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 laugher. 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 youthat’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.


            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.


            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.

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!


            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 loving 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

Ritual Abuse can occur spiritually as well as physically. 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 Ritual Abuse. But…just what is Satanic Ritual 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—usually 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).

            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—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 ritualistic 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 what 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 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.

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 popping out 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-popping-out-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