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**
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Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Ch2: The Thud and a Nipple Dress

How one pedophile priest skewered the dynamics of an entire family, continued.  

by Kay Ebeling

“There in a picture from 1981 are my parents, my sister, and her nipples, smiling at the camera in the family photo album.”  (See cartoon below)

In his home in the Castro district, conversation with my cousin* finally came to why I'd come to San Francisco with my six year old daughter.  I asked him, “Do you remember Father Horne?” and then blurted out a version of events from the past few months, where I’d recovered the memory of the priest sexualizing me at age five, and confirmed that he’d molested my sister Patricia too.  I  ended with “Now I know why I've been so screwed up my whole life,” excited, thinking my cousin would share my elation. Instead: The Thud. 

When you're in a conversation and everything is going fine, then you mention you're a pedophile priest victim, there it is: The Thud. [BEAT] All talk comes to a complete stop, any ambiance of friendliness that had once been there evaporates, the room is silent, and all persons within hearing distance stiffen. Once The Thud happens, communication is never the same again. 

Doing City of Angels Blog since January 2007, I've finally learned to stop bringing up the issue in casual conversation, but only after experiencing The Thud many times.

Back in 1994 I was just beginning this pursuit and my visit with cousin Jimmy had been going fabulous.  I did notice a tone of awe and reverence as he said: “I go to the Basilica several times a week,” with just a little too much enthusiasm.

The Bassiilllliiica, he said, stretching the word way out.

Jimmy had only weeks earlier returned to the Catholic Church.  I wanted to say to him, “But you're gay,” but he rushed on before I could, and talked about the classes and Masses he does now at “The Basilica.” 

“The Bass-ill-icaaahhhh”

I should have known not to say anything more about Father Horne being a pedophile priest, but again, I was still green in this world of survivorship. Once I told Jimmy that I accuse Father Horne of molesting me back in 1955, there was no getting past The Thud.

Cousin Jimmy had no room for 6 year old Lizzie and me in his three story home where he lived all alone, not even for one night.  So we left, and as he ushered us out the door we received these words one more time. “I will never believe Father Horne would do anything as bad as that.  He was a wonderful man, an absolutely wonderful man.”


He had said the name “Father Horne” with same reverence he had for “the Basilica”.

So Lizzie and I went instead to Aunt Patricia’s house, even though she’d said earlier by phone we couldn't stay there.

During a phone call with my sister a few weeks back, I told her we were coming to San Francisco because I’d found a national support group for pedophile priest victims with a branch in the Bay Area. 

“Something called Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests or SNAP,” I said, “isn't that cool?  We can get some group therapy and support.”

But Trish just sighed into the phone, “I don't know.” I could almost hear her shrug. “It affected my life, yeah, I had a lot of sex.  But I had a lot of fun too.”

To this day I'm perplexed as to why I can’t look with the same attitude at the damage done to me by that priest, and just let it go.

But I can’t.  Not yet.  Maybe soon.

How I Found SNAP Back in 1994

Up in Humboldt County, after recovering the memory at age forty five of Father Horne sexualizing me at age five, and after having a weird physical reaction to it, I knew I should see a doctor and that the episode was psychiatric, so I scheduled an appointment with a therapist.  Since I was in a small Northern California town, the only shrink I could see on my insurance was at a clinic run by Catholic Charities. 

In the waiting room were copies of St. Anthony Messenger magazine with a cover story about pedophile priests, (Cover at top of this post; see entire articlehere   ). As I waited I began reading it, and they mentioned a support group for pedophile priest “survivors” in the Bay Area.  By the time they called me for my appointment, I didn't want to talk to a therapist anymore, except to find out more about this group.  She said she knew nothing, she was not Catholic, she just worked there. I said, “I'm just going to take this magazine with me.” And left, making plans to move 

Since Patricia lived in San Francisco and had also been diddled by Father Horne, I thought she’d be as excited as I was to find a network of other people who were raped by priests, but she was nonchalant. 

In a loud voice over the phone I asked her, “Doesn't it bother you that because of Father Horne molesting us, we were total out of control whores our whole lives?”

And there was Lizzie age five standing nearby overhearing everything I said.


