CONFESSIONS OF AN EARTH ANGEL

*** This post is taken from other website Fluffer71.com ***

While there may have been other reasons unbeknownst to me, due to a pair of mysterious photos taken of me on Christmas 1971 and 1972, my family believed that I was an earth angel when I was a toddler.

For whatever his reasons at the time, my grandfather, Joe Treanor Wallace Jr, specifically, believed there was something “supernatural “ about me.

As my family bounced around theories, curiosity ended up getting the best of them over time. Where the picture taken on Christmas 1971 was concerned (pictured above) my family had to know – Who was I looking at in the picture? And what caused the shadow of angel wings around me?

My Grandpa Joe thought that by working with me one on one and putting me under hypnosis that he could draw the answers out of me.

The family agreed, but decided to wait until 1978, when I turned seven and it was safer for me to go under.

After I turned 7, my mother and I moved into an apartment complex that connected to my grandfather’s property, which made it more convenient for me to spend time with him while my mom was at work.

Before introducing me to hypnosis, my grandfather believed trust between us needed to be established. He took time to simply be with me—listening, talking, and getting to know me—so that what started as quiet moments together could grow into a young, budding friendship.

Although Grandpa Joe was raised a Southern Methodist, a brain aneurysm in the late 1960s – one that nearly took his life – quietly reshaped him. After that, his faith widened into something more spiritual, more attentive to the unseen.

In our time together, he shared what he’d learned about Masons, crystals, and the way energy can be felt and read. He introduced me to tarot cards, too, and he did it gently—never pushing, always inviting. Then, when he could tell my curiosity had truly been piqued, he began to talk about hypnosis and the power of concentration.

For my protection, my grandfather never allowed me to remember what was discussed while I was under hypnosis. Aside from some vague, foggy memories, what we covered in those hypnosis sessions is mostly a mystery to me. It’s one of the reasons Grandpa Joe captured the sessions on a tape recorder, so I could hear what we covered later in life, when I was more mature.

Above said, this much I know – I gave my family more than they expected when Grandpa Joe first tapped into my subconscious. I was able to identify who visited me that first Christmas, and I also knew things a 7 year old boy shouldn’t know, discoveries that set in motion a summer of hypnosis sessions, all of which my grandfather recorded.

Unfortunately, my backstory isn’t as much about enlightenment as it is betrayal.

While my grandfather and I were eagerly tapping into the ethers that summer, my parents were learning that having an earth angel as a son can be lucrative, so long as my mom and dad were willing to make one small sacrifice… an offer that became increasingly attractive after my parents discovered that of the many revelations learned that summer, I was gay, which I suspect wasn’t a hard sell at the time, given my love of ballet, Barbie Dolls, and Wonder Woman.

How it all went down is a blur. Being 7 at the time, I naturally wasn’t apart of any discussions involving child sacrifices and trafficking. But I do remember how grief stricken my Grandpa Joe was when he learned of my parent’s decision to cash in on me. Not truly understanding what I was about to endure, I remember comforting my grandfather and telling him I’d be okay and not to worry. It wasn’t his fault, mom and dad were just on hard times and needed the money.

I said it to Grandpa Joe just like mom said it to me.

Nothing would change.

Leading up to the evening that would alter the course of my life, I met with my grandfather. I remember him placing his hands on my shoulders, looking in my eyes, and stressing, “Whatever you do, Damon. Don’t give in to those people.”

I’m not exactly sure who “those people” were. While I recall my grandfather telling me about Masons, I also remember meeting with a priest with gnarly teeth and bad breath that was very condescending to me.

Whatever “they” go by, as far as I’m concerned, they’re a satanic cult. Hard to see it any other way when you take into account what was done to a seven year old boy for being gay.

On the night I was sold, I remember being on a stage with my parents (I was sitting off to the side, while my parents were center stage). There were people in the audience who I couldn’t make out beyond their silhouettes due to the spotlights shining on me. There was also a lively host on stage with us, game show style, who facilitated the selling of my soul.

