Willpower

By Nicole Marie Hilton, March 24, 2020

The dark side uses trauma to infect our minds with powerful packages of negative thought patterns, emotions, and behaviors. They’re often reinforced with a stream of voices that invade our minds. It takes tremendous willpower, in the face of this barrage, for trauma victims to “do the right thing” and “say the right thing” all day long. Friends and family notice the slip ups but are unaware of the hundreds of victories that go unnoticed and unrewarded. A person has limited willpower to expend each day, so cherish it and use it wisely. Count your victories, not your losses, and see yourself for the hard-core superhero you actually are.

            Several weeks ago, while driving in my car, I had a revelation. It was so revolutionary, so insightful, that I wept openly. It shed such a complimentary light on my life that I felt an enormous burden lifted from my shoulders.

            This revelation came about, funnily enough, when I was listening to Susan Peirce Thompson, a weight loss revolutionary and founder and CEO of Bright Line Eating. She also has a doctorate in Brain and Cognitive Sciences.

            Now, hang with me here—I’m mentioning my food addiction/eating clean journey, but don’t leave if that’s not your thing. That’s not what this post is about at all—which you’ll see by the end of the post. This revelation was about people who struggle with DID and Satanic programming—as I do—and the reality of what we go through every day. The reality of just how strong we are.

            Susan was describing how those of us who struggle with food addiction or weight loss make the one big mistake. That mistake is relying upon willpower to see us through. She went on to explain that up until 1998, scientists didn’t actually know that willpower actually existed—it was only an idea. But in that year, scientists proved that willpower actually exists. They did this through an ingenious experiment called the Radish Experiment.

            Scientists invited test subjects to a lab, and they were told to skip a few meals and come hungry. When the people arrived, they were hit with the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. When the people got to the waiting room, they saw a bowl of freshly washed radishes next to a bowl of those same cookies.

            Some people were told to eat 2-3 radishes over the course of 5 minutes, or they were told to eat 2-3 cookies. (There was also a control group who arrived, but who didn’t eat anything at all.)

            After eating, the test subjects were asked to sit and fill out a lengthy questionnaire with the food right in front of them. They were then taken to a different room to do what they thought was the real experiment—which was a “test” of their cleverness. But actually, it was a set of impossible-to-solve geometry puzzles. The test was to see how long people would persist at those.

            Researchers didn’t expect the results to be as dramatic as they were. The people who had eaten the radishes—and therefore had to expend willpower to resist the cookies and the chocolates—were not able to persist at the geometry puzzles for very long. They, on average, were only able to do about 8 minutes of work before they got frustrated and gave up.

            The people who were allowed to eat the cookies and the chocolates, however, persisted 2-2.5 times longer, than the people who ate the radishes. Why? Because they had not used up their willpower. They persisted at the puzzles for 18-20 minutes on average.

            This is actually, in the world of science, a very statistically significant difference between the two groups.

            The researchers, after this earth-shattering revelation, followed up with a series of experiments to prove that anything you do that taps your self-control, also uses up your willpower. This proved true even when the subject isn’t necessarily resisting temptation. Simple activities such as making decisions like checking email, monitoring and regulating your emotions (imagine parents dealing with their kids), making sure your task performance is good (like giving a talk and not saying “um” or “ah”)—all of these pretty “basic activities” tap the same part of the brain, and leave us in a state of willpower depletion.

            We then experience what Susan calls “the willpower gap”. This is where you grab your plate at the buffet and start down the line, and suddenly you rationalize that it’s a nice night for pasta instead of a salad.

            So, willpower is a thing. It’s like a rechargeable battery that drains quickly. It drains and depletes because of all kinds of activities we engage in on a daily basis—making decisions, regulating our emotions, task performance, resisting temptations—and our willpower, on average, only lasts about 15 minutes before it’s sapped.

            Researchers actually figured out a way to measure this, and they determined that we—on average—spend four hours a day resisting temptations—one of the key things that drains willpower.

            So, all these things we do drain our willpower, then leave us in a state of vulnerability, of which we are unaware. There’s no alarm that goes off and says, “you’re now susceptible to the willpower gap”. You might find that the “volume” on life is turned up a little bit. (If your kids, partner, or loud sounds are agitating you a little more.) Other than that, there’s no marker of depleted willpower.

            So we do all these draining activities—“adulting,” some people call it—and then we’re driving home in traffic—again, draining our willpower—and right then, you’re supposed to decide what you’re going to have for dinner? It’s like the world’s cruelest joke! The moment you need your willpower to make a good decision for your body might always be the moment you are depleted! No wonder 70% of our whole nation is overweight and obese!

            After I heard all that, I realized something: the fact that I get anything done is nothing short of a miracle.

            Do you know how hard people with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and abuse victims have to fight just to get through each day? First of all, we have to juggle the priorities and vulnerabilities of multiple alters everyday. Can you imagine having multiple voices in your head speaking up—or even screaming to be heard—whenever you have to make a decision? Usually, I have at least two parts of me battling out decisions in my head—and that’s hard enough. (Read here for an example of what my mind goes through).

            If that isn’t enough, ritual abuse victims are spiritually programmed to exhibit some, if not all, of the 7 deadly sins. I personally believe I was heavily programmed with all of them, to the extent that I developed addictions and patterns of behavior, which I’m sorry to say, became parts of my character. I’ve spent my entire life literally having to de-program and teach and convert every single personality—some of which who aren’t older than 5—to exhibit the virtues I want instead of acting out as I was taught to by the demons and other perpetrators.

            I’m part of several Facebook groups that are DID/SRA based. Here are some typical things people have said in those groups:

            “My kids are 9 and 11 years old. My ‘system’ is all boys. So they had to pretend to be me for years around my kids.”

            “Anyone else have a personality that doesn’t like their significant other???”

            “Do y’alls alters have different religions? Bc I have the hardest time with _____ (who is Church of Jesus Christ) and _____ (who is Pagan).”

            “This may sound really stupid and may be triggering…I’m not sure. I am embarrassed to even ask this question. Every time I have a knife in my hand, I have the thought to stab myself. Not that I would ever do it or even want to, I was wondering if anyone else hears this. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. Not sure if this is an SRA thing. This is hard for me to say. I think I said this before too that we have the voice inside to jump in front of a car when we are on a walk too. And off any high place too, wow! I sound really crazy now!”

            I have personally dealt with three out of four of these voices my entire life—they have been a daily reality for me—and hundreds of people commented, stating that they had experienced these same dark promptings, too. What could be more draining on a person’s willpower than having to battle these types of thoughts all day and even in their dreams? If the average person spends 4 hours a day resisting temptations, the average person with DID spends 24/7 resisting temptations—some of which are life threatening.

            I started crying while driving when this bevy of realizations hit my mind: This is why I could never do my homework when it felt like “work” growing up. Why I needed so much help just getting started. Why I had to force my way through college. Once I even got an “incomplete” in a class because I Just. Could. Not. Do. My final paper. It took me six months to complete it—and I only did because my mom promised me a NEW PIANO if I did. I’m not stupid, I’m not slothful…I am freaking Wonder Woman. Look at what I’ve accomplished in my life! This is why it’s been so hard to control my food intake—my willpower is ALWAYS shot. I should be 400+ pounds, but I’m not because I FIGHT so freaking hard. I am a FIGHTER. Everyday. This is why I gave into my addictions so often when growing up. This is why I’ve been seen as ‘lazy’ at times to my family. It’s because I’m working 10x HARDER than everyone else! All of the time! Despite everything Satan has done to tell me that I’m a creature who is greedy, full of lust, gluttonous, angry, lazy, prideful, or envious of everyone around me…I constantly fight those programs—those voices which are seeded so deeply inside of me. I constantly repent if and when I give in to those voices. I’m a superstar. I’m a conqueror! Satan will never, ever be able to convince me again that I am a failure. I’m an absolute success.

            Realize, dear reader, that if you have Dissociative Identity Disorder and/or you have Ritual Abuse programming, and you believe you are weak…you are wrong. You’re just plain wrong. And if others put you down, saying that you’re a failure, they are 100% wrong, too. The only reason we aren’t all serial killers who weigh 500 pounds is because we are strong, and we are winning.

            Wherever you are in your journey, be kind to yourself. *Try to see yourself through the lens of God. He knows what you’ve been through, and He factors in everything—even your willpower stores at any given moment of any day.

         Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ truly know what it takes to get out of bed. To even, sometimes, just breathe in and out every day.

            So, check in with your willpower. Be aware when you are using it, and when it gets depleted. Rely on the things that restore your willpower—create a list and use it. Learn how you get restored, and do those things that restore you. For me, prayer, reaching out for human connection, gratitude lists, meditation, and service are a few of the proven things that restore willpower—in the moment! Get the life you want, because you, my friend, deserve a beautiful, beautiful life.

*These are parts of a blessing I received which can apply to anyone battling against programming:

            “The feelings that have been programmed in your heart, mind, and soul are from the dark side. They have been put in you against your will irrespective of any strength you have or faith. They were placed in you while you were in a vulnerable state, when it was not your choice or decision to accept them; they were forced upon you.

            “When your feelings come up that have been programmed into you: that you lack love, that you do not have feelings, that you do not have energy, that you do not have health, that you do not have self-control, that you are worthless, or bad or weak, these are all lies that have been placed in you with feelings and emotions attached. These emotions will continue to arise in you throughout your life. However, they are not an indicator of your weakness or strength. They are simply an indicator of the programming you’ve received.

            “You have experienced all these emotions, but you have never not come through it to find the light. I love you so dearly, because you are ours. However, on top of that you have displayed enormous amounts of determination and courage. Where you stand right now is a complete victory. I see beyond time and space and see you as you really are. You have already overcome all these things, and you have accomplished more good and a greater exaltation than you had hoped for.

            “I bless you with power now, as you’ve had before, to act upon these feelings when they arise. The fact that they arise is not an indicator of weakness or lack of healing. When they arise, it is an indication that you are a victim of Satanic abuse, and no strength or power in yourself can change that. When these feelings arise or overwhelm you, it is now time to learn that you still have agency to act upon them, to minimize them, to find tools to make them go away more quickly, to find tools to replace them with other truths and other emotions. This is hard work. It is emotional work, and it will take time to remind yourself that they are not indications of weakness but opportunities to apply strength and agency.

            “As you continue to apply strength and agency, as you have done beautifully so far, you will eventually find that these feelings have very little impact on you.  They will simply be reminders to you of your experience and what you’ve come up from.

           ” _________, We know you. We know you so well. You are not a selfish or a self-centered person. Those feelings that you have of lack of love and are self-centered are a product of the programming. They are not a sign of weakness. As you take up the tools you use, day by day, these feelings will become weak. They will become temporary, and before long they will become blips in your mind that you quickly overcome without effort.

           “_________, you are doing exactly what you need to do for this to occur. Dear _________, I am not asking you to change directions. I am asking you to continue in what you are doing. We are so pleased with you. We are proud of you. We love you, and We bless you. You are strong.

            “I leave this blessing on your head in partnership with your Savior Jesus Christ. We love you, support you, and thank you for all that you have done. We promise to maximize your healing and your efforts beyond your ability to comprehend.”

Mary Magdalene’s Strength

Written by JJ Brown, July 2019

What follows was written by my boyfriend. His insights into Mary Magdalene’s life and trials give me hope. They also give me hope in Jesus Christ.

Who was Mary Magdalene, who with other women traveled with Christ and “ministered unto him of their substance”? These other women were not groupies; they were an integral part of Christ’s support while He ministered. They were “certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, Mary called Magdalene. Out of whom went seven devils.”

Mary Magdalene’s demons

Were the women there only because He had freed them from their bodily and spiritual ailments? Or were they also especially elect, and their trials were a preparation to serve with the Master?

“For You have tried us, O God; You have refined us as silver is refined”

Psalm 66:10
How God Tests Us

It’s wonderful to imagine the Savior ministering among the poor and sick with this team of women at his side. Who better to serve the suffering than those who had suffered themselves, who had been healed of their “evil spirits and infirmities,” and who understood?

Magdalene was prominently there. What kind of knowledge and understanding had she earned? What would her earlier life have been like to be plagued by seven devils? These devils would have taken full advantage of their victim. She must have experienced extreme trauma, anxiety, confusion, loneliness, helplessness, hopelessness, mania, and all the social shunning that comes to those plagued with such demons.

But Christ saw her, really SAW her. He knew the source of her trauma, and her seven devils were no match for his power. What else did He see in her? Having been subject to seven dark angels and then healed; what level of experience, wisdom, and understanding had she gained?

Mary Magdalene is the only woman mentioned in all four Gospels. We know she travelled with the Savior. We know He visited her home on at least three separate occasions. We know she anointed Him before his crucifixion. We know she stayed with Him at the Cross. We know she came to anoint Him after his burial, and she stayed by his sepulcher. We know He appeared first to her when He returned. We know she was told to not cling to Him too tightly, for He was not there to stay.

Those who remembered Magdalene during her possession and her times of trauma might have questioned why Jesus would give a very intimate place in his life to such a “broken” woman.

Perhaps a better question is, who are these women plagued with the worst of what the fallen world has to offer? How does God see these women whom He refines the most?

Luke 8

1 And it came to pass afterward, that he went throughout every city and village, preaching and shewing the glad tidings of the kingdom of God: and the twelve were with him,

2 And certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, Mary called Magdalene, out of whom went seven devils,

3 And Joanna the wife of Chuza Herod’s steward, and Susanna, and many others, which ministered unto him of their substance.

Luke 8, KJV

Mary Magdalene’s Strength, Part 2

JJ Brown, July 2019

She is free

“What we know about Mary is that she’s possessed by 7 demons. This would have been a very personally traumatizing condition to have, and she hasn’t been able to find any respite from it until she meets Jesus….It’s difficult to imagine how profound that moment must be for her: to finally feel free and cured and whole.”

Professor Candida Moss

Why 7 demons? 7 days in a week, 7 dispensations, 7 days of creation. Seven is considered holy in many world religions. In the Bible it relates to the aspects of perfection. Seven general areas in our life need perfecting; they are described as the seven virtues and vices. According to some traditions, the seven archangels oversee the development of each virtue. They help us overcome the Fall as we turn each vice into a virtue. With the help of Heaven, we can turn our weaknesses into strengths.

The 7 vices encompass general aspects of being fallen, and the 7 virtues encompass a full recovery, freedom, and wholeness.

  1. LUST – An insatiable need for sex or things of a sexual nature,
  2. GLUTTONY – Over indulgences of anything to the extreme, usually food or drink,
  3. GREED – The need for material possessions or material wealth,
  4. SLOTH – Idleness, languor, sadness, depression, or the inability to feel joy.
  5. WRATH- Extreme anger, rage, hatred, or a need for vengeance or revenge,
  6. ENVY – The need to have better or be better than others,
  7. PRIDE- A need to be more important than others.

If each archangel provides Heavenly support for the virtues, wouldn’t the dark side have 7 counterpart demons? Can we doubt that the dark side has its own specialists with sophisticated programs and trained technicians who are expert at instilling these vices into our hearts and minds through both spiritual and physical means, and especially through trauma?

Magdalene was not simply tempted by 7 great demons; they inhabited her. She was under their full power and fury. It is awe-inspiring to consider that in her premortal life, Mary may have chosen to submit herself to the FULL complement of darkness on earth in order to teach us the most important truth: that through Christ, EVERYTHING the dark side throws at us (or puts into us) can be overcome, completely. Did Mary choose to be fully refined as a preparation to serve others with greater power?

At one level or another, we are all targets of the 7 dark programs. We must turn them into strengths.

We don’t know how quickly Christ was able to dispose of Mary’s 7 demons, but the video shows us a process. That process involves Mary, herself, vocally identifying each demon by name and exposing it as an outside force. The emotional healing likely was also a process.

“According to Gospel traditions, the way Jesus dealt with particularly severe cases of demon possession is that he would get them to name themselves, and then having named them, then demanding by name that they leave the person.”

Prof. Ben Witherington, III

The dark side weakens when it’s exposed. Evil’s strongest position is to have us believe we are the source of our own sorrow; there is no escaping ourselves. We gain strength by identifying Satan’s programming as an OUTSIDE influence which we can reject and from which we can walk away. Exposing and identifying evil as an outside force may be the first step in escaping it.

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.

Ephesians 5:11

This may be why there are 12-step programs associated with many of the vices listed above. Why has the 12-step program been effective in helping many overcome addictions to self-destructive behaviors? The program embodies basic principles of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

To heal, we identify the vice that plagues us and acknowledge our reliance on God to help us remove it. We then ask for help to heal ourselves and our loved ones, who are often collateral victims. We then commit to live a new life wherein we stay connected to God and His power. The last step is to seek to help others who are so plagued.

I strongly recommend this account of Mary Magdalene’s story in The Chosen. I’ve stood at that cliff’s edge with her -Nicole

I honor the fundamental lesson Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ teach us about exposing the darkness within us and using Christ’s atonement to becoming free and whole again. Our Heavenly Father can compensate for the darkness we experience on earth with a corresponding, or even greater, level of light and wisdom. It seems that Mary Magdalene earned well the opportunity to serve at Christ’s side.

Nicole on September 7, 2022, at 1:33 pm: “Now I am free, and you can be, too. Just reach out your hand.”

A Quiet Mind

By Nicole Marie Hilton, Wednesday, March 11th, 2020

Victims of trauma rarely experience peace of mind. Their thoughts can be a cacophony of inner voices and emotions tumbling in and out of the frame. When the victim does experience a moment of stillness, it can be fleeting and sometimes even troubling. It may require new training to feel comfortable and at home with a quiet, peaceful mind.

            I just walked through the Las Vegas airport to board a flight to Washington, D.C.  As I was walking, I realized something curious: that’s all I was doing. I was simply…walking. And noticing things. There’s the bathroom. I’m going to go in this stall. The lady’s shoes in the stall next to mine are made of black leather. I’m going to wash my hands longer than I usually do because of the Coronavirus. Oh, look. There’s my face in the mirror.

            Pretty basic, right? But if you could hear the confused raging mass of voices that have been in my head for most of my life, you’d be surprised, too. My mind feels strangely calm. Quiet. Organized. Like some Marie Kondo fanatic has come in and taken out everything that isn’t absolutely essential. I looked in my eyes while washing my hands, and I searched for what I could not find. Gone was the incessant, judgmental, contradictory mind chatter that has accompanied me to every activity I’ve ever participated in. I was free.

            First of all, I’d like to demonstrate just what exactly I was free from. The same 2 minute stretch of time might have sounded something like this just a year ago:

            “Where’s the bathroom? WHERE THE $*&# IS THE BATHROOM? I hate public restrooms. Oh, get over yourself! I miss my mom already. I WANT A CUPCAKE! Am I really going to be flying all night with a connecting flight until 12 pm tomorrow afternoon? This is the worst situation ever. Will Dad walk the dogs while I’m gone? What if I have a panic attack on the airplane? Just go in the bathroom and breathe calmly, Nicole. [Random scene of me being raped flashes through my mind] That’s not gonna happen. Wow, that restroom attendant didn’t do a very good job. Let’s be kind—Jesus loves that attendant. I’M FAT! What does my butt look like from behind? Pick that stall! NO, THAT ONE! No no no—go down further. What the flip are you doing? You should have picked the other stall, you moron! You’re not a moron. I love you. I WANT A CUPCAKE WITH PINK FROSTING AND A CHOCOLATE DIPPED STRAWBERRY ON TOP! What if the woman in the next stall is judging me? Why on earth would she be judging you? I don’t know, maybe because I’M PEEING AND SHE CAN HEAR ME! How old are you, like 5? Let’s wash our hands. WHAT IF WE DIE FROM THE CORONAVIRUS?! What if? What if? Ugh I hate my face right now. No, erase that, I’m beautiful! But my eyes…they look so tired and desperate. Other people can tell I’m a mess, can’t they? …Can we get the cupcake soon?”

            Imagine living with that, day in and day out, for your entire life. Not fun. Yet today, there was nothing really going on in my head. During the shuttle ride to Vegas, I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was like there was this…emptiness. While walking in the airport, I realized that there seemed to be a space carved out for me in my own mind, just ready to be filled with whatever I wanted.

            I have some theories about why this is, and I’m pretty sure they’re on point. First of all, JJ (my boyfriend) and I have been doing the intense emotional work of calling up and healing the fractured pieces of my personality for more than a year now. (You can read about that here and here.) This process nearly killed me in May, 2019. I attempted suicide and was in a coma for a few days—the war between the parts of me who believed JJ was, basically, “out to get me,” and the parts who were still in love with him was too much for one mind to take. After the attempted suicide, the healing process continued—nearly killing our relationship as parts of me kept on trying to leave him.

            But he stayed true. And he learned to honor and love me even when I was screaming at him or saying all sorts of horrible things to him. But the bits of me that were in love with him would leave little clues for him—breadcrumbs, if you will. And he followed them. Ultimately, he decided that he wasn’t going to end up like the dozens of other men I’d left in my life. Why? Because I hadn’t healed with any of them. I’d never gotten this far…except with JJ.

            JJ knew that healing has been my #1 priority ever since second grade. There was no way all of me was going to turn back now. And slowly, ever so slowly, those pieces of me that were hurting and lashing out started to turn to him and trust him. I started to hope. And he started to help connect me with Christ, and I started to heal.

            As each new piece was triggered by something, then started to “front”, turn to JJ and to Christ, and then heal, that piece would become more aligned with my core—creating a more unified and colorful personality.

            The last piece to be called up was very young, and she/I came out when JJ and I were helping Rep. Tulsi Gabbard with her campaign in Salt Lake City, Utah. I was hyperventilating and literally terrified of ever being trapped, again. Through JJ’s gift of being able to give blessings, I heard and felt the presence of heavenly beings speak assurances to calm my soul. That piece of me is now fitting nicely in with the rest of me.

            But, once all the personalities were awake and unified, working together in harmony, was everything done? Far from it. I still needed to tackle the biggest beast I’ve ever faced in my life—my addiction to sugar and flour.

            I know that may sound silly—that that’s the biggest thing I’ve ever faced. But, considering the sheer amount of struggling I’ve spent against this monster, it’s true. This monster has been with me and was a rare source of solace when I was a little girl. I had been raped, and I struggled with memory loss, bullying, and people not taking me seriously. I faced suicidal programming and constant attacks from Satan. This addiction turned into bulimia in middle school, and even then, I didn’t want to let it go. This addiction followed me into college and it was always there through every failed relationship, through every time I had to drop my classes, and through being in and out of hospitals. It was always there—a comforting monster.

            But despite the greatness of the task of slaying this monster—which I had thought was my friend—I realized that as long as there are still addictions in the mind, I would never be truly healthy mentally.

            I’m happy to report that I’m done with day 15 of Brightline Eating—an eating program that’s based on the 12 steps for Overeaters Anonymous. I realize that I will never be “done” with this addiction—that it’s a monster I’m going to have to re-slay every day of my life from here on out, but the peace of mind I’ve gained from eating just whole food with no sugar and no flour for two weeks is priceless.

            So, for now, my mind is swept and mostly empty of chatter. There are neutral thoughts about my surroundings and what I’m doing—but other than this entry, there’s really no voices there. Just a whole lot of quiet…and possibility.

Do You Want Karaoke, or Karaoke?

by Nicole Hilton, March 4, 2020

Discerning between Light and dark voices makes the difference between happiness and misery. The fruit of the Spirit of God brings joy and progress, but the fruit of darkness is misery and deterioration. In spite of heeding the wrong voice, Heavenly Father still found a way to show me He loves me.

Heavenly Father knew I was looking forward to my ward’s Single Adult activity: it was Karaoke night. But I missed it because I had just ended a conversation with a friend who believed she was receiving revelation through an angel, who she could hear. My friend is spiritually gifted, and there’s no doubt she can hear from the other side of the veil, but she is still learning to discern between the Light and dark sources. She has righteous desires, so the opposition regularly attempts to disguise itself as the Light for her. This “angel” first said some comments which seemed heavenly to win my trust. However, with subtle seemingly positive suggestions, ended up throwing grave doubt on my life decisions and my relationship with JJ. Then, the source suggested that I “rest” for the night and not go out, because of all the startling earth-shattering information shared with me.

            So I missed Karaoke, and instead of resting, I was very stressed out. I lashed out at JJ and verbally abused him—I was just awful to him, even though he was trying to help me and tell me that he doubted I was experiencing the fruits of the Spirit. It didn’t feel like it was from the Light to him. But I doubted us, and I doubted all the revelation I had received and we had received together for the past year.

            We both had horrible nights. I tried to repent all the next day and wavered back and forth before finally concluding that the “angel” my friend had relayed information from was, in fact, dark and was trying to confuse me and ruin my life.

            During all this, my mom sensed I was having a bad day. The Spirit prompted her to take me to get a pedicure. The day had been feeling more and more like darkness to me, and I was extremely depressed and down. But while we were getting our nails done, the cute Asian nail lady surprised us by hooking up an entire karaoke system, and she gave me and mom microphones. We sang our hearts out while we were being pampered! We have video of it—it was “spectacular” and hilarious and raised my spirits so much.

            It was only after I went home and reconciled more with JJ and everything seemed right with the world again that I realized: in the midst of a very hard trial, Heavenly Father provided me with the karaoke experience I’d missed because of that hard trial the night before—but upgraded it to something even better.

            Just like my “Do You Want Sushi, or Sushi?” story, Heavenly Father upgraded an experience that I really wanted. Yet, there was something different this time…In the sushi story, I had made righteous choices and done some service—I was being good, and following the spirit. In this story, it was the opposite. I listened to the wrong voice, I hurt someone I loved, I gave into fear, and I was scared and felt very much alone. Yet, He did the same thing—giving me something better than I would have had. This is how I know that my Heavenly Father loves me. He holds in remembrance the greater picture of who I am, and His love is never conditional on the circumstances of the moment. He always just gives. And that makes Him my Father. I believe this is how He is the Father to all of us—and we can see it if we simply open our eyes with a heart of gratitude to see the miracles He is bringing to pass especially for us.

Do You Want Sushi, or Sushi?

By Nicole Marie Hilton, January 25, 2020

Three types of voices compete for our thoughts: promptings from the Light, confusion and deception from the opposition, and our own voice. Promptings from the Light gently lead us toward greater freedom, peace, and joy. The dark side will play into our ego, urges, and worldly wants to lead us to a loss of freedom, distraction, and unhappiness. Learning to discern between these voices is the most critical tool in overcoming our captivity. Seeking for and heeding promptings from the Light is the quickest path to knowing God and discovering how much he loves us. By following my spiritual promptings, Heavenly Father was able to effortlessly upgrade my joy and my ability to serve.

             This morning I had to choose between two activities—a funeral of someone I barely knew, but whom I wanted to support, and a fascinator class I desperately needed. Later in the day, I had plans to attend a Single Adult church get-together at the bowling alley with dinner afterwards at 4 pm.

             Suddenly, my morning options were sidelined by a text from Sarah—an invite to come hiking in Zion National Park! So I dropped everything and ended up switching cars with my mom, taking my dogs, and driving three girls and a guy up to Zion, where we hiked three different trails and had a lot of fun.

             The whole morning, Sarah had been talking about Sushi Burrito—a food place I had introduced to this same group a couple months before when we took a temple trip up to Cedar City. She said, “I swear, I want Sushi Burrito so bad, I’m going to go all the way to Cedar City after this, and I’m going to get one! Or, how about we go right now?”

             I thought about it, weighing the risk of burning up too much of my mom’s gas, spending the last of my money, and missing the bowling against the yummy goodness of sushi burrito. I didn’t have to think too long before I felt something in my gut firmly say NO, thus helping me decide against driving everyone up to Cedar City.

             So then Sarah came up with plan B—maybe I could go bowling, but then meet up with them and go to Cedar instead of doing dinner with the Single Adult group. I felt this was definitely an option.

