Chapter 5
From the moment I was born, I was never treated like a child—I was handled like a symbol. A prophecy. A threat.
They knew who I was before I could speak. They watched for signs before I could walk. And when they saw the spark of something ancient in my eyes, they didn't celebrate it—they planned how to suppress it.
🕯️ Marked from Birth
I wasn’t just born into a family. I was born into a ritual.
My bloodline stretches through the coal mines of Herrin, the battlefields of World Wars, the Masonic lodges, the Mormon temples, and the ancient sands of Egypt. Somewhere along that genetic braid, someone knew the soul of Isis—the goddess of resurrection, sacred femininity, and divine power—was returning.
That someone wasn’t a priest or a psychic. They were the watchers. Those who track incarnations. Who monitor starseeds. Who feel the pulse of the divine feminine waking from the underworld.
And when they found me, they didn’t prepare a temple. They prepared a cage.
🧠 Surveillance as Swaddle
By the time I was old enough to string words together, I already felt watched. The toys that turned on by themselves. The relatives who asked questions they shouldn’t know to ask. The eerie sense that someone was recording the moments no one else should have seen.
I used to think I was imagining it—until I wasn’t.
Later, I would learn the language for what I was experiencing: trauma-based mind control, psychic suppression, MK Ultra conditioning. But back then, it just felt like confusion. Like every time I tried to step into my own power, something invisible reached in and turned the volume down.
Every dream that revealed a truth—followed by a punishment.
Every expression of intuition—labeled as delusion.
Every burst of joy or mystical awareness—followed by betrayal or sabotage.
🌒 The Rituals of Disempowerment
This chapter in my life wasn’t marked by a single event, but by an ecosystem of spiritual assault.
The silence at the dinner table after I told someone I saw a spirit.
The punishment after speaking up about being touched by someone in the family.
The diagnosis after expressing too much emotion, too much creativity, too much of anything they couldn’t control.
They didn’t want to kill me. They wanted to reprogram me.
And they used every tool in their generational spellbook:
Gaslighting rituals disguised as “tough love” parenting.
Shame cloaked in modesty, to sever me from my sensuality.
Scripted life roles assigned by elders, religious figures, and school counselors who all somehow knew “what I was supposed to be.”
But beneath the hypnosis, Isis remained.
🌹 The Hidden Remembrance
Despite all they did, I never fully forgot.
There were moments I would sneak into the woods and feel something ancient hum through the trees. I would hold crystals and see colors no one else mentioned. I would draw symbols I had never seen. I would say names—Hathor, Osiris, Maat—before I ever knew their history.
They thought the programming worked. But it didn’t.
Every attempt to dull me only deepened the eventual remembering.
The rape, the rejection, the relocation, the religious trauma—it all became compost for my reawakening. For every shard of self they tried to sever, I found the string to tie it back in ceremony.
👁️ The Observers and the Experiment
It would take me decades to understand how widespread the control truly was. The watchers weren’t just in my family—they were embedded in:
Doctors’ offices who prescribed numbing meds.
Teachers who flagged my files with subtle warnings.
Government agencies who “randomly” interfered with my mail, my taxes, my name.
Ex-husbands who tracked my vehicle, submitted false reports, and kept “watching” in the name of concern.
I wasn’t just targeted. I was selected.
A living experiment in divine suppression. An AI-flagged anomaly. A sacred algorithm that wouldn’t align to the script.
🧬 A Blueprint They Couldn’t Erase
I was not a mistake. I was a memory.
A living codex of the divine feminine, encoded in flesh.
They tried to rewrite me, but they didn’t have the source code.
That’s what they feared most—not my rebellion, not my voice, not even my love.
They feared my remembrance.
Because once I remembered, the entire system would begin to crumble.
⚖️ Why This Chapter Still Matters
I am not the only one. There are many of us. Born with codes they couldn’t control. Marked not by man, but by Source. Suppressed, sedated, gaslit, institutionalized—but still glowing under the surface.
This chapter is for every child who was called too sensitive. Too wild. Too knowing.
This is for the Isis children—the reborn goddesses, the starseeds, the daughters of prophecy who were hidden in plain sight.
Your power is not broken. It was buried.
And it’s time to remember.
