Final message

At the age of 10, after showing disinterest in school, I was placed in a troubled-child program, where I was subjected to physical abuse, grooming and pornography. It was there that I first began to realize something was wrong with the way adults operated.

The man in charge of the first program I went to went by the name of Dr. Larsen—sometimes Dr. Larson—which I found strange, not only because we shared the same last name, but also because he would deliberately spell it differently depending on the situation. He was a powerful man, connected to many influential politicians, including members of the Reagan and Bush families.

My uncles and cousins had connections to these same people. One was president of Rocketdyne, Boeing Defense, and vice president of advanced weapons programs for the Reagan administration. Another served as a special advisor in the White House to both Reagan and George H. W. Bush. And another held a powerful position at Monsanto before later working for the Department of Energy—ironically at the same time his brother was covering up the environmental disasters at the Santa Susana Field Lab. The reality of what they had done came to light early in my life, but it was never more than the vague understanding that “my uncle worked on the Apollo missions and moon landings.”

Throughout my grade school years, I was sent to multiple therapists, gradually becoming fully aware that all the “help” offered to me was nothing more than a façade—people simply doing their jobs and nothing more. Nobody truly cares about the youth; more often than not, they exploit them.

By the time I reached high school, my disinterest in school became a more serious matter to my handlers—although I had serious interests in the creative world, which I’ll discuss later. This eventually led to my parents being threatened by the school board of directors. They never wanted to send me to any special programming boarding schools or wilderness programs, but they were forced to comply after the school district sent child services to our large yet humble home to take me, my brother, and my sister away. I’ll never forget how confused the social worker seemed, telling us she didn’t even understand why she had been sent to our home that day.

Ultimately, my parents gave in to the school district’s demands and enrolled me in a series of alternative schools. This led to me being sent into a special programming wilderness boarding school in Maine. There I learned a harsh truth: the education system itself was taking advantage of my parents’ wealth, threatening them with child services and coercing them into paying for expensive programs. They used attack therapy and extremely harsh conditions in the wilderness of Maine during the winter to “fix” us.

Even after completing all the “levels” of the wilderness program I was in, in Maine, I found myself still stuck there—because I had progressed so quickly that the handlers claimed I had excelled faster than anyone they’d ever seen. I was left in limbo, with nothing to do but wake up and spend my days alongside other teenagers who were also trapped in limbo doing absolutely nothing all day—no schooling, no anything. During this time, the school district recouped the money my parents had sued them for, draining my college fund to cover the ever-mounting costs. The entire system had been designed to deliberately drain my parents financially—at the expense of my freedom.

After my time in the wilderness boarding school program I became fully aware of how the troubled-teen industry operated. I was absolutely disgusted, not only with every adult I’d ever known but with the system that governed me. I felt certain I would grow up to inflict pain on the world. Everyone of my peers from the school had either fell off the map, murdered people, or commit suicide.

I barely graduated high school. I tried college for a short time, pursuing my original creative passion in art school, then going to a trade school for electrical engineering, and eventually an online school for computer science, but was expelled from the online university. By then I was also dealing with a strange health anomaly that doctors couldn’t diagnose or help me with. I felt crushed and unable to get through the day. After seeing more than five specialists and more doctors than I can count on both hands, I felt neglected by society from every angle. All the while this was happening, the creative drive and passion I had—making short films throughout middle school, visiting USC’s School of Cinematic Arts and UCLA’s School of Theater, Film and Television with my parents, dreaming of attending one of them, and later in high school being in a band with members close to Our Last Night, becoming the lead clothing designer for major Def Jam artists, producing music in my bedroom day in and day out, and creating album artwork for top names—was slowly belittled into nothing.

At this point, something strange happened. A couple, twice my age and claiming to be in a band, moved in up the road from my parents. They would take walks around the neighborhood, and I couldn’t help but notice how athletic they were and how they always wore sunglasses—even on cloudy New Hampshire winter days. Curious, I asked my neighbors if they had ever spoken with the couple. Aside from a casual connection on Facebook and occasional interactions through the neighborhood association, no one really knew them.

Eventually, the couple reached out to my parents, saying they had heard I was “extremely creative”—something that shocked me, considering my social media was private and I had no significant digital footprint. Not to mention, they were twice my age and didn’t quote any prior work I had done in the music industry. They expressed an interest in contacting me directly. This prompted me to do some investigative work, which led me to believe they were working for someone, though I didn’t yet know who. All I knew was that an odd couple—people who barely engaged with the neighborhood beyond the association—somehow knew I was “creative” and wanted direct contact with me.

Through means I cannot discuss publicly, I eventually learned they were interested in my ability to operate covertly. They also had a particular interest in a two-time Republican state senator neighbor—someone I was very close to who notably refused money from AIPAC—as well as my cousin, who had been a special advisor to George H. W. Bush for Israel and who also publicly criticized Israeli policies, at times calling Israel “not a free country.” My neighbor, the two-time Republican state senator, was also subjected to threats and intimidation, including long lines of armed trucks slowly parading and honking past our homes in my parents’ quiet, wealthy neighborhood to scare him.