             So we finished hiking in time for me to get back with just barely enough time to drop everyone off back at their cars, race home to drop off the dogs, and then race to the bowling alley where…I proceeded to find no one there.

             Well, there were people. Just not my people. I sat on one of the swiveling chairs, thinking…what the crap? Why was there this gut feeling, that I just HAD to get to this bowling activity—against all odds? Why didn’t I go to Sushi Burrito?

             Nevertheless, I kept sitting there; I just had this feeling that I needed to.

             Then, in walks *Bethany, fifteen minutes late—to the activity she organized, mind you. She looked stressed. She and I discussed our options and considered who else might be coming, but no one came.

             We figured, since the whole activity was paid for, including dinner, and we were both famished, why not go out to eat?

             I called Sarah and her group, and told them not to wait up for me and to go to Cedar City and Sushi Burrito without me.

             Then Bethany recommended we go to Sakura, on of my favorite sushi places and a rare (and expensive) treat. I ordered my favorite things off the menu, we saw a great Habachi show, and I was able to comfort Bethany who told me she had experienced one of the worst weeks of her life. She had broken up with her boyfriend of two and a half years that week and had been really torn about it. I was able to commiserate with her and offer her consolation and advice. I told her that this was her last “red-flag relationship” before she found the one, and that I’m nearly always right when I have a strong feeling about these things—which I did right then.

             We had a great talk while eating great food, and it was all paid for by the ward activity fund. We hugged in the parking lot, and she had a relieved look on her face. She said, “I really needed this.” I replied that I did, too.

             As I drove away, I marveled that God had not only answered my hankering for sushi—for free, and with such class—but that he had prevented the following scene, which came into my mind: I pictured Bethany, at the end of the hardest week ever, walking into the bowling place, looking around, and finding no one at the activity she planned—me having ignored the spirit and gone off in a different direction to spend money I did not have for second class sushi I didn’t know I didn’t want.

            I gripped the steering wheel and prayed as I drove: “Father, I don’t know how you make use of someone as disobedient and lost as I am, but despite all my stumbling through the fog of this world, somehow you still do. And I love you for it.”

*name has been changed

The Process and the Promises

By Nicole Marie Hilton, January 17, 2020

In order to fully heal, it is important to understand that there is a purpose in what we’ve gone through and that God, rather than abandoning us, has been supporting our life plan. This is necessary, because we cannot fully heal without God. When I have asked, God has led me to greater understanding of my suffering and a path to healing. He has also given me the support I need to walk that path.

                  I just wrote the first bit of God Loves Broken Things, Pt. 3 this morning. Then I went on my merry way to the Family History Center to volunteer as a Service Missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

                  About an hour into my service, I noticed something wasn’t right. Ever since I had started my mission two weeks ago, I had discovered a new-found freedom when it came to my food addiction. It was manageable. It was so easy for me to meet my goal of eating only 1200 calories a day—something I have struggled for years to accomplish.  But as I sat there at the computer, I became absolutely ravenous. I wanted to eat everything in sight. When the older couple who oversee the younger missionaries came around with a box full of chocolate bars, it took every ounce of strength I had to turn it down.

                  During my lunch break, I walked out—fake-smiling to everyone as I passed. Then I ran out to the car and drove as fast as I could to the grocery store. I prayed the whole time: “Heavenly Father, I don’t know what is going on, but my food addiction is completely back and it’s scaring me. It’s like a beast has woken up inside of me and has taken over my life again. I HATE this feeling! I can’t stand it! It’s like I don’t have control over my actions anymore or any sense of free agency anymore whatsoever! Oh please, please help me!”

                  I parked and walked quickly into the store, then made a bee-line to the bakery. I hovered around the cookies. Am I in the mood for a snickerdoodle? Or a sugar cookie with icing? Or one of these chocolate ones? The Obsessive Compulsive Disorder side of me was screaming caloric numbers at me, and I had an inward battle on whether or not to wave the numbers aside.

                  I finally settled on a raspberry frosted sugar cookie and a salted caramel chocolate cookie. I paid for them and rushed out to the car, taking a bite of the chocolate cookie while walking out of the store because I just couldn’t wait.

                  I sat there and tried not to sob while I bit into the sugary goodness. I recalled all of the blessings JJ had given me having to do with my food addiction. I also recalled the blessing he’d given me right before my mission, promising me that I’d be blessed with power to have more responsibility in my life. Well, that blessing had come true. Until today. Why? I couldn’t figure it out.

                  I called JJ. He couldn’t help me figure it out.

                  I went back to my mission and finished out my hours for the day, then I rushed home. I grabbed everything I could carry from the fridge, and ran upstairs to my room. By that time, I was shaking and crying. Then I was wailing. Then I was screaming—at my sweet mother (who hadn’t done anything. Who was, in fact, trying to help me). 

                  JJ called me, and he asked, “What are you feeling?”

                  “I hate myself!” I cried, taking bites of an organic chocolate bar in between each sob.

                  “You hate yourself?”

                  “No…no I hate them!” Now I was shoving down shrimp.

                  “Who is them?”

                  (I meant the devils who seemed to be torturing me.) But then I realized there was a part of me who was trying to speak out. Who needed to say something. So I moved aside, and let that part of me speak out.

                  “I’m crying because…God hates me! He HATES me! He must! HOW COULD HE NOT?! Look at the evidence! God hates me!”

                  Then I realized—after diving into a protein bar—I’d written this morning about how, when I was 14, I’d gone into the woods and I’d uttered yet another prayer to God, who had been silent, again. During the darkest times in my life, no one had been there for me. I had been completely alone.

                  My 14 year-old self was crying out. That part of me had the belief that God hated her.

                  Then I did what I’ve learned to do so well. My older, wiser self opened up my heart and loved that angry sobbing 14 year-old girl I had become. Then, I (the older, wiser self) shared headspace with my 14 year-old self. I shared my memories with her, going through all the proof that God doesn’t hate us.

                  First, I reminded my younger self of one important fact, which I believe with my heart and soul. God is composed of both a Heavenly Father and a Heavenly Mother—and they love me. I flipped through memories that attested to that fact.

                  Second, I shared with my younger self all of the blessings I’ve received explaining why God had to be silent for all those years. You see, His hands were tied.

                  Before this life, I believe I had entered into an arrangement with God, where He promised not to intervene during the hardest moments. And He keeps His promises.

                  This is an excerpt from a blessing I received, which I believe may be true for all who have been abused as children; it states: “Dear Nicole, I and your loved ones in Heaven love you. We really love you. We’ve been here with you, and We know you’ve been doing this all alone. Your childhood has been one of abuse and abandonment. We know this dear Daughter, and we are sorry that it was not a time for us to be able to talk to you, to be what you needed….We know you had to do it alone. And it was not ok; it was never ok. It was not something that I thought was good. It was not something I was Ok with. We in Heaven suffered right along with you, but with the extra suffering of knowing that we couldn’t help you.

                  “When a mother on earth has a tiny infant who is dying or sick, and there’s nothing that she can do, that’s how We felt with you. We felt the pain of knowing that it was not the time for us to help you when you needed it most. We knew that someday when you would be able to heal with Jesus Christ, that your Brother would be there, and you would find the healing. However, for us, it was difficult to refrain from helping you at the time, dear Daughter.

                  “Nicole, thank you for telling us how you felt. Thank you for reaching out to us. That young part of you who was so alone is now learning too late that there is help. As you learn this, you’ll find that it actually is not too late to heal. We will turn these experiences and your childhood into that which you wanted it to be for you. You wanted those experiences to make you stronger. You wanted them to give you wisdom and empathy for so many others. That is already happening, but We know that you sacrificed for that to happen. We would never dismiss this. We would never dismiss the significance of your being alone so young.

                  “This is why I generally give certain protections to children until they are older. But some premortal spirits, for important purposes that are eternal, have chosen to allow themselves, while very young, to be subject to torture, pain, and punishment from the dark side. When this happens with young children, it is because they have sought a greater role which was approved in the pre-existence. It is not a random or thoughtless choice; it is not a grasping for straws. But those who have chosen this path do so with great wisdom and great knowledge of its purpose.

                  “There is great, great purpose in it. But regardless of the purpose, the broken childhood is real. And We wish to heal that part of you and to hear that part of you. We give it great significance, and we experienced it with you.

                  “All those who have harmed you and contributed to Satan’s programming on this side of the veil will have the opportunity to see the contribution they made to the dark side’s purpose, and to see clearly the role they played in your trauma and your pain. All will be made whole. and they will love that little girl and see her for who she was, that she was a heroine, and that this was her choice so that she could be of service to the greatest amount of people.

                  “We honor all parts of you. We love all of you, and you can be one in your Savior Jesus Christ. He knows what each part of you has been through. He knows what all of you have been assigned to do. He knows all your tasks and priorities. He can make you whole. He can bring you into one and bring the Atonement into your life–all of your lives. He does not need to squash anyone down or make anyone go away. For He loves all of you and has experienced everything you have experienced along with you. He has felt your suffering completely—100%. He has healed you 100% and has won your salvation, your exaltation, and your healing already.

                  (Jesus Christ): “I, as your Lord and Savior, take and accept your burden so that it may be Light, so that you may help others with their burdens by introducing them to Me, by pointing them to Me and to our dear Parents in Heaven. This is my most important work. This is the work that consumes Me. This is My work and My glory, to heal those who have been harmed by the actions of others and even by their own actions, to point them to the Light of Heaven.

                  “This is what I do, and even as you’ve joined me, this is your future, too: to love, to understand, to hear, and to give fruit, love, and understanding to those who have never been understood before, who never believed they would be healed, to give them hope in Me and in Heaven.

                  “….Don’t forget that you still need much healing for yourself. That means to love yourself, to recognize the important roles that the different parts of you have played. To love them, understand them, to forgive and to all come to Me. I am how you can all become one. I love and understand each of you.

                  “I bless you with the ability to soften your own heart and mind toward yourself and to feel Heaven, again, and to feel Our love. I do so in my name, Jesus Christ, Amen.”

                  After I shared all of this knowledge with my 14 year-old self—that part of me who walked into those trees and knelt down to pray, and who didn’t get any answers—I felt her relief. And I felt her assimilate into me. We became one. My ravenous appetite was gone.

                  To all those who are struggling with DID, or with PTSD or any kind of trauma, remember: when you are triggered and afraid, be kind to yourself. Don’t turn inward in hatred and shame, thinking I’m better than this! I’ve got to be stronger than this! The truth is, you already are being the best you can be, and you have been stronger than you know. Remember: whatever you know about yourself is extremely important, but how you treat yourself is the most important.

                  Second, be patient with yourself—and learn how to express yourself in a healthy manner. The pain I went through today used to take me weeks or even months to process by myself. Afer JJ and I met, it would take me half a week. Now, a year later, it takes me an hour or less. You’ll get better with time. Memories or programming will come up when you are ready to deal with them, and if you do it with understanding, forgiveness, and with God, you get stronger, and the dark side gets weaker.

                  Third, if you have DID, when pieces of yourself come up from the past, love those pieces with all you’ve got. They are the reason you’ve arrived where you are today. Listen to them and address their concerns with as much understanding and love that you can. Teach them with patience, and learn how your system wants to integrate or heal in some other manner.

                  Fourth, don’t discount what God is telling you. If there is anything—ANYTHING—that lifts your spirits, that makes your heart swell and expand, that provides hope for your soul…cling to that. Don’t let it go. Write it down. Adopt it as your own. And RE-READ IT OVER AND OVER. Program yourself with the good stuff! Don’t listen to what those idiotic unseen dark spirits are telling you, who constantly badger you night and day. Every time you are on the right track, they’ll be there to dissuade you. You’ll learn to recognize their influence. When they fight you hard, you’ll know you’re onto something. Did you read that blessing up above? Did any sentence bring hope to your heart, or expand your mind? Did you hear a still small voice say, this sentence is about you? If so, notice if thoughts of doubt increase over the next hour. Notice that those are the dark ones. After you learn to be sensitive to when they are messing with you—after you catch onto their game and you fight back even harder—they will have failed.

                  Fifth, I leave you my blessing. If you are a victim of any type of abuse from the dark side, my heart goes out to you. I don’t know who you are, and I’ll probably never meet you in this lifetime. But we have a sacred bond of suffering. There are some things you truly need to go through in order to understand. I pray that you will be able to feel the love of Jesus Christ, and that you will ask Him to reach into your life and transform it, as He is doing to mine.

Dissociating from Love

By Nicole Hilton, January 14, 2020

DID isolates each part of the victim that’s been hurt. These parts can distrust and even hate one another. They have different priorities and memories, and it is all arranged to produce stark, unsettled isolation. Relationships with others becomes complicated, and if the programming is threatened with a healthy, romantic relationship then disruptive defenses are triggered.

            During Zumba tonight, I felt it. I felt the dissociation as it happened, and my love for JJ slipped away from me. It flew out of my grasp before I could catch it, and my heart closed off again, saying, you only need you. Who else matters?

            It’s been seven days since JJ left to go back to Virginia. This happens every time he’s gone for a week or longer. And then every time, without fail, whenever he comes back or I go visit him, he has to win me all over again—even with me trying to open myself back up.

            It’s strange…having this Dissociative Identity Disorder and being in a relationship at the same time. I dissociate from JJ when it comes to my feelings for him and to most of our memories. I literally feel like I’m in the movie The Vow or 50 First Dates. Sounds touching, but it’s not. It’s exhausting. It causes misery and heartache for both of us. I have had to work through so many feelings of shame because I know, intellectually, that I should love this man…that I should have feelings for him, and remember him. But in these moments I don’t. And the part of me that is afraid of relationships sometimes ends up treating him very poorly, indeed.

            Can you imagine how patient a man would have to be to stay committed in a relationship like this? And that’s not to mention all the other problems my DID and SRA bring to the table.

            While I was dancing (or, attempting to dance would be more accurate), I kept turning over and over my newfound feelings of “freedom”, of independence, in my mind. I didn’t just accept them like I normally do—I studied them. I thought about why it’s so easy for me to dissociate from someone just because they are physically apart from me.

            I’ve noticed this throughout my life. I only grow close to the people who I am in close proximity to every day. Any friends or family who move away, or who I move away from, I soon forget or I lose feelings for.

            The phrase occurred to me, defense mechanism.

            As I walked out to my car after class, and it hit me. Just after the Incident happened in second grade, and during the worst of my years being bullied and tortured from every source imaginable, I didn’t physically have my mom present much of the time. She would drive from St. George to Salt Lake City to work as a nurse in the hospital for a week. Then, she would come back home and sleep for about three days in a row.

She was trying her best, but right when I needed my mom physically present the most, I didn’t get her all of the time. And when I did have her there, it wasn’t in the way I needed because she wasn’t able to identify my PTSD or mental illness. (To be honest, just how is anyone supposed to identify spiritual SRA?) Because of this, I probably decided to “go it alone” whenever she was gone. I think Satan took advantage of this situation (as he always does), and taught me the program I’m currently dealing with—that I should dissociate from anyone who is physically apart from me as a defense mechanism. SRA programming ensures that the victim will always be alone.

            Thankfully, with JJ the affliction has always been temporary. It takes effort, but I find my way back to him, where he’s waiting patiently.

Floating on Feathers

By Nicole Hilton, September 1, 2019

With great trials come tender mercies. They remind us that we are not forgotten after all. They can be a lifeline in the worst storms. The crueler the storm, the more tender the mercies can be. You deserve them, so seek for them and hang onto them.

            Last night, I knelt in prayer before going to bed. My heart was heavy. I had gossiped behind a family member’s back, and I knew better.

            I opened my heart up to the Lord, and said how sorry I was. Then, I decided to really open up. I wasn’t just going to say I was sorry and promise not to do it again because I knew it was “the right” thing to do. I was going to put down all facades.

            “The truth is, Father, I don’t actually know what’s right. Do I open up to my friend and tell him these things so he won’t feel so lonely? Cause that’s what I did, and I feel some good came of it. I also felt better having someone to hear my story… Or, do I keep my ‘secrets’ to myself? Or do I give them to the Savior, and ask Him to take them—then give others the chance to grow and improve, while I completely bury the hatchet? Is it a combination of all these things? If so, how is it done? I don’t know if life is so cookie cutter anymore. I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

            I climbed into bed, sending out an invitation for any heavenly beings who wanted to come and hold my hands while I fell asleep, but I didn’t demand it or expect it.

            Then, after about 20 minutes of lying there, I felt a heavenly hand grasp my right hand. I was comforted.

            Then something amazing happened. Heavenly sensations struck both my arms, and my arms started floating across my mattress. These were the same sensations I had felt all over my body while I was in a padded cell in 2012. It had been seven years since this had happened to me…and now it was happening again?!

            I’m just going to say this: do whatever you can spiritually to be able to feel this gift. The feeling is unlike anything else in the entire world. If you combine all the love from the people you trust most, the best massage you’ve ever had, a warm blanket, plus the sensation of floating through clouds and soft white feathers…that’s the feeling I felt in both my arms.

            It isn’t a baptism of fire sensation—it’s different. It’s more like a “putting to bed with as much gentleness and love the Gods can conjure up” sensation. I think it’s a terrestrial experience, and you have to be able to access a different dimension in order to feel it.

            I felt so happy today, just knowing how much God loves me. And I remember how hard I had to fight to merit this feeling last time. I had read the scriptures out loud, fasted, sang hymns, and prayed for four days straight while I was abandoned in that padded jail cell—after all that, it had happened. But, comparing that with right now? Well, it shows me how far I’ve come in my journey. I didn’t have to be locked up or desperate. It was on a normal day, like any other day.

            There’s something else, too. This experience is a promise. A promise that my past joys aren’t one-hit wonders. I believe they were only a taste of the Heavenly things that are to come.

A Wake-up Call

By Nicole Hilton, Friday August 2, 2019

The dark side knows our personalities and our preferences and will take every advantage of that knowledge against us. While abuse victims are hurt against their will, it’s a greater victory for Satan to entice us to CHOOSE his ways. Temptations will come whether we invite them or not. But each time we reject a temptation we hand the dark side a defeat, and we strengthen the light side of our coin. Over time, these victories combine to change our very nature.

            Yesterday morning, I was in my bed dreaming, again. In my dream, I was part of a group of young people and we were accepted into some sort of secret society. It was a mirror image of being on a religious retreat and learning about God, but this society and its teachings were sinister in nature. I would only realize how sinister once I had woken from the dream.

            In this society, I arrived at a castle-like manor and I was taught the secrets, and I participated in the groups and in the fun outings we would have. There were many things that were to my liking during these outings. Everything seemed acceptable to me. I should point out that in my dream I had no memory of my membership in the Church of Jesus Christ or even that such a person as Jesus Christ lived.

            After what seemed like weeks living in and around this castle, some of the other novices would disappear with a more seasoned individual here and there. Then whole groups would be gone for an afternoon or so. Eventually, I started to hear from the novices what they had been doing. A little make-out session here, a little grab there—everything was very PG-13 rated at first.

            The dream progressed in this vein until I became accustomed to these developments, and they were no longer a surprise to me.

            Then, I started to see the novices and the more advanced people acting out these things in front of me. I was at first shocked, but then after some weeks, it became usual for me.

            Then, the novices would come back and have increasingly detailed stories about the highly sexual encounters they were having as part of the indoctrination, and how much they were enjoying them. After I got used to these stories, I started to witness some of these encounters, and then after getting used to that, I was even encouraged to watch! If I stated that I didn’t want to watch, all others would look at me with downcast eyes, or gently make fun of me for being such a “prude”.

            They were so gentle with their admonishing, that I didn’t struggle to escape the dream—something my spirit would have done if they had tried to use any force whatsoever with me.

            After this, the entire estate was into increasingly disturbing sexual practices and ordinances having to do with such. It became commonplace after what seemed like years of indoctrination—although I never chose to participate in the practices. I declined to watch the proceedings—but they happened so often in all the places I seemed to be going, I couldn’t help but gain exposure to them.

            Then the time came when I compared what everyone was doing with what I was doing, and I realized that I was very sexually frustrated. What could a tiny bit of “self love” do? I reasoned within myself. The answer slowly changed from something bad, although I know not what nor why, into…nothing.

            Everyone else seemed to be enjoying levels of 666% pleasure in their sexual encounters and “high blessings” for what they were doing. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t chosen to participate all this time. Still, it all seemed a bit disgusting to me. But would a little bit of self-indulgence hurt? Surely not… After all, what could it hurt? And, furthermore, what could it hurt to say certain words and perform one of the rituals I’d been so exposed to while doing it? 

            I suddenly heard, from another realm entirely, a woman’s yell.

      “NICOOOOLE!”

            I opened my eyes and reoriented myself. What?!

            I was in my bedroom, in St. George, and an unseen woman had just been there, yelling my name. I wasn’t in a castle in Scotland—or who-knows-where, in my gussied up room—about to do something regretful.

            I had been saved. A woman—a guardian angel—had been in my room, and she had screamed her hardest directly at my prone form. And I heard her.

            The strange thing is, after I woke up and reflected on the dream, I started to realize how the entire scenario was shaped around my likes. Do I like rolling green hills and cloudy blue skies as far as the eye can see? Yes! Do I like shiny white horses I can ride in the rain? Yes! Do I like grand estates with castles on them? Yes! Do I like puppies? Yes! Do I like wearing expensive clothing? Yes! Do I like dozens of seemingly calorie-free expensively decorated tiered cakes with buttercream frosting strategically placed around every room all of the time? Yes!

            But no matter how many times you paint a sepulcher white…it’s still a sepulcher with a ton of decay inside.

            After thinking about it, I reflected that Satan may have teams dreaming up and building alternate-realities with incredible level of detail—all to ensnare us. They had almost succeeded with me.

            I shuddered at the thought, and almost went to a place of self-blame–another tactic of the dark side. I had another thought: what would I have participated in, if they had launched that scenario at me five years ago? Ten years ago?

            And I realized that while my temptation during the dream was unfortunate, the restraint I showed was even more remarkable and was an indication of my significant growth on my inward journey.

Hell HQ

By Nicole Hilton, Friday August 30th, 2019

In one way or another we are subject to Satan’s abuse. But with Christ, our greatest trials can be made into our greatest strengths, and Satan’s greatest victims can be transformed into his most powerful foes. In such cases, Satan may be forced to acknowledge his own hand in our new strength and power.

            You’d think that the headquarters of hell would be wreathed in flames, and that it would have a dungeon-like atmosphere, complete with moldering bones in every corner.

            That’s not the case. Hell HQ is a non-descript one-level building in a rural area, just off the highway, surrounded by farmland right here in America.

            Well, at least, that is what I saw in my dream as I made straight for the glass entrance, followed by my dad—who was apparently along for the ride.

            I experienced this dream from two points of view. There was the first-person view—looking through my own eyes and being an actor in the scenes that unfolded. Then there was the third person point of view—where I watched the scenes unfolding from above my body. The former view came with surety and strength—a complete knowledge of how to break into hell, what my mission was, and how to get back out as quickly as necessary. Sadly, I did not retain this point of view after the mission.

            And the latter view, where I was watching from above? Well, I was both afraid and fascinated to see all this play out. It’s not everyday you see yourself—like in an action movie—break into the headquarters of the biggest baddies in the galaxy.

And of course, like any movie, it was obviously essential to take on the hordes of hell with so much style and grace that a unicorn would be proud. I was wearing a simple, elegant long white dress, with sleeves to my wrists. It wasn’t woven by human hands, but by someone more Heavenly. While long, it wasn’t hot or constricting, and it provided all the movement I needed—even if I were to run or jump, it adjusted itself to every situation according to my needs. My hair and body were the same I had seen in two other visions—I was trim, lithe, and had glossy chestnut blonde hair with highlights throughout the ends. My hair fell below my shoulders in beautiful waves and seemed alive with every move I made. My skin was polished and glowing with a warmth I’ve never seen the earthy likes of before.

My Hair
My Dress
My Energy

            So, I both watched and participated as this heavenly version of myself pushed through two sets of glass doors, opening them Aragorn-style with a dramatic flourish.  Though I had just entered the headquarters of hell, I stood there in majesty—completely and utterly without fear.

            Everything was nondescript. Drab shades of grey were on the walls, there were chairs in the sitting area, and the floor was a murky color. There were hallways off to the right and left, and a tall counter in the front with what looked like a secretary sitting behind it. As I walked in, my hair fanning around my shoulders, she froze—in shock for a moment.

            I ignored the secretary and walked on past the reception area to the hallway to the left, my shoulders back, head held high, the white dress swishing around the corner after me. I apparently knew right where I was going.

            Overcoming her shock, the woman at the reception desk stood up with a panicked look on her face and quickly pressed an alarm—alerting everyone to my presence. She then ducked underneath her desk.

            There were about twenty doors on either side of the hallway. These doors led into classrooms and workrooms. I knew this because at the alarm, every single door flew wide open, and the occupants leaned out to see what was going on.

            I strode down the hallway like a queen on a mission, ignoring all their stares. My dad followed me.

            Many of the people recognized me, and there was screaming, which spread like fire. Some yelled out directions to each other, some darted in front of me to go down other hallways, and others retreated to duck under their desks. A few paired up and talked hurriedly—trying to come up with a plan of action. The entire building was in an uproar.

            But, as I walked forward, no one dared apprehend me or my Dad. They were running like frightened mice.  

            Watching this from above was thrilling. As I watched the reactions of the entire building my confidence in myself grew. 

            From the point of view of the upgraded me who was causing all this ruckus, I remember I felt calm, assured, and unafraid as I reached the end of the hallway. The whole building could have been burning down and hordes of hellish demons attacking me and I would have maintained my calm.

            I just felt sorry for all these people.

            And I had a mission.

            The third-person Nicole couldn’t wait to find out what that mission was. This was awfully exciting! I wondered what else was up my sleeve.

            As I came around the corner, I spotted the door—the room where it was.

            I marched toward the door and found it was unlocked. I motioned for my dad to stay in the hallway. He was speechless at everything that had happened so far, and he was not sure what would happen next.

            From above, I waited in anticipation, watching myself in awe.

            I opened the door.

            He was leaning over a map on his desk and was mid-sentence when I walked in—a pleasant man to look upon, if you went by his features alone. He had dark hair, and was wearing a simple suit—the jacket removed—with no frills or accouterments whatsoever. About 20 generals, all male, were seated in long rows at their own desks along either side of an aisle, which ran directly to his desk and blackboard at the front of the room. Most were dressed in varying shades of brown. There was something militaristic about their appearances—which ranged from uniforms pinned with gaudy medals to simple button-up shirts and ties. Everyone looked to be well-groomed and between the ages of 30 and 50. They all had various papers, notes, and writing utensils in front of them. They seemed to be planning something big—an attack of some sort.

The actor Tom Ellis, who plays Lucifer in the series of the same name on FOX looks strikingly like the man I saw–I found out about this actor and this series only after I had this dream

            “__________…” he said. He looked up at me with a grin, his head cocked mockingly to the side. He was holding a pen.

            “Lucifer,” I said, with seeming cordiality.

            From above, I was shocked at the name Lucifer had called me—but there was an inner knowing deep inside me that it was my eternal name.

            Lucifer stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and threw the pen on his desk—right on top of a stack of papers—which I took note of. He grinned at me again. His teeth were very white. “We have no need of your…services…today. How about you come back tomorrow?”

            “Tomorrow, I’m on holiday,” I said.

            Let us pause here to reflect on the two versions of myself. One was standing there in pure white, honey-colored hair rippling around her collar bones, posed like a warrior princess, facing down the smartest, most powerful, vile, destructive, and hardworking devils in all of remembered history…and the other me was above, body-less, freaking out. I was beside myself! Or, above myself—take your pick.

