Trish Fotheringham (1960-2020) – Obituary

by Mary W Maxwell, LLB

Trish was a wonderful person. She had “the strength of truth.”  She knew her mission on earth. Ask her practically any question and she would say “Love is the answer.” I can say personally that I never won an argument with Trish. She came out right every time.

Now that I am tasked with writing her obituary – she died about 48 hours ago – I realize that the picture was complicated! In many ways I thought of her as “too accepting,” yet she took pride in being a rebel. Even at age 12 she led a children’s protest, in a hospital.

At that time (or maybe a bit younger) she was cast into the role of “hospitalized child.” The group she led were fellow long-term-hospitalized children. I am pretty sure she was never ill or disabled and that the whole “illness” scene was experimental.

One time when “Trishiepooh” stayed at my home in Adelaide, she laid out 12 small bottles on the breakfast table, from which she was to start her daily meds. All unnecessary, in my opinion. (She was then 52.) But I am emphatically not implying that she was a hypochondriac. Quite the opposite. Trish believed in the medicine of nature and never asked for help.

Zoom

She was the giver of help.  She was a pro-bono therapist to many survivors of MK-Ultra. Last week her friend in the US put on a “Celebration of the Life of Trish Fotheringham” for her to attend, pre-funeral. It was fantastic and she loved it.

Fifty souls, including me, attended, via zoom. We could see the screen that had 25 zooms on it, and Trish told me she could see another “page” of 25 persons who asked not to be displayed. The majority of the 50 guests said words to the effect “You changed my life, Trish.”

I came to know Trish in two ways. Years ago, I saw a black and white video of a play she wrote, produced, and starred in. Can’t think of its title but I have dubbed it “Dissociation Since the Roman Empire.” It’s the best “overview of psychological history of the West” that you could ask for.  Arrangements are being made to re-run it as a play.

Trish in Omaha

Meeting her personally was a result of my seeing a Youtube video of survivor David Shurter, in which he pounded the pavement of Omaha Nebraska’s downtown area. He was in a fury and was showing the viewer how short is the distance (80 feet?) from the police station, to where he was brutally abused.  I put up a notice on YouTube that a bunch of us should ask him to remake the vid with us surrounding him in solidarity.

I offered to pay the airfare for the first 2 people who replied. Trish replied and said she would consider it a gift for her 50^th birthday. So that must have been in 2010. When we got to Omaha, we made a new video but not the one originally envisioned.

Trish’s buddy on Vancouver Island called me last night to say she had passed away peacefully. This is good news. Trish’s son Nick, age 34, had died in 2017 in agony, and I had it in my suspicious little mind that someone (the usual cruel gang) might have made her last days difficult.

Trish had lung cancer. I doubt it came from God.  Flashback to 2012, when I made a video of Trish at ANU, Canberra.  In the video she tells how she was taught to collapse her own lung. I won’t go into it now. We can discuss later. Other MK-Ultra survivors have told me how they were taught to trip and fall. What a lovely world we inhabit.

Dictation Cut Short

I am a bit annoyed that Trish’s passage to the Next Life occurred weeks before planned.  Yes, planned. As she lives in Canada, she is allowed to have “MAID” – medical assistance in death. She had done the red-tape needed for this (and she sad all social workers and doctors were kind to her).

Under her tight, pre-MAID schedule, Trish was giving me dictation by phone every night to coordinate her thoughts. I had many questions to ask her but postponed them “till later in December.” So now I will never get the answers!

Trish did not leave offspring or siblings whom I can quiz. Note:  I chose, for the photo above, a scene from the fabulous gardens as she told me she was related to the Butcharts. (Possibly she said her Dad was adopted out of that family.)

How They Can Design a Brain

In her last testament, Trish asked that all her productions be made public domain.  So, at a later date it may be possible to put her story into a readable format.  For today I shall use an abridged edition of a report she gave to Randy and Pamela Noblitt for an academic book they published in 2008, entitled  Ritual Abuse in the 21^st Century.

I admit that my motive for printing it here is that I am dying for people to know not only of the horrors that pass as “governmental,” but to know how advanced the science of mind control is. Actually, Trish’s torture ended when she was 19, so what she describes from their bag of tricks is only their 1979-style tricks. No doubt such people do a lot worse stuff today.

