I lived with PTSD for 40 years, after molestation by a Catholic priest at age five. Read my story as I write it here through 2015.

This is a True Story

**See the R-Rated Version of This Story at CofA16**

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Chapter 2 coming soon, here is a preview

Patricia 1981 Family Reunion PG version, cartoon by Kay
This "cartoon" will be used to illustrate Chapter Two, to be posted in a few days.  See R-Rated version here at CofA16.  Heh heh

Am I a deviant for doing this? probably but how could I not be.  I write and make jokes about the whole pedophile priest thing, "Just because it's all so f---ing hilarious," as Conner Rooney says in Road to Perdition, a movie I watched last week that got me writing again for some reason, probably bk it's about Irish Catholic criminals.  In one shot Paul Newman stands over the kid putting a silver dollar in his face, saying, "You have to forget" in Irish brogue bk the kid witnessed a murder.  Hey, That Was A Trigger for Me!!!

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Can't wait 'til I start writing the part about NASA (1978-83)

OMG I did not see it the first time

I looked at the photos at bottom of this post and said, Oh my God, I didn't see it before.  That is the room, that is the window, covered over with bricks, that is the room. 

In early 1955 I was taken to the Cardinal's Mansion near downtown Chicago so that the bishop could get it through my head, “Stop babbling about Father Horne."  Because for the past two years I would not stop talking about the molestation.  At five-seven years old, I didn't see it as molestation, I saw it as this wonderful thing that made me feel wonderful and I wanted to tell everyone about it. 

In that year or so period I had been a sexual predator myself, at six years old.  On one occasion, I took my two male cousins under the covers in a bedroom during a family party, another time it was several kids in a Bartlett neighborhood in a tree house.  I was showing them the wonderful thing Father Horne had showed me, just pull down your pants and put your finger there, see?

I was already a scandal at age six. 

Apparently my parents turned to the Catholic Church for help. 

So on that day in 1955 Samuel Alphonsus Cardinal Stritch stood over me and penetrated my skull with his eyes. “Stop babbling about Father Horne,” he said, and it worked.  I suppressed the memory.  I never remembered anything in my life from before age six again, from then on, I swear it, until 1994 when I recovered the memory and everything in my life reconciled, everything finally made sense.  Before 1994, I did not remember anything from before age six. A psychiatrist I saw in the 1980s was the first to tell me that no memory from before age six is not normal. 

In 1955 the bishop probably set up the location specifically for its impact, a dark room with stained glass windows like a church.  As a little girl I must have felt some fear being there. 

In recent years the memory has played over over and over in my head.

The room was dark, with glimmers of light but still dark.  Then a very white face emerged in the dark, all you could see was his face because of his priestly black clothes. It was round and cherubic, and his smile at first was pleasant and inviting.  But then as I entered the smile it turned menacing, his greeting turned quickly into a warning. 

“You have to stop babbling about what Father Horne did to you," he said.  "You have to stop talking about Father Horne.” 

I might have piped in with a “But-“ as I was truly my father’s child, but the menace in his voice increased and he leaned closer. 

“You have to stop babbling about Father Horne.”

My seven year old mind froze until it could find a way to stop talking about Father Horne: Forget everything from before that moment.  I was probably beginning to figure out, from the way everyone was reacting, that what Father Horne did to me was not a good thing, no matter how much I liked it. 

But no matter how deep I stuffed it, what the priest did to me made me different for the rest of my life. 

Then they tried to kill me.  Or maybe they tried to kill me before that.  The episode where they tried to kill me is in that same time period.  Maybe that's why I couldn't remember anything from before age six, being dumped out of a dump truck onto the ground so hard. 


Last night on the phone I told a fellow pedophile priest victim friend that I’d finally started an R-rated version of this blog because sex is part of this story, like it or not.  Before I even finished the sentence, he laughed and said “Yeah” because he felt the same way.  “The sex," he said. "My whole life, it was never right.”

It was never the way it should be.