            First of all, Lucifer knew me, he recognized me immediately. He even seemed to know me intimately in times past.

            Secondly, at Lucifer’s taunt, fear struck me to the heart. I wondered, how can I be standing there, so unafraid? I’m petrified with fear!!! And why am I joking at a time like this?! Every instinct told me to run! Get away! The room felt like facing a thousand dementors.

            Back on the ground, I watched as a general in the front row of the classroom turned with the rest of them. He saw me and smirked. “Ah…it’s been awhile. Are you back for more? Couldn’t keep away? You always were such fun to play with.” The rest of the generals elbowed each other and some of the men chortled as they recalled my past abuse. Visions of what he wanted to do to me assaulted my mind.

            I waved away the thoughts like they were flies.

            At this, all of the generals started yelling things out to me without effect, then changed tactics and sent disturbing messages and visions to me about my loved ones. They tried to get me angry by how nonchalant they could be about the most evil things. They taunted me about what they had done to children and to everything I ever cared about.

            The evil in this room increased tenfold and was overpowering to my point of view from above. I was terrified and couldn’t see how the terrestrial Nicole could get out of this one.

            I stood there in that classroom, my eyes like green flint. It was so easy. I could pierce through them all—I could hear the fear underneath their words like a current that would sweep them away. I couldn’t be hurt by them anymore.

            I smiled, as if to say, “Are you finished?”

            After that, every general raised both of his hands before him—like something out of Avatar the Last Airbender—and started to bend evil forces and channel them toward me.

            They had incredible power. Each of them felt like they could topple whole cities with this power.

            In response, I raised both of my hands in front of me, palms out, stepping forward with one foot into a warrior stance. I felt all their energy coming at me like waves of a tsunami. I sensed Lucifer, standing with his hands in his pockets by the blackboard—so assured that I was about to be done for.

            I blocked their energy with a shield of light. All the evil flowed around me and charred the building, warping and twisting rebar.

            I had a look of intense concentration on my face, resolute and set to complete the task before me. I knew in Whom I trusted.

            I moved my left hand quickly to the side, like I was parting a wave. Ten generals were thrown with amazing violence straight into the wall, breaking the wall in some places. No one could even flutter their eyelids after they fell to the floor and over the desks. And (like any action movie), it didn’t matter how hard I fought “the bad guys”—my hair flew about my face dramatic-style, but then always settled back into wavy perfection, of course.

            I turned my head to the right, and my eyes blazed like lightening. At this, the generals on the right side of the room split into two groups—one group tried to hold their power on me, with increasing terror in their eyes, and the other group turned and tried to run, stumbling over desks and chairs while they screamed. I stepped closer to them and moved both my palms forward towards them, pushing light-force at their terrified faces.

            They were all knocked out. Bodies and desk parts were scattered across the floor into the corners. Exposed cinder block had melted with the fervent heat I had channeled from God’s Throne. Some generals were even thrown through the roof. The entire classroom looked like one of the school shootings one of these generals had arranged…but it was he who was on the floor now.

            Lucifer…he wasn’t too happy. While I was staring in shock from above, my terrestrial self strode forward down the messy aisle, stepping over bodies in the wake of the battle. I stopped halfway to Lucifer’s desk.

            He wasn’t laughing or smiling now. He had a look of utter consternation on his face.

            He raised his hands, palms outward towards me.

            I did the same.

            A huge force of darkness burst toward me. I fought back—and we channeled our two forces—good versus evil—towards each other at full power. I remember thinking that it wasn’t all fun and games anymore. This man—this Satan—before me was more than all those generals combined. The utter force of power and darkness rushing towards me could wrap the entire world in darkness. I felt like Harry Potter facing Voldemort when their two wands were crossed, or like Luke facing Vader. I felt like all the heroes facing their ultimate battle with evil.

            Because I felt Heaven’s power, we were evenly matched. The forces met each other in the center and the energy billowed out in waves into the classroom. I gritted my teeth, and my arms were shaking. But his were, too. He yelled and grunted but increased his exertions and kept on pushing the darkness towards me.

            I shut my eyes in my effort to keep the onslaught from consuming me. Then, I realized something. We were evenly matched when this began. But I had the ability to grow spiritually. While God’s powers were increasing, Satan’s powers were decreasing. I was waxing, while he was waning. And exactly how had I improved so much?

            It was as though I heard a voice say…because of his efforts against you, you are growing all the more.

            I opened my eyes, and with this knowledge came more power than I had ever had before. I felt it within me—I was stronger than I’d ever been. With a yell I stepped forward and thrust my hands with an incredible ball of light towards Lucifer.

            I saw the shocked look in his face in a split second, right before it hit him. I could read his thoughts: Why? How? How could she come so far? How can she do this?

            Then the mixture of light and his own darkness hit him, and he flew backward and hit the blackboard, cracking it in half.

            From above, I was shocked at what I’d seen. Then I realized something…because Lucifer’s power could no longer take hold in me, it rebounded onto him—causing double destruction upon himself.

            My terrestrial self walked down the aisle, grabbed up a paper that had been on Lucifer’s desk, and looked at it briefly. I saw that it was a map. I don’t know what this map was, or who it helped. But it seemed to be a key in heaven’s plans.

            The door behind me was hanging off its hinges. My dad was in the hallway, and like we had come, we left—walking down the hallway like I owned the place, people running and screaming and just panicked in general. Energetically, the entire building and all its power were crumbling around us, and all the people were acting like crazed ants whose queen had died—completely without leadership or power to do anything but to be consumed by fear.

            The dream ended with my Dad and I walking out of those double doors—the secretary nowhere in sight.

            I lost most of the knowledge I had had as the terrestrial version of myself, but retained everything I had seen and learned as I watched the events play out from above.

Not Today, Satan!

            Halfway through writing Hell HQ, I was due at the park for a playdate with my friend, her grandson, and my dogs. I was loathe to leave off writing something so dramatic, but I forced myself to leave it halfway done and meet her as we had planned.

            We had a great time at the park. After about an hour, I felt that I should leave quickly to go home—and I knew it had something to do with what I’d written. I felt an awareness of the dark side…like they knew what I had been writing. And they didn’t like it.

             I gave my friend an excuse and said goodbye, and I walked in the direction of my car.

            I had parked my car in an unusual place where I never park it—on the shoulder of the busy Fort Pierce road, which cuts in between the larger park and the smaller park with the tennis courts.

            I was walking through the large park towards my car, but her grandson had run after me, and this caused some delay, as I walked with her a little more, but then abruptly left her to get to my car and leave.

            At the car, which was parked in the dirt behind a trailer in front of someone’s house, I tried to clean up my dogs as best I could. They were so dirty that I gave up and did something else I hadn’t done before—I shoved them into the back of the car, where they could barely fit. I got into the car quickly, turned it around, and left for home.

            Right when I got home, my friend called me and was in a panic. “Nicole! Nicole! Are you alright? Oh my goodness I thought you’d been in the wreck! Were you in the wreck?”

            I tried to calm her down and get her to start from the beginning, after I assured her I was safe. A story unfolded—apparently right when I left in my car and was out of sight, a woman was going more than 60 mph around the curve and crashed right into the back of the trailer on the side of the rode—right where I’d been parked. Exactly where I’d been standing mere seconds before.

            The noise was so loud, neighbors from all the surrounding houses and all the people in the parks gathered. There was a huge cloud of dust. The police were called, and no one was injured. But the woman…well people couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, or why she didn’t stay on the road. Later, in her questioning, she said that she “thought that was where the road was.”

            My friend said it was as though she were crazed—not in her right mind. When they released her and her damaged car, she drove away just as fast, apparently forgot where she’d been going, made a U-turn, and drove back home.

            I have yet to find out who this woman was, or why she got into such a terrible wreck—right where I had been standing, trying to get my dogs into the car.

            But I have my suspicions.

Two Sides to a Coin

By Nicole Hilton, August 4, 2019

Victims of ritual abuse are rarely understood or believed. They are often targeted for abuse by the dark side, because of their spiritual gifts. On the other hand, Heaven will often balance their trauma with extraordinary visions and manifestations from the Light. Anything a survivor might share about either type of experience is rarely believed by loved ones, therapists, or even their clergy. This leads to further isolation. However, by embracing their gifts and experiences with the Light, victims can accumulate strength over the dark side of their coin.

“What I’m seeing now in the last six to seven years is, we’re seeing people that have been taken in the spirit, taken from their homes. They didn’t come from Satanic cults.“

“They are taken from Christian families, out of their bodies and taken and abused. I know this may sound crazy to some people, but I’m seeing it over, and over, and over again. A lot of people in their 20’s, some in their 30’s. It’s a new thing, I believe.”

Dr. Holly Hector, 30 years experience helping DID/SRA Victims

            On July 30th I woke from a dream that was extremely disturbing. In the dream, I was a child, and with other children, I was being programmed by Satanists in a place that looked like a chapel. We would have to sit and be strapped into a chair-contraption, and small metal hooks were used around our eyelids to force our eyes open. We had to stare at a laser, which created patterns on a plate-like surface before us. During these patterns, the Satanists would be programming us with words they were saying, and images they were using. I don’t remember what they said.

            All I remember is being so grateful I wasn’t the one in the chair, when someone else was taking their turn. And when I was in the chair? I remember just gritting my teeth until it was over. I also remember being so scared of certain tortures they would inflict upon us, that I would choose to inflict these same tortures on other victims so I could avoid being tortured myself. I won’t go into what these things were…but they were horrific. Whether being tortured, or the torturer, one fact stood out against all others: there was no escape. There was no place of safety. There was nowhere to run. The adults that would comfort us one moment were the very ones perpetrating the abuse a moment later.

            The interesting thing that I saw towards the end of the dream was this: the chapel we were in had pews, an altar, and certain satanic items around the room. The Satanists worshipped their god here, and they actually believed in him. An exceedingly dark spirit filled the room. But I heard voices—like the voices of a choir of angels. Standing towards the back right of the room, where there was wood paneling, one of the Satanists opened a secret door. There, on the other side of the wall, was a Christian chapel—complete with an altar, a cross, and pews filled with people singing hymns. It was a mirror opposite from the satanic chapel, something like the dark side of the moon.

            When I awoke, I was beyond disturbed by the dream, especially by what I had seen and done. I wondered, did that really happen to me? Was this what happened when I was 5 years old in Salt Lake? These questions haunted me as I tried to bravely tackle my checklist for the day. But I could not shake the spiritual darkness that I felt.

“It isn’t only a dream.”

“As ritual abuse survivors who haven’t yet had or processed the memories move further into therapy and/or Twelve Step recovery, their dreams often become more intense and more macabre.”

Breaking the Circle of Satanic Ritual Abuse (p 49), Daniel Ryder

            Later that day, I had a session with a Christ-centered energy healer. When I told her about the dream and my question of whether it had happened to me or not, she said what I knew, deep down, all along was my answer: does it really matter if that happened to you physically or spiritually? You are affected all the same.

            For the first time after hearing that answer (I had heard it before), I backed away from my endless need to know exactly what had happened to me. I could see how the pain and the excessive, endless thoughts about the SRA were now contributing to my past trauma. The specifics of my dreams and even of my actual trauma were not always important.

            She asked me about my gifts—the gifts I was born with to wield in the cause of truth. I hesitated. What gifts, really, do I have? I couldn’t see clearly what they were.

            “How about the gift of sight?” she said. I sat back in the squashy chair I was in, doubt filling my mind.

            “Nicole, you have vivid revelations…dreams…visions—whatever you want to call them. They teach you specifically, in startling clarity. And you have them in color, am I right?”

            I nodded.

            “That is even more of a gift. Do you understand what you have been given?”

            I admitted that I hadn’t thought about it recently.

            “This Gift of Sight which you have is a gift that only a Light Warrior can wield. What is a Light Warrior? It is a person who can go into complete darkness and maintain her light. It is someone who is fearless—who the darkness cannot overcome. Ever. And this gift you have? It is in progress. What you have seen and experienced…it’s only the beginning of your gift. You are developing it.”

            I was stunned. I am a Warrior of Light echoed through my brain. It was one of the mantras I had been listening to every night.

            She continued, “Additionally, because your experiences have been so extreme, you have access to angels and knowledge that others do not have. Do you see these gifts that you’ve been given?”

Maggie Irwin, SRA Counselor:

“For every minute they spent with the demons, I believe they also spent a minute with the angels.”

“Ms. Irwin said she has never encountered a group of people more capable of deep spiritual connectedness, because of the strong sense of spirituality satanic abuse survivors had to draw upon consistently in order to survive.”

Breaking the Circle of Satanic Ritual Abuse (p 36)

            I could see them now. There was a hope being kindled in my chest, burning all my fear of my SRA dream away. The satanic things I had experienced the night before became small compared to the knowledge of this light and these gifts I was given.

            She went on, “So, let’s say you have a coin. On the one side, you have all of the satanic abuse, all of the darkness and neglect and trauma Satan could heap upon you. On the other side of the coin you have Christ. How you have sought Him your whole life—desperately sometimes—and you have found Him! So, on one side, is the light you have found. On the other, is the evil you’ve been exposed to. What would happen if I took away the evil side of the coin?”

            I answered immediately, “The coin would disappear. You cannot have one side without the other.”

            “Yes, Nicole, there will always be two sides. And guess what? Many ‘normal’ people haven’t found Christ like you have. They haven’t needed to! They haven’t been as desperate as you.”

            I pondered that. Then I said, “I…I wouldn’t give up my experiences with the Light for all the safety in the world. …So I need to take the dark with the light.”

            “But now…” She continued. “Now after you have all these experiences, you can work on the next part—which is where it gets really exciting.”

            What could that be? I wondered.

            “You get to become a warrior.”

            Later that day, my mom and I went to Deseret Book. We bought a coin, which depicted a man and a woman wearing the Armor of God—the helmet, breastplate, shield, sword—everything. I now keep it with me at all times. If thoughts of regret and sadness about what I’ve been through enter my mind, I get out my coin. One side is in shadow—and the other? As light hits the warrior woman’s form, I smile, and I know.

Rocking Chairs and God

Nicole Marie Hilton, Monday June 11, 2018

Not much good comes from comparing ourselves to others. We are either lifting ourselves above another to feel “better,” or demeaning ourselves below another to feel that we are not enough. As long as we are looking outside of ourselves for our own value, the dark side is winning. If we could only see ourselves the way God does, we’d know the truth about our individual worth and divinity.

            I woke up this morning after a restless night, filled with anxiety. For me, this type of anxiety can be a slippery slope down into the depths of hell. It is an oppressive presence, like a monster living behind my heart, spreading its tentacles throughout my whole body.

             I flexed and released different parts of my body in turn for ten seconds each, a relaxation technique I learned some years ago. This relaxed me a bit until my alarm went off.

            The thought came to me, pray.

            I felt like I needed more comfort than kneeling by my bedside and praying would provide. I wanted Heavenly Mother.

            So I asked, Mother, would it be okay to rock me right now?

            The answer was immediate: Yes. I believe now that the answer to this is always yes for when we really desire it.

            So I headed to “our” rocking chair. It’s a big brown leather La-Z-Boy chair covered with a feather comforter in the basement. Mom and Dad bought it for me a week after I broke my back in 2009, when they decided to transfer me from the Provo Hospital to the St. George Hospital in the back of the Expedition…a decision which saved us a ton of money. When we arrived at the ER three and a half hours later in St. George, a flabbergasted doctor and receiving team were incensed that the Provo team had released me to be transferred without an ambulance in the state I was in.

            But Mom, Dad, and I were quite happy about it—it had been comforting sitting there in that sign of frugality and love in the back of the SUV, my parents looking back and checking on me, talking to me. It was healing to be on a road to recovery with so much love and with faith that I would get better and be able to walk again. (Not to mention, one of my favorite smells is leather.)

            So that’s what this big brown rocking chair symbolizes to me. That, when I’m most broken, I can be held here and transferred to a place of recovery for what is broken inside of me.

            Sitting in my comfy chair was like a hug, and I trusted it to get me through this anxiety. I collected my pillows and got situated, with the foot-rest up and a quilt covering me. My whole body ached, and so did my emotions. As I went into that place of complete stillness both in body and mind I have learned to go to over the past couple of years, I reflected on the movie Mom and I watched last night. It was Love, Kennedy and we cried like babies through it. This true story is about a girl who has an incurable disease, where she loses all function of her body, and eventually passes away. Since she was a baby, her grandmother’s rocking chair played a key role in comforting her in her life. Her grandmother on the other side of the veil and her mother would rock her there, and the last scene before she dies at age 16, she is held there again.

            As I watched the movie, I couldn’t help but compare myself to Kennedy. I felt like I wasn’t good enough to be like Kennedy, and I was even jealous of her. When in the hospital with my broken back, I was like her. The constant opposition of mental illness and Lucifer was gone, and I had a clear connection to the other side, and I felt unconditional love for everyone and everything. The Spirit was palpable whenever I was alone in my hospital bed, interacting with visitors, or doing my therapy. There was a sacredness in my life, and every moment seemed precious. I willingly suffered through the physical torture of having a broken back because I knew…deep down that the Savior was with me, and that I had chosen to go through with Him. This drew me closer to Him.

            Because of that memory, I was jealous of Kennedy and her incurable disease. I missed that feeling of being so focused on the present and so connected with Heaven. I hope I can explain this properly…some of us just don’t want to be here, on this earth. We miss the other side so badly, and the amount of emotional, mental, and spiritual suffering we’ve had here seems to be too much to handle. But this is how God works: those of us who long for death, live. And those who long to live, die. After all, we are here to work on what’s missing inside of us.

            I’ve resigned myself to the fact that no matter how many near-misses I’ve had, both physical and mental, I’m here for good.

            So I sat there in my recliner and went into stillness. I felt pure intelligence and comfort flow into me. It’s a curious thing—once I identify where it’s coming from, I’ve learned I can open the gate a bit more and actually receive more. I felt in my heart that Heavenly Mother was, indeed, the one who was rocking me back and forth. It’s a physical sensation but more of a refined physicality. As she rocked me, I sensed from Mother that I am just as special as Kennedy. We are completely different—so why compare? I have my own brand of beauty, my own mission, and Heavenly parents who love me.

            That was the question I needed to hear: Why compare? Why do I so naturally fall into comparing myself to others? What do I really want? What things am I jealous of that I believe I’m lacking, or will not eventually receive? Do I believe God will withhold any truly good thing that I desire?

The truth is, what I really want is to be genuine and lovely. I want to give unconditional love and receive unconditional love. I want a close relationship with Heaven. I want to create happiness here on earth and fulfill my role here.

Maybe I was jealous of Kennedy, because I saw those characteristics in her, and I thought, she has what I want, and since it’s not showing up in my life, I’m not good enough or worthy enough to have it, too.

            The truth is, the good we see in others is most likely something that’s seeded deep within ourselves, and our righteous desires will bring forth this fruit in its time. And of course it’s not going to look like the other person. Would the color pink be jealous of the color blue? No! They are both perfectly happy to be their own color!

            I realized, while sitting in the rocking chair, as I felt the very real sensation of being rocked back and forth, that what I really wanted was to be the most me I can be—as Kennedy was the most her she could be. We want to be who we truly are—to merge our spirits with our bodies completely—and be unconditionally loved for who we truly are.

            I felt Heavenly Mother’s love. She was pleased with my realization and added, I want every beautiful thing for you, too. Rejoice in Kennedy’s story as others will rejoice in yours. You are needed right where you are, how you are.

            Then the rocking stopped.

            Let me back up a moment to relate my first memory. My first memory is of being in my earthly father’s arms—Daddy’s arms—in our old pink La-Z-Boy chair in 1989. I must have been only a few months old. Our ritual was that he would hold me there in his arms on his chest, and I would completely relax and feel safe. I remember the rise and fall of his breathing, which would become rhythmic and slow. He nearly always fell asleep, and I did, too.

           I don’t know what happened to that chair (we got rid of it at some point—with how old and weathered it became). But now I’m connecting the dots between my mom, my dad, and this big comfy rocking chairs.

            The feeling of safety and unconditional love is crucial in a child’s life. It’s interesting to me that this is my first memory, and how it connects to my parents being there with my broken back, this chair they got for me, and to what I am going through now.

            I then felt like, instead of being rocked back and forth by My Heavenly Mother, I was on Heavenly Father’s chest, cradled in His arms, and I felt His breathing. I’ve felt this many times before.

            Is everyone always being held by the Sacred Ones?

           I believe, in one way or another, we are. We are all being held by them.

Meeting Jesus Christ and the Universe

By Nicole M. Hilton, May 9, 2018

If Christ is real, then there is hope. By overcoming evil and all sin, Christ saved us. Whether on Earth, after death in the Spirit World, or during the Millennium we will all have a chance to accept this free gift, which includes forgiveness, cleansing, healing, and restoration into God’s presence. It’s free, and it’s a package deal. But we must CHOOSE it and BELIEVE Him. I have reason to believe.

In November 2017, I was attending a Thetahealing retreat at the Homestead Resort in Midway, Utah.

         One night, as I knelt by my bedside about three days into the retreat, I had a peculiar awareness of “tuning into” something, as if I were a radio and I was dialing into a frequency. I simply said the words which came into my mind, which were, “Heavenly Father, I ask tonight to look into the eyes of someone who loves me. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” It was one of the shortest prayers I’ve ever said, but I knew that the words were divinely inspired.

         I got into bed with a child-like faith that my prayer would be answered. As I was falling asleep, I had a little conversation between two parts of myself—one of the perks of someone who has multiple personalities. The childlike part of me asked, what if…what if it’s Jesus who loves me?

I had another part of me retort, of course He loves you, you dork. Don’t you remember the time you could hear His voice and He joked with you for ten straight hours in jail? Or when you had a near-death experience [before 2020] and He supposedly gave you a tour of Heaven?

         The childlike me then answered, well, yeah…but I mean, what if it’s His eyes I’m going to look into tonight?

         The other parts of me had nothing to say to that.

         That night, I had a vivid dream.

         In the dream, I was leaving a Target in a big city I didn’t recognize. I was carrying several bags, and I walked through a half-empty parking lot towards my car—which was very far away for some reason. To get to it, I had to walk underneath a huge overpass to a different parking lot. Just as I stepped back into the sunshine from underneath the concrete pillars, I heard a man’s voice.

         “Hey.”        

         I turned around. I saw a laid-back young man who was sitting on one of the concrete barriers, his hands in his pockets. A gust of wind picked up some trash around his feet, then ruffled his bangs so that they fell across his eyes. He looked to be somewhere around 25-30 years old. He had tousled dark hair, an arrogant “too cool for school” college-drop-out air about him, and he slouched a bit. He was wearing ripped jeans, a dark unzipped jacket, and looked like he needed a shave and a place to sleep other than someone’s couch. Or was he homeless? I couldn’t tell.

Imagine this guy just a bit more diaphoretic, and there you have it.

         “You got any change?”

         I felt exasperated. Here I was carrying all these heavy bags, and the guy wanted me to stop what I was doing and give him money? But right when I was about to dismiss him and walk away, a little voice inside of me said, stop.

         So, I stopped. Giving him a look which clearly said, this is inconveniencing me, so I hope you’re happy, I put the bags on the ground, and opened up my purse. I got out my wallet, and unzipped it. To my embarrassment, all I found was a quarter.

         “Um…I have a quarter,” I said, lamely.

         “Ah—the widow’s mite! I’ll take it,” he said. I raised my eyebrows at the expression. He extended his palm towards me, and everything seemed to slow down as I let go of the quarter. It spun through the air, the sunlight reflecting off of its face. Then it landed in his palm. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, and I had the strangest thought—that’s the most beautiful hand I’ve ever seen in my life.

         Then time sped back up. He pocketed it.

         I shook my head a bit, trying to clear the trance I seemed to have been under. I then sighed, thinking, are we finished?

         The next part of the dream was strange. I picked up my bags and started back to my car, but he followed me. We talked for a little bit, but this part of the dream passed by in a moment and it felt as if I was watching the scene take place from underwater—as if it was meant to be blurry. I don’t remember any details, except that I got the impression he was inordinately interested in every aspect of my life—to an excessive degree. I wondered if he was a bit off-kilter—for, I thought, nobody in their right mind would ever act this interested in a perfectly good stranger. Finally, ten paces away from my car, I tried to shake him. I spun towards him and I said, pointedly, “Okay, bye…” with a smile, then turned slightly to go.

         This is where the dream became a genuine vision. All the details came into sharp focus. I could see, smell, taste, hear, and feel everything. My chest expanded. I breathed the air and could detect a slight hint of smog from above the city. The sunlight directly above us threw a short shadow behind the man’s shoes. The shopping bags cut into my fingers, and I could hear the cars far away on the overpass.

         “You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asked, smiling. His eyes were playful—no, not just playful…they danced.

         I turned fully back towards him, and then the familiar dread hit me. I studied his face, racking my brain. I thought, now all the talking makes sense. This guy does know me! And, to my shame, I realized I did not know him.

         These situations of not knowing someone who I should know are very embarrassing for me. They happen often and I feel like I have to explain myself. You see, I have memory problems. But they aren’t your normal run-of-the-mill “I’m horrible with names!” kind of memory problems—I have dissociation because of trauma, and I’ve had it since I was seven. It’s what comes with the territory when you have Dissociative Identity Disorder—amnesia is often an accompanying symptom.

         Other people’s memories work like a bucket; they can forget something in their past, but then after some digging they can eventually draw things out. But mine is more like a pit of quicksand. Things going in run the risk of getting trapped–deep underneath, never to surface again. Sometimes, repressed memories might surface, but most of the time, all you can see—or all I can remember—is what is happening on the top level. That is my reality. Having a mind and fragmented memory like mine is uncomfortable and a touchy subject.

         So, now that I was studying his face, I wondered if this man knew I had a memory problem. Is he trying to press my buttons? I thought. If this was true, why was he looking so playful about it? My memory was a sensitive subject for me! Who on Earth is this guy?!

         Again, he said, “You don’t recognize me, do you?” He smiled and I swear his eyes were doing the Samba.

I thought, there’s NO WAY on Earth this guy knows about me, or my memory problem…yeah, he’s acting like he’s my best friend, but for sure I’d remember someone if they knew me this well. He’s probably just crazy. So, I answered him the way I usually answer all people from my past who come asking me to remember them and any shared memories we made together.

“I’m sorry, I have brain damage,” I said, in way of a quick explanation. “And you are…?” I smiled, although I realized halfway through the smile that I was sounding a bit passive aggressive. I hoped my face wasn’t turning red. My brain searched for answers as to who this man was and his strange behavior. Maybe we had attended a college class together?

         “Oh, I remember you very well,” he said, grinning.

         I stared at him pointedly, not breaking eye contact or blinking, waiting for him to explain who he was. But he didn’t give me that satisfaction. He continued,

         “So, you said that your goal was to ‘ascend’ and talk with God and all that… did any of that ever actually happen to you?”

Alright, this guy was getting on my nerves, I decided. He was too strangely attractive besides being pushy and irritating for my taste—especially when talking about my spiritual aspirations and God, my favorite and sacred subjects. And when did I mention in a college class that I wanted to meet God anyway? Well, it was possible I had…but I couldn’t remember. Big surprise.

         And adding insult to injury, he was asking me to talk about an occurrence I had to have faith to believe had even happened.

In 2011, I had been put in a mental health ward on the island of Kauai. I don’t remember those seven days—all I remember is that I wasn’t in my body, or even on this planet, for that matter. I was…elsewhere. For seven days, I believe I was in Heaven, with Jesus Christ.

         The nurses there at the hospital said that my nearly-comatose body was muttering things about being in Christ’s arms, and about being in Heaven. After seven days, I remember coming back to my body, and the experience of where I’d been was veiled from my memory. Yet, there has always been this deep knowing I was with God. 

