The Unbelievable Story of Brian M. Hite

(A Living Autobiography- One Chapter at a Time)

This is not just my story. This is the alchemy of trauma into awakening, of destruction into mission.

I share it freely, not as a performance, but as an offering to anyone navigating the fire of transformation.

May it light your own remembrance.

I will upload a new installment each month.

FORWARD:

To those who can hear the fire beneath the words

This is not a book; this is a witnessing: of a boy who was born into forgetting; of a man who remembered through pain; of a soul who was dragged, screaming, into the light- so that others might see in time. I do not write this to be liked, nor to be safe. I write this because there are people walking through fire right now who need to know they are not alone, that their madness has meaning, their suffering- purpose; their memory is not broken, only buried.

 I am first, and foremost, a seeker of Truth. When we soften language to protect feelings or omit the inconvenient, we do not preserve Truth; we fracture it, twisting it into half-truths and distortions that serve comfort, not clarity. Some of what you’re about to read will unsettle you; some of it may disturb, offend, or even haunt you. Let it. There is violence in these pages. There is trauma. There is spiritual experience so intimate that language fails to contain it; so disruptive, your belief systems may shatter. I write this to answer the Voice that called me out of the system and into the fire. I tell it because what is coming for this world, what is already here, requires men and women who have walked through the darkness and chosen to carry the light. If you choose to continue beyond this point, know this: these pages contain shards of memory, trauma, violence, and the contents of my shadow; this is the crucible from which I was forged. This is initiation. Read slowly. Feel everything. Let this work on you.  Allow yourself time and space to process this.

I dare not water down or tame the telling of my story. Due to the nature and importance of the message I must convey, I must be radically honest in every aspect. To those of you who know me, namely my family, I beg your forgiveness and understanding for my refusal to dilute or tame the telling of events from my life that will, without a doubt, shock some and cause others pain. Deep within the wound, we find the medicine. Here I honor the wound. If I were to spare the telling of certain things or sugarcoat them, it would only serve to call into question my intention and credibility as I unleash the message I have been called to share. This message is so important that I dare not leave out a single detail for the sake of discretion. Therefore, due to the spiritual and psychological intensity of what follows, this story is best received by mature souls prepared to face darkness, within the world and within themselves.

One final note: the story I am about to tell is in no way fabricated, exaggerated, or untrue. It is the absolute true story of my life as only I can tell. This is not your typical story, as it is not written to entertain or even persuade an audience. My motivation for writing this book is equal parts healing, self-exploration, and sharing my Truth with the world via transmission. Of course, it is also my hope that the telling of my story gives insight into the man behind the voice and opens the gate to the gold mine of self-inquiry. That being said, my story is inseparable from spirituality; I cannot rightfully claim no attempt will be made at persuasion.  

For those with eyes to see, and ears to hear, for those born for the storm, I welcome you through the veil.

-Brian M. Hite

October 2025

CHAPTER 1: GENESIS

Before we begin, there is an important aspect of my upbringing that deserves to be addressed: freedom. I feel that I owe my parents a debt of gratitude for this: we were free-range children. We were afforded the luxury of freedom. Now, as a parent, I know that many will cringe at the thought, but perhaps one of the best things our parents did was allow us the freedom to be children. I have observed a falling away from such practices today, whether it be as a result of the increasing violent nature of our time, or some other anxiety, parents are increasingly subjecting their children to much more controlled environments. Although this is done with the best intentions, it may bring about an undesirable result.

We were allowed to roam about as children, seeking adventure and exploring the world on our own. This had a tremendous effect on our imaginations and curiosity. It helped us develop into individuals. Children who are quarantined in safe, secure environs are not confronted with the unexpected; they are not often allowed to think for themselves but rather told how and what to think and do. Perhaps most importantly, they are not put into situations to test themselves. We sought our adventure in the backyard, the fields, and the woods behind our house. The worlds that we explored were those of imagination and nature.