So after talking to my friend I opened my picture file and looked at shots I’d taken of the Cardinal’s mansion when I was there in April 2012.  One image popped up and I went-

Oh my god.  I didn't notice that before. 

I always remembered a stained glass window rounded at the top but in 2012 I didn't see the window or what could have been the room.  When I took the pictures, I did not look close enough.  

Now I see it there on the side at the old entrance on North street.  Of course, back then you probably entered here.  They must have ushered me into that room on the right, close to the front door, and it was dark and had a stained glass window with a rounded top. 

I saw the images below just now in my pictures file and also said out loud,

"I have to go back there."

I'm writing now with no idea at all if there’s a way to document what kind of window was in that space that is now bricked over.  I'm betting it was stained glass and if I go back there, I can ask, I can find out, there’s a way to find out, old photos, something. 

As I'm looking at these pictures I'm shooting myself, because when I was there in 2012, I should have knocked on the door and asked them to let me come in and look around.  I have to go back there. 

We entered, I was ushered into room with oval window
Here's another one cropped closer:

Bricked up window, I remember it from 1955
Somehow I need to find out if that bricked up window was once stained glass. 

-Kay Ebeling
keeping on keeping on in the meantime

(CUT: I need to write this.  It's what wakes me up at four in the morning, it's what runs through my head all day.  I'm beating myself up for not finishing “Chapter Two” while I walk around whispering a whole different version of the story, to myself, with no one listening.  I should write it as it runs through my head, I have to stop trying to craft chapters.  This isn't a book it's a blog.) 

(And I need PayPal clicks, please)

I thought about getting more graphic and writing about the incidents with my cousins and in the tree house at CofA 16 but there is no genuine nudge to do that.  I only respond to genuine nudges...
Can't wait 'til I start writing the part about NASA (1978-83)

Monday, April 7, 2014

Chapter Two coming shortly with R-rated outtakes at CofA16, Read Chapter One here in the meantime.  

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Dear Readers, 
I really need PayPal clicks.  Please put some High Fives ($5's) on my PayPal to support this work.  
Thank You!

Monday, March 24, 2014

They were going to sell me to the Arabs!

Just found thing I wrote in Jan 2007 that made me go wowser reading it now; backstory:
They were going to Sell me to the Arabs ! (A Miracle I lived to Age 19, Literally) 

Chapter Two of Faster than the Speed of Life is in progress now

Father Horne looked like Johnny Carson, first clue for dad the molestation did affect me after all

(Putting together Chapter 2, this sidebar produced itself)

For a time in 1961 every day after school I ran in the house panting straight to the TV, not wanting to miss a second of Johnny Carson. I had such a crush at age twelve on the comedian, it was more than a crush, it was an obsession.  One afternoon my dad was home from work for some reason when I ran in the door, and he stared in awe as I slammed past him to get to the TV set and gaze. "Every day after school she does this?" he asked, and my mom nodded.  She was as shocked seeing it then again as my dad was seeing it for the first time. They stared at me, and I was aroused.  

The other day I still wondered why I had such an extreme crush on Johnny Carson when I was so young, so I took a moment to track down pictures from the time he was doing Who Do You Trust 1956-63, and I GOt ChILLs when I saw him and compared pictures of the two men. 

My perp priest Father Thomas Barry Horne and Johnny Carson looked almost exactly alike. Now decades later I realized, that resemblance must have been one of my dad's first clues that the priest molesting his two little girls in the early 1950s might have an effect on us as we got older after all.  See for yourself how much Carson looked like Horne-y in the pics below. 
I was in 7th grade (beginning puberty) when Carson's afternoon quiz show Who Do You Trust came on the air, AND i'D GO NUTS getting home from school on time to watch it. My crush on Johnny Carson came from somewhere deeper than your typical schoolgirl crush, I wanted him and needed him physically and here I had not yet even had "the talk" with my parents.  I always wondered about this period of somewhat of a mania over Johnny Carson as I got older.  Now seeing and comparing these pictures, I totally understand. 

