with me at the time, but my memories of these things are from after he was fired by the CIA. Things got bad for me in 1981-1982, after having a short break where not as many bad things happened.
E.H. says "Camp Peary", aka "The Farm" was officially designated a Department of Defense (DOD) facility, but the CIA used it. So actually, that puts my polka dotted dress into potential perspective for "DODs" in 1980 as well as being made for me after they came back from Lima, Peru. My mother told me it was "The last time I ever make a dress for you again." When I saw the dress I hated it. No one asked me what I wanted and they came up with this green polka-dotted dress, which was cute, but there must have been a subconscious reason I hated it. I didn't want to wear it for picture day and did and was made to stand in front of Mrs. Beckly in it. I was told that since I hadn't liked it, it was the last time in my entire life my mother was ever going to make a dress for me. She never made anything for me again. Ever. Of course. Bibity bobity boo. Which gown? No, for me it was "Which clown?" So from Rory's red round clown nose, as he sat next to me, the "baby witch" for the "witch clown" I got a dress with a bunch of green clown noses on it. It probably has some reference to torture of me and the dots put on my body, if not just the DOD's official ownership of "the farm".
When E.H. says he was learning tricks of the spy trade including photography, lock picking, use of disguises, intelligent agent recruitment, and managements exercises, I suppose I was sort of learning similar things at home. I was given a disposable camera (always with Kodak film, 24 exposures, sometimes more, and later in my pre-teen life Fuji film) and taught the importance of "negatives". I watched cars being broken into as well, our own cars when the keys were accidentally locked inside (by using straightened out wire clothing hangers), and I saw a car ignition hot-wired once around that time. I also watched my Mom and Dad both pick locks at our house and they wanted me to see, apparently. They picked house (door locks) with bent pins, bobby pins, and coat hangers. It was always done inside our own house but for awhile, it was all the time. My mother was particularly good at it. I saw most of the lock picking with various items inside the house by my Mom and my Dad demonstrated how to break into a car, many, many times--always our own vehicles. One time he hot wired it to start.
GET YOUR DECLASSIFIED INFO HERE!!!! Afterall, James Cartright with the Pentagon even violated me and wanted to degrade me for the entire Department.
I was also shown how to keep a door from shutting completely, with a paper or something inserted. If it was a cupboard or something that made a noise of clicking shut, you put in a tiny piece of paper so it couldn't be seen and yet kept it open so when opening further, it didn't make a noticeable loud clicking noise and alert anyone. This is basically what the U.S. retaliated against me with later, when they wanted to rape me. They first had my hymen broken at a doctor's offices so there wouldn't be as much blood and then raped me. This is partly why my parents used to cringe over my mention of the movie "The Indian in the Cupboard". This is what Jews who work for the U.S. government did to me.
I was taught use of disguises then with masks, particularly full-face ski masks with only eye holes. When Mt. St. Helen's blew, we then wore medical masks over the lower parts of our faces. I remember one of my favorite things to chant, that I chanted all the time, was "Ring around the Rosy (pocket full of posies/ashes, ashes/We ALL FALL DOWN!)". It was my #1 chant that I played games with, and I was always grabbing as many kids as I could, to hold hands in a circle and walk around and chant this and then we'd all yank each other down to the ground at "we all fall down!" I don't think I made any connection with this chant and that "wow", we really do have a lot of ash now. Ashes, ashes. May 18, 1980. My Daddy blew up the whole mountain for me. So the CIA got really mad at him and fired him and got revenge by targeting me to fall from a tree and break my arm and be implanted by them. The tree I was targeted on was an American Mountain Ash tree (with orange berries). After I broke my arm my Dad cut it down and I didn't want them to cut it down. The photo taken of me in the dog shirt by the window, with that Mountain Ash tree in the background, was probably shared around. "How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?" (sing this Cameo!)
BOOM.
Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. My Daddy blew up the whole mountain for me.
So of course, later, the DOJ premeditated another rape of me in Portland, Oregon with Jonathan the Jew and his sister Jew "Helen". But guess what BITCH. My Daddy blew up a mountain for me. What did yours do for you? some God really "listens" to your prayers, is that what your rape was supposed to mean?
Believe me, Jews hate me, because they are a little "confused" about "God" and why God chooses to avenge me and God is not done.
