Wendy Hoffman - The Enslaved Queen

THE ENSLAVED QUEEN

A Memoir About Electricity and Mind Control

Wendy Hoffman

AEON

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

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

PART I

THE SPLIT MIND

ONE

The sell-off

I f 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 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 that all the recovery work I had done for decades wasfor 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.