         Up until that moment, where I was standing in that parking lot in this dream or vision with this homeless man, parts of me had doubted that I had had a type of near-death experience in 2011. But, as I looked into the man’s playful eyes, I had all the evidence I needed, right in my heart. And that said more than any scribbled nursing station notes ever could.

         I thought, this guy isn’t going to believe a word I say! Why cast my pearls before swine?! Or…is he testing me? I decided to ignore that, and I pushed it to the side again. If he was acting, well…then he was the best actor in existence.

         “So, you said that your goal was to ‘ascend’ and talk with God and all that… did any of that ever actually happen to you?” he had said.

         “Well, would you believe me if I told you?” I asked.

         He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I’d have to, wouldn’t I?”

         I paused, then said quietly, “Yes, it happened.”

         “Haha! Yeah right.” He shot back, chin jutting upwards. He was looking down his nose at me. A funny little smile was playing about his mouth.

I don’t know what came over me, but in the blink of an eye I dropped all of my bags and I grabbed the guy’s elbow firmly with my right hand and looked him straight in the face. I said—my voice low and dripping with resolve, “I have seen my Savior, Jesus Christ, and I have talked with God!”

The determination and conviction with which I said this and the surety in my voice surprised even me.

         Then something happened I could not have anticipated.

Our faces were a foot apart, and we stared each other down. My fingernails dug into his jacket and I could feel the muscles above his elbow tense up. He knew I was serious. All the playfulness left his eyes, and all pretense was gone. I saw a man in him emerging I hadn’t seen while crossing the parking lot—a man with more wisdom than many lifetimes could offer. Suddenly, he grabbed my shirtfront by its neck so quickly that I didn’t have even a split second to react. He pulled me upwards so that I was on tiptoe, and close to his face until our noses were almost touching. I wasn’t aware of my body as I got closer and closer. His eyes were deep blue, with an astonishing bit of light blue bursting from the middle. I was so close to him that when I focused on his right eye, it expanded and became my whole world. I went from shock as my heart leapt up into my throat, to absolute wonder and awe. I saw every shade of blue in the folds of his iris—royal blue like the deep ocean, sapphire blue like cascading cut gems, turquoise blue like stone or blue lightening—and a million other shades which flowed toward me and consumed me. His pupil became bigger and bigger, and then…I fell in.

         I fell into what I thought was an inky black hole, but then it became the entire universe.

         I saw all of space and time in its breathtaking kaleidoscopic grandeur. Planets, stars, and galaxies without end, as varied in form and color as one human varies from another. Spiral galaxies like discs flinging diamonds into the vastness, clustering in groups too mighty in scope and magnitude to comprehend. Planetary systems timed to perfection, and clouds of gas and dust which formed nebulae which bloomed outward into an infinite space like mandalic flowers. Planets being formed and put into orbit, stars being birthed at the center of rotating clouds of energy and swirling matter. Galaxies upon galaxies, heavens upon heavens, each one important and beautiful, but which held as great a weight in importance to God as a teardrop upon the lashes of a small child.

            As I traveled at the speed of an unknown guide’s thoughts through the entire universe, my words echoed through my mind: I have seen my Savior, Jesus Christ, and I have talked with God. I have seen my Savior, Jesus Christ, and I have talked with God… the words seemed to whisper from every corner of every galaxy, over and over like a sacred mantra.

I saw and heard all of this in an overwhelming second, which seemed like an eternity, and I could have gazed upon the scene forever and never have grown tired of it. But suddenly it all zoomed back out, I came out of His eye, and I was back to myself. He loosened his grip and gently put me back down on my feet, letting my shirtfront go.

         “Yes…you have,” He said.

         I stepped back. All I could do was stare at those blue eyes, my mouth slightly open.

The man looked at me, His gaze piercing. He seemed to be sizing up every cell of my body as if libraries of information were kept there for Him to look upon. “It’s written all over you.”

I gazed upon Him, and just before I could fully comprehend who He was, and wrap my eager arms around Him in an embrace, I woke up.

Shame Begets Shame: My Babysitting Experience

By Nicole Marie Hilton, November 7, 2019

Humility is a virtue and is supported by the Light. The dark side is adept at twisting humility into self-loathing and shame. They shame us after hurting us, they urge us to make missteps and then shame us when we do. They can even find ways to shame us when we make good choices. Shame is always from the dark side, and it should always be rejected.

                Almost exactly three years ago, I was invited to babysit through the Care.com website for a very rich family up in the Provo hills.

                The first time, the kids were sleeping and I was in the house alone at night. It was a veritable mansion. But I was so close to the Spirit then that I went around the house—completely free of all comparisons or jealousy—and blessed it from top to bottom. There were cameras everywhere, but I don’t think the couple saw me on their phone app or had any suspicions that I was doing anything weird, because they invited me back.

                The second time I went to this home was around Christmas, and it was at night again. After the couple left—a statuesque blonde woman and her incredibly tall, dark and handsome husband—I sat around reading on the couch which was surrounded by exotic white-fur-covered settees. The little five-year-old girl was supposed to be in bed, but she softly padded down the stairs and approached me with her big blue eyes.

She looked similar to this little girl, but with blue eyes

                I was fascinated with her. It wasn’t her perfectly shaped face, Angelina Jolie lips, or blonde hair that fascinated me—it was her spirit. I could feel it.

                “Why, hello princess!” I said.

                “H…hello,” she said. She looked at me from under her lashes, and then tentatively smiled.

                I had the idea that we should write letters to Santa. She got excited, and then pulled out sheets of white paper and colored markers and pencils.

                We sat in the perfectly lit kitchen, at the pale grey designer table, and started our letters to Santa. Ignoring the markers, she picked up a pencil.

                To my surprise, ten seconds into the exercise, she shoved the paper away from her, saying, “Oh no, oh no, oh nooo! It’s wrong. It’s wrong!”

                “What’s wrong, honey?”

                “I can’t do it. Look at it!”

                “I think it’s a wonderful start to a letter!”

                “No—it’s not perfect! I CAN’T DO IT!”

                I’m sad to report that the little girl insisted on starting her letter over and over again, several times, each time crying and crumpling up or shoving away the paper and markers. Finally, she folded her arms in a decided stance that clearly said, my writing isn’t perfect, and therefore why even try anymore?

                I tried to convince her that surely her writing must have gotten better since last Christmas—and wasn’t that an improvement? Wasn’t that something to be grateful for? And I expressed my concern that she was comparing herself to others who were probably older and more experienced.

                “It’s bad! It’s so bad!” she kept on saying. Obviously, what this perfect little tow-headed girl was saying was…I’m bad. I’m bad. It broke my heart more than anything else that year.

                Eventually, I distracted her with something to eat—surreptitiously taking a picture of the letter she eventually produced and discarded (it was adorable). Then, I took her upstairs to put her back to bed.

Dear Santa, what I want for Christmas is a snow globe

                Well…this is where things got a little out of hand. Since I was in such a childlike state myself, when she didn’t want to go to bed, I didn’t feel like I could argue with her too much.

                I imagine what the mother saw while checking her hidden camera app was us dancing around her daughter’s room—because, well, in our minds there was snow coming from the ceiling…and one must dance in the snow. And even if one could go to sleep while it was snowing in our giant snow globe…it would be impossible to sleep with fairies flitting about, inviting us to all sorts of parties, anyway.

                It was 10pm when I heard the door open behind us and felt an enormous sense of foreboding and darkness enter the room. I turned around and backed up against one of the pink walls of the bedroom. The mother was a blur as she strode past me, grabbing her little girl’s upper arm—bodily throwing her across the room towards the direction of the bed, where she landed like a rag doll.

                My mouth fell open—I followed the trajectory of the little girl until she landed, and I saw she was safe. Then I turned to face the darkness that threatened to suffocate me.

                It wasn’t the mother who was evil—it was like there was an evil cloud around her, attached to her with cords.

                She gave me a look that could freeze fire.

                I slowly backed out of the room, as if before a wild lion. I backed down the stairs, saying, “Um…so we…um…wrote letters to Santa…”

                Still, she glared me down, following me—stalking me out of her perfect house.

                “Um…thank you…for…for this opportunity?” I lamely got out.

                My blood was chilled. Her perfect model face held so much hatred. It seemed like her limbs were growing, and she was getting thinner, her cheekbones seemed to cut across her face like razors. As she grew taller, I grew smaller.

                We walked—or she stalked, and I retreated like a scared wet puppy before her—past all the pictures on the walls, pictures obviously taken by a professional—capturing gestures of love and laughter, matching outfits and family rolling in the leaves or posed on beaches, sand between manicured toes.

                I grabbed my bag and coat as I retreated, and she reached into her pocket and threw money at me. I gaped at her, and then disgracefully picked it up.

                She opened the door and as I left, she slammed it behind my back. She hadn’t uttered a single word to me.

                As I reflect back on the little girl’s face as she crumpled up sheet after sheet of paper, I see clearly what was written all across her face: shame.

                As I think back on how I exited that house, and what feeling the mother instilled in me, I see clearly what was written across my heart: shame.

                And as I picture that mother’s perfectly buffed and glowy face, I see what is behind the intense anger and hatred in her eyes: shame.

Lessons From My Thumb

By Nicole Hilton, April 13th, 2020

Opposition. Knowing we came to earth to experience it doesn’t provide much solace when we’re confronting it. Facing extreme opposition as a child trained me to attract and fan the flames of more and more opposition in my life. It also robbed me of the emotional tools to cope with all of it. Some say we will never be tempted more than we can handle; it’s a lie. If it were true, then there would be perfect people on earth, and we wouldn’t need Christ’s atonement. The fact is, that for many of us, we are asked to confront more than we can bear and, then, we finally learn to rely on God.

            At the end of 2011, at age 22, I sat in my and *Josh’s living room on the burgundy couch, staring at the scar on my thumb. We lived in the basement of a house near downtown Provo, Utah. How had my life ended up here?

*   *   *

            After my amazing spiritual experience in the hospital in 2009 (God Loves Broken Things), my life had tanked. The doctors had told me my thumb required surgery. Ever since I broke my back, it hadn’t worked. My left leg had gotten stronger, and I could walk, again, but my thumb still stubbornly wouldn’t do anything I told it to. So, I had gone in for surgery. They cut me open, and found nothing wrong with it. Then they cut my wrist open and tested the tendons. They worked perfectly. So, they sewed me back up.

            While I was recovering from all these painful surgeries and wondering if I’d ever play the piano again, Josh received a phone call. I didn’t hear what was said on the other line, but I felt the world drop out from underneath me.

            “Is it Teddy Bear?” I said.

            He didn’t have to say anything.

            I collapsed and couldn’t breathe. It may sound strange to those of you who haven’t owned a dog, or even to some of you who have had one. The reality of Teddy Bear’s death—which I had been feeling was going to happen for months—was unfathomable to me. I couldn’t process it. Even after I had driven all the way to St. George from Provo, I had begged his lifeless body to get up and run around. He had been my best friend. The little 2.5 year-old cinnamon colored labradoodle was as smart as a whip and completely hilarious. Those who met him often asked questions like, are you sure that’s a dog? Or is it a little boy in a bear suit? He had taken to sleeping in my room on my empty bed ever since I’d gone away to college and gotten married. He had comforted me when I broke my back. He was hit by an unrepentant neighbor who hated animals. And, now he was gone.

            I spiraled into the deepest depression of my life for six months after that. To this day I still tear up when I think about Teddy.

*   *   *

            Josh got home from work.

            “Hey babe,” he said.

            “Hey.”

            Then he went into his office and shut the door. I thought more about how I ended up there.

*   *   *

            With physical therapy, my thumb eventually showed improvement. But, meanwhile, my food addiction got away from me, again. I ate to comfort myself—food was the only thing that was consistently there for me. It hadn’t occurred to me any “comfort” I received from food was fleeting.

            I tried to go to my classes at BYU, but my heavy backpack was too much for my broken back. And my depression after Teddy’s death increased my feelings of powerlessness and abandonment. I eventually dropped out of college.

            One day I had to get a password or something from Josh’s email. That’s when I stumbled on the explicit messages, and pictures, he’d sent and received through an online sex service.

            He came home to find me red-eyed and bristling with anger. I threw the evidence I had printed out down at his feet, and he fell on his knees, begging for my forgiveness. The bishop—our ecclesiastical leader—came over and talked to me about forgiveness. However, I wasn’t offered any counsel to help process my own pain or to heal from my emotional trauma. This wasn’t the first time, or the last, that after being injured by a loved one, the responsibility was placed upon me to simply forgive my perpetrator so that everything could go back to “normal,” again. Without real healing on both sides, forgiveness simply becomes a way to pretend that nothing bad happened, and both repentance and healing are robbed.

            I obeyed my bishop and forgave Josh, but he hurt me further. He often complained about not having the newest TV, iPhone, sound equipment, or car. I finally caved, and we took out thousands of dollars of loans, in my name, so he could get the things he wanted. But with how much money we were making, there was no way we could pay back the loans.

            Furthermore, Josh didn’t want to have physical intimacy with me anymore—I was too chubby. I kept on thinking about the “perfect” girls in the online pornography, and there was evidence he was, too. I didn’t stand a chance against the fantasy.

            Worse than the money or even the possible cheating and intimacy issues was the overpowering realization in my heart looming over every meal we ate and every PlayStation game we played together. It said, you aren’t supposed to be married to this guy.

            Since I had broken my back and tasted of that other-worldly love I had felt during my “baptism of fire” experience, I wanted more. I never wanted to go back to being “normal” again, especially not the normal that was my current life.

            But Josh didn’t have these same desires. He hadn’t felt what I had felt. “Normal” was okay to him.

            And I loved him.

            As a last-ditch effort to save our marriage, in 2010, I proposed that we get married in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints temple in a sacred ordinance called a “sealing”. I thought, maybe if we’re married in the temple, Josh will become more spiritual and we’ll get along better. Of course, a sealing is meant to reflect a sacred matrimonial bond, it is not meant to create one where it doesn’t already exist.

            After we threw a big second wedding to celebrate our temple sealing and all the hullabaloo was over, I found that I was pregnant. After 12 weeks of pregnancy (and being off my psychiatric meds), I felt like I was losing my mind. I started taking Prozac again, and soon after that, I miscarried.

            I blamed myself for the miscarriage. And I felt more alone than ever. After getting out of the hospital, I had saved the remains of my miscarried fetus. I stood in the doorway of Josh’s office.

            “I’m going to go bury our baby in the backyard.” I said.

            “Okay, have fun.” Josh said.

            He hadn’t been listening.

            A few nights after that, the Provo Tabernacle burned down. We lived a block away. I saw the flames reaching sky-high, and I remembered singing in the old building for a concert.

            The next day, I stopped my bike there and stared at the smoldering ruins.

            That’s exactly how I feel inside, I thought.

            All of Provo was rocked. It had stood as a symbol for the town for more than a century—and now all that was left were the brick walls and charred wood.

            I was reading about the tabernacle when someone sent me a picture—one of the firefighters had found a charred picture of Christ in the ruins—the flames had burnt the entire picture up to his outline, then stopped.

            On October 1st, 2011, we had gotten tickets to General Conference, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints meeting where thousands gather together in the Conference Center in Salt Lake City.

            I sat in my red seat—one among 21,200 people. And our then-president prophet Thomas S. Monson got up and announced that the Provo Tabernacle would be re-built into a beautiful new temple.

            I felt something inside of me stir, and whisper, this is a symbol for your life.

            I was unsure whether to trust the voice or not.

*   *   *

            I was sitting on the couch, still staring at my thumb, when I snapped out of my reverie. I still didn’t know how I had gotten to where I was, even though I knew each step, each choice I had made. None of it made any sense to me. I didn’t know at the time that I had multiple personalities, and I didn’t know that my marriage to Josh, breaking my back, not being able to hold down a job, going into debt, and not being strong enough to divorce Josh had all been a product of the abuse and programming I’d suffered since I was a little girl.

         I reached up and felt my hair. I had, just the other night, been in one of my screaming and crying fits, and I’d cut it all off. Now my head was half-shaved. I didn’t know why I did these things, and as I looked up at Josh’s office door—which was closed—I realized that it must be awful being married to me.

            Why am I here?

            As I went back to gazing at my thumb, I felt pure truth enter my mind.

            The thumb is opposable. It’s in opposition to the rest of the fingers.

            The thumb represents the Adversary.

            Your thumb stopped working the entire time you were in the hospital with your broken back. You received special protection during that trial, and there was nothing to oppose you spiritually. You were free.

            Yes! I remembered…I had felt so free and clear—so “whole” even though I was broken while I was in the hospital that time. I had felt the hands of God on my shoulders. I had felt heavenly fire and a love so consuming fill my entire body that I would never ever be the same again.

             But in the past three years, as I tried to continue life in the same way I had before, it had fallen apart. And I wasn’t strong enough to change it.

            But God was. 

*name has been changed

The Unseen Battle

By Nicole Marie Hilton, November 18th, 2019

Some believe Satan can only attack us if we invite him to, they believe Satan cannot harm us physically, and they believe little children are protected from Satanic attacks. DID/SRA victims know these beliefs are false. They are less than helpful and possibly even dangerous, because ignorance increases our vulnerability.

                One night I had gone to sleep in my room, which was in the basement of my parent’s house.

                I had had many attacks in that basement—my panic attacks, my “dragon attack”, seeing a demon, physical abuse, and other things from my childhood happened there. Anessa, my friend, was also attacked in that basement several times. But some good things happened there as well—like seeing deceased LDS President Thomas S. Monson in a dream, sitting in the big leather chair and physically feeling Heavenly Mother rock me back and forth, and traveling spiritually to the future. To this day, I’m still ambivalent about the basement.

                On the night in question, I got into bed quite late. The room was dark, and my dogs were sleeping just outside of my door. I lay back onto my pillow, but couldn’t get comfortable.

                I switched positions several times, and then I felt an oppressive weight settle over me. My heart started beating erratically. Somewhere deep in my body, there was a knowing—I was about to die.

                I fought it—the thoughts, “No! I don’t want to die!” and, “I’m completely fine leaving this earth right now,” bounced around my brain.

                In my extrasensory perception, I could tell this was not a normal death—it was caused by unseen forces of darkness which were intent on bringing an end to my life.

                As I felt life struggling to stay within me, I had a crazy thought: “I can’t die and pee all over this bed! I don’t want mom to have to clean that up.” So, I clenched my pillow in my right hand, rolled out of bed, and crawled all the way to the bathroom—which was tiled. I lay halfway on the tile, and halfway on the carpet with my pillow under my head. I collapsed in exhaustion, and rolled onto my back—my arms falling to my sides.

                I felt the life seeping from my fingers, and they grew cold. Something in me—my animal brain, perhaps—started to panic and knew that the end was near. But my spirit was completely at peace. I was okay with leaving this way.

                As the life drained away from my hands and then my forearms, I tried moving my fingers, but they wouldn’t even twitch for me.

                My dog Edward lifted his head, jumped off the couch, and ran to me. He started whining, and circled around me several times. Chewy came second, and started doing the same thing. Chewy lay down by my right side, and Edward licked my left fingers repeatedly, whining even louder. He lay down next to my other side with his head on my arm. I’d never seen my dogs act this way before.

                The life drained from my lower legs and the whole length of my arms. My heart beat faster and faster in fear. But I grit my teeth and decided to face death with a smile on my face.

                Tears streamed from my eyes, and the oppressive weight fell upon me in greater and greater waves. The end was near.

                I could tell my body was more than 50% cold and lifeless now. I thought, when death overtakes me, will I be able to leave my body? Will the angels come for me? Or will I be doomed to be attached to this body as it decays in the earth? I had scenes of myself cross my mind, lifeless at my own funeral, with my mom crying over my casket. I saw that there weren’t as many people as I would have liked there, and there was so much left unfinished. So many stories left untold.

                I decided, I don’t want to die! I’m not ready! Oh God, save me!

                Then everything went black.

                I woke up in the morning next to my dogs, who were wagging their tails. I was—obviously—alive.

                Sometimes I like to imagine what unseen battles were raging, unseen, all around me and over my body that night. Other times, I don’t want to think about it at all.

The Dragon Attack

By Nicole Marie Hilton, December 6, 2019

Very young victims of spiritual and physical abuse often split in order to protect the child from unbearable and unimaginable pain and suffering. This makes life livable for them, if only barely. As they grow older, often around the age of 30, The repressed pain can come back as a “body memory,” and the pain can resurface at the location on the body where it was experienced.

            I can’t remember the specific date this occurred—somewhere between 2012-2014. I was walking out of my room in the basement of my parent’s house (again—where so many of these things happened). Then, an awful scraping, burning and charring sensation started at the bottom of my feet and traveled slowly up my legs. I collapsed on the ground and started screaming. Soon, the sensation overcame my entire body.

            It felt like someone was physically peeling my skin off with a knife. I looked down at my body as I writhed in pain, and there was no blood—no swelling or redness of any kind. I screamed and arched my back as a fresh onslaught of cuts rippled across my shoulders, my face, and my back. I was being skinned alive, and there was no proof of my agony…and I didn’t know why I was subject to it.

            It’s not pleasant to write about this. I’m realizing just how many times I experienced so many of the types of torture and pain the human body can go through, to its maximum capacity, almost to the breaking point of death. This was one of those times.

            For three hours, I screamed a prayer to rebuke the evil source of the torture. I attempted to raise my arm to the square but could hardly succeed, because more waves of pain racked my body. My mom was beside herself, and had no idea how to help me or what to do. She kept on saying, “Just cast out! It’s Satan!” I kept on screaming back, “I know it’s Satan! And JUST CASTING OUT ISN’T WORKING!!”

            After this was over, I named it a dragon attack—and I would take what I called my Atonement Attacks over it any day. My Atonement Attacks I’ve always believed had a purpose. They were cleansing and refining. This, though…this was just pure torment. As if someone on the other side of the veil had set their pet dragon on me, just so they could be entertained while he licked me over and over with his barbed tongue.

            Since then, I’ve learned this was very likely a body memory of previous torture done to me—probably through a Satanic spiritual attack. The time had come where I was ready to process it. I felt everything as though it were happening in real time. Jesus Christ protected me from the visual memory coming back, but I believe the physical memory had to be felt in order for it to be identified and then healed.

The Delighted Demon

By Nicole Marie Hilton, November 17, 2019

If the veil were lifted, and we could see the machinations of the dark forces arrayed against our freedom and happiness, we would likely be both terrified and more determined to reject their snares.

                I was in the throes of an addiction which had plagued me since I was 8 or 9.

                I knew it was wrong. I had always known it was wrong, to tell you the truth. The way to tell if something is wrong is to ask the question: “Does this edify my soul in some way, or does it bring me down?”

                But—like with food—it gave me a release. Something to dull the pain and confusion of what seemed like endless years of suffering. I didn’t know why I was suffering—and no one else seemed to, either. I just knew I was.

                Nevertheless, I have this addiction to thank for serving a purpose for some time—it probably saved my life numerous times by numbing my suicidal feelings.

                But, even though it was the lesser of two evils, all my doubts pertaining to this question of whether it was right or wrong for me were settled once and for all the night I saw him.

                I was in the basement of my parent’s house, laying in my bed, indulging in this addiction. The room was almost completely dark, save the starlight coming in through the window.

                All of a sudden, the room seemed to get darker. Then, to my left, I felt a presence of pure, unadulterated, evil come into the room. I turned my head and saw a man standing beside my bed. I sensed he was grinning—and I can’t tell you how I knew this, because he was of a substance that was darker than dark, but there the inexplicable knowing was. He was so dark, and so evil, you could cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife.

                He started pacing back and forth, along the line of my body, like a panther watching its prey. He was relatively short—perhaps 5’5”, and his gaze was fixed directly on me as he walked 1, 2, 3 steps down to my feet, and then 1, 2, 3 steps back up towards my head. Besides the tangible evil, I could also sense pure delight emanating from him. He was so happy—in a very twisted way—that I was indulging in that addiction. It delighted him to no end.

                In the split second I saw him and took all these details in, something else came through: this dark being—this demonic evil spirit—was assigned to me, to keep me addicted and under the influence of Satan, to bind me as his for the rest of my life. And he knew he was doing a good job of it.

                Although I couldn’t hear him with my ears, the message he was sending me was absolutely clear. He was saying, “You are MINE.”

                A jolt of fear struck my heart. I leapt up and ran past him—missing him by inches—towards the light switch. After light flooded the room, I looked at where he was. I couldn’t see him—but I knew he was still there.

                I cast out in the name of Christ. I was so scared, I tried to convince myself he was little more than a friendly spirit who came into my room to say “hi”. I even grabbed a piece of paper and drew the entire scene as if he were a dark Gumby playing an innocent prank on me. This untruthful retelling of the facts allowed me to fall asleep in my room, where the dark visitor had been only minutes before.

                But in the morning, I knew the truth: I would never indulge in that addiction again.

                I wish that was the end of the story, but as addictions go, I only kept the promise for about two years until I fell back into it again, saying to myself, it’s harmless. It’s even a good thing in so many ways.

                It wasn’t until I later broke the addiction for good, that I noticed the measure of light I’d been missing once more rush into my life. I then renewed my vow to never give that evil man another chance to exercise power over me again.

The Darkest of the Dark

By Nicole Hilton, August 1, 2019

I experienced that which awaits those facing utter damnation. It was bleaker than the worst trauma I’ve experienced in spirit or in body.

            I remember one night in particular when my mental, emotional, and spiritual illnesses combined in such a way where the resulting product was the darkest of the darknesses I have ever experienced. Even during my spiritual SRA torture, I had an inkling of hope in the back of my mind that God would surely stop the pain—that there would be an eventual end to it—because I knew that I must matter. Even in the worst Atonement attack I’ve experienced, there was hope and a sacred reason for all the suffering. Even in my worst panic attack, I have known deep down that the sun would rise the next day, and that I would live to see it.

            But as I lay in someone else’s bed one night when traveling with my family, I stared up at the slanted white ceiling. Everything looked normal in the room. Then, I felt that I was spiritually plunged down to the deepest and darkest part of the universe, where no light could ever reach me. This was so dark—so evil—that there was not even a semblance of hope left. The suffering was eternal…infinite…absolute. I felt a complete and all-consuming desire for annihilation. There was a certainty of destruction, of damnation.

            Only now—all these years later, remembering this one night and aching for my past self—do I understand that this must be the reality that the sons of perdition (the truly damned) face. Given a choice, I am sure that I would rather go through elemental annihilation and be unmade rather than face such an existence.

            Knowing how they feel, being unmade would be a blessing—a deliverance from the hopeless state they have chosen.

            I, for one, hope never to feel that all-consuming and never-ending darkness again.

A Tragedy of Errors: A Schizophrenic Drama

By Nicole Marie Hilton, November 17, 2019

Becoming subject to programming from the dark side—whether by our own choice or through trauma or abuse—inevitably leads us into a spiral of self-destructive beliefs, attitudes, and decisions. For those of us finding ourselves neck deep in dark programming, it takes a miracle to escape with our lives. I feel for my poor, worn-out guardian angels who have gotten me safely onto the path of healing in spite of myself.

                  In 2012, I had gone through Mental Health Court because I had broken the law. Being naïve and overly-trusting—and also having “rescuer-syndrome” (as I like to call it)—I made friends with anyone who approached me—including some extremely shady people who were caught up in the legal system.

                  There always seemed to be a part of me that would pull me into situations that were life-threatening, or at least would harm me and invite more trauma into my life. This part would whisper, This is what you want. This is all you are good for. You are an object—this is the measure of your creation. And those thoughts would subconsciously drive some of my actions. Consciously, though, I wouldn’t be thinking those things at this stage in my life. In grade school and the beginning of college, yes. In 2012 right after my first divorce? No. My actions came from seemingly virtuous thoughts, such as, being trusting is good—never judge a book by its cover! Being friends with everyone is what charity is all about! Rescuing people is commendable!

