I grew up in a house where the person who claimed to give birth to me felt more like an architect of harm than a parent. The abuse wasn’t random; it felt purposeful, like I was being shaped into something useful for someone else’s agenda. Molestation at home, beatings at public school, and a constant undercurrent of being blamed for things I didn’t understand.
In kindergarten, I was beaten multiple times a week by usually my parents or the teacher who decided I was the outlet for her pain. I didn’t know about or what a miscarriages was at that age but she was working with my parents, adult grief, or whatever she was projecting onto me—I just knew that my body was treated like a punching bag and my existence like a problem to be punished.
The woman who pretended to be my mother, April, wasn’t just neglectful. She felt connected to something bigger and darker—a child-snatching network, a social club of adults who saw kids as assets, slaves, money, satisfaction, props, and leverage. She called me “Christian” not out of faith, but because it helped her and the people around her justify what they were doing. It was branding, not belief. It is boredom and someone living out christian or male hate fantasies. Oddly enough April may have worked with the person she remarried that had her first? husband murdered. It involved the freemasonites, there was efforts to coach me into their branches over the years, it seemed like more informational setups on information I should not know. The correct term is bolshevik-freemasonarism and the theory is the bolsheviks who migrated to America shortly after WW2 with oligarch wealth began to use the early internet to identify American pedophiles for kompromat schemes then fast tracked them through the masonic ranks. What GW Snyder was warning President George Washington about on 22 August 1798. If you can find an earlier document mentionming freemasons, conspiracy, and illuminati.. please share!
When you’re abused as a child, you don’t just learn fear—you learn a warped version of trust. I was groomed to be overly open, to hand people my story, trust, be gullible, my secrets, my vulnerabilities like free samples. That kind of conditioning doesn’t disappear when you turn eighteen; it follows you into adulthood, into relationships, into every “tell me about yourself” moment. Every interaction now I try to pay attention to which synopsis are firing off.
Years later, when I wanted to a family and someone who wanted to have a child with me.. I was made awkward with women as a child through the abuse, molestation, humiliation rituals put on by the neighborhood friend group who were actually a grooming ring and all in on the abuse.. fake friends... literally. I swiped right on an image on OkCupid—an English castle with an empty background. I don’t know why I didn’t swipe left. Maybe it was intuition, maybe it was programming, maybe it was just one of those tiny decisions that ends up changing everything. That swipe led to my ex-wife, someone who had her own history of grooming and abuse, human trafficking and corruption, someone who wrote a book about being targeted by her community as a child.
I told her almost everything. Not because she demanded it, but because I had been trained to believe that full disclosure was the price of love. That openness became a vulnerability that other people— not just her, but the systems around us—could exploit. I stay quiet until I do not need to be. I let people walk all over me because it was easier to walk away or the abuse received as a child. I recongized these past few years of harassments and crash outs that the gangstalkers were sending people my way for reactions.
One of the hardest parts of this story to explain is the digital harassment. It wasn’t just people talking behind my back; it felt like my private notes, my messages, my online activity were being monitored and then turned into real-world manipulation. I’d write something down, and the next day someone would show up acting like they were part of some “magical” coincidence, when really it felt like surveillance dressed up as fate.
Imagine living in a world where your inner life is treated like a script for other people’s games. Where your trauma unloading becomes raw material for harassment. That’s what it felt like—like someone was using my own thoughts or plans to orchestrate my next day, my next interaction, my next trap. After reporting child abuse and voter fraud, mind you.
Whether it was social media algorithms being twisted, or people with access to systems they shouldn’t have, the result was the same: my privacy was gone, and my attempts to heal were turned into new angles of attack.
