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. Thanks for sending high fives ($5s) through the PayPal Buy Now button on the left to support this work.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012


Dialogue from Episode One: 

“My story is so outrageous, people don’t believe it.”
“I have the same experience.”

Monday, November 19, 2012

From Here On Out

I am just going to sit here where I've landed and write two books, next two years.  Sit here with this window in front of me and a train to Chicago blocks away, and write fiction based on all the stories, posted and not posted, at CofA Blog since 2007.  

Going to post the stories here. 

I've got one half finished already, so stay close by.
Kay E

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Time I Trashed the Girls Room at St. Perpetua Church: Enraged confused pedophile priest victim trying to grow up normal

I FOUND IT:   The post about trashing the bathroom at St. Perpetua Church in San Marino  CA.  First posted January 2007 at Cityof Angels One titled: “Teenage years add-on” but last few weeks I keep editing it and editing it*,   At some point you have to just let go and publish.  In an upcoming fiction piece is a female character with same backstory as me named Cass. 


It must have been 1961 as I was thirteen years old. 

Usually my dad was on business trips and my atheist mom would let me and my sister skip Mass.  

Now my dad had a job in downtown L.A.  No more ditching church.

My mom dropped me off and watched until I got in the door.  But as soon as she pulled away, I was out the side door and around the back of the church where I knew there was a girls rest room in the elementary school playground area.  

In this concrete space in the back of the church property it was quiet and felt safely remote.  Now I could finally come to a stop after a day of playing four square in the neighborhood like a ravaging maniac, going faster than the speed of life all that day, running away from the curious confusing swirl of emotions that had started up as the rest of the family left for church that morning,

I avoided Mass that morning when the family car pulled away but my dad's glare was rigid: “You'll go at five o'clock then.”

Sure, a lot of kids don't want to go to church on Sundays, but the revulsion I felt was so much deeper than my friends’ dislike of church.  At age thirteen, I’d long ago stuffed away memories of Father Horne and his invasive fingers in me at age five.  I just knew there was something I did not like about the Catholic Church and I didn't want to participate anymore.

Now in that cold gray girls restroom with no one around I stopped long enough to feel the emotion that had been churning in me that day, a mixture of revulsion and rage. 

It started as I looked at myself, a tube of lipstick in my hand.  Maybe my first intent was just to put some lipstick on, maybe I was still planning to go back into the church.  But soon instead of on my lips, the red waxy tube of color became my paint.  On the mirror I wrote the words “Hypocrites, Catholics are Hypocrites.”  I got so much satisfaction from the red markings smashing into the mirror surface, that I continued writing

"Hypocrites, Catholics Are All Hypocrites" 

all over the rest of the mirror and then on the wall next to the mirror, until the lipstick was ground flat. 

Now the rage had emerged and I needed something else.  I was making gurgling noises that occasionally grew to a growling scream.  The people inside Mass must have been able to hear me but I was no longer aware of where I was.  My rage was unbounded and I wanted to destroy more, get louder, get more outrageous. 

On the wall was a towel dispenser from the 1960s where you pulled and more clean towel would unroll and the used towel rolls back into the dispenser.  I pulled and pulled and pulled until I had extended the white cloth all over the bathroom, then twisted the cloth, dipped it in the water running in the sink, dragged the white cloth on the floor, stomping as much dirt from my shoes onto it as I could.  I tried to pull the cloth into a toilet stall but it would not reach that far, a fact that made me more enraged. 

My screeching noises became more shrill, I pulled and pulled at the towel and became tangled up with it where I’d fallen on the floor, my gyrating so out of control I couldn't stop twisting myself up.  I couldn't pull the towel any farther so the rage was building up and I was looking around for something else, some other thing I could jerk myself over to and destroy.

Then the light in the room changed. 

Because a nun, in full black habit and veil stood in the doorway.  The restroom faced west so the setting sun formed a silhouette, the nun was a black form in the doorway, with the smog of an L.A. summer afternoon bright gray behind her. 

I stopped.  A rush of completeness and serenity washed over me and I stopped pulling on the towel dispenser, untangles myself.  I couldn't see the nun’s face, just her eerie presence. 

I don't really remember what happened after that. 

Except it was soon after that incident that my dad told me and my older sister Patricia, you know what, I will give you a choice.  He said, you are old enough and mature enough to decide for yourselves if you want to go to Mass on Sunday, if you don't want to go, you don't have to go. 

My dad, the wonderful progressive futuristic thinking guy that I always thought that he was. 

I didn't realize until 1994 my dad knew what Father Horne had done to me and my sister when we were preschool aged, apparently.  So ten years later when I trashed the girls bathroom at the church, he was beginning to see the effects those criminal fingers had on his two daughters. 


I did act out from the time I was about age six in ways that showed I’d been molested, it's just up to the early 1960s, people didn't know what it meant when a little girl is always climbing up on the men in the room and bouncing on their laps.   

I had textbook behavior of a molested child.  I took an overdose of vitamins when I was around nine, the overeating that started at age seven or so was astonishing, and I was obese all the way up to becoming preteen and going into puberty when I realized I’d need to be thin to be attractive and get the sex I now wanted.  So then I had anorexia starting in 1962 before anyone even knew what anorexia was,

I took my cousins into a room and sexualized them under the covers when I was maybe seven, while our parents were drinking and celebrating in the other room. 

There was the incident in the tree house in Bartlett with the neighborhood kids 

Little incidents: I wore green eye shadow as lipstick at one family event,  No one asked why, but at my dad’s funeral 80 years later, my aunt was still remarking about me wearing green eye shadow as lipstick. 

In today’s world with those signals, child abuse professionals would have converged on my parents to find out who was molesting me by the time I was about six. 

But no, my karma was to have the experience of being sexualized at age six by a Catholic priest and then be thrown aroused out into the world with all its repercussions. 

Originally published in shorter form here in January 2007

then edited and developed as part of the story at City of Angels 15 in October 2012, finally published in November.. 

The City of Angels is everywhere especially  




And now I'm finished writing my own story and ready to take this to a different level.  

Stay tuned. 

Posted by Kay Ebeling
cooling down in Illinois
* I might not even have the right church.  It might have been a different church... oh well. It was somewhere in San Gabriel Valley 1961.

Friday, October 26, 2012

This blog is all backstory.  

The character based on me is just one of the characters.   

