Saturday, August 1, 2020

Part 13: Eyes Wide Open...Addicted to the Occult ....An ‘Ejumacation’...The Family

Eyes Wide Open.
by Fiona Barnett

Addicted to the Occult 
When asked why people are attracted to the occult, reformed Freemason Michael Witcoff responded: 

I would say fundamentally it is that at some point in your past a door has been opened to evil, whether through your own greed, and your own ambition, and your own desires, or through trauma, which is of course not your choice, but then results in kind of a shattered personality that seeks to regain control of what you lost. And since you can’t really do that, just in a secular way I think that a lot of broken people turn to the occult to find some sense of inner power to replace the power that they felt that they had been deprived of when they were younger… For me it was a power thing. I did not have a happy childhood… When I started to discover that you could manipulate the fibres of the universe to serve you, if you don’t know any better, that’s a very appealing pitch. 

I believe my friend (‘Alison’) became attracted – and addicted – to the occult for similar reasons. A decade ago, Alison began paying a guru/witch for past life regression ‘therapy’, aura reading and manipulation, and kinesiology. George J. Goodheart was an occultist who derived kinesiology through psychic powers. ‘Kinesiologists believe in an inner power, an “innate intelligence,” which is said to be connected to the “universal intelligence” (God) through our nervous systems.’ 

Under Witchy’s influence, Alison’s brain and life slowly turned to shit. My friend became vague and started making poor decisions (which landed her in court on a serious charge). Alison abandoned responsibility for her own behaviour and blamed her issues on either other people, or her ‘past life’ experiences that Witchy implanted in her mind via suggestion. 

Several years ago, Alison began divorce proceedings against her husband. Her primary approach to this procedure consisted of gathering with Witchy and another ‘coven’ participant, to summon her ex’s aura, to command her ex’s aura into giving her what she desired out of their financial settlement. When Alison divulged this to me, I urged her: “Get a divorce lawyer!” However, Alison ignored all of my free practical advice in favour of her paid esoteric charmer. Consequently, my friend got totally screwed over and her cunning ex won everything. 

Alison had engaged in witchcraft. I define witchcraft as intentional manipulation of the elements in order to achieve one’s will. Alison had in fact dabbled in black witchcraft – without having been instructed on the consequences of such, or how witches protect themselves against the inevitable backlash. Witchcraft carries its own set of rules, and if one wants to play with witchcraft, one must abide by its rules. My friend failed to do this. 

Alison’s enormous financial loss was blatant evidence that her guru was in fact a shit witch. Witchy lacked the visual spatial IQ and creativity essential for being good at the occult. Despite her loss, Alison continued paying Witchy exorbitant consultation fees. Why? Because Alison had become addicted to the occult. Occult addiction provides a neurological high akin to addiction to porn, drugs, sugar, or anything else. People are drawn to witchcraft out of   curiosity, fascination and titillation, followed by a desire for power and control. What starts out as fun and thrilling morphs into blind servitude. 

Like an addict, Alison became highly secretive concerning her habit. She hid from family and friends her relationship with Witchy, their frequency of association, and the depth of their witchcraft involvement. Alison’s sister, born psychic, predicts that my friend’s life will continue turning to shit so long as she follows her guru – who is no guru. Witchy does not hold a key to mysterious knowledge worth paying a dime for. 

It was only when an old associate (‘Sophia’) re-entered our lives that I discovered the truth. Alison’s witch guru did to Sophia what she tried for years to do to me – drove her away. Witchy felt threatened by people like me and Sophia who perceived her craftiness and deception. Sophia introduced me to an astounding little 1908 book explaining every occult method Witchy had employed with Alison, titled: 

Practical Mental Influence: A course of lessons on mental vibrations, psychic influence, personal magnetism, fascination, psychic self-protection, etc. 

Alison should have saved her dollars and downloaded the same occult info for free in that book. The book’s author, William Walker Atkinson, was a prolific and influential writer of 100 occult books. Practical Mental Influence is arguably Atkinson’s pivotal work. The text, published by the Masonic Temple in Chicago, provided Freemason initiates with a basic introduction to achieving business success using mind control techniques like covert hypnosis. This book is the missing link I failed to locate while writing the first edition of Eyes Wide Open. It simply provides a fundamental understanding of the following topics I addressed in this book: 

- Nazi mind control experiments; 
- CIA/MI6/US Military MK-Ultra / MK-Delta research and application; 
- 1960s Hippie Movement; 
- Modern New Age practises including Yoga, meditation and visualisation; 
- Modern charismatic / Pentecostal / evangelical apostate churches that influence masses, and focus on prosperity and thinly disguised occult practises like laying on of hands (aka, Reiki) and visiting heaven (aka, Astral Projection); 
- Motivational speakers who use Neuro-Linguistic Programming based business and sales tactics on individuals, and/or influence mass audiences; 
- Modern Psychology practices, namely Jungian psychotherapy, Mindfulness, and CBT. 

People don’t produce this type of book anymore, since the information went underground and was weaponized. All modern self-help, motivational, New Age type books are a rehash of Atkinson’s blueprint, wrapped in anecdotes, psycho-newspeak, and other crap to make it appear fresh and new. 

Here is a summary of the book’s points relevant to my experience of the research project called ‘MK-Ultra,’ and the practical application of that research, called ‘MK-Delta.’ Keep in mind, this information was published over 110 years ago.  
An introduction to the concept of Mental Influence is located at the rear of Atkinson’s book, in Chapter 10: 

‘…we read in the pages of history about the mysterious powers recorded under the name of Witchcraft, Hexism, Voodoism, Black Magic, including the Hawaiian “Kahuna” work. And turning back the pages of history to Ancient Rome, Greece, Persia and Egypt, not to speak of India, ancient and modern, we find innumerable instances of the employment of and knowledge of, Mental influence in some of its forms.’ (p.75) 

Knowledge and manipulation of vibration is fundamental to the occult. Vibration is the basic force underlying everything: matter, force, energy, light, temperature, electricity, magnetism, colour. All forms of matter and energy are manifestations of different rates of vibration. 

Light, heat, electricity, magnetism, radio – all travel in waves. Human thoughts also travel in waves. Thoughts and feelings generate a type of high vibration energy called ‘mental energy.’ Mental energy may be compared to electromagnetic energy. This energy emanates from the individual in vibratory wave form. These thought waves can be projected to remotely influence the minds, thoughts and behaviour of others whose brains are in harmony. Note that Nazi scientists like Mengele studied twins, when twins tend to detect each other’s thoughts and feelings at a long distance. Atkinson explained (p.17): 

‘When a Thought or Feeling is generated in the mind or brain of a person, the energy generated flows forth from the person in the forms of waves of mental energy, spreading from the immediate neighbourhood of the thinker to a distance proportioned to the strength of the thought or feeling. These Thought-Waves have the property of awakening similar vibrations in the minds of other persons coming within their field of force…’ 

Thought waves are manifested in various forms and phases. Those released with great force travel far and manifest great influence. Others travel rapidly in a straight line to target certain individuals or places. This is the premise behind the witchcraft practise of casting curses, hexes and spells. Some thought waves are sent forth with great strength and power to sweep around and influence whoever falls in its forcefield. This is used in cases of mass mind control, like stirring up a crowd into a violent frenzy. Thought waves last a long time, even beyond the person’s death. Hence locations like Auschwitz possess a distinct atmosphere due to the still-present energy from the strong thoughts and feelings of countless tortured and murdered souls. 

Thought waves exert power when sent intentionally, and by someone with a strong will. 

Hence, MK-Ultra / Delta selected and developed candidates like me who naturally possessed exceptionally strong wills. 

‘Orators, actors, preachers and teachers send forth strong mental currents which tend to produce mental conditions on the part of their hearers corresponding to the feeling held by the mind of the speaker.’ (p.23) 

This helps to explain the strong presence of witchcraft practitioners in the theatre, Hollywood, churches, schools and universities. 

There are two essential ingredients for mentally influencing others’ thoughts and behaviours: 
1. Concentration (developed via Meditation), and 2. Visualisation. 

This is why MK-ULTRA / DELTA candidates possessed an extreme visual-spatial IQ. 

‘…the highest forms of energy, force or power are manifested by bringing the force to a focus, centre, or common point, thereby directing to that point the entire energy employed, instead of allowing it to become dissipated over a larger area.’ (p.29) 

I attended acting classes with top tutors in my youth, who literally called this process ‘centring.’ Similar terminology is employed by Yoga and meditation gurus. 

‘The occult masters have ever impressed upon their pupils the importance and necessity of acquiring the power of Mental concentration, and all trained and developed occultists have practiced and persevered toward this end, the result being that some of them attained almost miraculous mental powers and influence. All occult phenomena are caused in this way, and all occult power depends upon it. Therefore, the student of mental Influence should devote much thought, time and practice to this most important branch of the subject.’ (p.30) 

This is why Yogis meditate for hours, and why Eastern practises were scouted by Nazis and formed the basis of CIA/Military black ops. This is the very process I was trained in by my Luciferian abusers, and which was weaponized within Delta Force. 

‘Mental Concentration, in practice, consists in focusing the mind upon a given subject, or object, firmly and fixed, and then holding it there for a certain time, fully intent upon its object, and not allowing itself to be diverted or attracted from its object. It likewise consists in the correlative power of then detaching the mind from that subject, or object, and either allowing it to rest, or else focus upon another object. In other words, it either gives undivided attention or else inhibits (or “shuts off”) attention from given subject or object.’ (p.31) 

Occultists avoid involuntary concentration, because it allows attention to escape the Will’s control. 

‘The Mental Concentration of the occultists … is solely in control of the will, being applied when desirable, and taken off or inhibited when desired.’ (p.32) 

Involuntary attention is a type of self-hypnotization; this is completely different to control of attention, which is an evidence of mastery. 