My parents turned down the first few offers, which brought me relief. For a moment I actually thought I might survive the sacrifice, but, regrettably, it turns out my parents were just holding out for a specific dollar amount.

Once an amount was agreed upon, I lowered my head and began crying, which was met with a combination of laughter, applause, and awwwws from the shadows in the audience. I only lifted my head up when I heard my mother say, “I believe in God, but I don’t believe in Damon.”

To which the host replied, “Don’t say it to me, Donna. Say it to your son.”

I know it wasn’t easy for my mother. I could sense she was fighting back tears. But after a pause that still lingers, as instructed, my mom locked eyes with me and sealed the deal with an “I believe in God, but I don’t believe in you.”

Given the influx of money and prestige that came with being aligned with a wealthy, satanic cult, on the car ride home my parents laughed about how jealous their friends were going to be, while I continued fighting off tears from the back seat.

I’m not exactly sure how much my soul was worth back in 1978, but it was enough money to buy my dad a ‘79 Subaru Brat, put him back through college full time, afforded my parents the opportunity to buy their first home, and I suspect, helped pay for my mother’s way through law school in the mid 80s.

THE MAESTRO ON MUTE

Of all the hypnosis sessions I underwent that summer, the one I remember with the most clarity is the second to last hypnosis session, and for good reason.

For starters, unlike previous sessions, in this one – Grandpa Joe was going rogue. In an effort to atone for my parent’s poor decisions, he came up with an alternative plan.

Grandpa Joe created a mental escape hatch for me.

My grandfather explained that while he couldn’t make up for the pain I’d endure in the years ahead, he promised to make the second half of my life much more happy and celebratory, which included a house and a trust fund that would be waiting for me.

As a side note, in the fated & final hypnosis session which I’ve yet to discuss, my grandfather would instruct me to forget the time I’d spent with him that summer. Once the hypnosis sessions were completed, he’d basically become a stranger to me, just some relative I never really got a chance to know.

Some of the most heartbreaking aspects of my story involve the sacrifices my grandfather made for my sake. As a matter of honor, for example, he refused to let anyone but himself subject me to the final, life altering hypnosis, no matter how painful and difficult to deliver. It was the one advantage my grandfather felt he had over the cult that would later traffic me. And all involved agreed, given our history together and for the hypnosis to work best, Grandpa Joe needed to deliver it to me.

With better understanding of what was to follow, during that second to last hypnosis session my grandfather explained that unlike previous sessions where he focused on the past, in this session he wanted to focus on the future. Specifically, he wanted to create a time capsule set to go off on April 28, 2021…

My 50th birthday.

After having me focus on his pocket watch and explaining the intentions of the session, my grandfather asked me to first select a song from the radio. Given the lyrics and that I loved dancing, we agreed on the song “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John to help encapsulate our discussion.

After I chose a song, my grandfather explained that when the time capsule is activated on my 50th birthday, my memories wouldn’t return all at once. 1978 wouldn’t be at the forefront. I’d probably sense the betrayal before I could place it, which would only add to an experience that is already emotional and disorienting. With time, however, he said my memories of him would resurface and solidify.

To reclaim my grandfather’s promise to me, he insisted that I express myself creatively throughout my life. While my conscious memories would be erased, he explained that my parents couldn’t remove what was stored in my subconscious. He believed creativity would not only help draw my buried, traumatic memories to the surface, but serve as pieces to a puzzle that I could later assemble—after I remembered the crimes committed against me.

Once my 50th birthday has passed, my grandfather urged me to revisit the music, movies, and artists that resonated with me most over the years. There’s a reason the songs and films would mean so much to me. Like the art I should feel compelled to create and express, he explained that even the songs I loved most would serve as clues to my emancipation.