It was at this point I realized I was being recruited as a Sayanim. I immediately cut off all possible contact with the couple, and only weeks later they moved away, deleted their Facebook accounts, and disappeared without a trace. Around this same time, I began doing deeper research into my uncle—the one who had been president of Rocketdyne, Boeing Defense, and vice president of Reagan’s advanced weapons program—and discovered that he and his son, another cousin of mine, had powerful connections to Israeli intelligence (Mossad), having both lived in Israel for extended periods of time. I learned how civil government contracts operate, and how defense corporations often kill two, three, or even more birds with one stone when taking on these contracts—frequently at the expense of the civil side, which is neglected. This reality became clear with the RS-25 and the Space Shuttle program. To give some context to the level of power my uncle held: he was one of the original leading engineers of U.S. nuclear weapons programs, which often used the Apollo missions as cover. The F-1 engine for the Saturn V, and later the RS-25 for the Space Shuttle, were platforms for developing cutting-edge nuclear directed-energy weapons. There is additional important information I learned during this time, but I will keep it private out of respect for my younger cousins.

About a month after the couple moved out of my parents’ neighborhood, I began undergoing operations for the health anomaly that countless specialists and doctors had failed to diagnose. I was referred to an ENT by someone who had recommended them to my mother. That visit was strange—I’ll never forget how terrified the ENT appeared. She was trembling, never spoke a word to me, and after scoping me, simply let me go while strongly recommending a procedure at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston: an upper endoscopy with a probe. Supposedly, I was seeing the “best” specialist in the region.

The procedure itself seemed fine—until I woke up. I was choking on my own blood, alone, with no nurse or doctor nearby, even though they had just been working inside my esophagus. Panicked, I told my mother I couldn’t breathe and felt like razors were cutting my throat. She rushed to find a nurse, who looked horrified when she saw that part of my uvula was missing and my throat was covered in blood. The doctor came in, surprised, and said he had never seen anything like it before. He prescribed me antibiotics—but they were ones I was known to be allergic to, and at double the proper dosage. My mother caught the mistake before I noticed.

Supposedly, the probe they had placed inside me was still active, and after discharge, I carried around a radio for it for several days. Three days later, during a follow-up phone call, I learned the probe hadn’t worked as intended—and the doctor no longer worked at the hospital. The probe was “lost” inside my body and the doctor had left the country. This was a doctor touted as one of “the best.” Even my mother could see how suspicious everything was, but there was nothing we could do.

From that point, I noticed my parents becoming detached, likely from the extreme stress. They seemed barely able to think, constantly on the edge of breaking down—not far from where I was myself. My sister found her own stability by marrying young and starting a family, while my brother moved across the country for his career and grew close to my uncle, the former president of Rocketdyne. My uncle became closer to my brother than he ever was with our immediate family or his own sister—my grandmother.

Despite creative and artistic achievements throughout middle school and high school, I could never catch a break. Through high school and the years after, I survived on minimum wage and EBT SNAP benefits, all while struggling with my health anomaly. My connections faded as my health worsened. I didn’t even have my first drink on my 21st birthday. Out of desperation, I humiliated myself begging my brother for a job at the company where he once worked for over a year. Eventually, he reached out to the VP of Creative at Big Night, and I landed my first real salaried job.

In Boston, $75k a year wasn’t much, but compared to surviving on $500 a month in EBT SNAP benefits, it felt like a fortune. Although some success, I ended up walking away from the creative industry altogether. At Big Night, I shifted into web development and blockchain programming, eventually managing the company’s crypto initiatives and helping executives recover hundreds of thousands of dollars in funds. That pivot eventually brought me to where I am now—working as a software engineer. Though I know I don’t quite fit in, my skills set me apart. I excel beyond the average computer science graduate, which is the only reason I was able to hold a position at all, despite not having a degree.

The ultimate reality check comes from looking at where I am now and reflecting on how I got here. I’ve lost everyone—no communication. I’ve come to realize that I am alone in what feels like the animal kingdom—a place with no rules, no laws, only the illusion of order designed to keep people in place, drunk on the Kool-Aid they’re fed through their digital screens.

I know my situation is rare, but I also know there are others like me—people from powerful families who have been put through the same “special programs,” like wilderness programs and special boarding schools, by the very individuals who act as the hidden hand shaping the rest of the world. If there’s anything I’ve learned through all my searching, it’s this: civilization is an elitist continuum stretching back roughly 6,000 years to ancient Sumer. The concept of abstract markets, and the severing of identity from land all come from one idea, one place—Mesopotamia. This idea has spread like a cancer across the planet, severing humanity’s connection to land and forcing us into abstract markets of money, debt, taxation, and centralized state power. Each civilization ends up becoming a melting pot of people, destroying their past identity and heritage in the process. The elite’s goal is to accumulate enough knowledge to advance themselves far enough to drive self-determined evolution—an ideology some authors label as the “tech messiah” and “transhumanism.” Abrahamic religion was created for this sole purpose. The destructive stories and end-times of Abrahamic religion is part of their agenda to wipe out most of humanity once they evolve through self-determination.

There is nothing left to say. We live in a cult controlled by a hidden hand—and I was “lucky” enough to see it for what it is. There is no mystery when someone snaps amid a broken system—only an ugly mirror that shows how callous people can be: the voters, the institutions, and everyone who stood by while this was allowed to happen. The conservatives are as evil as the progressives, and there is no hope but the destruction of this continuum.