                  Thus, I got into situations like the one I’m going to tell you about now, where I had a tendency to wrap the sinister motivations of others with a pretty bow.

                  There was a schizophrenic man— age 25-30—at Mental Health Court. Let’s call him Matt. Matt approached me after a session where he had been sitting behind me. During court, he walked up to the small podium—his brown hair unkempt—and reported his progress, then sat down. After court was over, he leaned over the back of the bench I was sitting on and commented on how cool my hair was. He smelled like he hadn’t taken a shower in a week, yet he smiled at me—and that was enough. We exchanged phone numbers, and I got that little thrill of excitement I always got in these situations. Thoughts like I am needed, I am desirable, I’m being a good person would flit through my head—guiding my actions much like a car’s steering wheel can be used to guide it off a cliff.

                  We texted a bit, and made a lunch date. During lunch, I listened to all of his woes, and he listened to mine. We commiserated on how awful the whole “system” is. How cops were nearly “always” dirty. And how there wasn’t “anybody” who could halfway understand us! Afterwards, I dropped him off and left feeling really good about myself.

                  Now that I’m looking back on the whole experience, there were a lot—I mean a lot—of red flags that I would be able to see easily today…yet they were in my blind spot back then because of my programming.

                  A couple of weeks later, we made another lunch date. I went to pick him up at his apartment out in Washington.

                  I climbed the stairs to the nondescript brown apartment building he was living in and knocked at his door—which was scratched and dented in some places.

                  Matt opened the door.

                  “Hello, hello Nicole I’m just—I’m…why don’t you come in?”

                  I felt uneasy right away. I brushed the uneasiness aside. How dare you feel uneasy about another human being! What’s wrong with you! The programming seemed to say. So, I smiled and stepped through the door.

                  He closed it behind me…and locked it.

                  I clutched my purse instinctively.

                  The whole place smelled like marijuana. There were dirty dishes all over the front room and kitchen, and the walls were oppressively bare.

                  He was behind me. He put his hand on my lower back.

                  “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

                  I looked around. There were no couches. “Where?” I asked, still clutching my purse. My heart started beating a bit faster.

                  “Oh—in here, in here…”

                  He guided me—his hand firmly on the small of my back—to his bedroom. I did nothing to resist. He sat me down on his bed.

                  “Um, Matt? I think we should go eat somewhere…” I stammered. Was my voice squeaky? How embarrassing for me.

                  “Nicole, you are so right. But first, well…”

                  My arms were tensed up at my sides. I looked around the room. There was hair everywhere. I looked for a cat, but couldn’t find one. I tried to take up as little space as I possibly could on his ratty blanket, which covered the bed. Matt sat at a desk chair, before an enormous computer screen and speakers. I noticed there was a bong on the table, and a spoon with a substance in it which looked to have been melted. I thought I’d seen the same thing in movies, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

                  I gazed over at the bathroom. It was even dirtier than his room, and the shower curtain was stained.

                  We started talking, and in spite of my boundless naiveté, five minutes into the conversation even I realized that something wasn’t right. He was repeating himself often, and bobbing his head in a weird way. I kept putting off my growing feeling of dread, and the rescuer in me listened to him and responded as politely as I could.

                  Then suddenly he burst out: “Nicole don’t you ever just want to get away from it all? So I’m telling you—I’m telling you—I’ve got tickets for us, two tickets, two tickets, and we are going to run away from this place. Run far away from this place—up to Canada—where we are going to be married—it’s going to, got to, work—“

                  I stared at him. I realized that, despite looking like he hadn’t spent a day at the gym, his torso was broad. And his hairy arms were big. And his trembling hands were strong and erratic enough that they could break anything—or anyone—who didn’t agree with him.

                  I tried to disagree with him gently. We went back and forth for five minutes. It was enough for him to know that I wasn’t completely in on his fantastic idea to elope to Canada. He started to shift in his chair, extending and flexing his fingers rhythmically.

                  It dawned on me that even though this guy was schizophrenic and on drugs, he was still smart enough to pick up on my unwillingness to go along with his plan, and he was getting antsy.

                  Then a voice said urgently in my ear, Lie, Nicole. You have to lie.

                  I set aside my awareness of my heart pumping like a rabbit’s. Remembering that I always wanted to be an actress, I said, “Matt, before we discuss any more of that, can’t we go to lunch and talk about it? I…had so much fun last time.” This was a lie.

                  If I could just get him to a place where there were people…I was sure I could escape him.

                  “Oh no, we can’t do that…we can’t do that…” He said, bowing his head. Then his eyes looked up at me from under the fringe of hair which had fallen across his face. They were bloodshot.

                  He drew in a breath. “First…we need to seal our union together. Right here, right now—in this bed.”

                  He started to get up from the chair. I braced myself, and stammered,

                  “But…”

                  But he sat down beside me on the bed, his arm around my back, and I moved over a couple of inches. I tried not to lean away from him too much, but he smelled badly.

                  His shirt was slightly damp from sweat. I looked at him. His eyes were hungry and crazed.

                  “Nicole, I love you. I’m in love with you. Let me show you how much I love you…just don’t fight it anymore.” He started to force me down onto the bed. My stomach flexed as I tried to fight him.

                  Oh God, help me! I thought.

                  An idea sprang into my mind. I yelped, “Wait! Wait Matt…Oh Matt…wow I…haven’t felt this way before. I’m so confused…” I ducked from under his arm and turned and faced him on the bed. I grabbed his hands.

                  “Confused?” he asked.

                  I thought about his penchant for talking about metaphysical things. I started to act increasingly excited. “Yes…I don’t believe in sex before marriage…but what if you’re right? What if…okay, I just had this idea—what if all of time is compressed, and we are in an eternal now? Does that mean…?” I paused, gazing off into space, as if I were pondering.

                  He looked up and down my body as my attention snapped back to him, and I said slowly, “…that means we are already married in Canada.”

                  His eyes lit up, but then they went dark. He leaned forward and brought his face to mine.

                  “Do you really believe that?”

                  I leaned away—“Matt…I don’t know what to believe anymore. It’s just a silly idea.”

                  “Nicole, it isn’t—isn’t. The space time continuum is all a façade. Everything’s already happened.”

                  Then I put my hand on his bicep, and looked down at his body as if I wanted him all the more. I looked up at him through my eyelashes, and said, “But…but Matt…are you sure we are going to Canada? You have the tickets?”

                  “Yes! Yes I have them right here…” he pointed to the desk. I saw some white printed paper on it, but couldn’t tell what it said.

                  “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll do it!” I looked at him bright-eyed, and then hugged him. Inside of me, though, there seemed to be all parts of me awake and alert—one part of me was cringing at pressing his sweaty and hairy body to mine. Another was using all her genius in the art of flirtation, and yet another part was using all her genius in how to actually get out of the apartment with my virtue and life intact. Another part of me—the one who was “fronting” and transforming all direction from the other parts into a flawless performance—was acting so well that I actually almost believed what I was saying to him. That is, I’m guessing, what finally sold him on the idea that I truly wanted to copulate with him right then and there.

                  He took off his shirt and grabbed the bottom of mine, and was starting to pull it up when I said—as an afterthought—“Matt…sorry, um…can you take a quick shower? It’s just that…I really like things clean before I…before…”

                  He stood up with a burst of energy, “Oh—Oh I’m sorry, of course! Okay it’ll just take me five minutes, okay?” he backed into the bathroom as he was saying this, his hand out in the “stop” gesture. “Just wait right there, okay?”

                  I sighed, and leaned back onto the bed and said, “Matt…you know I’m not going anywhere.” I smiled slightly.

                  “Okay—right! I’ll be right out!” He slammed the door. I waited a couple seconds, then I heard the shower head turn on.

                  Immediately, I grabbed my purse—which had fallen to the floor—and I ran into the kitchen. It’s scarcely believable to me now, but I actually grabbed a pen, and wrote on a scrap of paper,

                  Matt, you are off your meds. Get back on them. And do the dishes.

                  Then I ran to the door, unlocked it, and got the hell out of there.

The Abrahamic Trial, pt 3: Freedom in the Fishbowl

By Nicole Marie Hilton, September 22, 2020

            I heard two men outside of the padded cell. One fiddled with some keys, the lock clicked, and the large metal door swung open.

            They found me sitting quietly, cross-legged, on the cement floor by the drain. The always-on bright light overhead lit up the white and orange striped jumpsuit I had been given the day before for good behavior. The Book of Mormon, divorce papers, remains of my lunch, and an uneaten cookie were off to the side. For the first time in my life, I hadn’t wanted sugar. Because of that and how freezing the cell was, I was fifteen pounds lighter than when they had initially put me in there.

            The shorter of the two men came into my cell and sat down beside me. He apologized for being out of town for the past four days, and explained he was the jail psychiatrist.

            “Nicole, do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

            “Yes, I tried to commit suicide with a gun,” I said.

            “So I heard,” he said, looking at a bundle of papers in his hands. “And…how do you feel now?”

            I smiled at him and said, “Well, I feel fine.”

            I didn’t try to hide the bruises up and down my arms and hands from when I had thrown myself against the walls and the door. As far as I was concerned, that was a whole other lifetime ago, anyway.

            He asked me some more questions, and I answered all of them honestly. Whereas before I had been absolutely starved for human contact, now I regarded the presence of this man in my cell as a curiosity—nothing more.

            He seemed more and more puzzled, eventually getting up and leaving, the huge door clicking into place loudly behind him.

            I heard him talking with the guard through the cat flap as they left. “Don’t know why she’s in there, let’s move her out.”

            I sat there, one part of me feeling neutral at the news, another part stunned that my ordeal was almost over. I stood up and did some jumping jacks, raising my body temperature so I’d stop shivering. I looked around the cell. I knew every inch of it. I smiled at the memory of what this place had been to me before: a torture chamber. A hell I couldn’t escape from. But now…?

            I pondered on the conversation I’d had with Jesus. He had stopped talking about an hour before. He had been everything I had hoped for and more in a Savior. There is no way to describe how it feels talking with Him. He had known everything—everything—about me. And yet He loved me unconditionally, forgiving me of all I had ever done wrong. His knowledge of me led to shared experience and hilarity between us. No one listening to us converse would have picked up on half of what we were talking about. His knowledge, and his Love, were complete. Absolute. And He was still with me. I knew that now…

            The liberation I had experienced while reading the Book of Mormon was so much greater than the walls around me. I still couldn’t explain the miracle that had happened in that cell. I had fallen to the greatest depths of pain and sorrow I had ever known in my life, and yet that little bundle of pages had pulled me out of it to experience a joy even greater than my suffering. How had that happened?

            While pondering on this, I heard officers come down the hallway again. They came to my door and opened it. One of the officers gestured for me to finally step out of the cell. I thought, could it be true? I’m to be physically liberated as well?

            Almost shaking, I stepped barefoot out into the stark white hallway. One of the guards led me away, and I looked back at my crucible, tears welling up in my eyes. I left my temple prison behind.

*   *   *

            The “Fishbowl,” as it was called, was a large room crammed with about twenty bunk beds. Three of the walls were white washed cinderblock, while the fourth wall consisted of windows looking out onto a cafeteria. That was why they called it the Fishbowl—I suppose all the women inside of it felt like trapped guppies, ever gazing outwards towards the cafeteria and the hallways which led to freedom beyond.

            The two guards who had liberated me from my solitary cell led me down hallways and through doors, eventually to this other cell—which to my delight was full of women of all sorts.

            The door slammed shut behind me, and about fifteen faces were turned in my direction. The part of me that had become neutral when it came to human contact was suddenly bulldozed by another part of me that was very loving and relieved to have that contact. I started weeping freely, and ran from woman to woman, embracing them!

            “What the —- do you think you’re doing?!” said a middle-aged Hispanic woman.

            “Oh, I’m just so glad! So glad!” I cried.

            “Well go and shove your ——– hug up your —. It’s not welcome here!”

            I laughed. Nothing she could say could dissuade me from dancing around the room, clasping my hands to my heart, loving on everyone in sight. More than just her cries of dismay were heard. Apparently, I’d interrupted everyone in their brooding.

            I couldn’t imagine why everyone wasn’t getting along. Not when there was so much to be thankful for! I mean, even the thought of being in this room with just one other human being was enough to send me into raptures of delight—let alone fifteen other human beings!

            The only one who didn’t complain about receiving a hug from me was my old friend Hannah Morris*, who had been processed with me about four days prior. She still had bruises all over her body, but they were yellow and green now instead of purple in color. She sat there on her bunk as confident as ever.

            “What’s up, Nicole? Out of solitary?”

            “Yes, Hannah, yes!”

            I lost no time telling everyone everything about my life—sure that they would come to understand why we could all be rapturously happy now. This did not go over well with the group as a whole—everyone acted like I’d interrupted something important and solemn.

            But no one was more troubled at my appearance than the middle aged Hispanic woman. She sat up against the back wall on a top bunk, becoming angrier by the minute. Soon, she took advantage of a gap in one of my stories, and screamed at me.

            “You ——- little ——–, SHUT UP now or I’ll shove your ——- face up your —- until you can’t breathe!”

            I had been telling a story while doing push ups on the cold cement floor—a habit I’d picked up from being in solitary.

            I paused and knelt on the floor, looking up at the woman. Everyone was looking up at her as well, and when I glanced around I noticed looks of intense dislike across the rest of the women’s faces. Obviously, the Hispanic woman was even less popular than me.

            I didn’t know how to respond to her. I’d never been talked to that way before.

            Just then, Hannah Morris spoke up: “Nicole. You don’t have a broken back, you have a titanium spine!”

            At that thought, I jumped up and adopted the Hispanic woman’s language. “WHY DON’T YOU SHUT YOUR PESSIMISTIC FACE OR WE’LL SHOW YOU WHAT THE INSIDE OF A —- REALLY LOOKS LIKE!”

            There was an explosion of yells from the surrounding women. They clapped and cheered and patted me on the back. The Hispanic woman up on the top bunk had her mouth open and a look of shock on her face. She didn’t utter a peep for the rest of that day.

            I slept okay that night.

*   *   *

            The next day, after we were served our lunch of lasagna, two officers stood outside the door. They opened it, and called each woman who needed medication out one by one. They soon called my name, and I left the Fishbowl to get my medication, surprised that suddenly they had my medical information (they hadn’t given me my medication the entire time I was in solitary).

            I approached the officers and one extended a little cup with big white pills inside of it to me. I realized they didn’t have any water with them, and I hadn’t brought my cup of water with me.

            “Sorry, can I run and grab some water? I forgot,” I said.

            The officer holding the cup of pills smirked, then said in a mocking baby-ish voice, “Oh, did you forget your water?”

            The other officer had a hard look on his face when he said, “You should have thought about that before you came. Take the damn pills and get back in the Fishbowl where you belong.”

            I was stunned. They were going to risk a prisoner choking instead of letting her walk twenty steps to get a cup of water?

            It looked like they were serious. I’d never felt such a sense of prejudice and being treated unfairly in my life. I could tell they treated every imprisoned woman this way.

            I slowly reached out and took the little cup of pills. I threw my head back and took them, and as I tried to swallow them they got stuck. I gulped and gulped, my heart quickening as a stress response. The pills inched down my throat, past the point where I’d be choking on them, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Feeling thoroughly demoralized, I turned and walked back into the Fishbowl.

            Over the next day, several women were released because they had made bail. I was given a phone call a day, and continually asked my (now) ex-husband to bail me out. He kept on saying he was trying to get the money together. Each time I was made to go back to the Fishbowl after yet another depressing phone call, I felt the sense of freedom I’d achieved in solitary leaking out of me, the walls growing closer and closer around me like a noose. I thought I was beginning to understand why all the women in the Fishbowl were so morose. 

            The way the guards treated us didn’t help the situation, either. On the third day of being in the Fishbowl, after another gruff taking-of-the-pills, I sat down on my lower bunk and looked at my hands. I remembered being in solitary. I remembered how I had felt like a forgotten rat in a science lab. I tried to feel around inside of me for that sense of human-ness, that humanity which surely must be within me somewhere, and I located it around my heart and behind my eyes. I thought, I am still a human being—even if the state or others don’t believe it anymore. I decided that, though others might take advantage of me, treat me like an object, or curse at me and wish me dead, I wasn’t going to listen to them. I was going to listen to Christ—and what I had experienced in solitary was real. Deep down, to those who mattered most, I knew I was a queen.

            I got up from my bunk and strode to the one table that stood in the midst of the bunk beds. It had a deck of cards on it. I took them out of their tattered box, and looked at the depressed women who surrounded me. “Who wants to play Handkerchief?”

            Handkerchief was a game my friend Shelli Barnson had taught me, where you assign a saying and a body motion to each number or face card in a deck of cards. You had to remember the sayings other players came up with, and yell them out with the accompanying motion as fast as you could. If you laid down the ace, you would yell, “handkerchief!” I’m not quite sure how players won—that rule is now a mystery to me. What I do remember is that the card game could get quite loud and raucous as it progressed, especially as players added funnier and funnier sayings and gestures to the game.

            I had three takers, Izzy*, Juana*, and Arianna*. We sat down at the table, and I explained the rules to them. We started playing, and the other girls started putting lewd sayings and gestures into play. I shrugged and continued playing as well as my memory allowed. Soon the entire Fishbowl was filled with yells and laughter as we got better at associating the cards with the sayings we came up with.

            “Number three, I need to go pee!” I yelled, hopping off my chair and doing a I-need-to-pee dance.

            “Number eight, her baby daddy is the cocaine dealer!” we all screamed, pointing to an imaginary man.

            The game became more and more hilarious. Arianna had tears streaming down her face. Izzy and Juana couldn’t breathe for laughing. We all got up to do the gesture for the king card, when time seemed to stop for me. The sense of freedom I’d missed for a few days descended upon the scene and I saw the laughing faces around me frozen for a moment in time under the florescent lights.

            Something told me to turn towards the wall made of windows, and as I did so I saw those two guards standing there, their mouths slightly open and their eyes wide. I smiled at them and then turned back to the game. I was free.

The Abrahamic Trial, pt 2: The Personality of Christ

By Nicole Marie Hilton, March 2, 2020

In mortality we forget who we really are. Once in this vulnerable state, we are then confused and abused by the dark side. Great growth can be won by fighting through the gauntlet to regain freedom, peace, and our own identity. We must be the instigator of this healing process; it must be an expression of our own will. But always in the wings is Jesus Christ waiting for us to express our faith and personal effort. In my experience He is so much more than a healer; He is my kindest, smartest, and funniest brother. He is real.

            Jesus Christ is many things. He is our Savior. Our Redeemer. Our Healer. He rose from the dead so that we may live again. We rely upon Him for many things—to hear us in our anguish, to heal us from our hurt, to take our prayers of praise and supplication to God and to be our Great Advocate. 

            But He is also our Friend. And do you know what the best of friends do when they get together? Well, they might go out and sit on the porch with some lemonade, not speaking much, but just enjoying each other’s company. 

            Friends also laugh. They laugh! They hang out and they laugh. 

            Many times, I have tried to write about my personal “dark night of the soul”—an eight-week period between November 2011 and February 2012. Every time, I have failed. I suppose that, some day, the words might come, and I will be able to somehow put down chicken scratches that convey even a part of what happened. But, for now, I’d like to focus on a small ten-hour window of pure joy which occurred during this time.

           When I was 23 years old, I found myself in the “ice box”, a very cold and brightly lit padded cell in the Washington County Jail which was fittingly named Purgatory. I had just spent the previous three days in the cell without sleep, reading the entire Book of Mormon out loud—even screaming it at times (I was going through psychosis with no medical care). A kind guard who heeded my pleadings had slipped it through the cat-flap in the door. I had been furiously reading this book of scripture about Jesus Christ, the one man who could unlock my every prison whether it be physical, mental, emotional or spiritual. I was trying to cleanse myself of the satanic programming which had consumed me and had caused me to attempt suicide with a gun, leading to my imprisonment.

When you reach up for the Lord’s power in your life with the same intensity that a drowning person has when grasping and gasping for air, power from Jesus Christ will be yours.

President Russell M. Nelson, General Conference April 2017

           While reading the book, a gradual change came over me. I went from the depths of Hell to being the most liberated I’d ever been in my life. After finishing the Book of Mormon, I prayed for myself. I prayed for my friends and family, especially those impacted by my actions. And then I prayed for my enemies. My heart was so full of love. I felt love seeping out of my heart and entering every part of my body. I ended my prayer by praying for all those who had hurt me, and I was about to faint from exhaustion when loving hands came out of nowhere and caught me, lowering me to the ground. 

            But when I touched the ground, it wasn’t the cement and drain I had paced over so many times—it was the most heavenly featherbed you could imagine. I felt like I was floating—nothing on earth can be made to feel the way this mattress felt. 

            I slept the deepest and most peaceful sleep I ever have in my life—there, in a tiny sixty-degree solitary cell. For me, it became a holy temple-prison.

*   *   *

I don’t want to be afraid
Every time I face the waves
I don’t want to be afraid
I don’t want to fear the storm
Just because I hear it roar
I don’t want to fear the storm
Peace be still
Say the word and I will
Set my feet upon the sea
Till I’m dancing in the deep
Oh, peace be still
You are here so it is well
Even when my eyes can’t see
I will trust the voice that speaks
I’m not gonna be afraid
‘Cause these waves are only waves
Oh, I’m not gonna be afraid
I’m not gonna fear the storm
You are greater than its roar
Let faith rise up
Oh heart believe
Let faith rise up in me
Lord Jesus
You’re the God of peace
You’re our peace in the storm
You’re righting every wrong, Jesus
we receive it, we receive it
let the peace come and wash over all the kneelers
Jesus, You make our hearts stay calm
‘Cause You increase the strength of Your children

            I opened my eyes after I had slept. The bright light was still on above me. I could hear the prison guards opening and closing doors far away down the halls. I glanced up to the big metal door with its thick plastic square window. Before, I had noticed all of the frantic scratches people had made on the plastic. But now, I focused on an enormous letter “J” that had been carved into the window, with a circle around it. The letter and circle encompassed the entire window.

            “Nicole…”

            I sat up quickly. There was a man’s voice in my cell. Or was I schizophrenic—like some doctors had said?

            “Nicole. Hey.”

            I knew immediately who it was. 

            “It’s you, isn’t it?” I asked.

            “Yep! It’s me.” I could hear the smile on His face.

            I jumped up. “I LOVE YOU!” I yelled, my face bright and my eyes wide.

            His laughter echoed around the cell so loudly, I thought a guard would hear. Or could only I hear His voice? 

            Dear reader, someday I’ll have a perfect memory, and I’ll be able to remember the conversation we had. For now, I only remember that it lasted about 10 hours (by the prison-guard changes, I guessed), and it was the most spectacular 10 hours of my life. We both just sat there—Jesus and I—and talked and joked and laughed until our guts hurt. 

            All the healing had been done that needed to be done for the moment. What Jesus really wanted was just to be with me. To enjoy my company—and have me enjoy Him. That’s what He really wants, from all of us. 

            I am still healing from many aspects of my satanic programming. However, I believe that as each of us finds healing in this life or the next, we will be able to reach that wonderful place of loving ourselves, because we feel the love of God. Then, upon that foundation, our hearts will be drawn toward praying for all people, and you’ll mean it—with charity that will transform you from being primarily physical to being primarily spiritual. And in this process, He can heal us to a greater extent.

            And after the healing comes the best part—just hanging out and hearing Him tell you inside jokes, or talking about whatever you want, for as long as you want. You and your Best Friend. 

The Abrahamic Trial, pt 1: Purgatory

By Nicole Marie Hilton, April 15 and July 22, 2020

What do you hold onto when all hope is lost and the world only sends you pain? When I’ve reached out, and found nothing, my last remaining hope was the idea of bringing the pain to an end, permanently. When that last option was taken away, God was my last hope. When nothing seems further out of reach than God, that can be when we truly find Him. When I shift my trust onto God, and his Son Jesus Christ, I’ve found lasting relief. I cannot become too dependent on God. The more I rely upon Him, the more freedom I experience and the more permanent my healing.

When I was probably 8 or 9, one of my brothers took everything out of a chest in our basement. Seth* (from now on, the name Seth will stand for all of my brothers when the light I shed on them is less than flattering) said, “Nicole, come on and get in this! It’ll be fun!”

I smiled at him and climbed in. I loved it when Seth played nice with me. But he could be unpredictable—often going into almost-manic phases where things could be lit on fire, or physical activities like jumping off of high places, dragging all my stuffed animals behind him on a scooter, holding me down to spit in my face, or blowing stuff up.

            He has since grown up into a good man and a wonderful father, and he’s apologized to me. But in those days, I’d be lying if I said I never cried or was traumatized by him, and I was hoping this wasn’t one of those times.

            I dutifully put my head down.

I was in the chest. Seth said, “Well, get your head down…”

            He shut the lid, and put the latch down and locked it.

            I tried to put my head up, but my back hit the lid. A seam appeared along the perimeter of the lid, and I could see my brother sitting about five feet away, watching my struggle.

            I started to hyperventilate. I screamed.

            I looked through the crack. I saw my brother’s face. For the first time in my life, I chose to swear.

            “Oh…oh —-! Oh —-!”

            I screamed and screamed, the lid bouncing against the latch. I focused on his face through the crack. Fear consumed me as his features transformed before my eyes. He was no longer my brother. His face distorted, and his brows grew and turned inward with hate. His eyes became slits of glee, and his mouth turned upwards into a grin of evil no child had the ability to wear.

            My brother’s face had literally turned into that of a devil.

            I screamed even louder—this time for a different reason. My heart beat faster and faster, but then he shook his head a little, his features went back to normal, and he was back. He leaned forward, and unlatched the chest.

            I had been in the chest for about 10 seconds. An eternity.

            Tears streaming down my face and breathing hard, I got out, shaking. I never wanted to go in there again.

*   *   *

            Abraham was a prophet from the Old Testament. He and his wife, Sarah, were “barren”—they had no children. At a very old age, God promised them that they would have posterity. Though it seemed impossible, Sarah conceived and bore a son, Isaac.

            Later, God came to Abraham and asked him to do the impossible: offer up Isaac as a burnt sacrifice on the mountain.

            Can you imagine?

            Abraham went through his “dark night of the soul”. Regardless of how hard it was, he went through with his worst fear—he was about to sacrifice his son. At the very last moment, an angel stopped him. It was enough.

            Some say that everyone will have their “Abrahamic Trial” sometime in their lives. That everyone will have to face their worst fears in some capacity and overcome them for the glory of God. Many times, I felt like my entire life was one long Abrahamic Trial. But I didn’t remember what my worst fear even was until January, 2012.

            My worst fear was being locked away in a box.

            More specifically, it was being locked away with nothing but myself, the monster of fear, and the devils which plagued me to keep me company. To avoid this fear, I developed an unhealthy reliance upon the promise of exiting this life if the fear ever got too bad–as it did in fourth grade. It was a life preserver made of lead.

*   *   *

            I was in a cement block cell with Hannah Morris*, a skinny girl in her teens who seemed to feel right at home in Purgatory, the actual name of the Washington County jail. She admitted nonchalantly that she had been a prostitute, and when I asked her about all the bruises on her body, she told me that she had begged her boyfriend to hit her.

            “I love it. I just love it,” she said, running her fingers through her long brown hair. “He hates it, but he does it because he knows it makes me happy. He’s a good boyfriend.” I sat with my back against the cold white-washed cement wall and pondered what she had said. I didn’t understand her, but at any rate I admired her confidence. A lady came around with a cart full of books. I selected Treasure Island, but Hannah took nothing.

            We spent the night in that cell.

