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**
Read ongoing coverage of pedophile priest crisis at CofA12
My story is my only asset, please send high $5s through the PayPal Buy Now button on the left to support this work.

Monday, September 15, 2014

I am at work now on Chapter 3 of book which started Feb 2014 w/this:

"He molested me until I was about ten.  Hmm, then he must have dropped me for you.” My sister Patricia is six years older than me and 40 years after the abuse we are on the phone confirming it really happened.  She said, “When I got too old for him, he must have dumped me for you.”  Then in a slow guttural whisper, she said, “No wonder I've been so hostile to you your whole life.  You took away my first lover.”

STORY CONTINUED in APRIL 2014 here: 

Ch2: The Thud and a Nipple Dress

How one pedophile priest skewered the dynamics of an entire family, continued. 
Which contains this quote: 

In a loud voice on the phone I asked my sister, “Doesn't it bother you that because Father Horne molested us, we were total out of control whores our whole lives!”  And there was Lizzie age five standing nearby overhearing everything.

Friday, September 12, 2014


While I was in the Jacuzzi last night, the two felonies that have defined my life since the 1990s suddenly FUSED and became one story, not two to be written separately. I realized, wow, how much more intriguing to add the murder and embezzlement on top of the pedophile priest crimes, as it is, after all, the story of a family, isn't it. . .
Posted yesterday on Facebook, click my name to connect

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

TRIGGERS they are everywhere, I'm watching news about the border crisis and who is the talking head but a spokesman from the conference of Catholic bishops. Now that should not bother me, but it does. Within seconds I'm outside the door shaking, moaning, a swirl in my head of, How can they still, after all this- what? Next thought is I want to move. I see myself like Hannibal Lecter at the end of the film, where he's gotten away and is strolling on some tropical island road. My head swirls with How Can They Ask the Church to comment when it has no credibility anymore at all. Interesting though that the bishops had no priest to send on TV for them, it was a layman, a spokesman. So now it's official, the Catholic Church is just a corporation with a left-leaning humanitarian slant. And thank God for Sour Diesel, which was on hand to keep the trigger from turning into a nightmare, will look for news on this topic in a different venue.

Posted just now on Facebook, click my name to connect


Kay Ebeling

Monday, June 23, 2014

Short

Keep Watching Here for More
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Some of the screwiest people in the world are pedophile priest victims. 

I have to qualify that as there are also many survivors of priest molestation who function perfectly well, some even extremely well, compulsively well, in life.

But the ones who are screwed up are screwed up in really original and unique ways. 

Unique.

They are showing up in this story as I write it. 

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Coming Soon

Works in Progress

At CofA 16 Rated R " The Polaroid Insight"

At CofA Fiction "Ariana and Me"  which will also be rated R. 

And at CofA12-15 ongoing coverage of the pedophile priest issue

And here at CofA 15 "Me and Barbara Payton"

Stay tuned.  
Should be finished 
writing at least two of them soon
But it is summer, when things do slow down so... 
-ke

Monday, June 16, 2014

Triggering like crazy lately

When I can’t find my keys, that really sets it off.  

I’d love to learn someday if other people with PTSD have this same experience. 

If I can’t find my keys, it's okay for maybe thirty seconds.  But if after that I still can’t find my keys, I start having a physical reaction: increased heart beat, shortness of breath, panic, and THEN body pain.  Every step I take from one room to the other while I'm looking for my keys sends pain shooting from my feet all the way up my body.  So the longer I look the worse the pain is, to the point I'm crawling sometimes, crawling and panting and pulling myself around the room, throwing stuff on the floor, breaking things, sweeping clutter off a tabletop in one swoop, all the stuff crashing to the floor, then I'm crawling to the next table to do it again.  It can get pretty bad if I can’t find my keys, still it all comes to a stop and everything returns to normal, as soon as I find the keys. 

Triggers.  Living with PTSD.

And panic.  Some people call them panic attacks, I don't know how to describe how awful this is when I'm in the middle of it.  An actress would have to have exceptional skills to portray it.  Maybe I could describe one of these search-induced panics with a looooong paragraph someday, if when I'm in the middle of one I can maintain enough presence of mind to write it down and document it. 

For a long time I thought there was some connection between the pedophile priest rape and this panic when I lose things.  Like maybe there was an incident connected to the molestation that involved not being able to find something.  Or maybe the panic at losing keys is just a general malaise about my entire lost life, about all the things my entire family lost as a result of the pedophile priest crimes in our lives.

But it also could be a characteristic of PTSD in general, and maybe war veterans, other crime victims, even accident trauma survivors experience the same thing, I don't know.

