I will be posting some excerpts from my autobiography, part 1, Never Give Up here. Below is more of Chapter 1.
Bonding to the Fathers
As an infant, each day was broken up into programming, training, comfort, rest, play times and attachment/bonding time on a strictly regimented schedule in the facility nursery. The fathers in the order were experts in child development and were careful to balance training (which was gentle, and filled with praise very early on, with only mild punishments if any for inability to perform in the early weeks) with nurture. They realized that if a child was not given enough nurture, they could develop psychopathic tendencies, would be less controllable (since love is the greatest motivator), and would show other pathologies in psychological or physical development. They knew this because of the failed programming methods used in the early 1900s, when the children were not given enough nurturing and failed to attach to a loving adult caregiver: many had to be “put down” later as they developed severe psychopathic tendencies, to the point of killing the trainers that they did not love, without a twinge of regret.
Oh, how carefully the fathers monitored and doled out “love” to us infants, and we came to look expectantly for that special time each day with the “fathers we loved”. Each infant had three primary fathers they bonded with, along with nine others who were also important to their emotional development and training. I loved three special fathers the most: Father Mattheo, Father Jerome, and Father Carlotti. I was also very closely bonded to Father John, an older female trainer, and Father Daniel, a female trainer who also nursed me and filled the “mother” role in my life. Females upon becoming a Jesuit father took on male names, so this was considered normal in the Order. The Jesuits always had several trainers that bonded closely to each infant, since they realized that otherwise, if an infant bonded to only one individual and that individual died, the baby or child would be at a huge risk for failure to thrive, or would be basically un-programmable. They learned this, also, from the failures of the early 1900s, when some children bonded to only one primary trainer, who died. Data was collected on these children, and they kept it in their huge library of training materials and information, as well as coded into a huge computer database that could be accessed with a simple series of codes and voice commands for those authorized to do so.
So I, and the other infants I was raised with, bonded to the fathers we loved. But the fathers I loved also tortured me and the other babies. Infancy and childhood was a strange mix of torture and being held and rocked lovingly; being nursed by the same individual who later sexually abused me.
I am just a few months old, and angry about the pain the fathers inflict upon me. I feel sullen. While I have been trained to look up and smile when the fathers come into the nursery, today, I turn away. I turn my back on these men and women who bring me daily pain. It is Father Carlotti who comes by my crib, and sees my angry turning away.
“You cannot act this way,” he tells me curtly in Italian. “You are being a bad baby to act this way, and must be punished.”
He then goes and gets a couple of wrist holders and straps. He places the wrist holders around my chubby wrists, and then as punishment hangs me by my arms from the side of my crib. This hurts terribly, I feel as if my small arms which do not yet have the muscles and ligaments to take this, are being wrenched out of their sockets. The muscles burn as they are stretched. My arms do pull out of their sockets and I scream in pain.
Carlotti repeats, “This is what happens to bad babies who turn away, and don’t turn and hold their arms up.” He holds me with one hand, releasing my wrists with his other, and assesses me for the extent of the physical damage. He takes me to a healing room, and uses technology to put the arms back into their shoulder sockets, and to heal the joints and ligaments that have been so painfully stretched.
“Don’t do this again,” he warns. I don’t.
I came to hate and fear that phrase, “bad baby”, used by Mengele and the fathers, as something to avoid at all costs. “Bad babies” cried, turned away from, and kicked at their programmers, and did not greet them with an unfailing smile. “Bad babies” were allowed one or two chances, but after that,” bad babies” were hung on hooks from the nursery ceiling until they died, or were seen in “hell” later that day, being whipped to death by “demons” (children in costumes). We all learned to be “good babies”: compliant and programmable, and never to show how we really felt about how we were being treated. We were taught to send that anger down into an “anger pit” filled with anger-holding parts inside; this rage would then be directed at other objects, such as Christians, outsiders, and most importantly, ourselves.
This inability to show my feelings at the person who caused them fostered intense dissociation which the fathers had already carefully conditioned me to rely on while in the womb and during the early weeks after birth. I already had the structure in place to ‘dissociate away’ into designated parts the angry feelings out of my fear of punishment for “bad babies” and to focus on performing well and being a “good baby”.
