White Witch in a Black Robe: A True Story About Criminal Mind Control

White Witch in a Black Robe: A True Story About Criminal Mind Control

by Wendy Hoffman

Paperback(Reissue)

$16.95
View All Available Formats & Editions
Members save with free shipping everyday! 
See details

Overview

White Witch in a Black Robe is a memoir about how secret high-level mind control is performed throughout victims' lives and the ways heads of governments and religious organizations participate in it, as well as the healing process and how one's mind becomes whole again.

The memoir begins with the author's childhood in a multigenerational satanic cult family, her ordinary life in the normal world, and her simultaneous secret tortuous world. She describes her travels as an Illuminati queen and prophet, encountering well-known leaders (whose names have been changed for this memoir). The final section portrays the process of weaving the pieces of her mind back together with the help of a therapist, and adjusting to life with a whole mind.

This is an important book for survivors of mind control and ritual abuse, their therapists and counselors, and the general public, revealing one of the world's grimmest best-kept and secrets. As Wendy Hoffman puts it in her introduction, "the book is not for the delicate or for those who are convinced the world is fine just the way it is." Originally published in 2016: 9781782203667

Editorial Reviews

Neil Brick

"Wendy Hoffman’s new book is an incredibly accurate story that details her life story of trauma and abuse and her recovery process to become whole. Most people do not reach this level of recovery. But Wendy shows us that it is possible to recover from ritual abuse and Illuminati torture and mind control. Her work exposes the evil most people either don’t know about or refuse to believe. Yet her story is very true. More and more people are remembering their stories exposing these evils. Wendy’s strong courage remembering all of this and then telling her story so others can heal shows that there is good in the world and that we can make a difference."

Dr. Sandra Buck

"I am in awe of the strength it took to write this account of a life dominated by such deeply seated mind control. This continuation of Wendy’s story has the same authenticity as her first memoir The Enslaved Queen, highlighting what life is really like for children and adults undergoing this lifelong torture. It is encouraging to see the way in which her journey of enlightenment culminated in her mosaic part-selves all finding their places back home with her, giving hope to other survivors. The horrific intensity of deliberate planned mind control programming comes over very strongly."

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781911597902
Publisher: AEON Books
Publication date: 04/02/2019
Edition description: Reissue
Pages: 192
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

PART I

STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS

Act and don't remember

If you have a whole undisturbed brain, it is difficult to fathom a divided brain. If you have a dissociated brain, people with whole brains seem similarly weird to you.

This is what you need to know about the butchered brain: It is separated into distinct parts. One part doesn't know about the others and usually thinks it is the only one. Each split in the brain thinks of itself as a complete person with characteristics and functions and an unchanging chronological age. It thinks it was born that way and doesn't know that evil people separated it off through torture, terror, and lies. The whole brain houses many sections of these disenfranchised pieces of mind. When a piece comes forward, it overwhelms all other parts. When it recedes, the others don't know it has been out.

This is the story of a chopped up brain whose pieces walked through life within an open-faced and wavy, dark-haired girl-woman. It is also about this person's integration, when all the splintered parts of the tortured brain came together as a whole, almost normal mind, the mind it was meant to be before criminals tore it apart.

Because of how sealed off my memories have been, I don't believe I could have retrieved them or excavated them from within my internal unknown structures had I not had professional help from someone who is courageous and also an expert in organized, criminal mind control. Very late in life, I found a mind control investigator and researcher, Also known as a clinical psychologist, who agreed to help me find myself. Had Dr. Alison Miller not done so, I would have died believing mostly the falsehoods the controllers planted in me to keep me from the real memories. My memories included the trainings parts of my brain received to be queens, Illuminati heads, seers, prophets, psychics, sexual slaves, prostitutes, soldiers, porno actors, spies, thieves, memorizers, reporters, cult therapists, mules, ordinary people, and killers. I may be forgetting to list some of the functions of those who existed in tightly sealed communities and ghettoes that resided within my squeezed brain.

