Marilyn Monroe / Monarch Program Poetry

The Surgeon Story is a text written in poem form by Monroe where she describes being cut open by Lee Strasberg and her psychiatrist Margaret Hohenberg. While some describe this story as Marilyn’s recollection of a nightmare, other researchers claim that it is actually a description of a mind control session.

Best finest surgeon—Strasberg
to cut me open which I don’t mind since Dr. H
has prepared me—given me anaesthetic
and has also diagnosed the case and
agrees with what has to be done—
an operation—to bring myself back to
life and to cure me of this terrible dis-ease
whatever the hell it is—(…)

Strasberg cuts me open after Dr. H gives me
anesthesia and tries in a medical way to comfort me  –
everything in the room is WHITE in fact I can’t even see anyone just white objects –

they cut me open – Strasberg with Hohenberg’s ass.
and there is absolutely nothing there—
Strasberg is
deeply disappointed but more even—
academically amazed
that he had made such a mistake. He
thought there was going
to be so much—more than he had ever
dreamed possible …
instead there was absolutely nothing—
devoid of
every human living feeling thing—
the only thing
that came out was so finely cut sawdust—like out of a raggedy ann doll—and the sawdust
all over the floor & table and Dr. H is
because suddenly she realizes that this is a
new type case. The patient … existing
of complete emptiness
Strasberg’s dreams & hopes for theater
are fallen.
Dr. H’s dreams and hopes for a permanent
psychiatric cure
is given up—Arthur is disappointed—
let down.

In this odd and disturbing story, Monroe describes being drugged and cut open by her psychiatrists. She writes that she “didn’t mind the operation” because she was “prepared”. Was she dissociating? There is also mention of her seeing “only white” which might refer to sensory deprivation – a method used in MK Ultra programming.

Once cut open, the doctors only found “finely cut sawdust” inside of her “like out of a raggedy ann doll”. These are the typical words of an MK slave who have completely lost touch with their true core personality. Marilyn perceives herself as an “empty” doll.

According to Jason Kennedy, a member of Marilyn’s family, the Surgeon’s Story describes Mind Control techniques such as sensory deprivation and the administration of dissociative anesthetic drugs.


The Dolls

Born from the womb of my destined earth entry vessel, I am Angie.  My human mother gave me that name.  “Because I loved Angie Dickinson.” She’d say.


Truth is, I was an identical twin. The other twin died towards the end of the 8th month. I was born shortly after, almost dead from illness due to the twin rotting in the sack with me. This was my mother’s story, and she stuck to it. I have never seen my birth records. They are on the Portsmouth, VA, military base somewhere, on some old time film strip. I’ve messaged to attempt to retrieve them.  I deeply want to see my birth records.

The language I will use here is psychological speak, and I have my own understanding about Multiple Personality Disorder, or to put it in laymen’s terms, altered states of being ingrained into the psyche through severe childhood trauma.  One alter, I would discover, was already a part of me before the abuse, but that is another story.   MPD is a controversial diagnosis, and I am aware of this fact. I neither defend nor deny this diagnosis.  I don’t find disorder in it at all. In fact it has allowed a severance of organization. I understand that altered states of consciousness are prevalent in those of us who have suffered in extreme ways as children.  I accept it as a definition and an identifier to what it is that goes on inside of my existence.

Starting in my mid teenage years, three of my states of being ran rampant like a nuclear reactor, altering my states of being without me having any self awareness of them and the way they controlled my behavioral decisions. When I was in my late 20’s the three began to take form, shape and develop a voice and personality of their own. As I became more mature and creatively seasoned, we developed a relationship where we became successfully functional as a wheel.

They are not new to me.  Talking to YOU about them, however, is very new for me.  I used to worry, not wanting to be judged, criticized or labeled crazy. Then I realized fuck anyone who would dare be that apathetic. They are not who matter. You are, and so here I am, vulnerable and splayed open, in the hopes that someone else out there who lives with altering states of being formed by trauma, can feel understood, validated and supported.