In the memory above, I also mention the healing rooms. The programming facility had state-of-the-art healing technologies that even over sixty years ago were far ahead of what is commercially available to healthcare providers currently. There were vats filled with saline and electrolyte/mineral solutions of various types, with various types of frequencies to promote healing, and even artificial skin that when lit with a red light would help new skin to grow rapidly. Because of the ongoing, physical abuse, these technologies were necessary to prevent permanent scarring or disability for the children being programmed, as well as older children and adults who might come back injured from dangerous or strenuous missions, or who might be accidentally injured during training and military exercises.
The Drawer
I am a few months old, and I am upset. Father Jerome is taking out the wires and electrodes that I have come to hate; wires and electrodes that cause sharp, biting pain with the electric shocks that they conduct. I don’t want this! When he tries to put the electrodes on me, I kick and squirm and wiggle away, struggling to avoid these stinging wires being placed on me.
“This type of behavior can’t be allowed. Be still!” he commands sternly.
But I am not still. I disobey him, for I am still very small, and do not know yet what can be done to ensure compliance. His command instills less fear in me than the fear that the memory of shocks that sting like bees, shocks that cause terrible, burning pain. I don’t want to be hurt, so I continue to resist, arching my back in protest and screaming.
Father Jerome stops, then takes a key hanging around his neck, and with it, opens a small drawer. This drawer has padding on the bottom and sides. He picks me up, saying, “You will experience utter darkness, the hell reserved for disobedience such as this.” He then places me into the drawer, and slides it shut it with a loud “click”.
It is utterly dark and soundless in this drawer. I can breathe, but there is no light, no noise, nothing. It is quiet, and I am afraid. I wait to see what will happen.
Time passes, and I am frightened and hungry. I cry and cry with ever louder wails, but no one hears. My diaper is wet and filled with stool, and I am afraid. No one can see or hear me in this place; no one is there to take care of me. I am a little baby, and I know that I will die if no one takes care of me. I depend on the adults around me for everything. And now, there is…nothing. Just black darkness. I am terrified.
Time passes, where I alternate between loud screams of terror, and soft whimpers. Finally, I am too exhausted to cry any longer. I fall asleep.
I am very sleepy; maybe I will never wake up. I am starting to feel very far away and strange, as if my body is getting smaller and further away. Maybe this is what dying is like. It feels like a long time has passed, and I am resigned to being here forever, and dying.
Suddenly, I hear the drawer slide open. There is a light, much too bright for my eyes which have been in complete darkness for so long, even though it is just the dim light that is on in the nursery at night.
Father Jerome is there, and I am frantic, desperate for him to take me out of this terrible, terrible box. “Will you obey me now?” he asks, looking me in the eyes. He sees the terror and pleading in them, and lifts me out of the box of terror, of abandonment.
He holds me for awhile, close to his chest, then gives me part of a bottle. I drink, but keep looking at his eyes the whole times, frantic for him to respond to my frantic terror and need for him to not leave me alone. Later, he takes me into a white room with a rocking chair, and rocks me for a period of time. Finally, I relax and rest awhile.
The next morning, Father Jerome returns, comes to my crib, and tries to put the electrodes on me. I do not struggle or resist this time.
These drawers are reserved as punishment for resisting being programmed, and being placed in one was one of the cruelest tortures that I experienced as an infant. The sense of utter abandonment and terror was overwhelming, but it also ensured compliance in an infant that comes to realize that emotional survival depends upon obedience to what the trainers demand, no matter how difficult.
Learning to Crawl Towards Colored Lights
I am a baby, able to crawl but not able to do much else, yet. After all, I am only three months old. I am on the smooth floor of one of the programming labs. I have been told to wait. Suddenly, I hear six notes played in a specific sequence. Simultaneously, a code is flashed in front of me on a large overhead screen: it is a black and white pattern in a specific configuration meant to bring out a specific part. I have already learned to bring the correct parts out when different tones and patterns are shown to me during the previous first few weeks of life, and have become quite good at it, to the pleased smiles and “good girl!” comments from the fathers I love. This ability to make them so happy makes me coo and wiggle with joy.
Now, a part loyal to the Jesuit Order is out, and a green light, about the size of a traffic light, shines down the smooth tunnel I am crawling through as I crawl towards this light. The tunnel is bathed in the green light, as Cerachnid-1, a cult-loyal presenter, is learning that green is her color, just as the tone sequence and pattern are hers. This task is fun, and when Cerachnid reaches the light, she is given a piece of soft fruit as a special treat by Father Jerome, a man in his early 20s who already has white hair that looks beautiful with his clear blue eyes.
