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THE ENSLAVED QUEEN A Memoir About Electricity and Mind Control Wendy Hoffman AEON 2 First published in 2014 by Karnac Books. This new edition published in 2019 by Aeon Books Ltd 12 New College Parade Finchley Road London NW3 5EP Copyright © 2019 Wendy Hoffman The right of Wendy Hoffman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with §§ 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A C.I.P. for this book is available from the British Library ISBN-13: 978-1-91159-783-4 Typeset by Medlar Publishing Solutions Pvt Ltd, India Printed in Great Britain www.aeonbooks.co.uk 3 4 To the living children whose lives were twisted and thwarted and who were forced to do things that no child could do without being split into many pieces and in memory of the dead children and for those struggling to know who they are 5 PART I THE SPLIT MIND 6 ONE The sell-off If you have a single, undivided mind, it must be difficult to fathom how people could walk around with splits in their mind; how one part of the mind could take over and all the other parts would know nothing of it; how one part of the split mind could make the body do something that none of the other parts would want or remember. I had already had mountains of therapy and thought I was finished with my memories of my childhood and adulthood as a victim of mind control and ritual abuse in a multigenerational family, and the obliteration of my memory by criminal groups. Traumatic remembrances still dribbled out, but my concept of myself held a steady course like a vessel sailing through a fogged night. I had long suspected that my sister and I did not have the same biological parents. Perhaps we had the same father but not the same mother, I thought. We don't look alike but there is something familiar about us. Marlene is stunning with her long straight hair and I'm not. But we have the same overly narrow wrists, one of our eyebrows is almost identical, and we share the same inherited talents and interests. And now that we have aged, we look even more alike. I ignored all that and thought we were too different as people to be full sisters, though I knew this disparity to be common. How could one sister be interested in the recovery of memory and being, and the other adverse? A couple of years ago, Marlene visited her married son in a nearby state with her new boyfriend. They slept over at her son's house. I was invited for the afternoon. I went into their guest bathroom and saw my sister's hairbrush filled with her luscious long hair like a bird's ambitious nest on the sink. With my fingers I combed most of it out and placed it in a plastic bag I happened to have in my purse. I left enough hair in her brush that Marlene wouldn't become suspicious. None of this was premeditated. Once I got back to my home in Baltimore, I called laboratories that specialized in 7 DNA testing. I mailed it and a sample of my saliva to a lab. The DNA report said we were full sisters with the same parents. I was shocked. I had been so sure. I started doubting all my memories. Meanwhile a towel fell off my shower door onto my right little finger and tore a tendon. I went to a hand specialist. While I was in his office, I said, “Would you look at my left little finger and tell me what made it like that?” My mother had told me I was born with a deformed left little finger. There was no reason for me not to believe her, but I didn't. The doctor examined the tip and said in an instant with certainty, “It's an amputation that happened before you were three. How did it happen?” During the years of therapy I received, I had already remembered my paternal grandfather's chicken farm in upper state New York and the initiation ritual with me wearing a white ruffled dress, a hatchet coming down not to my neck but to this finger. The hatchet aimed at my neck swerved at the last moment. I was under three years old. I didn't tell the doctor. He said, “You probably caught it in a door by accident.” “It was no accident,” I mumbled as he hurried to another patient. So I was wrong about my sibling but right about the initiation ritual. Starting over Over a decade before this, I had finished ten years of intense therapy, and now I was in another crisis. Confusion makes people desperate, and there weren't many people I could talk to about memories of mind control. I contacted a therapist and writer friend from the past, E. Sue Blume. She is a specialist in dissociative memories. I told her I doubted myself. E. Sue said that while I had been retired from this field, others had been galloping along. She greatly respected Alison Miller's safe and competent, innovative work. She arranged for me to talk with Alison on the phone. It was as if a voice without a face fell from the skies. I wanted to know whether all my mind control programs had been removed by my previous therapist, Ann, or whether any were still active. During the phone evaluation, Alison asked me what my internal structure was, who my gatekeeper was, whether I had memories of snuff films. “Snuff films!” I was getting more and more overwhelmed, dismayed, and frustrated. Wasn't the abuse I remembered bad enough? I kept saying, “No,” and “I don't know”. She asked whether I was in touch with my family. I said I was. Alison explained to me about safety precautions. She was especially concerned that I not report what was going on in me to anyone in my family or who could potentially be involved with the abuser group. Alison told me that my programs were still active. How could this be? I'd had so many memories, and so many years of therapy. She said I didn't know the fundamental and important things I should have discovered. My brain galloped within. Underneath, some people in me panicked, and others had headaches, as if a vise were around my skull. I hadn't yet recognized that feeling as a body memory. Every one of my nerves was in anxious distress. The voice over the phone implied 8 that all the recovery work I had done for decades was for naught. That work had