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I’ve been having my own PTSD bad time. I get overcome with all the feelings of the evil things that happened to me in all of the darkness and pain of MK Ultra conditioning since infancy. All of the times when nobody could see me, or hear me cry out until I sounded more animal than human. Nobody ever came to rescue ANY of us. No authorities would hear or even listen to our complaints. Congressional hearings brought only token apologies and sometimes cash awards to the survivors’ families. But the programs never really stopped and they continued breaking down human beings to make monsters for themselves. They wanted to make me the perfect predator.
What kind of predator can take out an 800 pound tiger to near extinction: an under 200 pound human. They’re natural born predators, but these doctors were trying to make me into a predator’s predator. Someone who could hunt down and destroy a heavily armed and protected predator anywhere in the world with “extreme prejudice”. That means to judge them as worthy of death upon seeing them. I developed very well for them, but not as they expected me to.
Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
I was remembering trying to cloak myself in this very darkness from the monster makers. You see; for some children, the closet monster or the monster under the bed is a seriously real issue. Mine spoke German among themselves as they poked, prodded, dislocated my bones and took samples of my blood and tissue. When I was 17 year old and in the Navy, because of my ludicrous delusion that it would keep the monster makers off of me; I could swear there was more of me in Petri dishes and test tubes than there was in my shoes. I wasn’t far off the mark with that. I wanted to serve my country… correctly. But that really wasn’t what was happening with me. I went into battle believing it was “Good Guys vs. Bad Guys” and I learned it was really “”Bad Guys vs. Worse Guys”. I was working for the “Worst Guys”. The monster makers. When they studied me in the darkness of my own abyss, I was gazing into theirs. I felt like a “damned thing” for a very long part of my life with them. I learned to hate with an unholy passion and a cold, cold focus. But I was growing to hate my handlers: the evilest people I knew of in the whole world. If I was going to make the world any better of a place to live because of the monster I’ve killed… I should take out the proper monsters first! This is the point where all their programming had started canceling out itself.
I was programmed and trained to wage my war in a way that no one can properly prepare for. Direct and to the point and as long as I know who and what my mark is: I can view them from any place in the world as a trained remote viewer and take them out with hardcore martial skills. I can shoot them behind walls without a funny scope because I can feel them there. Once someone like me is sent in, it is nearly a 100% chance, no matter who you are that you will be found, your vulnerabilities found and exploited and left for dead. In martial arts expos and demos, I would use my Chinese boxing skills to punch through four separate inch and a half hardwood planks in one second. Four black belts would stand around me and hold out their planks and the audience would shout in unison: “One thousand one” to time me as each board was destroyed by my fists before the shout finished. Of the idiots in the crowd, I’d hear two kinds of remarks: “That’s pretty good if I ever get attacked by a gang of boards in a dark alley some night.” Or: “Boards don’t hit back.” As if this were a trifling thing. But those who have fought or sparred me understood what it really meant in the art of making war: The human skull is far thinner than those planks and/or bricks and contains far more delicate organs. In that single, split second: four men would be irrevocably dead before they could do anything to me and another minute would be more than I need to kill any of their compatriots that would be so unfortunate as to be present. Bone fragments blasted into one’s cerebrum are as fatal as a point blank .45 to the brain. Just as fast. Just as deadly and not a fraction of a second wasted on having to locate or reload a gun. That’s the kind of monster I was made to be and I helped train others like me. Some of us were hyped up on chemicals, steroids, bionics and eugenics. As well as some healthy American males dedicated to being their best as a warrior for their country. But all of us capable of great carnage in a very short space in time. Where ever our punches land: bones are blasted into fragments and driven deep in their tissue. There’s no fighting back from one of those. We rarely needed to hit more than once to destroy our marks, and when you can do that four times in a second and multiple targets: you truly ARE the weapon! Everything I need to take out a well protected drug lord or such will pass a strip search with no problem. Except if it offends me too much. That can be fatal for somebody. We’re trained to use any and all weapons and how to make explosives out of nearly anything as well. We are all about killing very well protected men, quickly and efficiently with whatever we find handy.
It’s a strange feeling to walk into a hostile environment and feel Death enter the fray at your side. Time stretches out and everything around you moves in a hypnotic slow motion. Your vision goes funny and telemetric. Your hearing becomes acute even through the roar of gunfire you can hear hearts beating like drumming under feather pillows. You can smell the sweat and even the fear and the sweet, coppery taste of adrenalin in their blood. You are arm in arm with Death, and never in your life have you ever been so much ALIVE! I’ve seen men turn into adrenalin junkies for this sensation. Myself included, for a while. But they never “fractured” me like they did the others. They could detach from their own humanity and become cold blooded killing machines and even enjoy it, and completely forget about it later. I had an IQ of 160 and a very strong will. It runs in the family, no less. I “compartmentalized” my thinking and my psyche. I could shut a part of myself in a “compartment” and use that as needed. But it was always a part of me as a whole and I was never disconnected from it. It mattered to me what I did and why. The irony of it astounds me to this day. Near the end of my active career, they sent out their monster and a human being started busting out. In fact, that’s when I started breaking with programming and why my career ended. I wouldn’t be directed by my handlers. They became my marks. When the spooks moved in to get me into line: I left a trail of bodies in self defense.