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Sex Abuse in Confessional, pedophile priest tactic

In 1956 I was in another state 2000 miles away age 8, we'd moved from small town Illinois to big city Los Angeles  My mom took me to Confession at a church in San Gabriel, I think. When I talked to this new priest in the confessional the way Father Horne taught me to fantasize and "confess" to him in Bartlett, the new priest ran out into the Church with his eyes bugging out of his head and pointed at me going, "Gah, gah, gah."  I didn't know I'd done anything wrong... My mom, almost like she was in a trance, asked no questions, just got up from the pew to collect me and we quietly left the church.  

It is going to make a good scene in a movie someday.



Searching CofA Blog for the post about trashing the girls restroom at Sts Felicitas and Perpetua Church, haven't found it yet, but just found this at CofA1 and it needed almost no editing at all:  It's backstory now:  (Corrected, re Columbia burning up on re-entry)

Pedophile Priest Adopts Rural Family

In 15 years of trying to write this story inevitably it turns into a listing: first this happened then this happened then this happened. That’s in part because there is so much that happens in the story, but it’s also due to how difficult I’m finding it is to write your own story.

So here is a short list of what is going to be in the story:

A bit about the parents:  1930s Chicago ambitious law student works at Hardings Restaurant in the Loop where he meets the former art student now waitress thanks to the Depression who becomes his wife. He’s an ardent Catholic, her family are atheist activists from Poland, but she promises to raise the kids in the Catholic church, anything to land this catch. A law student husband was a big accomplishment for a girl in 1930s Chicago.

1949, they now have three children, three girls age 11, six, and a newborn, me, Kathryn. Family moves from Chicago to the rural area along Route 20 on the way to Elgin. The young criminal lawyer invests in 20 acres of farmland surrounded by woods. The house on the land may have been a mansion. It was huge. It had a ballroom and a tower. It was in the woods between Bartlett and the country club. We saw sheep on the other side of our fence.

Family became active in the new little Catholic Church in Bartlett, where Father Thomas Berry Horne, the pastor who came with the new church from Chicago singled them out quickly as friends. Dad became an usher, mom played the organ during Mass, and priest made visits to the family home several times a week. Dad traveled a lot for work, mom was bored and alone on 20 acres with a newborn and two older girls.

Father Horne was soon diddling the mom and the six year old. Eleven year old was painfully humiliated at being ignored by the pedophile priest and kept running away from home, for reasons no one understood. Mom carried on shamefully with the priest, but it was rural Illinois cloistered in wealth, plus she was an atheist at heart, and grew up in the Roaring Twenties.

Father Horne lost interest in Patsy, as she grew older and by the time she was 10, he had dumped the plumping awkward little girl in favor of Kathy who had just turned five.

Kathy was an enthusiastic participant with the pedophile priest. Out there on the ground in the woods he lit fires in her with the cloudy Illinois sunshine in the trees behind him. After Father Horne’s visits Kathy would run around the house panting with excitement, out of control energy. On other occasions when mom was practicing her organ music for the upcoming Sunday Mass, little Kathy would go off to the rectory behind the church with Father Horne, playing with him on his little mattress on the floor in his room. There was wine. There was some strange thing we smoked in a pipe. Kathy could hear her mother’s organ music coming from the church, the discordant clang of her hitting the wrong keys as she practiced a Mozart sonata.

My family was a pedophile priest’s dream come true: wealth, reverent Catholic dad who was never home, atheist mom who was bored and neglected her kids, plus we weren’t just rural we were out in the woods. But then we upset his applecart so to speak. My dad ever the real estate investor sold the house in the woods and we built a beautiful new home from scratch, right in the town of Bartlett (now Village of Bartlett in the middle of a mass of suburbs, but then a sleepy town about 8 square blocks with a train station and. . .)

The brand new house was a bike ride away from the church and soon little Kathy was showing up at all times of day, panting with excitement as she knocked on the rectory door, chasing around looking for Father Horne because she wanted to do it some more. Father Horne would be embarrassed when she’d track him down. A couple times he acted like they hardly knew each other. Kathy was getting confused.

But ever enthused about all the things the pedophile priest had showed her, Kathy started to tell it to the world. She’d babble about sexy things she did with Father Horne at the dinner table embarrassing her parents and their guests. She talked about it at school, at church. One time she even took a few kids from the neighborhood in Bartlett up to a tree house where she led them in self-touching techniques, showed them all how to masturbate, not even knowing that’s what it was called. She had a tree house full of boys and girls touching themselves all just because she was so excited about what the priest had shown her and she wanted to share it with all her friends so they could feel all that excitement too.

People were starting to talk.

So one day Kathy and her dad piled into the 1953 Plymouth, an exciting day, Kathy got to go all the way to Chicago with her dad and nobody else. They went to a cathedral like building. Kathy was taken into a big dark room with large office furniture, high ceilings, and wall-length windows, but it was dark -- Chicago skies. Out of the dark came the face of a man, the bishop they called him, and he looked down at the little girl and spoke with a brogue. “You’ve been doing a great deal of talking about you and Father Horne haven’t you, my dear?” Kathy nodded. Cardinal Stritch then put his face down very close to hers and said in a very stern voice but it still lilted in an almost melodic way. “You babble, my child.  You have to stop babbling.”  Then he leaned closer.  “Sometimes it’s better not to tell the truth, to tell a small lie, if the small lie will help protect a greater good.” Kathy knew what he was talking about and she kept her mouth shut. She did not mention what the priest did to her again for 40 years.


In 1979, 25 years later, little Kathy was now Kay and living in Texas. One thing led to another and at age 30 she had a degree in Journalism from UT Austin and landed the job of a lifetime. NASA created a position for her in the public affairs office at LBJ Space Center in Houston. It was a time when NASA was expanding.  They’d just hired the first class of astronauts for the space shuttle.  Kay was sharp and NASA actually did create the job for her after her creative letter writing campaign.  So in September of 1978 she had her own office on the sprawling south Houston site.  Kay mainly edited the inhouse newspaper, but she also wrote press releases about work going on at LBJ space center, where about 25 thousand people worked in development of a lagging U.S. project, the Space Shuttle.

A couple reporters were grilling her one day, saying, come on, you know there’s a lot of danger with the tiles the way they are now on the shuttle.  

To be honest, in the office next door to Kay a PR guy from Rockwell had been working about a year and he had whispered that truth to her a while back, and to be honest, everyone who worked on the Space Shuttle knew the tiles might burn up on re-entry, as they did in 2003 when the Columbia burned up and the entire crew died. 

