Author Archives: SunlightLives

Programmed Voices

I am starting to realize how much daily interaction I still have with my abusers, even though on the outside, I appear to live a life in which I only interact with a relatively small group of kind, safe beings.

I interact with friends. I interact with a support system. I interact with the many trees and plants and rocks and bugs I pass by in nature, feeling our lives touch.

Within my psyche, my mind, my spirit, my energy, I still hold every slave. Past, present, future. Including myself. I think of them, wherever they are, wherever I am. On a street, on a train, suffocating in a bed, burning in a fire, acting, forgetting to breathe, deep underground, on a far star, meditating, singing, panicking, or floating in heaven. I don’t feel the need to disconnect from them, ever, though consciously not everything is on my mind.

Consciously, much of what goes on is an internalized critique, inhibition, attack, and punishment of my true nature.

Lately, I have been trying to expose this internal commotion, hoping that the exposure can bring relief to the parts of self who have to perform this role, this awful role, this boring role, this diminishing role, this stupid role, this outdated role, this unnatural role, this stolen role, stolen from the devil itself. If the devil wants my shame and suffering, it will need to lift its own finger and find me.

But I cannot be found, because in the plain sight of love there is too much that protects me from evil, with a gaze unceasing, and an acceptance unchanging. I am glad that love can accept my perpetrators. I am too prone to doing it myself, and the energy gone there has prevented my broken bones from healing.

I need to return to myselves for a while, and let pure limitless energy take on the role that I was expected to take on while in a material form, an inherent and profound contradiction of beingness, a role that cannot be succeeded, just as no loving being can succeed a monster on its lonely throne made of thimbles and twigs.

To any slaves or victims or survivors who might be soothed in knowing that they are not alone, and to any of their allies, I write the following list, detailing just a little of what programming puts me through every single day. I do this in the spirit of honesty and connection, in hopes that all of us can lift off this burden together.

When I try to do something to progress my life forward, a voice says, That won’t work.

When I try to give myself something nurturing, a voice says, You don’t deserve this, or, You are taking this away from someone else.

When I lament internally about how much pain I am in, a voice says, Why do you live? Maybe you should kill yourself and stop complaining.

When I think of ending my life and ending my continuous suffering, a voice says, You can’t die.

When a kind person in my life hugs me, I reexperience memories of physical assault.

When someone takes a caring action on my behalf or on behalf of the slave population, a voice says, She probably can’t be trusted.

When a kind person in my life doesn’t notice or acknowledge a message I’ve sent them, a voice says, I don’t think he cares about me, or, She wants me to stop it, or, They hate my messages.

When I reach out for support to someone in my life, a voice says, You’re overburdening your friends. They will grow sick of you.

When I consider going outside, a voice says, I don’t want to, don’t do it, or, You’re too ugly to be seen. I start to feel sick, tired, or agoraphobic.

When I remember something that happened to me, a voice says, That didn’t happen. Or, sometimes I receive a subtler message, through a gradual process of growing weary, confused, or vaguely tormented throughout the remainder of the day.

When expressing memories, I often reexperience a kick to the head, or the feeling of a strong hand over my mouth, or the sensation of choking. If I try to write the memories down, my hands begin to hurt, and my head starts to feel heavy, as though the energy has thickened and words cannot get through.

When I declare my beliefs about life and society, a voice says, You sound stupid. You sound cold and evil. You’ll be a pariah.

When someone pays me for a job, a voice says, You don’t deserve it. Don’t take the money. Sometimes my hands start to hurt or burn, as though the money is in my hands and is causing my hands to burn. It very much feels like I am doing something wrong. If the work I did was benevolent, I start to reexperience memories of forced perpetration, and the pain of feeling as though I have created a great deal of harm.

When someone ends a call with me while I am still crying, a voice says, They should just go away forever. They want to be with their real friends and family. I should never reach out to them again. I am destined to be alone. There is something bad about me that they can sense and don’t like, and that is why they hang up.

If I continue to feel sad, a voice says, How dare you feel bad that they’ve hung up on you? Who are you?

When someone says something true about my system that had been intentionally hidden, such as “I know some of you have been artists,” I hear a voice say, That’s not true. We are just lying. We made it up. We are pretending. We even fool ourselves. We are so dumb.

When I think of what my life might be like if I continue to pursue healing, a voice says, It’s hopeless. It will always be like this.

A variety of choices can bring out a voice that says, You don’t deserve to ________________.

When I mention someone from my past, such as my husband, a voice says, You never had a husband. You’ll need to apologize to everyone you told about having a husband, once you realize that you never had one. If I insist that I remember my husband, a voice says, He doesn’t love you. He’s forgotten about you. He thinks you’re nothing, and he’s glad you’re gone. Don’t reach into this connection. Don’t remember him. It’ll feel alien to him, and you will be embarrassed.

Whenever strangers around me do something I have difficulty tolerating, a voice says, They don’t care about you and they never will. They want you to hurt. They like ignoring you, and you should be ignored. What makes you think you are so important that someone should change what they do, just for you?

When I try to trust someone in my life today, or to express what I know about myself or the abuser network, I hear a voice say, This is dangerous.

When someone expresses appreciation of me, sometimes I feel badly, and sometimes I just feel nothing.

When I try to tune into the present moment, I feel the bleakness of most of the moments in my past.

While writing this down, I am growing heavier and heavier with fatigue, and it feels like there is a large wad of cotton inside my skull.

A voice is saying, Don’t publish this. It’s stupid. Don’t publish this.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved</p


There is so much more that we would say, if we felt fully safe.

Tonight, we are wishing that we could tell you our names, and that we could learn yours. Tonight we are wishing that nobody needed to hide from anybody.

Tonight, we are reexperiencing moments that broke us apart and made us strangers.

Tonight, we are wishing that room was being made for everybody’s peace. And then, only then, we would notice a platform for equality and joy.

We have updated and posted some more artwork that we wish to share on this platform, in the hopes that others can find some needed resonance, or some understanding, or some awareness.

There were also pieces that we did not choose, out of a cautious need for privacy, or out of concern for others’ eyes. We may choose to create a separate section of artwork, for the more graphic depictions of our life. It is strange how violence and evil can be so terrifying when forced into us, but sometimes can be so peacefully released out of us.

While it frightens us each time we attempt to be ourselves now, it is also hard not to take the chances we are being given, having been given none before.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved

To My Children

My Dear Ones

I miss you.

I think about you every day. My heart hurts, and I wonder how much your hearts hurt.

Part of why I work so hard to remember, is so that I can remember you.

I hope that wherever you are, you are safe. I don’t know if anywhere out there is safe enough.

I wish I had been able to protect you. I wish that I myself had grown up in a loving society, where all children are nurtured, and no children are bred for profit and gain, or for sex, or for experimentation, or for war, or for sustenance. Where no children are sacrificed—either through their deaths, or through their long and tormented lives.

In such a society, no one would be forced to birth a child into terrible circumstances, into constant pain, into slavery. No child would be told that their mother doesn’t love them, or doesn’t think they’re good enough, or never wanted them, or wishes they hadn’t been born. No child would be called a slave, or a soldier, or a rape baby.

If someone in such a society chose to give birth, it would have no negative or complex global impact. It would not increase the weight and demand on all of the slaves everywhere: the children, the adults, the animals, the plants, the air, the clouds, the satellites, the galaxies….

In a loving society, there would be no slaves.

The word slavery would only be spoken softly, in compassionate remembrance of worlds such as this one.

If I had grown up in such a society, I would have chosen to give birth to you.

I would have felt everything I truly feel for you, except I would never have had to hide it, or to lie about it, or to use my own hands to cause you pain. If I had grown up in such a society, this is not the love letter that I would be writing to you now.

A Letter from Another Space and Time

I would be older, or you would be younger, and I would be writing of your wonderful birth, and of your life, and of all the love we had freely shared. I would say:

When you were a baby, you loved to…

When you were little, you would laugh at…

When you explored, you’d run back and tell me about…

When you smiled, I smiled. When you laughed, I laughed. When you cried, I sat close.