‘The secret of Mental concentration lies in the control of the Attention. And the control of the Attention lies in the exercise of the Will.’ (p.32) 

‘All of the occult authorities begin in teaching their pupils Attention as the first step toward Mental concentration. They instruct the pupil to examine some familiar object, and endeavour to see as many details as possible in the object. Then after hearing the pupil’s report, the master sends him back to the task, bidding him seek for new details, and so on until the pupil has discovered about all concerning the object that can be discovered. The next day a new object is given him, and the process is repeated. First simple objects are given, then more complex ones, until at last, objects of great complexity are mastered. In this way not only is the power of close observation highly developed, but the faculty of Attention becomes so highly strengthened that the pupil is able to exert the greatest amount of Mental Concentration with scarcely the consciousness of effort. And such a person then becomes a very giant in the manifestation of Mental Influence. For he is able to hold his mind “one-pointed,” as the Orientals describe it, until he has focused and directed a mighty degree of Mental Influence toward the desired object.’ (p.33) 

‘Among the practises imposed upon their pupils by the occult masters may be named Mathematics, Drawing, Analysis, etc.’ (p.34) 

This is precisely what my Luciferian perpetrators taught me, and the very technique employed by CIA Head Psychologist John Gittinger in his programming efforts. This method is also the premise of Yoga meditation, Mindfulness, and numerous New Age techniques. 

‘The person who uses Mental Influence must certainly possess the power of focussing the force to a common point, in order to manifest the greatest amount of power and influence. And that faculty of focusing results from the training of the mind along the lines of Concentration. And Concentration arises from the mastery of Voluntary Attention.’ (p.34) 

‘What is known as a “Mental Image,” in occultism, is the mental creation, in the imagination, of a “picture” of the things, events or conditions that one desires to be manifested or materialised in actual effect.’ (p.36) 

‘The occultist first builds up, in his imagination, a Mental Image or Picture of the conditions he wishes to bring about, and then by concentrating his influence through and around that picture he is able to manifest his influence strongly… The Mental  Image gives shape and directions to the force which is being concentrated upon the desired object or subject.’ (p.36) 

‘An eminent authority, Sir Francis Galton, who was one of the leading authorities upon psychology of preceding generations, has said on this subject: 

“The free actions of a high visualising faculty is of much importance in connection with the higher processes of general thought. A visual image is the most perfect form of mental representation whatever the shape, position and relations of objects to space are concerned. The best workmen are those who visualise the whole of what they propose to do before they take a tool in their hands. Strategists, artists of all denominations, physicists who contrive new experiments, and in short, all who do not follow routine, have need of it.” (p.38) 

Exactly. That is precisely what I argue in my pivotal chapter, Relevance of Intelligence. People who do not think in pictures, who have a dominant Left Brain that relies on words, can’t even begin to understand this phenomenon. Atkinson asks: 

‘If one wishes to materialise anything by the use of the influence, is he not handicapped by a lack of a Mental Image of just what he wants to materialise, and is he not helped very much by the creation of a mental “pattern” or plan, in the shape of a mental picture, through and around which he may direct his thought-currents?’ (p.39) 

This is why my friend’s guru will always be a shit witch – her right, visual hemisphere is dysfunctional. Alison is also left brain dominant so she can’t visualise things either. This explains why their efforts to summon and influence Alison’s husband completely backfired. 

‘The occultists manifesting the greatest degree of Mental Influence acquire by practise this art of creating the Mental Images of that which they wish to materialise. They train their Imaginations in this way until the very act of creating the Mental Image acts strongly toward the actual materialisation of the thing itself. They see the desired thing, or event, as “actually existing” in their minds before they attempt to concentrate their Thought-Waves upon the task of accomplishing it. Then the Mental Picture, being completed and standing in strong outline, they focus their mental force through it… The imagination may be strengthened in many ways, the principle being constant and persistent practice. The practise of recalling to the memory of scenes previously witnessed, and then either describing them to others or else drawing a rough picture of them will help in this matter. Describe to others, scenes that you have witnessed, occurrences, details of appearances, etc, etc, until you are able to reproduce mentally the aspects and appearances of the things. Then you may begin to draw mental pictures of things desired as if they were being drawn on the screen of your mind. See mentally, the things as actually occurring – create a little playhouse of your own, in your mind, and there enact the plays that you wish to witness in actual life. When you have acquired this, you will be able to project your mental pictures on the screen of objectivity in actual life with far greater effect.’ (p40.)

In my chapter, Relevance of Intelligence, I explain how John Gittinger had me visualise and describe to him a layered cake in detail. The above training formed the basis for laying the various MK programs. 

The two direct uses of Mental Influence are: 
1. Fascination (use of Mental Influence without hypnosis methods); 
2. Hypnotism (use of Mental Influence with ‘passes’ or hypnotic methods). 

Fascination is used to influence people via the following steps: 
a. Forming a strong Thought of what s/he wishes the other person to do. 
b. Silently, non-verbally projecting that Thought onto the target, charged with the force of a concentrated will. 

‘The thought should be sent forth with the strength that usually accompanies a strong spoken statement, but you must not actually “speak” the words aloud – you should merely say them strongly “in your mind.”’ (p.46) 

Atkinson illustrates the fascination method used by real estate agents and salesmen as follows: 

‘They form a thought that the other person desires their goods very much, and then they send out the Thought-Wave that, “You desire my goods – you want them very much – you have an irresistible longing for them,” etc.’ (p.46) 

With hypnosis, influence is increased via use of ‘passes, strokings or eye-influence.’ (p.50) Touching a subject is effective because, ‘the nerves of the arms and fingers afford a highly sensitive conductor for the mental currents which may be propelled over them to the mind of the subject, or to his nerves and muscles.’ (p.52) ‘It is also known that the eye has a peculiar property of transmitting the mental currents along the rays of light entering it and from thence to the eyes of the other person.’ (p.52) This is consistent with the research I reference concerning the measurement of an energy source emitted by the human stare. This relates to the occultic practise of giving someone the ‘evil eye,’ or cursing them via a stare. The subject ‘is rendered passive by a flow of mental energy calculated to render it more or less drowsy or sleepy, and therefore less calculated to set up powers of resistance to the Thought Waves…’ However, a “deep sleep” condition is not necessary to render the will of the subject subservient’ to the hypnotist. In other words, people can by hypnotised without realising it. Hypnotic influence was formerly named ‘Mesmerism’ after Frederick Mesmer (Mozart’s godfather). According to Atkinson (p.51), Mesmer re-discovered the ‘force and its use’ which ‘was known to the Ancients centuries before Mesmer’s time.’ This is the same ‘Force’ that Star Wars movies promote to impressionable kids. 

The hypnotist induces a passive state in the subject’s mind, nerves or muscles, to reduce her ability to resist. He then ‘gives his orders or “verbal suggestions” accompanied by  a projection of his Thought-Waves into the’ subject’s mind. People differ in their ‘degrees of impressionability to hypnotic influence – i.e., degrees of resistance.’ 

Atkinson provides some examples of exercising hypnotic influence which are the very techniques employed by the likes of Benny Hinn, Kenneth Copeland, and other charlatan ‘church’ leaders who practice that ‘slaying in the spirit’ Kundalini crap. Doesn’t the following sound familiar? 

‘Then standing in front of the subject tell him to take his will off his legs and stand perfectly passive and relaxed. Then looking him straight in the eyes, say to him: “Now, I am going to draw you forward toward me by my mental power – you will feel yourself falling forward toward me – don’t resist but let yourself toward me – I will catch you, don’t be afraid – now come – come – come – now you’re coming, this way, coming – here, you’re coming, that’s right,” etc. You will find that he will begin to sway toward you and in a moment or two will fall forward in your arms… It will help matters if you hold your hands on each side of his head, but just in front of him, hot touching him, however, and then draw away your hands, toward yourself, saying at the same time: “Come now – come – you’re coming,” etc. This experiment may be reversed by standing behind the subject and drawing him backward. Be sure to catch him in your arms when he falls and protect him from a fall to the floor.’ (p.53-4) 

And here is another tactic employed by Bethel BS ‘churches’: 

‘Or you may make him experience a feeling of heat and pain by touching your finger to his hand and telling him that it is hot.’ (p.54-5). 

Atkinson offers a sound word of warning: 

‘Beware of people who are always putting their hands on you, or patting or stroking you, or wishing to hold your hands a lot of the time. Many persons do this from force of habit, but others do so with the intention of producing a mild form of hypnotic influence on you.’ (p.56) 

Imagine the influence occultists like Witchy may exert under the guise of offering physical alternative therapies like remedial massage and kinesiology? 

Here lies the occult technique Witchy unsuccessfully employed to influence Alison’s ex into reaching a desired financial settlement: 

‘One of the most elementary, and yet one of the most effective, methods known to occultists is that of creating a mental Image of the person “treated”… in the sense of imagining him to be seated in a chair in front of the person treating him at a distance. The treater proceeds to give both verbal commands, and at the same time directs Thought-Waves toward the imaginary person seated before him. This process establishes a psychic condition between the treater and the actual person, although the latter may be removed from the treater by many miles of space. This was the method of the ancient magicians… (p.60) 

‘A variation of the above, very common in former days, was to mould a clay or wax figure, calling it by the name of the person treated, and identifying it in the mind and imagination with the other person. A variation is also noticed in the cases where a photograph, lock of hair, article of clothing, etc., is used in this way as a psychic connecting link between the two persons. The practitioners of Black Magic, Witchcraft and other nefarious perversions of Mental Influence seemed to prefer these methods…’ (p61) 

An Example of Long-Distance Influence: 
A friend of mine serviced all the computers in a number of doctor surges, including my doctor. I was horrified the day she informed me she could access my medical files from her home computer. One day, I visited my friend’s home unannounced, following 6 weeks I spent in hiding from my perpetrators. In my friend’s bedroom I found a homemade altar to Satan. Above the table, on the wall, was a drawing of dragon with the word “DRAGON’ emblazoned on it. The drawing had been created by my friend’s 9-year-old daughter. Among other things, the table contained a wizard pewter talisman, some wooden flowers given by my young child, and a large sheep snow globe my friend purchased in New Zealand; she had given me a smaller version of the very same souvenir. These objects created a psychic link between my ‘friend’ and my family. I had my suspicions, nut at that moment I realised my friend was a witch, and she was accessing my medical records and supplying this information directly to my perpetrators. 

The Treater sends his Thought-Waves toward the object, and in some cases actually talks (mentally) to the person by means of the medium mentioned. He may give commands, arguments, remonstrances, persuasion, etc., just as if the person were actually present. 

The ‘Astral Tube’ is another form of distant influence. This is established similarly to the ‘psychic-wire’ and projected at the target. The astral tube is a 6 inch to 1-foot wide ring formed in the imagination as a ‘vortex-ring’ which lengthens and extends toward the target. This technique ‘is employed in various forms of occult and psychic phenomena, such as clairvoyance and other forms of “psychomancy”…’ (p.63) This technique formed the basis of Projects like Looking Glass and Stargate, which I detail in my chapter regarding MK-Delta. 