So anyway, disguises I was learning in 1980, included full-face ski masks that were dark green and covered my entire face except for eye holes. Then Mt. St. Helens blew up and we wore partial face masks. At Halloween of course, masks. As for other disguises, my entire life was a lie and I was the victim at the mercy of the criminal hands of this country. My best friends, or better friends, have apparently always been internationals. I'm not exactly friends with any country nor do I know anyone specifically, but anything done to try to help me, hasn't been from this country and this country is holding my son Oliver Garrett hostage and I expect to have him returned. Then E.H. says there were intelligence recruitment exercises. Probably the closest thing to this for me, at that time, was that my main friends in 1st grade were Japanese, Egyptian, and Mexican. Later, I went door to door collecting signatures and pledges for my "jump rope-athon" which proceeds went to charity. I collected more than most of the kids at the school and got either the grand prize or 1st prize. I did it by myself, riding my bike and going door to door as a little girl. No one was with me--no parents and not even my brother. That was a little later, maybe 1981 or 1982. In 1980 I was selling cookies and for management exercises, I was given money to create a "bank" to play bank with my brother. So I had a bank set up and created a store with a price list and then my brother would go "shopping" at my store and I'd do the money exchange. Then I set up my own lemonaide stand, up by the highway (50 miles an hour country road), and charged 25 cents a cup and sat there every day to sell lemonaide. No one told me to or suggested it--I just wanted to make money and from there I decided I could make more money writing and selling original stories about the kids on the bus, designed the way they wanted me to write it. I made bank with that. Richest independent entrepreneur my age in the entire town. It was my idea, no one suggested it. No other kid was making that much money from a self-created project, self-written and designed, at age 7.
But of course, look at what the U.S. does with talent. They seek revenge. They stole my homework. Their principal beat me at the school. This country is self-destructive and this is why it's ruined. There is no way this country deserves to have my son here. They do not deserve my DNA which is why I refuse to give it to them, or my eggs.
So these are the "Farm" exercises I was taught as a kid around 1980, even though I was probably tortured to not be psychically gifted. After I was taught most of these things, then I was just abused and lashed out upon. I was maybe psychically gifted and then it was poisoned and beaten and tortured or electrocuted out of me. I feel very confident that this might be the case. I think the people involved in getting retaliation by using me, torturing me, and then wanting to ruin my life later, wanted to program me, but didn't want to worry about my being able to have power over them to read their minds. They wanted to read my mind and predict my actions--they didn't want me being psychic to find out this way who was behind my torture.
I remember one time getting a shot to my neck or shoulder and then passing out after a moment of shock and not remembering anything later and that was in Moses Lake, WA. That was one time I was not an extremely little kid. Interestingly, a decade later, when I had a U.S. government-triggered "migraine" and went to Tualatin hospital to be treated, the woman doctor there, "Barbara", suggested they try a shot to the back of my head. Well, I'm not confusing that to one I got in the base of my neck or shoulder, from the back, at my own house.
So, can Katie guess what is in her presents before opening them up? come on. I was quizzed over this and if I got it right I was asked why I thought what I did. If this country had wanted me to be psychic, they wouldn't have tortured and poisoned me when I was a kid. No one electrocutes a baby or toddler with the outcome desired to be "psychic ability".
E.H. says he had a "dim view" of ex-military students who preferred to solve problems with their muscles rather than their minds. He brings up "ex-military students" a lot. I know my Dad is ex-military because he did join them, signed up, and admitted it, and then said he backed out or they let him quit. He said he joined the U.S. Army and then quit a week or so later. Maybe he quit because the CIA recruited him instead or did undercover intel for military. I don't know.
He says they were all grade on a 1-7 scale and 7 was highest and he was in the top 24th percentile, and Graduation was in Dec. 1981. The only connotation is that my Dad used to say 7 and 3 were his favorite numbers, but that was at a particular time so who knows.