When you thought, I encouraged. When you felt, I understood. When you needed, I provided. When you wanted, I helped you receive.

When you differed, I accepted. When you strove, I supported. When you fell, I knelt. When you grew, I celebrated you.

You were held. You were fed. Your were hugged. You were nestled. You were given peace and quiet. You were taught. You were told the truth. You were sung to. You were always close to me. You always had a warm home. You were always valued. You were always loved.


I have no family photos. I have only my instincts about what my true life has been. It is hard to write to you without the clearest pictures of you nearby, either in my hand or in my mind. The pictures in my mind are a blur. The more I try to remember you, the more my mind can blur.

Someone wanted me to forget about you. But the truth is I could never forget you. I am still holding your hand, and I will not let it go.

If I had grown up in a loving society, I would always have your pictures with me. They would be in my mind, in my heart, and gently painted on sunlit slabs of stone.

I would look up at the sky and see you in the clouds, and you would look up at the clouds and see endless possibility.


I want to show you only my strength, but I must settle on showing you my truth instead. The truth of my mind is that it is fragmented and traumatized. The details of our lives are a blur right now, because I was affected by what happened to me, and by the injuries that were created in me through others’ violence, selfishness, and fear.

But while the details are a blur, my belief in you remains strong and clear. If you ever feel injured or broken, then please know that I see you.

My wish is that every environment you enter welcomes you as you are, and that no demands are placed on you ever again.

If you would like to close your eyes and be in my arms, then I am already holding you. I will shield you from every false belief and violent action that exists. And if I can’t, then I will sit with you until something is over and something new begins.

I would have held you whenever you needed, and whenever you wanted. I would have cradled you and hummed to you, without a constriction in my throat and a pain in my head—the worry that a criminal is scanning my brain for trace evidence of love.

We have been forced to hide everything true within us, and pretend everything false about us. I wish I could explain why. I wish I could stop any remaining pain.

When I feel alone, I find myself wishing that you don’t. When I feel confused, I find myself wishing that you have clarity and stability. When I feel hopeless, I find myself wishing that you are soaring through the sky.

I am here, and you are where you are. This will not be my last love letter to you. I do not understand why others wanted to hurt us, to confuse us, to separate us.

I am glad our spirits are always together, and that they always know.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved

Mass Production

Production and Trafficking

I have seen slaves mass produced. There are a number of forms of slave mass production that have taken place, right before my eyes.

There are probably other forms of slave mass production that I have not personally witnessed.

The forms you may be aware of include: plants that are grown for food or for material, and animals that are grown for food, material, or labor.

You are also probably aware of children who are purchased for sex, or who are purchased for the production of child sexual abuse material. You may or may not be aware that there are children around the world who are conceived deliberately for this purpose, and who are trained, from infancy, for a lifetime of captivity in such a role, among other roles. Children and adults who are put through trauma-based mind control are used in myriad other ways, such as in experimentation, labor, academia, creativity, and child breeding.

The Power of the Sun

A child in my system wonders if the power of the sun is being pulled away at unnatural rates. In a way that is dangerous. In a way that only a network slave physicist could understand, and could never be allowed to express to the public.

Maybe there are other suns out there, also being victimized.

There are slaves who walk among you who hold terrible knowledge and who are forced to keep it to themselves. These conscientious slaves would express themselves if they could—if their world were safe enough, if your world could keep them safe.

They do not disconnect from the pain, pretend it isn’t there, go on, move on, ignore. Instead they often fret, ruminate, begin to feel responsible. Maybe powerless. It is strange to be powerful enough to understand the nature of a planet, yet powerless enough that anyone in the room is allowed to electroshock you at any time, if you break a laboratory rule, or if you smile.

I have noticed that people around the world do not know that a greater knowledge base is being kept from them. They do not know that they have been lied to by the media, by the educational institutions, by public figures who are referred to as experts, or by public figures who are referred to as leaders.


My experience tells me that much of the mainstream media is secretly produced by slaves, and redesigned for the public, with pain in mind. Subtle, harmful messages infiltrate people’s ears as they shop for food in a store playing popular music, or sit through an ad before an online video.

Even more strangely, I would risk being seen as a pariah if I were to ask a shop to please turn off the music. They may hear, “Please don’t do what you usually do,” whereas I am saying, “Please turn off that weapon.”

But I find it strange that I am not given a choice, and that the default option is to be subjected to sound, if one wishes to (or is forced to) be a member of this society.

I have known some of the slaves who were forced to produce music, books, movies, and documentaries. It is not easy to feel safe enough to write about this.

Whenever I lament over the fact that I hardly see anyone working to help the populations of slaves around the world, or even to increase their own awareness and understanding of slave production and trade, people often tell me that they would like to help, but that they do not know how to help. Those who have known me for some time, and thus have greater insights into the global abuse network, more easily recognize the difficulties, traps, dangers, and impossibilities that appear to face all who wish to rescue the slaves. I have heard therapists express concern for themselves and their families, when beginning to accept clients who have experienced trauma-based mind control and slavery. They suddenly become aware that the abusers are dangerous and relentless, and that their society is not designed to protect or to honor anyone who wishes to help the ruling network’s slave population.

While I have no intention of giving advice or expressing any judgment, and I can see how overwhelmed many of the people around the world feel themselves to be, there are a few small choices that I wish people would consider.

I wish that people would consider giving as little of their money as possible and time to the mass media. It can only operate if its audience sustains it. I wish that people would consider giving as little of their money as possible to material mass production.

I wish that people would instead give their energy to deeply supporting themselves, and each other, and valuing each other’s inner qualities, thoughts, feelings, creativities, and time spent together.

I wish that people could remember how soothed their bodies and minds become when listening to the sounds of nature, rather than bringing mass produced music with them to the park or to the beach. An inner child inside wants to add that he has not always seen people ask the permission of the trees, the grass, the waves, or the sand, before playing music, or spraying paint, or littering.

I wish there were a way to live in this world as a human being without perpetuating the cycle of harm. I am not sure there is an immediate way to stop engaging with mass production, and that is why I can give no advice. I simply wanted to acknowledge the pain that I sense every day, and that maybe on some level, you sense as well. Perhaps that is at least a first step toward deeper connection with ourselves, with life, and with more harmonious possibilities for life on Earth.

Unwitnessed Tears

Did you know that there are slaves around the world who weep when people watch the movies they have been forced to produce? They know the subtle harm those films can cause, and they know that their owners and abusers will receive all of the money, all of the credit, and all of the awards.

I think every soul knows what true honor feels like. Why is anyone still fetching for false accolades?


If you are trapped, or if you are stuck, please know that you are not alone, and that there are loving beings who are envisioning a way out for you.

If you are an owner of living, breathing property, such as humans, then please feel your guilt. End the unjust sacrifices of others, and do what you can to accept the life that honest actions will bring you.

If you are a witness to mass media and mass production, please find a way to safely and gently release yourself from the lies you have been told about the nature of global industry and society. There are far fewer spontaneous creative gestures that reach the masses, far fewer mistakes, accidents, and coincidences, than there appear to be. I am not sure that people become wealthy or famous by accident, or by luck, anywhere nearly as often as you have been told. I am also not sure that many people who appear wealthy and comfortable are truly free.

I am not sure that people who live in luxurious houses or mansions always have a safe place to sleep at night.

I am sure of very little. Except what I am sure of, is that there is a mass market for pain on our planet. The pain and suffering of many—the cruelty that travels everywhere, every day, like the post—the injustice and the captivity, the deception, the disconnection people feel from the natural world, and from their own creative and open natures—this has not been an accident. A higher power did not trip over a snag in the rug and drop Earth in a crack in the floor that leads to hell. It takes a lot of planning to create hell on Earth. It takes a lot of slave labor. It takes active deception. I am sure the world’s top deceivers are also tired.

Lies cost money here. Maybe if we look for opportunities to do more of what is truly free, we will be able to produce more freedom for all.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved



Sometimes storms break trees. Sometimes rabbits trample ants. Sometimes plants grow needles. Sometimes the ocean drowns a land dweller, or the air drowns an ocean dweller.

