My Own Private Dungeon: the Life of a Ritual Abuse Survivor

Disclaimer: This story may trigger those who have survived from sexual or ritual abuse, rape, and other forms of physical or psychological abuse. This is MY ongoing story, and it took a huge amount of courage for me to disclose it. Therefore, I will not tolerate negative comments, threats or abusive language of any kind. Thank you in advance for your understanding.

It all came back to me the other day while I was washing dishes, and some warm water ‘splattered’ on me, by accident. There is a reason why I nearly had a panic attack in the middle of the London Dungeon, during a Jack the Ripper demonstration. And it wasn’t a statement on the quality of entertainment either. It was because they simulated the feeling of warm blood, being “thrown,” or “squirted” on you. It’s a feeling I know all too well, unfortunately. And no, I’m not a doctor or a horror movie extra. I am a ritual, sexual abuse survivor. Blood was used in ceremonial rituals often, and it was not only thrown on me, I was forced to drink it. I know the smell, taste and feel of blood. From where it originated, I still can’t say for sure. Because, you see, I was drugged, so that I wouldn’t know where I was being taken to, and so that I couldn’t remember specific details on how I got there, either. But it often ended up in a room with large windows and dark wood. Long curtains and a circle of sinister-looking men, and occasionally a few women. The men wore white robes, as best as I can recall (I believe they also wore black robes too, with a red lining. I think it may have depended upon the ritual). Not like the Ku Klux Klan, but more like a Masonic order. Not that I’m associating Freemasonry with Satanic ritual by any means, but it’s the closest comparison I can think of to recall what their robes looked like. My abuser claimed that they were all members of “the Process.” I don’t know with 100% certainty if this was true or not, but clearly I DO know that my primary abuser was a member of this cult. I also know for certain that Satanic ritual is very much a real thing. And I do know that cults like the Process DO attract people who participate in these kinds of sick rituals.

They poured blood of unknown origin into chalices, and forced me to drink from it. There was wine too. Sometimes I think the two were almost interchangeable, or perhaps used in tandem.

The drugs and the alcohol put me into a trancelike state, so that I couldn’t name names or identify faces. There was a baby. Animals. A man. All casualties of horrific rituals. Where did they all end up? I’ll never know, because I wasn’t supposed to know. I wasn’t supposed to talk about this, and I wasn’t supposed to be believed, either. It was designed that way, by my primary abuser and his group. And this is what still keeps me up at night sometimes, still, wondering what happened to those poor souls. I can’t speak to their whereabouts, but I know what I saw with my own eyes.

I tell these stories not to elicit pity, or to make anyone feel uncomfortable, sick or enraged. I’m talking about this to bear witness- for those who lost the fight, who were either killed or sacrificed themselves out of fear, depression and extreme trauma. This is for them, and for every single person who spoke out and wasn’t believed, and for every person who thinks they’re alone, and that is terrified.


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