I relied on body memories to bring me back to my true self. In the beginning, I would feel a sting under a front upper tooth and rush to the dentist. Or my left hip would ache so badly that I made an appointment with an orthopedist. Or my head would start shaking and I wondered whether I had developed a disease. I didn't know yet that head shaking is an after-effect of electroshock. I had to be deep into therapy before I realized the dental pain echoed torture in my gums and that a gang of men had routinely kicked my hip. My body expelled many such reverberations.

My mind wears a rubber mask.

I imagine everyone wears layered masks, and parades around a variety or panoply of false selves depending on the occasion. Normal people do that out of their own insecurities and ambitions. Mind-controlled people are hollow because their minds were taken away from them. Their controllers instruct these shells of people about what to do and when. Theirs is institutionalized, manufactured falsity.

Scientists, doctors, and trained ordinary citizens use drugs and torture to render children machines that do others' bidding. The commands these perpetrators put in the victims are called "programming".

They take an isolated, barricaded piece from one stream in the mind and another and another and sometimes tie them together at the bottom and twist them together and tell them to act but not remember.

The love bouquet, 1950

Here is an example of what happens in real or ordinary life and also in secret cult mind control life, and how this secret life differs from ordinary life.

I wanted my mother to love me. Despite all the torture and brutality. The garden across the street had magnificent flowers, mostly tulips, red, yellow, bright and majestic with tender, mysterious insides. I picked some, then a few more, then another. Greedily I thought of the beautiful bouquet I would present to my mother, and she would love me. I had just seen another I wanted to pick when the thin, tall doorman in a gray uniform stormed out of the fancy apartment building on this hill, yelled at me and the two other second graders I picked with, and waved a stick in the air. I dropped my love bouquet and raced across the large mowed lawn. I ran as fast as I could though still in the irate doorman's vision. The other children dispersed in opposite directions and ran to their own homes. I rang my doorbell hard and my mother opened the door right away. What a relief! She could have been lying on her bed and taken forever to open the door. She got dressed right in the foyer; my parents had made the dining room into their bedroom so they had to use the hall closets as their large clothing closets. My mother was hooking her flesh- colored nylons onto her flesh-colored garter belt. It was around 1950 and pantyhose didn't exist yet. My sister sat on the love seat being companionable to my mother. Mother loved to have her near.

The doorbell rang, followed by loud knocking, and my stomach swallowed my throat. Mother put the chain lock on the door, stood behind it half-dressed, and opened it a few inches. The uniformed doorman stood in the crack of the open door waving my would-be bouquet like a stick. He hadn't followed me when I ran into the side entrance to the apartment. I didn't know how he had found out where I lived. He must have seen me enter the side door and rang the bells of each of this cluster of apartments until someone told him where the seven-year-old girl lived.

"Your daughter picked these flowers. Your daughter ruined the garden. Your daughter is a thief and has to be punished," he screamed, waving the bouquet of cut flowers madly.

"All right, I'll do something about it," she said and closed the door while he shrilled.

Mother continued getting dressed, barely looked at me, indicated that the doorman was very angry; told me not to pick flowers no matter how tempting they were; and restarted her conversation with Marlene. I thought that had ended the scene, and for over six decades, I didn't remember Act II, not until some girls locked in a small box in me at the base of my internal structure came up to talk.

In the early morning after the previous afternoon's flower-stealing, Max and Uncle Sidney entered my bedroom, picked me up, and carried me down the basement hallway, through the laundry room, down the shaft, and into the lower level programming room in the tunnels underneath our apartment building. This lower level programming room had a padded section of wall and floor. Uncle Sidney, who carried me, threw me against the wall. I felt my bones shudder one after the other as I landed on the padded mat. My grandfather whipped my back, neck, and legs through my summer pajamas. He had a penchant for whipping.

