Excerpt 2 - Temporarily Evil: Fault and Forgiveness After Forced Participation in Satanic Ritual Abuse, MK-ULTRA and the Secret Space Program
Recalling Abuse of Babies, Animals, and Early Child Soldier-Murder Training
Temporarily Evil: Fault and Forgiveness After Forced Participation in Satanic Ritual Abuse, MK-ULTRA and the Secret Space Program
by Anastasia Sprout
Excerpt 2
This book excerpt is intended for educational, healing, and child/victim protective purposes. It may not be reproduced or transmitted for money or commercial exchange without the prior written permission of the copyright owners, Anastasia Sprout and SOAAR Global, PMA.
Non-commercially, please share and quote freely as inspired and helpful.
Just not to children.🙏
Disclaimer
TRIGGER WARNING*: This book contains descriptions of extreme violence, emotional, sexual and spiritual abuse, and torture. It contains themes of occult/Satanic Ritual Abuse** and Torture-Based Mind Control***. Please consult your highest source of knowing if reading is beneficial for you, stop reading if you feel overwhelmed, and get safe support.
This book is not suitable for children.
Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable for any emotional, psychological, physical, sexual, financial, or other kind of damages. If you feel at risk of harm from this material, do not read it.
*I recommend readers practice the meditation described in Chapter 13: How to Create an Energetic/Etheric Shield aka “Connect and Protect”) before reading. What I mean about focusing your intent to create an energetic shield (C&P) is to use your creative mind to visualize a positive energetic barrier between you and anything or anyone that might harm you. Even when not reading, I recommend doing this energy hygiene practice twice a day, as often as you remember. I could not have remained sexually sober since 4-18-04**** (the day after Easter that year, no coincidence) without clearing negative parasitic entities and learning to protect myself from further intrusions.
Meditation to Ground, Connect and Protect
Breathe, feel body, get needs met
Hold any part of body that needs nurture, get comfortable
Visualize a field of love-light surrounding you that nothing harmful can cross
Anything approaching without a positive purpose will bounce off this field, returning to place of origin or to creator source
Invite in assistance from the highest source of love and light, creativity itself
Pause to feel connected with any special ones that can helpfully assist you freely
With each breath inward, strengthen that connection with creative source of love
With each breath out, release any and all tension and density
Affirm your goodness and courage on this day
**I have a friend who studies original languages, who states that the term Satan originated as meaning logic in ancient Greek, or is a derivative of the word Saturn. In my experience, the term Satanic Ritual Abuse (SRA) has been widely adopted as an umbrella term by survivors of extreme ritualized abuse from around the world, though the actual religious or occult ideology may differ.
***Although I am aware of the popular term Trauma-Based Mind Control to describe forced participation in MK-ULTRA or other Death-Cult Network programs that force-structure dissociation to shape children into enslaved operatives, in this book I choose to use the term Torture-Based Mind Control as a more accurate descriptor of my experiences. All torture is traumatic, but the word trauma (wound) is not synonymous with torture. Childhood Organized Extreme Abuse mind control is extreme torture and extreme control.
Torture: the action or practice of inflicting severe pain or suffering on someone as a punishment or in order to force them to do or say something.(Oxford Language Dictionary)
****For more information on my journey to sexual sobriety, see Naked in Public: A Memoir of Recovery from Sex Addiction and Other Temporary Insanities. That book does not focus on healing from Organized Extreme abuse, but healing from childhood alcoholic/dysfunctional family dynamics, complex trauma and sexual compulsion that are commonly its symptoms.
Chapter 2: The Crib (Newborn)
Recall – Age 30, 2000
Location of Abuse: 23306 55th W. Mountlake Terrace, WA USA
My first emotionally literate boyfriend (aware he had positive and painful feelings, could name them) was very into self-help. He’d been in therapy, bodywork, and 12-Step recovery, and introduced me to the deep, terrifying new concept of emotional maturity, which included examining one’s “shadow,” or the unconscious yet toxic parts of self. He and his “therapy friends” did this regularly, and I had to admit, I found them fascinating compared to my own circle.
They hung out talking, making clay pottery, drawing, playing music, and exploring their pasts. My friends and I shopped, got as gorgeous as we could, and met in bars to share pitchers of beer and magnetize attention. We were like Barbies on the shelf, mostly still in the wrapper, while they seemed real, moving around in life. I wanted to be more like them; but how?
I was told about a book they were all using in therapy – they all knew each other from therapy groups and regular “healing intensives”— called Growing Up Again: Parenting Ourselves, Parenting Our Children. I got a copy and read; my interest captured by a meditation instruction to “get to know your baby self.” Seemed like a good place to start, so one day I sat in my old velvety recliner, closed my eyes, and focused on seeing myself back in time, when I was a baby.