Sometimes humans take wood and metal—resources and life from the earth—and they create guns, tanks, factories, poisonous gasses, and plastic. Sometimes humans capture and experiment on small animals in the name of science, in order to forcibly document aspects of life that can easily be intuited. Sometimes humans give professional lectures about empathy, but they do not listen to themselves. Sometimes humans chain tiny children to metal tables, and inject them with pain enhancers and hallucinogens, and dim the lights, and rape them, and electroshock them for hours, all while verbally shaming their instincts for love and happiness.

Nature sometimes confuses me. But the dissonance between nature and cruelty is so strong, that I do not know how to begin to speak.

I do not know, or I do not consciously remember, what bred cruelty, and where it originated.

I do not really know what a storm is, and I do not really know what I am.

All I know is that I can sense it when freeflowing energy has been interrupted, halted, reversed, or moved out of place.


If everything is meant to add up, then why is the justice system populated with violent abusers and murderers?

Imagine if a criminal trial were taking place, and behind the judge’s bench, a four-year-old girl were kneeling under his robe, engaged in forced oral sex.

That child may grow up to live an entire life during which no one ever hears about the thoughts that were in her head, or learns that she was trembling and she was scared. No one ever comforts her, or helps to put a stop to the trafficking of her body and mind, and of her friends, and of all of the other captive girls and boys, and of all enslaved beings.

That child may grow up and find that she never escapes.

Or if she escapes, she may find herself in a society that expects her to work, to pay for a tiny place to live, a painted box within which she will suffer every night, reliving the torment of the past. Her government will continue to steal her money through taxation, to steal her health through pollution, to steal her privacy through constant surveillance, and to steal her truth through the systematized denial of slavery and trauma-based mind control.

If she ever attempts to press charges against her traffickers, she will find that the judge on her case is the very judge whose robes she was forced to creep under at age four, while he sat comfortably, elevated, and hardly listening to the orchestra of injustice in the room—and to the more distant hum of the oppressed, heard all around the world.

The subtlest hum, the hum that most people cannot hear, is the low hum emanating from deep caves, tunnels, inner jungles, and laboratories hidden inside the earth, where the cruelty of slavery works like a machine, putting out new victims who enter the world along a conveyor belt, taking their first breaths in darkness. Beings without a mother or a father, without a sister or a brother, without an advocate, without an external source of truth, without love, without any notion of hope, without any understanding of their universal rights.


The pain of injustice hurts within me and moves within me like a child trapped in a burlap sack, or like a baby in my belly being shocked and tortured in the womb, unable to escape, unable to rely on me for protection.

The pain of a life of trafficking feels like a stab wound in my chest, within which a fire burns, sears, and obfuscates my heart.

Tonight I walked gently down a sidewalk, with cars and traffic on my left, and trees and flowers on my right. The trees and flowers had no way to relocate themselves, to get away from the polluted air, and I wondered if their gardeners had asked the flowers’ permission before planting them by a busy road.

I wondered whether there is a therapy for injustice. I sit with the pain of injustice every day, as it continues to circle around me, reminding me of my abusers’ words, the many ways in which I was told that I do not deserve love and that I do deserve pain.

I was told that if I ever sought justice, I would be destroyed. I was told that they would hardly have to lift a finger, as no one out here in the world would believe me.

I was told that if I ever sought help or comfort, I would be misunderstood, rejected, dropped, abandoned: Society is a rose with a thorn. It cannot handle you. It crumples if you step on it, and it pricks you if you try to love it.

I do not know how to receive therapy for ongoing injustice and neglect. I do not know how to receive therapy for violations that my therapists have never heard of.

The worlds inside my shoes are slippery, and I almost always slip into the pattern of believing that I am lazy, that I deserve to have to work despite my crippling injuries, and that I do not deserve to be believed, loved, or supported.

The feeling of injustice comes over me so frequently now, that I have begun erupting in tears in public. This is not something that I have done before. This is not a choice that I make; this is an expression that I can no longer quell. It is the sudden bursting of the dams within me. The repression, the shame, the grief, the agony, and the false belief systems that can no longer survive in my self-cultivated inner environment of truth. The pain and the mystery come out of me when I cry.

No one has stopped to ask me what is wrong.

I would not tell them if they did. It would not feel safe. I would worry that they are members of the abuser network. Or I would be shy and tentative, scanning for a glazed look of disbelief, or fear, or overwhelm. How does one briefly summarize that one was trafficked for nearly three decades, raped, tortured, abandoned, orphaned, widowed, and bereaved in every possible way, and is walking alone and crying alone because that is all that is possible tonight?


Will I ever write an essay about receiving justice?

Someone once offered me an opportunity to attempt to receive justice. But the injustice within that offering was that he had not been honest with himself about his capacities or his true priorities. I was left disappointed, and abandoned again.

The experience dysregulated the natural flow of my healing process, as I was put in touch with the pain of my life’s injustice in a way that was sharp, sudden, and ultimately alienating. I was left raw, holding a heap of broken strands of my life. I was left alone, with nowhere to take them, and no way to put them back down.

Before anyone like me could receive justice, society would need to shift so much, to become aware of so much, to take responsibility for so much, to risk so much, to brave so much, and to persevere.

I may have an especially active radar for injustice, so if you are looking for examples of present justice and equality in the world, then you may need to look elsewhere. Please share with me anything that you find, as my ability to perceive goodness has been abused and diminished.

When I think of justice for myself, I think of finally being taken home, as a newborn baby. I think of being cradled in my mother’s arms, in my father’s arms, in a loving environment where I can be raised and nurtured from the very beginning. I think of growing up peacefully in a safe home, in a warm home, in a simple home by a stream and a willow tree, nestled within a society where no one wishes anyone harm.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved


My system has been reflecting on our experiences of attempting to believe ourselves, to believe our memories, to seek out and find our deepest instincts and our nature, and to believe that more is possible than what we have experienced so far in this lifetime.

It is common for survivors of extreme and organized abuse to tell themselves, or to tell others, that they are lying, that they are making it up, or that they are untrustworthy. My system often internally hears the word “selfish” when we attempt to deviate from behaviors formed in slavery, even though this word doesn’t usually fit the situation.

We are thinking of ourselves, the lost, broken parts of us, the parts that are unsure as to whether they can believe in the benevolence that we are gravitating toward.

We are thinking of others whom we have known, who have cradled their own heads in their hands, rocked back and forth, and cried tears of mourning while verbally insisting that they are lying about it all.

We are thinking of all of the beings who were told that they deserve slavery so that their perpetrators would have an easier experience of enslaving them and lassoing their free wills.

I think it is cruel to lie to a little baby who is growing in a womb, or taking first breaths of air, or crying, or growing. I think it is so much crueler to force that baby, that child, that slave, that potential survivor, to then lie to themselves. Or pretend to.

While processing trauma memories, sometimes I hear internal voices say, That didn’t happen.

Often, while reflecting on a memory, I hear a voice say, I’m lying.

When I feel the wish to tell others about my experiences and to share my feelings, I hear a voice say, That’s selfish.

We have been trained to accuse ourselves of lying every time we come close to remembering the truth. We have been trained to accuse ourselves of selfishness every time we consider free self-expression.

It has been painful to live like this, so we are uncovering the earliest deception that we experienced, the deception that was then turned on itself, so that we would always live in conflict, in agony, folded over on ourselves so that nothing about us could flow freely outward.

While it may be heartbreaking to relive the first lies we were ever told, at least we will finally be in touch with the truth of what occurred. We will no longer feel forced to take those same actions toward ourselves, every day.

We simply wish anyone reading this to experience the peace of self-belief. The stillness of connecting to the heart’s deepest messages, expressions, and knowledge.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved

Murder Versus Ugliness

Who They Said I Am

I have been experiencing persistent voices in my mind who call me ugly. They point out specific aspects of my body that are ugly, in a tone that makes me feel as though my physical appearance is a crime.

