What Is Power?

Before I was born, a deeply damaged man who had incredible access to money, technology, and human slaves, commissioned my creation.

I was to be a slave to him—and to whomever he would choose to sell me. He was to feel the power of being a slave owner.

But what is that power, and what is its source?

Sometimes I wonder if knowing that I was commissioned—that I was trained to be highly competent, successful, and reliable—is supposed to make me feel special. But I am only able to entertain this possibility because I cannot yet feel how wrong my former owner’s crime against me was. I do not yet have a felt sense of how deeply evil the violation of my entire life has been.

It is special to be wanted, as a person. It is not special to be wanted, as a machine, or a computer program, or a receptacle for hundreds of sick adults’ shame and rage and violence. I have spent my entire life feeling disposable, yet utterly filled, and responsible for everything.

And, perhaps I should replace the concept of feeling special with the concept of feeling loved. Instead of feeling loved, I was made to alternate between feeling useful, and feeling completely useless. The game he played, of pushing me back and forth, was so quick and so severe that I hardly had time to question who I felt myself to be, and what my worth might be. I was too young, and too absorbent, and I took in all of the identities that he pushed onto me, which had to be constantly changing. I could never be allowed to rest. To identify fully with anything. I could not be allowed to pause long enough to see myself as any type of human. I could not see myself as human at all.

Slaves are not human. That is what I was constantly told. Now I am trying to survive, as an adult former slave, in a world of humans. My slave identity is not recognizable by my physical features, or how I dress, or even how I act, unless one is as incredibly perceptive as a former child slave can be. We were forced to be so utterly perceptive, so attuned to the abusive adults around us, and now I find myself surrounded by adults who, though they may be kinder and less violent, are also often less perceptive, and this can feel so shocking that sometimes I internalize it as even more abusive. I know that if my back is being beaten by a chain, someone can see me, and my body will reflect the beating back to me by its contusions. But if I go to work and appear normal, all the while hearing the screams of thousands of children in my mind, I will not be seen at all. I will be an invisible worker who is ignored, or is blanketly told that I am not working hard enough.

Why was this man able to access human slaves who would breed a child for him to—what is the verb here? Adopt? Destroy? Internally program and mind-control into becoming his version of the most sexualized, attuned, yet robotic child slave that a psychopathic pedophile could ever dream of?

Why was he able to abuse me, and so many others, for decades, hardly worrying that his crimes may ever come to light? In fact, there are some psychopathic people, who are in power on this planet, who actually enjoy the slight tingle of the risk, of knowing that someone might catch a glimpse of their behavior, may even report it. May even try to press into the law. The abusers don’t mind because their lives are lived on the other side of that law. They can press back. The law does not affect them because they are the pillars of the law. And meanwhile, they have created another living reality for themselves, that operates quite differently. It is a place where sex and violence with children is not only allowed, it is the cornerstone of the society, and it is their way of keeping new generations of people indoctrinated and trapped. The people who are behind the law have too much access to children and weaponry, and too much money. They have too much power.

Or do they? What is power?

Who gave it to them? Specifically, the broken-hearted children who live in the separated brain circuitry in my head, are constantly, softly wailing like a nighttime wind, wondering who gave their abusers such power. Who gave them access to the technology, the psychological theory, the buildings, the materials, the blood, the weapons, and the money to accomplish all that they do, and remain completely untouched by the law, or by any social moral outrage? Who gave them the right to such secrecy? Did the billions of people on the planet all happen to look away at the same exact moment, and then a quiet group of criminals found their opportunity to swoop in and take over, completely undetected? Why has this been allowed to go on? Why does it continue to happen? Why do we neglect to acknowledge that it is happening in this very moment?

These inner children’s development was stunted by overwhelming trauma, and then the fragmented parts of the psyche that were born from that trauma were separated, named, and filed. Somewhere out there, is a record of everything that was ever done to me by my former owner and the other abusers that I have spent my entire life with. There are people who file these records without a shred or remorse, pain, or empathy. These parts of my psyche are sometimes too young to understand that what happened was not their fault. They still blame themselves. We have a longing to be acknowledged, along with other child slaves, by all of society, so that we can feel that we exist. We have always felt invisible.