            I remember thinking, as the light turned out and we settled in on our sleeping mats, that I was so grateful to have her there with me. She was a buffer between me and the reality of what I’d done to end up in there.

            The details tried to sneak up on me as I lay there in the dark, but I rolled over and focused on the pockmarked wall until I fell asleep.

            In the morning, I asked her what to expect next.

            “Oh, we’ll spread our asses and then be put in the fishbowl, next.”

            “We’ll do what?” I said.

            Just then, a guard came. The guard unlocked the heavy door.

            “Hannah—come with me.”

            “See ya,” she said.

            I waved goodbye.

            Soon after, after I’d had enough time to count the cinderblocks in the wall, a female guard came for me.

            We did a strip search. I did, indeed, have to do what Hannah mentioned so the guard could check I wasn’t hiding a…well I’m actually not sure what they were looking for. But oh, how I was humiliated.

            “Suicide watch,” she said, looking at a clipboard.

            She handed me a green shield, which was held together with Velcro. It covered my torso down to just above my knees, like a giant paper bag. I put it on, and that was it; I was not even allowed underwear. It was scratchy.

            Another guard came and led me down a cinderblock hallway. “We aren’t…going to the…’fishbowl’?” I asked.

            He didn’t say anything.

            We entered a hallway with windows along the right side. Singular tan cells lined the left.

            I grasped my left arm and felt the cement under my bare feet.

            We passed one empty cell.

            The next cell had…a dead girl in it, staring vacantly back at me.

            I stared in shock and stopped walking as I looked through the floor-to-ceiling window in the outward wall of her cell. The girl was sitting by this window, her forehead leaning on it, the fingertips of her hand grazing the window’s surface. I could see she once had her hand fully on the glass, but it had slipped down to rest on her knee. Her eyes were glassy and her skin was literally grey, as if no blood coursed through her veins.

            I stood, shocked and horrified in the extreme. She didn’t move or even twitch.

            The guard turned back to me and said, “move it!”

            I jumped at the order, and I followed him to the next cell. The image of the girl was seared into my mind like hot coals.

            He unlocked a large iron door and I looked up at him.

            You want me to go in there???

            He nodded.

            I entered, and the door closed behind me with loud finality.

            I was utterly alone.

* * *

            “We must go on, because we can’t turn back…” The words from Treasure Island stared me in the face. My eyes lost focus on them, and my head started spinning. I couldn’t ignore how the gritty cement floor felt under my feet, or the kink in my neck from sitting curled up with my knees against me, or the goosebumps which so constantly erupted in waves up and down my body.

            Why do they have to blow ice-cold air down on me all of the time? Why is the light up above so bright? Why am I in here?

            The memory of me holding a handgun to my stomach pressed in on me. Then, turning it on my mother as she came around the corner. Her jumping on me, and struggling over the gun until I pulled the trigger and the bullet hit the cupboards.

            The book fell from my hands and, shivering, I got up to pace.

            It was five paces toward the door, and five paces toward the padded back wall, over and over and over again.

            My dad’s weight as he pressed me to the floor. The cold grasp of the handcuffs, and being shoved down into the backseat of the cop’s car.

            I started wringing my hands. My heart grew cold and beat like a rabbit’s. The enormous weight of satanic programming started to creep up on me—and it’s unexplainable unless you’ve been there and felt it yourself. It’s like you’re in a burning building, and you’d do anything to jump.

            But there was no gun in my hands anymore. There was just a cold cement floor and padded walls.

            Suicide had always been my ultimate back-up plan. I had a bevy of plans in my head that would cause a quick (or slow…) death in any variety of situations. I’d deliberately considered these plans over and over in my head since I was 9 years old. But now I was forced to look elsewhere—suicide was, for the first time, off the menu.

            I had no idea how much I had relied upon those plans until it felt like that rug was pulled out from underneath me.

            I paced around the little tan-colored padded cell, shivering, hyperventilating, and crying. Treasure island was forgotten as reality overwhelmed the words on the page. I couldn’t escape the screams in my head, which poured in on me like a torrential waterfall.

            Someone came to the big iron door, quickly pushed a bundle of papers through the cat-flap, and left.

            I ran to them and picked them up. They were a divorce decree.

            I was numb. I didn’t feel anything. I threw them aside and kept on pacing.

            After a couple hours, I pressed the little button on the wall, which was connected to a speaker.

            “Yes?” a voice had said.

            “What did the bra say to the hat?” I asked.

            “What?”

            “You go on a head while I give these two a lift.”

            The guard at the front desk said something back, but I couldn’t make it out.

            My plan was to get on his good side, then try to convince him that I belonged with the other women in “the Fishbowl”—wherever that was.

            I needed people.

            I kept on pressing the buzzer.

            Eventually, they turned it off.

            The monster of fear grew in my heart, into the biggest proportions it had ever been in my life. I could have shared that small room with a ferocious and hungry lion, and it would have been a mercy. That prospect would be less fearful than being in this box alone.

            Literally, the fear of not dying consumed me.

            I am in Hell! I am in Hell!

At this point, I dissociated and I was nowhere.

            All too soon, I hazily “woke up” in the back of my consciousness. I was watching a bruised hand slam into the heavy iron door over and over and over, and I heard muffled screams. They sounded like they were coming from underwater.

            “Help me…help me…help me…help me.”

            I focused on the voice, and it grew louder and louder. I then became aware of my jaw opening and closing. The sound became deafening as the screams registered as my own. I tried to control them, but I couldn’t. I watched helplessly, seemingly from the backseat of the vehicle of my body, as I screamed over and over, “HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!”

            My hand slammed into the painted door’s small square window. I became aware that I was naked, holding the tarp-like material they had given me for a “blanket” around my body. The green shield lay forgotten on the floor behind me.

            As I became aware of all these things, I felt myself “sliding” into the personality who was “fronting”—we were becoming one person.

            No! I tried to scream out, but all I could scream was help me, help me, help me.

            The scene became bright in all of its magnificent horror. Terror and adrenaline like I’ve never known before coursed through my body. The bright light threw everything into a stark matte swath of pain. I knew I couldn’t stop—though my hand and arm were black and blue from bruises. I had to keep pounding that door. I had to keep screaming.

            As the two personalities merged, I received the memory back of pacing the padded cell desperately—no one to listen, nothing to distract, no one to turn to. I received the memory of sliding into a personality that had been asleep for decades—one of the personalities that had bourn the brunt of the abuse. Being tied down upon a circular disc, and being stabbed through the middle with a special weapon in a different dimension over and over and over again—not being able to die because my astral form would heal itself again, and again, and again…

            The sensation of being crushed. The laughter and dark faces painted with glee who surrounded me. The sensation of being in a timeless state where the torture would last forever.

            My screams for God to save me.

            No one coming to the rescue.

            Pacing back and forth in the cell as the sensation of fear wracked my body and soul, enough time had passed that my shield had worn angry red lines which bled under my arms and around my neck. I now remembered taking the shield off and grabbing the tarp blanket to cover my nakedness.

            I remembered feeling like a wild animal, not able to choose my reaction to being locked up, throwing my body against the walls, screaming in terror.

            I didn’t know what age I was. Was I 4? 5? 6?

            My back-up plan was gone. My new back-up plan, apparently, were the guards outside my cell.

            They had ignored me—or tried to—for at least 5-6 hours.

            Someone broke down. “MAYBE WE’LL HELP YOU IF YOU PUT YOUR SHEILD BACK ON!” an angry voice said over the speaker.

            As this registered, a particle of hope entered my heart. I dropped the tarp and threw the shield back on, my screams an unending stream of desperate sound echoing around the chamber.

            I slammed both arms and hands against the door.

            “HELP ME!”

            The speaker was silent. The guards—who I could see through several walls that had windows about five feet off the floor—turned and ignored me again.

            It didn’t occur to me to rely upon Jesus Christ and the tools He had given me. It didn’t occur to me that He could be the ultimate back-up plan until I had exhausted every other option.

            After another hour of screaming—the guards doing nothing—something flashed before my mind.

            I remembered a story about a man going through the darkest abyss to the sweetest joy imaginable because of his faith in Jesus Christ. His name was Alma the Younger.

            God had answered his prayer.

            As this image flitted through my head, a wash of hope surged into my fearful heart for a brief moment.

            I had the answer.

The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, the sacred scriptures I had so often read while growing up as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and the book which contained this story, would save me. I didn’t know how—but I just knew it would.

            The screams of help me, help me, help me stopped.

            There was a pause, and the guards at the front desk stopped what they were doing to look up for a moment.

            My desperation was still at an all-time high. Yet I changed tactics.

            “GIVE ME A BOOK OF MORMON!”

            That was the turning point upon which my entire life hinges.  

God Loves Broken Things, Pt 3

By Nicole Marie Hilton, January 26th, 2020

We each chose to follow Mother Eve into Satan’s fallen, painful world. We knew for a time we would forget our true selves and be captive to pain and possible abuse. Why would we choose this? Why would God allow it?

            When I was 14, my life was hanging on by a thread. I felt at any moment that thread would unravel. I was afraid I’d break my promise to Heavenly Father — take my own life and be gone forever. I had already planned out and nearly executed my suicide hundreds of times since I was raised from the dead in fourth grade (an occurrence I hadn’t told anyone about). I had gone to the cliffs edge, or nearly jumped off a bridge, or considered falling upon a knife so many times I lost count. I felt utterly alone and isolated, and I was living in almost constant fear. I had also developed an eating disorder and several addictions, which made my life all the more hopeless. I had no one to confide in, no one to turn to. No one would understand me; no one would believe me, and besides, I was too ashamed to even try confiding in anyone.

            I remember traveling with my family to northern Utah for a family event, and we attended church on Sunday. Unbeknownst to my parents, I left the young women’s class I was supposed to be attending and went outside. I crossed the parking lot and crossed over a hillock on the far side to enter a small wood.

            I walked through the trees a little way and fell to my knees in some long grass. I prayed, “Heavenly Father, are you there?”

            I paused, waiting for an answer. The birch trees around me were still. A bird chirped somewhere. I gripped my hands together tighter and said, “I know you’re there…I’ve always known you’re there. Although you don’t seem to be interested in answering me, I still keep on trying to talk to you…because that’s apparently how much faith I have, right? Or maybe it’s just stupidity.”

            I opened my eyes when my sixth sense told me someone was listening in. Someone with a presence and power which were infinite. But there was no comfort offered from this “someone”—nothing. It was as if He were there, but He was giving me the cold shoulder. It was the same damn story every time.

            The voices whispered, He’s punishing you…

            I pressed on. “I don’t understand what’s happening in my life…”

            You deserve everything you’re going through…

            A mix of emotions welled up inside of me—depression, fear, frustration, shame, anger, even rage. I screamed in my head, yet whispered out loud as hot tears dripped from my lashes and nose, “Why do you seem to hate me so much? You love everyone else, don’t you? They all have normal lives, with normal problems, but me?? Something is wrong with me. And I can’t figure it out for the life of me! No matter how hard I try! And guess what? You are silent. For all the preaching and teaching in church, for all the promises they tell me—that you are a LOVING God, who CARES ABOUT ME, who will actually LISTEN and ANSWER my prayers—YOU DON’T! WHY do you hate me so much? I probably pray and read my scriptures more than all the other girls in my Sunday school class—combined! And You know it! And what good does it do me, huh? Well, guess what?! I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU, GOD! I KNOW YOU’RE UP THERE, AND I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, AND NOW HEAR THIS: I HATE YOU, AND I’LL NEVER FORGIVE WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO ME AND FOR FORCING ME TO ENDURE THIS LIVING NIGHTMARE! I want to come home! I hate you! I hate you!” And with that I fell down, my head in my arms, sobbing.

            My heart was already shattered in so many pieces, I was surprised it could break even more.

*   *   *

            I lay in my bed in the corner room on the fourth floor of the hospital after a full day of physical therapy, chatting with my new elderly friends, a bariatric treatment, and utterly failing the Wii Fit game I had played at the behest of everyone on the floor. My balance score had come in dead last, behind all the eighty-year olds with broken hips…and this is a former gymnast talking. We all had a good laugh about that, and I had walked back down the hallway—without my walker—with my heart at peace. While I was still far from okay, I was definitely improving.

            While the day had gone well so far, it took a turn for the worse when a “specialist” showed up. My mom had taken a break from where she worked downstairs to see me. I was sitting up in bed, and we were admiring the newest bouquet of flowers one of my friends had sent. It was full of cheerful daisies and orange spider mums, and sunlight lit up the petals so they glowed.

            Then the lady came in. She looked so official in her lab coat, I thought I had to trust what she was saying—although my gut feeling told me to turn down her offer. She informed us she was trained in testing paraplegic and quadriplegic patients, to see what the chances were of them walking again. We were unsure of the test, but I agreed to it.

            She uncovered my legs, and informed me that “this would sting a little.” Then, she proceeded to jab five- inch long needles into my left leg—inserting them into my nervous system. Then, she wiggled them around as they were attached to a device and computer screen by the bed, which recorded the data I was feeling.

            While I was already feeling nerve pain all over my body, this jacked the pain up to the levels I felt at the moment I had broken my back—it literally felt as if I was burning to death.

            I was already at a level 9 pain before the lady walked in—I mean, come on…really?

            I tried to control my screaming, and hold still. I swear I’ve never been that brave in my life. She jabbed in even more needles, and wiggled them in just the worst way imaginable—right in the nerves—over and over and over again. I almost called her a Nazi.

            After what seemed like hours, she took all the needles out and gave us this little sigh. Then, she left. The test did me no good, and I never received any data from it, but it left me with puncture wounds and sobbing in my angry mother’s arms.

            Funnily enough, while I write this with resentment now, back then in the hospital I promptly forgave her after I had recovered a bit. Perhaps that was the final test.

*   *   *

            I remember that night so clearly. The room had a muted blue sheen to it—as if the moon and stars were influencing the lighting in the hospital. The cleaning crew had been in while I was out eating dinner, and had swept and mopped, cleaned the bathroom, and changed the sheets of the bed. My flowers were moved around and replaced again. The cards and posters friends had made for me smiled from the walls and reminded me of how many were praying that I would be made whole again.

            I had gingerly gotten into bed after brushing my teeth and washing my face, and I looked forward to having both my Mom and Dad visit before I attempted to fall asleep for the night.

            “Hello, sweetie,” my Dad said, his face beaming as he kissed the top of my head. Then he grabbed a couple of chairs and set them up at the foot of the bed.

            “I thought I’d read you a little article tonight. That okay?”

            “Sure,” I said.

            He whipped out BYU magazine, which had been rolled cylinder-like and stuck in his back pocket. He turned to a page and started reading. My mom was checking the bandages on my legs, but then after seeing they were okay, sat down next to my Dad.

            The article was about when the Prophet Joseph Smith was confined unlawfully in Liberty Jail. My family and I are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and Liberty Jail is sacred to us because we hold it in remembrance as a “temple-prison”. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland explains temple prisons in his article this way: “every experience can become a redemptive experience if we remain bonded to our Father in Heaven through that difficulty. These difficult lessons teach us that man’s extremity is God’s opportunity, and if we will be humble and faithful, if we will be believing and not curse God for our problems, He can turn the unfair and inhumane and debilitating prisons of our lives into temples—or at least into a circumstance that can bring comfort and revelation, divine companionship and peace.” He further says that, “You can have sacred, revelatory, profoundly instructive experiences with the Lord in the most miserable experiences of your life—in the worst settings, while enduring the most painful injustices, when facing the most insurmountable odds and opposition you have ever faced.”

            As I listened to my dad read that, I felt the Spirit strongly. A mix of images flew through my mind—they started out blurry, but then became clear. I saw Joseph Smith as a young fourteen year old, walking into a grove of trees, kneeling down and praying, and then the visitation of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ; two figures in white appearing directly above him, brighter than the noon-day sun. It was all in my imagination, but I saw it clearly—then it was juxtaposed next to another set of images I had shut out of my head for years—images of my fourteen year old self walking into a grove of trees, kneeling down, then crying out in anguish. I felt again the overwhelming feelings of despair and confusion as my prayers went unanswered. I felt all the anger as I cursed God and swore I would never forgive Him for how my life had played out.

            After seeing these images pass before the screen of my mind, I snapped out of my reverie and listened to my Dad continue reading. He was reading the words Joseph had cried out to God while imprisoned in Liberty Jail.

            “O God, where art thou?

            How long shall thy hand be stayed…?

            Yea, O Lord, how long shall [thy people] suffer…before…thy bowels be moved with compassion toward them?”

            My Dad continued reading, but I didn’t hear any of the words. The Spirit entered into my heart with such force, it felt like an ocean of knowledge had been poured into me. I saw my life flash before me in Technicolor—I saw all the bullying at home and on the playground, the sobbing late into the night, all the confusion and loneliness I felt, the running to books and addictions in order to cope, my near death experience in fourth grade and all my brushes with suicide thereafter, my brave struggles at making friends and trying to be “normal” during my teenage years, and the breaking of my back and feeling like I was in a prison of my own making. I saw that there were reasons for all these things. While I did not know the deepest reason for it—it was still hidden from me—I was going through those things to fulfill one of the purposes of my life. Laying there in that hospital bed, I surrendered for a small moment to this message: your life is about suffering. I had kicked against it. I had screamed and railed at God about it. I had tried to get out of it. I had been afraid of it. But with the Spirit’s guidance, a part of me accepted it.

            I realized that it didn’t mean I had done wrong, or that I had deserved it, or that it was pointless, or that it was going to be endless. The Spirit told me in an instant: I requested and was ordained to this task—to suffer and overcome the suffering in order to understand, and then to help others.

            My Dad was still talking, but I couldn’t hear a single word. The entire room went from being cast in blue, to a bright shade of fiery white. I felt a holy being enter the room to my right, and I sensed him stepping towards me, gesturing towards my head. Liquid fire started at crown of my head and felt as if it were poured dripping down over my entire body. My body’s sensation of feeling the fiery nerve pain disappeared into the most heavenly sensation of fire and unconditional love I’ve ever felt in my life. As the liquid light reached my toes and I stared into my parent’s faces, I thought they might see me burst into light, or ascend into heaven.

            Right then, I saw Joseph Smith in my mind’s eye. He was in the dank and dark basement of Liberty Jail, suffering in body, mind, and spirit. My heart went out to him, and I felt an overwhelming feeling of love for him.

            He cried out to the Lord, “O God, where art thou?…”

            I heard the Lord’s response,

            “My son, peace be unto thy soul…”

            But then, the response was directed towards me.

            “My daughter, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; and then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.”

            Tears started streaming down my face. I was in a burning furnace of heavenly flame, and I had received a message directly from my Savior. I felt all of my suffering for my entire life turn into the sweetest joy I had ever known. I thought, I forgive you, God—for everything. This makes up for everything.

            Then the spirit whispered, God would not put you through a refiner’s fire if you were not worth refining.

            I looked into my parent’s faces. They were weeping freely, feeling but not seeing anything. I thought, I surrender. I will suffer whatever you want me to suffer—your reasons are pure and perfect. Take me wherever you want to take me.

             Then I felt a strong and very real flesh-and-blood hand on my left shoulder and heard the words:

            Your body is now a temple prison.

            Then I felt a strong and very large hand from a different being on my right shoulder and heard:

           This is your first Liberty Jail experience.

            I knew, if I turned my head one iota to the right or to the left, I would see a hand there. Love radiated into my shoulders from those two strong hands. I stared forward, in so much bliss that I had no desire to turn my head to the right or to the left. I was content.

God Loves Broken Things, Pt 2

By Nicole Marie Hilton, January 2nd, 2020

In our extremes we are often in a better position to give God our full focus and attention. The combination of being alert and humble allows Him to upgrade our lives and rewrite our truths if we will permit it.

            The next few hours are a blur of pain in my memory. I remember that, despite what the demon man said, the doctors did actually come, and they did administer morphine and other drugs to curb the pain—the maximum amount permitted for my body size. Despite all of that, the pain was stubborn and only went down to a 10.

            The doctors were, at the very least, grateful I stopped trying to knock myself out.

            After all the body scans, and questions (“No, for the umpteenth time! I can’t lift my right arm or my left leg!”), they determined I needed emergency surgery, as a shard of bone from one of my fractured vertebrae was severing my spinal chord. They decided that, in addition to removing this shard of bone, two rods of titanium would have to be attached to either side of my spine to support the collapsed vertebrae. These would be held in place by drilling ten screws—five onto either side—into the vertebrae above and below L1 and T12.

            The doctor who would be operating on me looked exactly like Doc Ock from the Spiderman 2 movie—the same Doc Ock who put a new metal spine—complete with four extra working limbs—on himself. This gave me some comfort, as I decided it was a sign from the heavens that not only would my doctor be capable of putting some permanent hardware in me, but my limbs would come out working better than ever after the surgery.

            By this time, it was the very early hours of the morning of the next day. There had been no room in my thoughts until then for the deep fears that had crept up on my husband. Fears such as would my wife ever walk again? Would she have two working arms again? permeated his mind. For me, there had only been desperation and a silent, constant screaming within: get me under! Put me under! Help me escape the burning inferno that my body has become!

            But right before the surgery, it finally hit me. I could be a paraplegic for the rest of my life. My fears took center stage above and beyond the pain at that point.

            After desperately trying to reach my mom on her phone at 3am to no avail, I called Shelli Barnson—one of my mentors and best friends—who promptly picked up. I sobbingly told her what had happened and that I was about to go into surgery.

            “Nicole, everything is going to be alright. God knows exactly where you are, and what you are going through. I’ll take care of everything—I’ll get a hold of your mom. I’ll start praying for you. I have a feeling it’s all going to be okay sweetie. It’s okay.”

            I tried to believe her. As I hung up and gave the phone to Josh, and they wheeled me down the hallway to the operating room, I tried to be brave.

            The medical team swarmed around me and lights shined in my eyes. A woman stood over me and said something, and I felt a cool liquid enter my arm. It registered that she had asked me to start counting backwards from ten.

            So I counted, “10…9…” But then blessed darkness enveloped me.

*   *   *

            I heard muffled voices, accompanied by a deep dull pain radiating from my lower back. As the pain registered in my consciousness, I almost panicked. No! No! Send me back to the blackness! Please! Please, I just want to be in a coma for a couple of weeks!

         I felt as if I had woken up in a prison of my own making—and my rib cage and new metal spine were the bars from which I couldn’t escape. This prison was a torture chamber where only two choices were available to me: struggle and make it worse, or completely surrender. As I awoke from surgery I felt out the confines of my prison and did the only thing that made any sense…I chose to surrender.

            The voices continued and I fluttered my eyes. The room was dark and small like a cave with a little light coming in through the door. It was filled with people. I moaned.

            “Nicolee…” My mom leaned over me.

            I felt hands on my face.

            “Hey, sweet pumpkin.” It was my Dad. He put his hand on mine.

            “Babe?” And there was Josh. I finally opened my eyes.

            There was some hospital staff, too.

            “How are you feeling?” said Dad.

            “I’ve…I’ve been better.” I said. My throat was scratchy.

           A nurse came to my side and asked, “Can you feel your legs?” I replied that I could, and my arms as well. But after trying to wiggle my left leg’s toes, or move it in any way, we discovered I still could not. My right arm was still difficult to raise, and my right thumb wouldn’t do anything I told it to.

         They sat me up a bit, I tried to lick my lips, but my mouth was dry. I asked for some water, but they said they couldn’t give me any, so I crunched on some ice chips. Then they explained I needed to get up and try to walk a bit. It felt like a building’s worth of rebar had been installed in my spine, and they wanted me to walk?

            I said that I’d try.

            There was a catheter in me, and the nurse attached the bag to a walker. I grimaced and grabbed the walker, then stood up with my family’s help. I felt like an old lady.

            It was a herculean effort, but I made it ten steps with a whole lot of assistance. Nerve pain like fire burst through my legs and up my spine and into my arms with every step. I almost collapsed after step ten, and they brought me back to the bed in a wheelchair. I was exhausted.

            That was all the exercise I could do for a full 24 hours. But then we tried it again.

            Something dawned on me after the first couple of days in the hospital. There was absolutely no mental illness, programming, or multiplicity in me whatsoever. Or, at least, it was like it had all been shoved aside so that only the whole parts of me were center stage for a while. It felt like a bubble surrounded me, keeping all the bad voices out. Even though I was more broken—physically—than I’d ever been I was also more mentally whole than I’d been since the Incident.

         Breaking my body gave me clarity, a window into my true self. It was as if the breaking of my body was how I could let all the light in–and there were several ways this occurred. One, was that the intense pain forced me to remain not only in the present moment, but to be present in reality. (Those who have been through Satanic Ritual Abuse are taught to dissociate from reality, and often refer to themselves in their minds in the third person in order to cope with reality. But due to the intense pain, I had greater access to God, because I let it ground me to the present moment.)

         The second way that the breaking of my body gave me a window into my true self was that it finally humbled me enough to let my spirit, and God, take over. I finally realized that I wasn’t strong enough.

            I couldn’t do anything by myself. I couldn’t brush my teeth, comb my hair, or go to the bathroom by myself. I could barely breath by myself, as my ribcage expanding caused me excruciating pain. I relied upon the kindness of hospital staff and especially of my mom and my husband to do everything for me. I had to learn to accept more service than I’d ever needed in my life since I was an infant.

            Everyday, I had to get up and walk. I’d engage my ab muscles, and I’d have help in getting into a sitting position at the side of the hospital bed. Then I’d put my hands on the walker in front of me, and my arms would be shaking as I’d use all my strength to stand up. I’d have two people on either side of me at first, holding me under my arms. I’d swing my left leg forward—which was “dead” (I could feel everything, but it wouldn’t do anything I told it to), and I’d lock the knee. Then I’d lean until my weight was in a straight line over my hip, and I’d step my right leg forward. Then I would do it all over again. In this way, I’d get 10-20 steps in, and count that as a huge success.

            A steady trickle of visitors came through the cave-like hospital room. Two separate wards decided to have a fast for me. I received flowers and cards, reminders of how many people were praying for me.

            After a week in the Provo hospital, my pain level was down to a 9 and they made plans to transfer me to the rehabilitation floor in the St. George hospital. But, somehow, they dropped the ball and simply released me—no ambulance or transportation whatsoever.

            My parents did what they always do so wonderfully—they made do. They went and bought a La-Z-Boy chair, and put it in the back of the SUV. Then, they carefully transferred me to this leather chair, and drove with me in the back of the vehicle the three and a half hours south to the St. George hospital. Once they arrived at the ER and alerted them, the doctor came out as the team started transferring me to a gurney, and he threw a fit.

            My mom later told me how he got on the phone with the team at the Provo hospital and had a yelling match with them. “I’ve seen this girl’s x-rays! And you just RELEASED HER?! DO YOU KNOW THAT HER PARENTS TRANSFERRED HER IN THE BACK OF THEIR CAR IN A LA-Z-BOY CHAIR?”

            From then on, they treated me like gold at the St. George hospital. Not only did I get the corner room on the fourth floor with gorgeous views of the city (no more cave-like atmosphere for me!), but since my mom worked as a nurse in that hospital, one of the doctors decided to sneak me into the bariatric chamber for 10 free $1,000 treatments so my nerves would grow back better.

            I remember my first treatment. They wheeled me down to the first floor, to a room with what appeared to contain a submarine. It was about twenty feet long and had portholes along the side. They would give us—the patients who would be going inside—cushions and see-through helmets with hoses coming out of them. We would be packed inside like sardines—well, all except me, I was the one who was most gingerly placed inside. I seem to remember the other people had limbs that wouldn’t heal or they had cancer.

            After we were inside, the submarine would be pressurized (they would call it “diving down”), and we’d put on our helmets. Oxygen would be pumped into them, and we’d breathe that air for two hours. The oxygen was forced into our bodies, and would help us heal up to four times faster than regularly. I remember I’d get a zit one day, and it would be gone the next day! I believe this was the blessing which allowed me to be able to leave the St. George hospital after only three weeks of rehabilitation.