At some point, you hit a wall where staying silent feels worse than speaking up. I reached that point when I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t just personal abuse—it was part of a larger pattern: adults with a fixation on children, organized networks, and corruption woven into local power structures. Infilration, not invasion as President JFK remarked or on 22 August 1798 when GW Snyder sent a letter to President George Washington alerting him the European masonic temples were being taken over by a group called the illuminati. Here -> https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/06-02-02-0435
I took what I knew to Georgia authorities, federal authorities, and other outlets. I tried to do what citizens are told to do: report, cooperate, trust that someone will care, some where. Instead, I watched the investigation reverberate through wires while my life shrank into isolation.
The retaliation wasn’t subtle. Gangstalking. Entrapment schemes. People showing up in my life knowing things they shouldn’t know. Fake relationships, real relationships sabotaged by third parties, harassment at work, harassment where I tried to relax. I had a child go missing. That’s not a plot twist; that’s a wound that doesn’t close.
In Florida, I was lured, set up, scammed, photographed, filmed, and pushed into poverty and homelessness. All because I made the “mistake” of contacting prominent law enforcement officials, trying to raise the alarm about what was happening. There were some people who wanted genuine connections with me but they were being used to prolong the other groups efforts to set me up. The message was clear: the bolshevik and blackmailed CLEO's run the show.
When you’ve lived through decades of grooming, harassment, and retaliation, your brain starts trying to connect everything. You see patterns in history, in politics, in secret clubs, in the way certain people move through institutions. Some of those patterns are real; some might be distorted by trauma. But the feeling is the same: this isn’t random.
I’ve read about infiltration instead of invasion, about letters warning leaders centuries ago about secret societies and their influence. I’ve watched stories emerge about adults with dangerous interests being fast-tracked into positions of power, about vote counters, about people who treat children like currency, pleasure, slaves, and elections like a game.
My reality has been shaped by the belief—and the experience—that the abuse I suffered as a child was designed to be used against me later. Not just to hurt me, but to make me easier to discredit, easier to manipulate.
I don’t claim to have every fact perfectly sorted. What I do have is a lived experience of being targeted, groomed, and punished for speaking up since I was young... think about that, beaten in public at least 3 times a week in kindergarten and April & Orville enjoying every time it happened. There I was at 5 years old, getting beat in the bathroom during kindergarten lunch then being forced to walk back through the cafeteria with my peers, sobbing, not wanting to talk, eating alone. That’s the lens I’m writing from.
In Swansboro, I found myself in yet another setup—a potential kompromat scheme unfolding in real time. The woman I was staying with, tied into local religious and social circles, seemed to be working with a club connected to the same North Georgia child abuse network I had reported. They acted with the kind of confidence that comes from believing their allies in uniforms will protect them.
One night she said, “That’s the cards you were dealt.” As if my life was just bad luck. But the cards weren’t random. They were stacked, marked, stolen from me when I was five years old and being molested at home and beaten at school. Calling it “fate” is a way of hiding the hands that rigged the deck.
My reality has been a fake life designed around me—gangstalking narratives, setups, harassment, and attempts to turn my existence into someone else’s story of control. I’ve had to do things that look “goofy” from the outside just to get the attention of people in power who were supposed to protect, not participate.
Writing about this isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival. Trauma unloading has been one of the few tools I’ve had while being forced into isolation. Putting words to what happened gives shape to the chaos and reminds me that I’m still here, still thinking, still capable of naming what was done to me.
Healing in a situation like this isn’t clean or linear. It’s messy. Some days it looks like journaling until my hands hurt. Other days it looks like sitting in silence, trying to notice my breathing instead of the fear. Sometimes it’s just acknowledging: yes, this was abuse, and no, it wasn’t my fault.
I’ve had to learn that being mindful doesn’t mean ignoring danger. It means staying present enough to notice what’s happening inside me—my triggers, my dissociation, my anger—so I don’t let the people who harmed me keep writing my reactions. Mindfulness, for me, is about reclaiming agency in a life that has been repeatedly hijacked.
I’m not “over” what happened. But I’m committed to not letting it be the only thing that defines me. Healing, in my world, is a stubborn refusal and providing information to give clairty in a chaotic scene.