 Increasingly, children cut off from such luxuries seek adventure in social networking, video games, and movies. The effects this will have on our children’s futures are uncertain, but there is an unmistakable trend emerging in our society. As technology increases, we perceive an increase in connection with the world around us, but this is a fatal illusion. What we perceive as an increase in connection is, in reality, a loss of connection with those with whom we share existence. We are so blinded by this illusion today that we have forgotten the common bond we share not only with all members of the human family, but also the bond with all life. Every enlightened person knows this. There is one life force that connects all life. The Native Americans called this life force “the spirit that moves in all things”: the definition of God. Humanity has made quantum leaps in technological discovery, while suffering catastrophic amnesia and perhaps regression, in regard to spirit and wisdom.

 Modern technology allows us to know what happens anywhere in the world nearly instantaneously, allows us to communicate with anyone in the world in the blink of an eye, and yet at the same time causes us to forget how to truly talk to our neighbors, how to have a face-to-face conversation with our friends and families. Therein lies true communication: a transfer of emotion, sent and received from person to person; an exchange of energy. Though emotion is perceived as accompanying a text message, it is only imagined. Technology strips our ability to share a connection with those around us.

I was born in the middle of a terrible ice storm in January 1984, that to this day, locals remember as the worst they’ve lived through, under the sign of Aquarius, at St. John’s hospital in Mountain View, Missouri. My family lived a few miles from Mountain View, in a much smaller town, Terisita. The first town of my childhood, Terisita, was a bump in the road consisting of a half dozen houses, an old gas station, and a shack turned post office. Typical of the Ozarks, the area was rife with poverty: poor in education, rich in drugs and alcohol abuse. The region, though similar to other areas, exists as an island, a place frozen in time; set in its ways, the Ozarks’ stubbornness rejected the technological advances that transformed American society and the social changes that came along with it. Steep hills and thick forests barricaded the area, offering shelter and protection from the outside world. In many ways, the inhabitants navigated life under the mindset of “In the world, but not of it”. There are still those in the Ozarks, that to this day, live without running water, indoor plumbing, or electricity. Rejecting the evolution of moral values became a badge of honor. Prejudice, ignorance, fundamentalist Christianity, and a stubborn sense of self-sufficiency were the measuring sticks used to discriminate native from outsider. During the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, the Ozarks was hit hard. Lessons learned: the harshness of survival hardened its inhabitants. Those lessons, once forged, were not as easily forgotten as they had been other places. Ancestral memory coupled with the poverty that cradled the area bred a people determined to survive; to live off the land, an extension of it. It could be said that the Ozarks never fully recovered from the Depression. The beautiful hills blanketed by thick forests of oak and pine are broken up by small farms studded with self-made homes. Many of which were built from lumber harvested and sawn by the owners. Farm animals many times over more numerous than human inhabitants. The rural landscape boasts decoration of barbed-wire fencing and hand-me-down tractors. Retired vehicles, proudly brandishing coats of rust, stand in testament to the people’s death grip mentality of days gone. Caves, springs, and rivers, as numerous as the churches and liquor stores. Ultimately, the unstoppable march of progress eventually broke its way through the hills of the Ozarks, and its children endured their inevitable fate with reluctance and a wary eye; never fully accepting modernity, as if instinctually they knew it was a brief fad to be outlasted.

 My family lived a very modest life. The squat house we lived in sat a hundred feet from the highway, poised for demolition. My mother did an admirable job transforming the hovel into a home. Our yard boasted Easter lilies, patchy grass, and a rejected couch, all framed by a hay-bale perimeter. My parents had four children: Melanie, Tim, myself, and Derrick, who was a baby at the time. One of my earliest memories (I would have been 4 or 5 years old), was of my older brother Tim. We were asleep on the dilapidated mattress that lay directly on the floor when Tim woke screaming that a rat was biting his toes. My parents didn’t believe him at first and yelled for us to go to sleep. I knew by the fear in his voice that it was true. The scurry of their feet across the floor, the gnawing/scratching sounds within the walls, and prior encounters all lent credence to Tim’s insistence. We both pulled our feet up and tried our hardest not to fall asleep, concentrating on the light from the hallway. Tim’s screams pierced the night, waking me from a dead sleep. This time, he wouldn’t quit screaming, forcing my dad to come investigate. It turned out Tim was telling the truth. His foot was bleeding. I don’t remember going back to sleep that night, but I do remember the victory we both felt the next morning as we watched our Dad haul the mattress into the field and set it afire.  It sounds like something from a bad movie, but one of the clearest memories from this early point of my childhood is of my dad sitting in a chair, fishing for rats through a hole in the floor of our house for sport. He would shoot them once caught. Though this undoubtedly paints a horrible picture, these were the golden years of my childhood.