Don’t the tiles need to be redesigned no matter how much more it delays the Shuttle? the reporter asked Kay.   By now Kay had become adept at adopting personae, and now she turned, stared the reporter in the eye, and adopted the persona of Cardinal Stritch in that Chicago archdiocese office in 1955. Her features formed the expression on the cardinal’s face, her voice took on his melodic almost Irish lilt, as she affirmed to the reporter: 

“There’s not a problem with the space shuttle tiles any more.  They fixed it with the glaze.  Those stories are all exaggerated.”

I may have looked like a dressed for success upstart sharp chick to the reporter, but inside my head I saw myself as the Cardinal saying to me with a lilt in his voice, sometimes it's best not to tell the truth to protect a greater good.

That job at NASA did not last three years. Once stories started to get back to her bosses about the way I pursued astronauts at parties and my carrying on with pilot types and flight engineers who stayed around them, or anyone really, the lowliest tech, as long as they were somehow connected to this roadway to the sky that was the space program, I’d go after him. 

I was a scandal.

NASA officials probably all the way to Washington were saying get her out of there about me.  I pursued men in the space program with a compulsion no one could not understand.  The compulsion happened on automatic, I couldn't control it.  NASA guys were to me like men connected to God. . .

Another reason I couldn’t keep the job at NASA was the 15 page security form they gave me to fill out. But see, I’m getting ahead of myself.


Little Kathy and Dad came home from their day trip to Chicago and the family suddenly had even more money than it had before. Plus dad had a new job in corporate law so we packed up and moved to California. The brand new beautiful house in Bartlett went up for sale and we drove out Highway 66 and bought a home in San Marino, south of Pasadena.

Looking back on it now, it seems like we just all of a sudden had a lot more money but no one talked about where it came from or why my dad changed his job so quickly.

Somewhere along the way we stopped going to church at all.

To be continued. . .

 Originally published here at CofA 1

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Notes: Faster than the Speed of Life


Today I write my story because my story is the only asset I have left.

Like Little Annie Fannie with angel wings, I began my pursuit of the priest soon after puberty.  

Pursuit of the Priest took me to the Timothy Leary ranch near Laguna, to a Yoga ashram in Dallas, to starring in porn films thinking it would not hurt my acting career, to relentless lobbying until NASA created a job for me in Houston where I pursued astronauts in a kind of confusion about men in high places.  

I think what happened to me, the priest finger banging and arousing me at five-six years old, damaged me at a cellular level.  So all over my entire system, everything is haywire.  For instance, when the drug Fen-Fen came out to decrease appetite, I took it and became ravenously hungry.  

I apply an herbal ointment to a cold sore and it gets worse.    

In my teenage years, when everyone else got the munchies smoking pot, I wouldn't be able to get a bite past my clenched teeth.  

Today I dance in orgasmic glee to Gospel songs in my room, then write this story. 

One reason for my dad’s decision to stop forcing us to go to church anymore when I was thirteen could have been the way I trashed out the girls rest room at St. Perpetua church in San Marino, which I think is described in this post from 2006 in need of a rewrite.  That combined with my sister’s precocious sexuality as soon as she reached puberty must have made it register in my dad’s head: What Father Horne did to his two daughters apparently had long lasting effects.  (I was wrong, that link does not include the story of how I trashed the rest room at St. Felicitas and Perpetua Church in San Marino at age 13, and I can't find it on any of the blogs.  Guess I have to write it again...*)

But somewhere between Father Horne-y whispering dirty fantasies to me in the confessional at age six and my dad liberating me from Sunday Mass at thirteen, I picked up a connection to the Spirit.  When I reached puberty, at a very visceral level, I connected my budding sexuality to religious feelings I had when I was a kid, and so a quest began, a kind of pursuit in search of what connected the two, sexuality and spirit.  

Whatever I used to connect to The Spirit had to be anything but the Catholic Church.   So as soon as I became a teenager, I began exploring alternative religions. 

Jump to 2011

How do I describe what happened for a whole year, about May 2011 to now, more than a year?  I have to say the dalliance with the Chicago Archdiocese attorneys in April  2011 did get me sidetracked.  

Why did they have to even dangle the possibility of a settlement in front of me like that, only to draw me in to their offices in Chicago- Shoot, I was stupid enough to think they might offer me a job too- only to have one lawyer whisper in my one ear a low four figure settlement amount, while another lawyer whispered in the other ear, “There’s a problem, it's your blog.”  

I stormed out of their offices and sabotaged my own case, but still STILL I hate to admit spent a year hoping the phone would ring any second with my lawyer quoting a settlement figure that would truly change my life.  How wonderful that would have been but of course it did not happen.  They just wanted me to stop blogging, created that whole "settlement conference" to tell me to stop blogging.  So it perplexes me how, even though it was an indirect result, I did stop blogging. 

Me in West Virginia? 

Then it perplexes me even more how I ended up for an entire year in that off the grid pile of rubble small town in Appalachia where I couldn't even get to a grocery store, let alone a plane or train to get outta there.  It's strange as I look back now, because the individuals whose interactions with me resulted in me ending up abandoned in West Virginia are no longer in my life, they disappeared after depositing me there.  One gave me a ride to WV, the other was supposed pick me up there and drive me to Chicago, but never showed up, so I just got left there, another was going to give me a place to stay.  

All three bombed out and disappeared from my life. 

I could start babbling like a paranoiac saying the Catholic Church set that whole thing in motion to make me as impotent as possible, after all Dirty Tricks seem to have become a thriving industry in America.  

Narcissist or Paranoiac? 

I have to slap myself down sometimes and realize how narcissistic it is to think institutions are carrying out conspiracies against you, I honestly have to slap down that kind of thinking. 

Unfortunately for pedophile priest victims, when we babble about The Vatican and the Pope working against us, sounding like we are paranoid and delusional, what we are describing can actually be real.    


I'm just one blogging pedophile priest victim, I really doubt the church or anyone else would go to that much of an extreme to keep City of Angels Blog from continuing.  Getting me abandoned in West Virginia.  

Still as I grew mold in that hot damp place, I sometimes wondered how did I end up there.  Glad I got out, but it wasn't easy. 

It's poverty and the limitations of it that really brought City of Angels blog to a halt. 