That afternoon my dad got a weird look on his face.  He looked at the TV and he looked at me watching the TV in love so hard it was causing people to comment.  I was having a sexual attraction before I even knew what sex was. 

Here are two more pics of the two men showing they are eerily alike

My Dad Must Have Seen It Then


My dad must have seen it then, the resemblance between Johnny Carson and Father Horne, the man who'd molested his two daughters less than ten years earlier. 

Back in 1955 the bishop of Chicago likely convinced my dad that his two little girls would forget a molestation, probably saying so while he handed my dad a check.  But now in 1961 I was displaying weird behavior.  My crush on Johnny Carson may have been why my dad was home from work on a weekday afternoon to begin with, having been summoned by my worried mom.  Maybe my mom wondered about the resemblance too. . . ? 

Looking at it now I can see, my dad knew what was causing the weird behavior and did not say a thing, a position he'd find himself in many more times to come, as I went from puberty to adulthood and the animal in me became unleashed. 

And wow I'm shocked now as a sixty five year old lady Googling pictures and comparing and seeing the resemblance.  Wow.  


Saturday, February 22, 2014

This all started twenty years ago when I found out it was not St. Michael the Archangel who visited  me in the woods and did that thing to me in 1953, that it was actually Father Thomas Barry Horne, pastor at the nearby Catholic Church in Bartlett, outside Chicago.  I confirmed it was Father Horne when I had a phone conversation with my sister in 1994 that changed the rest of my life. 

That secret visit from an archangel was, I think, what kept me from being an atheist.  It also caused me to be sexually aroused from age five on, and as a result I had a pretty strange life. 

People used to joke about Catholic school girls being oversexed once they got out into the world.  I wonder how many of us are wild because we were aroused as a child by a priest, then forced to keep it secret. 

My secret

A sequence of events that took place in 1994 changed my life, and took me in a direction I've continued to go now for twenty years, even though I wish it all never happened.  I've described it in many places here at City of Angels Blog. I had a baby at age 40 and was inordinately protective of her, then got into AA and got sober and clean, not even smoking weed, stayed that way for two years, then Lizzie turned five.  My home group was having a priest come up from L.A. for a speaker meeting and I pained up.  Could not move off my couch that night to go hear the priest speak as the pain crippled me, same pain by the way that I'm plagued with today.  And then that week, or over that next couple weeks, it just happened, I started remembering everything.  And the memory was so shocking I had a physical reaction, at one point even flying across the room and banging up against a wall, just because the shock itself created a momentum, a physical momentum.  And I cried, and I had this awful total body pain, and


My five year old daughter Lizzie was right there at home with me the whole time. . .

Somewhere in the midst of all that, I picked up the phone and called my sister Patricia, even though last time I’d seen her, she'd come up to Arcata to visit and meet her newborn niece and she got drunk and hostile and yelled at me nonstop for several hours until I finally made her leave. Now it was five years later, now Lizzie and I were in a different apartment in Eureka, now I needed to call my sister and since it was not the first time we’d been estranged, I ended up calling her as if nothing had happened back in Arcata when she’d frothed at the mouth at me.  I called Patricia, at the 415 phone number she’d had since they gave out area codes and said to her, 

“Do you know anything about Father Horne when I was about five years old?”

I described a bit of what I was remembering, being a little girl in Father Horne’s living area, next to his bed, getting closer and closer to his bed.

And before I said another word, Trish said to me, “He got to you too.”  Then added, “That's why I've been so hostile to you our whole lives.  You took away my first lover.” 