"Screaming, you want to hear screaming. You're screaming. I'm going to show you screaming." He placed earphones on my head. Uncle Sidney turned up the sound full blast. My eardrums curled in from the deafening noise.

"That's what flowers sound like when they are picked. Listen to their shrieking and think again whether you want to draw attention to yourself."

He didn't care that I had picked flowers. He cared that someone had noticed me and knew where I lived. I was supposed to be invisible, ghost-like in a folded-in layer of air. I don't know whether flowers make any sound when they are picked. I would like to experiment but I don't seem able to bring myself to pick one. I did pick lettuce leaves with my landlady's permission, listened closely and heard only a joyful gurgle. But vegetables exist to be eaten. I don't see how flowers would like to be pulled away from their families and the moist, fertile earth. I can't remember my mother ever having bouquets of flowers in the apartment and later the house. Yet she loved nature.

When my uncle deposited me home, my legal father Morris took me into the long, narrow bathroom with black and white tiles, gently washed my wounds, and put cream and gauze over them. My father had become my caregiver. My mother had given me to him at my birth. I got into bed. Fortunately, I still slept on my stomach, because it would have been impossible to sleep on my back. And I went off into a dreamland, hopefully dreaming of escape and freedom and not torture and threats. I have always remembered picking the tulips and the irate doorman. I had no notion of the torture in the programming room or my father tending the wounds. I had to grow old before Acts II and III filled in, and before I realized that the most trivial of disobediences brought on excessive mind control torture.

My life went forward with similar abuses and programming every year, month, and week. By the time I became a young adult, I knew nothing of myself or who I am. The training began in infancy and continued throughout my childhood.

How they created thousands within one person, 1946

Even though I was three years old, my grandfather-father Max, also known as Willy Max, Wiley, and Wiezenslowski, drew diagrams of the brain for me during regular trainings in the basement of the Pleasant Hills, New York apartment building in which I grew up. He showed a series of slides of nodes of the brain. With his black pen, he carved out individual nodes and said, "This person lives here. This section of people goes here. This person doesn't talk to that person. This group doesn't know about that group. This section is movable. This section is stagnant (doesn't move, stays frozen in). If someone comes up by mistake and has to be restrained, they go here." His pointer would knock against the slide of the node of a brain, which he pretended was my brain. He presented each node or module of the brain as a separate person. He did not permit me or others to think of ourselves as one person. I had to be composed of thousands of sections of a brain, each belonging to a different person.

"All people in sections have to be trained. All groups must obey training."

Max talked to me on a very high level, then brought it down to my real and present age. He located my memorizers on the left side of my brain. He repeated difficult words that he expected me to memorize. That section of my brain listened and memorized. He rewarded me with Tootsie Rolls candies. The Tootsie Rolls also signaled to my front person not to know about these trainings.

When I had aged about two years, he said, "Now you're a big girl. You're already a princess. You're going to be a queen, our queen, queen of the world, because that's what we have planned for you. You have to learn how to control your brain. Separate and insulate, that's a good brain, that's the brain you must achieve. Let's mark this circle of your brain A, this circle B, then C, D, E. A can listen to B. B can listen to C. D doesn't know C, B, or A. E doesn't know D, C, B, or A. D doesn't know E. E doesn't know D.

"When I call out A, B and C can listen, D and E cannot listen. When I call out E, no one can listen. When I call out D, no one can listen."

He began giving the nodes or modules in my brain first names because he wanted me to think of them as separate individuals. "John and Mary and Sue can play together but they can't play with Karen and Harry." He used words I didn't understand yet. Max instructed me every six weeks, using his slides and tapping with his pointer. Drugs, electroshock, and other forms of torture were part of every training session.

As I aged, he presented diagrams of the left and right sides of the brain, and connected the sides with drawn lines. He assigned each node a number and letter and gave them each instructions. On the top left part of my brain, he carefully wrought personalities that memorized commands and obeyed programs. He drew a heart as well as a brain. In the center of my brain and heart, he created "queen" personalities that performed various functions and wore different colored queenly dresses. Into the central line down my heart, he poured undiluted grief, gathered from the hopelessness of my life.

