Dirty Little Secret
Confessions of an Alien Contactee
Typical Roswell Decorative License Plate
I am not new to strange experiences. I have been steeped in the paranormal and the esoteric for as long as I can remember. But, out of all the weirdness I have experienced in my life (astral travel, premonitions, ghostly encounters, etc.) there is one phenomenon I have tried my best to pretend doesn’t exist. Who in their right mind wants to admit that they are taken from their rooms at night and subjected to untold horrors? Who wants to subject themselves to criticism and ridicule from the masses who think that people like me are kooks, looney, crazy, have lost touch with reality? It would be so much nicer to just suppress the traumas, the memories, the fears and tell yourself that there is no way it can be true.
As someone who also studies and works with people who have suffered traumas in their lives, I know that those memories will surface no matter how hard you try to keep them under wraps. Little bits of images, emotions, panics creep in at unexpected times. Living in Roswell, New Mexico—the Alien capital of the world—where the entire down town is steeped in alien statues, drawings, gift shops, street lamps, and other UFO regalia has been an impetus to come to terms with this in my life as fight or flight instincts don’t do any good when you are surrounded by little green men on all sides.
No, you are right. They aren’t green—more like varying shades of grey and flesh tones, at least the ones I have seen. But, I can’t escape these triggers. It took me 12 years living in Roswell to decide to show my face at the annual UFO Festival. Most Roswell residents hole up in the comfort of their homes this particular weekend to avoid the ridiculous traffic, the tourists walking up and down Main Street in alien glasses and aluminum foil hats. But, that particular year, I had recently met a guy that has ended up being one of my best friends, and knowing I had something going on that needed dealt with (Tom is like that), he coaxed me out to meet some really interesting people and listen to the lectures. I have oscillated between loving and hating Tom for this over the years (love you, Tom, really) because here it was, in my face, and I could no longer deny my experiences.
The Annual Festival
Main Street Roswell, NM 2018
I went to several lectures held by Yvonne Smith, the amazing hypnotherapist who works with PTSD and contactees. I saw my own life up on the screen as she talked about contactees and what they have seen and reported to her through hypnotic regression. I was nearly crawling out of my skin with anxiety but decided to introduce myself. I fell apart, blubbering my way through a hello. She gave me the warmest hug and access to a support group. I have kept in contact with Yvonne for over 5 years and hope to follow in her footsteps.
Things got really intense that night as I tried to go to sleep. I had to fight with paranoia for the first time in a long time. This feeling of anticipation creeps in, causing my heart to race, I break into a cold sweat, and my mind repeats, “They are coming, oh God, they are coming tonight.” I can’t close my eyes, I can’t turn off the light, I can’t turn my back to the door or windows, pulling myself into a tight ball trying to logic away the inevitable. “This isn’t happening. I am crazy. I have totally lost it. Oh my God, what was that?”
Next thing I was aware of was being wrapped in a sheet type of gurney, folded snug in the material and was carried right through the wall of my bedroom! I remember feeling a sense of awe as I watched the barrio between inside and outside pass over my head. I reached my hand out for comfort. How did I know I would find comfort like this? My hand was grasped by a warm, reassuring being. I gazed into her (her? How did I know this?) eyes and knew her. She was… how does one describe an alien? She had large expressive eyes in an overly large head, small mouth that seemed to smile, and wrinkly grey skin on her too thin limbs. She was a sweet being, one that I feel I have known since I was a child; one who knows just way to say and do to keep me as docile as possible.
Is it Fantasy or Truth?
Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.
She stayed by my side. I must have been put down, to sleep, knocked out, made unconscious, lost memories or something because the next thing I remember is feeling excruciating pain ripping through my lower abdomen. I screamed and tried to sit up but found I was restrained across my chest. I was on a cot or medical bed. A surgical barrier was up across my stomach so I couldn’t see the lower half of my body. Again, the pain tore across my abdomen. My handler, for lack of a better term, patted my shoulder and clucked calming sounds. Taking a deep breath, I looked at what surroundings I could see. There were many other cots in rows around me—all filled with women in the same predicament. We appeared to be in a cave or underground as the walls were rough-hewn stone. Military green cabinets lined the walls. Two taller grey aliens were near my feet, don’t whatever it was they were doing to me.
A human male in a military uniform covered by a white lab coat, a grey buzz cut, and a clipboard with papers he was sifting through walked by me. He glanced down at me, looking directly into my eyes. I tried to sit up, call to him, ask for help. But he blinked and looked over me as if I didn’t exist. My own species, regarding me as no more than cattle. I felt my heart sink in my chest. My tenuous hold on hope crumbling through my fingers and my only sense of comfort coming from a being who has, as far as I can tell, been with me only to keep me calm when scary things are happening.
Greetings from the Children's Department of the Roswell Public Library
Let me tell you what. This article isn’t easy to write. Recalling this memory to bleed onto my paper/your computer or phone screen is the smallest part of this difficulty. I say that, but in earnest I am buying myself time to approach the rest of the story. I told a good friend today I would rather be abducted every night than let my peers, friends, and potential employers and clients see the truth about me. But truly, I aim to help others who have suffered as I have, and I can only do that by helping pave the way for others to securely come forward. If I don’t stand up and validate my own experiences, how can I help others come to grip with theirs? If I am to be completely honest with myself, the fear of public ridicule will only be temporary. The sting will wear off. People probably won’t stare like I think they will. Most of my acquaintances won’t even know I have written this piece. But—the abductions continue, and the after effects will take dedicated effort to work through.
Back to the story…
Swiveling my head to look at the cots nearest me, I finally understood what procedures were being performed. We were being harvested! Tiny fetuses, smaller than the palm of a hand were being taken from all the women around me. And me! That is why it hurt so bad. Induced labor! But I wasn’t pregnant—was I? Why isn’t there something more sophisticated happening with the harvesting? Why did it have to be a–well cynically called—natural birth? And why did that human not care? I started to scream in an ever desperate crescendo, “What are you doing? These are your own people! What do you need us for? Why are you taking babies? Why did you take my baby?” The buzz cut man turned back around and looked over me. My handler reached forward and placed her hand over my face. I disappeared into darkness.
The levity in Roswell doesn't match my experiences.
I woke up back in my bed. Under the covers. Curled up in a fetal position. I stretched out my legs only to feel aches and cramps around my midsection. The memories trickled back, and I threw off the blankets. Three finger print bruises laced each inner thigh. When I looked in the mirror my eyes were swollen, and tiny broken blood vessels dotted my eyelids as they always do when I have cried a serious cry during moments of extreme emotional hurt. It wasn’t a dream.
I would love these experiences to be dreams. Maybe just a super charged imagination. Perhaps one too many episodes of Star Trek, if that is even possible. But no, this is real. It happens to me often. It happens to others. My freak flag already waves, maybe I should sew little alien eyes on I now—because the cat is out of the bag and boy will it be a fight to get it back in.
In parting just know this—if you identify with my story, you are not alone, you have a community open to you and your truths, and if you need help…please, please ask.