Read Chapter One here and Chapter Two is coming soon

In the 1960s:
We were dancing at a restaurant on a country road in France, and I was the one who got the whole crowd singing along with "Yellow Submarine."  Still, afterwards, while I stood to the side, they all surrounded Trish to find out more about the new English music. 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

No matter what church pukes say, you can’t just put pedophile priest rape behind you, it's there all the time. When someone dies, you mourn them, then go on, but what do you do when it's your own life you're mourning? I lost sixty years and counting, as I was never okay, ever, from age five on, after Father Horne-y got to me.  Now my story is the only asset I've got, and my compulsion for truth makes me keep writing about it, whether I want to or not.  Too bad. If the Church wants the survivors to stop criticizing them, they should 'fess up to all their sins, in public, with great humility, and do something really magnanimous in amends. Until then, I'm blogging on. 
A sure way to make people think you're crazy is tell them the Vatican is messing in your life.  In my case it was true. 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

St. Anthony Messenger Article that started it all

This magazine article was in the therapist's office when I went AFTER having the recovered memory.  I went in to my first and only session with her and said, "This article has all I need to know. I'm moving to San Francisco" as the St. Anthony Messenger article, scanned in here, mentioned a support group for survivors in the Bay Area.

Can't find page 35, will have to dig through that file again, and, unfortunately, I no longer have a scanner / printer either.  I threw mine across the room when I was in Chicago, bk it was too heavy to bring home with me, a great anger reliever. . . but I must not have scanned it, so page 35 will come someday. . .`

Friday, February 7, 2014

Chapter 1 First Light

(First installment of a book to be published here a chapter at a time. Please support this project by clicking the PayPal  "Buy Now" button on the left with High $5's or higher.  You are buying readership.) 

Faster Than the Speed of Life Chapter 1: First Light

Elgin, Illinois May 2013
I walked all the way to the end of the train then, quick, turned around and walked back. That blew his cover.  The guy following me kind of jumped, got a what the f— expression on his face, then recovered and nodded like a polite stranger as I walked past him.  But for that brief moment of eye contact I knew, and he knew I knew. 

I walked up the hill to my apartment and spent the day laughing in an isolated sense of victory. 

See, I had a feeling that because of my blog, they’d put a device somewhere in my apartment that allowed them to read everything on my computer.  So as a test, I journalled an elaborate plan involving a Chicago church and Father Horne.  I tapped details about it on my keyboard knowing the spooks were reading every bit of it and freaking out, I even emailed myself the journal to “save it in the cloud,” and make sure they’d read it.

Then that Sunday morning at the Elgin Metra station, I blew their cover.

It felt good to out-trick them.  “What, did they think I was going to do, throw eggs at a church?”  .

Heh heh. 


In April 1994, I picked up the phone and called my sister Patricia who I hadn’t spoken to in six years.  After very little conversation, I asked her, “Do you remember anything about Father Horne? Because I've been having these dreams.” 

Before I even finished the sentence, Trish answered, “Oh no, he got to you too?” When I intimated yes, she went on:

“He molested me until I was about ten years old.  Hmm, then he must have dropped me for you.”  (She is six years older than me.)

The tone of her voice became like a betrayed wife: “That means when I got too old for him, he dumped me for you.”

Her voice then changed to a guttural whisper: “No wonder I've been so hostile to you your whole life.  You took away my first lover.”

I screamed into the phone, no, no Trish don't say that but she repeated it.  You took away my first lover.

As I held the phone, my daughter Lizzie stood in the doorway watching and I realized, it's because she's five years old. 

She's the age I was when Father Horne got to me, that's why I've been so overly protective of her.  She turned five years old and I remembered what happened to me when I was five years old.

Now she’d heard this phone conversation. 
The Lost Coast 
Geography played a big part in those events in 1994 that completely changed my life.  The North Coast of California is starkly barren.  Temperatures in the newspapers are deceptively warm, because a few minutes after sunrise almost every day, the winds start up.  Morning to afternoon the winds blow as high as 50 miles an hour, and they continue nonstop until sundown.  So every time you walk outside in daylight, you are fighting the wind.  As a result the population of California’s North Coast is internalized, isolated, and bent up for battle wherever they go. 

I’d come up from L.A. because I could afford rent here.  When I got pregnant on my own at age 39, I approached it the way I’d approached everything in my life since I could remember:  Going Faster than the Speed of Life, I dive so hard into solving the problem, I have no time to stop and think what caused it in the first place.  Soon after Lizzie was born, I began reading out of town newspapers until I found a town up north on the coast with rentals I could afford, even if I ended up on welfare,.  And it had a decent climate, at least according to the weather reports. 