Do I blame society? Do I blame the people that feel the occasional rumbling of the ground beneath their feet, the groaning of slaves whose spines are used to maintain the paved roads that streak the planet? Daily, I contemplate the people that have some vague sense that something is deeply, and terribly wrong, and that there are some souls who are living in the darkest factories of the darkest forces on this planet, but these people are either not able to stay attuned to this knowledge because of their internal limitations, or are not able to help because of external limitations. I try to understand the positions we have each been put in, and how we got there. No one can deny that in many places, nature does not look or feel like nature, and what has become human nature does not look or feel safe.

Our planet was presumably once natural. Now it has become almost unrecognizable. Many humans have to make an effort to spend time in nature. Nature was originally the word for all that surrounds our bodies. It was supposed to be everywhere. We were intended to have a symbiotic, constant relationship. We have been torn away from that. Right now, I live in a beige box in a metal tower that is clustered among three other metal towers, on a paved block of land. I need to take human-made transportation in order to access some facsimile of the natural world that remains. For me, this is a park with hiking trails, which are surrounded by highways, and littered with broken glass. Recently, I found a Gatorade bottle that appeared to be from the nineties. I wish I had been born into a life where I could commune with nature in every moment, somehow. I don’t like what nature has become. Some parts of it have been preserved for their original qualities. Other parts have been completely desecrated, and de-lifed.

A very similar thing was done to my mind.

Nature was originally the word for all that surrounds our bodies, and even the matter and energy that lives within them. Human nature has been the word for what lies within our minds, tethered to our solar plexuses, questioned by our consciences for eons, and ever-evolving. I wonder if human nature can be considered to be the dynamic between our souls and our biologies.

In this lifetime, I will never know my original human nature. Like many parts of this planet, my psyche was paved over, rebuilt upon, desecrated, and colonized. Parts of my personality were split off when I was a toddler, and some of those parts were forced to become trained sex slaves. Other parts were forced to become child soldiers. Yet other parts were forced to channel their creativity into whatever media the abusers wanted to wield, but couldn’t wield without the purity of a true heart. Some parts were kept as blank slates, for later use. Some abusers like the feeling of abusing a child who has never been abused before. This can be recreated within the same child body, if the child is split into alternate personalities who are not conscious of each other or each other’s experiences. The innocence of a child can be split, and preserved, for repeated use. I think the abusers decided to create an amusement park for themselves, but the stakes were high, and the amusement park must therefore change itself every single time, to bring the abusers the experience of novelty. Their old, dark hearts yearn for this childlike sense of novelty.

Some parts were forced to use their creativity in the form of sexual energy, and produce children. Can you imagine the guilt of a child slave who has already gone through the worst, and is too young to realize she is not responsible for the life she is carrying and breeding for the same depths of traumatization? I was eleven when I had my first two children. I still blame myself for what has happened to each of them. I do not yet have the capacity to see myself as an innocent victim. 

When I consider all of the above, what I see is power. The true power that can be wielded through the heart, and the depths of the soul. Abusers do not have power. It is covered up by their own trauma and their inability to access it, to process it, and to find the centers of their beings. That is why they must breed new beings, who are young and innocent enough to have access to their true creative, and powerful natures.

And then they steal this power.

They may be power addicts, but I wish to make a clear distinction between a person’s ability to hold power, and a person’s ability to access it. The slaves hold all the power. The members of society certainly hold way more power than the sickest people who make up the ruling class. But the people in charge have found ways to funnel all of that power and to use it. Just like they have found ways to claim all of the wealth on this planet, and then mass mind-control the population into believing that we can stand to live another day like this. Why is it that high-profile public figures are paid such high salaries, that their excess money is then funneled into supposedly philanthropic endeavors? Maybe they never should have been given that much money in the first place. Having this money gives them the power to place it where they wish to. All of a sudden, we have leaders who have extreme power, whom we never voted for. Rather than thinking of these people as powerful, which to me implies that they are inherently powerful, I prefer to think of these people as having access to power. There are huge wells of power within each of us. We all have gifts. We all have truth within our heart that, when spoken, is as powerful as anything.