  My memories of this time are warm; sheltered from the terrible possibilities of an uncertain future. The woods surrounding our house were our playground. Nothing was off limits. My brother and I would explore the world almost daily. We fashioned sticks into spears and painted our faces with poke berries. We reenacted tremendous battles, we discovered uncharted territories, we climbed to the top of towering pines, and leapt from the lofts of barns. I remember my older brother and I had a nightly ritual. After our bath, we would lie on our stomachs in front of the television with our feet pushed up under the woodstove for warmth and watch Wheel of Fortune. We would play tag on top of seemingly endless rows of hay bales. Nearly all happy memories from my childhood come from this period of time. My dad flying kites with us in the field, hunting for Easter eggs in the spring, dressing up to go trick-or-treating. In the summer, we practically lived at the river. My dad taught us to ride bikes, we built snowmen, and he pulled us on the sled. Every day was a new adventure. We were feral children. We had a family dog named Prince, a German Shepherd. My dad made a dog house for him out of a wooden cable spool he brought home for work. One day, my brother Derrick escaped the house and was crawling across the highway. He was not old enough to walk yet.  A car came down the highway as he was crossing, and Prince ran in front of the car, jumping and barking until it came to a stop. Prince saving my brother became a family legend.

Early in my life, I had a sudden recollection; a memory out of time and place. I recalled walking through a forest. There was a feeling of being disoriented. I was lost. The woods were quite different from those I had explored most of my childhood. These were older, more mature. The trees were much bigger than I was used to; the tops of the trees left off where others began, producing a thick canopy that seldom allowed sky purchase. There was a thick, dark-green moss that covered nearly everything. It was quite damp. I was making my way down a rocky hillside into a valley below. There was a sharp, acrid hint of wood smoke in the air. I was a young boy around six or seven; I had blond hair. An odd-looking cottage came into view. It seemed to be made of the very earth itself, blending perfectly into the surroundings. It felt quite welcoming. It almost called to me. Inside, I met a sweet old lady. Her body was slowly losing the long battle with gravity. She was so warm and kind, showing no sign of disturbance at my presence. There was an air of familiarity about her, yet I did not know her. She did not seem surprised in the least that a lone boy stumbled out of the woods upon her doorstep. She sat me down at her age-worn oak table and gave me a plate full of honeycomb, oozing with rich honey. It was an odd thing; I had never seen honeycomb before, much less eaten it.

I remember mentioning the memory to my parents, who dismissed it as another grand creation of my imagination. I could not accept that. The memory to this day feels different; it is so laden with sensory perception, with feeling. I cannot have imagined it. Likewise, it cannot have been a memory of this lifetime. I was so young at the time that I simply accepted it for what it was: a memory I experienced that my parents did not recall.

I began going to school, Head Start. I remember having mixed feelings about it. I enjoyed learning, and I was even excited about it. I did miss the freedom to roam and explore as I saw fit. That spring, we discovered a box turtle passing through our yard. My mother let us use some of her nail polish to write a message on its shell. I believe we wrote our names and address, in hopes another family would discover it and let us know. In my young mind, I envisioned the well-travelled turtle would be reported on the other side of the world. We waited expectantly, never to hear from our globe-trotting friend again. One evening, a commotion broke out. Prince was barking frantically, chained up in the front yard. We all went to investigate only to discover, to my horror, our neighbors’ two Pitt Bulls were viciously attacking our beloved Prince. One had him by the throat, and the other was coming from behind. Already, he was bloody. We all yelled for Dad to save him. He tried to break up the carnage; set on death, none of the dogs so much as noticed his presence. He ran inside and grabbed a pot of boiling water from the stove. They tore at Prince with such violence; it was a sickening sight. By the time boiling water scalded their flesh, the deed was done. The two aggressors took flight, leaving Prince writhing on the ground, chained to his fate. A gloom settled over our family, foreshadowing the events soon to befall us. Undoubtedly, there was already trouble brewing with my parents, but I don’t think my mind was able to put together what was happening at the time.