If I just had a car and the budget to pay for gas and maintenance, I could accomplish so much.  

Instead, I went to Albuquerque and could not get any of the places I needed to get, am having the same problem here in Chicago.  So I have to re-direct this writing project, make it more fictional, deriving from the work I've done already.  I can't keep setting up interviews when I have no way to get to them.  I can't keep trying to do investigative journalism depending on the bus.  

A lot of money went out in settlements to a few survivors and a lot of attorneys as a result of these crimes over the last twenty years, but here I am with no car, says a lot about my karma with money. . . 

oh well.

Guess I'll write fiction.
I created a niche for myself with this blog and thrived through 2007-2008, then one after another I got stones thrown at me, and and though I can’t prove it, the persons who should have been there to support me while I was under attack seemed to be the persons actually orchestrating the attack.  
* HOWEVER I did find this story at CofABlog from 2009 which mentions Sts. Felicitas and Perpetua Church in San Marino CA where I trashed the restroom at age thirteen, become and enraged mad-child scrawling "Hypocrites" on the walls with lipstick."  More to come

TUESDAY, MAY 19, 2009

Fired again: Examiner Dot Com bows to pressure from Church, eliminates my job as LA City Buzz


By Kay EbelingItalic
Producer, City of Angels Network

So here I am back at City of Angels again. After a post I put up April 29th-30th, the L.A. Archdiocese "General Counsel" contacted Examiner Dot Com and pressured them to remove me from their site. So far I have not been able to get a copy of that letter. But I was fired from Examiner Dot Com this afternoon. Oh well, that means:

City of Angels is Back.

After getting a letter from a Church Attorney, Examiner Dot Com decided they also did not like my side quips and snide remarks and as a matter of fact, they don't approve of on any of the stories I wrote in the last few months. Examiner Los Angeles, which promotes stories such as "Actress Reveals Chubby Belly in Bikini" with pictures stolen from copyrighted sites, found my stories about criminals being sleezebags to be "not in line with our guidelines."

Meanwhile Monsignor Richard Loomis is still listed as Pastor of Sts. Felicitas and Perpetua Church in San Marino, pictured here, and Loomis was supposed to be the focus of the April 29 stories that got me fired. Loomis, when he was known as Brother Becket in the late 1960s, had one good enough allegation against him to be one of the priests named in the 510 civil cases settled against the Los Angeles Archdiocese July 2007. 

Story from 2009 at City of Angels Blog continues here 


Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Preview: Coming Soon


I ran the kitchen at the Integral Yoga Ashram in Dallas, Texas, in 1970.  Twice a day I fixed vegetarian meals for 20-25 people plus packed lunches for the residents who worked at outside jobs.  

Why did you leave the Yoga ashram in Dallas? people often ask.

Well the group got kind of extreme.  They took vows of…

“Chastity?" People then ask, “You mean you took a vow of chastity?”

I say, “Well not me.  I got pregnant.  With the guy who delivered the brown rice.”

That’s supposed to be a joke.  I need to work on the timing.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

If you've been out walking barefoot, do you put shoes on when you enter an ashram?

Question posed when cultures clashed at the yoga ashram above Barham Boulevard in Burbank California in 1969. 

Since we were nascent hippies as well as yoga teachers in training, a lot of Integral Yoga residents would spend time outside walking around barefoot. 

We donned East Indian cultural exteriors.  We wore “whites,” ate vegetarian, and at the entryway of this one-time movie star mansion was an area for people to take their shoes off as they entered. 

Those who had been barefoot outside would just walk right in past the shoes at the door. 

So I posed the question, if you're running around barefoot, then shouldn't you actually put on shoes when you enter this sanctuary? 

It made everyone become silent.  A few people started to mock me with a titter of laughter but then Moorti, one of the wiser of the New Yorkers who’d come to plant this yoga center in L.A. said:

“She’s right.  I never thought about it, but she’s right.”

I jumped back in then: “They're bringing dirt in from the outside on their feet.  The whole idea behind taking your shoes off at the door is don't bring dirt in from the outside.”

I said, “So if you've been walking around barefoot, you should put on some kind of slipper when you enter the ashram.”

But of course they did not change the rules, and I moved on.  
(read more)

Starry Eyed for Krishna, In Pursuit of the Priest

After starting City of Angels Blog, I learned that “prolonged PTSD with re-traumatization" is not unusual in stories of pedophile priests and their victims. This is my story.

From Behind a Nearby Tree Emerged Krishna...

Monday, September 24, 2012

Molested by a priest, thrown out of a Brownie meeting

(Thanks to Father Horne-y I was a seven-year-old sexual predator.)

I got thrown out of a Brownie meeting when I was seven years old. 

The year was 1954 so most people had not yet made the connection between a child acting out sexually and the likelihood that child has been sexually molested.  In the early 1950s  wisecracks about oral sex and sodomy by a seven-year-old evoked shock, then certainty that the child was inherently evil, born bad, and for the sake of the rest of the children the little pervert had to be removed.

At seven I was so innocent, likely just repeating what I learned in a blur of sessions in my young life that involved my parents, my sister, and a Roman Catholic priest in town.

With horror on her face, the Brownie leader jumped up, grabbed me from the table, where I sat with other little girls cutting with kid-scissors, and held me away from her as she whisked me out the door and slammed it shut, leaving me to wait outside on the porch for the special Thanksgiving Brownie meeting to end and my mother to come get me. 

Geographic Triggers

Recently I went to the park in the little town in Illinois where this all took place.  The building is known as “the log cabin,” built in 1952 according to the plaque outside the door, and it's still the town meeting place for Brownies and Girl Scouts, just four blocks from the Catholic church where Father Horne-y aroused me at age five, turning me into that preschool aged sexual predator in a Brownie meeting. 

Somewhere in the two-lane roads and illicit activities of this small town outside Chicago in the 1950s, this little girl, me, had learned about inserting objects into genital areas.  Then I repeated what I learned thinking I’d make the other girls laugh, while doing a construction paper crafts project with future Girl Scouts. 

Whatever I said must have been innocent and without malice.  

I was only seven years old.  

Still I was whisked away and shunned.  In fact the family moved to California to start a new life shortly after my incident with the Brownies.  I often wonder how much the whole affair with Father Horne-y and my mom, and rumors starting to spread around the town, tied in with my dad’s decision to move the family from Bartlett Illinois to Los Angeles in 1955. 