Because my parents chose to align with a satanic cult, my grandfather warned that as my memories resurfaced, my family would refuse to take any accountability. He believed that out of fear of exposure, by the time I turned 50 I’d likely be surrounded by cult members and paid infiltrators—chaos agents posing as friends and colleagues— who would be incentivized to discredit me, attack my character, and make me look and feel unstable.

To help reinforce a narrative that I was angry and unraveling, Grandpa Joe explained that my parents would likely pay people to provoke me. To succeed in their mission, they needed people to testify that I was an unstable man, some lunatic rambling on about lost memories, angels, and a stolen inheritance, nothing more than a menace to society that needs to be locked up.

To cope with the reactionary abuse and to avoid getting bated, my grandfather encouraged me to isolate myself and to focus on what I love most: dancing, telling stories, and coloring outside the lines. He challenged me to be brave, to ignore the naysayers I’d encounter along the way, and to express myself openly as my memories of him resurface. Like the songs of yesteryear, the expressions – whether written, painted, or sung – would serve as a journal of sorts as I hone in on my truth.

In effect, to find my way back to my Grandpa Joe, all I needed to do was manifest my way through wonderland… with music on my mind, love in my heart, and the will to dance again.

Got it.

However daunting and complex my deliverables may have seemed back in 1978, God had my back. By 2021 standards, my grandfather was simply telling me to open a TikTok account, which was a good thing. Expressing myself publicly in isolation, for one, had me spiraling back then (I remember challenging him on that point).

It wasn’t until the end of the session that my grandfather informed me of his intentions to leave me a house and trust fund. Overwhelmed by his generosity, I gave him a hug and told him that I loved him, that I appreciated him believing in me when no one else would. It was then that he asked me where I wanted the house.

I chose North Carolina.

After our hug, I’m sure that it occurred to both of us. Where our sessions were concerned, this was goodbye. In the next session, we’d be focused on business. Two brave gentlemen completing a transaction. All the magic we had unearthed that summer would need to be sealed up, for now.

Although my grandfather would live another 24 years, this chapter of our lives was drawing to a close and wouldn’t be revisited for another 43 years. When we reconnect in the future, Grandpa Joe would assume the role of a ghost, a memory committed to teaching me how to love again, where communication would be limited to tarot cards, synchronicities, and random songs that play in the night.

The session ended with my Grandpa Joe dangling his pocket watch in front of me. I remember both of us grinning like two boys with a science project, eager to know what the future held, when he asked me to keep repeating, “I will remember this meeting with Grandpa Joe on April 28, 2021. I will remember this meeting…”

Until that date arrived, I’d come to assume the role of the maestro on mute, a boy that would become a man blinded his circumstances, unaware that in 1978 I not only said goodbye to my grandfather, but my parents as well. The people I knew as mom and dad would become my wardens moving forward, people paid by a satanic cult to keep an earth angel sad.

Thank God for music.

My grandfather never wanted to put me in position where I had to lie. While Grandpa Joe went rogue that hypnosis session, when I asked if I could tell my mom about the house, he told me “Of course you can!”

I remember telling my mother the news. We were still in my grandfather’s driveway. After throwing my book bag in the back, I jumped in the front seat and shouted, “Grandpa Joe is building me a house! I won’t get it till I’m 50, but he’s going to leave me enough money that I can retire there!”

My mother played along with my excitement, but she had to be gritting her teeth. For dramatic effect, I like to think Grandpa Joe was in the doorway waving goodbye as we backed out of the driveway.

It was my Grandpa Joe that turned my awakening into a game that the whole family could play. He knew that when he left me a house and trust fund, the family would get his will altered, likely by corrupt judges and attorneys within my parent’s cult, which I wouldn’t question. If I was to learn of the house and trust fund after my grandfather’s passing, it would naturally lead to questions that would end up exposing my parents and the satanic cult they aligned with. Conversely, if the cult could get me locked up or, best case scenario, get me to commit suicide, then my parents would not only defeat me and my grandfather, but win a house, money, and property to boot.

Game on.