The dark scene that unfolded in my mind immediately was this:
A tiny baby girl lay in a crib, surrounded in triangle formation by black-haired men. Later I’d know them as Jack, Jerry and Jim – the Army psychopath, the serial rapist-killer uncle, and the dull-witted no-limits henchman. Still later I’d realize that “Jim” was a screen memory stand-in for my father. Now they are just three faceless monsters chanting something, low and mean, the baby wriggling untouched, at first. Their words weave a plume of smoke and ash in the air, clouding around them, a Bubble of dark Hate. Is there actual smoke too, incense? I can’t see at first, it’s occluded, but I breathe and focus. What the fuck are they doing to her? Me?!
Drawing in, drawing in, summoning demons with their weird-word voices, malevolently intended…finger drawing now, oh the baby is naked, they are drawing something on her skin, squiggles, signs, sigils, to mark her for the Beast. Smoke parts a little more, the scene shifts, pointed fingers no longer drawing but poking, spreading legs, penetrating orifices. Screaming now, she is shaking and screaming –good for her, protest, little one! Fight ‘em! But she can’t, then. Big calloused hands curve to grips, three penises out, stroking in tandem, rasping, throaty sounds, moving one-by-one to her mouth, baby rage-cries move to gaspy gurgles, as they cover her in white globs…
I pull back my focus, numb with shock, my mouth agape, a wall slamming shut in my mind. NO!
Sadly, it’s not a NO of further protest, aiming grief towards relief. It’s not the KNOW, as in: I know that’s a memory of occult ritualized sexual abuse, and I can get help for that. Back then, it was the NO of denial, as in: That can’t be true; what a bizarre fantasy I just had, and, this book sucks! I won’t ever open it again! A part inside who was torture-trained to deny any and all memories of Organized Extreme Abuse kicked in to do her “job,” and make sure any actual recall was always met by denial. Denial, the first of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief, to prevent system overload and protect oneself. DeLIEal, where I lie to myself and convince myself that nothing.like.that.has.ever.actually.happened.to.me,or.anyone. I was programmed under duress to viciously attack myself if I remembered.
I was in my own personal memory war, and as I stayed true to my clear thoughts, my deep emotions, the messages of my body, and the knowing of my spirit, I would sadly come to realize I was one of very, very too many.
For 50 brave testimonies of survivors of Satanic/Ritual Abuse, see: www.50voices.org
I am grateful to the brave women and men who shared their stories in this ground-breaking project! The project serves as a highly effective denial-buster about the reality of global Satanic Ritual Abuse.
Chapter 3: Duchess (Age 3ish)
Recall – Age 39, 2009
Location of Abuse: Marysville, WA USA
At three years old, my dog Duchess was the brightest source of love in my mostly harsh and overwhelmingly confusing life. No matter what else happened, my grubby hands could always find her thick, musky fur for a squeeze and kiss. Her patience was noteworthy; despite my mauling her with full body hugs on many occasions, she never flinched or pulled away. I would follow her around my grandparents’ wooded lakefront acreage, feeling happily not-alone as she trotted ahead on the path. She was also the delight of my good Grandpa Sprout, the one adult in my family I have described as capable of having fun while not being drunk. Now I know that all the other adults were simply too traumatized for sober play. They were battered children in adult bodies, grasping alcohol and pills for relief like I grasped Duchess; like I sucked my thumb.
According to the overt family story, one day my grandpa stopped to get gas, went in to pay, and when he went back out to his car, a primer-grey VW Beetle, Duchess was gone. After searching for her for hours on foot and by Beetle, the colossal man, a retired professional hall-of-fame hockey player memorialized for his fierceness on the ice, sat and sobbed. He never saw Duchess again after that, but I did. She wasn’t lost, she was actually kidnapped by my Uncle Jerry Dean Ibsen. Just like I was.
I was sleeping, but now I am awake. I am groggy and foggy, I don’t know where I am. It’s bright; I scrunch my eyes. I hear his voice, the thin, high taunt of Uncle Jerry, and shudder, pulling a little at my ropes. I’m bound to a chair, slightly puffy cranberry metallic plastic on metal frame, sturdy enough to restrain a 3-year-old now terrified out of my mind, because I see who he is holding. He’s got a rope around her too…it’s Duchess. She’s whining, softly. Her mouth has a white band around it, holding it shut, so she can’t bark or bite.
NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO…
But there was no effective NO in 1973, there is only KNOW, and NOW, in 2024. Tears flow now as I write this, honoring my beloved Duchess, witnessing and sharing her story. Her golden glowing spirit body appeared to me in a tearful meditation in 2010, after my cat of 18 years died and I cried out to God, desperate for help. Duchess reassured me then that she was happy and fine, and she was watching over me, along with PK-the-newly-crossed-over cat (who wasn’t really just a cat, but a powerful medicine man who had incarnated as a guardian for me!).