Being thrown out of Brownies was a horrible experience for a child to have and it implanted in me a sense that there was something wrong with me, I was to be detested, the badness in me was innate and just part of me, so there was nothing I could do to change it.  To this day there is an oh-poor-me look in my eyes even when I'm happy. 

Of course in 2012 or even in the 1990s, if a seven-year-old shows knowledge of perverse sex acts, alarms go off in the minds of every adult in hearing distance.  In 2012 we don't realize how different the world was before 1960 when Phil Donahue style TV shows and Freudian psychology started to have an impact on the population. 

In 1954 no one talked about sex. 

It was just not brought up. 

So I went through childhood displaying blatant signs of having been a molested child, with no intervention.

These days I live not too far away from Bartlett where all this took place.  Molestation by a Catholic priest and apparent photographing of me and my sister in sexual situations when we were preschool aged, all took place in this snoozing small town about an hour outside Chicago. 

I know about the criminal activity from comparing notes with my older sister, with whom I am totally estranged, because of the horrible effect these incidents as children had on our lives, the compulsions we shared, the humiliations we experienced together, in our twenties and thirties.  My sister and I got together again a few years back as mature adults, long enough to compare notes and realize what the priest did to both of us. 

But too late to repair the damages. 

Geographic Triggers

I'm here in 2012 living in a town near Bartlett trying to experience geographic triggers.  I figure if I'm in the area, I’ll get an inkling of memory from a smell, or the way light comes through the trees at a certain time of the year.  It's difficult because it's been more than sixty years since most the incidents happened and the world has just changed SOOOO much since the early 1950s.  

Not sure how much geographic triggering I’ll experience while I'm here. 

I write about this today just because it says so much about the effect sexual molestation has on a person’s life from the time it happens as a child to the time they're in their sixties like me today, trying to piece my life together.  That sad dejection of the girl thrown out of the Brownie meeting is still in my eyes to this day. 

And God knows what kind of a person I could have become without the molestation in there affecting my behavior. 

And yes, this is me continuing the exploration I started in July of 2008.  It took me this long to make it back to Bartlett.  But I'm here now.

Monday, July 30, 2012

I Can Finally Stand the Silence, even relish in it

(This post needs one more edit)

In 1995 I was diagnosed with PTSD for forty years.  They said I’d been traumatized as a child and reacting to it since I was five to seven years old, or forty years, which at University of California San Francisco Medical Center is called Prolonged Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It may sound like a crazy San Francisco thing, until you hear my story.  For me, finding out I’d had PTSD for 40 years, was a blessed explanation for things that had plagued me all my life.  By age 45, I was as shocked by my own behavior as everyone else had been all my life once they got to know me.  At 45 I was alone in a small Northern California town where I knew almost nobody, with a five year old child, trying to figure out how my life had gone so wrong and landed me there. 

Trying to figure out how I could have made all the stupid mistakes I’d made that led me to end up this broke desperate bloated unhealthy weepy female in her forties with NOTHING to show for my life but a child I needed to support. 

So for me the diagnosis made perfect sense.

PTSD since age five explained everything. 


Then since I realized what caused the crazy behavior, I stopped it, and turned into a completely different person.  Completely.  I stopped being the mania driven whore whose life was a nonstop response to something I was not going to slow down long enough to look at.  I slowed down and stopped, then looked at it, then all of a sudden I was able to remain in a comfortable position on a couch. 

At least now sometimes I can hold still. 


Today (November 2011) living in a weird space. 

I can’t tell anyone what I'm writing about.  I don't want to go into the whole thing, explanations, referring people to bishop accountability to prove indeed there have been six thousand pedophile priests found in the USA alone, that's priests with allegations against them legal enough that their names can be published by a corporate nonprofit.  

I'm writing this thing, trying to finish it by 2015. 

NOTES for upcoming stories:

1.  Joys of doing your own medical care in the insurance free so no health care at all world I live in.  First, become a vegan.

2.  Call Troy Gray in Colorado and ask about this note I found from 2008:

"Troy says he may have DVD or at least transcript of testimony before Colorado state legislature that included a 92 year old lady who came forward for the first time that day to say she was a pedophile priest victim. 

"And there was also a local politician guy who stood up and came out as a survivor in the middle of that hearing."




Still November 2011, 

Now that I've been abandoned in West Virginia, I am dying of loneliness. 

I have to find a way to get out of this town.  

How did I ever end up in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia? 

A guy from the pedophile priest movement dropped me off here in March, and I was supposed to be picked up in April by another guy in the “pedophile priest survivor movement” but he never showed up, and  the woman from the "survivor movement" who invited me turned out to  not have any room for me, so I got stranded in this town known as "the country's first spa." 

So I rented an apartment and made the best of it.

Now West Virginia has served its purpose. And a good purpose it's been. 

I've learned to live with myself, and I can even turn the TV and radio and everything off sometimes and just sit in the quiet.  The previous decades before coming here, in fact pretty much since the damn recovered memory came in around 1994, I was not able to tolerate silence for more than a few seconds.  The horrible thoughts would pour in. 

Those uncontrollable images have finally stopped.

I should not say “damned recovered memory” but blessed recovered memory. 

Without it I’d never have understood why my behavior was so bad.  At least now I get to live the life of a little old lady as a different person than the slut I was from about age 12 or puberty on.    

Meanwhile I keep trying to use the space station fantasy to counteract the isolation.  I pretend, this is what life is like in the future when individual humans can be astronauts living in space long periods of time in isolated settlements. 

To my isolation I have the added element of not being the same person I used to be twenty years ago.  So I don't even really know myself. 

I get to live with this new person.  I also get to live with knowing all the screw-ups in my life that shocked me as well as just about every person I encountered, all that behavior, the shameful way I lived, can all be explained away with the fact I had PTSD for forty years. 

I could have been successful, in fact, sometimes I almost was successful, but I always sabotaged it. 

If only I’d been able to keep my job at NASA back in the 1980s and become what I could have become. 

Instead I have this cheap furnished room and I earn just a little over the poverty line in income, so since I'm so rich, I get no help from the government with anything.  Plus what few friends I do have are all as poor as I am and able to live on government grants for which I somehow never qualify.  So I have to watch them get free medical care, subsidized rent, and food stamps, while I self medicate in a high-priced slum living on rice the last two weeks each month. 