It seems to involve a need to keep everything in its place, a need to know that if I need the keys they will be right there in the little holder on the table.  If the keys aren't there, something happens to me- physiologically, a sense of oh no, now things are out of place. 

Oh no things are not where they should be.  

Oh no I've lost control and now the chaos can start up again.

So if I have to keep looking for the keys, the simple act of rifling through clutter and looking under papers turns into a major emotional event.  My daughter used to hate it when this happened, and it may be the reason she tells people her mother is crazy to this day, when I'm not crazy, I'm really a very sane person.  

I just have PTSD, so I have these episodes. 

And misplaced keys are a trigger, mysteriously so, because the reaction I have to misplaced keys is way out of balance with the real difficulty of not finding ones keys. 

I mean, what difference does it make if I can’t find my keys, except I may have to leave the door unlocked for a few minutes. Hmm. I mean, I hardly ever go anywhere. 

It's true.  I've arranged my life so I don't leave my apartment complex.  I have almost all my groceries and supplies delivered and once a week I hobble three blocks up the street to the Thursday farmers market. When I lived in Chicago the winter of 2012-13, I did not go outside my apartment building from November through April, about five months, except to go down the hall and throw out trash, or go get mail, and I'd do that in the middle of the night when no one was around. 

I know this is a mania in development, but to be honest, the way the world is, agoraphobia makes sense these days.

*****
I Could Get Away With Murder

I feel like, hey, considering everything I've been through, a little quirkiness in my old age is okay. 

But then I also wonder if a little quirkiness is all it is. 

Because just now, after yet another day of triggers and panic attacks fed by rage that I can’t find a doctor who understands what I'm going through so I have no medical attention happening at all right now, no doctor or nurse to call, nothing, no prescription for Valium to refill and make it all easier, so added to the rage and whatever that thing is I experience from triggers is this frustration that I can’t find medical help when I obviously need it so bad.  

Walking back in my door just now, I thought, after everything I've been through, I could probably commit one hellacious crime and get away with it, claim insanity, say I was triggered by my rage, an out of control reaction to how totally unfair it all has been, and it just got to me. 

I could get away with, what, see that's the problem, I can’t think of any crime I want to commit.  I'm not violent, so as much as it might seem like fun to, oh, let’s say, kidnap a priest and tie him to a chair while I stuck his skin with prickly things, it might make a good scene for Holly Hunter on a cable series, but it's not me.  I’d feel sorry for the guy.  I’d end up helping him out. 

But it's still an idea.  I could commit some crime and if I got caught, considering all the stuff I've been through that has never been justifiably resolved, I could probably get away with- with- whatever. 

I just can’t think of what crime to commit, but it's food for thought. 

-by Kay Ebeling
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Thursday, May 29, 2014

I feel really good. Post I just put up at CofA12 is almost right on, enough for me to have a very satisfied and complete feeling. ALSO been away from my own story long enough, so tomorrow I go back to diving in files and writing Faster.  
(Posted just now on Facebook, click my name to connect) 

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Effect on Victims, from Franciscan Board of Inquiry, affects me 20 years later

If only they’d known this in 1955.

To the flight controllers at NASA in the eighties who probably wrote about me on the men’s room walls, like they did in the Daily Texan newsroom in Austin in the seventies, and to all the women who gunned for me after what I did with their husbands, I'm sorry. 

When I found “Effect on Victims” in the Franciscans of Santa Barbara Board of Inquiry Report from 1993, it had a big effect on me. I came across it while I was lost in Appalachia in 2011 reading back over files from years of doing CofA Blog.  Rereading it contributed to the total process of me finally calming down. 

The quote below regards victims who went in front of the Board to describe the impact rapes by Franciscans had on their lives:

“It is important to keep in mind that children develop a sense and understanding of sexuality from authority figures, and that boys came to the seminary at age 13 or 14 years, when they were uniformly young and impressionable.”

For some the sexual abuse “was immediate profound trauma, indelibly imprinted in their consciousness.  For others, it was not until later in life that memories returned, sparked by an upsetting occurrence that triggered traumatic flashbacks.  Although these episodes were painful, they often provided relief through a new found understanding of the difficulties and struggles in their lives.”

Yep, that about describes it. 

For some reason reading those words empower me a bit, because it stands to reason that sex abuse has an even more profound effect when it happens at age five or so, as it did to me, so I have to stop hating myself for what it made of me.

I hope some of the people who knew me in the seventies and eighties and grew to hate me for having sex with their husbands, brothers, bosses, etcetera, will read the quote, and maybe understand. 

I went through life thinking I’d been touched by an Angel in a very private place, so to speak, and since it happened at such an early age, the effect was indeed at a DNA level.  I felt I had a purpose in life, to share that early sexual experience with everyone I encountered. 