“Cerachnid, you did well,” he tells her. Jerome then picks me up in his strong arms and cuddles me against the soft folds of his lab uniform. “Cerachnid, you are so special for being able to do this,” he says, and Cerachnid wiggles with delight at the praise in his voice. “I love you,” Jerome tells her. “I am glad that you had fun doing this.” During this early part of training, there are lots of rewards and hugs when Cerachnid and other parts perform well, doing simple tasks such as recognizing cues to come out; recognizing their special colors, and obeying the trainers.
Punishments will come later on after this first, primary belief is instilled deeply: obedience to cues brings feelings of love, security, joy, and is even “fun”.
It is a month later. Cerachnid has been performing very well, but now something very important happens to her. Cerachnid undergoes extremely severe pain, being told ahead what will happen. The fathers always tell parts when pain is going to happen, they never hide this fact.
Cerachnid cannot endure this pain, and her mind starts dissociating from it, creating new little babies from herself. These new parts are quickly given names as each comes out; a code specific to them is flashed on the screen above her, and these new cult loyal parts split from Cerachnid become the system parts that she will oversee and eventually learn to control.
“You must keep these parts safe, Cerachnid,” Father Jerome tells her. She understands what “safe” means; it means making sure that they obey and believe everything they are told. Her job is make sure that they obey and believe; this is the only “safe” that she and others inside have experienced.
Cerachnid will eventually learn to forget that these other parts originally came from her, and instead, will see herself as protecting them from “further harm” (going through the agonizing pain, pain that made her feel as if she was dying, of her original splitting memory). She is told that she can only keep them “safe” by ensuring that they are always “good” by being obedient to programming cues and commands. Her desire to protect these parts dissociated from herself from experiencing further pain and trauma actually reflects the deep, instinctive self-love that all babies have for themselves, which the programmers are counting upon as they cause her and other primary controller parts to dissociate and then re-organize into subsidiary, system parts.
It is several weeks later, and I am four and a half months old. Cerachnid is taken to a special room in the programming lab. There is a huge tree pattern laid out on the floor, with a trunk, roots, branches and leaves. She has already met “Gnossis” (the tree of knowledge), a woman dressed in a tree costume, who visited her crib numerous times over the past few months, and explained to her who she is. Cerachnid now sees the face of this woman embedded in the center of the tree, inlaid with the bark, and wiggles with recognition.
“Cerachnid, it is time for you to learn where you live on the tree,” the soft, beautiful voice says. “Come to your place.” At that moment, a special pattern (Cerachnid’s code), a small green light and the musical sequence play on a specific branch, close to the trunk. Cerachnid is guided by the trainer to this spot, and she sits.
“This is where you will live,” says the soft voice of the tree. “This is your special place where you can feel safe; if you leave your special place, you and those you protect and help – your system – will be unsafe”. The trainer then comes and hugs Cerachnid, and gives her a soft, sweet rusk to suck on. They spend time in peaceful activity, while one limb of the tree slowly strokes Cerachnid’s back and the trainer murmurs loving words to her. After a few minutes, the trainer calls out another part whose job is to not remember the programming session, Cerachnid goes back in, and the trainer picks me up and carries me out of the lab. I have no memory of what happened inside the lab; only Cerachnid will remember learning her place on the tree.
This gentle, loving scene is repeated numerous times over the next few weeks for Cerachnid and other system controllers, until each one understands their “place” on the tree; my system controllers are major branches, with their system parts the outlying twigs, and programs (leaves) that branch out from them.
It is not until this program, and the deep feeling of love and safety for going to the correct place on the tree, and remaining there, is instilled, that the punishments for leaving the designated place or disobedience are installed. For the rest of her life, Cerachnid will always seek to return to that initial sense of peace, safety and being loved that underpinned her programming. And for her, this means complete, unquestioning obedience and belief in what her trainers tell her.
The above memory illustrates how the Jesuit trainers use a combination of concrete, physical structures and activities for their training of infants and young children, combined with rewards and punishments to ensure that expected behaviors will be instilled. But this, like all programming, will often rest upon an earlier, primary memory, of a time when the controller was loved and felt safe; in essence, a “resting place” that the controller will always try to return to whenever possible. The trainers provide a framework for the only way this feeling of security and attachment can be attained: being programmable, and obedient to the programs being installed by the trainers.
Svali Speaks Again 