Just like when I learned about the Vietnam War as a teenager and wound up on staff of the Peace and Freedom Part and just like when I learned about the space program in my twenties and lobbied until I got a job at NASA, at age 45 I latched onto the idea of being an activist about pedophile priests.  Going Faster than the Speed of Life, I never slowed down long enough to say, hey, this happened to me and I'm damaged.  I was too busy babbling in a compulsion with which only I was familiar, trying to make sure everybody in the world found out.   

We held a yard sale and were outta Eureka in weeks.  Then we drove down Redwood Highway with all the belongings we had left in the backseat and trunk, packed so tight, there was just a small hole in it to see out the rear window. 

As I drove and Lizzie slept, I remembered the time around 1970 when my sister Patricia had twelve shock treatments right after having a baby. My dad told me she was having “horrible memories” and electric shock would get them out of her brain. 

What memory was Patricia having after her baby was born that they wanted to erase, I wondered.  Was it anything like what I was remembering now after my daughter turned five years old?

A Not so Flowery Haight-Ashbury

Since Cardinal Levada had apparently made it okay to be gay and Catholic in San Francisco in 1994, so my newly renewed Catholic cousin would not let us stay in his house, Lizzie and I drove over to the Haight to see what Aunt Patricia might do.

Usually when people think of the Haight Ashbury District in San Francisco, they hear finger symbols, imagine flower children in breezy cotton clothes dancing around psychedelic maypoles.  That was not the Haight Ashbury of 1994, when Lizzie and I arrived in San Francisco in pursuit of a pedophile priest victim support group.

In 1994 the Haight had a darkness, as if all the grime of twenty five years since the Summer of Love had become ingrained in the concrete.  A different kind of street kid populated the doorways and staircases than in the 1960s.  I had last come through The Haight in about 1967.  Back then there was a magic in the air.  My friends and I on that visit left our bags in a “crash pad,” some strangers’ house, and wandered the city for hours, then returned to the pad and our bags with all our things were left untouched.  Dozens of hippies had passed through the house and seen our bags and yet no one even thought to steal anything.  The original hippies would not harm each other, we were all in this together, hey, man, peace love cool. 

In 1994 the grime on the street blended with the graffiti and tattoos on the kids’ skin.  Hair was still long, but it was greasy and bore no flowers.  The bony bodies and holes where eyes should be showed the drug of choice on Haight Street was no longer pot and psychedelics.  Drugs in The Haight of 1994 were heroin and speed, preferably shot into the vein, where tattoos hid the needle marks. 

Of course along Haight Street in 1994 there were still coffee houses and book stores with street seating cafes so the remaining aging hippies could meet and talk about politics and culture.  But the new population of Haight Street was not reading alternative newspapers, or selling them on the street for sustenance.  There was no hopeful notion of changing mankind and leading the way to a better future, as we all believed in the hippie era.  By 1994 the passion of Dylan and Baez had been drowned out by Kurt Cobain.

Into this dark and crowded place I drove with my six year old daughter trying to find a parking place so we could go to Aunt Patricia’s house. 

Aunt Patricia’s House

When you go east on Haight Street from Golden Gate Park, the first street you cross is Shrader.  Turn right, and two doors down on the left was the entrance to Aunt Patricia’s home.  You almost could not see the door.  It's right up against the sidewalk cut into the wall, with a tiny doorknob and a peephole.  A person passing could mistake Patricia’s front door for the entrance to a crawl space under the building, or maybe even a hobbit hole.

Down about 20 feet further from Patricia’s front door was a more ordinary door that looked like a front door, which was where Patricia’s tenant lived. 

By renting out part of her apartment, my sister paid almost no rent, to live two blocks from Golden Gate Park in 1994, because she had the same apartment she’d had since 1974.  With rent control she could charge her tenant 700 a month for a furnished room and pay the rent for her entire place.

Patricia told me the rental unit was empty when we were still up in Humboldt County, and that had only been a few weeks back.  Since I told her we were coming, I figured the rental unit would still be empty, but instead she must have rushed to rent it as fast as possible.  

I don't know if Patricia’s disinterest in helping Lizzie and me when we came for help could be called another incident of The Thud or not.  It does tell you something about the screwed up dynamics that result in a family where a pedophile priest has stuck his prickly fingers.