One of the most advanced forms of Mental Influence involves the person simply standing or sitting quietly and concentrating until he attains a state of calm called ‘the Silence.’ The person then creates a strong mental picture of the target plus the desired behaviour or external conditions. This technique requires ‘Creative Will-power.’ 

This refers to influencing the public, a crowd, or a large number of people simultaneously. Mass Influence ‘is used by nearly all who succeed in any form of business or profession, in which success calls for the attracting of other people toward the occupation of the person in question,’ particularly politicians, businessmen, financers and military leaders. (p.66) 

‘The Mental Influence sent out by a strong businessman in a town will soon make itself felt in a subtle manner, and the store becomes a centre of attraction, although the public does not understand why. In the same way some lawyers spring into public  favour, although not possessing greater ability than their legal brethren. And popular preachers make their influence felt in a community in similar ways…’ (p.70) 

‘Some masters of this art of influencing the public create a mental picture of themselves sending our great volumes of Thought-Waves for a time, and then after imparting a rotary motion to the waves, until at last they form a mental whirlpool rushing round and round and always sucking in toward the centre. An effort of this kind acts on the mental plane just as a physical whirlpool acts on the physical plane, that is, it draws into its power all that comes into contact with its force. This is one of the most powerful forms of Influencing En Masse and is used with great effect by many of the “strong men” of this age, who have acquainted themselves with the secrets of the ancient occultists. Ancient Occultism and Modern Finance seem far apart, but they are really working together to further the interests of some of these powerful minds of the day – and the public is paying the bill.’ (p.71) 

‘…an individual who has cultivated the faculty of concentration and has acquired the art of creating sharp, clear, strong mental images… Such a man frequently “sees” people coming to him and his enterprises and falling in line with his plans. He mentally “sees” money flowing into him, and all of his plans working out right.’ (pp. 71-2) 

‘Thought pictured in mental images and then vitalised by the force of the desire and will tend to objectify themselves into material being. That is the whole of the thing.’ (p.73) 

Atkinson warns: ‘Before practising any of these experiments, read what we have said in the chapter on “Magic Black and White,” and guard against employing the power for evil purposes, for the fate of the Black Magician is a sad one.’ (p.65-6) In the same chapter, Atkinson concludes: 

‘Thoughts are like Boomerangs, in their tendency to return to their sender. To the poison of Black Magic, Nature gives the antidote of Right-Thinking.’ 

Atkinson well understood and appreciated the relevance to the occult of left versus right hemispheric processing ability. It’s nice to find such validation for my ideas and writings. 

Atkinson concluded his book with a chapter on how to protect oneself from others’ attempts to exert mental influence. He recommended a method ‘employed by the adepts in Occultism’ and taught to ‘the initiates of the occult brotherhoods and lodges all over the world.’ 

This method of protection is based on the notion that within each of us… is what occultists know as the Flame of the Spirit. This is what you recognise in consciousness as the “I AM” consciousness – that consciousness of Being which is far above the consciousness of personality, or the things of personality… This consciousness comes to the individual by reason of his contact with the great One Life of the Universe… And in this part of man’s consciousness, coupled with the sense of BEING an “I,” there resides a spark from the Divine Flame of Life and power, which has been called the WILL of man… This inner Will is real power, and when once recognised may be drawn upon as a source of unending and unfailing Strength… every person may draw upon this source of strength within them to … repel the thought-vibrations of the lower plane.’ 

Atkinson suggested, attempts to gain mental influence over you are repelled via ‘remembering the strength imminent in your “I,” aided by the statement (made silently to yourself): “I am an Immortal Spirit, using the Will within my Ego.”’ 

There is a God – and it’s not you. “I AM” is reserved for the Creator God of the Bible. The greatest source of power over Mental Influence is free and not hidden beneath degrees of initiation. Having been raised with, and trained in, the content of Atkinson’s book, I discovered that Christian prayer in Jesus’ name trumps the occult, witchcraft, black magic, voodoo, etc. Every curse, hex, spell, ritual and blood sacrifice may be bound in Jesus’ name and sent back from whence it came, since whatever is bound here on Earth is bound in Heaven. 

The fundamental difference between witchcraft and Biblical Christianity is this: Witchcraft involves someone manipulating the external world and other people to achieve their own will. By contrast, Biblical Christianity concerns submitting our will to the all powerful, all-knowing, omnipresent Creator God, and trusting Him with our future. The Bible condemns the occult in its many forms: 

And the rest of the men which were not killed by these plagues yet repented not of the works of their hands, that they should not worship devils, and idols of gold, and silver, and brass, and stone, and of wood: which neither can see, nor hear, nor walk: Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornication, nor of their thefts. (Rev 9:20-1) * 

An ‘Ejumacation’ 
There is physical and psychological pain in being thwarted, discouraged and diminished as a person. To have ability, to feel power you are never allowed to use, can become traumatic. 
– Bob & Jan Davidson 

My brother Dale once explained, ‘The reason why everyone hated Fiona at school was because she was always that little bit better than them at everything.’ That’s not entirely true – they hated me for other reasons. 

As my old high school friend Justine Thomas put it, ‘Fiona makes me look at who I really am, and when I do that, I don’t like what I see.’ My husband calls this phenomenon The Mirror Effect. 

My troubles began in Kindergarten when I was expelled from religion class. The ailing volunteer never divulged what I did to deserve such ostracism, but I must have tested Mrs Levett beyond what a Christian could endure. From then on, every week, while the other five year-olds were grouped according to the only three denominations that existed in 1970’s Sydney, I spent scripture classes alone on a bench in the sun. Perhaps I had asked the wrong type of question? Or too many questions? Whatever the cause, it likely stemmed from my mother’s instructions for independent thinking. 

If I inquired about a controversial topic, my mother typically followed a certain formula: First she explained what society generally thought about the issue, then she told me what she personally believed, and then Mum would conclude, ‘But now you have to form your own opinion.’ 

My mother employed ‘big’ words whenever she addressed me and my younger brother Dale. It didn’t matter whether we understood the words, she decided, because through our regularly hearing them in context we would eventually figure out their meaning. Not surprisingly, I was a fluent reader with a large vocabulary long before I commenced Kindergarten. This was just as well because somebody had to help teach the other kids. Seeing I could already read, it was only fair that Miss Angus employed me as a volunteer teacher aide. I was assigned three struggling students. We sat on small wooden chairs in a circle as I helped them sound out the words: 

Look, Spot, look. 
Find Dick and Jane. 
Go, Spot, go. 
Help Sally find Dick. 
Help Sally find Jane. 

Go, Spot. 
Go and find Dick. 
Go and find Jane. 

Run, Spot, run. 
Run and find Dick. 
Run and find Jane. 

Oh, oh, oh. 
Spot can find Dick. 
Spot can find Jane. 
Oh, oh. Spot can help Sally. 
Spot can play. 

I arrived home from my first day of Kindergarten at Revesby Primary School, snatched the Dick and Jane reader from my leather satchel, threw it down on my parents’ coffee table and declared: 

‘That is stupid!’ 

There began my non-education. It was the experimental, self-enlightened 1970’s. Under Gough Whitlam’s government it was ‘Time for a Change!’ What a change it was. Times tables, spelling, punctuation, and grammar were tossed out, due to their alleged stifling impact on children’s creativity, in favour of empty Marxist-inspired doctrine. Instead of studying History, English and Geography, the new curriculum asked students to express how we felt about the study of these subjects. 

Twenty years later, during a lecture at teacher’s college, my literacy professor labelled 1970’s New South Wales as ‘the most disastrous period in Australia’s educational history.’ He blamed the curriculum for producing a generation of virtual illiterates. The tragic Dick and Jane readers, he scoffed, were imported to Australia from the USA by the Education Minister’s relative as a private money-making venture. 

While overtly dumbing down the masses, the NSW Education Department simultaneously conducted a covert search for the brightest young state primary children in a mysterious government study. I was recruited without my mother’s knowledge or consent. 

My family dwelt in a blue asbestos box in Padstow, a poor white suburb in Western Sydney. My mother supplemented the revolutionary state curriculum as best she could, with public library visits plus the odd period of dance or music tuition. I was aged five when I had my first piano lesson. My tutor was convinced I had been taught before. My most vivid memory of piano was crying because I couldn’t play a piece perfectly. Mind you, it was difficult to master the music when I had no piano to practise on. A friend offered our family a sound piano for free and all we needed to do was collect it, but my father didn’t bother. There ended my beloved piano lessons for the next 10 years. 

Our mother ensured that Dale and I had a constant supply of art materials to play with. Poverty plus parental disinterest had prevented Mum from pursuing her own dream of Art College admission. She and her nine siblings attended a small convent school in 1940s Brisbane where was she was caned and demeaned by unqualified Irish nuns. Mum attributed the nuns’ insanity to the thick woollen habits they wore throughout the subtropical summer. At 14 years of age, my mother concluded that Catholicism was a fear-based religion and, at risk of being ex-communicated by her family, she abandoned it for life. My academically gifted 14-year-old mother moved to Melbourne alone to work in a canning factory. 

My mother commenced art lessons after I started school. Subsequent weekends were marked by reluctant trips to the New South Wales Art Gallery, life drawing classes with models (including 60 Minutes reporter Ian Leslie) who didn’t mind everyone looking at their bits, and landscape sketching trips with women dressed in long paisley skirts and large floppy felt hats. Mum won her first art show when fellow artist Irene Moore (Richard Tognetti’s aunt) framed 320 one of her portraits and entered it in an acquisition competition. The following year, Mum entered a work that she had painted in a Bankstown Art Society class. The judge, Fred Bates, refused to award Mum first prize because he believed her nude was too good to have been painted by a novice. Mum was just emerging on the Sydney art scene and aiming for the Archibald when my father burnt all of her art materials. He destroyed Mum’s art career after we fled what I recall as his first violent outburst. 

‘You wait!’ my father shouted from the lounge room where he sat with his half brother. ‘You wait ‘til David leaves!’ 

Mum lowered Dale and I out our bedroom window. Minutes later, as we trotted down the dark street, I tried to explain: ‘Mum, that wasn’t Dad – that was the devil inside of him.’ 

My belief in the Biblical God was surprising, considering I was raised an atheist. Apart from a few religion classes at school, my exposure to Western religion consisted of my father hissing ‘fucking pedophiles!’ through gritted teeth at the sight of any priest. 