Besides doing right by me, by leaving me a house and trust fund, Grandpa Joe had a bigger point to prove to my family and the world at large.

In his heart, my grandfather believed that I was an earth angel. He was adamant that my family was playing a very dangerous game with something far bigger than them. He warned my parents that I couldn’t be defeated, that they were being used as pawns by the devil. He reminded my mom and dad who had my back, and they both still chose not to believe.

After all, why would God protect a homosexual?

My Grandpa Joe’s last words to me before my mother pulled into the driveway that afternoon was a reminder of how important my mission was, and how honored I should feel that God chose me to fulfill it.

The stakes were clear to both of us, and it had nothing to do with a house or a trust fund. Should I complete my mission and earn back my wings, the world would know that throughout all my adversities, God was rooting for me, the gay kid. I would be proof to everyone that God loves people who love, regardless of their circumstances or preferences.

I remember enough from those hypnosis sessions. As I write this today it occurs to me that my grandfather knew then what I understand now.

All of this was written.

God had been waiting for the both of us when I stumbled into heaven that foggy morning in 1978. For all his splendor and benevolence, my grandfather and I learned a valuable lesson that summer that both humbled and inspired us.

When you meet God, be prepared to prove your love, however long it may take.

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

One of my favorite memories of my Grandma Wallace was of her and I watching the cartoon, Chilly Willy. I was so tickled by how funny she found the cartoon. The more she laughed at the cartoon, the more joy it brought me and the more I laughed. It was the silliest cartoon, but I can’t remember laughing harder with her.

As often as I’ve thought about that memory over the years, what I never understood until more recently was that that memory occurred on the day the music died, the morning of my final hypnosis session. My grandma had driven up to Pennsylvania from North Carolina to help try and change my parent’s mind. I got lost in her laughter that morning, because I was terrified of the events to follow.

When the cartoon ended, my grandma drove me over to my mom-mom’s house, where a family intervention was already taking place. Her and I were the last to arrive.

Aside from remembering my grandma shouting, “you can’t say that to a child,” most everything else is a blur. When people were done talking at each other, someone asked me what I thought.

Like my grandfather, I accepted that I was on a mission and treated it as such. The decision had already been made anyway, the meeting was an opportunity for my grandmothers to weigh in. I told my family that I agreed, the additional money would help my parents. While I’d no longer have my memories, I trusted they’d do right by me. They were my mom and dad, after all.

My consent brought the family intervention to a close. My Grandma Wallace refused to be present when the hypnosis took place so she hugged me goodbye before leaving in tears.

What followed next would become a pivotal clue in solving my case in 2025, which I’d almost overlooked given the dramatic nature of the memories that morning.

I overheard my Grandpa Joe say that the family needed to agree on something to help me remember the meeting before going under. Like the song Tiny Dancer, my grandfather wanted me to have a token to remember the family debate and final hypnosis session.

It was my Aunt Elaine who leaned in and recommended that we use the Polaroid taken of me and my mom-mom from Christmas morning 1972. Everyone agreed. It was a no brainer. After all, the picture taken with my mom-mom that Christmas was the picture that started it all. After that picture was taken, my family began revisiting pictures from the previous Christmas. And that’s when they first realized, I’d been visited before.

Remembering this detail earlier this year was significant, because it confirmed for me that my parents were quite literally in a competition with me over my inheritance.

Why else would my parents agree to using the photo as a trigger for my awakening? If my grandfather set up some ground rules after my parents became aware of my inheritance, why didn’t they just destroy the photo to hobble my journey if thievery was the goal? Were they overconfident and think my grandfather’s request was silly? Were my parents even concerned when I took the Polaroid following my mom-mom’s death in 2010?

Whatever the case, my parents underestimated how much of an impact that Polaroid would have on me when I happened upon it on September 10, 2023, back when I was struggling to understand why people were betraying me, being cruel, and attacking my character.

