In December 2017 I came to the realisation that my son and daughter could be aliens.
They were trying to get me to take pills, under the manic persuasion of my mother which the psychiatrist from Pariyenyatwa hospital, Harare had prescribed me. We were in a room I was renting from a lady in Victoria Falls. (Arrest Jesus blog). They asked me if I loved them and I replied that I love my children.
I was so afraid of them and confused as to why they were behaving that way. I remember when I was little, there was a time I thought my parents couldn’t be mine and that they must be wearing masks, something happened to think that and I could have been confusing my children with that time from my childhood.
It’s hard to make sense of how I could have believed that for three years but I guess my mind was so traumatised from events that had happened during 2016 – 2017, that my brain needed to temporarily isolate me so that it could heal itself, although I thought about the trauma a lot.
I tried to work out when my children could have been swapped with aliens.
For my son, I thought maybe it was the time a man had approached him in Bloemfontein at a golf tournament and wanted to sponsor Tay as he played professional golf. They went to Cape Town together in January 2013 and my son called me one night, crying. He was at a house in Camps Bay with this man and his friend and said they were both acting weird.
I was so desperate and called out to God to rescue him. So I thought God must have sent an angel to take him away and then he was replaced.
So Tay was safe.
I did however later read that Microsoft had made a bot called Tay in March 2016 and considered that to be a possible option for what happened to my actual son. Yikes.
For my daughter, I thought that maybe it was when I had gone to the UK to do a job in December 2015 and Dakota had travelled with me during her school holidays. She travelled back to school in Zimbabwe after the holidays and I stayed on for a few more weeks. She flew as an unaccompanied minor on Emirates and swapped flights in Dubai. So I reckoned that perhaps angels rescued her before the snatcher’s swap.
And God had her completely safe too.
I had also looked on the internet to research about the spirit world because I had been there. And the first YouTube video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRLb10yITEs) I came across was in London 2015, not far from where I did the job that I went to when Dakota flew with me (just by the bus number and looking up the route it took).
The theme of the video was exposing a couple and the couple looked so similar to my children, I thought it was them. The same hairstyle that Dakota had at the time and her mannerisms. The guy was slightly overweight and had a beard. But I could tell it looked like Tay. So it was confirmed that I was on the right track. Strangely Tay did become overweight and grew a beard during the time that I went to sleep.
So in 2018 when my dad sat me down to persuade me to talk to my children – I told him that they aren’t mine. And showed him the video. He tried again later to sway me by calling me to watch a Derek Prince sermon on TV talking about forgiveness and I thought he hadn’t listened to anything I told him.
I didn’t consider the existence of shape shifting reptilians before the events of 2016 took place but then I hadn’t been in hospital in the UK before or been dealt with by the UK’s police either.
In January 2015 I was diagnosed with Stage 4 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. This was two and a half years after I first went to a GP in Scotland to show him the lump I had on the base of my neck. I was diagnosed after the fourth GP visit. The haematologist told me that I had a 14cm tumour in my chest which had metastasised into my bone and that I had weeks to months to live but I didn’t want chemotherapy. I had to keep going back and forth to the UK to work and pay Dakota’s school fees in Zimbabwe. Eventually the pleural effusion made it too difficult to work and near the end of the year I had to stop going to the UK, as the last time I flew home I could barely breathe and I remember dragging my rucksack along the floor through the Dubai airport thinking I can’t do this anymore.
Back in Zimbabwe I read an open email my mother was writing to an immigration agent in the UK asking how she could adopt my daughter. When I asked her about it, her reply was that I shouldn’t be reading her emails. I declined quite rapidly thereafter because before that I was still determined God was going to heal me and thought that my mother believed that too. Instead she said that ‘God can’t heal cancer and only chemotherapy can and that I needed to go to the UK for treatment’.
Then in February 2016, a GP in Zimbabwe put me on 60mg Prednisolone because he suspected I had a tumour on my spine when he tapped my knee and it didn’t jerk. I had gone to see him about a bladder infection. He told my mother to take me to the UK for chemotherapy. Soon after I started taking the steroids, I begun to feel like I was actually in a dream. Like what was going on around me was part of a dream. My brain was in sleep mode during the day while my body was awake. And at night my brain was awake while my body wanted to sleep. It affects your pineal gland I think, your sleep wake cycle. Hence, Donald Trump being prescribed Melatonin whilst he was on them when he had Covid.
