Terrorist Doctors?

(Warning this blog is for over 18’s only)

I wrote this in my diary last week, just after I had returned home from my Doctors

29th June 2007

I went to speak to my doctor today. After all that worry I asked him if he would refer me to a councillor and told him why, he was very compassionate and understanding about it. When I left I shed a tear outside and wanted to get home as quick as possible but had to do some shopping. I went to do my shopping but when I got out side the shop some bloke was cycling away on my pushbike (I had locked it up). I shouted at him and made a bit of noise but he was off. A nice bloke made chase but lost him and offered me a lift to go looking for him. I declined but thanked him. I cried all the way home on the bus, I don’t think I’ve ever shown myself up on a bus like that before. I feel such a bloody fool.

(this is an extract from a list of many things that have happened to me – I didn’t report the bike theft to the police as I’ve been to see them twice already this year, the first time was about my stepfather, the second over an incident that happened to my son)

It’s taken me a considerable amount of time to pluck up the courage to see my doctor and ask him for help. I guess it’s easier to type my life into a key board as when I find myself telling people I have to fight the tears as I’m doing so.

When I saw my doctor I asked him if he knew of such a thing as delayed memory induced by childhood trauma and explained that it had been recognised by some American medical professionals and also in the American courts but as yet I have not heard of cases like it here in Britain. I explained that I had had to go to the police about my stepfather and since then things had got slightly better for me which is one of the reasons I felt safer asking my doctor for help in the first place. (I had endured a years old harassment campaign but it was only up until a few years ago that I realised why and who was behind it). I’ve explained in my blog my stepfathers association with the military, his qualifications and his drugs money laundering activities.

I also explained to the doctor that my grandfather (who was ex Royal Navy) was also a paedophile and that much is already on social services record. I was only four years old when we moved to the town I live in now and spent all of my life with a repressed memory of that which it has taken his victims all of theirs to forget. I’m 37 now and a couple of years ago what came back to me from an experience I had at four years old had more clarity than if you had asked me to recall whatever it was I was doing last year or last week. They say with people who have experienced a similar thing that as a child part of the survival mechanism is to compartmentalise a memory like building a wall to block it out and as we get older those walls weaken and sometimes cases of extreme stress or breaking away from the people who are feeding us information can induce the repressed memory. That’s why I went to see my doctor, for the sake of my own sanity and to ask him if the British medical profession might be able to clarify for me the authenticity of my memories perhaps with hypnotherapy so that I may be better able to deal with them myself and put the last fragments of my shattered life back into some kind of perspective.

Throughout most of my childhood I had dreams of military hospitals and they were always terrifying one’s. Sometimes I might be locked in a mortuary banging on the door screaming that I wanted my mother and for someone to let me out, other times I’d be running through the corridors of a hospital that were filled with dead bodies and body parts left on display. I’d ask people where the exit was but nobody would tell me. To a child these were petrifying dreams. Eventually the dreams stopped and I forgot about them.

I’ve wrote recently to the MoD under the freedom of information act to ask them if the can find any records but as even some of their own soldiers refer to them as the ministry of denial I’m not holding out much hope. I remembered what happened to me with the same clarity as I remember giving birth to my son or seeing a favourite rock band. I remembered my grandfather taking me when I was four years old into a hospital as I was bleeding profusely. The doctor had to get the permission of a man in an officers uniform before he could treat me. I won’t go into details but I can remember the layout of the corridor and where the officers office was, I’ve remembered most of it. I thought I had come to terms with the crimes my grandfather committed and it’s still stomach churning knowing your related to some one capable of committing such act’s, but to be betrayed by the very establishment you’ve been brainwashed into trusting all of your life is quite different especially when you open your eyes and look at the death toll they have helped inflict on humanity (including our own soldiers, we kill more of them than anyone else 1,750 found dead under questionable circumstances since 1990) and you feel so daunted in the face of what we as the world has had to witness. I asked my Doctor for help last week so that I could validate what I’d been through and the next thing I see on the news is a British army chaplain telling us all that some “alleged” terrorist told him that the men sent to cure us would be the ones who killed us.

Like I needed any more conformation that my memories were for real and I was telling the truth, as soon as I heard what the chaplain said I realised that the powers that be had more to fear by our own medical profession should the truth ever get out than any drugged up patsy with a can of petrol in his hand and that’s when I realised why they were trying to trash our medical profession in every newspaper in the land.

They use fear to control people – I should know. And now I have to live with the fear of the very people I asked for help being targeted next.

My stepfather, the unquestioning press and all the covert powers that be remind me of the Wizard of Oz. Terrifying when you believe the illusion, but when that curtain was drawn back all Dorothy and her friends found was nothing more than a dirty old conman and fake.

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