The Nipple Dress

As we sat during our first visit since 1988 (link to Chapter One) Patricia got out her photo album and I paged through it, coming to a stop when I saw The Nipple Dress.

There from Thanksgiving 1981 is my sister Patricia and her nipples smiling out at the camera in her family photo album (see Cartoon at right, or Click here for R-Rated version version, sorry, I'm trying not to take any of this too seriously). 

In the family photo, Patrica is bent over our mom and dad wearing a lacey black blouse with nothing under it. 

Throughout that entire holiday, everyone in the family tried to act as if there was nothing unusual about having Patricia’s nipples peeking out at us, all through cocktails and dinner, but there they were, pointing out bright red under the thin lace of her dress. At some point I had apparently taken this picture of them that now Patricia wanted me to see in her family album.

Why no one ever suggested that  Patricia put on a sweater, I never understood. 

How Would I Do My Art? Patricia asked.

We sat awhile in the narrow entry room that Trish used as her living room, with the carpet that had only been swept, never shampooed since she moved in in the seventies, surrounded by shelves with figurines of Betty Boop, Marilyn Monroe, and various fairy princesses.

I asked, “What is behind that closed door?”

“That's my studio,” she said. “Come see my art.”

Here was a spacious room with French windows looking out on the yard, with scraps of colored paper and art supplies such as scissors and glitter spread out on a table.

“I am now officially a San Francisco artist,” Patricia announced, and put an example of her work in front of my face.  “See?  I go to the park with my camera and shoot pictures, which I then cut into pieces and paste back together.  The result is this.  A colorful cardboard pastiche collage, See?”

The picture in front of my face made me have trouble focusing: masses of mixed color with no patter, rhyme, or reason that evoked no feeling other than confusion.  Patricia went on to explain, "It's a new art form that I invented myself,” and she was so proud of her work, I kept humor from showing on my face, and agreed they were beautiful works of art.

I said, “Maybe we could stay here in the studio just until we find a place,” but she interrupted, “Then how would I do my art?” and began a diatribe about the people now populating Haight Street.

She said, “They're not hippies like we were, they're junkies. I can’t even get them to buy any of my art."

I, as always, tried to show I'm on her side saying, “Yeah the new street kids are like toxic waste left over from the Summer of Love,” but that only made Trish glare at me.

So Lizzie and I went to a homeless shelter in the Tenderloin District where we stayed six weeks before finding a place to live in San Francisco, another experience for a whole nother book. 

And since this shelter, like most shelters, made the “clients” go to Therapy once a week, I told my story to a college-aged psychologist who, believe it or not, opened her Roll-O-Dex and gave me the number for the Bay Area SNAP group that was meeting back then in Hayward. 

So the family dysfunction I lived with, probably as a result of being vocal about the pedophile priest, ended up getting me connected with a network of support and activism about pedophile priests.  Or so I thought. 

The Dog Fights Next Door

Snarling dogs tore at each other’s flesh right outside the window where Lizzie and I huddled on the mattress we got from a guy at an AA meeting.

When I’d looked at this apartment on Webster near Haight, I asked the agent, “What is that building out the back window?" and the she'd shrugged back, “Oh just some apartments.” I didn't ask more questions.  Lizzie and I had to get out of the shelter in the Tenderloin where I had to carry a hammer with me when I went to the kitchen in case someone jumped me.  When I finally found a landlord in the city who would rent to us, I went Faster Than the Speed of Life through the walk-through and just rented it. 

Turned out the buildings behind us were the recently condemned Projects. A group of holdouts now lived in the crumbling, police taped structures, refusing to move, holding dog fights. 

So there were me and Lizzie huddled on our mattress each night, listening.  

The snarling dogs seemed to be starved to a manic rage and along with men's cheering voices would get louder and louder.  Then you heard the plaintive wail of one dog, a sad and surprised bark of shock and pain from the one that just lost the dog fight, hollering until it died.  Then men would cheer and it would finally get quiet.

We listened to that outside our back door almost every night.

Soon after moving in, we got a TV set and I turned on the local news.

There on Channels 2, 4, and 7 was my sister Patricia in front of the hobbit hole that was her front door talking on camera.  The voiceover began, “A woman in Haight Ashbury has opened her home to the homeless street people who live on the sidewalks nearby.  She’s letting them come in to her home, no questions asked, so they can take showers, and rest.”

