Tormented Prison

By Sky Gram

Janes prison started out very early in life with her family. She was raised in a satanic cult, which used and abused her even before she was born. She tries to believe and trust in someone but ends up hurt time and time again. This book reveals what Jane endured with family, relationships, and work, and what life was and is like for her now. She talks about her diagnoses of dissociative identity disorder, PTSD, depression, suicide, anxiety, and fears. Sky refers to herself as Jane Doe, an insignificant identity. I am another Jane Doe trapped in my tormented prison.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493182060

Sky Gram

Sky Gram was born in 1965 and grew up in the Midwest. She moved around quite a bit, worked a variety of jobs, and became a mother while trying to understand her confusing life. She found her interest in the criminal justice system and became a prison corrections officer. Once overcoming obstacles, Sky managed to graduate from college, at the age of forty-five, with a BS in criminal justice administration. Sky loves photography, her family, nature, and animals. Sky is not sure what she would have done without her dogs—best unconditional love ever.

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Copyright © 2014 by Sky Gram.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014904209

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-8205-3

   Softcover    978-1-4931-8204-6

   eBook         978-1-4931-8206-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 03/28/2014

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Episode One   Family

Episode Two   Incidents

Episode Three   Who Am I?

Episode Four   Relationships

Episode Five   Integration

Episode Six   Parenting

Episode Seven   Working

Episode Eight   Current

Episode Nine   Conclusion

INTRODUCTION

1

From the time I was even conceived, I was considered abused. By abused, I mean verbally, physically, sexually, and satanically. I am not a celebrity, sports star, or a hero. I am just another Jane Doe in a world full of Jane Does trying to understand my own life. Many years ago, I found out that I was working my mind in ways that most people, or I, could not comprehend, let alone believe possible at the time. However, as many people do in life and can clearly understand, we do what we must in life to survive.

Like our heroes of war and survivors who have experienced severe trauma, I too have been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). From what I have learned about PTSD over the years is that triggers can continue to bring back the trauma, or the fears, to some degree for the duration of a person’s life. Yet not all PTSD diagnoses exhibit the same symptoms. However, my understanding is that some of the other issues, symptoms, that come with the PTSD can be debilitating at times. I am forty-eight years old right now, and I still have the triggers; I can control them better than I could many, many moons ago, although there are things that I cannot handle, which does cause me not to be in crowds, not to go out alone, and unable to work outside of the home. I have tried to work out of the home on a number of occasions but have failed at the task.

The one diagnosis that I hated, refused to accept at first, and had to learn so much about was my dissociative identity disorder (DID). Dissociative identity disorder is formally known as multiple personality disorder (MPD)—like changing the name made the diagnosis any prettier. When a person develops dissociative identity disorder, I found out it is at a very young age. I was also informed that it is developed when a person cannot handle the extreme abuse or trauma that is happening to them. The person has to have the capability and the intelligence, I was told by therapists, to create different personalities to protect themselves during that abuse or trauma. So when my story mentions the fog, floating, watching, haze, blackouts, and having no memory of incidents happening, this would be why because I was essentially not me. Also, another aspect about the diagnosis of DID is the story will mention an alternate system. The alternate system is much like another world for me because it is where my alternate personalities and I would go to retreat from my family, the abuse, and the trauma.

The abuse and trauma, as I mentioned earlier, do contain the involvement of a satanic cult. My parents were the head of the satanic cult, which meant I was raised within that cult and their secular society. Each satanic coven is different, and each family runs its coven differently. No two satanic cults are alike, just like no two snowflakes are alike. There will be similarities, never exacts—much like how I believe that no one knows how another person feels; they can only understand because no two situations are exact.

My story is my own, and not only have I been asked to share it numerous times, but also I am choosing to share my story by my own volition. As I write my story, I will be thinking of what people might be thinking because some will believe my story to be untrue in a number of areas because of how horrific the story comes across. My abuse, terror, and pain did happen behind closed doors, and the only witnesses were the members of the coven. For you skeptics, please keep an open mind and heart. The world that we all live in is not as simple as we would like to think it should be. I find the world to be complicated and lonely. I feel most days I stand alone in my thoughts, beliefs, and my passions. I am writing this book to help share a story that has been in the dark for me since the day I was born and with hopes that someone will relate.

I have been referred to as a very unique person because they usually considered me as intelligent, and that is definitely not what most folks thought of me, nor how I ever saw myself. I think of intelligence like this from time to time: One’s behavior doesn’t necessarily match one’s intelligence.