Looks like my grandfather’s silly request may have saved my life. Making sure that a photo from 1978 made it into my hands when I was at my lowest in 2023, however, that was God’s work, something else my parents clearly underestimated.

After we agreed on the photo, Grandpa Joe put a hand on my shoulder and told me that it was time.

My grandfather led me through the dining room and sat me down on a stairwell in the kitchen. I remember hearing sniffles coming from the other room. My mother was nearby, however, just around the corner from me and my grandfather. She needed to be within earshot to ensure Grandpa Joe adhered to the script supplied by her cult.

I made eye contact with my mom one last time just as my Grandpa Joe was removing a pocket watch from his blazer. I was terrified and didn’t want to break eye contact, but in an instant she was gone, around the corner telling the family in the other room to hush.

It’s happening now.

It took me awhile to piece together and remember what my grandfather said to me during that final hypnosis session. Given the life I now know would follow that hypnosis session, taking into account the abuse I’ve endured over the last 4 years, I feel validated by my recollection, and I understand why my grandfather needed consoling from me weeks earlier.

After getting me into a deep meditative state, Grandpa Joe kept reminding me that I was undeserving of love, incapable at life, and that nobody cared what I thought.

In between repeating the mantra, my grandfather explained that my mother was the only person that understood me, that she was the only person I could truly trust.

My grandfather then told me that I was angry at the world, that I get jealous at people more successful than me. He helped me understand that it’s okay to be violent if I get frustrated or when others hurt me or make me feel stupid.

Grandpa Joe impressed upon me that I was slow, not as smart as everyone else. He helped me understand that studying was pointless, that I’d never amount into someone successful anyway.

And lastly, Grandpa Joe explained that upon awakening, I’d no longer have any memories of the time I’d spent with him that summer. After the hypnosis, I was to go straight to up to my mom-mom’s bed and sleep. Once I wake up, I’d have no recollection of ever being hypnotized.

I am undeserving of love, incapable at life, and nobody cares what I think.

As I slept after the hypnosis, my family waited downstairs to see who would awaken from his slumber. Both sides of my family rarely commingled, so Grandpa Joe excused himself to avoid confusion on my part (I know this because they discussed his timely exit before I went under).

The boy who descended the stairs that early afternoon was a shadow of himself. As instructed, he had no memories of his grandfather nor the hypnosis conducted that summer. And whatever joy he’d brought into the world previously had been squelched by an underlying sadness that he couldn’t reach or understand, which caused him to retreat from social settings, lash out when provoked, and throw tantrum when confused.

When summer ended, I started the 3rd grade in a new school, but I couldn’t properly function in social settings yet. The happy, outgoing boy weeks prior had been replaced with someone chronically withdrawn, sad, and surprisingly prone to violence. After only a month, I was expelled for going into a blind rage and hurling a desk at my teacher.

From there I was transferred to a private school better equipped to handle my behavioral issues and learning disabilities, where the nuns on the property outnumbered the students… when you take into account that there were 15 students max in the school, that class sizes were often as a low as 2, and that the school was connected to Saint Joseph Villa, a retirement community for nuns (the Bernardine Franciscan Sisters, specifically).

A school within a convent of retired nuns, lush gardens with trails where a decision could lead me to a statue of the Virgin Mary, or a graveyard for women that dedicated their lives to God, or an elderly nun on a bench eating an egg salad sandwich with pickles, watching me out of the corner of her eye as I hide behind a tree… all ended up being the perfect antidote for a boy separated from his imagination.

Thanks to the help of my teacher, Sister Adalia, I wrote my first short story on that bench in the garden, surrounded by granite saints overseeing my progress. It was a tale about Jack Frost, a prince with hands that freezes the people he loves, on a quest to find a pair of magic gloves that could break his curse.

I’ve always admired resilient women. Whether intentional or not, Sister Adalia was the first person to teach me how to transmute pain into expression, just as Grandpa Joe had asked of me.