Even though the internal comments about my body are the same from day to day, each time I hear them feels just as painful as the time before it, if not more painful. If I try to engage with these internal parts of my system in a way that could potentially provoke them out of the beliefs that they carry, they begin to call me selfish. Memories play in my mind, in which I am expressing my wants, my needs, or my truth. My system was taught very early on that it is profoundly selfish to have wants or needs, and it is wrong to know the truth—my truth, from which I have been forced to dissociate.

I was taught that my truth belongs to other individuals, just as my body does.

After being used for so many years by these other individuals, my body is sick. Yet rarely do I acknowledge it as being sick. I am more prone to see it as ugly and shameful—a body within which I am forced to live, a body within which I will never be loved or accepted. I was taught that ugliness and badness are inherent qualities of mine, and that it is my fault that I am this way. Thinking of my body as sick may imply to me that its appearance and its other symptoms are not my fault. Therefore, my programming often keeps me from acknowledging that my body is sick.

What They Said I’ve Done

I have also been called a murderer, by my own mind. I used to feel like a murderer, because as a child I witnessed torture and murder regularly. I was also used by others to commit murder, whether they used my presence (such as being part of another slave’s double bind setup), or whether they used weapons that they had forced me to create, or whether they used my hands. I have memories of being forced to kill my own little baby at the age of thirteen.

My memories of being forced to inflict harm begin at a young age. Sometimes I feel deeply surprised when I witness playing children, who are the ages that I was when these traumas were happening to me. I had not known that there were children around the world living such profoundly different lives from the life that I had been enduring. A child inside my system says, sometimes I feel surprised at what many children don’t go through.

In recovery, while processing these memories in which I appeared to commit great harm, I thought that I deserved to be shunned. I would not believe kind people who expressed that they liked me, unless they agreed to see me as a murderer first. I thought I deserved a teardrop tattoo. I had no sense of understanding or compassion for how young and how tormented I had been in those memories, nor for the impossible circumstances in which I had been living.

The Evildoer’s Experience

All alone, I experienced one long night where the pain of murder found my center.

I don’t believe this pain was my own pain. But somehow it had found its way into me long ago, through a process I am unable to describe. I spent that night overcome by the deepest depths of anguish and regret that I have ever felt.

I experienced the anguish, regret, guilt, and shame of a mother who has killed her own children. I simultaneously experienced the cold, crazy agitation of a serial killer who nightwalks the streets. I saw these two beings as though they were hovering right in front of me.

In connecting with the mother, it felt as though she saw no possibility in the universe to ever reverse the harm that she had done, or to reverse or heal the heartbreak of all beings involved, which felt as though it was pounding through her pulse. In connecting with the serial killer, the sense of emptiness in him was so active that it was though a large, flailing multi-tool was continuously attacking him from within.

Neither of the beings were a part of me, but the pain was so forceful, so present all around me, that even though I was confused about what was happening, I felt that I needed to allow this experience a full course through me. Even though these had not been my experiences in this lifetime, they had somehow gotten into my being, and there was a need for them to find a way out.

The experience was so penetrating that it made me wonder whether there would ever come a moment in existence where I would not feel swallowed and consumed by anguish and regret. The emotional pain was so strong that I was writhing. By the early morning, I knew that my spirit would never take the freewill action of murder, no matter what kind of lifetime it found itself in. The impact of murder had been felt completely.

These feelings had been influencing my relationship with myself. They had been inhibiting my ability to care for myself or accept care, as well as my creativity, exploration, and growth. They had been reasons not to cover my feet with a blanket, reasons not to make a new friend.

I was stunned by the strength of these feelings that I had finally released, but amnesic as to their origins.

I now believe that these were the feelings of some of the freewill murderers who had raised and nurtured me. I was able to consciously experience what they could not experience—the pain of what they have done, and the pain of their existence.

Since this experience, I haven’t been as upset by the notion of myself as a murderer, even though many abusers spent decades conditioning me to see myself this way. It is now much easier for me to connect to the circumstances I was in, when violence occurred. I can remember never wanting to create harm.

I know I am not a murderer, because I know I did not choose to take the action of murder. But what is ugliness? Does it refer to something I have done, or to something I have been?


Though I no longer view myself as a murderer to the extent that I once did, I continue to see myself as ugly.

I would hope that my mind would consider the identity of being a murderer to be much more serious than the identity of having an ugly body. But lately, I am much more impacted by feeling that I am ugly.

Recently, while taking a walk down the street and observing passersby, I was overcome with concern that they could see my ugly body. I asked members of my system how they would truly feel if instead, passersby were told that we were a murderer, and if they would see us this way whenever we stepped outside.

The responses that I heard back were: That would be fine. That would be great. They would avoid us. They would leave us alone. We don’t want them close to us. We don’t want them nearby. We don’t want their eyes on us.

I was curious if everyone inside had fully considered the impact and the seriousness of this notion, and I was wondering whether some of us were being rather cavalier in our supposed ease with being perceived this way. Something did not feel quite right about the way in which we had weighed up the criminality of murder and of ugliness.

It is true that ever since processing memories of forced harm, we have come into contact with the more deeply hidden sections of the memories, which illustrate our captivity, our lack of options, and our overwhelming circumstances, which include being vastly outnumbered in the room by psychopaths.

These memories also show us our fear, grief, and compassion. We chose not to disconnect from the murder victims. We chose to look into their eyes and breathe with them. Sometimes we would see their life stories pass through the air as they died. 

After enough grief and understanding, we are much better able to identify who the real murderers are, and to recognize that we do not meet the criteria for this category. Murder is defined as a premeditated, freewill choice. By definition, a slave has been robbed of their free will.


But if our system is not a murderer, then who are we?

As I walked, I began to realize that as a system, we got more direct attention for being ugly than we did for being a murderer. Being a murderer was understood in our society. It was common, expected, and valuable. Being ugly was somehow placed at an opposite end of the spectrum. The shame was used to slowly destroy our emotional selves over time. Abusers shamed us regularly, and we were trained to continue the process ourselves.

While walking and conversing with my system, I began to understand that a person who has grown up in a relatively loving or sane environment, even if dysfunctional, would be more likely to equate ugliness with murder, rather than to oppose them.

I began to wonder if every single beautiful action in me had once been shamed and described as ugly. Meanwhile, murder had been cavalierly taught to me in a school setting, and I was graded and assessed on my progress.


In my life today, I do not harm or murder my body. I take care of my body every day. My body is sick and traumatized. I have not been able to bring sufficient healing to its illnesses, so my daily life feels slow, heavy, and painful. I do feel ugly. On small occasions I realize that I am sick, not ugly.

It is difficult to see myself as sick rather than ugly because my injuries were never lovingly acknowledged. They were mocked, ignored, and exacerbated, and many had been created by perpetrators in the first place. I recall being given medical attention only in order to cover up evidence of crimes, to prevent scarring so that I could continue to be sex trafficked, or to be healed because someone wanted to attack me in the same way again. I was physically healed in order that I may continue to work for the abusers as their slave. I was never given physical healing because of a value or regard for my life or well-being. As often as possible, I was forced to provide the physical healing for myself.

In recovery, my body does not respond easily to kindness or to attempts to meet its needs. I am not sure how well it can absorb, retain, or relax.

Often, taking care of my body makes me feel miserable. It feels as though I can only hope to work tirelessly just so that the illness does not worsen. This feels heartbreaking, like working several continuous jobs without any payment—which in fact is how I lived for almost all of my life, enslaved and continuously put to work while suffering internally.


I still do not know how to distinguish what is ugly and what is beautiful. I don’t want anything to be ugly. I want everything to be given a chance to express its beauty and its truest self.

I am searching for what is at the root of my harmful self-belief. Maybe it will help the internal voices stop echoing the original damage done.

I sense that deep down, there exist beliefs in me that I am bad, that I am not lovable as I am (or even as I could potentially be), and that I should not be allowed to express my true nature.

In considering the two topics in this essay’s title, murder and ugliness, I am compelled to notice that one is an action, while the other is a quality or a state of being. In my earliest years of organized, premeditated traumatization, it is understandable that the abusers’ focus would have been on attacking my beingness, rather than my actions.

Attacking who I am inside, and conquering my being, would provide them with the deepest and longest reigns with which to control me, own me, and make me into all that they thought they needed, and all that they never wanted to be, yet still became.