I figured idyllic surroundings would be good for me and my newborn daughter.  It turned out rents were low in Eureka because there was almost no one living there anymore.  We lived on F Street near Fourth, just blocks from Main, where Highway 101 runs through heading to Oregon.  And there were no cars at all on our street.  Eureka is the Humboldt County seat and in the early 1990s it was almost a ghost town.

Lizzie and I would sit in the middle of the road in front of our house for hours and never have to move because a car was coming.  We did that, honest, and I wasn’t drunk or stoned, just making a statement about how empty the town was. When Lizzie turned three years old, I’d realized I had to clean up, so I went to Alcoholics Anonymous for the fifth time in my life and this time the program kicked in.  So in 1994 I had been clean and sober for two years, not even using marijuana. 

As I approached two years sober, a preoccupation with the way my sex life messed up everything else in my life grew more and more preoccupying until it was all I spoke or thought about for weeks. 

“I've seen this before,” my sponsor surmised between long pulls on a Marlboro.  She had twenty some years in recovery.  “When someone is sober awhile and they start obsessing about something else, the way you are, it means there’s something else inside, something you aren't even aware of and haven't been aware of because you've been drunk and stoned most of your life.  Now that you're clean and sober, that something else inside you might be about to come out.”

I had no idea to what she could be referring.

Then my AA home group brought a Catholic priest up from L.A. for our monthly speakers meeting, and I could not go.  No matter how my friends tried to help- they arranged childcare, they arranged a ride- I just could not, would not go see the priest speak. People in the program can be pretty forceful, and as the evening approached, it looked like I was going to have to go anyway.

Then this pain started, pain that shot all over my body, total body pain that I still live with today in 2014.  It started right then in Eureka in Spring of 1994.  I've hurt all over my body almost 24 hours a day now for twenty years.  I can get pretty bitchy. 

Around the same time in 1994 as the pain came in, I started having this half dream half memory, or a dream that turned into a memory, it's so hard to describe it.  Every morning in the moments between being asleep and waking up, I’d go there:

I am moving into a room where Father Horne sits on a mat on the floor beckoning me. 
In this half-awake state at age 45 I'm thinking, Why am I in the bedroom with Father Horne when I'm only five years old. 
Each morning in the dream, I get closer and closer to his bed, and I think, Why am I in that room with him.  
Then I pop awake, covered with sweat, panicking, and so horny I can barely stand it.

Over the next few years, that same horniness came back every time I spoke or wrote about what Father Horne did to me, in fact, it still happens today. 

After my dad’s funeral in 1997 I was in the hotel room talking on the phone to a relative about Father Horne, and the horniness got so huge, it became a presence that filled up the room.  Again, these things are really hard to explain. 

And again, there was Lizzie in the room there with me the whole time.   

Patricia 1970s
“Now I know why I’ve been so hostile to you your whole life,” Patricia said. “You took away my first lover.”

And I screamed into the phone loud sounding like Hitchcock’s violin in Psycho, “No Patricia don't say that, don't say that.” It just struck me wrong, like it was a really weird way to respond, exactly the opposite way I was responding to this whole memory. 

But I knew what she meant that she’d been “hostile” to me my whole life.

In April 1994 I had not spoken to my sister Patricia for almost six years.  In late 1988 She’d come up from San Francisco to meet her newborn niece, but about four hours into the visit, I’d had to throw her out of our home. 

She’d been tense since arriving, and after a few Southern Comforts, some switch snapped in her head and she went into a rage, because I put a can of green beans into a stew I was cooking.  These kinds of rages are not logical.  She swiped the counters in a coloratura about canned food having “no nutritional value at all, only fresh goes in the stew.”  She she was foaming at the mouth, she literally had foam in the corners of her lips. 

