Jew World Order

2nd November 2015

By Dr. Susan M. Walker

Guest Writer for Wake Up World

I know, what a title, right? But it was very much my reality when my child was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome (autistic like behavior) immediately after receiving his second set of measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) inoculations.

Bob was born a healthy, happy, blonde haired, adorable, big blue-eyed baby. He stayed this way up until 18 months old. The evening of his second series of MMR inoculations, I began seeing a dramatic change in his demeanor. Instead of his normal cry for assistance, his crying had turned into loud shrieking screams. It made the hair stand up on the back on my neck, sounding as though he was in extreme pain. When I’d pick him up, he would arch backwards away from me, and did that with everyone who attempted to hold him. His bubbly spirit had left him and now he was sullen, distant, and violent. He’d kick holes in walls, he’d bite, and he scratched all of us, even his babysitters.

He never walked anywhere, he’d always take off running and would run away every opportunity he got. I couldn’t take my eyes off him even for a split second. There were many times I would have to get the community out searching for him, because he’d take the screens off the windows and crawl out. He went through phases of creating hellish situations, for example, he liked the sound of breaking glass, whether is was beer bottles breaking that he’d found by dumpsters, or patio windows he’d shatter by throwing rocks.

I remember hiring a babysitter to watch him. She told me that she put Bob in his room in ‘time out’ and set the timer for 20 minutes. She said when she checked on him, she discovered his room empty – he had jumped out a two-story window and had taken off! As she was out looking for him, she heard fire truck sirens going off in the neighborhood, and to her horror discovered that Bob had lit the bushes on fire next to an apartment near mine, but not before he had broken into a car and stolen a cigarette lighter.

By this time, there was no getting through to Bob, he was in his own world – a world where no one could touch him or interact with him. He never looked anyone in the eye. He avoided social situations and if taken into one, he would scream and create an intolerable situation for everyone involved. For the next eighteen long years, my family had to learn to cope with Bob who became extremely violent over the word “no.” We all lived in a hellish situation, never knowing if Bob was going to hurt someone or himself. He had no empathy for any of his wrongdoing.

Pregnancy and early life

While pregnant with Bob, I remember feeling terribly tired. I was in the U.S. Marine Corps and stationed at MAG-41 at the Naval Air Station in Dallas, Texas. I was attached to an aviation wing and performed analytical work on both CH-53s (helicopters) and F4s (fighter jets). I remember walking through the hanger bay while jet engines were being tested and the noise from them pierced my eardrums. The planes were also going in and out of preservation, de-preservation, whereby the planes were coated in chemicals. I remember both the jet fuel and the chemicals from the aircraft would burn my eyes and I constantly had conjunctivitis (pink eye).

Later on in my career, I learned that two of the duty stations I was assigned to had tested agent orange on the bases, and agent orange was found to be in the drinking water and saturated in the air. Yet no one assigned there was told anything about this, and consequently personnel were coming down with respiratory illnesses for seemingly no reason. I remember coming from that base to my next duty station, and feeling sick. I suffered lots of respiratory illnesses and ‘female’ problems. I would tire easily. By the time I had my third child (Bob) my health was tenuous. By the end of my military contract, I had the opportunity to go to a C-133 squadron in New York, or go to college with a full scholarship.

At that time, I was a single parent and thought long and hard about the rest of my life. I wanted a life for my children that didn’t include moving every three years. I wanted stability and roots for them. So I opted to go to college to become a schoolteacher, specializing in Special Education so that I could help my son, Bob. I went from financial security down to no money, and with the addition of Bob to our family, I had three children to raise. At that time Bob was an infant, less than 4 days old. I had to skip the post-partum blues and run off to class with my baby in tow. I sat in the back of classes and nursed him. He was so quiet and good as gold. Everyone wanted to see and hold him. I was so proud of my little bundle.

My other two kids were great, although my second child had learning disabilities in reading and English, but did extremely well with math. My first two children were very outgoing and excelled in soccer and BMX bike racing. They earned lots of trophies for all their hard work. Bob was also full of energy and, to wear him out a little, I’d take him on my three-mile runs. He would keep up with me for nearly two miles, then I would put him on my shoulders to run the remaining mile.

Bob liked running, which was about the only thing besides swimming that he did like. I would often take him down to the San Marcos River that ran through the middle of campus. He would flop down by the water’s edge and watch the fish swim by. I had him swimming by the age of 2 because I was so afraid he would jump in the water and drown. I watched him intently, hoping I could find ‘something’ to make him better as I would often cry in despair over him. But down by the water, I watched him look at the fish as they swam by. He would watch the fish for hours while I read and studied. It was the only time he was not screaming or acting out — as long as nobody disturbed him.

Keeping to the vaccination schedule

Bob’s third set of inoculations was coming due. I hadn’t occurred to me that it was likely the immunizations that were causing him to be this way, so I went ahead with the schedule. But all peace was shattered that night when I put him to bed. Lying down seemed to distress him, so I picked him up to hold him close to my body. That was when he began letting out a those blood curdling screams that woke the neighbors. More screaming ensued, so I took him outside to walk him around. He struggled against me; he wouldn’t even look at me. I called my daughter over to see if she would get the same reaction from him – she did, so we knew he wasn’t just reacting to me.

I took him to the Emergency Room but they could not find anything physically wrong with him that would be causing this reaction. He’d had constant ear infections, so I thought maybe he had another ear infection, but no. He did not want to be held and didn’t want anyone touching him. The doctor suggested that I take him to see a psychiatrist, which I did. They diagnosed him with Reactive Attachment Disorder, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Personality Disorder, and a number of other disorders. Counselors looked at me oddly, thinking I had poor parenting skills since I had such trouble ‘controlling’ Bob. I didn’t know what I had done wrong with him. I had no problem with my other two children.

Then, when Bob started school in kindergarten, I was called to come to school immediately, and Social Services were notified as well, because Bob had pulled his pants off in class and defecated and urinated right where he stood. He then began playing in it, defying his teacher and administrators, who tried to use force on Bob to get him to comply. They were telling him to put his pants back on, and just as they used the word “no” on him, he reacted by slinging his feces at them!

Stabbings, violence, and a butcher’s knife!

I was constantly flabbergasted by what Bob would do and the awful situations he caused. He even stabbed his therapist in the hand with a pencil that was laying on his desk, because the therapist didn’t let Bob hold a brass apple that he also kept on his desk.

By the time Bob was in 4th grade, he had to be placed in a level three group home, due to his violence. These group homes had trouble handling him and soon he was in a level four facility that resembled a jail. Bob was a danger to himself and others. Between group homes, the psychologists would place Bob back in my household awaiting another group home opening.

I remember waking up one night about 2 o’clock in the morning. The moon’s rays were peeking through the curtains. Something made me open my eyes, and as I did I saw something flash above my head. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them again with full realization of what was over my head. I turned my head sideways and saw Bob sitting at the head of my bed with a butcher knife that he held inches above from my forehead. “Good grief!” I thought, “what next?” I had to quickly collect my thoughts and hoped I could react in a way to discourage what he might have planned. I turned to him and said, “Bob, why don’t you put the knife back where you found it, and come back here and I will scratch your back for awhile.” To my surprise, he complied.

After that I took all kitchen knives and hid them.

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