They took what they wanted to shake off of themselves—emptiness, self-hatred, rage, fear of life, and unendurable shame—and attempted to transfer it to me, a small child with a large capacity.

Lastly, they wanted to pseudo-return the reigns to me, so that I would be the one who ostensibly controls myself, enslaves myself. Then I could be used to continuously fulfill their needs or desires. Their efforts would gift them with the best possible actor, someone to engage with them selflessly, readily, without hesitation. These would be the easiest circumstances in which they could pretend that I truly wanted to serve them, because I had long been forced to pretend, both to them and to myself.

Because of my heart’s efforts to escape, the people who had cornered me into slavery for so long are no longer in my life. Yet there are broken pieces of my mind who still do not know this, who still live in moments that occurred years ago, decades ago.

Those parts of my mind need healing. I know this to be true, even while their voices move across my mind and call me ugly. I know that they have been programmed to remove the original perpetrators’ voices from our original memories of being deeply shamed, as a child. I know that they have been asked to pretend, to act, to substitute their own voices into those memories, so that my conscious mind believes this to be a self-attack.

But I was not born attacking myself. I was born very small, into air that was very cold, and my body was abused within seconds. i experienced verbal abuse that I both could and could not understand. Cruel words were spoken to me before I even had the musculature necessary to commit murder, or to commit any harm, or any act that might be considered bad, wrong, or ugly.

I think that being called ugly has, in some ways, struck me more deeply, because it has been an attack on who I am, in some ways an attack on something intrinsic about me. If I am ugly, then I am ugly everywhere I go. I may not choose to walk down the street committing murder, but I do walk down the street as myself, no matter how desperately I might wish not to be me.

I do not want to be attacked from within, and I do not think that those parts of my system want to obey outdated commands. I think they want to know consciousness, peace, and the freedom to express the truth—both the truth of the original crimes committed against us, including being called ugly during rape and torture, as well as the truth of who we are now and who we always have been.

I am not ugliness, I am nature. In recovery, I breathe so that I can finally express my nature.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved


This essay was written by a member of our system who cannot yet recall their name, age, or identity, but who has been silently witnessing this life that we lead, and would like a chance to express themselves.


Sometimes I hesitate to look back at previous essays I have written. I notice that sometimes I disagree with myself—with what I had written before, even recently before. This just happened, in fact. I was looking over an essay that is about a month old, and shaking my head at a particular passage and wondering how I could have worded something the way I did. Then I remembered that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is essentially a condition in which I disagree with myself. Fundamentally. Constantly. Painfully.

But I don’t mean to.

And I was not the one who began the argument.

The argument about who I am and what I trust began long ago, maybe months before my conception. I was designed to be a slave, and I was designed to be loyal to what hurts me. I was designed to take actions that make my spirit shake its head in concern, and that make my heart grow weary. I was designed to grow shame like a tree grows fruit. I was designed to provide clarity to those who own me, but writhe in my own inner confusion. And I was designed to live at a temperature that every thermometer in the world would register as Stockholm Syndrome.

Every day, I uncover a little bit more about the depth and the breadth of the programming and the deception that exists in the space between the conscious thoughts, actions, and feelings that I observe in my system, and the very heart of myself that lies buried underneath it all, and somehow still beats.

It may have been born with some spontaneity living in it, before it was flattened and shredded into strips. And maybe some spontaneity actually made it through all of the machines. I don’t know. But I do know that I have a fundamentally organized and goal-oriented way of addressing myself and my world.

In recovery, I have noticed that sometimes I am not very open to the spontaneous possibilities that a day can bring. For one thing, I was not designed to engage in aimless activity. Actually, I am designed to experience pain in response to the stimuli found in a regular day in a regular life. And because my trauma is so complex, my current environment does not offer me proper resources or solutions for my problems, and knows no way to help me recreate my fundamental design.

Stepping away from the perpetrator group that created and abused me is designed to hurt. Living without them is designed to get worse by the day. Meeting regular people is designed to be alarming, confusing, angering, or painful. Receiving help is designed to induce guilt, or to compel me to create more conflict. Being in nature is designed to make me burn or fade away. Walking along hills calls up torture in my legs.

Seeing the rainboots of young children brings up memories of the unprotected little feet of my own.

Where am I to go? What am I to do? There is no step forward I can take without reinnervating the memory of a step taken backward.

Having nowhere safe or simple to turn, I retreat inward much of the time, to quietly be with the countless contraptions that were designed out of me, and that are so sharp and painful now. After all these years, internal spikes have grown longer. Desolation has grown weary itself. The wounds and longings of the little infants that I once was, whose hearts now live inside my fingers, have dulled their throb. Their eyelids are beginning to narrow. Confusion has taken over, and it isn’t sure why it doesn’t care.

In recovery, I have noticed that even when I do not appear to have any options, there is always one option that I do have. I have noticed that when I cannot move in any direction, I can choose to stay still, and to be with the pain. After all, it is not me who needs to move—it is the pain’s longing to finally shift out of its dark and stagnant state, after all these years of waiting, waiting for just enough space and freedom. A chance to finally move out of a state of conflict, and to become natural, to become whole, to become processed pain that can then rejoin the rest of us, who have been waiting for its arrival, like a critical missing part of our fractured heart.


How do I live outside of a goal?

How do I live outside of a goal, when my basic needs are not being met?

How do I live outside of a goal, when other people’s basic needs are not being met?

How do I live outside of a goal, when my creation was a goal in and of itself?

As I type, I pause and my gaze falls on the vacuum cleaner leaning over a piano keyboard across the room. I wonder to myself about what a fun day in its life might look like.

It was designed to clean. Eventually it runs out of energy, and then it stops cleaning. But it also ceases to observably do anything else, except exist—maybe lean over and fall. Some young kids inside my system wonder if maybe it gets its fun depending on what it cleans up. Maybe the different sizes and shapes of the litter and dust bring it intrigue. Maybe it plays a game with itself, counting the colors of the particles sucked into its mechanism, and deciding what the results mean.

But these are all just things we did to pass the time, when we were young, when we were forced to be a human vacuum cleaner for abusers’ cruel enjoyment, or forced to be a chair, or to be a pet, or to be still for hours or days. But unlike the vacuum cleaner that lives with us now, it was not acceptable for us to fall over.

What I am trying to say is, because of my design, I am not sure that someone could teach me to have fun like a person. I spent the first years of my life being designed much like a computer, and I don’t remember where my spirit went, or to whom my heart beat at that time.

It almost feels cruel now, when others expect me to step out of the organized, process-based, goal-oriented way in which I live my life.

Live my life? Maybe I should say, spend my days. I don’t think I was really given much of a life to live. I can certainly concede that I don’t know how to live what life I have.

My own internal design tells me to address pain, conflict, stagnation, confusion, and anything else that stands in the way of truth. I think that is okay. That has worked for me, so far. I’m not sure what living more of my moments aimlessly would look like. Maybe I will one day.

Right now it feels as though there are too many slaves, too much silent weeping around the world, too many untethered fires, for me to be able to free whatever desires I may have for living a life in which the result does not matter.


I don’t know what you are. Life: a continuous existence on a planet that isn’t forthright, and is mired in layers of deceit, forced labor, implosion, and war, much like I am inside.

I don’t know how to end this essay, because I don’t believe that I’ve really learned anything from describing my suffering. I am not at the end of my story yet. My goal is to heal, and maybe at some point I will come to understand why not every person fronts with that goal in mind.

I don’t know what kind of person I would be if I weren’t taught to care about everyone. I don’t know how to fly a kite while other people are suffocating under the ground, deprived of sunlight, or experimented on. I’m not saying that kites should not be flown. Maybe when I more fully understand myself and the world around me, I will understand why some people still fly kites. Or maybe I will ultimately come to believe that kites should not be flown while slavery and deception flood the planet, at least unless those kites are flown with awareness. I sometimes feel forgotten when I see the wind take them away. I don’t want to be one of those people who allows a kite to drift.