As for my mother, she embarked upon an Eastern quest for truth and meaning while I was vicariously towed along for the ride. Mum’s spiritual journey began with a weekly philosophy group meeting at our central coast log cabin. Morning yoga sessions, a vegetarian diet and herbal remedies ensued. Strange books appeared on our shelves, with foreign titles like Yin-Yang, Kahlil Gibran and I-Ching. 

I too was blessed with a new children’s library consisting of books about meditation, finding my ‘inner light’ and astral travel. I dismissed these concepts as nonsensical and confusing. Yet my grasp of them didn’t matter anyhow because, according to another kiddies’ book, mankind was polluting us all into extinction. Images of planet Earth covered in BandAids (plasters), and atomic mushroom clouds, caused me nightmares. This occurred decades before society accepted the notion of ‘climate change.’ 

The insomnia and vivid nightmares that plagued my childhood were captured in my first poem written at age six years. As car headlights reflected over my darkened bedroom, I grabbed a pen and wrote under the streetlight: 

With a honk and a beep 
I can hear the traffick leap, 
And a tiny touch of light 
It could hit my feet. 

With a bang and a bump, 
What a lump! 

Stop, stop! 
Stop, stop! 
I can’t get to sleep! 

But it would not stop, 
No, not a bit. 
So I tucked underneath, 
And I did get to sleep. 

My mother made me present a copy of Traffick to my Grade 2 teacher at Budgewoi primary school on the NSW Central Coast. Mrs Peach read my poem to the class. The small band of popular girls smiled sweetly at her – before secretly shooting me an acidic scowl. I would be dealt with at lunchtime, as usual. People debate a child’s age of accountability. Following my Grade 2 experience I confidently place it at age seven years. 

If Grade 2 turned me off my age peers, Grade 3 completely buried my innate passion for learning: 

‘What is it about bald heads and thick glasses that make pedophiles so attractive to children?’ an English comedian once asked. The joke reminded me of my Grade 3 teacher at Budgewoi Primary School, Gary Balzola (‘Mr B’). When he lost his temper, which was often, Mr B would throw his wooden blackboard duster hard at a boy’s head. Girls were typically demeaned or ignored altogether. 

Mr B owned a property and horses at Wyong. During the school holidays, he invited every boy in our class, and a select few boys from other classes, to stay at his farm. As the week went on, the boys gradually returned home until only a few remained. Two of these boys excitedly told me how they had slept in Mr B’s bed. The last child to be collected from Mr B’s farm was a shy blonde boy named Darren. 

When school went back after the holidays, I was seated at my desk in our demountable classroom, watching a commotion outside. Darren stood in the playground with his back to the classroom. His head was lowered and his body trembled as he wept uncontrollably. Several children were huddled around his limp form, trying to console him. Mr B shot out of our classroom and rushed toward Darren. Mr B told the kids to return inside the classroom while he spoke alone with Darren, his arm wrapped around the boy’s small stature. 

Inside the classroom, the kids began frantically whispering together. 

‘What’s going on?’ I asked the girl next to me. 

She tightened her lips and raised her eyebrows: ‘Mr B did something very rude to Darren.’ It was far too rude to repeat. 

At Christmas time, Mr B bought the forgiveness of every student in our class with a kilo of lollies, a can of soft drink and a coloured Parker pen. But I never forgave. And I never forgot. Externally, I maintained a toughened shell to withstand the war zone that was the school playground. But inside, I acknowledged Darren’s demise into misery. Three years later, I understood why tears welled in Darren’s eyes as he threw another boy over his shoulders during a classroom fight. Twenty years later, I did what I had wanted to do at age eight: I formally reported ‘Mr B’ to Taskforce Argos at Queensland’s Police headquarters and signed a witness statement. 

The detective cheerfully explained that his sex crime unit had been inundated with reports of child abuse, especially involving priests. He talked about how unbelieving the general public were. ‘My own mother-in-law didn’t believe me,’ he chuckled, ‘until we arrested her local parish priest.’ Then the detective looked me dead in the eye and asked, ‘Why are you reporting this?’ 

Because it happened to me too! I wanted to blurt out but restrained myself. Instead, I affirmed, ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’ 

I further reported Mr B to the NSW Education Department’s Child Protection unit which was established following the Wood Royal Commission. Then I located Mr B working at a newsagency. I phoned him and stated: ‘I know what you did to Darren and I reported you to the police.’ It felt good. 

‘Hey!’ Mr B objected, ‘I’ll have you know that I’m still very good friends with some of my students!’ 

‘Oh, I bet you are…’ 

The NSW Police sent me a letter in which they claimed that they were unable to locate Darren. The Education Department sent me a letter in which they claimed they could not substantiate my allegation against Mr B and they approved his return to teaching at Budgewoi Primary School. 

While lower primary school was a horrendous enough experience, things only got worse for me in high school, especially when adolescence kicked in.I was 12 years old when my parents reconciled and relocated our family to a northern NSW farm. I attended a public high school in nearby Murwillumbah, or ‘Murhole’ as my sister nicknamed the country town. I renamed Murwillumbah High ‘Pedo High’ – which seemed justified after one of the principals was convicted for sexually abusing a male student. I laughed at the local newspaper’s claim that the remaining staff members were ‘shocked’ by the allegations. 

High school was as mind-numbingly tedious as primary school. I resigned myself to learning nothing at a secondary level after my first Grade 8 History project where the teacher, Mr Huxley, gave us the task of constructing a model Viking boat out of cardboard. I threw myself passionately into what I perceived as an enjoyable project and within two days I had crafted and painted a perfect model. 

My cardboard boat received a contemptuous reception from the entire class, including Mr Huxley. ‘You cut that out of a magazine!’ one boy accused. The following lesson, Mr Huxley brought a supply of green cardboard. I was instructed to abandon my completed model boat and join the class assembly line production of 30 stapled, uniform replicas of a basic paper boat. 

The following four years were just a variation on that experience and my true ability never really manifested again. I recall a PE session during which I flogged one of the school’s tennis champions, Amanda Swan, when I had never had a single lesson. I also remember the sewing classes during which I consistently earned perfect marks for my professional-standard garments. Apart from these glimpses I became stuck in a spiral of boredom, underachievement, and rebellion. 

I didn’t misbehave in every class – just for those teachers I disrespected. I didn’t respect the manual arts teacher who exposed himself to me and who joked in my presence about ‘getting into the pants’ of a Grade 12 student. I didn’t respect the science teacher and self-designated school photographer who continually photographed me and who took ‘arty’ shots of my naked classmate. I didn’t respect the PE teacher who had sex with a female classmate. I didn’t respect the English teacher who had a group orgy with her senior surfing students. I didn’t respect the English teacher who had an affair with a Grade 11 student and who flirted with my brother’s girlfriend. I didn’t respect the careers teacher who made advances toward my brother and who drugged a Grade 11 boy at a party. The student awoke in the careers teacher’s bed the following morning, naked with no memory of how he got there. The teacher stood naked in the doorway and minced, ‘It’s okay, sweetie.’ 

My hidden ability suddenly manifested in Grade 11. For some unknown reason, I began churning out unique interpretations of Hamlet that stunned the only person who showed an appreciation of my ideas – a University of New England professor whose lectures we attended. I took up rowing, won my first regatta race but lost my second, the final, to the Australian champion. I commenced Art classes and began painting like a professional. Then I won the female lead in the high school musical when I had not previously sung or acted. 

‘You-… you’re not Fiona’s mother, are you?!’ the medical receptionist exclaimed when she spied our surname on my brother’s medical file. 

‘Y-y-yes,’ Mum hesitated, wondering what I had done wrong this time. 

The receptionist disappeared. Minutes later she returned with the entire surgery who were all talking at once: ‘You’re Fiona’s mother! We saw her in the musical last night. She was amazing!’ 

After seeing the school musical, my art teacher Ken Siddel told me, ‘I just sat there watching you and Zoe and I realised – they’re going to be famous!’ 

My academic turnabout divided the school staff room. On one side sat a minority group of intelligent teachers like Peter Cross who himself topped the state in History as a high school student. These people recognised and valued my ability. 

On the opposition sat those teachers who resented their jobs – and me. They especially hated the fact that my new-found success highlighted their failure to teach. The main perpetrator of the teacher movement against me was the English/History teacher. Peter Wilcox had obviously never forgiven me for my blatant impertinence concerning his sexual affair with a Year 11 student named Louise – nor for the sailing incident. 

The sailing incident occurred during a school sport lesson. Wilcox prided himself on being a skilled sailor and he taught sailing for school sport. A Japanese exchange student named Nozamu and I paired up to sail a catamaran. Our first and final sailing day was extremely windy. Wilcox gave our group basic sailing instructions. Unbeknownst to Mr Wilcox, I had learnt to sail on Budgewoi Lake under a great teacher named Leslie in my own Laser sailing boat in which I won my first race. 

That sport day, every catamaran capsized within 10 metres of shore – except the boat Nozamu and I were on. The wind blew us up-river toward a rocky island that stuck out in the middle. It was impossible to simply turn about and aim directly for the boat shed where the other students had resigned. I had to tack against the wind just to get back to our shore. I aimed to land near the rocks upstream, from where Nozamu and I could tow the boat back. As the winds picked up and the cat almost tipped, Nozamu began panicking at the thought of falling into shark infested waters. His hysteria compromised our chances of staying upright, so I made Nozamu laugh and relax by pretending to be a pirate. Nearing the shore, I yelled out, ‘Abandon ship!’ in an Irish accent, just as Wilcox approached us. Anticipated congratulations on a fine bit of sailing, I shouted, ‘Aye-aye, Sir!’ 

‘Get off!’ Wilcox screamed hysterically at us. 

‘Huh?’ I was genuinely confused. 

‘You treat everything as a bloody joke, Fiona!’ 

‘Oh…’ I struggled for a response, ‘Do you want me to take the boat back?’ 

‘Just get off!’ 

A bewildered Nozamu muttered in my ear, ‘What we do wrong? What we do wrong?’ 

‘Never mind, Noza,’ I assured him. ‘Let’s just go.’ 

Fully clothed in long socks and leather shoes, Wilcox leapt onto the boat and started sailing it back. Nozamu and I had just started walking back to the boat shed when we witnessed the expert sailor Mr Cock capsize just five metres from the shore. 

Wilcox instigated staff room gossip about me which became so rife, fellow teacher Peter Cross complained about it to the mistress of girls, Mrs Garnham – who in turn told me. Ailsa Sharland, my private piano teacher, told me she overheard the same group of teachers speaking derogatively about me in the staffroom while relief teaching at Murhole High. 