I hope that instead of giving our money and our attention to the mass media and to the public figures who claim to be in charge and important, who claim that they will then give this money and attention to charitable causes, we can instead give our money and our attention directly to each other. The network of people who abused me are nature’s worst nightmare of a middle man. We do not need them. They need us. They have the least connection to their hearts, and they have the longest journeys to their own human nature. They are so afraid to face themselves, that they are trying to control every single molecule on the entire planet.

I was put through a very extreme amount of violence for over twenty-five years. I think I am alive and conscious because I am not afraid to face myself. While I was forced to do many things to innocent people, and weaponized for so many years, and blamed for the evil actions taken against me, I have never chosen to rape or kill somebody because I was too afraid of what was inside of me. I actually have never even been free enough, until now perhaps, to even have such a thing as a choice. And so even though I do not see my own innocence, I am much closer to it than my former owner has ever been, or than any of my abusers have ever been.

When I was tiny in all ways except for my soul, I was strategically trauma-bonded to these evil men and women. The young parts of me wouldn’t state this truth in this way, however. We would tell you that we love these abusers, and we saw their innocence when they cried, even if sometimes they were crying in order to manipulate us. And they did cry. Sometimes they would cry after torturing us, or before. Sometimes they would cry if their attempts to control their outer world weren’t working, and they were starting to feel the echoes of the earliest contractions of their own powerlessness, victimization, and fear.

We would tell you that maybe if the abusers were stronger, they would have tried not to hurt us.

I am in a state of confusion, because I can’t tell how much of my love for these people is real. These men and women tortured me from almost the first days of my conception, until I finally freed myself in my mid-twenties, and every day since then, the memories of the past have caused such pain that I still do not feel free.

They wanted me to love them so that they could hurt me. I loved them because my biology and my child-psychology operated beyond my control. When I contemplate them now, from my adult mind, sometimes I still love them, because I knew them. Their psyches are the youngest and more immature on the planet, and this includes the psyches of actual children. It would not be loving of me to give a baby access to a button that could destroy the world. The baby may push it. It would not be loving of me to allow a tiny child to kick anyone out of his preschool class whom he does not like. Therefore, it is not loving of me to allow the people who took such control over me and the rest of the planet, to have access to power. If each person has access to their own power, this can be enough. The trauma of a lack of resources is being imposed on us by the people who are hoarding billions of dollars and are not getting arrested for it. I hope that we can start to see them. Simply see them. That is enough of a start, if we want to have a free society.

I was young once, with the observant eyes of a young being still very connected to their soul. I was a child locked in a room with many of these people. When I would see them, truly see them, their facade of power would disappear, and they would crumble. It does not have to be more complicated than that.





Copyright © SunlightLives 2020 All Rights Reserved

4 thoughts on “What Is Power?

    1. SunlightLives Post author

      Thank you for your words. Spreading awareness, and sharing this blog, would be the best help of all, both for me and for other survivors who are not able to have a voice yet.

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  1. Harry van der Velde

    Thank you so much for sharing your story. I celebrate this cruel chapter is behind you and you still have the love for life in you. Please keep us posted about your process. Me – on my end – need to educate myself. I could not imagine this to be both true and sustainable. Now I learn that they are kept together by the guilt of the most horrendous crimes thinkable. Poor souls. Self hate is a powerful toxic. I am happy you still choose love.

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  2. kittcourt

    Wow. Talk about power. Your words have great power. And your insights- the descriptive language you use to convey such complex thoughts so clearly. This is such an impactful piece. Stunning. Beautifully poetic, too. Thank you so very much for it. I very much agree. You were heard xo -Courtney S

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