Normally I don’t write about myself. For this post I make an exception. I’m sure many of my readers, knowing my relatively advanced age, will wonder what possible pertinence incidents of the 1950s and 1960s could have today. What I’m discussing are events that took place, not just for me personally 60-70 years ago; but they have widely occurred for centuries, and I’m sure they will continue to happen, probably far more now than ever before. So I hope some parents benefit from this. And perhaps even a few of my readers will say, “HEY! That’s just what happened to me!”
Falsehood #1: Little Jimmy is “Just Afraid of Strangers”
When I was a child, my parents would say something to me like: “Jimmy, a new family named the Smiths has just moved in up the street! They’ve invited you to have lunch with them and play games with them!”
But I would say—to my parents’ disappointment—something like, “No, thanks. I’d rather just stay at home and play.”
So my parents got the idea that I was inherently “shy of strangers”—or, perhaps even worse—anti-social.
By the way, this fear was only of strangers—not of familiar neighbors or kids I got to know in school.
One summer my father, on one of the standard two-week vacations his company granted him each year, was driving us through upstate New York. He announced that we’d be spending the night at the lakefront property of one of his business associates. This consisted of two houses. My dad said that he and my mother would stay in the house occupied by the man and his wife. I, on the other hand, was to stay in the house occupied by the man’s three sons.
Dread overtook me. I made every child-like excuse to escape the situation. I pretended to be sick, hoping that we could return home early. My father saw right through the ruse. He bawled me out, bawled me out, bawled me out—I could go on. Finally the bawlings out became more painful than my fear of the three boys—who, by the way, turned out nice.
So at this point, I’m sure many of my readers think I just had an irrational fear of strangers.
But let’s go to the origin of this fear. It was an event that occurred in Wellesley, Massachusetts, in the mid-1950s, when I was four or five.
One day my mother returned from the supermarket in a happy tizzy. She exclaimed that a woman had struck up a conversation with her. This woman was either a stranger or perhaps a very slight acquaintance. She bemoaned to my mother that her own son—a boy much older than me—didn’t get along with kids his own age; he liked to play with young boys my age, four or five.
Had my mother been streetwise, this should have set off alarm bells. But it didn’t. Instead, in what you might call a 1950s version of “virtue signaling,” she assured the woman that she would bring me to their house for what we now call a “play date.” As a small child, I had no suspicions—or fear of visiting these strangers.
My mother brought me to the family’s house, and after a chat with the woman, departed. I recall that during this conversation, the older boy was watching me with a very evil grin, though at the moment I attached no significance to it. I can honestly say that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Skut Farkus—the bully in the famous holiday movie A Christmas Story.
As soon as my mother left, in an unexpected development, the boy’s mother also left, saying she had errands—shopping, or the hairdresser or some such. On her way out, she showed me a lot of board games stored in their closet. This initially made me happy—what child doesn’t like games?
But after she departed, the boy told me we were going to “play doctor” and to take my clothes off. This didn’t sound like any game to me. I said I’d rather play a board game.
I realize that children sometimes “play doctor,” a semi-innocent game where they examine each other’s naked bodies, especially genitalia. But what ensued here was brutal.
The boy slammed me onto the floor, face down, and put my arm in a painful hammerlock. He said we were going to “play doctor” whether I liked it or not. I knew I was in trouble.
In my own childish way, I tried escaping. I said, “OK, if you let me up, I’ll play doctor.” He let me get on my feet, then I ran for the front door. But being of tiny stature, he caught me, then threw me back on the floor and into another hammerlock.
My clothes came off, but honestly, after that, my memory goes blank for a while. My best guess as to why: when you’re four or five, you have no concept of what a sexual act is, so it’s hard to mentally re-visualize.
My memory resumes when it was nearing the time my mother was due to pick me up, and the boy told me to put my clothes back on. I was in tears and said, “When my mother comes, I’ll tell her what you did!”
The boy didn’t have to think up an answer. With a devilish grin and no hesitation, he said, “No you won’t! I know this horrible man! And if you ever tell your parents what happened here today, this horrible man is going to come to your house at night and KILL YOUR PARENTS!” (Not your typical “play date” conversation.)
Although this was a ruse, that wasn’t obvious to me, because at four or five you just can’t discern the truth from deception. You ordinarily believe what older people tell you.
In retrospect, the boy’s automatic reply showed he’d had plenty of practice at what he did. And I don’t believe his mother could have been unaware of that when she left us unsupervised.