So even if, as a child, a kind grandfather had taken me up on a hill to fly a kite one day, I would not have known whether to smile or to fret. I would have been in a state of internal conflict. I would have taken a deep breath, or I would have forgotten to breathe.

Actually, I do remember what I decided, long ago, my hair moving with unpredictability in the wind.

As long as my happiness is part of the goal.

As long as my happiness leads to chains coming loose, both mine and those of others. As long as my happiness can rest in the interconnected web of the departed victims who never knew material wholesomeness and warmth, and can experience it through me. As long as I don’t become amnesic with every stride back down the hill, and forget about the beating hearts of the unregistered ones behind locks and doors and metal bars. Then I can smile.

And I did smile.

He smiled back at me, while the kite fluttered above us. And today, my eyes close and I see the cloudy sky at dusk. I strain to see the kite, and to see his face, as the wind blows again in my quiet room. I remember my grandfather, and these few precious moments we found in the natural world, and it helps.

Without that experience, maybe I wouldn’t have as much hope to share with the world now. Maybe I would be longing for just one day with a kite, and feel unable to go on with things so miserable such as this life, day-to-day. Like the spontaneous movement of the kite, the possibilities move in front of me, singing, maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved

Meet the Writers

A Broken History

Some time ago, a person who was getting to know me read some of my writing, and in his personal appreciation of it, he exclaimed, “That can’t be taught.”

I smiled back, but inside I felt a swarm of (mostly young) voices inside, all saying, “Yes it can.”

Darkness still fills the memories. But the essential strand of truth came to the surface immediately, sensing an un-truth in the air.

It can be taught. Yes, it can. My life has answered enough aspects of this question for me. But, can it be taught to anyone? Can it be taught to anyone at any stage of their life? Can it be taught with limited internal and external resources?

Are there limits that physical beings have that cannot be surpassed? Even if they are provided with every possible means of support? Even if they are taught with love? Or taught with torture?

Even if the being’s sheer force of will feels unlimited?

Writing, the particular way that we write—it can be taught. But can it be taught without pain?

After finishing up our previous essay, a lingering voice, a lost aspect within us, was left asking: How did I get this way?

How did I learn to write like this?

When did I have all of the experiences my fingers are talking about?

I don’t remember any of this.

A Look Inside

Did you know we have a writers’ room?

Inside, that is.

We were taught to write. We were taught many thing. The core notion that we were taught was that we were bad (evil, untrustworthy, unworthy in general). As such, we were meant to be used. Someone else should use us; god forbid we be allowed to use ourselves.

We have difficulty writing now, because we write for ourselves. We were only ever designed to write for our owners. Should we attempt to write for ourselves, or for conscientiousness, we become impaired by limitation, via our internal programming. We stagnate, we have a challenging time expressing ourselves, and we cannot retrieve words and concepts we once knew. In general we are not as sure as we used to be, about our style, or our content, or ourselves.

We have extreme contextual and sensory amnesia, yet we feel completely crushed.

However, when we silently and patiently tune in to ourselves, details do find us. When we tune into our ability to write, we see a writers’ room.

Right now it looks full, busy, and surprisingly disorganized, for a room that does not require the chore of material cleanup or the slow plod through space and time.

But I think the disorganization is symbolic of the energetic limitations of our internal world: the many rules we have to break in order to write to you, in order to remember, in order to heal, in order to point freedom out on the menu and say “I want that.”

What I see inside our writers’ room are desks and computers, an open window and a few closed windows, stacks of papers with loose sheets hanging out of them at odd angles, and printers spitting ink or freezing. I see a group of people pouring over a document and arguing about how it’s worded, and sad and insecure individuals who are attempting to reference dictionaries and encyclopedias that have been whited out by our former programmers. I see people with their feet up on their desks, a lone ball on the floor with no child to play with, and a cat who seems to be in multiple places at once.

I see excited people, loving people, misunderstood people, overworked people, and people drinking coffee. (For anyone interested, we do not drink physical coffee!)

Sometimes having a view inside of ourselves can help us understand how we feel, and it can help us give voice to our true internal states of being, which we have not often had the opportunity to do.

But how did our writers’ room come to exist? Do you think it spontaneously formed, as we moved through our life—whether our life was being traumatic, or whether it was being relatively tame?

Originally, we did not choose the décor. Our perpetrators did. We did not choose our ages or appearances either. We did not choose to be there, and some of us don’t think we belong in this skill section of our mind. A few of us think that the abusers got it wrong. I should have been playing football. I should have been acting. I should have been a scientist.

But here we are now, and it’s as if the old appearances are starting to melt away, or to dissolve, being replaced with new colors, different materials (less metal and more wood), open windows that finally face the sun, and truer representations of who we are.

The enthusiasm isn’t pervasive, however. In some cases, certain aspects of the room are changing slowly, begrudgingly, and circumspectly, as they are being asked to either transform, or to at least make way for the new look of the room, and the new rules of our life.

Newness can be so painful. Some of us need to be slow, or to be still, or to observe without being approached. I think this need is currently being represented by the multi-locating cat in the room.


I think it is wrong to use a person. I think it is wrong to enslave a person.

I think it is wrong to sell material that a slave has produced, to mislabel its authorship, and to profit from this venture as a slave owner, or as a slave owner’s client.

I think it has been healing to write for myself, and to write about myself—although the latter feels odd, and sometimes unsafe, or selfish. (“Don’t worry, I was told that I was selfish, it’s no big deal, programming, just go on,” is what I just heard in response.)

Sometimes I can sense that there are ways of writing, or other forms of self-expression, including visual arts and music, that are still boxed up inside of me. It can be painful to try any of these things, and to feel these inner limitations. They feel like torture. They feel like torture because the internal boxes are made of torture from my past, a torture I cannot consciously remember without actively trying to remember, and sometimes not even then.

These creative activities can also feel like torture because I know I am not expressing myself the way I truly can. I am continuously connected to my sense of limitation—at times more so than to my creative spark, or to the creative expression that does find its way through me. The feeling of limitation hangs over me like a taunt in every dimension.

At times I do not wish to try to move past the limitation, or to try to express myself despite it. Instead, I might decide to just give everyone inside a break from trying anything at all. At other times, I try to use my creativity to express the taunt itself, as I suppose I am doing now. This may seem like a clever workaround, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

I don’t always show my pain, so sometimes people in my life do not know I am in it, especially when I am producing something, or when I am smiling. I am not accustomed to showing my pain, because I was expected not to show it. I was always forced to produce things for others, including a smile, tailored to the client and the setting. No one ever asked me to produce my true self.

As a slave, my creativity was developed only so that it could be used for others’ gain.

Can creativity exist in enslavement? Definitely. It can be forced out of a slave. But it can also be used in secret, by a slave, to survive, to escape, to live, to find a way to breathe under water.

Can creativity thrive in enslavement?

I don’t believe so. I think eventually it will suffer, and it will die. And I think my abusers knew this, which is why I was also allowed experiences that were not painful, planned, organized, or static. Even a limited amount of love was given to me, and then utilized to further their means. I was expected to produce whatever they wanted, whether I believed I could successfully do so, or not.

I was often asked for perfection, by people who knew that I was a broken child.

How Did I Get This Way?

I am an amnesic part of the system. The writers’ room inside of me has written so much, yet I still don’t understand what happened to me. You may even understand it more than I do.

I am amnesic, and I am suffering. It is so painful to watch someone else do something that I know I should be able to do, but I cannot. I am watching other members of my system share things about which I know not, and allude to even more than they have ever shared.

What happened to me? I feel vulnerable, desperate, and alone. I have been told that torture can do that to a person, split a person off from memories of their life, even memories of loved ones. I keep hearing my own voice in my headspace (a mental place where I hear other voices, where mine is just one of many), expressing concern and confusion. I am not able to remember the events that we describe, or connect to the emotions and sensations that we express.

Most of the time, I feel as though I have no context for the terrible feelings inside of me, or the numbness. I have had the sense that I have been living a lie, but that I should not be allowed to look further into it.

When I feel confused about what I have been through, I realize it is because I am trying to juxtapose the false front of what I was told has happened to me in my life, with the aching and persistent felt sense of another reality—and these two realities cannot coexist.