So I threw her out of my house.  It wasn’t the first time Trish had gone off on  me like that, but this time was different, as there was a baby in the other room I had to protect   Trish's rage Thanksgiving 1981 affected me so bad, it had a lot to do with why I lost my job at NASA.  Well, that and them doing  the investigation for my security clearance and finding I’d once worked on the Timothy Leary for Governor campaign . . . . and before that as a porn film performer. 

Albuquerque Fall 2010:

They've been watching me for weeks, through the windows, over the internet, in the phones.  Now they've found a way to cock block my blog so it never shows up in a Google search.  I can put up a post, then go to Google and enter keywords from that post, and everything else on Earth comes up but my blog.  Also someone is lurking on the survivor message board and it's so weird.  As soon as I put up a post, my phone rings and it's the same voice, saying something like, “Can I speak to Ms. Muu-Muu,” or something like that. 

I told everyone in the world I was coming to Albuquerque to find out more about Servants of the Paraclete.  Then the first day I was at this hotel, the electric lock on my door broke, from, the maintenance guy told me later, someone tampering with the lock.  Switching rooms apparently was not enough to keep them from watching everything I do. 


Over the weeks that spring in Eureka, images of what happened with Father Horne came in that were so real I would also experience whatever senses were involved, as if the memories had a life of their own.  I’d see Father Horne hovering over me while I lay on my back on the ground in the woods near our home outside Chicago and feel the cold air.  I’d see his head silhouetted against the gray Illinois sky, know his hands were going to work on me, and I’d get aroused so much, again, the horniness filled up the room. 

Giggle.  Horne.  Horniness.  God Does have a sense of humor.

Another memory that began to rerun in my head was from First Confession class.  Father Horne was on the altar with me and other children my age sitting on the floor and stairs in front of him.  He made reference to “impure thoughts” as one of the sins a person has to confess, and I asked him, “What are impure thoughts?”

Thing is, I know exactly what he means by impure thoughts.  And he knows I know exactly what he means.  He blushes, even gets a little flustered, and says, “I'll tell you more about that later, after class.”

That day in First Confession class I did, for the first time, what I would end up doing to men for most of my life.  Because Father Horne did get together with me after class to explain exactly what Impure Thoughts were.  As a six year old girl with a tingling between my legs, I learned how to snag a man’s attention with a flirty comment and a look.  

Right there in First Confession class I learned how to trick a guy into sex. 


All our lives, there had been a weird connection between Patricia and me.  We went through changes at the same time and in the same way, even when we were living on different continents. 

We were both shockingly promiscuous, each in our own way.  Even by the loose standards of the circles in which we moved, we were promiscuous. 

Even hippies were shocked at my sexual aggression as I romped around the state of California in the late nineteen sixties.  Even patrons at topless bars where Trish danced were shocked by what she did after closing.  Our cousins are normal, married with children and careers, but Patricia and I were these profound whores from the time we reached puberty. 

And my father knew.  He would look at us with an expression of resigned defeat, and let us get away with pretty much anything.

As I remembered in 1994 what happened with Father Horne in 1954, I had some weird physical reactions.  At one point I even flew across the room and banged against a wall, the memory was so powerful it had a momentum all its own. 

It happened to me when I was around five years old, and five year old Lizzie was nearby the whole time watching me remember it, knowing she had something to do with it.  She turned five and I started remembering what happened to me when I was five, and her home life was never stable again.

Arcadia, California, early 1970s

Soon after Patricia gave birth to a son, she had a “nervous breakdown” and came to live at the family home, but her behavior was so strange my parents soon put her in a mental health center in San Gabriel Valley.  I happened to be home from my wanderings around the state at the time, so I was there when Patsy came back from the hospital.

Patricia sat in a daze in the living room.  I asked my dad,
What's wrong with her?

“Well the doctors gave her electric shocks,” he said.  “They did it twelve times,” he added.

I looked at my sister wondering if it was the electric shocks that caused her hair to frizz like that.  I mean, I’d never seen her hair that frizzy, burned and singed, every strand.  I asked, “Why did they have to do it twelve times?”