            As each day waxed and waned with the rising and falling of the sun, I increased in my ability to live for each and every moment. To think a day ahead, an hour ahead—even a few minutes ahead—was too much. All I could do was breath in…and breath out. Swing my left leg forward, lock the knee, and step one step at a time. I’d focus on getting one bite down at a time, one nap in at a time, one hyperbaric dive in at a time, one physical therapy session in at a time. As I did this—as I took in life this way—every moment became precious. Despite the constant pain, life went from bitter to bittersweet. There was a moment where I was walking unevenly down the hallway for the first time without a walker—by myself—and I was putting forth 100% effort. As I swung my left leg forward and tried not to fall, I had a moment of realization: there was no falsehood in me. For one of the first times in my life, I realized that I didn’t need to garner attention or sympathy because I was starved for it. Why? Well, because I felt loved.

            And it wasn’t because of the cards and posters wallpapering my hospital room, or the dozens of flowers or visitors. Those had been a good start…those had helped get me going. But it was deeper now. There was something…someone else I was aware of. Someone who loved me—someone I could not see.

            At that moment, I felt warmth like sunshine on both sides of my arms and around my shoulders, bearing me up. I felt hands and arms surrounding me, holding me, embracing me, and helping me walk down that hallway.

            This was unspeakably sweet for me.

            Remember, up until then, my life had seemed tragic, confused, and dark—and I didn’t know why. I was a girl who still did not understand her childhood, who just thought that one day she started laughing in her second grade class and couldn’t stop—and from then on, she was crazy and carried the label of “bipolar”. That was my life. That was the story that I had been living up until then at age twenty. I had no idea I had been through spiritual and physical abuse—none of those memories had come back yet. I still had no idea I had been raped in second grade, or that any of the other abuse was real or could be taken seriously. I had no idea I had multiple personalities and had been split because of all the abuse. I just thought I was crazy, and that God had abandoned me. I had an incredible chip on my shoulder up until that moment. I always—always—knew that there was a God up there. I knew that He loved everyone around me—but I didn’t know that He loved me.

            But there in the hallway, with my higher self guiding me through the pain, and the unseen hands holding me up, there was a possibility—a very real possibility—that He loved me. That, even though the voices in my head whispered evidence to the contrary, He loved me.

            That realization was preparatory for what would happen next: the moment that would change the course of my life forever.

*name has been changed

God Loves Broken Things, Pt 1

By Nicole Marie Hilton, December 23, 2019

As the dark side abuses its victims, it also teaches them to harm and abuse themselves. It then rewards self-harm with mockery and shaming. At a certain point a perpetrator is no longer required, because the victim will perpetuate the abuse cycle with self-harm.

            In January 2009, at age 20, my feet were set—albeit unsteadily and with the assistance of a walker—upon the path to the Tree of Life.

            I had been, figuratively, learning the hard lessons of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil since I was a toddler. However, I had desperately wanted with my entire being to partake of the other tree–the tree representing the Love of God. I had wanted this ever since I had listened to or read about Lehi’s vision of the Tree of Life while reading the Book of Mormon growing up. But, with so much programming I was not aware of (deep seated and false beliefs inside of me resulting from spiritual and physical abuse) there were walls built up between God and me. Because of these obstacles there were times when it was not humanly possible for me to feel God’s love without a miraculous intervention of some kind.

            In Seeker Catches the Snitch, I wrote about how God finds creative ways to reach us in our deepest despair. In His great wisdom and compassion He also has a way of turning our failures and injuries into strengths. God saw his chance with me and took it after what happened one night at a friend’s birthday party. You see, the very programming intended to separate me from Him was about to bring me to Him.

            Satan was about to make a very big mistake.

*   *   *

            Jump! Jump! the voice inside of me said.

            “Nicole, I wouldn’t jump if I were you…” said Josh*, my husband of one year, twelve feet down on the ground below me.

            He was standing there in the commons area of Glenwood—the singles apartment building complex I used to live in before Josh and I had gotten married. We were back for a friend’s birthday party. The commons area was cozy, filled with rustic stonework, leather couches, a fireplace, and antler chandeliers. There were various balloons and presents tied to chairs along the walls, as well as a cake, sitting forgotten, off to the right on a table.

            I was standing high above the scene, on the other side of a wrought-iron railing (which I had climbed over), which circled the pool-table loft high above the commons area. There was a giant bean bag down below. Josh was standing next to it, a look of consternation on his face. There were about ten other people looking up at me, mixtures of alarm, dismay, and boredom across their faces.

            I laughed. “Oh come on! It’ll be fun!” I said.

            My heart beat faster and faster. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. A still small voice inside of me whispered, Don’t jump, Nicole. This isn’t what honoring your body looks like. This won’t be freeing. Don’t do this.

            But something else violently smashed those words aside. JUMP! THINK OF THE THRILL OF IT! YOU WANT TO DO THIS! The words screamed in my head. I thought, I have no choice, while at the same time thinking, I’m free to fly.

            And I jumped.

            For a brief moment, I felt weightless. My hair flew up around my head and I felt high as a kite. But then my heart twisted in my chest as time seemed to speed up. The floor rushed to meet me, and the collective weight of all the burden I’d been carrying slammed me into the ground with more force than I was prepared for.

            My spine jarred up to my skull and back down to my tailbone. The shockwave burst the discs and shattered the bone at L1 and T12 of my lower back, sending shards of bone into my spinal cord. The vertebrae smashed together like compressed cans. As the lumbar part of my spine collapsed, I not only felt it—felt everything—but I heard the bones crunch inside of me like they were being ground in a stone mill.

            I instantly rolled over onto my stomach from the center of the bean bag—which had had no stuffing in it whatsoever—and I went white as a sheet. I started shaking, and I felt like I was going to throw up. Beads of cold sweat gathered on my brow. Waves of pain and nausea flooded through me, up and down, up and down. I had never felt so much agony in my entire existence.

            Josh said, “Come on, Nicole. Get up…”

            “H…h…help.”

            Josh paused. I couldn’t think straight. Yet, I could sense that he knew something was grievously wrong. But I could also sense he was in denial.

            “Nicole…please get up!”

            “please…carry me.”

            We should have called an ambulance. But all I could think was, I can’t ruin so-and-so’s birthday party. I’m so ashamed. Look what you’ve done!

            Josh tried to pick me up, eventually getting his arm under my left side. The shard in my spinal chord was still sharp and arrow-like in my spinal column. I didn’t know it, but at any moment, I could have lost the ability to walk. Forever.

            But that didn’t matter. I needed to get out of there.

            Josh halfway carried me to the back door of the commons area. My left leg wouldn’t work properly. I was only half-aware of all of the people gathering around, murmuring. My friend was very concerned. I mumbled something about calling her later. The pain was so excruciating I was about to burst…but the embarrassment was even more so.

            Josh opened the door, and we awkwardly stumbled down the back steps, through the slush and the snow, then towards the car in the parking lot. Josh opened the door, and as soon as he shut it, I let out what I had been holding in.

            Josh jumped and turned around in shock. I was screaming so long and so loud my vocal cords were about to be ripped apart. The pain was so exquisite that I was sure I was about to die. I thought I knew exactly what Isaiah had gone through when he had been sawn in half. I was being sawn in half!

            My husband ran around the car and jumped in, starting it up as quickly as he could.

            I kept on screaming and screaming. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to—the screaming was an entity outside of myself now. Everything was muted. Another part of myself was faintly aware of being detached from my lower body, like one of those women with the curled hair and lipstick up on the stage, wearing fishnet tights, smiling as the magician does his dirty work.

            I thought, How is she smiling? HOW IS SHE SMILING?

            Josh yelled, “Where do we go?! WHERE DO WE GO!?”

            “THE BYU CLINIC!” I screamed in my delirium.

            We sped up the road to the clinic, even though the Provo hospital was right around the corner. Each bump in the road was agony. My body had become a torture device I couldn’t escape from no matter how much I cried out for mercy.

            Once we got to the clinic, Josh got me out of the car and halfway carried me to the door. I was still shrieking hysterically. It was locked. He put me back in the car.

            Every bump made me yell as if everything was breaking all over again. Josh didn’t know whether to drive like a maniac or drive 15 miles per hour.

            “GO! NOOOOO, STOP! GOOOO!”

            “I don’t know what to do! Oh God, help!”

            We got a little ways down the road until we were almost back to Glenwood, when Josh pulled over right before the intersection of University Parkway and University Avenue. He opened the door and got out into the snow.

            Delirious with pain, I gripped where the seat belt connects to the wall of the car and hung on for dear life. I was blinking through hot tears as they tracked down my clammy skin, and my throat was ragged. I couldn’t scream anymore. I concentrated on the vapor my breath made in the cold air. Each pressured exhalation sent waves of fire up and down my spine. And not only my spine, but my arms and legs as well…the fire even went up into my eye sockets.

            The agony was not letting up…I tried to concentrate and think of what happens to people who go through serious trauma. First, they go into shock, right? And while they are in shock, the pain is muted because of the body’s response, right? Trying to think through the pain, I racked my brain for anything to give myself a measure of comfort. But my arms trembled as I clung to the seatbelt, and I realized with horror…if the pain is initially muted, that means…this is about to get even worse.

            But I was at the absolute limit of what a human being can suffer without dying. How can it get worse?

            Pretty soon there were ambulance lights all around our car. I heard Josh lose it at the back of the car—he started sobbing and became hysterical.

            “It’s my wife! I don’t know what’s wrong with her! Oh please—please help!”

            Some medics came around to my side of the car and opened the door.

            They asked me questions about body positioning and everything became a blur of pain as they tried to get my body onto a gurney. I started to scream in pain again at several moments but all that came out were hoarse, sorry yelps.

            Eventually, with about 8 different medics helping, they got me out of the car and onto the gurney into a position that caused the least amount of suffering. This position was a weird contortion of limbs, half on my side and half on my back, I would have not been able to hold in any yoga class for longer than 10 seconds. I was in so much agony, however, that I held the position for more than 15 minutes. (It’s amazing what the fear of more suffering can drive you to do.) After the ambulance ride was done, my muscles were screaming—but that pain was nothing—nothing—compared to the more serious pain I was going through.

            Hell, I could have delivered octuplets with no drugs, no problem right then. I could have forced myself to run a sub three-hour marathon with no training. I could have done anything the human body could be pressed to be capable of—anything—if it meant an escape from the agony of what I was suffering.

            When they ask you in the doctor’s office, or in the ER, what’s your level of pain, 1-10? Go ahead and tell them anything in that range. I won’t judge you. But leave level 11, for the realm of pain I’m talking about here.

            Level 11 pain is literally searching for a blunt object to knock yourself out with in order to escape the pain type of pain.

            And that’s exactly the level of pain I had reached when he walked in through the door.

            They had wheeled me into a room that was far too cheerful for the situation I was in. I remember looking at the cheery giraffe and zebra painted on the walls and devoting a single shard of one of my personalities towards hating them!

            My left arm was the only arm that was working relatively well, and I devoted all my energies to finding said blunt object.

            I know doctors have shiny, heavy metal objects in rooms like this! They’ve got to! I kept on searching and crying, searching and crying, even when everything within arm’s length proved to be disappointingly fabric-like or attached to the bed I was on.

            I couldn’t stop thinking, Where is the doctor?! Where are the nurses? Where is the pain medication? CAN’T THEY SEE I’M DYING?!

            As if in answer to my questions, a young man with brown hair walked—no, sauntered—in through the door. I whimpered. Was this man going to help me?

            He was in civilian clothes and needed a shave. He stood at the foot of my bed. “Hello, Nicole…”

            I could barely look at him or think, who is this guy?

            He fingered the fabric near my toes. “What a scrap you’ve gotten yourself into, huh?”

            He walked closer to the head of my bed, tracing the metal bar with his left fingers. I cried out as another wave of pain—the biggest yet—racked my entire body. I felt like I was on fire.

           He got to the head of my bed and stopped. I noticed that his eyes were a murky brown as he leaned dangerously close over me. He breathed on me as he let out a short inaudible laugh. Then he said, “The doctors and nurses aren’t coming for you. You see…” he glanced around towards the door, through to where the bustling ER was. Seeing all was clear, he leaned in closer than ever—his face inches away from mine, and said quietly, “they don’t actually care about your case. Accidents like yours…well…so avoidable. You know? I mean, what kind of an idiot do you have to be? To jump off of a loft onto a beanbag? For FUN? What?! Did you think you could fly for a little moment there, birdie? Hmmm?”

            Then he grinned, taunting me, and I saw a glint behind his eyes that scared me.

            He straightened up. I thought he was going to ruffle the top of my head with his hand, but then he glanced over his shoulder and I could see he thought better of it. He looked back at me once more and grinned again, then turned and left, dodging around a squat nurse who came in through the door.

            She came to my side, glancing behind her at his back, then looked at me with a question in her eyes. I was too delirious to try to make sense of what had just happened. Before the nurse could ask anything about him, I started crying, “give me morphine! Please! Where’s the doctor?”

*name has been changed

Joy in the Darkness

By Nicole Hilton, February 15, 2020

Going into your school years as a trauma victim can make you feel like raw meat thrown into a lion’s den. It strongly reinforced my programming that I was broken and alone. Even so, when I could turn my experience into empathy to protect and serve others, I found myself.

            When I turned seven, we moved from Salt Lake City, down to the bottom left corner of Utah—to a city called St. George, a land filled with red rock and blue skies. I was excited for the move. I had, seemingly, an unlimited amount of friends in Salt Lake, and I knew I would make just as many in St. George…right?

            After my first night in our new house, I hopped on my bike and went exploring the neighborhood. I passed by a house where a little boy was out front, playing in the yard. He seemed about my age. I stopped my bike, waved my hand and said, “Hi! I’m Nicole, I just moved here and—“

            But right when I started talking, the little boy looked up at me, then made a bee-line for his front door, slamming it behind him. I was shocked. What could account for his strange behavior?

            Well, after second grade and all the programming being cemented in my mind, I thought I knew why that little boy ran inside at the sight of me.

             In third grade, because of the trauma of the rape and the stress on my body, I went into puberty. I remember being shocked at my first period. I learned not only from my mom, but from various online sites what I had to expect for the rest of my life. I remember opting for the large pads (made for adult women) instead of tampons at first.

            I was swinging upside down from the monkey bars one day, wearing my blue and pink floral gymnastics shorts, when I heard her.

            “Ew! Look at Nicole’s pants! What’s she got in there, a pillow?”

            I looked around from my upside-down point of view. There was Haley Danes*, the most popular girl in third grade, pointing at the bulge in my shorts created by the pad. A crowd of girls quickly gathered around her and started laughing.

            “Nicole wears diapers! Nicole wears diapers!” The crowd took up the chorus. I quickly righted myself, hanging from the monkey bars before I dropped to the ground, and grabbed the book I’d dropped by the corner of the playground set. I headed straight for the school. I’d beg the teacher to let me sit inside. Maybe this time, she’d let me.

            When I got home that day, I went straight to my mom. “I need the smallest size of Tampons. Tonight, before school tomorrow.”

            A few months later, I saw a crowd of boys giggling and laughing at me. They would talk behind their hands, and something besides the diaper theory spread like wildfire among my classmates—Nicole’s got “mosquito bites”. The boys watched my progress very carefully, until one day on the bus, a boy from my neighborhood proclaimed loudly that I had a nice “rack”. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it probably wasn’t good.

            I felt like an object around my classmates. It didn’t matter if they were boys or girls. Around boys, I either felt like a sexual object, or someone to be spurned. Around girls, I felt like an alien who was out of sync physically and socially. I didn’t find anywhere where I belonged. Until 6th grade, that is.

            In 6th grade, a girl named Maria Juarez* was in my class. She was short and plump, and had a beautiful smile and laugh that I admired from day one. I so wanted to be her friend, because I noticed there was something different about her. But I was afraid to reach out too much. What if my efforts at deep friendship were rejected yet again?

            One day, our entire class was herded down the hallway to the library to listen to a short story. The teacher sat on the chair in the spacious part of the library, surrounded by windows. The rest of us—about 20 of us—sat in a wide circle on the floor. Maria was sitting straight across from me. She’d worn banana yellow leggings and was sitting with her legs straddled outwards, creating a “V”.

            I was probably the only one listening to the story. I was so engrossed in it, that it took me a full minute to realize about half the class was laughing—and the laughter was getting louder and louder. When the two girls sitting on either side of me started to laugh, I noticed.

            I snapped out of the movie in my head that was being created by the story, and looked around at everyone to see what was causing the laughter. I then saw Maria across the circle from me, her legs wide open, and a dark red stain at her crotch blossoming across the yellow fabric.

            I didn’t hesitate. I jumped up so quickly, a girl to the side of me emitted a yelp of surprise. I strode across the circle to Maria, and reached my hand down to her.

            “Come with me,” I said.

            She looked around, confused, and saw everyone looking at her and giggling. She looked up at me, and I saw a flicker of trust in her eyes. She grabbed my hand, and I put my arm around her and walked her out of the library. The teacher didn’t even notice.

            I walked her straight to the nearest bathroom. “Maria, I’m so sorry…but you’ve started your period,” I said, squeezing her shoulder.

            “What?” She checked her pants, and then she started sobbing. I swung open a stall door and she went inside, then gently closed and locked it.

            She cried and cried. I leaned against the stall door with my right shoulder and I heard everything in those sobs. I heard the embarrassment, the shame, the sense of terror, the injustice of it all, and the sorrow.

            All I could say was, “I’m so sorry, Maria. I’m so sorry.” And I meant it.

            I thought about everything—all the taunting and teasing I had been through at the hands of my peers in elementary school. It was all dark. And parts of me seemed to have given into that darkness…but this darkness was the source of all this pain. It was the source of the pain Maria was going through right then.

            I vowed to stand against that darkness—that I would never add to it or be a part of it. I never wanted to hurt others like those kids had, and if I had, I was sorry.

            I turned towards the mirrors near the line of sinks on the far wall, and I saw my reflection. I didn’t look like a little girl anymore. I was standing tall—without any of my prior shame or misery which had drawn my shoulders in and my head down in the last four years.

            While I had been feeling everything Maria was feeling, I now felt something else. I felt…was it elation? Accomplishment? Joy.

            As I hit upon that word, I was confused. Am I just a messed up person to be feeling this way, while this girl is going through this? But then I saw myself standing tall and strong in the mirror, and I realized something. I had been so alone during the past four years, and had turned inward. Yet, I had stumbled upon something—quite by accident. It was something that was taught in church, but never had it been more real to me than this.

            To have friends, I didn’t have to give into the darkness and participate with the girls and boys who were hurtful to everyone else. I could have friends by reaching out to those who were hurting exactly like me. And even if Maria didn’t want to be my friend, I realized that rescuing her today was a beautiful experience in itself. I could serve others. Nothing made me feel more alive—more like my true self again.

            I turned back towards the door and put my hand on it. “Maria, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry they laughed at you. I’m sorry they did that to you. I’m sorry things had to happen this way. But I’m here for you, okay?”

            Between sobs I heard, “Nicole…thank you.”

            We became best friends after that, and I was so thankful to have a friend.

*name has been changed

Why Don’t You Like Me?

By Nicole Hilton, Tuesday January 7, 2020

The dark side uses traumatic abuse to shatter our spirit and destroy our self-worth. Once broken, we are taught a barrage of emotions and behavioral responses intended to reinforce the victim’s spiral into social isolation and self-loathing.

            When a little girl or boy goes through major trauma, and they dissociate, there is always going to be a part of them that they carry tucked deep down, from that time henceforth, which is in a state of fear and trauma. (That is, until they heal that part of themselves.) Generally, that part is kept under wraps, so that their core personality can continue on normally. Sometimes, though, those traumatized pieces rise up and can make life very difficult for the person and their loved ones.

            We should remember that that part—the part that took in all of the abuse and is constantly fearful and traumatized—is the strong one. I have had to learn to recognize that. When those parts of me have come out that are anxious about everything, that attack others, that don’t know how to navigate social situations, etc., my boyfriend JJ has literally honored her—even when she is insulting him out of her fear of relationships or fear of hidden things being exposed. This honoring—this love—has taught me—the core personality, by example to love and honor the rest of me, too.

            This has helped to heal me.

            I wish I had known this, or had a mentor who knew this back in second grade when I first began splitting. But all I had were the adults and peers around me who were alternatively shocked, scared, threatened, bewildered, and angry at my behavior. The shaming I received from family and friends only deepened the cycle of self-loathing begun by the original abuse I received.

            One of my first memories associated with the fallout from the Satanic Abuse and subsequent Dissociative Identity Disorder—besides the one where I was laughing and then crying uncontrollably in class—was when I recognized that my odd hysterical/sobbing behavior was scaring off my classmates from being friends with me.

            There are always multiple factors working against every victim of abuse. Satan uses the reactions of others to pile on the shame and isolation to make life a living hell for the victim. And why does Satan do this? Well…because these kids are special. They are sensitive, they’ve got gifts, and they’ve got something in them that can help the world in some way. The veil is thin for them, increasing their spiritual gifts but making them extra vulnerable to Satan’s spiritual abuse. No wonder they are Satan’s top targets. He is going to focus a significant proportion of his weapons and henchmen on these gifted but vulnerable sons and daughters of God. He must neutralize, invalidate, and undermine their strengths–making it almost impossible for them to fulfill their earthly missions.

            Take the simple and righteous goal of making friends, in my case. There were multiple factors Satan had arranged against me:

  • As a little seven-year old, I had yet to learn how to shove down my emotions. I wore them all on my sleeve. But with how expressive and sensitive I already was, with a recent but deeply suppressed rape, my bipolar emotions erupted uncontrollably, scaring away everyone who may have mattered to me. I’d be laughing one moment, hitting someone in anger the next, then sobbing the next.
  • I had negative programming instilled in me from the time of my first spiritual attacks. For every healthy virtue—such as being able to make friends—Satan installed the opposite in my subconscious like a computer virus. These tapes ran through my head: “No one wants to be friends with you,” “You aren’t fun enough to be friends with,” “No one likes you,” and “It’s best to go it alone; that’s the kind of hero I am.” Of course, I was also programmed to only notice the negative reinforcement around me, never the positive.
  • The dissociation created detachment and severe isolation. As each day wore on and became worse and worse, I became better at dissociating. I started to live in a kind of amnesia dream. I was eventually able to connect with some kids my age, but then things would happen—like when in 6th grade, I suddenly forgot everything I’d ever learned about my then-current best friend. I was in a panic. We’d known each other for months, yet I knew nothing about her—just her face. I had to fake being her best friend until I relearned everything about her. Because of dissociation, it was very hard to remember my peers and the details of the conversations we’d have. It still is to this day.
  • Living in a constant state of stress and fear hampers the mind’s ability to learn. When you are living with this level of stress, you are in survival mode, and flight or fight syndrome can kick in at any time. The mind cannot learn properly while in this state, and my social skills began to lag behind my peers. DID inevitably leads to social choices and behaviors meant to isolate the victim, who is already starving for approval and affirmation. When I noticed that my social skills weren’t matching up with my peers, I tried (and failed) to catch up with them by overreacting and overreaching. After these backfired, my isolation deepened and became a part of my broken identity.

           Let me share an experience which illustrates all of these factors working together for the worst.

            I remember standing there on the black pavement behind the elementary school in my jelly shoes, watching others playing hopscotch. I couldn’t remember who they were, although they were all in my class, and I knew that I had learned their names and interacted with each of them multiple times. As I stood there, I felt an overwhelming sense of shame at my failing memory. I felt like crying, and I longed to be part of the game. I wanted to laugh like that blonde girl, or know how to tease the others like the girl with the brunette pigtails. But I didn’t know how, and no one was looking at me or paying me any attention. There was no one to teach me. So…I simply stood there, watching them and feeling like I was a ghost.

           The voice entered my head, a voice which said emphatically, no one likes you. No one wants to include you…that’s because everyone hates you. I fought against this voice, but it had been reinforced with painful experiences in the months previously. And I had been shattered inside since that strange time…the time with the bruises on my body and when it was hard to go to the bathroom. So, I finally started to give into the idea… No one likes me? No one wants to include me? Everyone hates me?

            No one likes me…

           When I got off the bus that day, I ran home; I had reached a new level of fear. I went around the house and gathered up all the candy I could find that was leftover from Halloween into a brown paper lunch bag. I told myself, kids like candy, right? So if I bring the candy, they’ll like me. It’s as easy as 1+1=2. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

           The next day, at the playground, I went around with my brown paper bag of candy. I held it up to all the kid’s faces, saying, “Do you want to be my friend?” When no one took any candy, I grew desperate. I started crying, “Please, take some candy! Please, why don’t you like me?! Won’t anyone be my friend?!” Then I started screaming and crying. I threw the bag, and pieces of candy scattered all over the cement. The programming had reinforced itself even further.

           The faces of the boys and girls around me blurred. A boy in a striped shirt laughed. The girl who knew how to do cartwheels better than anyone else looked concerned, but didn’t step forward or take my hand. A boy with freckles yelled, “Aww, are you crying, crybaby? Why don’t you—“ and I didn’t hear the rest. I don’t remember the rest.

           As you can see, the programming—with brutal effectiveness—brings out actions that creates enmity between the very people who should be helping the victim. The victim is programmed in such a way that, no matter what they do to get help, they just dig themselves deeper and deeper.

Seeker Catches the Snitch

By Nicole Hilton, August 28th, 2019

When we become so lost and alone that we seem out of reach of any comfort or assistance, God has a way of showing us that not only can He reach us, but that He knows us better than we know ourselves. He has a way of catching us in ways we never would have expected.

            In fourth grade, when I was 9 years old and after we had moved to St. George, the first Harry Potter book came out. No one yet really knew about the series—it hadn’t picked up momentum yet. However, as my mom was passing through a bookstore, the cover caught her eye. She doesn’t know what made her do it, but she bought it for me. (This was the first of many times where my mom has, quite literally, saved my life.)

            Now, understand dear reader…I was a voracious book worm. I was always reading at least seven books at once. In second grade, I finished the Lord of the Rings Series. I was always looking for my next “fix”.

            I understand now: reading was the way I dealt with—or escaped from—trauma.

            The Incident had already happened. And worse yet…other than my increasing signs of childhood bipolar disorder, and severe PTSD, I had no idea or clue that it had happened. So, how is a little girl of 7 supposed to deal with all that—especially if the adults in my life just wrote it off as me going through “a phase,” or being a little more emotional than other children?

         I have since learned that even if no one on earth knows the deep pain you are going through and the endless dark hole into which you seem to be falling, there is one who knows. There is no place so dark that He cannot find you. He will seek you out and throw all the lifelines He can to you–in any way He can. Because He loves you.

         In fourth grade, two years after the Incident, I had fallen so far down that dark hole that I had become extremely suicidal at 9 years of age. Because of the Satanic programming which had been done to me in a spiritual dimension, and which had been consummated by physical rape, I was programmed to literally “self destruct” every time I even thought of asking for help or telling the truth about what I was going through. I was living in a personal hell, but any time I reached out for a solution, I would become extremely suicidal and feel intense loathing and shame. So, I shoved it all down and turned to books as my sanctuary and hung on for dear life.

         Jesus Christ not only knows each of us personally but also what we are going through–I can attest to that. As the best Seeker in the Universe, He knows exactly how to reach us, and He may do so through the avenue of our personal interests. He certainly did so with me.

            “Nicolee…I bought a book for you,” my mom said one day. She handed me Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I said thanks and retreated upstairs to my room, took one look at the cover and thought, “What is that boy doing? How weird is that?!” and then I literally threw the book under my bed.