When my mother picked me up that day, driving home she said, “Well, did you have a good time?”
I sat in silence. I certainly couldn’t say I’d had a good time. I’d been utterly terrorized. Yet neither could I say what really happened—for fear that the “horrible man” would kill my parents. My mother said something like, “Well, you’re certainly being quiet back there!””
Some time later, I overheard my father say he’d heard a report that the father of this family was very evil.
When I was about 60, I was following the work of the late Russ Dizdar on satanism. Dizdar explained how satanists silence children upon whom they commit satanic ritual abuse (anal sex). They tell the children that if they reveal anything, a horrible man will come to their home and kill their parents.
Dizdar’s revelation shocked me. This was the exact phrase the boy had used on me so automatically.
I also learned that satanists typically select boys four or five years old for this abuse, because they’re old enough to feel terror, but too young to fight back or see through trickery.
I had always believed that the family my mother brought me to were just “bad people.” Now I realized they were practicing satanists.
But do you see why, as a child, my parents thought I was “shy of strangers”? They believed it was due to an internal personality trait whereas it actually resulted from an external event. Sure, most people are nice. Few are satanists. But when you’re only about five, you lack the discernment to sort this out. Especially when a death threat is hanging over you, and you think you can’t discuss it.
So what’s the lesson for today’s parents? DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, DO WHAT MY MOTHER DID, AND ENTRUST YOUR CHILD TO STRANGERS. It doesn’t matter how friendly they are in approaching you, or what sort of “sob story” they tell to gain sympathy.
Falsehood #2: Monsters Only Exist in the Imaginations or Nightmares of Children.
This is the shortest of the three accounts. Originally I intended saving it for last, but I’m placing it second to keep my narrative moving.
I can’t pinpoint this event’s year. I only know it occurred after my family moved back to Massachusetts in 1959 after a two-year stay in California.
One night, I awakened to discover my body was elevated and floating through my bedroom. I was approaching my bedroom window, outside of which was a horrible, red-faced, laughing demon. Its body was not solid; its shape fluctuated.
At that moment, my memory completely shut down. So whether something terrible occurred afterwards or not, I don’t know.
But I do know this. The following night, I was filled with horror. I didn’t want to sleep alone. Before this, I’d had many nightmares as a child. I had dreamed, for example, of being eaten by worms. But I understood that these were just dreams, and never once did they fill me with terror as they did the evening after my “floating” experience.
I tried persuading my mother to stay with me. Lying, I feigned sickness. She did the routine checks—my forehead wasn’t warm. She checked my temperature with a thermometer—normal too.
Finally, I confided to her, “Mom, I had a terrible dream last night . . .” She exploded. “So that’s what this is all about! Just some stupid dream!” She threw the bedcovers over me. “Imagine, keeping me up because of some dream you had! Go to sleep!”
And I always assumed it was a dream. Until about 50 years later. I was having lunch with a friend of mine in the 9/11 Truth Movement. She was just about my age.
She told me the following story. When she was a little girl, she woke up one night. Her body was floating through her bedroom. As she drew near the window, she could see a horrible red creature outside. And then her memory just shut off.
I was stunned by her experience. It was identical to mine—too many coincidences to call a coincidence. I of course shared with her what had happened to me.
At this point I realized I didn’t have a “dream”; it was a real experience. And this was why—unlike my normal nightmares—it had filled me with terror.
To put it in the lingo of science fiction writers, what I and my friend had both apparently undergone was an “alien abduction.” However, I would assert that there are no such things as “aliens”—only fallen angels and demons, a distinction I have clarified in my 2015 post “Making Sense of the Supernatural.”
Children, of course, often have vivid imaginations. If a child watches a monster movie right before going to bed, there’s certainly a reasonable probability that they’ll have nightmares about monsters.
But parents who are Christians should remember the spiritual warfare the Bible discusses. This involves fallen angels and demons who are very real, and who make children a priority target, but who are far too often dismissed by parents as “imaginings.”
I believe children in non-Christian homes are more vulnerable to these attacks. This certainly included me, whose father wanted no religion in our household.
However, demons sometimes also attack Christians whom they perceive as threats. A small number of my readers might recall a two-time guest on SGT Report who simply called herself “Doctor B” to avoid jeopardizing her position as a Boston physician. I had the pleasure of meeting Doctor B for lunch more than once, and discovered that she had, as a bold and proactive Christian—one who had assisted victims of the CIA’s MK-ULTRA program—been attacked by demons at night (as an adult). She described this experience in vivid detail. Bear in mind, we’re talking about a Harvard-educated MD, not an imaginative child.