Duchess also told me that I would get another dog. Then I noticed a dog next to her and PK in the vision, a little perky-eared tan-and-white boy who was jumping straight up and down, boing, boing boing! He said his name was Sparky, and that I needed to come find him.
This vision “sparked” a new quest, to find the spirit-Sparky in 3D life, which gave me a purpose that snapped my despair. I started looking online for small dog breeds like the one I saw, and after narrowing it down to three options, attended the spring Seattle dog show. There, I met a tiny lovebug snuggle dog named Jujubee, and knew that Toy Fox Terrier was the breed of dog I wanted. From then on my focus was finding the most loving breeder of TFT’s, which took me to DonnaB’s Kennels and a very pregnant mama named Ruby. I had to purchase the soon-to-be-born puppy without knowing his sex or coloring, but I was certain this was the dog who appeared in my meditation.
And it was! Soon a tiny furball of white and brown was born, Sparky, quite rolly polly at first. I visited him weekly for nine weeks, holding him in my palm, then lap, getting him used to my scent and voice. Taking care of him gave me a reason to live and function in that dark time, and he has kept me company in my healing journey to this day…curled up right here next to me as I write, gathering courage to continue the heartbreaking story of Duchess’ sacrifice, fifty-one years earlier.
I am not seeing with my regular eyes anymore…everything is dark and blurry…there’s a man, my Uncle, but he’s not a man, he’s a monster…a demon…he’s hazing in and out…man, monster-demon...Duchess is a dog, but she’s also a blur of light, so bright…she’s an angel-spirit. He’s got her though, he’s behind her, bound her with rope. He’s got a blurry hand on her, two hands. There’s a black pool-pit pouring out of him, cover her…he’s fumbling, fumbling with his belt, his pants. He’s panting, holding her tighter now. She’s stopped whining; she’s growling now, under the white band. He’s holding her too tight, there’s a red coming off him in jags and swirls. He’s kneeling now, or almost, kneeling behind her – is he screaming? No, it’s me, I’m trying, trying to scream behind my gag, I’m out, out of my body now, I see the girl, she’s small but her neck is thick, straining to scream, her eyes are bulging, or it is Duchess? Her eyes are bulging, and he is making weird cackling, cracking, laughing sounds, or is that electricity, crackling, wrangling my memories in…shutting me down as I flinch from pain again? No it’s him. He’s screaming that thin, hollow scream, laughing, panting and grunting. She cries out, muffled…It’s happening so fast and hard…and he is screaming:
”THIS IS YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT, IF YOU TELL, IF YOU TELL ANYONE ANYTHING EVER, YOU HEAR? THIS IS YOU! THIS IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU!
She’s whining, or is it me whining, he’s filled her up, or is it me, I can’t tell, I am choking now, I can’t get air, it’s going blurry-black, there’s water – my eyes, my nose, my mouth-with-gag, I hear grunting, rhythm, the room is spinning, or am I spinning? After forever he stops, one last lunge, and an awful quiet panting, and then the monster-demon rises, red and raw, and the man, he screams “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!” I do, my eyes magnetized to a silver shine in his hand, and he says, lower now, yet somehow even louder, “This is what will happen to you if you ever tell, and this will happen to your mother, too!”
And the silver makes a line of red, deep into Duchesses neck fur, and red comes out on his hand, on her chest, and her gold shimmer fades, fades, and her body becomes a shell for nothing, and she’s gone, and he laughs, the monster demon laughs, bigger and meaner now, and all goes black.
As I write this, I celebrate that as an adult in 2011 (age 41), I was finally healed from this traumatic experience sufficiently to be able to get a dog, something I’d deeply longed for ever since Duchess was “lost.”
Sparky’s presence comforted me as I revisited the horrors of Duchess’ rape and murder, making it possible to offer testimony to a common occurrence in ritualized abuse and Torture-Based Mind Control: facilitating a child to bond with an animal, then torturing/killing the animal to traumatize the child. This is a form of soul-splitting and, in my case, part of DO NOT TELL programming.
Thankfully, I’ve broken this program - I’m telling!
Chapter 4: Stomping a Baby (Age 5ish)
Recall 2013, Age 43
Location of Abuse: Desert Near Deep Underground Military Base (DUMB) near Yakima, WA USA
This event takes place in the desert of Eastern Washington, near what was then a small town named Yakima, where my family lived when I was about 3-6 years old. I was with a group of children, maybe eight of us, all heavily drugged with a strange black-tar substance that evoked profound disconnection from reality, and uncontrollable rage. I presume this was a cocktail of psychedelics combined with something that stoked anger and blocked inhibitions. I also believe it somehow opened our etheric boundaries to enable demonic energies to enter and possess us.