So to all those people in Texas and all the rest, I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry.

I had impulses I could not control.  Hopefully this journalism that I am doing about pedophile priests and how their sex crimes affected their victims will reach some of my own victims and help them think less bad of me. 

Because I left a trail of victims behind. 

I was a sexual predator from age six on, it's just after age six, I didn't know how to do it, so instead got very fat, obese, size 16 at age eight.  As soon as I reached 13 or so - puberty - I slimmed down, and the sexual compulsion kicked in.  Soon I was bouncing on men’s laps just like when I was six years old.  I have 40 years of My Life as a Slut left in my head to live with as a result.  I think of it as a punishment.

( Me in 2014:  I felt like it was a punishment back in 2011 when I wrote this. Now I think of it as a hell of a story to write. )

For me it was like the gonging of a huge church tower bell had been ringing and ringing in the background all my life.

(Wow, I keep finding that reference to a gong in a bell tower in these journals.)

When I realized Father Horne had set the whole mania in motion with his diddling fingers, it stopped, the gonging of the bell stopped.

And I became a completely different person.  Today I'm more like Jane Wyatt than Jane Mansfield, if only I could have been that person for my whole life.

But I couldn't.  And since my sex life caused me to lose every job I had and end every possibility of a marriage, I have nothing to my name in old age but my story.

(Please click my PayPal button with high fives as my story is my only asset)


Click My PayPal button, please

This post that I copied from a 2009 journal was found in a 2011 journal, all of which I'm mining for first drafts, as I post online this serial book full of backstory that will just keep going and going and going. . . 

-Kay Ebeling

Today

LOL in my room at work again, this time on a press conference for X-Men opening soon, and HUGH JACKMAN is so naturally funny, warm, creative, loving. He makes me laugh again and again, through my headphones. I'm more connected to Hugh Jackman than any human on earth right now. what a weird life I live. My neighbors are already arguing over the community garden, I will probly quit that. But Hugh Jackman is in my ears telling jokes, and it's just us. (Posted just now on Facebook, click my name to connect)
Kay Ebeling 2 minutes ago

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Refugee from My Own Life

(December 2011 going nuts in West Virginia)

I'm so damaged, so- so damaged.  The tearfulness comes on me like a wave.  It surrounds me, it's so familiar it feels comfortable, homey, natural. 

Little old lady alone in an apartment, in a town where she has no history or reason to be, except she landed here.

Saving money to go to Chicago in pursuit of the priest.

But I've spent a good part of the last two days sobbing, loud and out loud. There’s this underlying sob under everything I do and say and think.  And of course the body pain is monstrous, as usually the two go together. 

Sometimes the sobbing, if I let go and let it be full-fledged crying, will cause a rush of pain relief, endorphins released with the tears. 

If I just get out every day and talk to someone, I'm better.  Today it was the woman in the Post Office, just that short conversation made my life ten times better than the previous several days when I didn't speak to anyone at all.  There are lots of those days. 

I almost want to be alone.  There aren't a lot of people who are interesting, when you get down to it.  Most people don't think things through, most people don't listen, most people now days don't read and instead rely on mainstream sound byte media for news so most people know very little about anything. 

I've gone from lonely wishing I had people around to not wanting people around and when they are here, I wish they’d leave. Too bad that transition happened but it happened.
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(2014: So glad I got outta there, found this in that journal I'm mining for back story, more TK )
-ke

Dear R, Dec 2011

December 2011: I often think, almost mourn, how wonderful City of Angels Blog could have been if there had really been a network of support.  I think about those weeks I was in New Mexico last year and felt totally unable to move, because even though I had the names of people to call and ask for documents, I felt like I couldn't.

Because I'm not part of anything.  I'm just a blogger and by 2010, I was only getting about 37 clicks on a post, which made me no longer a mover and shaker.  When CofA Blog was getting started in 2007-2008 I would get as many as 400 clicks after putting up a story.  Then instead of growing, my audience shrank, as one by one sites went from running to not running links to my blog.  Then there was that weird period where nobody would call me back, from mid-2008 all the way to 2010 when I just quit trying.  People would talk to me one week, then not talk to me the second time I called.  I am going through my files from that period now and notice in my notes, I have lots of "never called back" and me wondering what is wrong with me that people won’t callback. It feels better to say it's because someone told them not to talk to me, but it could just be the nature of the beast.

End result was the blog deflated, got smothered ‘til all the air went out.  I couldn't hold it together on my own.  It takes money to do journalism and every time I'd start to make money with the blog, "something" would step in and make it stop. My Google ads were taken down never an explanation why.  Examiner removed me.  The PayPal clicks just stopped, as no one was finding the blog any more.  