‘Are you talking about Fiona?’ Ailsa interrupted them.  

‘Yes,’ they admitted. 

‘I teach her piano. Fiona’s a genius!’ 

‘Oh, we know,’ they conceded. ‘We can tell from her essay writing.’ 

If my teachers thought I was so capable, they certainly never told me. Instead, at the start of Grade 12, Wilcox and his incompetent peers pressured the principal to transfer me to neighbouring Tweed River High. They threatened to strike if he didn’t. 

I nicknamed my new school ‘Tweed Slut High’ for good reason. If you have seen the movie Muriel’s Wedding, this is based on a true story set in the Tweed Heads area. My new school was populated with girls who wore their skirts 20cm too short so that they just covered their knickers. 

My senior teachers at Murhole had no knowledge of my forced transfer and appeared shocked at the news. My new school did not offer the same subjects or timetable, so I had to make major subject changes. I had to drop my top subject, 3U History, and pick up General Studies. My teacher for both History and General Studies was not given a record of my Grade 11 History marks, thus he instantly deducted from my final results the percentage of marks carried over from his existing students’ previous year and refused to let me make up the difference. 

‘That’s unfair,’ I complained to Mr. Rogers, the deputy principal. ‘You make him change those marks!’ I knew Mr Rogers as the former English master of Murwillumbah High. I had spent most of Grade 9 English sitting outside his office. 

‘It’s too late,’ he tried to explain. 

‘Then I tell you what,’ I asserted in righteous indignation, ‘I’ll not be attending another one of his Ancient History or General Studies classes. From now on – I’ll teach myself!’ 

I further complained about my marks for 2U English. My new English teacher had preconceived opinions on me. He was married to one of the teachers from my previous school, a right bitch who had conspired to get rid of me – and who entertained a group orgy with her surfing students. 

‘You read this essay,’ I threw my paper on the deputy’s desk. 

Mr. Rogers read it carefully. It was a critique of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles, a novel I despised from its opening multi-page description of a cow paddock. The essay question asked students to argue whether Tess was seduced or raped. Instead, I eloquently addressed the moral and political incorrectness of the essay question. 

‘Fiona,’ Mr. Rogers sighed, ‘you write this sort of thing at university. For now, you’re at high school and you must conform.’ 

I refused to conform. I refused to write another essay on Tess of the d’Urbervilles. My stance cost me my English result and my overall tertiary entrance score. My final Higher School Certificate exam results read: 
Ancient History 91 
General Studies 88 
Art (Advanced) 88 
Art 89 
Music 81 
English (Advanced) 82 
English 58

It was a miracle that I completed high school at all. Throughout my school years, my father constantly reminded me that I was a ‘fuckwit,’ ‘shit-for-brains’ and a ‘moron.’ His attack on my studies intensified during my HSC exam preparation. The highlight of the month-long study period was when my father decided to sandblast the house wall just outside my bedroom window where my study desk sat. 

‘YOU’RE GONNA FAIL!’ his screaming could only just be heard over the shrill of the machine. ‘YOU’RE FUCKING HOPELESS! YOU’RE GONNA FAIL!’ 

I learned how to balance academic study with my father’s regular violence. His most memorable outburst was the cat incident. This occurred on our way to our piano lessons. It was dark. My father screamed hysterically at me in the manner which typically ended in his beating me in the stomach or head. But this time I was spared. At the end of our dirt road, our headlights shone on a box of abandoned kittens. Dad slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and started throwing rocks at a kitten’s head. I started screaming hysterically, jumped out of the car and ran barefoot down the road. I glanced back to see my father’s figure silhouetted against the headlights. He was beating a kitten to death over the bonnet of the car. I stayed up all night, processing the incident in a painting that I titled Dad Hates Cats. 

People often accuse child abuse victims: Why didn’t you tell anyone? In my case, I did tell someone. I told my school Principal, Wally Wardman, who contested, ‘But you never come to school with any bruises on you.’ I didn’t bother explaining I showed no physical evidence because my father knew how to beat me without leaving any signs. After meeting my father, the Principal described him as, ‘gentle as a lamb.’ 

I reported my father’s domestic violence to the local Tweed Heads child protection agency (DOCS) who dismissed my report and labelled me a ‘drama queen’ – even after my mother directly confirmed my testimony to them. 

I even called the local police who were subsequently easily convinced by my father that I was just ‘making shit up.’ Immediately after the police left, my father flew into his most violent rage and threw me out of home. Consequently, I spent half of Grade 12 living at other peoples’ homes. 

By the end of high school, I was too mentally exhausted to attend university and sit more exams. So, I attended Sydney’s top Art College instead. 

My mother did her best to talk me out of attending art college: ‘It takes ten years to undo the damage art college does to an artist,’ she warned. She wanted me to study English literature instead. 

While delivering me the ‘you’re expelled’ lecture, Murwillumbah Principal Mr Dowling simultaneously commended my acting skills and ordered me to major in English and Drama at UNE as I was too young to audition for NIDA. Meanwhile, my piano teacher told me, ‘If you take next year off and practise eight hours a day, the following year you will get into the Sydney Conservatorium as a concert pianist.’ 

I interviewed at Sydney’s City Art Institute in Paddington. Outside the interview room I sat amidst a trembling group of candidates who clasped their professionally produced portfolio. 

‘What other art schools have you applied for?’ the panel asked me. 

‘None. This is the best. Why would I bother going elsewhere?’ 

The three of them stared at me like stunned mullets. 

I broke the silence, ‘Would you like to see my folio?’ 

They sighed collectively, ‘Oh, you have a folio?’ 

I pulled out a small wad of instant photographs that I had taken of my paintings and drawings and handed them to the panel. 

‘Wow,’ one interviewer shook her head. 

‘Who taught you to draw?’ one lecturer asked. 

‘No-one. I taught myself.’ 

‘Who taught you to paint like this?’ 

‘Klimt, Whiteley and Picasso,’ I responded confidently. 

Art College was everything my mother warned me it would be. I loathed every day of it. Art College was not about learning. I was never given explicit instruction in such basics as colour mixing or canvas stretching. Art College was about anticipating what the lecturers wanted. By the end of third year, painting students were expected to display their own ‘style’ – despite the fact that it took Picasso a lifetime to develop his characteristic style. 

Art College was not about creativity; it was about conformity to the lecturers’ personal tastes. I recall the day I told my history theory lecturer, Tess, that I considered Brett Whiteley to be one of Australia’s master painters. She laughed condescendingly and said something so coded in ‘art speak’ that my brain could not process it. 

Art College was not about artistic talent. Students were marked on their personalities, not their art. I recall a class in which a third-year student had not produced any work whatsoever, but because he could waffle art speak about the ‘process’ – he passed. 

I laughed, ‘The emperor is naked!’ 

Art College was not about producing aesthetically pleasing images. It was about glorifying the grotesque. I recall a piece of work that was displayed in a glass podium. It was an essay which began, ‘There once was a Cunt…’ I recall another piece of work which received a good grade – a four-foot high sculpture of an erect penis. That student went on to exhibit photographs of pus-ridden skin diseases. 

I later attended the top art colleges in Queensland and Western Australia and found them to teach the same crap. In the foyer of Queensland College of Art was displayed an exhibition of photographs featuring a decapitated pigs head and sexualised women dressed in leather outfits and whips. The student artist went onto be implicated in a notorious vampire murder involving a lesbian Satanist who routinely drank pigs’ blood. 

I committed the minimal time and effort required to obtain my first undergraduate degree. Every spare moment was spent attending theatre classes at Phillip Street Theatre, the Australian Theatre for Young People, followed by The Actors Centre where I benefited from NIDA teachers who had recently left Australia’s top acting school over political issues. The highlight of my first year of tertiary education was a cabaret show held at ATYP. I was designated the role of a punk at a dinner party. I painted my face grotesquely, scrawled ‘KILL’ across my torn shirt and got lost in the improvisation. My performance brought the house down. The French mime teacher accosted me excitedly at the end of the show: ‘Your face!’ he delighted, ‘It was like a mask! It was fantastique!’ 

‘Here she is – the star!’ another staff member declared. ‘You were the funniest thing I have seen in ten years!’ 

After a year of attending more drama than art classes, I applied for NIDA, the Sydney based drama school. I was just 18 years old when I ignored warnings that I was well below the average age of 22 to get in. The first panel of judges were obviously impressed with my performance because they singled me out and excitedly asked, ‘Where did you obtain your piece? Where have you worked before?’ But the moment I heard who was judging my second 327 audition I knew my acting days were over. The person in question had rushed back from interstate auditioning to be there – on my day. I recognised him from my secret childhood. 

‘I’m surprised,’ my private drama coach, another NIDA graduate, concluded. ‘I thought you would get in.’ 

Disappointed, I simultaneously sensed that acting was a dangerous choice for someone with my background. The acting techniques I had been taught at The Actors Cent re included shamanic practises of centring, meditation, dissociation and channelling.I demonstrated a seemingly natural ability to completely lose myself in character, something which impressed others – but was spiritually unhealthy. Today, I appreciate that I was spared the fate of most successful actors. If an actor is not born into ritual abuse, they will pay for their fame one way or another, be it via the mandatory casting couch, drug abuse or forced to star in underground snuff and porn films. 

My passion was for musical theatre. Consequently, my focus switched to classical singing. I had transferred to Art College in Brisbane when I auditioned at the Queensland Conservatorium for an evening course in concert and stagecraft for singers. At that point the Queensland Con was the place for singing in Australia. I was accepted and once in, I harassed the teacher, Leonard Lee, for private singing lessons. Leonard eventually agreed to give me a 30-minute trial lesson to explore my potential which he doubted I had. He played some scales and gave me instructions which I promptly followed. 

‘Hmm,’ he raised his brow at my typically rapid response to teaching. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘I’ll teach you.’ His ‘intercostal diaphragmatic breathing’ technique well suited my dramatic mezzo soprano voice. A short time later, his tune completely changed: 

‘You’ve learned more in two months than my students typically learn in two years! It’s a big voice and difficult to control.’ I was subsequently overwhelmed with free lessons and talk of managing me in Europe. I had a 2.5 octave range with a strong top C. 

Both my singing and piano teachers were world class musicians whose careers had been prematurely ended by tragedy. Being a perfectionist, the additional pressure I felt from them to succeed was suffocating. I just wanted to learn to sing and play before making any great life decisions. So, I quit music. 