There are grownups here, three of them in the dark, and they are telling us something. Everything is weird – the sky is weird, the night air is weird, and my eyes feel sticky. A man is repeating something. “There is a bad baby here, and you must kill it. You must all kill it.”
There is a woman there. She is holding a bundle, and she sets it on the dusty desert floor a few feet away. “There it is, go get it! NOW!” The woman is doing something. She is bent down. Is she pinching the baby? It cries now, and something in me awakens, flares up with fury...I am full of it now, I am big and huge, and the other kids are too. We are not kids anymore. I sense a primal loathing rising, rising, and I fly to the small form. We fly as one, we surround it. An older boy kicks it, a joker-smile on his face. It bounces off another’s legs. It happens so fast, a frenzy of kicks, stomps. It’s now a gross pulpy mass, and someone is hopping on the mess. Do I grab an arm? Are we pulling? We are, we are pulling it apart. It is a group physical destroy mission – one malevolent hivemind. Now there are no limbs left attached. Now there is a head – they are pulling it off, stomping on its neck. They are kicking it around like a ball. There is laughing, there is a girl crying. She is called by name – called back, by the woman, standing by the man with a shovel. A harsh call, brittle, “Come with me!” The woman takes her roughly by the arm, leads her to a black car behind the van, and they drive off.
My stomach hurts, but I don’t cry…I know if I cry, I’ll be the baby, I’ll be the baby, I don’t want to be the baby.
Later, with what’s left of the baby under dirt; seven of us kids, shoes or more covered with dust and blood, join the man driver and the man passenger as we get in the van. We’re on a highway, we see other cars. They look real and not-real. Or is it us that are not-real? None of us speak. Have we become ghosts? Is the baby now a ghost? No one knows. No one stops us. Occasional irregular halo headlights of trucks and cars fade. We ride in the dark; eventually we are taken past a military checkpoint. We drive down, down underground. Under harsh, bright lights, we are marched like soldiers back near torture chairs in the lab. Some of us don’t walk well, being sluggish, but we all get there. We each go into small rooms – familiar, bad. This was all part of a lesson – it’s always part of “lessons.” Supersoldier slave training.
“Don’t be a baby! You know what happens to bad babies, or kids who cry. They are stomped, or they are taken away, and they don’t come back. You don’t see them again. You will never see your family again if you cry. You will be stomped dead, like the bad baby. Only bad babies cry. We don’t keep bad babies here. They are weak. They die.”
I didn’t die that day, and in the next excerpt, you will read about why…because I killed another little girl instead. 💔
You can see video footage of me offering public testimony about this and other Organized Extreme Abuse experiences at the 2024 March for Innocence in Sedona, AZ USA:
Not-So-Silent Warrior: My MK-ULTRA/SRA Survivor Testimony - Videos
This post is my Halloween present to my very, very, very strong little girl self, to share her true horror stories with the hope they can be useful to others.
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We must stand up for survivors of Organized, Extreme Abuse! Please sign and share this petition:
END All Forms of Satanic Ritual Abuse/Mind Control and Demand Reparations Now
MORE WAYS TO HELP:
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The Organised Extreme Abuse cult relies heavily on secrecy and ignorance to perpetrate these monstrous crimes against children. Testimonies like yours will help to rip the lid off the entire racket in time to come. I am so sorry about your dog Duchess. Cali Shai Bergandi spoke about how 'normal' extreme bestiality was in her family. She also shared a photo of her childhood friend Leo Dicaprio sitting in a chair holding a jar with a fetus in it. She said he always felt hopelessly trapped in the cult. Such tragic beginnings for someone who would be groomed to be a 'star.' No wonder none of them talk about their childhood but it would help millions of children if they did. When I was about 10, my grandmother rescued a kitten and gave her to me to look after. I called her Duchess. Many years later she was attacked by two German Shepherd dogs being walked by their owner past my mother's house. I couldn't understand how such a thing could happen. She must have let them go for it and they broke Duchess's spine. Your Super Soldier 'lessons' were beyond horrific. This world we live in is certainly not what it seems. Thankyou for writing your memoirs. 💛
Thank you for writing this. Your descriptions of remembering things resonate with what I went through when I started to remember. I used to sit there shaking for hours afterwards. I had no idea these things had happened to me until I started to recover my memory decades after some of the events. I’m pretty sure I still haven’t remembered everything I went through and I’ve been remembering for six or seven years now. I agree with you about the use of the word torture. It is continual torture over the years and decades. The torture produces the trauma. The word trauma doesn't come close to describing the sheer extent, the level and the chronic nature of everything people are put through over the years and decades. Torture is a much better and much more accurate word. Trauma is part of the outcome. Torture is a large part of what people are put through in these circumstances. I look forward to reading more of what you have to write.