Would a good angel have the capacity to abduct a human being as well? Christian author L. A. Marzulli draws an astute comparison to the book of Acts, chapter 12, where a good angel supernaturally brought the Apostle Peter out of prison, making the chains fall off his wrists and the prison door open by itself. At the time, Peter thought he was seeing a vision. It’s an example of what we might call a “beneficent abduction.”
The lesson for parents? Yes, it’s true that children have nightmares, that many have wild imaginations and may invent stories about “monsters.” But I wouldn’t be too quick—as my mother did—to dismiss these accounts. SPIRITUAL WARFARE, INCLUDING FALLEN ANGELS AND DEMONS, ARE REAL. If your child reports seeing a “monster,” talk frankly with them, and determine, to your best ability, if this narrative was imagination or an actual spiritual encounter.
Falsehood #3: “It’s all your fault!”
This is the longest and most painful section of this post. Some of it appears in Appendix V of my book Truth Is a Lonely Warrior.
It begins with my infancy. Those times, of course, I cannot remember, so I rely on my late mother’s recollections as well as my medical records, which I still retain. I should mention I was born in October 1951.
My mother told me: “When you were a baby, you couldn’t sleep at night. You always had a fever, and were always in pain. You had a skin rash that was so bad, it seemed like your skin was falling off! The doctor told us this was ‘eczema.’”
(“Eczema” my ass.)
My mother kept going back to the doctor, but nothing he tried or suggested worked. Of course it didn’t—because I was having allergic reactions to the triple DPT shots (diphtheria-pertussis-tetanus) which, according to my medical records, he gave me on 3-27-1952, 5-12-1952, and 6-24-1952.
Diphtheria, whooping cough (for which the pertussis vaccine was given) and tetanus, were all very rare in the United States by the 1950s, making the triple vaccine, given three times consecutively to infants like myself, not only a redundancy, but dangerous. Why? Because who, in real life, would encounter all three diseases simultaneously? Furthermore, such diseases, if encountered at all, would have to get through the body’s immune system. The vaccines, on the other hand, bypassed nature, bypassed the immune system, and introduced elements from all three pathogens—even though not live—into the body all at once, directly into the vascular system.
Frustrated, my mother kept returning to the pediatrician. Finally he told her, “Mrs. Perloff, it must be that your milk is too rich. Stop breast-feeding him and put him on bottled formula.”
Of course, that was the worst advice he could have given. Today, it’s widely recognized that formulas are inferior to a mother’s milk, which contains an array of God-originated nutrients and immune factors that bottled stuff can’t compete with. At that time, however, formula was being marketed as supposedly superior—just as Bill Gates does now with his “BIOMILQ.”
Eventually my eczema and other symptoms went away. Perhaps the pediatrician patted himself on the back, saying “My advice to Mrs. Perloff to stop breast-feeding her infant must have worked,” when in fact it was the ending of my DPT vaccines, after June 1952, that ended the crisis.
I should mention that I was a registered nurse in Massachusetts for 45 years (1975-2020). Amongst nurses, there was a joke about doctors. The joke went like this:
What do you call the DUMBEST doctor who graduated LAST in his class from the WORST medical school in America? Answer: You call him “doctor.”
Now to counter-balance this, I must say I worked with a good number of brilliant and caring doctors during my career.
But back to my story.
Though I was a quiet child, things went along pretty normally as I adapted to the usual things of life. I became somewhat athletic. We moved to La Canada, California in 1957, and at age seven, I had learned to swim, sank the first two hoops I ever aimed a basketball at, and in my first-grade class, was perhaps the best player at four-square (a ball game we had in California that was little-known in the East).
However, I continued to have negative reactions to vaccines. According to my medical records, my DPT booster in 1956 had caused an “eczema-like rash.” It wasn’t rocket science to connect the dots and see that this “eczema” was the same “eczema” I had in infancy throughout the course of three DPT shots.
I’ll never forget getting one vaccine in California that caused me a sky-high fever later that day. I remember because it was on Halloween and I was so disappointed that I couldn’t go trick-or-treating.
From my childhood until I was 30, I had a purple grape-sized lesion on the side of my neck. I initially assumed it was just part of my anatomy. But one day I asked my mother about it. She said, “Oh, that happened after one of your vaccines.” Clearly, my immune system had generated that lesion to wall off the vaccine’s toxins. My body had no affinity for vaccines.