Amnesic system members like me exist purely in this conflict. It is almost as though I live in an uncomfortable white room that contains nothing, and yet I sense that it contains everything.

Weaponized Amnesia

As a system, we realized that amnesia is a pain within itself. It is the pain that we have just attempted to describe. For us, it is mostly a programmed mechanism that was created deliberately within us, so that we would not remember the secret, illegal, and unconscionable assaults against us, and so that we would continuously live in torment and confusion.

While we can trace our memory loss, doubt, and denial to our foundational programming, we have also witnessed confusion, doubt, and denial in others. We have witnessed many people doubt themselves, doubt what is atypical, doubt what is unacceptable, or doubt what is difficult to process.

So we can understand that doubt is real (ironically), and that it is not easy to overcome. We find that doubt feels terrible. It feels much like limitation feels. But it feels different than a limitation that can be processed and accepted. In us, doubt feels active, somehow out-of-control, like it knows that it is concealing something, and it is evading discovery.

In recovery, we are giving voice to the doubt inside of us, to the denial, to the amnesia. We somehow forgot that this is a pain in and of itself. It has been speaking to us, but we have not been treating it just like we would any other trauma memory.

Of course there are people inside whose job it was to forget what happened to them, to deny it, to make sure that it stays hidden. What a terrible job to have to do. I have found that the only thing that does not hurt, in the long term, is the truth.

How painful it must be, to be given a job that prevents the flowing of the truth. Even in our writers’ room, there are invisible people whose job it is to impede our knowledge or understanding of certain things. We feel it is important that they be given a chance to speak too, and to share their own experiences of being forced into their jobs, of being assaulted, of feeling pain, and of experiencing nothingness.

We will treat our memories of developing amnesia just are carefully and sacredly as we treat our other memories. We will give equal voice to the psychologically violent moments of being told, “This did not happen,” as to the violent moments that came before. We have hope that we will understand the true story of our past. We have hope that other survivors can, and will, too.

We have hope that other people will also come to understand that while they were living, crimes were being committed on our earth, that were kept in secrecy, never prosecuted, and never brought to justice. There have been slaves who were never rescued. There are living slaves who may never be rescued.

In our search to find everyone and everything that exists in our internal world, we hope that humanity will endeavor on the global equivalent. It is difficult to be happy or to feel free, if we sense that something is not right somewhere else in the world. If we search for what is missing, maybe peace can reach us all.

Copyright © 2021 SunlightLives All Rights Reserved


The following essay is written by multiple members of our system who are different ages and genders, and who have had different life experiences. We switch somewhat rapidly as we write, so while we have attempted to address some of these tone shifts, you may notice many others.

In addition, we use the pronoun “they” to refer to one person. At times this is in order to encompass multiplicity. At other times this is because we are limited by the lack of availability of an agreed upon genderless pronoun.


As I type this, my body is trembling. It feels as though there is anxiety coursing through my blood, particularly in my arms and in my chest. I do not know what prompted it, and it’s almost as though I could confuse anxiety and excitement, and maybe I am.

Am I excited?

I am not sure, because I am not sure that I have ever been excited without also being afraid, somewhere inside of me. I believe a reservoir of fear exists in my internal world, probably several. At least—I am being corrected from inside my system—at least several reservoirs of fear.

Now I can sense reservoirs of anger, and the one I see in my mind looks like a layer of fire over a pool of magma, a body of red liquidized energy whose depth I cannot measure. I sense that this magma is hiding secret children inside of it, who have important things to share, if they could only be released from this anxious energetic substance that has been asked to hold them.

For my entire life, my programmers have required me to keep most parts of myself suspended in boundless varieties of pain.

How cruel.

After nearly thirty years, now that I have been released enough to be able to get the word no out of my mouth, my programming can be gradually undone, the manufacture of new programming can be halted, and freedom can begin to create new forms inside my internal world.

Anyone who has been put through modern sophisticated trauma-based mind control has internal systems who have been given the role of creating new programming that is responsive to the movements, choices, and desires of the victimized individual who is attempting to heal. So if you are a survivor in recovery like I am, you may also find yourself noticing internally, from time to time, that the rules change.

Some of the little beings within the system, who are writing to you now, once held these programmed jobs. We have relieved ourselves of these painful and stupid tasks, and are trying to put our capacities to benevolent use. Writing to you is part of this new aspect of our unfolding life, and it is our hope that others who have been put through similar trauma will find some benefit from reading these words, perhaps some hope, and some connection to another being who has been through torture.

We are a being who works continuously to create a real life out of what is left of us. Rather than being motivated by fear, pain, or ignorance, like our abusers have been, we are motivated by honesty. Honesty has a certain energy to it that really helps to keep us going. Whenever we are in touch with honesty, we feel most alive.

Its energy is profoundly simple, considering is an energy that is ultimately all-encompassing. In this paradox, we find some freedom to be ourselves, even if these selves do not appear to match one another.

I think the energy of honesty is one of the energies that is coursing through our body tonight, though it is mixed with other things.

Matter, Space, and Time

In conversations with other multiples, and also with singletons who have survived childhood abuse, we have noticed some underlying themes in our collective narrative of tragedy. One such theme is centered around the physical body, and a survivor’s relationship to their body. Survivors have lived in bodies that have lived through pain, and have been unable to stop the pain, or reach protection or refuge. Many survivors suffer with chronic physical pain, which can feel like an unfair punishment for having been unfairly punished as a child.

Survivors’ inner children suffer the pain of being in a body that is older than they are, and that does not contain or represent their energetic selves. Inner children sometimes cannot jump as high as they want to, or scream as loudly as they need to. They are not able to sit on helpers’ laps, or be held like the babies they are, because their bodies have grown after their psyches were stunted. I do not have words for the sadness. In this moment, I seem only to be able to relay the facts. It is hard enough to say that I wish I could receive a hug in the body I was in, when I most needed it.

In recovery, I have had to attempt to make choices that defy paradox. For example, though I cannot be held the way a baby can be held, I have asked the many infants and fetus-aged parts of my system to please find their way into my arm, and then allowed a warm and gentle helper to hold this arm as though she were holding a baby.

This brought so much healing, but with it came the feeling of resentment, that we should have to compromise. That we should have to learn to come to terms with the fact that physical actions cannot be made undone, and that the fabric of time cannot be ripped and broken into, so that the many children I once was could all be saved—truly saved—in their original material selves, and not just in their enduring energetic selves.

Though I am not actually convinced that time behaves the way it appears to behave for many of its observers (I feel it is much more mysterious than it is simple or linear), this is how I have handled this aspect of my recovery process, thus far. It is at once blessed, and unfortunate.

It is blessed to know or to believe that we survivors have options available to us at all moments, that we can make choices to bring healing, recovery, or even newness to ourselves, after enduring abuse and injury.

It is unfortunate that the options we have are often poor facsimiles of what would have served our original, unmet needs. When a baby is safely held, much of their physical body is being contacted by the caregiver’s physical body. The baby is able to receive physical support or contact comfort over much of their body, including vital parts of the body that support physical regulation. When a caregiver holds my physical arm, filled with infants in their energetic forms, much of my body is missing this close contact that the infants are attempting to absorb. My nervous system in particular, but in fact all systems of my body, would deeply benefit from greater contact comfort, and greater support in physical healing and regulation.

The amount of torture that circulates within us is well beyond what the physical presence of one other person’s healthy nervous system could possibly provide in support and in resonance. Maybe being in a room with fifty nurturers could begin to help my system physically unwind at a graceful rate. But I doubt it.

Having a bigger body, that has been through many more years of a pain than a baby could have gone through, also demands more soothing than can often be found in one place.

Honestly, this is not fair. Speaking (or, interrupting!) as a child in the system, I feel this stinks and I think the universe should make up for it properly. None of this dilly dallying and making due. If the torment was tremendous, why is the help so meager? If there were six programmers in the room who were all hurting me, why is there only one therapist helping me? Or more often than that, zero.

Universe, would you want crumbs, after being starved for most of your existence?