But perhaps the greatest impact on my confidence to pursue a career in music or theatre stemmed from something deeper and darker. I had just turned 16 when I made the decision to cut off from the Sydney-based pedophile network that abused and controlled me from my earliest memory. Psychologist and UTS lecturer Dr Antony Kidman led the inner Sydney branch of this network. In response to my announcement that I was leaving their organisation and did not want their support to ‘make it’ in any industry, Kidman slammed my fingers between a piano keyboard and lid, and hissed:[and you dead mofo dc] 

‘You will be nothing without us!’ 

The Family
There shall not be found among you anyone that makes his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that uses divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch. 
- Deut 18:10 

I did not intend to marry into an illuminati family. I met Jon halfway up a mountain on New Zealand’s remote west coast. My brother and I were on our way down, while Jon was on his way up. A week later we encountered Jon again atop the gondolas in Queenstown. I laughed hysterically at his photo of an angora rabbit strapped to a rotisserie for shearing. Then I laughed all afternoon during the game off ‘dirty word scrabble’ that Jon instigated. Perhaps my contribution of the word ‘alone’ captured Jon’s affection. 

Upon our return home to Australia, my brother and I told our mother nothing about our trip except for, ‘We met the funniest guy! Jon is the funniest person I’ve ever met.’ Soon after our return I received a postcard – a photo of the stupid rabbit. On the back Jon had written a note saying he’d like to call in and visit on his way home to England. 

Jon stayed six months. Not only was he funny, he was clever, generous, and the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Upon meeting him people would blurt, ‘Are you going to marry him?’ 

After two months, Jon raised the subject of marriage. 

‘I don’t want to get married,’ I stated bluntly. ‘I’m only twenty-one! I’ve just witnessed the worst marriage imaginable, and I don’t want that. I want to work. I need intellectual stimulation.’ 

‘You could have both,’ he promised. 

Days later, Jon made his first phone call to his mother in months. After that conversation, he never mentioned the ‘m’ word again. 

I had never met Jon’s English mother, but I instantly sensed that she had said something derogatory about me. As usual, time proved my gut instinct right. 

‘What did she say about me?’ I demanded. 

‘Nothing,’ Jon lied. 

‘What did she say?’ 


‘You’re lying. What did she say?’ 

‘Oh, she’s just being over-protective – that’s all.’ 

‘Uh-huh. So, what overprotective thing did she say?’ 

‘She just doesn’t think you’re the right one for me.’ 

‘Uh-huh. And what do you think of what she said?’ 

‘I think it’s cute.’ 

‘Cute... and what did you tell her about me?’ 

‘I just said that I’m shacked up with this arty-farty born-again Christian.’ 

‘Wow…how endearing.’ 

No matter how Jon described me, his mother was destined to treat me like convict scum. Actually, I don’t possess a single convict gene. One set of my mother’s grandparents were aristocrats from Kent, while the other originated from Scotland and were related to Nellie Melba. 

Jon’s parents, Eric and Frances, met at teacher’s college where they studied to be Math/Physics teachers. Within days of meeting me, the couple challenged me to a game of 329 Scrabble. In retrospect, I would say they were testing my intelligence. Flogging Jon’s parents at Scrabble by three hundred points remains one of my fondest memories of England. 

Jon’s father is a blood relation to the King of Jordan. Although this relationship was understated, it was certainly valued, as reflected in an Easter family tradition called ‘Innies and Outies.’ Jon’s paternal relatives were unable to meet at Christmas time, so every Easter they gathered for a mock Christmas dinner instead. The family would divide between two tables, one table for the ‘Innies’ and one for the ‘Outies.’ 

‘What the hell are Innies and Outies?’ I asked. Someone explained, ‘All of the Gardiner relatives are the Innies who sit at one table, while everyone else are Outties who sit at the other table.’ 

‘Er, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’ll be sitting with Jon.’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Frances said, ‘You can sit at the Outtie table with me.’ 

‘Why do you tolerate this?’ I asked her. 

‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ everyone mused – everyone except the Outties. 

This was my introduction to Jon’s extended paternal family which included his intellectually disabled cousin. All the Innies except Jon made constant fun of her, which probably explained why Jon was her favourite. I wondered whether the Innies considered the girl to be an Innie or an Outtie… 

Jon’s father and I initially got on well. We shared a passion for musical theatre, and I genuinely preferred joining him for a game of social lawn bowls rather than hanging in pubs with my age peers. Eric struck me as upper class, and it puzzled me why someone like Eric even married Frances, until Jon told me that his father ‘forced himself onto’ her which resulted in pregnancy. 

It was Jon’s mother who instigated the trouble. To those familiar with the hit TV sitcom called Everybody Loves Raymond, combine the character of Marie with the face of Camilla Parker Bowls, and that’s Frances. 

‘When Jon first told me about you, I told him “Just get rid of her!” But now I know why he stayed with you – it’s your integrity.’ That was a typical Frances insult: mixed with a compliment so that I got the message but had no evidence of it. Whenever I relayed Frances’s exact words to Jon, he’d ask his mother whether she said them, to which she always replied, ‘I didn’t say that.’ 

Frances went so far as to bitch about me to Jon’s friends whom she barely knew. ‘Jon’s mother has been saying some things about you,’ one told me. ‘She said you had “warped thinking.”’ 

Frances regularly flew to Boston and paid a small fortune to her guru Robert Fritz for training in something called ‘Structural Consultation.’ Frances’ definition of ‘warped thinking’ was defined according to structural consultation lingo. Like a newly converted Amway recruit, Frances bombarded everyone with this lingo, and she constantly asked me to undergo a ‘session’ with her. When I asked Frances to simply and clearly explain what structural consultation was, she replied, ‘Let me see, I’m not sure that I could put it into words that you would understand.’ 

I understood plenty after reading the original three-hour transcript of the ‘structural consultation’ session that Jon underwent. The session began with Jon discussing a dilemma in his life –whether he should commit to me in marriage. During this first hour, Jon sounded integrated and he confidently expressed his own opinions. During the second hour Jon became increasingly confused as his beliefs were challenged and systematically stripped away by the ‘Consultant.’ In the final hour, the Consultant replaced Jon’s original beliefs with her own contradictory, existentialist thinking. 

‘This is brainwashing!’ I exclaimed to Jon. ‘The transcript demonstrates a clear brainwashing process: discover your beliefs, destroy these, replace with new existentialist beliefs.’ 

But it was too late. The Jon I knew was gone. The new Jon started parroting his mother’s criticisms and existential crap at me: ‘But why do you care so much about people, Fiona? What’s the point? Why go out of your way to help them?’ 

‘Because it’s the right thing to do. If good people stand around and do nothing, that’s how things like the bloody holocaust happen! Isn’t it obvious?!’ 

But still Jon persisted with his circle of existentialist meaningless nothingness. In the end, the only way to combat the structural consultation ‘robotese’ was to resort to moral absolutes like, ‘Because the Bible says so.’ 

‘Fiona, I want you to do this one structural consultation session with me,’ Frances persisted. 


‘Why not?’ 

‘For the same reason I wouldn’t let you hover a wedding ring over my stomach to predict how many children I might have - it transgresses my Christian beliefs.’ 

‘Well, just put aside your beliefs for just one hour to do this session with me.’ ‘If I could just set aside my beliefs for an hour, they wouldn’t be beliefs.’ ‘Well, if Jon ever comes to me and says, “Mum do you think Fiona and I could make a go of it in marriage?” I would have to say no based on the fact that you won’t do this structural consultation session with me.’ 

Not surprisingly, Jon sat in limbo for six years, unable to marry me, unable to give me up. While he deliberated, we spent thousands on pre-internet phone bills and annual plane trips. Every time I saw my boyfriend, I went to war against his brainwashing. I stuck it out so long because I hoped that the person I had fallen in love with was still there somewhere. 

At one point I decided that I should give up my country for Jon’s. I obtained a two year visa and told my family that I would not be back. 

I had been living with Jon and his parents for six months, Jon had just become a Christian, we had just become engaged, and Jon had been away overseas for a fortnight, when Frances and I came to loggerheads. I was seated at the kitchen table of their large old farmhouse, completing an undergraduate Psychology assignment, when Frances entered the room. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked sweetly. 

‘An assignment.’ 

‘What’s it on?’ 

‘Counselling Psychology.’ 

‘What’s the topic?’ 

‘Informed consent.’ 

‘What’s that?’ 

‘It’s when you warn the client of the potential benefits and risks of entering into a therapeutic relationship.’ 

Frances’s gay countenance transformed to a demonic scowl. ‘Hmph! Does it say there that you should warn the client that the therapist has a bias that could harm the client?!’ 

I assumed that she referred to a comment I had made about child abuse being so prevalent that perhaps the therapist should start with the assumption that every mentally ill client could be a victim, instead of the other way around. If the given statistic that one in two women had been abused, wouldn’t it be logical to assume that it’s the abused half that are more likely to comprise the mentally ill? It was only a passing thought, one of many that I had shared with Frances, but one which she, for some reason, took great offence at. 

Something snapped inside of me. The words Six years and I’ve had enough! vibrated in my head. For six years I had tolerated constant criticism from this manipulative, condescending, undermining bitch! You can’t make Jon happy in marriage. You can’t change him, Fiona. Fiona wouldn’t be able to please you sexually, Jon, because she’s a Christian and she’s frigid. For six years I had said nothing in response to her provocation. But now, I had finally had enough. I put down my pen. 


‘Yes Fiona,’ she smiled sweetly. 

‘Why do you hate me?’ 

Pause. Frances: ‘I’m not telling you.’ 

I went for the jugular. ‘It happened to you too didn’t it?’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ 

‘It was your father, wasn’t it?’ 

As when Dorothy poured water on the wicked witch, Frances began shrieking hysterically: ‘HOW DARE YOU!! HOW DARE YOU!! HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE MY BELOVED FATHER WHO IS NOT EVEN ALIVE TO DEFEND HIMSELF!!’ She marched out of the house, slamming the 300-year-old oak door so hard, I thought its tiny square glass insert would shatter. 

Bingo, I thought. 

Fifteen minutes later, Frances returned, happily humming. She had structurally consulted her way back to Nirvana – or so it seemed. 


‘Yes Fiona.’ 

‘I haven’t finished yet.’ 

‘HOW DARE YOU!! HOW DARE YOU!!...’ she continued screeching while exiting the lounge. 