One can see a rash or lesion. One can measure a fever. But something else was happening people could not see. Inside, my nervous system was being fried. As my childhood vaccinations continued, I began drifting into withdrawal, clumsiness, and sickliness.
At some point in the second grade, I experienced a deterioration. I began losing any native athleticism. I couldn’t catch a ball if you threw it right it at me. I can distinctly remember the change during recess at my elementary school in La Canada. While my classmates climbed on jungle gyms and swung on swings, I only “walked around” in a daze. I had become a non-participant. But in my mind, of course, I made no connection to shots.
A few years ago, well into my fifties, I was having lunch with a friend from church. He said, “My son has Asperger’s.” This was the first time I’d heard the term. “What’s that?” I asked. “It’s a mild form of autism,” he replied.
Curious, when I went home I Googled “Asperger’s.” As I read about the disease, shock and sorrow came over me. The symptoms were an exact description of my youth. I didn’t have every symptom—nobody does—but I had enough to overqualify as an “Aspie.”
Six Years of Torture
We had returned from California to Massachusetts in 1959. In elementary school, I suffered no persecution. Younger children tended to be nicer that way. All that changed, however, when I graduated to junior and high schools.
I became a walking target. I was punched and spit on. There were no words for autism then; I was called “dork,” “spaz,” and a whole vocabulary of four-letter words that I can’t repeat here. My chair was yanked out from under me so I’d fall on the floor. My schoolbooks were ripped from my arms and thrown over a high wall. Recovering these books was no easy task, either, because the wall, which separated the school from a neighboring plant nursery, extended a good quarter mile, so recovering the books and coming back required about a mile’s walk.
My books were even set on fire. Impossible, you might say? To the contrary, the school required that our textbooks have added covers made from grocery store paper bags, in order to help preserve the books for the next year’s students. These outer covers were easy to set aflame.
I was a magnet for ridicule. Brigham’s was a very popular Boston-area ice cream parlor in those days. One day when I was in 11th grade, my father asked me to stop at Brigham’s on my way home from school and purchase a quart of ice cream. Sitting in one of Brighams’ booths, along with two or three of her friends, was a classmate of mine named Raisbeck. I didn’t know Raisbeck—I’d never spoken to her. Yet somehow she’d gotten the word that I was a loser. She rose from the booth, and standing right next to me, began, with screeching witch-like laughter, to denounce me as a “dork,” “creep,” and every other word that came to her mind.
This was really embarrassing. It was so loud it could be heard not only by her friends, but by every Brigham’s customer and employee. I thought to myself, “Good God, girl. Can’t you just leave me alone for two minutes? All I want is to buy a quart of ice cream.”
Being friendless in secondary school, I had no one to talk to except at home, where my father scolded me for not being outgoing, and had low tolerance for my clumsiness. Since he had nixed religion in our home, I had no connection to God. My highest moral compass was the TV set. I developed some pretty weird ideas about life.
The one good thing that came out of that period of isolation was that I began using the time to write intensively, which helped prepare me for my later career as an author. At 16 I wrote a novel set after the Civil War, and mailed it to New York publishing houses. An editor at Putnam’s liked it enough that we frequently corresponded, and I eventually got an invitation to visit her in New York City, though the novel was not mature enough to be saleable.
Some Teachers Too
One day my seventh-grade social studies teacher asked me a direct question. I was in an autistic daze and didn’t answer him.
He then turned to the rest of the class and said approximately these words: “Do you know what Jim Perloff is? He’s a piece of slime.”
That hurt. And in retrospect, it probably could have gotten him fired or at least sharply disciplined. But I didn’t even have the wherewithal to report something like that—which he knew.
One day in gym class the kids played a mean trick on me, then bragged about it to the gym teacher. Rather than disciplining them, the teacher joined in with their scornful laughter.
All these people thought I was “getting what I deserved.” I don’t mean to downplay personal accountability. I certainly don’t deny that sin and bad decisions played a great role in my miseries. However, I often wonder if I would made have better choices had I not been semi-autistic. This is a gray area.
Later Years
In the more mature atmosphere of Colby College in Maine, I made some good friends. I was an English major, but as my writing still lacked enough quality to get published, and needing a paying career, I transferred to the Boston University School of Nursing, graduating and passing my boards in 1975.
Being done with vaccines helped, but I was still struggling with residual Asperger’s, having difficulties with emotions, communication, and my work as a nurse.