He says he requested the European assignment and got it and that some wanted Soviet, but he didn't care. He says his dream assignment was in Berne, Switzerland in banking and economic intelligence. Berne is pronounced "burn". The flag is red and white. My connotation to "Berne" or "burn" would be Bernard and Francesca in the movie The Rescuers where they go to an international committee over the case of refugee children. Another idea would be about being burned, because I was burned as a kid. I also know that for some reason, I was told to put my hand on a hot or glowing surface. I know I kept touching the stove top, the coils on a burner, all the time, as a kid and then would say, "Hot!" or "Hot-ah!" Instead of Mata Hari the U.S. tortured me as a Hot-ah Mary. I was programmed and taught to have my hand on a surface that glowed or lit up. My other potential burn experiences were with electrocution and electrodes on my body, as well as acid burns, partly to erase tracks or evidence of scaring from cutting and other burns.
My mother had a large jar of skin whitening cream under the sink in Moses Lake, Wa. It wasn't oil of olay--it was pharmaceutical-grade and I used to ask her why she had it. I had freckles and it wasn't used on my freckles. I don't remember her ever using it on me, or seeing her use it at all but I wondered about it. Too bad Michael Jackson is dead because he probably had some ideas. Personally, I would think a skin lightener could be used to even out scars and pigmentation discoloration from torture. She showed me how to fill in crevases or small nicks in a wall with white "spackle" and smooth it out and then paint over it. I'm sure the DOD and CIA and Canadians do the same thing with little kids they torture. Berne (burn) also makes me think of my Dad and Mom buying a property in Burns, Oregon while we lived in Moses Lake, Wa, in about 1990. My Dad went to Burns a lot and it seems there is a lot of loose-throwing around of the word "burn" "Burns" and "Berne". The other thing is Switzerland has a red and white flag which reminds me of red and white blocks I saw while I was trained in firearms before the age of 3. It is also the colors of Canada, a country that tortured me and took money from the CIA to torture me and later torture my son too. I had a Swiss Army pocketknife in maybe 1994. Cindy Sandberg, who became a chief of police for WA and then with FBI and D.C., had her entire bedroom decorated in red and white with red hearts as the theme. I remember how her bedroom was before the big "redesign". I also remember I had exchanged red candy hearts (they were tiny red non-cinnamon flavored hearts) and things with B.J. Mose when I was in kindergarten, in the "Love Tunnel" in 1979-80 before she changed her room. I remember one of the things Mrs. Raugust showed me was documentation about my being in what kids called "The Love Tunnel" and thinking, with shock, I hadn't thought any teacher cared if I exchanged Valentines or chocolate eggs with someone. I remember my mother, or one of the Dicksies, was shocked by the design and I saw her expression and wondered what bothered her so much. She looked shocked and I could tell she didn't like it and something scared her. For my part I nodded and said enthusiastically that I liked it but my mother, I could tell, did not. It was hearts everywhere and every single thing was red and white. Shirley wanted to be there to see my reaction and then my mother just looked alarmed. I would say Cindy- Sweeties entire "redesign" was done when I was about 9-11 years old. I know it was after I broke my arm. Before it was red and white hearts everywhere, it was a country romantic-girls theme with a ruffled bedspread, country flowers and pillows with lace edging and different colors, like blues and pinks and other colors, not stark red and white.
Maybe Shirley's idea was that now that I was standing in her daughter Cindy's bedroom with hearts all over, that was the "Love Tunnel" I was going to be killed or tortured alive in. She had hearts on the ceiling, up in mobiles, all over the bedspread, all over the walls, and heart pillows all over the bed. It was red and white heart overkill. I remember the conversation about where the money came from. It was a big deal because they didn't have money to do something like that so the topic came up. I also remember that while I loved it, I got dizzy and started to black out and maybe that was partly why my Mom got worried.
Shirley looked jubilant. I liked it and then didn't know why I was feeling dizzy and sick. My Mom wouldn't let me stay in the room and told me to get out. I mean, Shirley even had a ceiling mobile hanging there, with hearts. I guess I possibly got sick or dizzy if the colors triggered any memory of some kind of firearm training and torture related to it, or blood. I also remember I was surprised it was all in hearts when one of the main things I drew at that time was hearts and I think, but not sure, in kindergarten, when our first day was about finding the "Runaway Gingerbread Man", I think he was eventually found at home by a door with a heart on it. Then we all got a gingerbread man to eat and I remember I didn't want to eat his head. I felt weird about eating his head with the smiling face on it first, like it was sacrilege or something so I bit off some hands and feet and things first until it didn't look as much like a person. I remember I had an aversion to eating things that looked like people. I didn't want to really eat cookies shaped like people or anything. Animal cookies, yes. People cookies, not so much.