been my life. Despair mixed with fear. A chorus of internal, indistinguishable, indistinct voices sung out to me, “We are here. They will kill us. Don't tell.” I had body memories of electroshock. Fear, hope, despair, worry whirled around uncontrollably. I was filled with too much unrest to sleep. Right there, my world changed. The queens in me slipped out wearing their crowns and ice blue fur-trimmed capes. They sniffed. They smelled hope. Was there really someone in the world to help? They watched and quickened in expectation. Word went up and down the ladders in my system. This exploration into retrieving my frozen-over soul began. In therapy a decade before, Ann, my Christian therapist who was also a plant, had taught me that forces in the universe harassed me, and that when I became anxious and depressed and had “visions” of abuse, it was from spiritual warfare, from Satan and his forces making me uneasy. A plant is someone who pretends to help you but really works for one of the mind-controlling groups. “They are all parts of you; they are not spiritual forces from outside of you. So you need to listen to them, not banish them,” Alison said. I grappled with what was outside of me and what was within. Neither one of us initially suspected that Ann was a plant from the abusers. But one day I described the hand signals Ann used during my sessions with her. Alison knew what that meant. Ann was busted, which meant my process was just beginning. Alison continued to provide long-distance guidance. One day about half a year later, she wrote that she cared about me. Did I want to start this process again, did I want to spend myself finding out what my past is? No, then yes. I do. No. I had held my life intact. I had a simple, comfortable enough house, a job. I could save a little for retirement. I didn't need to open the whole thing again. I didn't need to talk to another of these therapists. Alison was on the other side of the continent and in another country. No. I went to sleep, if what I do can be called sleep. I woke up. I would re- open. I could take out stitches that my skin had grown over. I would begin again. A therapist who is a good person is an antidote to the people filled with hatred, the people who abused me. It is easy for the tortured to believe that all people are harmful, so it is especially important to be in touch with genuine, wholesome humans. Previously, I had been alone in this world of horror. Now I had an interested companion as I re-entered it. Support also contradicted my low self-esteem. If someone is helping me, I must be somewhat worthwhile, I thought. Alison's targeted questions kept me on track. She spotted the blanks in the narrative, what Ann had deliberately taken out. She probed for the training memories, the first instances of them, pointed out any incongruities and inconsistencies in my story, and reached out to my insiders who held the emotional and physical pain of each memory. She would also ask, “What words did they say?” I might have missed much of this if I were just working on my own. A life lurked behind and underneath my brain, a life I didn't know about yet but could smell. How could I have spent so many years in therapy and know hardly anything about myself? Now I know it is because I went to therapists who were 9 plants. If you think the world is pure and innocent and that almost all of our political leaders mean well, then you may not believe what I am about to write. Some of the public has to be interested in the below-the-surface webs of duplicity, why a stench of evil permeates ordinary life. This story is really about electricity. The Nazi purchase, 1947 In my normal life, I thought I was a regular Jewish child from Queens, New York, far away from the East European world my grandparents came from and far away from Hitler, about whom I had heard only the vaguest things. I was not face to face with the horrors of the Holocaust, and my family never talked about their escape from Europe. I think the letters began around when I was born in 1943, but I of course didn't know about them until later. The memory of the letters came to me in a dream. I saw the stationery, insignia, signature. At first, I couldn't believe that our government was that corrupt. I remembered Mengele's smell in my conscious life, and the black machines, and all the children in the hallways, and the frozen eyes. A letter arrived which caused great excitement, and Mrs. Twartski called for a special meeting that took place in our living room. Mrs. Twartski was my handler. A handler, also called a trainer, is the person who controls you and makes you do things you never would choose to do. Handlers start by breaking a child's mind into pieces and in cults like these, try to control the mind for the person's whole life. They administer programs and their cues or triggers as they take over a life. All the leaders of our community were present. Children did not attend this family meeting, but we were excellent eavesdroppers. Uncle Harry and Mrs. Twartski sat on one of Mother's curved sofas. Uncles Richard and Sidney sat on the other sofa. My mother sat on the piano bench by the window that overlooked the waterfall. She wasn't supposed to be at this meeting but since it was her apartment, they let her stay. Maybe that's why she chose the worst seat and was trying to be inconspicuous. Usually she liked a lot of attention. My father was in his wing chair and Wiezenslowski sat in Mother's wing chair. He was very short and always wore a mask. People said he was the master programmer who knew the most. In mind control, programmers divide victims' brains into sections, one section not knowing about another, with each section blindly following commands that are to that person's detriment. Mother had taken the pale blue slipcovers off the wing chairs for this occasion, and their chartreuse silk looked clean and shiny. Aunts Mimi and Eileen led my sister and me into the kitchen. Grandma and Aunt Bea were there already. We all listened through the walls. Mrs. Twartski read: 10