This year has been a year of speeding forward in regards to the understanding these states of being. I’ve come to call them “The Sisters”. They are, in essence, a family. While I’ve found online representations of what they look like and have had visuals in my mind of their faces, nothing would emerge The Sisters like two trips I took to the Goodwill thrift store. Those two trips allow me to be here now, properly introducing them to you in a way that gives them a tangible existence.

I’ve never really been into dolls.  I had one who was precious to me for many years, gifted by a friend.  She was a beautiful ceramic fairy, sitting on an ivy covered swing.  It hung from a hook in my bedroom until it was handed down to my granddaughter.  I’ve never considered collecting or even thought much of dolls in general as far as collecting ceramic dolls as many people do. There are some dolls I have not liked, but that’s another story.

A few months ago, I was wandering the aisles of the Goodwill, browsing clothes and other thrifty items.  I don’t have full cognitive memory of lucidly drifting over to the children’s aisle where I found myself fully aware and staring at two dolls. They were posed in such a way that they were almost holding hands. I suddenly felt the urge to weep.  Vennie and Madge were sitting right in front of me. I picked them up, straightening their clothes, told them I was here, and they were coming home. As quickly as I felt like weeping, my emotional state turned to joy, as if I was being reunited with two of my children.  I felt that my twins had returned to me, and that even though I held them in my arms, they were representative of my soul energy.  I felt reborn through them as if I had my childhood back through them.


Here’s the thing with Madge. She doesn’t fuck around. Madge will cut you. Madge will give you a black eye. Madge will land us all in jail. Don’t let her sweet face fool you.  Madge makes rash decisions based on her rage. Madge IS our rage, in essence.  But the important thing to know about Madge is that she always acts out of defense. She is not predatory. She simply doesn’t like to be fucked with, threatened or for the sisters to be put in any situation to feel unsafe. She hates bullying and manipulation.  She’s no dummy.  She is hyper vigilant and comes to the surface if we are in a situation where we feel possibly threatened and in danger. Madge has also evolved into a woman who can display controlled, sadistic sexual tendencies who also goes by the name of Maude.  I am part time writing a junk novel about Maude. She is an interesting character with a story of her own.


Vennie is the artist. She is a primary who I consider pretty much having integrated Angie into herself. Both are comfortable with each other’s names being used and respond at will to either names. Vennie is free spirited and likes to be alone. She is confident in her creative talents and would prefer to be able to create all of the time and also be the one permanently in the forefront even though she does understand the importance of each part of me. She writes, paints, sings, writes songs and poetry, plays the guitar and piano. She loves the stage and performing. She is not shy. She has a good presence about who she is and is a night owl, always up until the wee hours writing and creating.  She is the diver, currently writing the sequel to Cult Child.  She is the Bard and the keeper of the Records.

When the twins came to me, It was as if my yin and my yang came together again. They have stood elegantly on my dresser these past few months, holding hands and smiling at me when I go into my closet to get dressed.  They make me laugh and remind me that I am whole, just as I am, and this whole of me has the capability to continue to morph into more wholeness.

I have been to the Goodwill many times since the day the twins arrived in the form of the dolls.  Never do I venture to the children’s aisle.  I’m usually browsing clothes and books. I am not aware of the children’s aisle.  My mind never thinks of it or wanders to it.


I started physically working out again, so I went to the Goodwill today to see if I could find a good pair of cheap tennis shoes. I found them. 7 dollars, and I put them in my cart.  Here I was, months later, having drifted lucidly to the children’s department where I become aware that I am gazing at two more dolls.  This time the dolls were positioned in a way the tops of their heads were touching each other. I felt stunned. Frozen. Slightly disassociated in a “is this shit fucking real?” kind of thought pattern. I was standing there looking at Knowing and Sila.