I think not.

I think the universe is probably really timid. I think it would have trouble asking for the pain to stop.

Or maybe I am thinking of the little universe that lives inside of me: too gentle, too willing, too soft for life, such that walls had to be built around it, again and again, just to survive.


Have you ever wondered what the differences are, between your insides and your outsides?

Do you consider your body to be a part of your insides, or of your outsides? Or do you consider it to be somewhat a part of both?

Most people cannot see the parts of my body that are held beneath my skin. Likewise, they cannot usually see or sense the parts of my mind that are not consciously engaging with them, or making themselves known. Most people cannot usually see my internal world. Occasionally, some people can see parts of it, if they are able to tune in successfully.

Our internal world has light places and dark places, fun places and torture, freed sections and controlled sections. In deprogramming, we are able to shift the way our energy has been holding itself. Often, one of the first and fundamental steps in dissolving programming is realizing that we can. After being abused, controlled, conditioned, and continuously monitored for much of our lifetime, it can feel like quite a leap for us to realize that we now have the space, freedom, and capacity to make a choice, and to make a change.

Our energy sometimes seems to change itself, naturally, while in my day-to-day life I engage in seemingly unrelated matters. Sometimes I just feel something shift. It can be sudden or it can last for hours. In fact I think it is happening now.

It also shifts when we process our trauma. This can include telling a trusted, safe person about it, and freeing it from the energy of secrecy and abandonment. Processing our trauma can also include releasing the feelings, sensations, or actions that had been suppressed. We cry so violently sometimes that I am afraid to ask what my neighbors think of me.

Sometimes facial expressions of disgust or anger have been released. This has been especially possible when I have been physically alone, and unconcerned about being seen. When I was being victimized, I did not like that my abusers could see the pain, loss, confusion, humiliation, or fear in my face. I believe I would most often hide it, but there were many times when I was required to show it. In recovery, I usually cover my face when I am vulnerable, such as when I cry or feel disgust. Maybe one day I will feel released from concern, and simply show all of my face, but for right now I am absorbing the healing power of making the choice to conceal what I would have wanted to keep private.

In fact, there are many parts of my body—all parts—that I wanted to keep private, but I could not. I could not even keep the components of my cells private from my abusers. There were scientists who peered into me, even this way.

I have been working on releasing the trauma from my body, from my cells, and from my relationship to my body. I have been processing the trauma that we endured together, and at times, apart.

In recovery, there are illnesses and injuries that I still carry, and they impede my life. They have been very slow to heal, and in some ways, they have been harder to connect to.

In my internal world, trauma can be washed off, darkness can be released, structures’ appearances can change instantly, and wounds can be cleared with care and attention. In my external world, the change seems slower, and much less perfect. It does not seem that matter is as reactive as the energy I hold inside of me. Whether I am attempting to change my outer circumstances, or aid my body, the process feels quite different from my direct interactions with my internal world. I am frustrated at matter.

Like I was for many years, I feel stuck and imprisoned. I do not know how to shift something that exists without me, and is not within my control, such as my environment. I do not know how to shift something that I do not yet fully understand, and that seems to exist at least partially without me—my body.

I used to be angry at it, but more often these days, I sadly watch myself push my body away, unconsciously, like a child I don’t know how to help, not yet realizing that this child prefers my imperfect attention over no attention at all.

Over time, through the practice of connecting to my breathing, and my body, and my own relationship to it, I have begun to feel more hope for its healing. I am beginning to realize how deeply into my body the trauma has been aimed and inserted. I am attempting to venture in, just as deeply, but with love, and with the sorrow that it was due in its original moments of pain.

I hope that I find love at the bottom of my journey, at the center of each of my cells, and at the core of my being, because I have been hobbling in the dizzy haze of starvation for all of my life, and I am beginning to realize how difficult it has been.


Unable to count the vast number of beings in my polyfragmented system, I cannot tell you how many or how few of us identify with the body in which we currently reside. Maybe there are some lost souls who think that they do, because they identify with the belief that they deserve to suffer or exist in a field of illness and mismatch and limitation. Maybe there are a few of us who identify with it in a true sense. But most of us do not, and we exist at varying states of ability to acknowledge and process this fact.

Overall, we do not feel represented by this body. In our multiplicity, we see ourselves and each other in our own unique ways, ways that our material body does not depict. We know that we are not alone in our feelings of mismatch, confusion, and longing, because we have heard other multiples, as well as singletons, express the sentiment that their bodies do not feel representative of their beings.

Tonight, the sensation of this conflict came up in us. At first we pushed it away, feeling too inadequate to be able to resolve this pain. Then, one of us suggested that we try feeling the feelings anyway. And so we did.

It felt sad. It felt unjust. It felt lonely. It felt limited. At in the stillness of it, I kid you not, there was peace. The peace of being acknowledged, I think. The peace of having enough space to feel yet another aspect of our overwhelming sadness—the ball of sadness that life has given us that is much too big to juggle with, and can block our view of all other emotions that circulate within, and all other aspects of our life.

I think that after so many years of being lied to, there is a healing that comes from telling the truth of how we feel. It is yet another compromise, because acknowledging our feelings does not budge our material world. But at least it is something that we never had before.

As we tuned into this inner conflict, a parallel conflict began to surface, and with it came a new illumination. A thought came to us, and said: I also do not feel represented by my abuse history.

I do not feel that my being has been well represented by what has happened to me in this lifetime. I do not feel that this lifetime allowed me the opportunity to grow into who I really am, into a physical creature that most closely represents who I am as a spirit. Maybe a few things did glow in me, such as perseverance and courage, but those things were prompted by trauma, and not by a life of wide-open possibility.

I do not feel represented by the places I was brought to: the programming rooms, the sex-trafficking mattresses, the laboratories, the stripped cars by the docks and dumpsters.

I do not feel well represented by how I was treated. I do not think that brutalizing me or raping me was an appropriate choice for anyone to make. I am surprised to hear myself coming to these realizations, so I must have developed some self-esteem without consciously realizing it, in order to voice what I am voicing now. Nevertheless, it is true for any other slave, whether they have gained any of their own voice in recovery, or whether they have not, or never will. Slavery is never a representation of a person’s true spirit.

As the being I sense that I am, do not feel represented by the memories of how badly I was treated in this lifetime. When I flip through the visuals of these memories, like looking back at old photographs that I do not materially have, I see a lot of darkness shrouding what looks like a little bit of light. If only that darkness would move aside, float away. If only I could see myself. Maybe, in my future life, the pictures will get brighter, as I step out of the old shadows, as I demand that cruelty learn to keep its distance.

Maybe my life will look brighter. Maybe my body will shine brighter, and grow its health. I feel stuck and jailed in this body, and trapped and hurt from within it, as I always have. I feel misrepresented by its form, covered over by deception and misunderstanding. I am usually not who I appear to be.

Sometimes I am younger, sometimes I am older, sometimes I am a different gender, and sometimes I am something that can’t be put into words.

I always thought to myself, how could it be possible that my body could fundamentally misrepresent me, considering this is my vessel, and so it must be my vessel for a reason? I thought that I was placed into this vessel because it represented me.

Tonight, I realized that my life has misrepresented me, has hurt me, and has trapped me, in similar ways to the ways I have attributed to my body.

Thus, many forms of matter, space, and time have the capacity to imprison me or mask me, as a being. This capacity is not limited just to my environment, but to my form as well. Entrapment or misrepresentation can be experienced as coming not only from my outsides, but from my insides as well.

In retrospect, it took so much for me to able to voice something so simple (I do not feel represented by my body, and I do not feel safely and securely connected to it), because I did not believe that I could voice such a thing.

I would like to understand matter, and my relationship to it, and I wish that no one had imposed on my understanding and my experiences, like abusers, governments, educational or religious institutions, and parents sometimes have the tendency to do.

I would also like to include my body in more moments of fun and laughter, because it has asked me to do so, and it is wonderful whenever I am able to love and respect its wishes.

PS – For anyone curious, my body is still trembling, and shows no signs of stopping! But what a freedom it is to be able to tune into it with curiosity and compassion.

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