I just feel defeated, R, and like it's not worth the battle.  I have this amazing story to write based on my life, I mean, how many people can write about smoking hash with Tim Leary or creating a scandal at NASA in Houston? 

I'm discovering the comfort of isolation
---
(2014: Man, I was so down there for a while.)
A lot of people write about pedophile priests, but this story includes getting high with Timothy Leary and seducing astronauts.  

Controversial Thoughts

I want to write about a pedophile priest and get inside his head.  I want to find a way to make him understandable, because he is who he is, and from somewhere in his unusual life came these compulsions. 
“There is no evidence that a man can change from pedophilic to non-pedophilic (or vice versa),” says clinical psychologist James Cantor, the editor in chief of “Sexual Abuse: A Journal of Research and Treatment,” in an email. “A person can be taught tools to help him deal with his sexual interests, and a person’s sex drive can sometimes be suppressed, such as with testosterone-blocking medications. The overall evidence, however, is that changing from pedophilic to non-pedophilic is as impossible as changing a gay man to a straight man.” He adds: “The kind and scale of differences that we see on MRIs of pedophilic men are not the kind or scale that are known to change with training, or psychotherapy or other kinds of intervention.”
Controversial thoughts
(2008) Today, age sixty, I'm outside with the doors locked, and everyone else is inside a place I can never get to. It's 2008 and I'm wondering why other people have houses and cars and I never have had either.  Well I’ve had cars, but always broken down second and third hand cars, nothing I could rely on. . . I've rented every place I've lived except my parents’ house.  I’ve spent, what, 15 years now dealing with these rapes as a child by a priest? To an outsider it seems like a person should get over it by the time they're 60 years old.  But when you consider I did not know what was wrong with me until I was 45, it is not that long of a time. -ke (still digging in journals) 

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Beautiful Faces

(More back story found in old journals)

The judge said, let’s acknowledge the victims, and all in the court turned to the viewing area. Men who had been raped by pedophile priest Clinton Hagenbach from the 1960s to 1980s were in many of the seats, and as they rose a wave of pheromones and testosterone filled the room. They each emanated an internal rage, but also they shared a remarkable characteristic.

Beautiful angelic faces. 

I had seen the phenomenon once before among pedophile priest survivors, at an event in 2006. They asked everyone in the room who had been molested by a priest to stand up, and again, it was a sea of angelic faces, all in different stages of aging, all showing different signs of damage, but still stunning and beautiful faces.

Seeing them, I couldn't help but imagine the pedophile priest decades ago, standing in front of an elementary school classroom looking among the students for his next targets.  Of course.  It stands to reason.  The predator priest would select children with beautiful angelic faces. 

Also, thanks to seven thousand pedophile priests in the USA, a lot of us have twisted sexuality in our DNA. 

In those of us who share this unique experience of being molested by a priest at a very formative age, the weird sexuality seems to have gotten meshed into our DNA, or become part of us at an instinctive level, I've found it to be true for me and for several men and women I've met since doing City of Angels Blog. And I saw it in some of the Hagenbach victims. 

It's like someone washed us down with a sex wipe at a cellular level. 

It's not so much a problem now that I'm a little old lady especially since I hardly ever go out of the house anymore… hmm maybe that's why…I don't go out of the house anymore. 

But when I was in “the life,” the sexuality seemed to precede me even before I entered a room, even if I didn't do anything to make it happen.  I saw the same quality in so many other pedophile priest victims, I have to conclude, that hyper sexuality in your DNA is yet another way these priests damaged us. 

The hearing where I noticed this phenomenon among the Hagenbach victims was July 17 2007 in L.A. Superior Court where all the L.A. Clergy Cases got dismissed (510 settlements in one swoop).  The first jury trial, concerning Hagenbach, was supposed to start on that day, one of dozens of trials on calendar concerning dozens of priests in the coming months, so many of his victims were in attendance. 

Hagenbach


had been a prolific perpetrator in L.A. in the sixties, seventies, and eighties, so at the time of the hearing his victims ranged in age from thirties to fifties, and some who had filed lawsuits were in the courtroom that day. 

They were ready for a trial, fighting ready, and instead they got a million dollars or so each.  And no one ever really heard anything more about the crimes.

But that day in honor of these men in the courtroom who did not get to see the trial come to fruition, the judge had them all stand up so we could acknowledge them, sort of a moment of silence thing.  

And this amazing mass of mannishness and charismatic masculinity swept over the courtroom as a dozen guys stood up, all of them good looking, striking men with handsome faces. 

Beautiful angelic faces.

-kay ebeling
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