THE SUMMER OF 2016
During the summer of 2016, I crawled around like a drooling 35-year-old baby on the streets of Stockholm—with no food, no stable home, no money, my brain in some kind of constant fog. Am I 35 years old? Yes, I AM.
The summer before, I took on coaching clients from the board of Karolinska Institutet at 2,000 SEK per hour. I lived in a turn-of-the-century apartment on Bondegatan in Södermalm—painting, releasing, and designing albums for members from what was left of Frank Zappa’s band, at a European level.
I lectured to 700 people at festivals about compassion and communication. I thought that I had an inspiring millionaire girlfriend with whom I was living the high life. I was throwing amazing parties with beautiful people.
But then this psychopathic royalist woman took over my mind, infantilized it, and filled it with so much guilt that I couldn’t sleep properly for two years. It was a devilish psychological castration, fueled by endless sex over the course of four months.
Yes, after four months of intense bonding and creating a sacred sexual connection, she shattered it—the most definitive trauma one can create: excluding someone from their own heart and then, without any notification, killing the child you had created together through an abortion.
Bipolar psychopaths… It was a fucking satanic spiritual rape, dragged out over four months. Is there a better way to die? She had made herself pregnant with me and then deliberately had an abortion—something she did with every new young artist. A new one every four months, castrating them emotionally, socially, and physically, one after the other.
All in the name of the King—these Royalists—just like the old military strategies used by the most horrific regimes to demoralize the people by raping and killing their children.
Over the course of 300 days, I considered suicide about 49% of the time. But a higher understanding knew what had happened, so I developed methods to survive. I started drinking the biohacking, fat-based Bulletproof Coffee developed by Dave Asprey.
I was instinctively drawn to eat only steak tartare, raw meat, and liver to get sufficient iron to oxidize the excess cortisol in my blood, created by the trauma. I engaged heavily in Wim Hof cold exposure and Tummo breathing exercises that had just been gaining traction after being featured on the Joe Rogan Podcast. I also learned how to hold my breath for 7.5 minutes.
I downloaded a hypnosis program that I constantly listened to in order to heal and rebuild my brain. At the same time, I knew I had to improve my physical condition, so I mapped out an 11 km run around a lake, which I ran every day to try to awaken my poor heart again. It worked quite well… but I cried and cried and cried because of this hellishly deep sorrow, misery, and despair—mixed with immense rage over how I had been treated. It was terrible, and I screamed and asked God why.
Another therapeutic method I used was microdosing—diluting LSD drops to microscopic doses mixed in distilled water. It worked as a sort of cognitive enhancer. I also found out about the biohacking stack Modafinil, originally used for Narcolepsia, and found it very useful.
In the midst of all this amoeba-like misery, I still managed to create my own screenwriting group through a massive LSD brainstorming session one evening. These were actually some of the most creative nights of my life. Together with Staffan and Andreas, I started writing a script about dwarves who overtake people’s lives by facilitating miracles—making them believe more in themselves. The dwarves’ endgame was to generate as much love as possible in people’s hearts before they die, and thus generate a hidden power for creating new stars. A bit wild, but an epic script.
Cecilia’s goal was clearly to “break my heart,” something she both said and implied on multiple occasions. I recall one instance in her car, on the way to a church, when she referenced a Bible verse that stated one must offer a “broken heart and contrite spirit” to enter the kingdom of heaven. She laughed as she said it.
However, her intent may not have been solely to be cruel and punish me. There seemed to be many reasons behind her actions. She believed the Mormon Church was one of the worst things that existed, and she expressed that it was clear I had been traumatized by it—like it had placed a shell around me, particularly around my heart. She was determined to protect me from Mormonism’s influence at any cost. For her, love meant complete obedience and full control. It was also quite apparent that she engaged in multiple sexual relationships to enhance her social status. This, in turn, seemed to attract more wealth and obedience from various men.
She said, however, that she felt a “pull in the depths of her heart” whenever she saw me and wanted to help me escape all my damaging networks and relationships. It was hard for me to understand what she meant or what reality she was referring to. Did she want to help me, punish me, break me, marry me, take full control of me, humiliate me, or experiment on me? Did she want to turn me into a Ken doll? Perhaps all of it. Or maybe just have some fun? (She often said she wanted to marry me.)
What was “the ashes,” and what was “the fire”? Or were they one and the same? Was her secret operation simply a reflection of what I had experienced in childhood—but now in the form of Sweden’s cult-like upper-class, royalist society?
When she abruptly ended the relationship, she said: “I have felt that you haven’t been completely grounded or connected to reality,” and “Ambiguities regarding fundamental values are very challenging for me.”
She explained that she thought there were “too much horrible stuff at my core” and strongly recommended that I turn to the financial safety net of Swedish society and see a psychologist—but absolutely not a Mormon psychologist. Preferably, someone from her own royalist network.
It was as if she were two completely different people. Via text messages and emails, she came across as nurturing, maternal, and sensitive—saying that she cried endlessly on our behalf (probably to ensure that any documentation of our interactions could be used against me). But on the phone, she laughed, saying everything was just a game, mockingly pointing out that I seemed “split,” and that she would now become a demon in my life.
Regardless of the communication channel, though, the message remained, even if more veiled and subtle through texts and emails. And she never answered my questions.
I was left in limbo—in an extreme, trans-psychotic state. However, as I had managed during most of my life to control the latent psychosis instilled in me from the Mormon, satanic, drug-based sexual abuse of my childhood, I was again able to fend off a psychotic breakdown this time as well… for about two and a half years.
Through her advanced gaslighting scheme, she had completely short-circuited my subject-object unification, thereby destroying the foundation of my existence.
How was I supposed to rebuild it? Who could possibly understand what had happened—and then actually care enough about me to teach me how to build my new “house” and life on the cliff again?
Only my Higher Self.