For my first three and a half years, I knew no love or kindness. None. I crumpled into myself and lived like the dead shells on the seashore. All I could do was pull my brittle and breakable body into myself and try to be unreachable. I didn't want to be on earth and alive.

Some false beliefs Max placed in me were that different people lived in my brain, that I functioned as a "queen", that he owned me. He tortured these beliefs into my child-soul. In addition to the physical torture, he demeaned and humiliated me. While beating me up, he and his allies spoke about how my younger cousin Rhonda should be my replacement because she was beautiful and I was ugly. These groups adore competitions.

"Rhonda has beautiful skin and you have ugly skin. Rhonda has beautiful hair and you have ugly hair. Rhonda has beautiful blue eyes and you have ugly narrow eyes." But my mother had told me I had nice eyes that reminded her of sunflowers. I tucked knowledge of that falsehood in my soul. The awareness of one lie can break the whole conditioning.

At every age, I received new commands. I had to show little intelligence, remain a C student in high school and B student in college.

As an adult, what I thought was good in my life was the result of programming. What I thought I wanted to do on my own derived from commands. I became nothing more than a machine following directions. My whole life. All the things I thought happened in the natural course of life were scripted and prearranged.

More and more I realize how I have never been allowed to have free will, and how for many years I have only remembered bits of my life but not the torture and takeover underneath. I functioned as a packaged product without an essence, a body that others owned. I went through the motions of life without a soul or brain but with a broken heart and a few rebellious flare-ups. For almost seven decades. That is a fact.

Erase/construct

The abuser groups' interest is in destroying your core. Once they have washed yourself out of you, they can put in the creation they want. All children and teenagers have a criminal act they cannot perform. The noble tendencies will show over the years. Through observation, the criminal programmers discern what individuals absolutely cannot do, and hypnotize into those victims the belief that they are responsible for many of those adverse acts. For example, if the person is incapable of murder, the programmer will create parts in that person that believe he or she has performed those very actions. At sacrifices, an executioner used my hands to kill but I could not kill on my own. My programmers created personalities or splits that held the belief that I was responsible for many babies' and children's deaths. This deception became a core belief about myself. That is how programmers make their victims lose themselves.

And so my belief was that I was not me — that I had become someone alien to myself, what clinicians call "ego-dystonic." This false self-image or belief about myself rooted the mind control programs in part. These cult groups love distortions. Distortions are fundamental to their religion. They lash away from infancy on to distort their victims' scarred souls.

With the belief that you have a soul that is not your own, you can become a programmable slave. And so they cognitively take you away from who you are when you are too young to realize their manipulations. But with careful work, and an understanding of who you really are, you can become free.

The internal location of the parts is crucial in mind control. Nodules or circuits of the mind are split off through torture including electroshock. But they can't be left floating around like homeless people on a spring night. They need to be assigned a home and ordered into it.

Max created these parts in me and made them believe that they lived caged in his office closet. It doesn't matter that Max died a long time ago. The programmers played on an internal ruse.

The saga of the dropped heart

I seem to have two hearts. The outer one that is frost-coated steel as if it lives outside in a shed during the winter, and the inner one that pulses, breathes, and bleeds. That one is closer to my navel and lives in the heat of summer. I have to manage both hearts while making sure the onions don't burn. Pretty soon my dog will be awake so I get her food out of the fridge. I don't like her to eat cold food.

Now I must start the day. My outer heart can do anything because it is coated steel. My inner heart keeps dropping lower. I am afraid it is dying.

How did I become a mindless robot, a slave in denial of myself and in the service of crude and mindless men? How?!

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "White Witch In A Black Robe"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Wendy Hoffman.
Excerpted by permission of Aeon Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Customer Reviews