But food and medicine are not the main basic human need that for me is never met.  It's been more than 24 years since I felt arms around me.  Even now thinking of it, my eyes glaze, I exhale.  I have an inkling of what it would be like to feel love.  I know a couple of the men I was with early on, in my early twenties, late teens, would have been wonderful life partners. 

Imagine if I’d married Tim Young, who was my high school passion.  Instead I threw him off my front porch when he came back to see me in my senior year, me age 17(?), just beginning to discover the power I had over men, and the rage I’d feel for them after. 

I was so mean to him as I threw Tim Young out of my life.  

Then I repeated that pattern all the way through adulthood.  Fuck men then throw them out in as mean a way as possible.


Joy of life without access to health care in the USA.

This is the second one of these pussy globules that's formed under my skin and grown into a pulsing, mucous filled white head 20 times the size of a pimple.  They appear underneath my arm, in the armpit.  

The first time it happened was when Lizzie and I lived in a homeless shelter in 2004. I must have picked something up there....


November 21, 2011, I am dying of loneliness. 

I'm actually kind of liking this lifestyle I landed in, where I'm on my own alone almost all the time.  I mean, I just had a phone conversation and emailed a couple people, so I'm not totally cut off. 

Just living on a space station in the Appalachians.  

Where Finally I Can Stand Silence.

For the first time in years I'm able to sit in silence and just enjoy it.  Finally.  FINALLY.  Finally the chatter has slowed down to a stop in my head.  I can actually turn the TV off before I go to bed and lie down in a different room, close the door even, and go to sleep. 

I still take a handful of Benadryl at night to get to sleep but I'm getting better. 

In fact it's become like an exercise or an experiment. 

Turn off all the media, turn off the TV and don't immediately turn on the radio, just listen to the silence.

Finally I can do that, at least for a little while.

Finally the shit doesn't boil up from the bottom and immediately take over the conversation in my head. 


NOTE:  I'm not saying I heard voices, just that the rage has been forming sentences and paragraphs in my head for years now, and I’d stop everything and write them down, or run them in my head until I could.  That's the chatter that's finally coming to a stop.

More to come

-By Kay Ebeling, 
Producer of City of Angels Blog 
since January 2007.

Art is from Resonance Network 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

That was Me, I thought, as I watched My Week with Marilyn

As I watched the movie My Week With Marilyn, at one scene my mouth dropped open and I said, “That was me.” It’s where Marilyn realizes she’s destroyed her personal and professional life and is having an emotional breakdown  leaning against a wall crying.

That was me in a bathroom of a Houston oil company office building downtown in 1981. One month earlier, I had been a NASA Public Affairs Officer, working in the LBJ Space Center newsroom. I was even training to do Mission Commentary for Spacelab One. Now instead I was out of a job with a need to pay rent, so I’d gone to work as a temp in a downtown oil company. One afternoon, realizing my sexual compulsion had ruined so much in my life, I deconstructed, and spent hours in the ladies room acting exactly like Marilyn in the scene from the 2011 movie that struck me so hard, I had to capture a screen shot.

The summer that Marilyn Monroe’s body was found in her Beverly Hills apartment, I was only 13 years old, yet when I heard the news, it registered with me so intensely, I walked up the beach that day in a daze, crying.

I was only 13 years old, how did I even know who and what Marilyn Monroe was? But I did, I felt an affinity with her. Even before I reached puberty, I recognized in Marilyn Monroe the same damaged thing I knew was inside myself, it was coming from her eyes.

“Norma Jeane's later behavior (i.e. hypersexuality, sleep disturbances, substance abuse, disturbed interpersonal relationships), was a manifestation of the effects of childhood sexual abuse” (per Wikipedia’s entry on Marilyn Monroe.)

Back in the little studio apartment where I lived with my sister, I made Trish wake up. “I just heard something horrible on the news,” I said, “Marilyn Monroe is dead.”

“What are you doing? Why did you wake me up to tell me that?” she answered, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Trish did not get it. I thought she would get it.

Because my sister and I had this weird connection that had something to do with sex, and we realized later in life was probably because we were both molested in the same way by Father Thomas Barry Horne in Bartlett in the 1950s.  In 1962 somehow I just knew Marilyn Monroe had the same weird thing, so Trish should be just as anguished at Marilyn’s death as I was.

But she wasn’t.

Patricia is the only other person I know of, so far, that was molested by Father Thomas Barry Horne of Bartlett Illinois, both of us as preschoolers. Patricia is the sister with whom my whole life I shared this weird sameness, yet the two of us were very different from every other person on Earth.

We knew we shared something that made us sexually unusual, we just really didn't know what why or how.

For instance, Patricia held onto her virginity with confirmed passion all the way until she was age twenty-one.

Me, by age twenty-one, I’d had sex with more than a hundred men and had quit counting.

Summer 1962 was yet another summer I was sent to stay with my sister, who, I learned later in life, had been molested as a child by the same priest who got to me at age five. That summer I realized whatever made my sister and me the same, also made us very different. And For some reason my dad sent me to stay with my sister Patricia every summer, until I graduated high school, when I was sent to live with her where she had moved in Europe. 

Why did my dad send me to spend every summer with Patricia?


That 1962 summer morning, somewhere along the carnival area near the Balboa pier, I heard the news, that Marilyn Monroe had been found dead, and it struck me, stunned me. In almost a daze I stumbled up the beachfront sidewalk back to our little apartment out on the peninsula near The Wedge. 

The incidents with Father Horne when we were pre-school aged children lived in the tension between my sister and me our entire lives.


Credit for photo of the Monroe statue that was recently removed from downtown Chicago J. Seward Johnson's "Forever Marilyn" statue used to sit at Pioneer Court, July 25, 2011, in Chicago. (Raymond Boyd/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)

Watch the screenshot of the scene from My Week with Marilyn here http://cityofangels15.blogspot.com/2012/04/marilyn-and-me.html


Posted by Kay Ebeling, trying to solve mysteries
Photo is Father Horne standing outside his church in Bartlett, mid-1950s.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Starry Eyed for Krishna, In Pursuit of the Priest

After starting City of Angels Blog, I learned that “prolonged PTSD with re-traumatization" is not unusual in stories of pedophile priests and their victims. This is my story.

From Behind a Nearby Tree Emerged Krishna...