Then there was a closeup of Patricia talking to reporters who’d gathered outside her home in the Haight.  

“I decided to let them come in here, just to let them have some time off the streets,” said my sister to the reporter with deep compassion in her voice, “to give them a place to chill, maybe regroup.”

I sat there dumbfounded on my mattress with the snarling dogs in the background and watched as the reporter and camera then followed Patricia through the hobbit hole door into the dark rooms inside. 

The camera panned my sister’s living area, where disheveled street kids were strewn about blending with the d├ęcor.  They leaned on chairs tables and stairs, their hair split like clouds around their heads.  A murmuring sound mixed with smoke, eyes darted left and right. 

The camera and everyone in San Francisco watching the local news then turned their attention back to my sister Patricia the Haight Street homeless advocate.

“Why would you open your home to these street kids this way?” asked the reporter with compelling urgency.

Looking like a scolding mother, stout yet a little like Lana Turner, Patricia looked straight into the camera lens and said, “Well somebody’s got to do it.”


* Same cousin I mentioned in Chapter One incident, which may be the real reason he didn't want us around.



Patricia got citywide media coverage.  News stories ran everywhere lauding her efforts to end homelessness in San Francisco, in spite of the fact she hadn’t let her sister and niece stay in her home a few months earlier and we ended up in a shelter downtown.

Still, as always, I patched things up with Trish and a few weeks later Lizzie and I went back to her place.  Before I could even sit down, my sister Patricia insisted I look at her scrapbooks again as she’d added a lot of new clippings.

I flip past the picture Patricia in the nipple dress, to get to the new part she wants me to see, news clippings from her homeless activism a few weeks back.

Patricia also insists we watch a VHS tape she made with all the TV news coverage she’d gotten for her campaign. 

After watching them, I ask my sister Patricia, “Whatever happened to that homeless project you ran?”

She answers, “Oh hell I had to throw those brats outta here,”  and takes a long drag on her Camel.  “They stole my whole Marilyn Monroe collection.”


A Hobbit Hole

Patricia’s part of the home was a really weird place, carved out of a weird building.  As you walked through, you couldn't really identify the rooms with names such as living room, dining room, etcetera.

Trish used the area you encountered when you entered through the front door as a place to hang out, so she called it the living room.  It was narrow and window-less. Below your feet was a well-worn carpet that always felt kind of wet, but the dark colors and floral pattern camouflaged the dirt.  In the twenty years my sister had lived in that apartment, I doubt she ever did more than sweep or vacuum it.  She was not inclined to anything as mundane as shampooing a rug.

In that narrow entryway / room was a couch on the left and a a television set on the right, stereo equipment on shelves along the hall.  You followed the walkway into the kitchen.  Here were elements similar to what's found in the kitchens in most human homes, a sink, counter top, cabinets with dishes and cooking utensils.  Still there was a strangeness to the place. For instance, when you sat at Patricia’s kitchen table, you should be able to look out on a backyard with trees and a sitting area.  But Trish had covered the floor to ceiling windows with clippings from fashion magazines.  So the only way to see the grand backyard was to walk out the doors which she always kept closed and locked. 

“There’s a lot of creeps living on the other side of the yard,” she explained.

I got the feeling she’d fought with her neighbors, just from decades of reading body language with my sister.  But I didn't ask. .

Trish wore a Japanese style kimono with nothing under it.  She smoked unfiltered Camels through a foot-long cigarette holder and her smile showed tobacco blackened teeth. Still she was, as always, stunningly beautiful. 

Trying to make small talk I commented on the shelves that lined the walls, as if the apartment had once been a shop of some kind.  Knick knacks, figurines of fairies and nymphs, and Betty Boops filled the shelves. 

Most alluring were hundreds of figurines depicting Marilyn Monroe, about which I asked Patricia and she said:

“Every time I see anything about Marilyn, in a second-hand store or a yard sale, I buy it.” She added, “So sad the way she died. It was all a conspiracy, you know.”

I wanted to remind her of this (link to Marilyn and Me posted May 29 2012 ) but let it go for now.

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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, 
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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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