Story of a Failed Mind Control Subject

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 5
Of Rituals and Regrets

There were nights, some of them warm summer nights, and some cold winter nights, that we would go to the Baptist Church. I’d watch the stars and the moon, and go off into my own little world. I’d have mental conversations with my imaginary friends. They’d tell me that everything was going to be okay. To not be afraid, that it would be over someday.

They told me what I wanted to hear. I guess that’s the job of one’s imaginary friends.

Then the ride would be over, and it was time. We’d go into the Church. It’s a familiar place. Probably even be familiar to millions of Americans in its own way. Bibles on the backs of the benches. Songbooks, too. A massive cross behind the podium. All red velvet and red carpets and warm brown wood.

Christian churches are often warm places, despite the terribly uncomfortable benches. It was inviting and comforting and yet echoed with a great hollow sort of sound. It was tall, with a pointy ceiling.

We’d solemnly go down the back stairs and into the hallway. We’d pass my Sunday School classroom. It had whitewashed walls that looked like concrete or something. All pimply and rough. It would be silent and rather spooky. We’d pass by the other Sunday School classrooms in a silent, reverential procession.

And into the basement where the walls were black. A gold blanket draped across the altar, and a big gold ‘basin’ like a bathtub sat  on the higher part of it. This is when I’d get scared, even though my imaginary friends told me not to. I pretended in my mind that they were there with me, hugging me, holding my hand. Because I couldn’t face it alone, but I had no choice.

The first time, I didn’t go willingly. They were brutal to me that time.

After that, I went willingly. I never fought again, though I’m ashamed to say it.

They’d cover their faces with masks, usually black ones, but the main guy would wear a white one. I still get a bit creeped out by the scary movie guy who wears the white hockey mask. I don’t even remember his name or which big movie series it is. I try not to think about it. (Psycho?)

Because it’s a little too familiar, and it makes me want to piss myself.

That’s how scared I always was, on those nights. I wanted to piss myself. It was terrifying to me. Not only because I knew it was going to hurt, but because somehow I knew that there was more to it than just that. I hated those guys. I was afraid of those guys. They weren’t all men, don’t get me wrong.

And there was the church above us. Condemning in its very presence. And there was no sanctuary to be found there. In many ways, even as the years have gone by, that was the greatest betrayal of all. Jesus never did save me.

No. I stood praying and begging for deliverance, for safety, and instead I was raped.

They weren’t gentle. They were never gentle. They weren’t ever again as brutal as the first time, but they were never gentle. They would sexually assault me as if I were an adult. I was raped and I was forced to kiss penises. My face was rubbed with penises, and I had to kiss the women’s vaginas, too. The women assaulted me with a small paddle/dildo, usually after they had used it.

When they were done, and with my adult mind I have to say that I don’t believe any of them ejaculated on me at that time, they would move me into the basin. No one spoke; I was simply informed with gestures. I would crawl there, bleeding and sore. Yes, that’s right, willingly. I was too afraid not to.

Then they would “pee” on me. It was ejaculation, I understand now as an adult, but I didn’t understand then. Then they’d remind me that I was willing, and they’d call me a whore and tell me that I liked it. I’d fight not to cry, because when I cried, they would beat me. More than usual.

Because sometimes after that, they’d strap me up on a cross. There, they’d beat me with switches. It would leave marks later, usually. Then they would dance and have sex again. A lot of the time, I’d go numb after that, probably the drugs that were heavy in the air. They’d turn me around, throw me back on the altar, and sexually assault me again. By this point I could never walk. Too much pain, too little coherent thought. The memories are still clear, though not as clear as the rest.

There was a lot of demand for “kissing”– oral sex to the best that a small child can do it. I was the center of the “festivities” silent as they were, and I wasn’t left alone at any point through the whole thing. I was either being “peed” on or I was being fondled or raped.

I was beaten with a switch every time that I cried.

I was usually bloody long before the end of it, and they often strapped me down to keep me on the altar. No one ever took their masks off, though robes usually came off halfway through the celebration.

Afterwards, they would carry me out, where they would still wear their masks and chatter way. Their voices would echo strangely through the church, and I remember someone saying once that I was his favorite. The comment fell during one of those lulls that happen in conversations, so it echoed loud and harsh in the confines of the church. For some reason, it was hilariously funny to everyone else.  Someone ran his or her hand across the organ (musical instrument). They talked about going back down again, but didn’t. I thought maybe Jesus heard my prayers after all.

There was another ritual. It was pretty much the same, except that they would have a young boy there. He would get the dubious honor of raping me first. They usually looked as scared as I felt. Somehow that always made me cry the harder. I don’t know why they didn’t have to wear masks, too. Maybe so they could be threatened.

As you can imagine, I never asked.

There were other little girls there sometimes, too. They were used in much the same way. I often tried to comfort them, and the boys. I always got severely beaten for trying. Yet they couldn’t quite beat that impulse out of me.

I try not to think about it. I’ve never actually told anyone the whole thing before. Never laid it out there, straight, complete, and honest. Most people get too freaked out to be able to hear the bald, unvarnished details. Perhaps for some, the image of a 3-6 year old in this experience is just too vivid for them.

Sometimes I want to drop the burden of memory. If I could just forget, I reason, the pain would go away. In some ways, I always wanted to talk about it. I wanted to be heard. Maybe a burden shared could be a burden more easily borne.

Other times, I can push it back and pretend that it’s all a dream– a nightmare– that never happened. But then something will happen and remind me, and I’ll struggle once more with it.

In the 80’s, there was a big thing about a girl who remembered satanic ritual abuse during hypnosis. Then it turned into a big huge stink about how it was just implanted memories and not real. For a while, this gave me hope! Maybe MINE were just implanted memories too!

Sadly, someone informed me of the facts of the matter. One must remember something AFTER hypnosis for it to be possibly implanted memories, not BEFORE. That hope died a silent, yet painful death.

I don’t remember how often it happened. I would hazard to guess every couple of months or so maybe, I don’t know. Time is strange for children. What seems like forever to them is a flash in the pan for adults. So I couldn’t say how frequent it was.

Written by sandit4glp

July 30, 2010 at 1:42 pm

Posted in Chapter 05

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