By Nicole Hilton, August 6, 2019
Satanic programming isolates its victim and fills the mind with self-loathing, pain, and hopelessness, all the while keeping the source of trauma hidden. The only hope left to the victim is a hope for an end to the lonely life of suffering and misery.
(Salt Lake City, UT) – “The Utah Department of Health (UDOH) observed a 141.3% increase in suicides among Utah youth aged 10-17 from 2011 to 2015, compared to an increase of 23.5% nationally.”
“Our investigation showed that suicide is complex and youth can experience multiple risk and protective factors. No single behavior or risk factor could explain all the reasons for the increase we’ve seen.”Utah Department of Health
Imagine you hear voices in your head, saying, “you are not enough”. It’s not hard to imagine, right? I think hearing that voice and sometimes even believing it is a universal human struggle.
After The Incident in second grade, I heard “you are not enough,” constantly, but also so much more. I clearly heard specific sentences, such as: “You are a worthless piece of trash.” “You were made to be a sexual plaything of men, then to be slowly murdered in the most terrible way imaginable.” The voices would give detailed descriptions of what would happen to me. Accompanying these whispered sentences (which were deceptively in my own voice), were images and videos that would play over and over in my mind of me being raped and tortured to death in ways I can’t—or won’t—describe. These images and scenes would follow me into my dreams, even into adulthood.
The addition of pornography was a huge factor in the development of these sexual death fantasies. I was exposed to a book of pornographic images at a friend’s birthday party when I was eight. I can still see those images in my mind. Another factor was creeping downstairs to watch the violent or sexual rated-R movies my brothers were watching on TV. I felt like I was addicted to these movies—even though they terrified me. The dark side took a multimedia approach to my programming.
All of these tapes and images flooding my thoughts settled deep into my mind and combined with the un-dealt-with emotions I kept pushing down to my subconscious. Everything was used by the dark side to its advantage, and the hordes of hell seemed to combine against me. I’m sure the devils assigned to me were exultant during this darkest phase of my life.
Possibly, their greatest victory during this time was when I slowly stopped fighting. I stopped fighting the images and the sentences placed in my mind, and I started to give in. I started to believe them. A part of me even got a sort of high when I would take what Satan was giving me and run with it.
I believe the dark side influenced my peers as well as my family to reinforce what they were programming me with. Any bullying at home or at school was magnified ten-fold—especially because of how vulnerable and sensitive I was. If someone pushed me down or hit me, it felt like someone had stabbed me. If someone teased me, I felt all of hell mocking me.
At the same time, my mom was either gone to Salt Lake, or sleeping upstairs. This was because she commuted 4 hours each way for her job and worked long hours as a nurse. It seemed like I got my mommy’s attention for only a few hours a week. I have a caring mom, but she had no idea how to help me, and I had no idea how to ask. To this day, I believe my programming blocked me from revealing what I was truly going through at the time. And how could she have guessed? She had her hands full with a manic daughter and four out-of-control boys.
When it came to my dad, he was not equipped to detect signs of abuse or mental illness. When I had his attention, I felt I couldn’t and shouldn’t explain anything of what I was going through to him. If I described the evil images in my head, I thought, it would mean I am a bad girl, or even that I am crazy. And so, I didn’t explicitly say anything. Between all these complications and my programming, I was destined to suffer alone, completely isolated.
I held this question in my mind, and I asked it with every gesture and word I said—although I didn’t consciously know what I was asking: Why? Why? Why? I have tried to be a good girl, so Why? Why? Why?
So, you can see how a child facing all of this opposition could become suicidal in third grade, and then actually attempt suicide a year later.
One day, while our family was reading the scriptures, we read this verse: And he that endureth not unto the end, the same is he that is also hewn down and cast into the fire, from whence they can no more return, because of the justice of the Father.
This scripture terrified me. After reading that, I had an inward struggle. Not only did I imagine Heavenly Father to be strict and punishing, but I also created a paradigm where I thought I knew what committing suicide meant—I thought it meant that whoever did such a heinous act wasn’t enduring to the end. That there was absolutely no mercy whatsoever. While I definitely had a death wish, nothing could be worth being hewn down and cast into fire!
My will to simply exist without being burned alive for eternity was enough for me to live. So, I struggled onwards day by day, and hour by hour.
Every step seemed to be filled with unanswered questions and endless misery. I felt like a thousand voices were screaming obscenities at me 24/7. I felt like everyone else was having fun—everyone else had figured life out—and I was the only one stupid enough to be missing something. Day to day I tried to act “normal,” but I felt incredibly confused—I had absolutely no memory of The Incident, or even any of the memories around The Incident. I felt that no one could answer any of my questions—but they came screaming out of me anyway in behavior that was “not acceptable.” I was written off by many as being alternately frustrating, a pain, exasperating, irritating, an unknown variable, annoying, crazy, a freak.
At times—a lot of the time—I succeeded in looking and acting completely normal. I had friends, I played, I laughed, I drew pictures—everything appeared fine. Sometimes, the beast inside of me seemed to go to sleep, and I could breathe again. But when all the pain woke up, I would shut myself in my room and cry or sometimes act out.
In fourth grade, one day everything seemed black and white. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I realized that I already was cast into a lake of fire and brimstone—because that’s what this life felt like! And so, I decided once and for all to take my chances with a vengeful God rather than with this hellish existence on earth.
I waited until there was no one in the house. Then, with my heart beating erratically in fear, I went around the house, opening medication bottles. I took a few pills out of each one, until my cupped hands were brimming with pills. I remember they were mostly white and red in color.
Funnily enough, my last thoughts were of a book series I had become quite attached to…
I whispered, I’m sorry, Heavenly Father. Punish me if you must, but I can’t stay here anymore. Please…please let me read the end of Harry Potter. Even if I have to do it from hell.
I went into the bathroom next to my bedroom, and swallowed mouthful after mouthful of pills, gulping them down with sink water.
Then, my heart jumping into my throat with anxiety, I walked in a daze to my room. I shut the white door. I went to my bed—the bed that had witnessed so many nights of sobbing and tears—and I lay down.
Goodbye…I’m sorry. Goodbye.
And everything went black.