In the UK, my mother phoned the GP I had been to see since arriving, to tell him that she was worrying about my mental state. Instead of him confirming to her the early psychiatric side effects steroids can cause, according to the drug safety report by the MHRA in December 2014, he prescribed me more.
A few weeks later I was given a steroid blue card and weaned off the 60mg Prednisolone over 10 days by the haematologist. Just after that I found out that my mother had taken my daughter out of boarding school in Zimbabwe and sent her to live with her father in South Africa without my knowledge or written consent to cross the border. Although I had given my cousin in Zimbabwe the application forms to get her a UK visa should she need to come over to me if I had to stay for treatment.
One evening I was travelling on a bus when I noticed that my mother had been deleting some of my WhatsApp’s. She was concerned that some of the messages would influence my decision to make about having chemotherapy. And immediately after noticing that, I started to panic about her deception and who my mother was. I had the most severe panic attack. It was like the most scariest thing was chasing me. Fortunately, I was at the Royal Bournemouth Hospital bus stop and got off the bus and rushed inside. I wanted to hide in A & E but phoned the GP as he had given me his cell number. He told me to go and stay in a hotel. So I went off into the dark to find a hotel. When I lay on the bed my feet started to tightly cramp over, that I had to fight against it to stop them locking.
The next morning I went to see the GP. I told him about the past day’s events.
I had been to a Benny Hinn conference in London and went on stage and believed I was healed; I went to a SOZO session where the counsellor had asked me what my father was doing with witchcraft. When he said that, I screamed and screamed, I thought that I had a demon being delivered but he said it was trauma. I had been asked that question years before by a visiting minster at a church in Mafikeng but I didn’t know what he was talking about. I know my father used to hypnotise the gardener telling him a lion was chasing him and he ran scared and climbed a tree. Or that he was eating a peach when it was a lemon and he would eat it. And with my mother he hypnotised her that she was sleeping with a pig and she was so cross with him when she woke. He did it for fun. So I’m not sure if that is witchcraft instead but after the SOZO, a lifetime of fear of him just left me.
So the GP’s response to all of that was asking me if I believed in Jesus and when I said yes, he screamed at me saying that he’s Jewish and he doesn’t. I was so confused about him too. And stayed at a different hotel and ignored his surgery’s phone call. I really didn’t know what I was going to do and thought I would fly back to Zimbabwe.
I was in the hotel for two nights, booking each day and paying before midday. Then on the third day I was sitting on the toilet with my towel wrapped around me. There was a loud knock on the door and a shout, ‘Are you decent!?‘ Two policemen came in and said that the hotel was full and that I needed to leave, yet I had already phoned reception to ask if I could stay another night.
I pushed passed the one with ginger hair and a beard who was standing in front of the bathroom door, and went to open my curtains, then sat on the bed. The dark haired one asked me if I was taking drugs. I showed him my steroid blue card which was in my bag on the desk. And told him that I was writing a story. Then I sat on the desk. Naturally I’m puzzled by the intrusion and not sure what’s really going on. The ginger haired one was sitting on the chair next to my bed and the dark haired one stood with his back to him and faced the window with his eyes shut. I was looking at him side on, wondering if he’s in a trance. Curios. So I asked him why he was shutting his eyes. And he said,
Ok let’s stop right there.
I’m already suspicious of my mother and can’t trust her anymore. Actually I can’t bare her at the time. It hurts so bad I could scream with maddening fury, but how, where, when?
My father I know there are no limits to his abuse. On arrival in the UK I was set up with a hospital bed in the conservatory of my brother and his family’s home. I was on end of life care with nurses coming in. One night I came through to ask my parents if I could sleep on the kitchen floor of the annexe they were staying in as I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be on my own. And my father screamed at me with such hate and told me to go back to the conservatory. I’m just used to him being like that. It hurts but it’s not a surprise.
The GP threw me because I trusted him and didn’t think he should have let me know that my belief in Yeshua angered him so.
