This blog is all backstory.  

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

Sex Abuse in Confessional, pedophile priest tactic

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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.
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Backstory

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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.

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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.  Rockwell 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, for two more she freelanced from Clear Lake City and still roamed the space center campus. 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.

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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

Notes: Faster than the Speed of Life

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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. 

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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. 

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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.    

Nah. 

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. 
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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.
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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.  
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* 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

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By Kay Ebeling
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 

Onward
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Preview: Coming Soon

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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.

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

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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.  

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(read more)

Starry Eyed for Krishna, In Pursuit of the Priest

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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...

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