For the record, I’d like to say that I hate these people. Trishiepooh would give me a rap on the knuckles for saying that. She really believed love is the answer. She clearly stated “There is no such thing as an evil person.”

You decide, OK?

An Excerpt from “Patterns of Mind Control; A First-Person Account” in Randy and Pamela Perskin Noblitt’s Ritual Abuse in the 2st Century (2008), bolding added

by Trish Fotheringham

I do not know the identity of the group who “programmed” me. From my birth in 1960, I was subjected to daily trainings and exploitations designed to create dissociated identities or alternate personalities (hereafter referred to as “alters”) that could be programmed according to the needs of the buyer(s).

My alters were trained for a variety of uses. I was rented as a child sex slave for individual pedophiles and cults. Other uses included writing the abusers’ words, preaching their agendas, recruiting, triggering others to action, recording, reporting, stealing, spying, and drug and arms trafficking.

I was in two different secret cults: my father’s ancient patriarchal clan, which had a few brutal sexual “family traditions,” and my mother’s “healing magic coven.” Mom made a deal: social status and a secure cash flow in exchange for her secrecy and unquestioning cooperation in making me available.

People involved included relatives, neighbors and parents’ co- workers; doctor, and dentist; local businessmen, police, hospital staff, government officials, and politicians. Most of these were/are apparently “upright citizens”, often community leaders.

One important piece of technology my trainers used was a wooden chair that could rock, buck, rotate, and administer electric shocks. They told me it was a “magic gateway chair.”

The chair’s bucking and spinning was used to create internal tornados. Over the years, the chair was used to vibrate me into an “open channel” state, and to “ride the rainbow”, which was mostly the sensation of traveling with really amazing lighting and special effects added. Later it was used more harshly for “repairs”, by making me near crazy and suggestible, and for punishments (“do what you’re told or we’ll have to zap some sense into you”).

Various psychoactive drugs were used to induce or enhance each particular dissociative state and to create “altered realities” or “escapes” that made it possible for alters to cope with otherwise unbearable experiences.

My understanding is that traumatic memories are stored differently than “ordinary” memories, in a manner which allows them to remain available and accessible, clear and intact as if locked in a vacuum that prevents aging or disintegration.

My handler, whom I called “Puffy,” was in my life from infancy. Usually loving and friendly, stroking and kissing me, he was like my daddy, lover, and master all at once. He played with me and treated me like his precious little princess. He took me walking in his beautiful gardens (like in the gospel song “In the Garden”).

At first I believed memories of a series of satanic events meant my family were Satanists and that “I” had been married to Satan (red skin, horns, tail, and all), so I lumped all the memories of the rituals of my parents cult groups together under a heading of Satanism. Later, thanks to an out-of-body alter that saw the wires, cameras, crew and staged setting, I learned the satanic-themed situations had actually been a series of porn and snuff films.

Basic “negative” emotional states such as fear, helplessness, stifled anger, and loneliness, as well as “positive” ones such as pleasure, contentment and safety, were isolated into separate alters. Over time, some alters came to be identified by different bodily positions such as curled up, bent over, twisted, or rigid. [Later] each alter’s memory had to be accessed and addressed before the whole experience could be reclaimed and healed.

Steadily, as each alter had enough time “out” in the body, this all began to solidify. Dissociative barriers kept them aware of only their own pieces of my overall life. And in turn, “I,” the primary person who handled everyday life at home and in the world, was not aware of these alternate identities.

It seemed natural for life to be broken into chunks, with missing pieces, so “lost time” went unnoticed.

A core system was placed in the center of the inner world, as a root or anchor, a guidance system, and an overseer system, all in one. For me, this was a “Tree of Life”, with branches for the general color-coded path, and colored leaves for holding the specific memory. Training was linked and built upon this tree.

Nearly all alters were taught to be “good”, but what that meant was tailored to their training path. I had to become skilled at connecting image and sensation records of lessons, a skill that grew into a somewhat photographic memory. At 2 1⁄2 years, my red and pink path alters’ training had me in “an elite group” with other girls and boys, a class called “manners training” (at official local government residence).