Life turned around for me in the early 1980s, thanks to two things. I went through an intensive detoxification program that involved vitamins—especially incrementally increased doses of niacin—and vigorous exercise, followed immediately by sauna. We were warned that the embedded toxins this churned up would make us vomit—and sure enough, it did. When you were no longer vomiting, you were done with the program.
After the detox, the purple lesion that had been on my neck for over two decades vanished, and I sensed a definite change for the better. My communications with others significantly improved.
But the most important change was becoming a Christian. It gave me a new sense of integrity that elevated my work as a nurse, and gave me the self-discipline to improve my writing to the point where I began to get published.
Still, I hadn’t figured out the role vaccines had played in my life.
Red Flag
My first suspicion about vaccines came in 1991, when I was working as a medical-surgical RN at one of Greater Boston’s largest hospitals. One day it was announced that there was an urgent meeting in the auditorium that all staff who worked in patient areas were to attend; we were to go in staggered shifts. I thought some sort of national emergency must have occurred.
Instead, the big deal was that the federal agency OSHA had mandated that all medical staff receive three doses of the Hepatitis B vaccine.
This really made no sense. Hepatitis B could only be acquired from an exchange of bodily fluids—sex with an infected person, or by accidental injection from a dirty needle.
It was true that in the old days of nursing, we recapped our syringe needles after injecting someone, and in doing so, you might accidentally stick yourself. I’d done this myself a couple of times.
However, my hospital had eliminated recapping needles. Every patient room had a red dropbox. You simply dropped the used uncapped syringe into the box.
Also, we had previously “piggybacked” intravenous medications into a main IV line by plugging a needle into a port. This had also required recapping needles. However, we had eliminated that as well—now we simply attached the medication using an adaptor; no needles were involved.
Thus the chances of acquiring Hepatitis B as a healthcare worker were astronomically low.
What truly shocked me was when the presenter in the auditorium announced that the vaccine would also be required for all housekeepers.
I asked, “Why? They don’t touch patients or use syringes.”
He replied, “Yes, but suppose some inattentive nurse leaves an uncapped needle lying on a bed. Then, when the housekeeper is making the bed, the housekeeper might stick herself.”
But even if such an extremely unlikely event did occur, what were the odds of that particular needle having the Hepatitis B virus on it? The probability of a housekeeper acquiring the disease this way had to be billions to one.
One of our young housekeepers fainted after taking the vaccine. We had to carry her into a vacant patient room and lay her on the bed.
I was angry. I told my superiors, “I don’t want the three shots. The risks of getting Hepatitis B are too minimal.” They said, “Well, you’ll have to sign a waiver.” I said that was fine.
Until then, I’d never had anything against vaccines. But now we were being told to do something that made no sense. And in medicine, we were supposed to do logical things that did make sense.
That was my first red flag on vaccines. I made a mental note to myself that I should look into this more at some point. Something was going on with vaccines.
Today, by the way, the Hepatitis B vaccine is mandated in the U.S. for all newborns, even though they are at no risk for the disease. As you can imagine, when a vaccine is added to the required list for millions of newborns, the profits for the pharmaceutical industry are monumental. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. has cited a study showing that giving the Hepatitis B vaccine to newborns within 30 days of birth increases the risk of autism by 1135%.
I Finally Wise Up
As I’ve mentioned, I first heard the term “Asperger’s” from a church friend whose son suffered from it. Naturally I was curious where I got mine. With the advent of the Internet, research made it abundantly clear that autism was linked to vaccines. The more vaccines were added to the immunization schedule, the higher the autism rate had climbed. I then examined my childhood medical records. As the correlation between my vaccines and severe allergic reactions became evident, so did the source of my Asperger’s.
I had been robbed of a normal life via injection. I had been cursed, punched, spit on, and told “It’s all your fault” for childhood shots that I had no control over.
For those who would like more information on vaccine dangers, my 2013 book Truth Is a Lonely Warrior has an extensive chapter (Chapter 20) covering these, citing many scientists. In 2017 I wrote a lengthy post, “Vaccination Visuals,” but unfortunately nearly all of its numerous embedded videos have been lost due to YouTube’s subsequent scorching censorship campaign. I have not gotten around to updating that article, but at the end of it are links to several informative websites about vaccines.
Of course, COVID brought us into the era of mRNA vaccines, introducing myocarditis in the young and a whole new set of tragic problems, but for this article I have confined myself to autism.
I hope this post may prove helpful for some parents in better understanding their children.
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