I followed her. ‘Frances, you can’t keep doing this anymore. Like it or not, your son and I are going to be married. You and I have to talk things out, wipe the slate clean, and start again.’ 

‘No, I don’t have to talk to you.’ 

‘Well, if you refuse to, I have no option but to pack my things and leave.’ 

‘That’s your prerogative.’ I packed my belongings and left. I would have flown home to Australia if I hadn’t already purchased a tour of Israel. So, I went to live with a friend named Ginny. 

‘You have to patch things up,’ Ginny tried to convince me. ‘For the sake of the family you have to patch things up with her.’ 

‘That’s a fallacy! Just because someone’s family doesn’t mean you tolerate their crap! I’m over it!’ 

A work colleague once described me well. She asked me for my star sign. 

‘Scorpio,’ I responded.  

The girl’s eyes widened and her body stiffened. She said breathlessly, ‘You! I know you! My sister is one of you. I know all about you! You are extremely loyal. You’d do anything for anyone. But, when someone crosses you, or especially if they do something to someone you care about, you bulldoze their house and plough salt through their fields so that nothing ever grows again!’ 

I laughed. ‘I’m not into star signs, but that’s pretty accurate.’ 

I was just about to bulldoze Frances’ house when Ginny convinced me to wait until Jon returned home. I agreed to Ginny’s suggestion: when Jon returned, he would arrange a time for the four of us to sit down and talk things out. Ginny and I spent the next week rehearsing what I would say to Frances, until I could express myself without exploding into a tirade. 

A week later, Jon and I met with his parents at their house. Jon and I sat together on the main couch in the lounge room. Eric sat on a chair opposite us, stroking his cat. We waited ten minutes while Frances repeatedly breezed by, humming loudly - yet another act of manipulation. Finally, she joined us. 

‘Right,’ she stated in a sing-song tone as she sat down next to Eric, ‘What did you want to see me about?’ 

‘Well,’ I began, ‘during the past six months you have done a number of things which indicate some positive regard toward me. You gave me cheap board here, you gave Jon and I the use of your spare car, and you obviously put a lot of thought into my Christmas gift. These things indicate a certain amount of positive regard. On the other hand, you have done a number of things which indicate that you fell some negative regard toward me. For instance, you have talked negatively about me to other people behind my back: you told Jon that I wouldn’t make him happy in marriage; you told Jon’s friends that I have warped thinking; and you-...’ 

Frances looked at Eric and nodded. Eric nodded in agreement. Frances then stood up. 

Me: ‘What are you doing?’ 

Frances: ‘I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose.’ She parroted a structural consultation assertion. 

Me: ‘But we came here to talk.’ 

‘I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose.’ 

‘But you agreed to talk.’ 

‘I don’t have to sit here with my head on a chopping block.’ 

‘No-one’s head is on a chopping block. The idea was that you sit there and listen while I say everything I need to say, and then I sit here and listen while you say whatever you need to say. That’s a conversation. Once we have both got everything off our chests, I am prepared to wipe the slate clean and never mention any of it again.’ 

‘No, I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose.’ 

I turned to Jon, ‘You better tell them what’s at stake here.’ I referred to the preliminary discussion that Jon and I had in which I vowed that if his mother refused to cooperate, I was permanently cutting off. 

All eyes were on Jon. ‘What do you think, Jon,’ they asked. Jon’s body sunk in as he stared at his lap. ‘I-I…I can’t see why you can’t just listen to what she’s got to say. They’re only words. What harm can words do?’ 

‘I’m not prepared to sit here with my head on a chopping block… I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose… I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose…’ On and on and on she droned until my brain reached saturation point. 

That’s it!’ My words silenced the room. ‘You have rights, and so do I. I’m now going to exercise my rights. Jon and I are engaged. Relationships are difficult enough without someone actively trying to tear a couple apart. What Jon decides to do regarding his future relationship with you is his prerogative. But as for me, I promise me that you will never see me again. And another thing: I don’t want you going about behind my back mouthing off about me to my children the way you have mouthed off to Jon’s friends. Therefore, you will never set eyes upon your grandchildren!’ 

Eric sprung to life, bounding forward in his chair. ‘YOU!’ he pointed and spat, ‘How dare you! How dare you try and split up our family. We’re a very close family.’ 

I centred. ‘Oh, close, are you? What about the Indian girl boarding with you who molested Andrew when he was three? Andrew had to starve himself and punch his fist through the wall at age fifteen to get your attention! And what about the ballet dancer you had boarding with you who molested Jon when he was five? And what about the time your wife moved out and had an affair? You didn’t know about that, did you Eric? But you’re such a close family!’ 

‘That’s none of your business!’ 

‘Of course, it’s none of my business - just like my sexual relationship with Jon was none of your wife’s business!’ 

‘And just what are you going to tell our grandchildren about us!’ 

I smiled curtly. ‘The truth: not a word more; not a word less.’ 

‘And just what kind of job are you going to do raising our grandchildren?!’ 

‘I’ll raise them as a good Christian would.’ 

‘Well!’ he hissed venomously, ‘There are Christians with a big ‘C’ and Christians with a little ‘c’! 

I guess I was a little-c Christian. 

I stood up. 

‘W-Where are you going?’ the now panicked couple chimed. 

‘I have a right to withdraw from this conversation at any time I choose.’ 

I exited the room. 

‘Wait!’ they exclaimed. 

‘Come back! We want to talk!’ I swung around, reappeared in the lounge room, pointed my finger at Frances and announced: ‘Frances, I don’t ever want to set my eyes upon you again - until the day you come dragging on your hands and knees, begging for my forgiveness.’ I marched off. 

Outside, the rain fell as I fumbled with the car key. 

‘Give me that!’ It was Jon. This was it! Our relationship was finally over. He had finally decided to ditch me for his parents. He was here to confiscate my only means of transport out of their secluded property - the spare car. I would have to walk 20+ miles in the rain. 

‘Why?’ I braced myself. 

‘Because I’m driving.’ 

Frances has never set eyes upon my children. 

Jon immigrated to Australia in 1998. Shortly after his arrival, in the midst of wedding preparations, Jon confessed that he had cheating on me during the six years I waited for him to commit. Frances and most of Jon’s friends had known all along. This information emerged in the context of a visitor from North Devon. A cult whore named Sharon Turner spent  Christmas with us and repaid my hospitality by, I deduced, fucking my fiancĂ©. Upon her departure, Sharon handed me an envelope containing cash plus a note: 

‘For everything I used, abused and owe.’ 

I pulled out my paper and crayons, and asked Jon to draw hypnosis. Jon drew a swirl. Next I told him to draw a door over the swirl. Then I asked him to open the door and draw what was behind it. Jon drew his mother Frances. 

I managed to extract a key trigger word: ‘STANGOR.’ I was seated next to Jon at our dining table when he drew this. My mother and 16-year-old brother Andrew were seated on the lounge nearby. As soon as the word was uttered, Jon slowly glanced sideways at me. His eyes were black and menacing. Let it happen, a silent voice requested. So, I relaxed and willingly succumbed to what I felt, what I knew was about to occur. Suddenly, an invisible force threw me about two metres across the room and slammed my body into the wall. Then it picked me off the floor and slammed my limp form down like a rag doll – again, and again… 

I looked over at Jon who shot me an evil smirk. I was unhurt. I had not even felt the physical impact of the assault. I picked myself up off the floor and returned to my seat next to Jon. ‘Now,’ I calmly asserted, ‘Where were we?’ 

I used my art therapy skills to unveil Jon’s intimate knowledge of elite European Luciferian practices. The most memorable demonstration of this was when Jon wrote out pages of spells in ancient Italian and drew his experience of attending a Satanic Olympics in Greece. The UK Rothschilds were directly involved. 

During the course of the disclosures I discovered that Jon had been unfaithful during the entire six years I thought we were committed. Consequently, I shredded the wedding dress I was making, smashed up my engagement ring with hammer, and told Jon to go to hell. But by then Jon was genuinely broken and the person I had met six years earlier was back. So, I gave Jon an ultimatum: if he wanted me to stay, he must permanently cut of all ties with England, including his family. He agreed. We donned casual attire and wed alone in the Bundaberg courthouse one Wednesday morning. 

I was pregnant with our second child when Jon’s paternal aunt and her husband turned up on our doorstep one Sunday evening. The couple had obtained our address through their daughter who accessed our personal records while working for the Australian Taxation Office. The purpose of their visit was to accuse Jon: ‘You’ve failed to fulfil your obligation to The Family.’ 

The Gardiners became increasingly desperate to contact Jon. On 10 July 2007, Eric sent us a bizarre letter that I never let Jon read: 

Dear Jon, 
Please bare with me. 

I have tried and tried to courteously to you many years back with my father, and I’ve re-phrased comments as carefully as I can to you as Christianity. 

However I’ve always been slightly uncertain to you, so I went back and re-phrased in a different way, but kept stepping back. 

You were notified eventually that my father had eventually passed away 98 years ago, when you were expecting him to give information only to him back in 1998, if necessary to any of us. 

I am not trying to be pedantic. Quite the reverse. So would you please bare with me and deal with my comments. 

So, step by step I will re-write the items I have shuffled around on my behalf. They are all slightly different, so bare with each one separately, because I had tried to re-phrase one slightly, and none of them are properly correct.
Thanks, I hope sense Eric. 

Dear Jon 
I trust that you will bare with me for a while. It was many years ago very late at night that you required me apparently as a non-Christian, not to be allowed to speak to you. I was still wake enough however to mention “Honour thy father and thy Mother,” but that was clearly ignored for whatever reason. 

I was simply told that should you need to notify me, you would tell it to my father. I sent information to you that he was elderly and could easily be disabled on his knowledge. 

However as you requested me not to be non-Christian, I have politely stepped away on your behalf for these many years. 

Now, however out of courtesy, I feel it essential to notify you that my father, your grandfather has passed away. I have found it very difficult how to do to you such courtesy on his behalf, and it has consequently taken a long time to finally decide to you – not to disrupt you, but for me to notify you “not wanting me” 

Now, apparently, you are clearly involved in Christianity. I never had no objection in that, in that I have seen many interpretations of Christianity and other God systems, and to be academic, I simply don’t know one God or the other. 

You know that I am a Mathematician, and several years ago having read another book on it I found a superb statement, in effect that Mathematicians would rather admit that unless they know anything is perfect they would confirm that it might not be completely accurate, no matter how close. 