Accuracy was also part of the white “word path” training. At first using pictures, then words, by 5 years of age, a little “scribe” alter had learned to make point-form lists for the “military leaders” at their planning meetings). Puffy was sometimes among these same men, on a huge, glamorous off-shore yacht that was used for child sex slave trafficking, among other things. When I was little, the pink alters being used for lap dances were treated and spoken to like a little princess who was precious and loved.

Sometimes my dark blue and black soldier alters were forced to “do battle” with other young boys in soldier training, while the men placed bets to see which of us “had what it takes to succeed.” My grandfather made deliveries of “newly acquired trainees”, who were usually missing or unregistered children of all races who had arrived from other places in the country and were being readied for shipping and sale overseas.

At other times I was already onboard the boat, dressed in a formal gown to indicate that the children were being handed over to me for training. This pomp made me believe it was legitimate.

The physiological and chemical overload from all the events occurring outside of my conscious awareness produced severe asthma by this age of 6, ulcers by 11. Long hospital stays became part of my life – convenient for them!

Unbeknownst to my handler and trainers, a record-keeper alter split off and got stuck at age eight, due to an overload of righteous outrage and hate from witnessing too much injustice. Most of the “boxes of records” were kept by this alter and hidden in my inner tunnels. Luckily, “files in folders” had recently been introduced so this absence amazingly went unnoted. The records remained pure until this alter was discovered in my late 30s.

From the time I was tiny, anything that comforted or empowered me was always taken away or somehow tainted, so I’d not be able to draw upon it in my times of need.

“Self-destructs”, mostly after age 10, were triggered if I recalled what I wasn’t supposed to know. It caused a “trip wire” physical response, and/or trigger a flood of feelings, without the content, from emotionally traumatic memories such as the death of a loved one, being outcast by “the gods,” or being told I had failed.

My drop in status to outright slave came when I was shackled and chained, then forced to participate in the very crime my actions had been intended to save me from, after which I was “left to rot” in the cold, dark, hungry isolation of a cage in the basement of my handler’s estate house.

When I was still only twelve years old, the dark blue and black path soldier shutdown involved a series of incidents in which, while drugged with LSD, I had to endure a “final survival skills exam” in a forested section of a local military shooting range/training ground.

The staged event brought “failure”, beatings and interrogation as a “prisoner of the enemy”, then escape when I used self-defense training against other “soldiers” (children like me!). I was captured. In retrospect, it is evident that “putting me in my place” (as was said often) was the agenda – and my place was to be one of life’s losers, a high school dropout.

After a self-initiated visit to the psychiatrist I left his office in a state of despair, hitchhiking home. Getting into a van that stopped, I sensed danger, but too late. The man in the back grabbed me, pulling me into the van. I felt a prick in my arm.

I was taken to the Colonel and a soldier alter was called forth and was convinced that he was a traitor! He [I] was told, and agreed, that the only option was to “take one for the team” and have his brain wiped clean with a “new medical procedure”; at least then he would retain his rank.

He [myself] was regressed in age and his memories were “erased in reverse order, back to the womb.” When he learned he was “really only a stupid little girl”, he disappeared. This was the last I saw of Puffy although he continued to have me watched and triggered.

After the healing I have done, and based on all I’ve learned, from those who abused and exploited me, I can honestly say I have never encountered a truly evil person, only people who do evil things. When people do evil, or allow evil to persist in the world, it’s only because that’s what they were taught or conditioned to believe is the most acceptable, bearable, livable choice.

Survival needs include not only food, water, sleep, shelter, and safety, but also a sense of self and of being loved and belonging, as well as sufficient understanding to make our way in the world. I’ve learned that understanding naturally leads to wiser choices, and positive change inevitably results, in fact cannot be stopped, since human nature drives us forward to ever better things, relentlessly and unavoidably. We can choose to act with understanding and compassion rather than fear, to be discerning, to think for ourselves.

Addendum: As recently as December 2020 Trish told me that none of the “alters” are bad. If they do bad things, it’s because they have been told that this is good! — MM