The normal people—and I say the word normal in quotations because it has yet to really be defined to me because I believe everyone’s normal is different. Yet I am referred to as not normal. It was a normal person who did inform me that I managed to survive a life that others may not have survived, or could even understand. Do this, look around; there are more people like me right next to you every day. We are hurting units that need to find safety in believers and not condemners.

EPISODE ONE

Family

2

I grew up at a home that had no idea of what the word love actually meant. My home life was abusive and degrading, and I felt the homes were full of hate. I say the word homes because my family moved around numerous times in my first five years of life; I believe we moved about twelve times. What the neighbors saw and what the neighbors heard were two different things; however, not one neighbor picked up the phone and called the police. Life was scary, lonely, and unpredictable until I was able to get away.

I am the second of four children. From what my mother, Beth, constantly told me, I was an unwanted pregnancy. At the time my mother was pregnant with my brother Tim, which was okay by my father, James. Apparently, my mother did not have permission to be pregnant with me. What I found out later in life was Beth and James did not know who my father really was. My father liked to tell me that my biological father’s name was Bob. I have no clue if I was being told the truth or not. I was just too young to understand at first, and then I was too old to give a damn. However, James and Beth were married due to a card game. From what I was told, Bob and James drew cards, and one would marry my mother. What was interesting was I never found out who won and who lost the game… Either way, James ended up married to my mother and had two more children. Jennifer came third and then little Samuel (Sam). Ah yes, you should know more about my siblings.

First, my mother had four children in three and half years: Timothy (Tim), my older brother, is the spitting image of my father, hence the nickname Shorty. My younger sister, Jennifer, was my mother’s favorite, and her nickname was Precious. Then you have my younger brother, Samuel, who is the baby of the family, and his nickname is Buddy. I tried to find out why I never got a nickname as a child, but I was never my father’s favorite, my mother’s favorite, or the baby of the family. I guess that each family appears to have a black sheep and a nobody, and apparently that was my role; for that reason, the name Jane. I was treated like a vagrant in my own family—unloved, tossed aside, and an outcast.

When I was a young adult, it originated that my abuse started before I was even born. I was having so much trouble at the time trying to comprehend my pathetic life, and then I found out I was an unwanted pregnancy, which, of course, made me an unwanted child, therefore the black sheep of the family. I found out that my mother, oh dear sweet Mother, did not want me to live even before I was born. Mother would tell me horrific stories of her demonic creations for my demise just to prove how much I was unwanted. Amazing how my mother would speak the truth when inebriated and no one else was around to hear.

Why not push my luck a little further? I thought; she was already intoxicated. I asked my mother that same day why there was not one baby picture of me, like my siblings, of the day I was born. I was told, You were an ugly baby! I could just feel the love that day (sarcasm)! Mother told me that I came out black and blue from head to toe! Two black eyes, forehead pushed back, no hair, faced smashed in, and just plain ugly! My mother thought I was going to be really stupid too. My mother without a doubt had no issue calling me ugly or stupid when she was drinking or, in some cases, talking with someone she knew quite well. The concept of speaking those touching words to me was not a problem for my charming mother with or without a drink.

However, those were not the only touching words my parents had for me. Mother and Father continued to tell me one thing over and over, I believe from the time I was born, I do not want you! Those five very simple words have stuck with me my entire life. I have done what I could do to forget that very phrase, but I will always remember that I was an insignificant child to the two people who were meant to mean the world to me.

EPISODE TWO

Incidents

3

I did not cry much as a baby because I was taught early in life not to cry because there was no comfort from someone holding me, just the anger for making noise and seeing this huge hand covering my face. One of my earliest memories crying was my father touching me, but it was not in comfort; he was fondling me when I was in the dresser drawer. The dresser drawer was converted into a bed for me. My sister, Jennifer, was in the crib because my mother was like a rabbit when it came to getting pregnant and having babies so fast. My father would kneel on the floor and begin molesting me.

Why couldn’t my father just have shut the dresser drawer with me inside, like my mother would do, and walk away?