I’m not sure if Sister Adalia knew why I was wounded but she understood my wounds ran deep. She didn’t pry much. She was perfectly content listening to the adventures of Jack Frost, or like me, she appreciated the silence, times when we said nothing to each other and paid our respects to the chirping birds. An 8 year old boy and his first friend, both eating half an egg salad sandwich with pickles.

However dark this period of my life could have been, I credit the Bernardine Franciscan Sisters for helping me heal enough to where I could attend a regular Catholic school again three years later (without throwing a desk at my teacher).

In the summer of 1982 my family moved to Chicago. The following year Sister Adalia passed away in her sleep.

SAYING GOODBYE, AGAIN

My Grandpa Joe died on Valentines Day 2002. Of all his children and grandchildren, I was the only one that didn’t attend his funeral. Aside from battling depression and feeling I never really knew my grandfather, I was living on the west coast and 6 months earlier I had been diagnosed with AIDS.

While I was never hospitalized, I’d lost weight since my family last saw me, and I was concerned about traveling. Dealing with fears of my own mortality while potentially exposing my condition to family or, equally painful, pretending that everything was great, was too much to bear.

I paid my respects to Grandpa Joe in private. When I closed my eyes, I pictured him in his den with a book, sitting at the end of a couch smoking his pipe. I stood in the doorway and explained to him that I was sorry for not getting to know him better. He deserved a grandson more considerate, someone brave enough to say goodbye, let alone hello.

The last time I saw Grandpa Joe was somewhere between 1995 – 2000. I remember visiting Reading, Pennsylvania with my mom but I can’t recall where I flew in from. Whatever the case, prior to my final visit with my grandfather, I hadn’t seen him in over a decade.

What I assumed would be an insignificant visit, turned out to be anything but. We were in the living room of my grandfather’s house, mom and me on one couch, my step grandmother Pat and Grandpa Joe across from us.

At some point while engaging with Pat, I thought I heard my grandfather giggling, which would’ve been very out of character. When I faced him, however, I realized Grandpa Joe wasn’t laughing, he was crying. Even more haunting, his eyes were completely locked on me.

What followed next was equally jarring. My mother was petrified at my side and my step grandmother, kept repeating “Joe” in a cold, stern, escalating tone, as if scolding a child, while leaning in like she was going to pounce on him.

However confusing back then, knowing what I know now, I can’t help but wonder if my grandfather knew what he was doing. Without ever saying a word to me, he gifted me a memory that would later help support my emerging, repressed memories. Why he’d get emotional seeing me again made sense, but did my reserved grandfather let go where he’d normally show restraint?

Also noteworthy about my final visit with Grandpa Joe – On the car ride home, my rattled mother said she suspected we wouldn’t be seeing my Grandpa Joe again.

I remember being haunted by those words the next morning, when we learned my grandfather had survived a life threatening fall in the shower.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

My father never lived to see April 28, 2021. He died of COVID-19 five months before my 50th birthday.

Being widowed, I encouraged my mother to leave Chicago. I recommended that she move somewhere closer to me in San Diego.

My mother agreed. 4 months later in March of 2021, Donna Brooke Wallace became a resident of Palm Desert, California.

After helping my mother get situated, something else happened that March. I opened a TikTok account, one month before my 50th birthday. And for the launch of Fluffer71, I chose “Jump Around” by the House of Pain as the inaugural video.

The stage was set, all the paid players were in place, and now, all anyone involved could do was wait with bated breath…

A seven year old boy was about to turn 50 and no one involved had any idea what was about to happen, least of all me. I was too busy eating Lucky Charms by the fistful in a unicorn onesie.

Let the games begin. Mano e Mama.

In one corner Donna Brooke Wallace, Esquire, her satanic cult with members in the law and judicial system, and the chaos agents paid to wreak havoc in my life, posing as friends, work colleagues, and a very handsome personal trainer.

In the other corner, a blindfolded man, a ghost, and God… and an urge to dance.