Dad said, “She had these memories inside her brain, and we decided we had to get rid of them.”  When he saw my look of disbelief he added, “That's how they do it.” 

What kind of memories could she have that were so bad they had to be removed? I asked, but my dad didn't answer.  

Thank God they didn't totally vacate her mind.

When I recovered these memories in 1994, there was no therapist involved.  Since I'm admitting it was a repressed memory, some people may not believe me, because there is so much information out there about psychologists placing memories about child molestation inside people’s heads. 

With me it was truly a perfect storm.  I was living in a totally un-stimulating place, I was clean and sober for two years the first and only time in my life, that priest was coming to speak at my home group meeting, and most importantly, my daughter turned the age I was at the time of the abuse.  I had always remembered something happening to me that involved sex as a little girl.  I just thought I’d been visited by St. Michael the Archangel while I was playing in the woods and he did this thing to me that excited me.  I didn't know it was sex.  But I did share it with other kids, becoming at the time a six year old sexual predator.

It was a perfect storm.  If Lizzie hadn’t been born at the time she was, if she hadn't turned the age I was at the time of the abuse just as I was clean and sober for two years.  if we hadn’t been living in the middle of nowhere, if the priest weren't coming up from L.A. to speak, if it all hadn’t happened just the way it did, I never would have even remembered any of it.  

Truly a case of angelic intervention. 

Those few weeks were the end of the most sedate and the beginning of the most chaotic time of Lizzie’s five year long life.

After I recovered the full memory of what Father Horne did to me, for a good six months I was ecstatic, walking around on a cloud, shouting for joy even, sometimes there in the north coastal wind.  Finally I understood why I’d been so screwed up my whole life and it was like a reconciliation, like a gonging bell jar of a huge church tower had been chiming and chiming nonstop in my head and it had finally come to a stop. 

And I started once again going Faster than the Speed of Life. 

I jumped into research about pedophile priests in the Catholic Church.  Going Faster than the Speed of Life, Lizzie and I held a yard sale, raised enough cash to move, and we were on our way to San Francisco within weeks, with no plan, just trusting a higher power and the universe and this speeding cloud that I was riding. 

I’d learned there was a support organization for pedophile priest victims somewhere in the Bay Area and I was off to find them.  All I knew was they called themselves Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests.


NEXT:  Chapter Two: Patricia the Haight St. Homeless Advocate
(Which I’ve outlined and will start drafting now)


Back in Elgin, spring 2013, problem is, what do I do now about anything else I want to type in that bugged room?  

- - -
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“Father Horne is so handsome.”
When my mom would say those words, she’d squirm in her seat and blush.  
She adored Father Horne, from the time I was a little girl right up to the day she died.  She’d gush out, “He’s so handsome” in a singsong voice with a hint of sexuality, even at age ninety. 
So I probably was not surprised at age five when I walked in on her sitting on Father Horne’s lap.  He had her robust bare breast in his hands and was ravaging it. 
Both of them looked up embarrassed, but for me it was just something to look at.


More to Come from Kay Ebeling.
February 2014

Picture of Patricia Ebeling (aka Patrisha Vestey) is from Sams blog: 

Big Brother and the Holding Company, part seven 1978-1989 20 may

MAY 20 2012 
The natives of California’s North Coast region were unusually violent, even by the standards of European settlers encountering “Indians” all across the continent in the 18th century.  
Per Wikipedia : 
The first Europeans venturing into Humboldt Bay encountered the indigenous Wiyot. Records of early forays into the bay in 1806 reported that the violence of the local indigenous people made it nearly impossible for landing parties to survey the area. After 1850, Europeans ultimately overwhelmed the Wiyot, whose maximum population before the Europeans was in the hundreds in the area of what would become the county's primary city. But in almost every case, settlers ultimately cut off access to ancestral sources of food in addition to the outright taking of the land despite efforts of some US Government and military officials to assist the native peoples or at least maintain peace. A massacre took place onIndian Island in the spring of 1860, committed by a group of locals, primarily Eureka businessmen
I remember from the years I lived there hearing the stories.  Even among themselves, local native tribes would massacre each other, as well as all the white people, in astounding displays of violence and brutality, shocking even by mid-nineteenth century standards.

