I’ve sat down to write this post a dozen times and broke down in tears each time. For the sake of healing from this nightmare that my family forced upon me, today I committed to bringing myself closure.
After sharing some of the details last December about the conversion therapy I underwent in 1978, I shifted focus to the weeks that led up to the hypnosis that would erase my memories and imprison me for over 4 decades. However difficult to revisit, I had to make peace with the fact that in 1978 my parents sold my soul to a cult for money and prestige.
Unfortunately for my parents, my horrified grandfather had other plans.
Leading up to the evening that would alter the course of my life, I met with my grandfather. I remember him placing his hands on my shoulders, looking in my eyes, and imploring, “Whatever you do, Damon. Don’t give in to those people.”
I’m not sure exactly who “those people” were. I recall my grandfather telling me about masons, but I also remember meeting with a priest with gnarly teeth and bad breath that was very condescending to me.
Whoever “they” think they are, as far as I’m concerned, they’re nothing more than a luciferian cult. Hard to see it any other way when you take into account what was done to a seven year old boy for being gay.
On the night I was sacrificed, I recall being on a stage with my parents (I was sitting off to the side, while my parents were center stage). There were people in the audience who I couldn’t make out beyond their silhouettes due to the spotlights. There was also a lively host on stage with us, game show style, who facilitated the selling of my soul.
My parents turned down the first few offers, which brought me relief. For a moment I actually thought I might survive the sacrifice, but, regrettably, it turns out my parents were just holding out for a specific dollar amount.
After an amount was agreed upon, I lowered my head and began to cry, which was met with a combination of laughter, applause, and awwwws from the shadows in the audience. I only lifted my head up when I heard my mother say, “I believe in God, but I don’t believe in Damon.”
To which the host replied, “Don’t say it to me, Donna. Say it to your son.”
I know it wasn’t easy for my mother. I could sense she was fighting back tears, but as instructed she locked eyes with me and sealed the deal with an “I believe in God, but I don’t believe in you.”
Given the influx of money and prestige that came with being aligned with the luciferian cult, on the car ride home my parents laughed at how jealous their friends were going to be, while I continued fighting off tears from the back seat.
I’m not sure how much my soul was worth back in 1978, but it was enough money to buy my dad a ‘79 Subaru Brat, put him back into college full time, and afforded my parents the opportunity to buy their first home.
Turns out, all of this was just a beautiful game. The only thing that makes this ordeal more horrific is realizing my parents were aware of the time capsule set to go off on my 50th birthday, which my grandfather impressed upon me during a separate hypnosis session.
Like the song “Tiny Dancer”, on the day I underwent my final hypnosis session, my family agreed that the picture taken with my Mom-Mom on Christmas 1972 would serve as a trigger to my awakening.
I’m not sure how much of a role “those people” played in trafficking me throughout my life, but this much I know – By April 28, 2021, I was surrounded by people paid to make me look and feel insane, in an effort to steal the inheritance my Grandpa Joe left me. From the courts to the clubs to the workplace to social media platforms, I was unknowingly already under attack.
One of the hardest lessons to learn throughout this Squid Game (Family Edition) has been realizing who my friends truly are and aren’t. Given the cold reception from friends, family, and colleagues alike throughout my awakening, quite honestly, I’m not sure who from my past has also been paid to lie about my character.
But that was the goal, right? Make Damon look paranoid and insane, provoke him, get him to lash out to support the narrative that I’m a rambling lunatic that needs to be locked up (who would possibly believe such an insane story anyway?) or best case scenario – Get Damon to off himself so that my family can cleanly claim my inheritance and pay off the contracts to people who betrayed and trafficked me throughout my life.
There’s a house waiting for me in Sunset Beach, North Carolina that my Grandpa Joe built for me, where my step grandmother and her new husband had lived since my grandfather’s passing in 2002 (a google search of “Wallace Sunset Beach North Carolina” is rather revealing). When my grandfather asked me where I wanted the house he committed to me in 1978, I chose North Carolina. While the town was of his choosing, the name of the town, in addition to serving as a clue and a wink to me, is simply my poetic justice.
While I didn’t remember it until 2023, it was my Grandpa Joe that introduced me to tarot cards. During our “survival” hypnosis session / sealing of the time capsule, he explained that after his passing he’d communicate to me through tarot cards during my awakening. For context, I made the video associated with this post six months before I remembered him helping me choose the song “Tiny Dancer” and a year before I remembered the conversion therapy. Prior to those resurfaced memories, my grandfather had been a stranger to me.
My Grandpa Joe also made it a point to stress that I had a secret weapon that my family and their luciferian cult didn’t. It’s the memory of his wisdom, compassion, and those words that have carried me through the remaining isolation to date in 2025.
When all is said and done, the world will know – God was rooting for me (the gay kid).
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