SCORCHED EARTH

“There is a legend about a song that travels in the air. It has circled Earth for generations, endured the most brutal storms, and witnessed the rise of man. For all its travels, however, few men have ever hummed this song. Most men cannot hear it; they are tone-deaf to the notes. Only the most powerful of men, the gentlest among us, can decipher the chords. Only he can remember the lyrics and recite the words to other men.”

– The Haunting of Damon Wallace / May 31, 2021.

A month after my 50th birthday, I wrote an essay called “The Haunting of Damon Wallace”, which included a video to a track I’d recorded in 2011 called “Awakening”. In the essay I visited ghosts of birthday past, exploring the question that haunts many of us – Why do I hate myself? Why do I feel undeserving of love, and, in my case, why do I feel the need to express it publicly?

While the essay itself is rather lengthy, below is the opening.

“I never considered myself the haunting kind, but lately I’ve found myself revisiting some ghosts of birthdays past through old creative endeavors of mine. I watched videos and listened to music I’d recorded over the years, and reread old journal entries, poems, and essays I’d written. As if astral projecting through space and time, I found myself reliving those periods of my life and tapped into emotions long since felt. I saw my past looking back at me, the man of the future, and remembered dreams of being a writer left unfulfilled.

This uninvited time travel to ghosts of birthdays past was triggered in April, after completing my 50th lap around the sun. While I repeat to myself that age is just a number, there was something about this milestone that gave me a deep sense of pause that I hadn’t encountered before; it was like being suspended in time and being forced to open my eyes, to look back on my life so that I might take this more purposeful step forward…”

While I was asking the right questions and setting the stage, there was still one ghost needing my attention when I penned “The Haunting of Damon Wallace”. While things would begin unraveling around me in my life and I would sense the betrayal, it would take me nearly two years to begin honing in on Grandpa Joe and 1978, when by the grace of God I woke up one morning to a memory of my Grandpa Joe helping me choose a song from the radio.

Back then, I was confused by the memory and openly questioning whether repressed happiness was a thing. It would take me an additional 6 months to happen across a photo taken on Christmas Morning 1972, which triggered a tsunami of memories that left me questioning everyone in my life, while I pieced my memories together in isolation… with a TikTok account, fighting my way through Wonderland one song at a time.

When I recouped the memory of Grandpa Joe helping me select the song Tiny Dancer in March of 2023, I told my mom. It was actually her response to the memory that first made her suspect. I wasn’t sharing anything traumatic, yet she was acting defensive. She began emailing me theories as to why I was experiencing delusions.

When I resigned from my job 5 months later to pursue a life expressed more creatively, my mother inundated me with questions about having no income, cobra expenses, rent, etc… impressing upon me a lack mindset that I refused to accept.

Shortly after quitting my job in August 2023, I cut off my mother so that I could focus on creating content. As I explained it to her, I was investing in time. If I worry about bills and what could go wrong, I’m only robbing from myself of my investment and determining my fate.

Shortly thereafter I noticed a decrease in my viewership on TikTok. A couple weeks after that I accidentally knocked over a box in storage, spilling a bunch of old photos across the floor, one of which was a Polaroid taken on Christmas morning 1972.

The rest of what happened is documented via my social media platforms. Suffice it to say, while I still may not have received my inheritance, the fact that I’m writing this confession today is proof that I survived my family’s attempts to make me feel crazy and successfully pieced together the puzzle pieces that my grandfather left behind. Unfortunately for my family, suicide was never even an option. My faith in God never wavered, even before I remembered any of my heavenly rendezvous from 1978.

Instead of reliving all that was done to me over the past 4 years, I want to fast forward and share an excerpt from a post I wrote three years after my awakening on December 2, 2024, to summarize how hard my family and their cult came for me.

“My time has been served.

I held up my end of the deal. I lived to tell my tale. Throughout the defamation, gaslighting, shadow banning, smear campaigns, fake profiles, spoofed messages, stalking, false allegations, and the concerted efforts to isolate and silence me, I fulfilled a promise to my grandfather.