I think it's because of the wind. 

By Kay Ebeling
Producing City of Angels Blog since January 2007
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Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Making a lot of progress during my overnight shift, tonight only had 1 hour of paid work, time for Faster. Finished Draft 4, I think I can clean this and it's almost ready to post. Have a couple friends who are going to read it first so I don't publish glaring syntax and grammar errors, things the writer can't see. Should be up in a week, as I still have to find art and lay it out. Posting a blog post itself takes time, even after the writing is done. You have to size the art, and make the print look good. This will be a good project to keep me from being a boring old lady who has nothing to talk about. Boy do i have a lot to talk about. Coming soon first episode of Faster Than the Speed of Life at CofA 15.http://cityofangels15.blogspot.com/2013/12/preview.html

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Tuesday, January 28, 2014

It's coming. I'm real busy on my paid job, so the January post will slip to February but it is coming.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

They tried to kill me.  I was six or so and I've remembered this incident my whole life.  I was in the back of a dump truck, riding, a man was driving.  No one else in passenger seat but I was in the back.  We drive downhill the winding dirt road to the Bartlett city dump 1953 or so, I've come this way before.  At the bottom the truck stops, and engine cranks up for dumping mechanism on truck, it starts to turn to dump me out.  I am banging on the window and hollering, no-no-no don't dump it, stop stop.  The man is facing forwards and pretends to not hear me, he has to hear me, but he keeps facing forward and the truck keeps turning to dump me out.  Until I fall land slam on the ground. 
This part has been related to me later.  People gathered around, thought I was dead, people thought I was dead, I must have shown signs of being dead.  But then, as my aunt said, I “popped back up” and jumped up and apparently ran around for a moment “like a chicken with head cut off.” I don't know what exactly was said,  But I've never forgotten yelling stop stop and the man continuing to stare ahead when I knew he was hearing me.

One time my aunt visiting at the dinner table referred to it as “the time Kathy came back to life.”

Her remark was met with a strained and awkward silence.

Now I look back now on that incident and realize the period of time coincides with being taken to the cardinal’s mansion and told to stop babbling about what Father Horne did to me. 

Just now reading news about the hearings going on in Geneva about the rights of children, one day before the stream of news stories starts about the Catholic priests, it was this headline that made me begin to put that incident in perspective.

Key UN body can now hear complaints from children whose rights have been violated

United Nations News Centre
14 January 2014 – A new legal instrument allowing children or their representatives to file a complaint with the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child is set to go into effect in April, following its final required ratification, the United Nations today announced.
Costa Rica became the tenth country to ratify the Optional Protocol to the Convention on the Rights of the child on a Communications Procedure, the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) announcement noted.
“The Optional Protocol gives children who have exhausted all legal avenues in their own countries the possibility of applying to the Committee,” said Kirsten Sandberg, Chairperson of the Geneva-based Committee on the Rights of the Child, which monitors implementation of the treaty and its protocols.
“It means children are able to fully exercise their rights and are empowered to have access to international human rights bodies in the same way adults are under several other human rights treaties.”
Starting in April, individual children or groups of children from the countries that have ratified the Optional Protocol will be able to submit complaints to the Committee on specific violations related to the Convention on the Rights of the Child.

My first reaction reading that was, great, good for them, but it doesn't make my life any better.  Then I stopped and actually processed this thought:  What happened to me won’t happen to other children. That's as far as it got, I have very little Polyanna instincts. 
But it's obvious that if back in 1953 there had been such a thing as Child Protection Services like we have in L.A. and Chicago and in every county in America now, I doubt the stuff that happened to Patricia and me would ever have developed.
We were definitely pre-child protective services kids.