4

At a very young age, I would always remember large fires, lots of people, and moving to new homes. I would remember these horrible headaches, grabbing my head, falling to the floor, and then requiring large amounts of sleep afterward. The headaches throbbed, I was foggy, and it felt like hundreds of people were talking to me at one time. My headaches also flashed on when my parents had these huge arguments and fights. The arguments were not quiet ones either; I swear the house would rattle like an earthquake. There was a time when I was about four years old, and my parents, Beth and James, had a horrific fight. The two of them were screaming curse words: fuck, bastard, cunt, bitch, shit, and so on. (I was fluent in French by the time I was four years old.) Mother and Father were threatening each other with bodily harm the entire night that guns came out and were waving in the air. The next thing you know, ashtrays were flying, lamps were crashing against the wall, tables were being turned over, and a fistfight was breaking out. I crawled across the floor to check on my siblings. Sam, my younger brother, was crying in his crib; Tim, my older brother, was staring at the goldfish in its bowl; and Jennifer, my little sister, was in our bedroom crying. By the time I checked on my parents’ fight by crawling back to the living room area, my father was choking my mother, and she went down to the floor. My mother had passed out, but to a four-year-old child, it appeared that my mother was dead.

My brain said to run; however, I had a sister and two brothers who needed attending to, and I faded out. So at that exact moment was when I got busted crawling across the living room floor from when I went to check on my siblings. My father caught me and picked me up by my neck and threw me across the room. I fell hard, but I got up in a haze and stumbled, and I eventually made it back to my room where I stayed put.

By the time my parents were done fighting, it was way past the dinner hour, and my sister, Jennifer, was complaining she was hungry. I told her to shush! My parents were asleep, and I feared waking them during the night. My little sister, of course, woke up early and was hungry. Jennifer was about three years old and would not shut up about wanting food. Who could blame her, I guess; she was three. To shut my sister up, I crawled out of our bedroom, like a fool, and got my sister some chips and a grape popsicle, because she was begging for that popsicle. My sister would just continue to cry and get louder if she didn’t eat, and that would bring my parents into the room, angry as hell, if I did not fetch her some food, which meant trouble. I crawled very quietly and slowly behind the couch where my father was sleeping, which is a very dangerous mission, but it was the only way to keep my sister quiet. If I got caught taking food without permission, I was doomed for sure; it is considered stealing in my house. When I did make it back to our bedroom, I could breathe, and my sister was happy, eating quietly at last.

A little while later, it was time to get up (we had to have permission to get up), and my mother came in to make my sister’s and my bed (we shared a bed too). At the time my mother said Get up, my sister put the grape popsicle under her white pillow. Not a good move, trust me! When my mother made the bed, she yelled for me at the top of her lungs, Jane! I ran to the bedroom like my pants were on fire. My mother was furious, and she started getting pretty red in the face. I told my mother that Jennifer wanted the popsicle and that she was the one who put it under her pillow. My mother’s hand went high up in the air and, with her right hand, came down hard across my face—smack! I hit the ground and was told to stand up right away. Without crying, I stood up; I knew better than to hesitate even if I was in pain. I could feel the burning on my cheek, my head was spinning, and my eyes were hazy. Without delaying, my mother placed a bobby pin in my hand, grabbed my hand, and forced me to insert it into the light socket. I felt a jolt of electricity go through my body, and then I floated out of my body as my mother grabbed my hand and forced me to repeat the insertion of the bobby pin in the light socket again. I could see the darkness in my mother’s eyes. Apparently, at the time, my mother was wearing gloves, which I had not seen at first because of the haziness of my eyes, until I left my body.

Once I regained my composure from the electrical shocks, I was told that I was required to bag up some clothing for Jennifer and me because we were kicked out of the house for stealing food. My mother claimed that my father has made the decision to kick out his four-year-old and three-year-old daughters out of the house. What was so baffling was my mother was standing right next to the door, with my father, when my sister and I were leaving. Mother’s face had this scowl look on it with no concern in her eyes. Panic was raging through my little body!

I carried a brown paper bag with the clothes in it; Jennifer, my sister, was pulling an orange plastic string that had a turtle on wheels, which made the feet go flap, flap, flap. The turtle was turquoise, with orange feet, and had a derby hat that my sister towed all the way down the block from the time we left the house.

Because I was only four years old and my sister, Jennifer, was three, we were not allowed to cross the street, so we only went about one block. It was summer, and it was hot. Jennifer and I stopped in this row of trees next to the grocery store. Once again, Jennifer was hungry (what a surprise). I looked in all my pockets and found some pennies, which is a lot to a four-year-old. I thought I could go into this grocery store and get Jennifer something to eat. However, my sister needed to stay outside with our brown bag of clothes and her turquoise turtle. Jennifer was too scared for me to leave her alone, and I knew at that moment I could not leave her, mostly because she was crying. We just sat by the grocery store trees for the rest of the day because it was cooler in the shade. I believe it was that moment that I had to be a grown-up because I knew I had to take care of my sister and everything else that was to come.

The temperature started to drop as the sun was setting, but it was not cold outside. My sister was becoming quite scared because she was afraid of the dark, and being outside