I’ve been open with my mother and GP that it feels like I’m in a dream. The only reason why I’m struggling alone on my own in a hotel is because the GP told me to go there. And now I have police in my room telling me to leave and this man is standing in the middle of my room with his eyes shut because he is –
So I ignore them and go across to stare out the window and am told we are waiting for an ambulance but I’m not sure why. I read the neon strip over and over which is moving across the Bournemouth Pavilion theatre. Eventually I turn around and a dark haired policewoman is sitting on a chair near me. I sit down too. The dark haired one is still there, standing. He asks me if I am Australian and if I want to see him skip around the fountain which is in front of the theatre.
Is this reality?
The ginger haired one comes in with my parents. My father makes a surprised laugh as I sit there in a towel. My mother has a black rubbish bag with my clothes in and takes out a pair of panties and waves them at me,
‘Kimmy, I’ve brought you panties’.
That’s all – and they leave. And we sit and wait. Then there’s some activity outside the door, the dark haired one stands me up and says it’s time to go whilst putting my gown on me. I’m put on a stretcher and handcuffed so fucking tight – I scream and scream. I’m jabbed at the same time. I have to fight to stay awake so that the hotel’s towel doesn’t fall off under my gown. And I’m taken to Royal Bournemouth Hospital where I started from four days ago. Only this time it was under extreme duress and wasn’t voluntary.
Now here’s the part that baffles me. I asked for my medical reports recently. The paramedics report said that they spent over one hour assessing me in my hotel room.
And I didn’t see them.
They took my stats and I didn’t see them. They write sepsis (?), yet I would certainly have shown them my steroid blue card if I had seen them.
I asked my mother recently, if she saw them arrive and she said that after she and my father left my room, they waited in the corridor for a while until the paramedics arrived. They were told to wait downstairs. Shortly after they got downstairs, they were phoned to say that I was on the way to hospital and to meet them there.
The paramedics report also states that police were called to the hotel as I wouldn’t leave and had not paid my bill for four nights. Whereas the nights I had stayed there, I had paid for and I have the invoice with the date and time it was paid. The hospital, psychiatrist and haematologist reports all state that I was evicted from the hotel by police for not paying my bill. I sent an SA 1.1 form to the Dorset Police to ask for the report of my eviction from the hotel and they don’t have any such report.
Then at the hospital, after the sedative had worn off, I became excited and delirious with little memory of my drunken like behaviour the following morning and I’m sectioned for 28 days and put on a month’s supply of Olanzapine, the strongest antipsychotic to curb the effects of the Prednisolone, and stay in the cancer ward, while they monitor me and try and convince me to have chemotherapy.
But instead I went back to Zimbabwe to see my kids. Whilst there I got very ill again so I flew back to the UK where I had to have chemotherapy. The GP put me back on Olanzapine to help me sleep through the pain of being without my daughter. Almost a year later I weaned myself off and the numbness left and the trauma arose and mistrust of my mother started again and I had a panic attack in September 2017, like the first one and walked all day and night in London, not knowing where to stay and was found the next morning by police and taken to Middlesex University Hospital in Twickenham. The police had me handcuffed from early afternoon till after midnight, despite my blood results showing my Creatine levels were 1528, and a mention in the report that I should be on a drip due to dehydration. Instead I wasn’t offered anything to eat or drink for the entire time. All whilst they tried to find me a bed in a hospital and brilliantly decided that actually I could go to the Lakeside Mental Hospital which was right there. To sleep on the floor in the corridor because that’s the brilliant duty of care the NHS adheres to.
My response thereafter led to trauma upon trauma that finally my brain was intelligent enough to intervene to protect my mind and heal myself all alone.
I travelled as much as I could until lockdown. I had an appointment on my birthday at the surgery for a MH physical health check, the first contact by them in three years since I last had a panic attack. During the visit my blood pressure went really high and I had to check it daily for a week and record it for the GP. At the same time I had started listening to Dr Caroline Leaf’s podcasts and realised that I might be experiencing trauma from my experiences with the NHS hospitals and that maybe I was escaping reality to cope.
I was also so bored during lockdown and not travelling that I thought it might not be so bad to adopt two aliens – and signed the email off as Pebbles. And the process started from there until I realised that they must be mine.
P.S. Don’t worry, I don’t think they eat us – I think they eat each other.