I was a brave heart, a confused, blindfolded boy waking up in an arena of bullies with insidious intentions posing as loving family, friends, and colleagues, where most spectators felt more inclined to heckle along or turn a blind eye than show compassion. However unpopular it might make me, I told the truth and held people accountable when few would listen, care, or believe me.

And, as an added bonus, like any respectable 7 year old that no one wants to play with – I stayed home in a unicorn onesie with love in my heart, where I could listen to music, play the Legend of Zelda, and imagine myself a disco themed Superhero – Fluffer71, “Guardian of the Dance Floor / Defender of Good Vibes / The Demon Slayer”.”

SEEKING EMANCIPATION

I love my mother and I always will. Up until 2021, whenever I was asked who my hero is, I’d respond ‘my mom’.

I liked to point out that when my mother was graduating from Law School second in her class, I was barely graduating High School with a D+ average in 1989. I’d tell people that my mother is one of the hardest working women I know, and that I’m proud of her accomplishments and the bravery she demonstrated when confronting and overcoming cancer.

I also like to point out that in all of our years together, my mother and I never had an argument. Not one. Of all the people on this rock, I trusted her most.

For all my appreciation of my mom’s accomplishments, what I didn’t understand, of course, was that not only did I help pave the way for my mother’s law degree, but she was likely getting that degree to better understand how to rig a system against her son, along with her wealthy, scholarly cult connections.

Defeating me became my mother’s mission in life. She ignored my Grandpa Joe’s warnings in 1978 about her inevitable doom should she try to sacrifice me, because my mom was too blinded by her ego to see – It was her soul that got sold to the devil that rainy evening in 1978, not mine.

My Grandpa Joe held up his end of the deal. While I was stumbling through life and ignoring him, he was building me a house in North Carolina. I’m sure he had me in mind when he chose the location, because the name “Sunset Beach” ended up becoming another clue in a scavenger hunt set across space and time, all of which collectively pointed back to my Grandpa Joe’s promise to me.

Throughout my awakening and resurfaced memories, my family deployed a strategy of ignore and isolate. Throughout my public outcries, not one single person in my family addressed the abuse I endured then or now, even those present at the family intervention in 1978. They just sat there and watched, hoping I’d feel humiliated and buckle under the abuse. Compassion was never a consideration where they were concerned, complete destruction of my character, sanity, and stability were the only option.

If my grandfather’s suspicions are correct, then aside from reconstituting his will and laundering money, while I have been sitting alone in silence for over two years, my family and cult members have either been trying to get me set up to go to jail or a mental institution, and they’ve likely paid people to attack my character with money from my trust fund. And, sadly, my mom likely has a bounty on my head to get me to shut up, since shadow banning me into submission didn’t work.

The hardest part of my journey wasn’t living to tell, it was waking up to a world that doesn’t seem to care, can’t change my circumstances, or is rooting for my failure. I’ve had to consider that, even after remembering all that was done to me, I might not receive my wings after all. That perhaps for all my grandfather’s preparations to ensure I received a house and trust fund, the one thing he didn’t calculate into his time capsule is how apathetic people in the future would be to his grandson’s pain.

If nothing else, my circumstances are a good case study about cause and effect. When you’re conditioned to believe you’re undeserving of love, you’ll surround yourself with people that refuse to believe there’s anything exceptional about you.

Whether you believe in earth angels or not, my family and the cult they sold me to did. However dark to consider, from the perspective of a luciferian, for the past 47 years they’ve been banking on me to commit suicide. After all, what greater victory could the devil claim than to driving one of God’s angels to lose faith in Him?

Should I be an earth angel then none of this should be a surprise. If I know God, he only sends angels to Earth when he intends to pack a punch. Bringing down a satanic cult with wealthy donors that traffic children, launders money through businesses, and has members within the judicial system and government… that has God written all over it.

Besides, I can’t think of a more angelic way of defeating the devil than victory by musical.