I don't remember what brought me into the backyard of the Integral Yoga Institute ashram in Burbank, California, that day. Did I do something subconsciously to seduce the man called Krishna, or was it just a coincidence we both ended up in the hidden gazebo? Did he seduce me? That part of the memory is gone. It was spring 1970 and I’d moved in around eight weeks earlier to the IYI “ashram,” a quasi commune in a Hollywood Hills mansion. Yoga classes in the living room were free to residents, we held evening sessions of chanting and prayer. While living in the Burbank Ashram I was so full of reverence I took Sanskrit classes so I could one day read ancient texts. I was learning a new way to pray, in pursuit of a new religion.

In reality, I was in pursuit of the priest because of being molested by Father Horne when I was preschool aged. But I didn't figure that part out until I was forty-five years old.

Now at 22, on a quiet afternoon in Burbank, I was wandering in the backyard of the ashram, past the landscaped area where we held outdoor events. I walked right up to the gazebo.

From out of a nearby tree emerged Krishna. Yes, his name was really Krishna, newly arrived in California from New York to teach Yoga to movie stars.

He pushed me up against the garden structure, ran his hands all over my body, pushed his penis up against me and within seconds, he ejaculated, exhaled, straightened his clothes and scampered back to the ashram to change into a fresh pair of “whites” so he could continue his work expanding the spiritual consciousness of Southern Californians.

When he ran off, I was left behind stunned, the same person as that five year old girl left behind in the woods after Father Horne molested me and scampered off. Both the priest and the Yogi had to clean themselves off after being with me.

That day in 1970 I stood in the trees leaning against the gazebo, listening to the hum of the freeway below, stunned, then eventually I went back inside the old mansion made now into a commune full of former hippies turned yogis. Over the next few days Krishna was shockingly cold to me, wouldn't look me in the eye, left me out of events. Then other Yogis and yoginis living in the ashram seemed to turn their backs on me, like they somehow knew something had happened.

I was sullied.

I quit Sanskrit class.

Soon I moved out and hitchhiked up Highway 101 on my way to Alaska, and ended up in Dallas, Texas…


At age 45 I was diagnosed as having PTSD since age five with 40 years of re-traumatization, which means after the incidents with Father Thomas Barry Horne at St. Peter Damian Church in Bartlett Illinois when I was five years old, for the rest of my life, over and over again, I put myself in situations that mimicked what happened with the pedophile priest in the trees.

Later, after starting City of Angels Blog in 2007, I found out that “prolonged PTSD with re-traumatization is not all that unusual in the pedophile priest stories.

A pattern for my life started at age five-six and repeated itself for decades. Whenever I joined a group, got a job, started classes, things would go great until I acted out sexually, and I always inevitably acted out sexually. Then doors would slam in my face, and I’d have to move on.

Take the incident with Krishna at the IYI Ashram in Burbank, Spring 1970. I learned about the group while I was recovering, sort of, at my parents’ house. I’d spent the previous summer at a commune outside the Timothy Leary ranch near Laguna Beach, again pursuing a charismatic man in high places with a connection to religion. (Read Pages of Timothy Leary's Book of Psychedelic Prayers) now back in L.A., a friend told me when we met on the street. “People live in this old mansion in the Hollywood Hills, you share a room, go to your job, and at night learn the asanas.”

Within a week after a beginner's Yoga class, I’d moved in.

I think Krishna taught that first Yoga class. When I saw his curly red hair and electric eyes, his bony body in the loose white clothes worn by the Yogis, I was immediately dazzled. But I must have been doing something with my eyes or body language that was completely unconscious. I mean, all the girls in the ashram had crushes on Krishna, and he was reverently ignoring all of them. But then there I was, Dazzle Eyed and putting out pheromones, some extra thing that was pulling him in, so no matter how much I tried to be a serious and studious and bury myself in Sanskrit letters, Krishna came after me.

From the moment I first encountered him, as he was interpreting some obscure reading from the Baghavad Gita with great insight and charisma looking like a red-haired version of Berger in HAIR! the compulsion was set in motion. The incident in the backyard at the gazebo was inevitable, it was just a matter of time. And then I was out the door.

Something sexual inside me bloomed and transported up my spine like a Kundalini snake, and we were going to connect sexually. It was a compulsion that sprouted inside me, I didn't have any control of at that young age. In fact I didn't even realize these impulses were strange and had a sick origin deep inside from sexual things done to me by Father Horne when I was age five in 1953.

It was just something I did, inevitably, once there was that click, I’d find a way to be banging the preacher in the backroom.

I have to stop a minute and describe what I must have looked like, how I must have appeared, to people who met me, like Krishna, a who was really just a nice Jewish boy from Manhattan who had been initiated and named Krishna by Swami Satchidananda, (pictured). The guru from India started Integral Yoga Institute in the late 1960s, after opening the Woodstock festival with a group meditation.

Krishna was not in Hollywood to connect with blondes. He told everyone he was in training to become Brahmacharya, where Yogis renounce all pleasures of the body, including sex.

Krishna had not counted on encountering me.

You have this unkempt curvy girl, probably not wearing a bra as that was a fashion statement in the 1960s that I embraced enthusiastically, so I was jiggling. My eyes must have still had a bit of kaleidoscope going on from a few months earlier when I’d been tripping with Timothy Leary followers in Laguna Canyon.

I know this sounds like a rape victim blaming herself, but truth is, I did something unconsciously, I moved my body, dressed, held myself in a way that made the male target of my compulsions pretty much helpless to stop me. A lot of this acting out, the flirting, was done unconsciously.

And if a man I encountered had a connection to God or the sky? Forget about it, I’d be so all over him, he’d have no defense against me.

In the case of “Krishna” I must have been relentless, so he felt he had no choice but to give up his “brahmacharya” vows for a quick romp in the woods with me.


Thing is, I was still only 22 years old, so I was not even aware that I was doing something different from what other girls were doing in regards to sex.

In fact, the only other person I know who was compulsive in the same way as I was with sex was my sister, Patricia, who was also aroused at preschool age by Father Horne.

This is going to be a long story, to be written out over next three years here at City of Angels Blog 15 (2015)

A quality of the PTSD that drove my life for forty years was speed. That's why Faster Than the Speed of Life is the title of this writing project.

If you always go real-real fast, you never have to stop and see what you have just done.


