>>20152099 pb

Transition Period

Janet Ossebaard

TRANSITION PERIOD

I know, I have been very quiet over the past few months. Forgive me.

A lot has happened, yet I couldn’t find the words to write something that made sense.

Today is called November 2, 2023. I don’t have a clue as to what that even means anymore.

My time perception is getting worse and worse, and if it weren’t for the outside world, it would have been gone by now. Occasionally I have an appointment, that’s what keeps my idea of time alive. When that falls away, I’m timeless, dateless.

We moved house and country a few weeks ago. We drove for 3 days straight and arrived at a beautiful place in nature. I speak five languages but I don’t have a clue as to what people are saying here.

I have changed my name. Not for you guys, but for the locals here. Not that I get to see many…

It feels like I’m in a transition period. I want to sever myself from my identity with Janet Ossebaard. After all, that identity is what is keeping me trapped in this dream. I know it’s the next step, but what I didn’t know is that this transition period would feel this weird, this disorienting.

Days go by. I still sleep in my tent with Claudy and Mims. Temperatures at night are around 7 degrees but my little tent feels warm and comfy. It’s a small greenhouse, so to speak. I am so glad we left the heat. I just love the cold on my skin. My body was built for ice and snow, not for heat. It’s like I can finally breathe again. The land climate here makes the cold just lovely. Not wet, like in the Netherlands.

God… how I don’t miss that country…

There are hardly any chemtrails here. I cannot even begin to tell you how different it feels not to be bombarded with poison, like in our previous place. The air is clean, my lungs feel different.

Today is also the first day after several weeks (a month?) that my laptop is open. I just couldn’t do it sooner. Like I just said, I feel strangely disoriented and quiet. Contented, but sad at the same time.

Memories of my childhood have come flooding back from a secret place in my brains, a place even I could not remember. They surprise me with their presence. After many years of psychotherapy and soul searching, I thought it was done. I really believed there were no traumas left to deal with. I was wrong.

I remember how lonely I felt as a child. Two sisters, but no real connection. A dominant mother, watching every step I made and making all my decisions for me. A kind and erudite father, who was slightly autistic (like me), who loved his family very much but who was never taught how to show that. My mother hit me. A lot. Whenever she felt like it was OK to do so. Sometimes I didn’t have a clue why she suddenly slapped me in my face. Hard. When I later confronted her with it (in my years of therapy), she denied it was hard and often. She called it an occasional pedagogic correction. She really had/has no idea how terrified we all were of her. Once, a friend asked me what my childhood was like. My answer (that I didn’t really think about, I just spat it out) was: “Like a concentration camp”. She allowed no personal growth, no personality development, no authenticity. She decided what we would wear that day, what our hair should look like (she cut it herself), whether or not we could go out (always NO), we weren’t even allowed to pick up the phone or make phone calls. She did take good care of us in the sense of safety (I wouldn’t be surprised if she had endured sexual abuse as a child), but it was like a god-damn concentration camp.

There was no space for adolescent behaviour. No loud music. No anger or anything that didn’t fit her idea of the perfect children in the perfect family. When I went to Groningen University (I was 18), I didn’t go out, I didn’t party, I didn’t drink or do drugs. Sounds wise but it wasn’t. I was mind-controlled by my mother, and subconsciously I guess she would be around every corner to slap me hard. In the face. BANG! Out of nowhere.

>>20153139

Cont…

Instead, I spent my time in the university library. Third floor, the vault. White soft gloves. Ancient Latin manuscripts. I had a special pass to enter and help archive the beautiful booklets. I wrote down the material (paper or parchment), the language (sometimes it was medieval German), the century (I even knew the difference between writings from the first or second half of (for instance) the 14th century, the content, the author (rarely known), and any anomaly I could find. Maybe I was a medieval monk in a previous life, who knows? I just loved doing it. Nice and safe for an autistic nerd such as myself.

Little did I know it all sprang forth from fear…

Back to the present. Memories pop up, like I said. I can hear my mother’s footsteps running up the stairs at night. Two staircases, as my bedroom was in the attic. My heart stopped beating if I heard her approach. Fast and furious. What had I done wrong that day?? The door would slam open and I’d get a damn good thrashing. She had probably found out that I had lied about something earlier that day. It never occurred to her that children start lying out of fear of the consequences. I simply needed ‘correction’. And I got it. Hard.

Love is not enough to be a family. I learned that the hard way. I’m sure my parents loved me, most certainly my dad and probably even my mother, but it was not enough to allow me to grow up as an emotionally healthy adult. My depressions got worse and worse. Psychotherapy helped, but I can assure you it is mainly a revenue model. The therapist is not supposed to say anything, you see… he/she can only ask questions. This can (and does) go on for years and years. Looking back, I think I spent just about 20 years in therapy. 80 euros per session of one hour. Do the math. Maybe I should send the bill to my mother. It might give her a heart attack. No… knowing her, she would shrug and throw it in the bin.

We have not been in touch for the last 3 years and I intend to keep it that way. I tried everything. I forgave her time and again. I reached out countless times. I wrote letters explaining things and telling her how I would like things to be different. Nothing ever changed. The last two years in her presence were worse that ever before. Of course she didn’t hit me anymore but her emotional blackmail, the refusal to talk openly and honestly, the constant denial, and her eternal manipulation made me realise she is insane beyond hope. Jackel & Hide 2.0

So that’s were it ended. Three years ago.

It was not the first time – by the way – that I cut off contact. I think I was in my early thirties when I refused any contact after one of her evil explosions. That lasted two years. I felt guilty and reached out again, forgiving her once again, hoping things would change. But they never did. My eldest sister once refused contact for 6 years, but that never changed anything either.