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UPDATED 8/21/13
I just got a ride back from the store from my Dad, and the thing is, because there are two of them, I don't know which one did what when I was a kid. I did think though, that it was possibly my Dad (one of the Roberts) that gave me the shot to the back of my neck/shoulder. I was thinking it was my Mom but she yanked the earring from my ear, which I remember distinctly, and talking to her about it and showing her the line caused from it, and then the shot was a different thing and possibly from my Dad. I thought of this when I was in the truck with him and he said don't sit on anything and there was some box there and he said something about it being hot today. So it made me think about when I sat on a curling iron and burned myself, but that's not what some of the marks on my thigh and rear are of. I can see the difference, and it's on both sides, not one side. When I used to put my hand on the stove burner, at our house, I remember I did it all the time, out of some subconscious reflex to touch the burner, some kind of coil shaped round thing that lit up or was orange-red.
I also had an instinct to hit something like a button above my head, where a visor to the car mirror on passenger's side would be, while walking and noticing cars like boxes. I'm not sure what the red stove was about, with my touching it with the flat of the palm of my hand, and then being burned all the time, but I also had a feeling or instinct that is subconscious, of hitting something above my head with the palm of my hand. Possibly it was a round red button or something. I did this with my right hand, not my left hand, and at home with the burner, it was always my right hand, not my left.
When I was forced to be "hand-printed" at a U.S. federal site in Knoxville, TN, they forced me to put my hand on top of a glowing box that had a blue tone to it and took my hand print and I remember it was all very sadistic. Those individuals knew about my past history and then they were putting me in a clear cage box to observe me and how I responded to a U.S. government psychic that was demonstrating her abilities for them. This is what I mean by repetitive government "overlay" where they do something criminal and then attempt, in various methods, to confuse what was actually done by replacing it with something similar but innocuous.
It is also possible that on pg. 34 where E.H. brings up "addressing that shot", which I see with the blocks as more about gunfire, it is possible he was also mentioning reference to the one shot I remember getting to the back of my neck that was unexpected at my own house in Moses Lake, and if it was my Dad, possibly this is why he says something about a second or third rate man, which could imply a man possibly that was not the first with his name, but a "Jr" (i.e., Bob Garrett Sr would be Bob Garrett 1, Bob Garrett Jr. would be Bob Garrett 2 unless there is a twin and then it would be 2 or 3).
I know whatever it was that was round and red or orange-red, that I was instructed to push or hit with the palm of my hand so many times, was something done to me so much that even knowing a burner was "hot" did not instantly override the impulse to hit it because of how many times and how long I was forced to do this.
I also know I was supposed to hit some kind of a red button over or above my head, and then run, and then when I quit I was supposed to hit that button with my hand another time.
I also know the smell of coffee still bothers me sometimes, but mostly in the summer, and with connection to being near my parents. I know the "vacations" to Canada were in the summer and this is when it was most possible to torture me when I was past age 3 and I remember the long drives there and when I felt most sick over coffee was in the car with my parents drinking it and the context of being in motion, and my parents there, and the smell of coffee, made me want to throw up. I asked them not to get coffee or bring in the car all the time and when I was older I opened the window for fresh air because I felt sea-sick.
I also think Mossad was involved in some way, in torturing me. Too many of the Jews know what was done to me and then targeted me again later in my life for them not to know or have been directly involved. I also know there is something to do with Jews that involves either me or Kate Middleton, regarding both Jews and being adopted. I was given the impression, or it was hinted, that either she or I was adopted and not the actual biological child of the parents, and that someone Jewish was involved, either as the adoptor or with regard to the origins of the adoptee.
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UPDATED 8/22/13
pg. 39. E.H. says he began working in the German offices for the CIA, or with plans to spy in that capacity and then after he began work he was "head-hunted" by another officer who worked for the Soviet division. I am not sure how this works at the CIA--if one officer has to get permission from another to try to change someone's assignment, but I suppose I could say for me, someone started stealing my homework at the school I went to.
Obviously, since I am connected to, and related to E.H., it was some sort of retaliatory move. Why punish me, as a kid, by stealing my homework from me, unless it was over this or later suggestion that secrets were stolen?