I guess someone had seen that coming, because my last couple missions all went south as though they knew I was coming and from where. There was one really bad time that I always wondered just how messed up I was: I had got captured in Central America. Exactly where that was; I don’t know. How I got caught there; I don’t know. How long they tortured me, chained naked to a metal box springs and shocked with electric probes; I don’t know. What I do remember was withdrawing into that same old timeless, dark place. Every spasm would help me bend and fatigue the metal at the edge of the box springs until it broke in my grip and I could slip my cuff loose from it. I remember getting loose and I remember instantly killing the first two men I met as I left the room. I do not remember how everyone else in that compound got killed. But I was the only one left alive after that. I remember wandering through the desert on like I was on autopilot: one foot in front of the other until I got somewhere where I could be helped. My next mission was some months after that and had several points where we were under attack and nobody should have even had a clue that we would be coming or how we would get there. The truth of that matter became very apparent: we were “assets” to be sold and traded for “favors” with those same murdering drug lords. I cut loose and got out. It was almost 15 years before I heard the news of how after we killed those bastards, the clean-up squads would come in and instead of burning all the drugs: They packed it up and shipped it in their own customs free aircraft in American airports and sell that poison on our own city streets at a great profit for themselves. It was and is distressing to know how much I didn’t know about our own government and CIA. It gets worse for me with every nasty little deal that I learn about.
In PTSD, also known by many other names over the centuries: Shell Shock, Soldier’s Heart and more: What happens to the soldier’s brain is that the adrenalin has kicked in and amped up every thing they are experiencing, much as I described earlier in this essay. It’s as if the voltage is raised to such a degree that EVERYTHING of the horrors of war or tortures survived is indelibly imprinted upon their brains and every time they try to close their eyes or find rest in their sleep: those images and sensations return every bit as intense as if they were happening all over again and the NEVER go away. Veterans will drink or drug themselves senseless just for a few hours of reprieve from reliving these horrors. For smaller traumas, you can talk it out with somebody. Revisit the events and make enough sense out of them to ease the hurting and move on. But it’s NEVER true of PTSD. Whether you try to talk it out or not, you continue to relive these in your mind over and over and with the same intensity as when they were new. Most soldiers won’t want to talk about these things. Ever. I’m trying to deal with my own ghosts here, and to be honest with you: Mine won’t go away or lessen their impact on my raw nerves either. My conscience isn’t too badly scarred because I understand that I was doing my conscientious best to serve my country and the lies and deceit are the sole property of our most evil, hidden government. I also figure that if I try to get this out of my craw here, that *maybe*, just maybe my diatribe here might help someone else understand what is going on with their returning soldier or help the soldier help themselves sort out all the wreckage for some truth. It won’t “cure” me of it and neither will it cure them. But it may help them understand and help each other better.
As a hereditary witch of an ancient wyrding family, it has been my love of studying our own cultural anthropology. Sometimes I give lengthy lectures on these topics as I get invited to do so. With the preceding paragraph; I noted that since it cannot be cured that it can be lessened, at least a little. A little bit of relief can go a long, long ways to just get a decent night’s rest and make it easier to cope with a new day afterwards. In this twisted age we live in where these horrors are far more common and increased than ever before: I have some old, old advice about a “balm for soldier’s heart” that no government and very few doctors will ever share with you. It *should* be common knowledge as this has been in Celtic history and discovered in the tombs of our kings and chieftains and documented for well over the last 5000 years (or longer!): Marijuana. Pot. That’s correct! When our ancient ancestors came home from their campaigns; everyone gathered in the chieftain’s longhouse for divvying up the spoils as pay among the participants and publicly recognizing them for their valor in combat. They feasted and drank ale, mead and a had good long smoke or even a tea, or food made of this very familiar herb of the field. It has been found to lessen the rawness and edginess of the battle on its returning heroes. It lightened the turmoil. The battles being over or won, the soldiers needed to slow back down and re-acclimate to village life in their respective clans. There has NEVER been found recorded ANYWHERE of anyone suffering from debilitating side effects, sickness or death from the use of this plant. As much as this present evil paradigm has exploited us all in their lies and deceptions and unscrupulous money making schemes against their own poorly educated populace; I need to share with you that you, yourselves are the descendants of those same people and it has been a part of our culture long, long before all this lying trash got incubated into existence and started ruling rather than representing you. When you see a soldier toking a joint or a bong or however they partake of this: DON”T treat them as criminal trash or dopers because of it. They *thought* they were doing all they did for YOU. If you wanted to help even a little bit, you might find and share some with them and show them how much you really and truly appreciate their sacrifice. There doesn’t have to be a single visible wound or scar to know they’ve been wounded and scarred for life. I’m not saying to smoke one’s life away in a stupor: professional soldiers use moderation in all things as a rule of thumb. I’m just trying to help you understand why these things are so. -John Stormm, MK Ultra survivor