The thing that made it so difficult for me to see who she really was, is that she isn’t just a bad person. She has a kind and warm side to her as well. Like I said: Jackel and Hyde. But it took me years to see that she was only kind and supporting when I felt like shit and needed help. When I was extremely vulnerable. When I had an NA-attack for instance. She’d take me in and look after me for the three months the attack would last. She’d be a Florence Nightingale. Loving and caring. The best nurse you could possibly wish for.

But after the first two horror months of insufferable pain and endless amounts of morphine, after I started to get a will and a voice of my own again, things would start spiraling downwards. She’d get angry with me if I didn’t want something, or if I decided I did want something she didn’t want (like more or less morphine). Then the emotional blackmail would begin all over again. I was ungrateful, I had hurt her feelings, I had destroyed the bond we had built up over the weeks of being her patient. And – brainwashed as I was – I believed her. I felt guilty, ungrateful. I felt unworthy. I was a terrible person…

She always won. Her manipulation always worked. I simply didn’t see what she was doing. She was a loving mother as long as I was her patient: helpless, voiceless, and obedient. She basically did what our governments are doing to humanity on a large scale: they too insist on compliance, no more defiance.

>>20153142

Cont…

What she did was not about love, it was about control and submission. But it took me eons to see it.

Partly because I had been brainwashed by her, and partly because it was too painful to realise my own mother only loved me when I complied, when I was submissive.

But I am not a submissive person. I’d rather see the painful truth than the pleasant lie. I’d rather fight than comply, when compliance doesn’t serve me nor my loved ones. I simply cannot and will not be the daughter she wanted me to be.

Sometimes I ask myself the question: have I made the right decision to cut off all contact? What will I do if my sisters contact me to tell me she is dying and wants to see me? It’s too late. She is dead already. She just doesn’t know it yet.

I never wanted a family of my own. It would only complicate my life. I wanted to be free, travel, see the world, explore ancient mysteries. Yet, here I am… in a family of my own. Cyntha and her two daughters came and never left. I tried to leave, several times. But I always came back. I guess destiny wanted things to be ‘together’. Pfffff…. Not easy.

Thanks to the memories that are popping up, I am able to see things and heal them. I am grateful, but after 20 years of therapy I also feel cheated. WTF? There’s more?? Seriously???

I now understand why I want the house to be tidy and clean and why I impose that on the others.

I am repeating history. I am just like my mother. Except I have never hit anyone. But it does frustrate me that the children leave things like a mess when I just tidied it all up. Instead of communicating that in a mature way (something I never learned), I tidy it all up again and feel angry and frustrated. I try not to show it, but these kids are bloody sensitive and feel everything. Sigh…

I finally see what I am doing. I finally understand that cleaning up their room doesn’t necessarily make them happy. It just makes me happy. So when they don’t respond happily and grateful, I get angry. You guessed it: I try not to show it, but they sense it. The result? Tension. More tension and even more tension. Until I cannot take it any longer and I leave. I run. I flee. But no matter where I go, I cannot flee from myself. Nor from my mother. The only thing I can do is heal.

When I look in the mirror, I see my mother. I feel loathing. I’m 57 and I am still at that level of stupidity and insanity. Un-freakin’-believable. I have her dark, straight hair, her green eyes. Sometimes I just want to shave my hair off, just like Brittney Spears did in a similar moment of desperation. But I know it wouldn’t change anything. It would simply grow back and I would still look just like my mother.

So. I am healing. That is my choice. And the world? The world will have to wait. The Fall of the Cabal will have to wait. I do not have the illusion that I can change the world. I never managed to change my mother, so do you really believe I can change the world? I’m not that stupid.

Cyntha works on her presentation about the Children. Part 2 will be presented in a zoom meeting in two weeks time. It’s fucking brilliant, as always. Shocking but brilliant, and very important for the waking up process of humanity. I will be there, in the zoom. Just to support her. There is no research in it done by me.

I’m just focusing on my healing. So I can be different than my mother. So I can remain a balanced Human Adult, as Jed McKenna calls it.

I have discovered that it’s not enough to wake up in the dream. I am awake, lucid. I realise at all times that this is but a dream. I can see it non-stop. But how can I move on from that stage, when I haven’t dealt with my issues? Now please don’t send me messages about Forgiveness, about Love & Light. I’ve seen it, done it, been there, bought the fucking t-shirt. It didn’t work. For a while it did, of course. It made me feel better. But mostly it made me feel better about myself. I believed I was a better person for feeling love and forgiveness instead of depression, frustration, and anger. Even rage and hatred.

But guess what? Once you are awake in the dream, you realise that these are all just emotions. They are all the same. They all make up that sticky spiderweb that we’re all caught in. Caught in the Illusion, the Matrix, I don’t care whatever name you give it. I see it. Very, very clearly.

I am healing, bit by bit, in the midst of a transition from being somebody to being nobody.

Is this the way to enlightenment? Who cares. All I know is that it fucking hurts. That I would like to disappear from the face of the earth into nothingness, into oblivion.

>>20153147

Cont…

Yet, I am not depressed. Not at all. I am amazed, curious. I’ve never been here before. It feels like I am exploring a new planet. A painful one to explore, but still it draws me further into it. I want to know. I want to go all the way, until I can say: “It’s DONE”.

Will you hear from me soon again? Probably not. Maybe. Who knows…

Only when I have something to say, something to share.

The world is already filled with empty words.

People talk simply because they want to talk, they want to be heard.

Too much ‘white noise’.

Therefore, let me shut up for now.

Until next time, my friends.

Enjoy your dream while it lasts, you might be in for a rude awakening…