So, if you care to think about it, I am logical, not pedantic, and later on in this information perhaps you can think about it more about me. 

However, let us go back to the Christianity of your family (apparently apart from me) 

Your mother and her parents we always involved at the Church at Arreton on the Isle of Wight. My father born in 1907 and was acknowledged at Farnham Congregational Sunday School in 1908 at February 25th in Farnham Surrey. As a German prisoner of war, his knowledge of Hitler’s devastation, Killing Jews completely [sic] distracted any thoughts of ever going to Church again (although later he did go to church for all his Children’s marriages and his grandchildren’s baptism including you and Michael). 

Although I know he was never at the (royal Marines) St Andrew’s Church in Scoutsea, but was always outside of the church as the Sergeant when the others came out to be reassembled marching up and down (and at that time, I was at that Church as a chorister!! (for many, many years)) 

Earlier still, I was at the Methodist Church at Adair Rd, at about 4 or 5 years old, and the couples who were teaching the Children as Christianity decided to be married and asked me and another boy Andrew Hawkins, to be our equivalent, instead of give brides, at their church. 

It was then slightly later that I moved to the Royal marines Church because I enjoyed singing as a Choirboy (it apparently didn’t exist that way at the Methodist Church), but to youngsters Christianity was probably the same, just a variation the same way that adults and teachers differ from one to another. It allows sensible people to think! 

Now bare with me about oddities, and about how often I keep quiet. With my 3 sisters all older than I am, clearly whenever we were together, Pippa is nearly 10 years ahead of me, and consequently she was obviously the one in charge of looking after younger children if Mum and Dad wer [sic] occasionally out. 

So consequently I didn’t ignore them, but thought differently, but accepted their suggestions, even though I had different ideas, and as their sensibility was fairly similar to mine, even if not exactly the same. 

I was lucky as a youngster back in the World War, because originally my sisters went to Milton School, and they stayed at the same place after we had been Bombed away to a different Street at a different School. 

So, I just went to their school (although in their days boys and Girls were in different Sections). 

I as even more lucky at about 7 or 8 years in that at Milton some professionals from elsewhere wanted to have examinations to cheque [sic] for I.Q. youngsters as it hadn’t been re-chequed [sic] for along time before the World War II. 

About 6 or 8 intelligent boys from the School (including me) were asked to be tested on their behalf, to see how the previous I.Q. tests got re-organised. 

Eventually we were told how well we were done – then the Professional asked if he could speak to me on my own. Most youngsters of high quality have Intelligence Quotient about 120, but the Profession then told me I was 146, and then just socially said to always “Keep ticking over, but not to embarrass your Colleagues” 

As it happens, I have always kept quiet fairly out of my sisters also. Now back to my 7 or 8 year old intelligence. At Milton I was well supported by excellent School teachers and many of my colleagues, all of us wanted to be as good as each other, I was usually No 1. (but not always!!) which made every one of us trying to be best for each other. 

Eventually we did age 11 examinations. In those days Grammar Schools were important is able to get up to decent Universities. My 3 sisters were all capable into their Grammars, so I was automatically expected to the boys Grammar Schools matching them, which obviously I did. 

The “Southern Grammar School” in Portsmouth blended all the boys together In the first year, and then picked up their best 30 geniuses or so and joined them in the second year differently from all the others. 

I was in the second year, and we were told we were expected to be top quality skill, and would get up to ‘A’ Levels. So we would automatically get our ‘O’ levels up to 4 years (Not 5) so we can get up better to our ‘A’ levels sooner. And that’s what we did. 

But, luck again for me, a special expert at Hampshire wanted to have high equalities, all over the space to check some differentiation, so at some theatre he was inspected on Stage and all over the Hampshire Grammar Schools there were well over 400 pupils (so only about 10 to 15 each of best of us were taken) 

Right at the beginning everyone was given a blank peace of paper, and he told us not to right down any number from 0 to 9, not now. At some item whilst giving information quite a long time, about some curiosity ago, he then said “Write it down.” Everyone did, he then carried on with his other curious details. Then he gave information about the way in which people thought. 

“How many of you wrote No 9.” – I’ll tell you about 100 of you. “Put your hand up”, and about that number could be seen. Now “No 2” – “your [sic] is almost identical” – and it was. 

Now No 1 was next at about 50, and so on smaller numbers 3, 4, etc etc. but clear enough to be seen approximately at his statements. 

Eventually he then said, it is unusual for anyone writing No 8. Anyone?? 

I was the only one with No 8. Evidently this was the items which he had looked for checking different information. His statement simply said that the phrase he had created simply notifies that my way of thinking often looks differently from most other people, but also recognises their ideas, but many others don’t recognise his alternative version. 

So there you are, if you think about it, I often did versions of cricket, not the same as some other pedantics. 

But you can also see that I might think differently from Christianity, but what phrase might that suggest? 

Finally Jon once again. 

I hope you can appreciate your family, that we wish to adore you and your family also. One other thought, my Cousin Toni Gardiner was Christianity. She became married to King Hussein of Jordan, and out of courtesy she assisted unto his different Christianity. Her father still exists, but the King (now his son) has the courtesy for him in due course to be created in Christianity on his behalf. One of my family also!! 
Best Wishes to Jon, your wife and your daughters. 
Your Father Eric 

Eric’s strange letter was purposely constructed to contain triggers, double meanings, and to deliver Jon a hidden message. It mentioned Eric’s assessment, recruitment and initiation into the ancient male-only mystery cult of Mithraism. Initiation into the grades did not depend on age but on potential for knowledge acquisition, hence Eric’s talk of IQ testing. Roman Mithraism had seven main grades and titles plus two mystery titles. At the 2nd grade, a male was dressed in a bridal veil and married to the pagan god Mithra: 
1. Raven (Corax) 4. (Lion (Leo) 7. Father (Pater) 2. Bride (Nymphus) 5. Persona (Perses) - Vulture 3. Soldier (Miles) 6. Courier of the Sun (Heliodromus) - Cryfius 

In 2009, Frances herself made the trip to Australia in search of us. Sensing her impending visit, I packed my family up and took them to live on a friend’s remote property. Because our residence was under the owner’s name, we were untraceable. 

Suddenly, a strange man named Ian Brooks began searching for us, turning up at my father’s residence and one of Jon’s former workplaces. In a letter, Frances recommended Ian to Jon as ‘one of the good ones’ and claimed she met him in a fish and chip takeaway shop. I phoned this Ian and told him to stop harassing us or else we would be contacting the police. In response, this complete stranger whom Frances just happened to run into in a takeaway store started criticising me for ‘breaking up The Family.’

Frances turned up at Jon’s former cricket club where he had not played for a decade. Then she had one of Jon’s acquaintances deliver us a letter in which she threatened to pursue and harass Jon unless she was contacted on a given mobile number. So, I phoned the evil bitch. 

‘Okay Frances, I received your threat, so here I am.’ 

‘It wasn’t threatening.’ 

I read the relevant section of her letter. 

‘That’s a threat.’ 

‘Can come and I see you?’ 



‘You were horrible to me. You treated me like convict scum.’ 

‘I always had the utmost admiration and respect for you.’ 

‘No, you didn’t. You constantly criticised me to Jon and his friends. You tried to split Jon and me up when we were perfect for each other. He wanted to marry me the moment he met me – until you interfered. Marriage is tough enough without someone actively tearing the couple apart.’ 

‘If I could go back into the past and change things I would. I was going through a very difficult time back then. I was involved in a cult and that was a very evil influence.’ 

‘Don’t go blaming structural consultation. Structural consultation didn’t make you criticise me to Jon and his friends. You were an adult and responsible for your own decisions.’ 

‘I’m a Christian now.’ 

‘No, you’re not. Jon and I are real Christians.’ 

‘Fiona, you have my full apology. I am very sorry for what happened.’ 

‘Sorry for what, Frances?’ 

‘For everything that happened…’ 

‘For trying to split me and Jon up.’ 

Sigh! ‘For trying to split you and Jon up.’ 

‘For criticising me to Jon’s friends.’ 

‘For criticising you to Jon’s friends-… blah, blah, blah...’ 

‘See, I don’t think you’re sorry for what you did. I think you feel sorry about the consequences of your actions. You did this, Frances. This is your fault. You stuffed up. We don’t want anything from you. We don’t want your money, and we don’t want any position that your coven has to offer.’ 

‘We’re not Satanists.’ 

‘The Gardiners are a major satanic bloodline. That’s why they had that Innies and Outies table arrangement at Easter.’ 

‘Oh, Fiona you know that never happened.’ I laughed. ‘So now you’re going to deny something that Jon witnessed many times! Goodbye Frances.’ 

Frances left Australia empty-handed. However, she continued to correspond with my estranged father, which prompted intervention from my brother Andrew who, second to me, has the clearest memories of his Illuminati training.’ 

‘Oh, I’m so glad that you called!’ Frances whined to Andrew, ‘We’re a family in mourning.’ 

‘You’re complaining to the wrong person,’ Andrew dismissed her crocodile tears. ‘I don’t give a crap. I’m just here to fulfil my duty to my family, just as I was trained to do. My  father told me everything and he is no longer of any use to you. So, from now on, I will be your point of contact. Feel free to contact me any time of the day or night.’ 

‘Oh, Jon’s changed. I don’t recognise him anymore.’ 

‘Yes, that’s right. Jon has changed. I don’t even recognise him. He’s nothing like the Jon I knew fifteen years ago. That’s what happens when you become a Christian. Jon and his family are covered by the blood of the Lamb. As long as they stay within God’s will, your coven can’t touch them.’ 

‘But we’re not Satanists. We’re just a humble family of gardeners.’ 

‘Yeah, I know. The famous Gardiner Illuminati family.’

‘No, we’re gardeners.’ ‘

Yes, I know – the famous Gardiner satanic bloodline.’ 

‘No, gardener. G-a-r-d-e-n-e-r!’ ‘It doesn’t matter how you spell it, whether you add or drop a letter, it’s still the same bloodline.’ 


Frances’s demeanour switched and she launched a scathing attack on me. ‘Look, Frances,’ Andrew mused, ‘I understand your dilemma. You have to pursue Jon. You have no choice. You have to keep trying until your dying day. I understand your frustration. But it’s not – going – to – happen. Over my dead body will you go anywhere near my nieces. I won’t let it happen. I’m just fulfilling my duty to my family, Frances, just as I was trained to.’