I don't know how it works at the CIA, because in the corporate world, "head-hunting" as they call it, or I was told it's called, happens all the time with different businesses, but within an organization, maybe someone got permission or didn't and maybe it's not required. So he says he was invited to McLean, VA to be recruited to Soviet spying when he was already working as an Eastern German spy. If it wasn't acceptable, the CIA would have just fired him from the start. If it was described as a career opportunity and he was told he could have any position he wanted after the Soviet division, and his heart was set on Switzerland, then if he thought he'd get Switzerland later, this could have been his reason. However, he says he did not know, at the time, that the "Plan B" was to set him up in some way, or at least he says he didn't realize what was in store until later. Another thing that I would say correlates for me or that perhaps some tried to use as a kind of "joke" against me, was that after this book was out, in 1995, I had no idea about it, but when I worked at CTR Business Systems, having survived another assassination attempt against me, I later had people trying to "head-hunt" me from there, which is where I learned the word. It's possible it was just a political game and joke against me at the time, with others having knowledge of my background and thinking it was funny to toy with my life between insiders, knowing I didn't know myself, what was going on. I would say that for me as a kid, however, I was punished by the United States with having my homework stolen from me and being downgraded when I was a better student than what they were promoting instead of me. It wasn't like I was a normal kid, getting a fair shot at school after what abuse the U.S. had already aimed at me. I was deliberately put at a disadvantage to my natural abilities, to the point of stealing from me so others could feel better about themselves or their other kids.
I think when E.H. says Soviet division was explained as a rung-up for a career move, he believed it at the time and then discovered it wasn't later, and it was too late to do anything about it. Possibly it was because the CIA was still testing him and making interpretations off of his susceptibilities, possibly it was a move by an insider to set him up to have the CIA or FBI later use this to question his susceptibilities, and potentially, he is referring to something else entirely.
E.H. writes that he was transferred to the Soviet desk in February 1982. This is about the same time I had math teachers transferring me from high math to second-high math, after first interfering with my schooling by discouraging me from my abilities. I was the top math student and at home my parents began telling me math was useless and pointless and no girl needed to learn it past basic math. I never cheated in my studies, except for one time in 1st grade, I cheated on one spelling test and cried because I felt bad about it and told the teacher I had done it and it was over the word "February". I wrote it on my hand or foot and looked at it during the test, but later I told the teacher and she made an example of me saying how honest I was. I believe I wrote it on my foot, not my hand. So my connotation with E.H. being transferred to the Soviet desk in February 1982 might be that in 1st grade I cheated one time and confessed, over that word. I was the #1 student in all of my studies, and in high reading and high math. By late second grade and especially 3rd grade, I was being coached to disregard math. It wasn't a little peer pressure--it was use of the people who raised me my whole life, who had the most influence over me and whose approval I sought most, that began drilling this into my mind. Why was I studying math, what was the point, math is stupid and pointless past basic arithmetic, "I never had to learn GEOMETRY and ALGEBRA", "I never needed geometry or algebra for anything"...on and on, every day. My math homework too, "Sorry, I don't know how to do it" from my Dad so more parental support with the 2 month homework help I was given right before they squashed me out of math completely to be downgraded. I think now the only reason my Dad suddenly made a brief appearance to seem to go over my math homework with me, was to suggest without him, I failed. If he didn't know "how to do it" anymore and quit helping me, they wanted to suggest the reason I wasn't doing as well was because of this, not because of psychological pressure to have me think math was pointless and I wasn't important for being the best student they had in it. He was only helping me, or coaching me with my math for about 2 months anyway, so it wasn't as if I hadn't made the grades on my own. To me, I thought his sudden presence was an encouragement to me, and it was emotional support. For him and the rest of the U.S. "people", it was a way to briefly encourage me in the middle of their pressure to quit, and then to withdraw all support and emotional contact that I craved, in order to have me psychologically drop to the point of feeling math was worthless, being discouraged, and then getting moved down to the "second-high" math while the U.S. chose to spend their time and money on kids who were not as talented intellectually, who they favored for political reasons alone. This wasn't done to me until E.H. moved from the East German desk to the Soviet one.