Sila Caprin

Sila began to immediately chatter to me. I could hear her voice in my head, literally, like a 5/6 year old, but intelligently speaking for her age.  It was almost as if there’d been no missing time between our last seeing one another.  She holds years of more stories to tell, but for her, she’d seen me as early as yesterday.  Completely dissociated back to her innocence is the best way to describe the feeling/sound of her voice and information being relayed.  She was excited to talk to me. She went right into letting me know she had something to tell me now. I was zoning into it in the middle of Goodwill, and I found myself making the noise in my throat.

I make a soft clicking noise when I am grounding myself into the now. It’s a self stimulating noise disguised as humming accompanied with deep breaths, something I started doing many years ago, a way to self stimulate in public without being looked at like I’m weird. Just like I’m singing and joyful, because I am, it’s just, now’s not the time, if you get my drift.  People aren’t that informed to get it. So, I picked her up and put her in the cart.  Sila is the youngest child. She is the one who experienced all of the torture first hand. She is the voice and narrator of Cult Child.  I immediately understood why Knowing stays with her. Sila would be very easily preyed upon without Knowing’s protection and guidance with her at all times.


Knowing. She is my everything. She reminds me to go to the trees, take soft soothing baths, take care of myself and be love. She has ancient wisdom. She is an Empath, and shares her voice with Vennie. She holds the cosmic knowledge and freely gives it. She is the ancient spirit guide and protector.  She is what I consider to be very integrated with Vennie and Angie.  The three of them could be considered a Counsel together.

Many things can switch my state of being.  The topic of conversation and situational surroundings play an intricate part.

I couldn’t believe that this happened, but felt confirmed in an “it’s okay” kind of way.  Whatever is needed for us to be able to feel love. It felt so proper and right, allowing me an actual physical way through which to allow these states of being have a life of their own. Dolls. I had no clue or premonition that my alters would emerge in such a way.

After what Sila told me, I hope that the rest do not come in the form of dolls. I don’t know how pretty they will be. I must admit that there is a heaviness which settles into my chest when I know where I still have left to go.  While my head feels determined to jump in, my spirit understands that childhood ritualistic torture isn’t fully revisited without a plan.

During the ride home Sila told me about the Cave Keepers. No, I don’t “believe” dolls can talk. I just know what was running through my head, seemingly opened by finding this doll.  It was the first I had ever heard of them, but as soon as she mentioned them, I could almost see them clearly. They appear to be somewhat dormant forms sitting on either side of the cave entrances with their heads down, appearing to be sleeping. I suppose they seem to have on some type of matching sweat pants and coats that are the same color as the rocks on the caves.  They’re not blobs.  They are stout and stone. They would be awakened immediately if one of us tried to enter the cave.

The Cave Keepers being awakened in that way is a dangerous trip to make, Sila explained in her child like voice as if she was recounting a children’s book.  She said I have to just sit by them quietly so that we can become familiar with one another. She even indicated that if I, Angie, can build a relationship with them, they might even be willing to take one of us on a tour of their cave.

Then she said that there are many caves and many Cave Keepers, and that I’d have to just start with the first one, where I would gain a map to navigate to the next one after I had finished exploring that cave.  Really?  A sick game of Dungeons and Dragons came to mind.

I asked her about the doorway with the bright shining light, and she fell silent.  The energy in the car shifted, and I just said, “Okay, we’ll wait.”

I feel slightly exhausted, slightly encouraged and slightly discouraged.

Exhausted because of the event of finding two more dolls and the emotion and head spinning which emerged as a result.

Encouraged because it felt like a completing of a phase that is allowing me to move on in this journey.

Slightly discouraged because I understand there’s so much more journeying I have to do, and wonder what more I will remember. But what I do know is that I am more heavily armed than before, and so the amount of wounds acquired will be increasingly minimized.

I am a bit tired.  I am ready for winter hibernation and revitalizing, writing and seeing what’s around the bend.

The Sisters