I had a kind of sleazy slutty aura after the way I’d been carrying on pretty much from puberty until a few years back, in fact, I may still have it. It's not easy being in your mid-sixties, as I am today, and just now realizing the long term effects of that one series of events that took place when I was five, where a Catholic priest brazenly put his fingers in my pubic area then watched with amusement as I responded to his touch. For decades after that I believed that St. Michael the Archangel himself had come to me in the woods and aroused me as a child.

I believed my sexual aggression had been put in me by God himself, having sex with lots of men was what I was on this planet to do.

It was one of the sexual fantasies Father Horne taught me in First Communion Class.

This is going to be a long story.


Today in my sixties, writing my story is the only recompense I have for a life of destroyed careers and personal rejection. I know, after the story of the pedophile priest epidemic came out last 15 years, that I'm just one out of a hundred thousand victims of pedophile priests in the United States today. We've only begun to find out all the damages these priests and their bishops who aided and abetted them caused.

Look at how much damage I must done myself as a result of just one of these holy men’s crimes. (And there are more than six thousand pedophile priests identified from last sixty years or so in the bishop accountability database.)

I was a sexual predator, pretty much from age six on, when I’d take kids aside to show them what Father Horne had showed me.

On New Year’s Day 1969 I made a resolution to have sex with 69 men that year and somewhere in May passed that number and lost count. I performed in the new porn films that were casting all over the city (never really had sex on camera, we did simulated sex in those first films in the mid 1960s. Then they came up with the X rating and people started really doing it on film. I freaked when they started really doing it, I mean, I was a good Catholic girl deep down inside). So I’d been in the middle of the sex industry as it was coming to life in and around Hollywood and carried whatever residual grease that put into my aura. I was only 22 years old, so even though I battled the same Polish plumpness I battle today, the battle was happening on a smaller tighter perkier body. I was raised in Southern California, a natural blond. Then add the sexual automaton qualities. You have this unkempt curvy girl, probably not wearing a bra as that was a fashion statement I embraced enthusiastically in that era as well, so bouncy. With eyes that may have still had a bit of kaleidoscope going on from those months tripping with Timothy Leary, I’d look up and snag into contact with the most available and willing male present as soon as I entered a room.

In that state I moved into Integral Yoga Institute, just above the Hollywood Freeway at the Barham exit.

So from age five with neighborhood kids until age 40 when I forced myself on my daughter’s father, I was a sexual predator. I wreaked havoc on people’s lives and it was all a result of being mishandled by a priest when I was five years old and there are about a hundred thousand victims of pedophile priests in the USA today, all of us acting out in aberrant ways as a result of the crimes.

If only one tenth of the victims turned into predators like me, imagine the damage we've done.

I didn't even connect my sexual weirdness with what happened with the priest until I became a single mother at age 40, so had to clean up my lifestyle. I got sober, and stopped having sex with anyone at all for fear of releasing that monster in front of my daughter.

When Lizzie turned five years old, the age I was at the time of the abuse, thanks to a perfect storm of events, I reconciled the crime of the priest with the sexual insanity of my life.

Now it's long past the statute of limitations in Illinois for child sex crimes, so there’s no chance of getting even a small settlement from the church to make up for the damages to my life. The Catholic Church only compensates its victims when forced to by law and in Illinois the Church owns the law.

Today as an old lady, the only asset I have is my story.

So here I write.


In the end, the only other woman I knew who was sexually compulsive in the same way as me was my sister, who was also molested at preschool age by Father Horne.

Father Horny.

Apparently both of us went through life re-traumatizing ourselves, which means we put ourselves repeatedly in the same situation as we’d been in with the priest. Being sexualized by a priest at age five- six caused me to go through life in a kind of trance, much like post hypnotic suggestion, so when a combination of circumstances presented themselves, I’d Snap, then go into automatic response and become a sexual predator.

I was a sexual predator from age six to forty-six, I forced men to do things with me that they really didn't want to do. I have to live with that for the rest of my life.

It was like Father Horne’s black robed presence was always on my back, enveloping me.

Since I started writing City of Angels Blog I've met grown survivors, who still live in this kind of sexual dysfunction, even as old as in their fifties, driven by similar compulsions. And I've met other survivors who have marrried and raised families and are not like me at all.

There are too many survivors to make any genuine blanket statements about us, I can only write about myself for now.


When I was reading case files from pedophile priest cases in 2007-8 in L.A., I noticed phrases that came up in brief after brief, written by dozens of different plaintiff attorneys. Words that came up often to describe damages caused by pedophile priests were “sexual dysfunction” “confusion about sexual identity” “inability to be intimate” and “promiscuity” in the 510 lawsuits that settled for $660 million in 2007, the L.A. Clergy Cases.

I was only five to six years old when Father Horne was handling me. Details of what happened have intermingled in my mind today with things that I know are imaginary, and some things that I'm not sure if they are imaginary or not. If I hadn’t had the memory confirmed by a sister in 1994, who volunteered that she also was molested by Father Horne six years earlier than me, I don't know if I’d know anything happened, with this much certainty.

I'm still not sure exactly what did happen. I hope someday to figure it out.


In a way I'm grateful that the way Father Horne touched me at age five excited me and made me overly enthusiastic about sex, because at least I thought I was enjoying myself during 40 years of sexual dysfunction. Today I look at all the altar boys who grew up and committed suicide, or I look at survivors of pedophile priests I've met who are so badly damaged they can barely communicate, or so addicted to alcohol and drugs they barely function, and I realize that in a sick way I'm fortunate.

Like Little Annie Fannie with angel wings, I began my pursuit of the priest at age five-six, and it kicked into overdrive when I became a teenager.

The compulsion took me to to NASA in Houston where I got a high profile job in Public Affairs, and ended up having to leave in scandal, in fact, the reason I worked so hard to get that job was so I could pursue astronauts, you know, dynamic men with a connection to the sky, as well as to the Timothy Leary ranch inland from Laguna in 1969, to a Yoga ashrams in Hollywood and Dallas, My compulsion took me to Austin where I begged a Mormon family to let me be one of the sister wives because their connection of sex to God turned me on so much.

When the pedophile priest story broke, I slowly realized there were thousands, nee hundreds of thousands, of other people who shared the experience of being crime victims of pervert Roman Catholic clergy, and I joined a “survivor movement.”
Then I started City of Angels Blog.

More to Come of this story here at City of Angels 15 “Faster Than the Speed of Life” a novel to be published online between now and 2015.

Next Entry: Why would a 13 year old girl go into profound mourning at the death of Marilyn Monroe?

-By Kay Ebeling