In May 18, 1980 He joined the CIA and Mt. St. Helens erupted with volcanic ash all over my hometown. "It's snowing!" I said.
In February 1982 E.H. moved from the East German desk to the Soviet one.
May 31, 1982, I was targeted by my own parents to fall from the Mountain Ash tree in our yard, on Memorial Day, for a "stragetic arms reduction", and broke my arm, and E.H. was fired from the CIA. On May 2, 1983, the CIA forced E.H. to resign after a polygraph they gave him on April 29, 1983, which is the day Katie Middleton chose for her British "royal" wedding day decades later in 2011.
The effort to reduce my abilities, which were probably already reduced by earlier childhood and infancy torture, was increased dramatically by the time I was in 3rd grade (1982-1983).
At the same time that my own parents (Bob and Dicksie) were involved in psychological efforts to have me slip academically, I was having my expectations about the law enhanced and then crushed with their reinforcing the idea to me that it was "illegal for someone else" to spank me right before they knew the Principal of my school was going to take me into his private offices and beat me. The U.S.'s coaching and psychological abuse efforts against me as a child to reduce my academic abilities and scores on report cards, was intense and extreme. It wasn't a few comments here and there, or coincidental. It was systematic ritual abuse used on a child who was already vulnerable to U.S. programming and abuse by the U.S. I remember both my Mom and Dad participating in it.
It was sort of like later, when one of them, one of the Dicksies, yanked an earring to tear my ear lobe down as I was walking down the hall, to then when I complained about it, having my Dad (I guess one of the Bobs) approached me when I was walking down the same hall, and giving me a shot to the base of my neck so I passed out. I don't remember anything after the shot, just the look on his face, and my shock and then nothing. They both went for the same approximate spot, and in the same location (the hall) so it was some kind of a weird CIA trick, in my opinion, to attempt to either muddle something or to reinforce a punishment against me for talking about the earring so then getting a retaliatory injection in the same spot later. It was also counterintuitive with the shot because it was my mother I saw with shots (for dogs and vaccinations) all the time, not my Dad. Bob-ara shot me.
Also, the entire idea of the psychological emotional "climax" and then attempt to have a kid discouraged and fail, was used at the same time my school teacher was introducing the idea of "plot" "climax" and story elements. First my mother tried to break me down with repeated suggestions, and voiced disapproval of me, to "prime" me. This is over something I was good at and got awards at in school. So first it was normal praise from a teacher, and then being primed to be discouraged by my mother in the same thing to break me down. It went on almost every day, for months and it was so insistent, of course I remember the expression on my mother's face and how she did it, staring at me while standing across from the refrigerator in the kitchen. Often, next to where the food was. Months and then all of a sudden, I did it all on my own, usually getting it done at school and my Dad says bring it home and we'll work on it together. So suddenly, this special treat of getting one-on-one time with my DAD! I sure felt special, bringing my homework to the kitchen table, just my math homework, and having an excuse, any excuse, to be paid attention to by my Dad. Even if I didn't need the help, I got to sit by my Daddy!!!! So for maybe 1-2 months or less, I brought it to his "desk" and we sat down together until he said, "I can't help you anymore" and refused to work with me on it. So the prime was to discourage me and say how pointless and stupid it was for girls to learn math, the climax was the excitement of having my Dad suddenly spend time with me over it, even if I didn't need it, and then the drop was to withdraw all affection, time, and help, and then reinforce the idea again of "Girls don't need math anyway." "No one uses math in REAL life except for addition and subtraction". "What are you going to do with geometry?!!!" I still remember one glimpse I had though, once, from my mother, of disappointment or regret that what the U.S. was doing to me was "working" and I could tell, at least one time, she wanted me to fight back. On the other hand, when she was discouraging me from math, my Dad was never home.
How was I supposed to fight back against THAT? After the U.S. tortured me???? as an infant and kid all those years? This country is nothing but shits. It wasn't like they were testing a teenager--they were deliberately ruining the life of an 8-9 year old. Throw in beatings, food or affection deprivation, and other triggers, and what else was this country expecting? I did, however, once think at that time my mother regreted it while my Dad didn't, with the math "lesson" and manipulation.