            …I never, ever, treat books like that. Even if I don’t want to read them, I place them carefully on a shelf. But this one? Something about it both compelled me and repelled me at the same time, and it scared me. So there, under the bed, the book stayed for months.

            Sometimes, I can feel evil—like drums deep down—boiling up inside of me, ready to spew out into chaos. In moments like these I can be overcome with suicidal thoughts. I had been suicidal already—many times. That kind of suicidal ideation—or whatever you want to call it—feels like someone takes over your body and walks to the kitchen to grab the knife, or walks to the edge of the cliff to throw yourself off. In those moments—when that personality takes over—there is almost no stopping it once it has begun.

            So, I found it was best to just push it down and avoid it altogether. And so one day, to counteract the evil, I knelt down by my bed, searching for a lifeline, and there was the book—collecting dust. I hesitated, then gave in to a bright impulse and reached carefully far underneath the bed, to grab my salvation.

            “Mr and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Private Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.”

            I hate these people already. I thought. Sounds like the author does, too. I think I’ll read on… And from then on—even through to the end of 12th grade—I was known by most as “Harry Potter Girl.”

            But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

            You’ve read How to Commit Suicide in Fourth Grade. Well, even with Harry Potter and the promise of six more beacon-like books coming out, I found myself at a suicidal impasse.

            I whispered, I’m sorry Heavenly Father. Punish me if you must, but I can’t stay here anymore. Please…please let me read Harry Potter after I die. Even if you do cast me into hell.

            I swallowed the handful of pills, I locked my door, and sank onto my bed. There would be no more confused sobbing at night anymore—I was leaving and that was that.

            Goodbye.

            Everything went black…

            Four hours later, the sun had traveled across the sky—seemingly oblivious to the little dead girl spread out on her bed.

            Then there was a voice.

            Talitha cumi….Damsel, arise.

            I drew air into my lungs.

            I lay there, eyes closed…just for a moment. I noticed the sensation of air coming in and out of my nose. I felt my heart beat in my chest–painfully at first, but then it became rhythmic and steady. My once-cold limbs received warmth as blood began to circulate and pump through my fingers and toes. This was my body! I opened my eyes. There were rays of light coming in through the half-open blinds over the window, and I saw motes of dust swirling lazily through the air.

            I gingerly leaned forward, flexing my core and getting up onto my left elbow, and blinked as I looked around my room. I saw I was alone. Then, I immediately rolled out of bed and hit my knees hard on the carpeted floor as fast as I could.

            I began a desperate prayer—

            “Oh God! Forgive me! Forgive me! I can’t remember….I can’t remember what just happened, but I’m back—I’m here now and I’m here to go through this! I…”

            But being back in my body was overwhelming. I paused, gasping for air and trying to think straight.

            Where had I been?

            And my body…ugh! My body seemed disgusting to me. I could feel things in my body that didn’t belong there. Like there were programs and splits and suicidality and darkness and everything nasty you could ever, ever think of.

            And it was all IN me!

            I felt like screaming.

            I felt like screaming—but it wasn’t God’s fault now. It was mine. I was the reason I was back there in that disgusting body. ME! I knew it through and through—God had given me the choice to come back, and I had!

            My memories were hazy—I couldn’t hold on to them as they slipped away. But I knew the truth. God had shown me what would happen if I stayed dead. And it was so awful, I had willingly come back to my filthy body.

            I stared out the window.

            “WHY?!!!!”

            Any brave resolution I might have felt right before re-entering my body had disappeared. I couldn’t feel or remember why I had to come back. And now, from this side of the veil, I was absolutely furious.

            I clasped my hands and knelt there by my bed, a mix of confusion and suicidal feelings roiling through me.

            Then I came to a decision. I could make a compromise with God.

            “Okay God. You have cheated me out of paradise this once…but I am coming back to You. You know and I know that my life is a living hell, and no one–NO ONE–should have to go through this! And so I’m coming back as soon as….as soon as…”

            An idea occurred to me.

            “As soon as I read the LAST word of the LAST book of HARRY POTTER! AND THAT’S FINAL!”

            Harry Potter 7 came out eight years later, two weeks after I graduated from highschool.

            I had many, many near misses—some I shouldn’t have come back from. I had been secretly suicidal for most of my grade school years.

            But I always held onto one thread of hope. And it wasn’t God, or love, or my family. Those reasons, sadly, weren’t enough to keep me here at the worst of times. At the worst of times, I held onto that single thread–to find out how it ended—to find out what happened to Harry Potter. The boy who struggled with a past full of questions. The boy who had a horcrux of darkness implanted within him he had to fight against everyday. The boy who had gifts and powers to use for good if he should so choose.

            And how would my story end? By the time I read the last word of the last book of Harry Potter, I had hung on enough times to know: I hadn’t been just putting off the inevitable until the end of 12th grade. My story would continue.

         I’m sitting here today typing this to you, yes, because of my mom’s inspired purchase of JK Rowling’s wonderful creation: Harry Potter, the skinny scar-headed seeker from Gryffindor House. That’s why I’m living and breathing, about 2,500 times over. But I know that was a life preserver thrown down to me by the true Seeker–Jesus Christ. He found a way to speak to me during the nine darkest years of my life. And He will speak to you, too. He knows everything about whatever is good in your life that you feel a pull towards. He is in everything. Learn to see the messages He is giving to you daily–for He is God, and that’s how much He loves you. He will catch you.

Tasha Layton // Into The Sea (It’s Gonna Be Ok) // [Official Lyric Video]

How to Commit Suicide in 4th Grade

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!

            Permanently.

            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.

Tear Stains on My Pillow

By Nicole Hilton, August 5, 2019

After the Incident, I was broken. I began a lifetime of stuffing down my pain while trying to pretend everything was “normal”. It wasn’t always possible to keep up the charade.

            I had no idea what had happened to me. But the physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual effects of the attack were still there. To add insult to injury, because no one—not even myself—knew what had happened, I was expected to carry on as before.        

            But everything was different, and I knew it. It was as though I was one person one day, and a completely different child the next. I knew I was different deep down inside of me, like seeds of darkness had been planted there, and I couldn’t pluck them out. It felt permanent, and the fruits thereof turned my life upside-down. I had borne my afflictions fairly well before that day in second grade; I had been a cheerful, loving, and sincere little girl. But after that day, something was broken…and I seemed to be the only one aware of the fact.

            I tried to carry on as normal, but I couldn’t. When I couldn’t, and I had meltdowns or bipolar-like episodes, everyone judged me. When everyone judged me, I tried desperately to remember what “normal” was, and I tried to act that way—pushing all of my emotions down. When I pushed all of my emotions down, they would burst out of me in odd moments and in disturbing ways. When that happened, and none of the children or adults in my life understood, they responded with frustration, anger, and even abuse at times. Then, I would push my emotions down harder—and the destructive cycle would continue.

            That is the very short version of why there were tear stains blossoming across my pink frilly pillow case; I secretly cried myself to sleep every night for almost all of elementary school. And that is the very short version of what led up to my suicide in fourth grade.

The Incident

By Nicole Marie Hilton, December 27, 2019

DID/SRA victims often begin to recover their lost traumatic memories around the age of 30. It can be very painful, but it can also be the beginning of healing. This is how it began for me.

            In 2016 I was 27 years old, and had experienced my fair share of suicide attempts, body maimings, mental hospital visits, failed relationships, dropping out of college, jail stays, and even homelessness. With all that, one thing had been a constant torment in my life—the amnesia and dissociation of memory which plagued my existence.

            I’d taken a good long look at my life and thought, why? WHY, GOD? Why on earth has all this happened to me? Even when I have literally been trying my best?

I wasn’t a stupid girl. I was, in fact, smart and an avid seeker of truth. I had been the first to recognize and admit (even since second grade) that I had severe mental illness. I had read the freaking DSM in 6th grade, for heaven’s sake! I begged for help in every way I knew how, but my parents could never have guessed at the source of my trauma, and neither could I.

            Then, one day while I was muddling through the muck of my life, I realized something. I was in denial. And I’d been in denial for long enough!

            I had been in denial about the most important thing a child of God could ever know: that there was a God in Heaven, and that He loved me.

            I wrestled with myself for months. I had had miraculous things happen to me which demonstrated God’s love and concern for me before, but those memories seemed distant and hazy. They seemed to have happened to somebody else because of the dissociation in my mind. And so, the struggle with believing God could love me continued.

            Certain thoughts continually circled through my head:

“If my life is a big question mark, isn’t there—in actuality—an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving Being up there, somewhere in the heavens, who can answer my question? Because He truly LOVES me? While the suffering of my life seems to prove otherwise, what if that is a lie from Satan? And, if something HAS happened to me—if something has triggered this whole mess—God will know what it is! And since He is no respecter of persons…that means He could actually answer my prayers and reveal it unto me! Joseph Smith read in James 1:5 that, ‘if any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not, and it shall be given to him.’ …If Joseph Smith could walk into a grove of trees and receive an answer to his question, then why not me?“

            I finally decided. I decided that I believed God, and that I believed in His promises. And that it didn’t matter how long it took, or to what depths of suffering and fasting and praying and piousness I had to go to—I would hound the God of the Universe until He gave me an answer. The answer I had been seeking for almost my entire life… The answer to the question: what started the chain reaction of suffering my entire life had become? What happened to me in second grade?

            It took six months.

            Six. Long. Months.

            Oh, I was persistent. I knew—I knew deep down inside of me, that I was going to make it to this answer, come hell or high water. I was going to squeaky-wheel-it-up until God would have no other choice but to answer me in some way. It was the one thing I wanted more than anything else in my life, and I wanted it deep down in my bones.

            It was during one of those prayers where the skin on your knees goes numb, that I felt something shift. Something in the spiritual atmosphere around me adjusted, and I stood up from that prayer knowing my answer would come soon.

            It did that night. I went to bed, and as soon as I was asleep, I entered into a dream that startled me to no end.

            It wasn’t a dream…it was a memory.

            I was standing behind my old elementary school—Bloomington Hills Elementary! It seemed as though I was physically there, facing the building. Children were a hundred yards behind me with the teachers, playing on the playground. I could hear their laughter drifting lazily in the desert air.

            All the details were so familiar to me—there was that crack in the cement I’d forgotten about! And the pockmarked and patterned red walling which wrapped around the building was there—as well as that tree to my left!

            And…wait—who was this? But, could it be? There was a little girl wearing a red hoodie pulled over her knees in front of me on the ground, and she was scooting forward, pretending she was a Gnome of some sort. She was giggling to herself, and I could recognize that laugh anywhere. The little girl was me.

            I watched myself scoot to the left, towards the corner of the building. I followed, curious. I thought, where are the teachers? Haven’t they noticed that I’ve left all the other children?

            I saw myself get closer and closer to the corner of the building. Then, a dark foreboding descended upon the whole scene. I wanted to run to myself, to stop myself from going any further…but my legs wouldn’t move.

            I started to open my mouth, but no sound came out.

            I saw myself go around the corner.

            Evil—pure, unadulterated evil—the weight of ten worlds descended upon me. I felt a part of myself falling into a black void as I was being dragged into the form of the little girl–and it was all happening–the memory was about to collapse in upon me and destroy me–and his hands…those hands–

            I shut my eyes tight, screaming silently GET ME OUT OF HERE! and I felt my legs give out from under me. I collapsed on the ground, wishing for an escape—any escape.

            Then, I bolted upright in my bed, gulping in breaths of air desperately, hungrily, wishing to have never, ever felt what I had just felt…

            And God said, clearly, “My Daughter…this is why.”

            Through the years I’ve gathered what I could from other sources. I retrieved another memory from the day after the Incident, where I was taking off my clothes, and I looked down and saw bruises all over my body. One on my arm and one on my rib cage were in the form of hand prints. I would dissociate from seeing those bruises, I would cover them up, and not be able to tell my mother about them.

            I retrieved another piece of the memory, where it was excruciating to go to the bathroom for weeks after the Incident. But each time I left the bathroom—as with my bruising—I would dissociate from the memory and not be able to tell my parents about it.

            After Heavenly Father allowed me to review this memory, one-by-one, He sent me five independent sources–spiritual people who have the gift of being able to “see” into the past. Each of these individuals, without any prompting from me, saw this event and others, as well. Each of them expressed horror and at first were hesitant to describe what they had seen in spirit. Some of them to this day will not tell me the details of what they saw about this and other incidents that happened to me. Each witness confirmed that this incident was a pattern which recurred several different times during my early childhood. A few of them added that they saw a darkness around these events that went beyond a standard assault, and they felt they were not random attacks. Not one of these sources knew one another or were given any clues by me that something had happened to me as a child, and this did not involve hypnotherapy.

            Heavenly Father answered my prayers and allowed me to put together a picture of what happened after I rounded that corner. A young man, sent on a specific errand from the dark side, was told exactly who to attack, when, and where. He had brown hair. He grabbed me, forced my pants down, and raped me. He may have done other things to me. I then ran to a tree. The teachers found me, sobbing and hysterical, underneath that tree, and I couldn’t tell them what happened.

Dissociative disorders usually develop as a reaction to trauma and help keep difficult memories at bay.

The Mayo Clinic – Dissociative Disorders

            My mother remembers being called to my school, because I had been found under a tree crying hysterically. I had no idea what had happened to me—neither did my mother or anyone at the school. Because I couldn’t tell them what happened, no one thought to check my body for physical trauma.

            But the emotional and mental trauma were now there. The very next day in school, during class I started laughing maniacally. When told to be quiet, I literally couldn’t. My teacher escorted me to the principal’s office—but halfway there, I began crying and screaming uncontrollably. My mother was called, again, but I was still unable to give them any clues of what was wrong. From that day forward—although just three days prior I had been a completely normal, happy, healthy little girl—I suddenly exhibited every sign of Childhood Bipolar Disorder. This was eventually my official diagnosis.

People with dissociative disorders escape reality in ways that are involuntary and unhealthy and cause problems with functioning in everyday life.

The Mayo Clinic – Dissociative Disorders

            Another sign of childhood rape was that my period and puberty started at a very early age.

Early pubertal timing in girls is one of the most frequently replicated antecedents of adolescent emotional distress.

Linking Childhood Maltreatment with Girls’ Internalizing Symptoms: Early Puberty as a Tipping Point, Jane Mendle, National Institutes of Health

While sexual abuse has negative effects for victims no matter their age, experiencing sexual abuse during childhood may be particularly damaging. The immense stress of sexual assault likely plays a strong role in the onset of puberty, and experiencing such high stress during a pivotal period of growth may have long-lasting effects, according to the study.

Julia Haskins, The Nation’s Health June 2017, 47 (4) E16

            My dissociation was assured, and the programming the dark side had done to me in the spiritual realms was cemented by physical reinforcement. After that day, I started to believe everything my tormentors had ever told me.

Spiritual Satanic Ritual Abuse

By Nicole Marie Hilton, December 27, 2019

Satanic Abuse can occur spiritually as well as physically. It can be in the form of a ritual or some other form. In either case, the victim is broken and programmed with destructive, life-shattering emotional and behavioral patterns.

            I’m typing this with a broken right hand—I believe I fractured the trapezium bone just under my thumb, and it’s radiating a surprising amount of pain throughout my palm, wrist, and three of my fingers. I fractured it sometime during a rampage I went on today while playing the card game Splendor with my boyfriend, JJ. You see, according to one of my alters (personalities), he had been taking too long on his turn.

            For some reason, this was triggering enough to merit the entire game to be thrown onto the floor. When that wasn’t enough, the three shelves of medicines in the corner of my parent’s kitchen were the next to go. When that didn’t slate my—or, whichever-alter-who-was-fronting’s—thirst for wreaking havoc, the kitchen chair I was sitting on was next to go. I literally wielded it over my head, and almost broke it upon the kitchen table with a loud BANG! Then I shoved my boyfriend against the wall as I exited—almost cracking his head in the process—and ran out of there screaming and yelling like a madwoman.

            Then came the tears. And the shaking. And the feeling like my entire world was collapsing in on me, and not knowing why.

Dissociative identity disorder. Formerly known as multiple personality disorder, this disorder is characterized by “switching” to alternate identities… Each identity may have a unique name, personal history and characteristics,…People with dissociative identity disorder typically also have dissociative amnesia.

Dissociative disorders usually develop as a way to cope with trauma. The disorders most often form in children subjected to long-term physical, sexual or emotional abuse or, less often, a home environment that’s frightening or highly unpredictable.

Mayo Clinic on Dissociative Disorders

My boyfriend, JJ, and I

         Just another day in my life—just another scenario my boyfriend and I have learned to deal with. Might I say…even be grateful for? That is, once we learned to see these little episodes as literal gems to unpack. You see, they are opportunities. They are gifts sent from above—each episode is Satanic programming, rearing its ugly head—programming that simply yearns to be healed. We haven’t quite processed through this one yet…it’s still too fresh. But, we will. We always do. And, admittedly, I am still feeling a lot of shame over it. I can admit that. But that, too, will heal with time.

So, as incomplete as this experience is, why am I writing about it? Well, I think writing about what happened today is a good introduction for you, the reader, to see the daily results of Satanic Abuse. But…just what is Satanic Abuse, you ask? Well, there are some links on my homepage under Resources for you to peruse. But I can give you a short introduction here.

From Glen Pace’s memo, Satanic Ritual Abuse—or SRA for short—is the most hideous of all abuse. It is the premeditated, methodical torture and terrorizing of children until they are forced to dissociate, then the systematic programming of that dissociated part. It is executed in a well-planned, well-thought out ritualistic manner—sometimes directed by an actual hierarchy of trained followers of Satan—and often the only escape for children is to either 1. die, or 2. dissociate (create alternate personalities that will enable them to compartmentalize the pain and endure the various forms of abuse). Any type of abuse is Satanic, and is used by the dark side to program its victims.

The victims usually get all the way to early adulthood with no memory of the abuse by their “core” personality. Often, the victims are “programmed” to the point of being a sort of Manchurian Candidate of self destruction—if you’ve seen that movie, you’ll get the reference. Certain tripwires and fail-safes (which can be triggered if the victim starts to get help or expose the programming) can activate self-destruct buttons in the victims. These triggers might cause them to drive into oncoming traffic, or kill or maim themselves, or self-destruct in other ways without the main personality wanting to. (Or, perhaps, break their back and say goodbye to gymnastics. Forever.)

           While all of this may sound far-fetched and even supernatural, I promise you that it is real, and it’s about to get even weirder.

It appears a new generation of children are growing up now—including myself—who were not only physically raped and tortured in this manner, but who were spiritually put through Satanic Ritual Abuse.

“What I’m seeing now in the last six to seven years is, we’re seeing people that have been taken in the spirit, taken from their homes. They didn’t come from Satanic cults.

“They are taken from Christian families, out of their bodies and taken and abused. I know this may sound crazy to some people, but I’m seeing it over, and over, and over again. A lot of people in their 20’s, some in their 30’s. It’s a new thing, I believe.”

Dr. Holly Hector, 30 years experience helping DID/SRA Victims

            How is this possible? Let me tell you.

            When I was a baby, up until about 5-6 years of age, I’d fly around everywhere. It didn’t matter if it was during the day, or during the night. I’d literally leave my body, and just…go. (Maybe that’s why I had so much trouble discerning between when I could and couldn’t jump off of things!)

Some people call this astral projection. I didn’t know or care what it was called, all I knew was that I liked it, and that it was natural and freeing to me. I did it almost daily. I’d zoom on up over the rooftops and into the clouds or the stars. I was always perfectly warm, content, and knew how to get back to my house and my body. I felt like Peter Pan! But then the day came when I remember standing in my back yard when I was six, looking up into the sky, and thinking, huh…why am I not lifting off of the ground? Have I forgotten how so easily? That was the beginning of forgetting how to fly.

            During those years, sometimes at night I’d leave my body and get ready to go fly away over the rooftops. But then, a darkness would envelop me, and everything would go black.

            I would wake up in the morning, and my memories would be hazy. Now, I knew the difference between regular dreams and memories from astral projecting…but this new experience felt like an astral projection memory that someone had tampered with, and that had been enveloped in darkness.

            After many times of this happening, while I was eating a peanut butter sandwich, or playing with my Barbies, sharp slivers of violent memories would burst upon me at odd moments. Suddenly, I’d remember: I’m in a circle, surrounded by demons. They’ve stabbed me through the middle, and are spinning me around on a disc…

My rough depiction of a recurring memory

The memories were so terrible, that I would thrust them from myself and concentrate on whatever was in front of me. My spirit was sufficiently strong—as most children are—that I knew: that scene doesn’t define me. So it’s not me. And that’s that.

But the spiritual Satanic Ritual Abuse continued…through the years more memories have come back to me. And more details of just what I experienced. (If you follow this link here, Dr. Hector has a good explanation.) They raped me and mocked me in front of multitudes of dark spirits. They implanted weapons and seeds of destruction into me. They took my astral form into a different hellish dimension of time and space, and tortured me for what seemed to be years of our earth time—all while being able to return me, “safe and sound”, back to my sleeping four-year-old body at night where I’d proceed to wake up screaming, and where my parents would explain it away as a “night terror”. They couldn’t have guessed that it was so much more.

            Soon I sensed the truth, and I subconsciously shut down my ability to astral project. The fun of soaring into the sky and seeing the stars didn’t outweigh the torture and humiliation the dark ones were inflicting upon me. And so, I unlearned; I finally stopped projecting around age six.

But the spiritual seeds of darkness were sown, and the traps were set…

All Satan had to do was cement it with a little physical reinforcement. (See The Incident, next post)

A Story to Tell

By Nicole Marie Hilton, December 27, 2019

God’s plans for us are not always standard. He has a way of turning our turmoil into miracles for our own growth and for the good of others.

Hi. I’m Nicole.

            As long as I can remember, I’ve loved a good story. In first grade, I composed a book of stories and poems that I have to this day—reading it now, I can tell I was meant to be a writer.

            In second grade, I wrote a Halloween story that I read to my class—the teacher even insisted on having the lights turned down. My peers all gathered around and emitted yelps of surprise and terror at all the right moments during the story. This all gave me great satisfaction.

            In third grade, I composed the first chapter in what was going to be a book about a mermaid that the teacher had me read aloud to the class, and everyone was unusually attentive while I read. I never finished that book, but my classmates asked me about it often—“Nicole, whatever happened to that mermaid?”

            In fourth grade, I won the school’s story telling contest, and the district had me go around and perform the children’s book Froggy Gets Dressed for different schools around the district.

With my love of storytelling and my natural affinity for writing, my feet were set on the path toward becoming a writer. And I imagine I would have been a good one had nothing out of the ordinary taken place in my life. I probably would have gone off to college, majored in journalism, gotten married at a reasonable age, and then started having kids while working for the local newspaper. It would have been a good, relatively peaceful life.

I believe that we all chose our individual lives, for whatever reason. That may be a “far-out” belief for some, but there you have it–that’s the paradigm I’m working from. So, apparently, the going-off-to-college-getting-married-having-babies life isn’t what I signed up for–at least not immediately. It’s not what I wanted the single focus of my life to be about (no offense to those who are living that blessed kind of life). I do want to get married and have children, but I believe I also wanted to reach the kind of people who are the most hurt, lost, and forgotten. I wanted to have an impact on them. I desired to learn how to heal and then to help point those who need healing the most toward Jesus Christ, the true Healer. My experiences and talents would be focused on supporting the most important work in the universe: healing with Christ. But God works in mysterious ways, and those ways may not always seem pleasant to us when He allows things to happen for the greater good.

            It seems He allowed the protections afforded most children to be lifted from me for this purpose, and the dark ones were allowed to strike. I was tortured, I was raped, I was split, and I was programmed. In my limited mind, all was lost. But, in God’s mind, all was going according to plan—everything would be okay—in spite of the darkest moments. In His Infinite power and creativity, Heavenly Father is able to turn attacks from evil forces into miracles. Here is just one example of God adding His infinite touch to my life after allowing dark forces to attack me.

            Because of rape and intense spiritual abuse from the dark side, I dissociated. Because of this dissociation, I started having memory problems as early as second grade. Because of the memory problems, as early as elementary school, I started developing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in the way of writing down everything and keeping journals neurotically. Because I kept all these journals from an early age, my natural writing ability improved, and I recorded the process of what a child or adult goes through during various forms of Satanic abuse and the process of healing from it.

            Do you see? Because of God’s infinite wisdom and mercy, He allowed those terrible things to happen to an innocent child. To me. My writing ability and the story inside of me grew as if they were in an incubator, until the fruits finally started blossoming this year at age 30. I only had to be patient, as God is patient. I don’t believe God is the author of our trauma, but if we let Him, He can beautifully arrange our healing for our greatest good and for His divine purposes.

          God knows the end from the beginning. And do you know what the exciting part is? Right now I’m just getting started on the fun part—I’m still in the middle of this journey! But I’ve learned to trust God and His promises so well that, though it may seem like I am preemptively writing this and counting my chickens before they hatch (not a single person has, as of yet, read this blog), Father in Heaven has told me that my speaking and my writing will go out into the world, that it will make a difference, and that I went through it all for a reason.

            And now I know something: there is not one person who has not been affected by Satanic Abuse—be it ritual or simply spiritual. This abuse affects all of us—it affects our everyday lives, our very thought processes. We may think that we are free, yet to some extent we are all in the grips of programming which Satan has so carefully, so painstakingly put into us. Some of us are simply infected with destructive thought cycles or negative habits, but for others his programming has created or exacerbated mental illnesses and various forms of psychosis.

            Drug companies, like any business, must have products to sell and life-long customers to buy them. They are coming up with newer and more harmful, even permanently damaging drugs that are meant to “cure” these psychoses…but I know better. I have seen it in my own life. I have been on almost every anti-psychotic and anti-depressant out there. I have been treated by at least 20 different therapists. I have been through, to date, 12 different mental hospital stays, 2 different jail stays, and been homeless 3 different times. I have attempted suicide three times and have actually died and been brought back. I know what it is like to be schizophrenic, bipolar, psychotic, in the throes of PTSD, depressed, in suicidal ideation, dissociated, a multiple, addicted, in panic, a cutter, Borderline, OCD, ADHD—you name it, I’ve been it. I have learned that our own minds alone are not the root source of these illnesses, and no man-made drug can cure the root cause. Identifying the true source of our trauma is the beginning of healing.

            Hi. My name is Nicole Hilton. I have a story to tell, and a message to give you. There is hope. I am living proof of the grace of God. If you come with me on this journey, I will share with you the depths to which Satan has brought me, and how Christ is bringing me back out of those depths to experience a love so sweet and a light so profound that no heartbreak or sorrow can withstand it.


In the depths of my mind when I lie very still
I remember the wildflowers on the hill
And all that I want is to be in their midst
To be lifted from this long loneliness

Did You bring me here or did I lose my way?
Is there something that I can do or say
To go back to the fields, to the slow falling rain
To the breath of the wind, to the cool of the day?

Have You been in hiding or am I just blind?
Would I be in Eden if You opened my eyes?
How can I bloom when the rivers are dry?
Here in the wasteland, here in the wasteland

I dreamed I could fly, I didn’t know where I’d go
But I’m leaving behind everything I know
And I find myself here where no rain ever falls
Maybe I am a wildflower after all
Yes, I am a wildflower after all

You own the whole earth but You give us the land
You leave us to blossom, You never demand
Maybe this heartbreak is only Your hands
Making a garden, You’re making a garden

There are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry
There are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry
This is freedom from prison, I am fully alive
And there are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry
And there are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry
And there are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry
This is freedom from prison, I am fully alive
And there are streams in the desert, Your well won’t run dry

Heaven is open, heaven is open
Heaven is opening now
Heaven is open, heaven is open
Heaven is opening now
Heaven is open, heaven is open
Heaven is opening now
Heaven is open, heaven is open
Heaven is opening now