At that time was about the time they quit giving me instruction or letting me watch them pick locks and do other things too. I could never pick a lock like my Mom, though I wasn't taught formally and only watched. I couldn't believe the things she could use to get it open. The other thing I might remember as correlating to the time E.H. got "training" at the CIA "Farm" was when he mentioned they had a bar there. I don't ever remember my parents using wine or alcohol but there was a bottle of vermouth that showed up in the fridge that was left half full and inside of a brown paper sack and about that same time, maraschino cherries turned up in the fridge and I used to pull them out and eat them. It was maraschino cherries without stems, and I think it was probably another cover to conceal my memory of maybe hitting a red button all the time while trained to run and shoot at targets. I was taught to say "please" all the time at my house, around the time I was learning to say "please pass the peas" (I loved green peas). One day, at my school, some kid, a girl with blond hair coached me to say, "Tell them, 'pretty please, with a cherry on top?'" so the next time I asked for something from my Dad I said, "Please???? pllleeeeease??!" and finally said, "Pretty please with a cherry on top?" It was possibly Summer, this kid my Mom babysat that said this, and I saw her get what she wanted saying it once, so I said it. My Dad looked surprised and gave me what I asked for. So then I was using that phrase, "Pretty please--with a cherry on top?" no matter what it was. It didn't even have to be about ice cream. I just thought "with a cherry on top" was the magic phrase. When I said this about ice cream, my Dad rewarded me and I got banana splits as well. We started making banana splits at our house, with the maraschino cherries on top of the whipped cream. Later, when I used it for other things (not ice cream) it was this look of "I'm tired of that game" and discouraged and I never said it anymore. This was all done when Summer was babysat or earlier, so it was before 1982. I would say maybe 1981.
Someone was also giving us a lot of helium balloons around this time and later. We got helium balloons every week and I never knew why but expected it, and when we didn't get them anymore I was surprised and asked why. They were regular balloons, not foil or alumninum ones, but filled with helium. When I asked why we didn't get them anymore I think I was told they got rid of the machine or it broke down or something. We had helium balloons in rubber balloon egg shaped (oval) balloons or round, with curled ribbon strings every week. When one went flat, we got another.
Also, back to E.H., from approximately his time in McLean, I was being falsely accused of being a slob, and told to "clean up this mess!" and "Clean it up! We mean CLEAN." I was a more orderly and cleanly little girl than some, and probably about average or better. I even enjoyed organizing things and changed my room around often and sorted out my drawers and cabinets. I was also taught to make my bed every morning which I did most of the time, and not always. I lined up my slippers by my bedside. They were never tossed casually into some corner. They were lined up. Whenever I cleaned my room, and made my bed, the room was never cleaned to my satisfaction without my slippers lined up there, which I don't know that my mother really liked much. I also had to have my pillow case facing a specific direction, for myself. I never had tons of things shoved under my bed like my brother did. If my parents told us both "Clean your rooms!" and they were both a mess, from playing, my brother would say he was done in 15 minutes and I wouldn't be done for an hour or more. His solution was to shove everything on his floor in plain view, under his bed and behind things in his closet. My solution was to unearth even the liners in my dresser drawers and clean them with soap and water or windex, re-organize all the items, put all random objects into a pile in my room, and sort them out thoroughly. I was a consummate cleaner, and he hid things. So when my Mom would approve his room as being clean and complain about mine, I used to say he just threw things under his bed, which he did. I was technically the neater one in the family. The only thing I did that was untidy was put my gum on a bedpost to save, after my Dad told me to start doing this. I thought it was gross at first, but I tried it and did it and that way I didn't wake up with gum in my hair as occurred at times. I was going to bed with a piece of gum most nights. All of my reading that I did in the summers and after school, was done while I laid on my bed and I couldn't focus on an unmade bed so it was always straightened out first.
The idea that I was inherently not a clean person was something the U.S. attempted to re-arrange. It began the exact same time I was being coached not to excel in math, and deprived of food, which was all around 1982-1983 or so. Later, after coaching me to not be clean, my mother was going into my room saying it wasn't clean and that she was going to clean it for me. So she was then going back into my room and cleaning it, after I was being told not to be as clean as I naturally was. I was a perfectionist and to try to change that, I was told to be messier and then later accused of being an outright slob. All of the "cleaning" stuff came up about the time E.H. was talking to someone from McClean.
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