Sexual dysfunction is a major damage pedophile priests leave on a child.  So these stories talk about sexual dysfunction, in my case what could be called nymphomania.  It makes some of these stories difficult to read, but it's my story, I didn't ask for it, it happened to me

Working Through the Whore Still in Me

.

Got triggered by this quote

“It is important to keep in mind that children develop a sense and understanding of sexuality from authority figures,” (Franciscans of Santa Barbara Board of Inquiry Report 1993) 

I went through life thinking I’d been touched in my privates as a child by an Angel under a tree.  So I grew up with a purpose in life, to share that excitement with every male I encountered who resembled the priest who molested me when I was five years old in the woods outside Bartlett, Illinois.  

So please, all those flight controllers who wrote about me on the men’s room walls at NASA in Houston , and all the women everywhere who came gunning for me after I did what I did with their husbands, and all the boyfriends I left hurt and shocked when I seduced their buddies or brothers, I'm sorry.  I had impulses I could not control.  Hopefully this writing I am doing about pedophile priests will reach some of my victims and help them think less bad of me. 

The way I lived, yes, I left behind a trail of victims.  I was a sexual predator from age six on.  In the early years the impulses confused me, so I got very fat, really fat.  Then when I reached puberty, I starved myself slim and the sexual compulsion kicked back 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 behind as memories in my head to live with as a result.  

My own memory in my own brain is a punishment.

So for now I'm going back to reading the report on St. Anthony’s, please God get me out of my own experience again.Working Through the Whore in Me

Franciscan Archive
... narrative history of abuse in Santa Barbara. We will also provide links ... at Retreat
Center on Board of Inquiry Report (11/21/93) ? concealing ... 
www.bishop-accountability.org/franciscans/

(Reading through old notes, piecing things together, this post comes from a 2011 journal)

ke

My sister Patrisha is very much part of this whole story

.
Here is the Perfect Storm that led to all this: My daughter turned age five when I was clean and sober two years first and only time in my adult life. I’d look at her and start remembering what happened to me when I was age five, and that's how I ended up remembering being raped by Father Horne, which is textbook for recovered memory, though I did not know it at the time.

First published here at CofA 2 in a post November 2009:

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 2009

'No wonder I've been so mean to you all your life. You took away my first lover.'

More of My Life as a Whore, thanks to being molested by a priest at age five

.
Pubic pain.

The first time I got a name for it was in 1995 at UC San Francisco, in the outpatient clinic.  The nurse practitioner who saw me there explained, “It's not unusual for women who lived promiscuous lives to have pubic pain when they get older.”  Seems an MD at a low income clinic in San Francisco would have the most medical experience with this phenomenon, pubic pain that plagues the lives of old whores. 

Maybe that should be the new working title of the book:

Nobody Likes an Old Whore

In Real Life Nobody Likes a Whore

That's the real source of this frown on my face.  Not some temporary incident or situation in my life just the past few months.  It's the pattern of my entire existence starting at age seven when I got thrown out of Brownies for making a blatant sexual reference.  

From age seven onward, I got thrown out of every place I went. 

As I got older, it got worse.  

.

Almost broke into tears watching The Boys of St. Vincent

2011

The scene with the boys in the shower in The Boys of St. Vincent reveals how “Other Than” a child feels when they are sexualized before puberty.  Years later when other kids his age start discovering sex in a normal way, the molested child feels like someone from another planet.  The degree to which you are different from other kids, or people in general, really hits you in the face right then, when you realize all the other kids haven't been having orgasms since bouncing on Father Tom’s knee when they were five years old. 

Then for the rest of your life, you realize how obtuse you are when you see how normal people have sex.   The boy in this movie first made that discovery in the shower at his nightmarish orphanage, where pedophile priests ran things. 

As the scene played out on the DVD, I felt what the boy felt, even before they cut to a closeup of his face where he portrayed it. 

I felt the terminal obliqueness.  

And for that instant remembered feeling it also as a child, a flood of incidents

. 

Lizzie got involved in pedophile priest issue at age five too

.
1988

I was thinking about writing a book when I was pregnant with Lizzie, but as always, never wrote it. 

On the cover would be me, pregnant at age 40, and the title, “He Told Me He’d Had A Vasectomy.” The art would be me, eight months along and bulbous, standing on a map of the United States, making plans to move somewhere, anywhere.  

It seemed like perfect ingredients for a comedy, the line itself, “He told me he’d had a vasectomy,” said by a haggard, bony bloated bulging pregnant woman….

Five years later my daughter was already this complicated person.

Poor Lizzie. 

Upon reaching age five, mother looked at her and started seeing herself when she was five, and then mom started remembering something strange that happened when she was five years old at the hands of a pervert Catholic priest back in 1953 that explained everything … 

And this whole journey began. 

*****

There’s a big move on right now to disprove recovered memory, saying people like me who experience it just make these things up.  In my case you can see my story is true by the way it's played out in my personality.  After recovering the memory of Father Horny diddling me between the legs, I turned into a completely different person.  

First there was the quieting of the bell jar, because up until 1995, everything in my life for forty years was reverberating from that thing I was keeping secret.  When the thing finally came out, when Lizzie turned five and I remembered what happened, everything in my life became different. 

God this is hard to write and explain. 

Basically I went from being a whore to being … ordinary.  

Now I see how you can share space with someone of the opposite sex without it being a sexual encounter.  That in itself is so liberating. 

-ke

I was just a little past puberty, maybe late teens, talking with my sister about sex.  I said, “Don’t you just love it when a guy rubs you outside your pants?”  Trish got enraged, nervous, kept me from saying anything more, said quickly, “No and I don't know what you're talking about.”

Just one of those moments that never leaves my head.

Today I remember that Father Horne used to diddle me in a very personal way outside my underpants, over the fabric, and he probably did the same to my sister. When she turned nine-ten years old, she was too old for him, so he turned to me at age four-five to pick up where he left off with her. 

Reconciliation / Recovered Memory

All my life I had a weird confusion of sexuality and religion.

.

Why did you leave the Yoga ashram, people always ask me, about the period I spent with Swami Satchidananda’s group in the early 1970s.

Well they got kind of extreme, I answer.  They took vows of…

“Chastity?”

Yeah well even more than chastity.  They called it Bramacharya.  

After a visit from the Swami, the ashram began teaching a new kind of yoga where you have no sex at all.  They say energy you would expel in sex instead gets channeled into a kundalini meditation to die for.  So there they were, all the guys, all of a sudden wearing orange robes to show they'd taken Bramacharya vows. 

People look at me and ask, “You took a vow of chastity?”

I say, “Not me.  I got pregnant.” 

I was running the kitchen and I got knocked up.

By the guy who delivered the 50-pound sacks of brown rice.
.

Paranoia can be fun

Kay Ebeling

Being in that situation last six years made me a little paranoid, I admit. When dealing with Catholic Church hierarchy and its protectors, some of what you think is happening may be paranoia, and some may really be happening, an environment that lends itself to great comedy as I play scenes out now in retrospect in my head. Hoping I can capture some of that lunacy in this thing I'm writing, but in the meantime, I am laughing an awful lot right now, so who cares about any of the rest of it. . . . babble babble babble

(Posted just now on Facebook)
Friend Me

Kay Ebeling

 On days I'm crippled I can't walk, but I can dance.

Not a shared experience that breeds great friendships

.
I had this conversation recently with a fellow pedophile priest victim in Chicago, one of the few I've connected with in the near year I've been here:

I said, “Being a pedophile priest survivor is not a shared experience you make best friends around.”

He almost shouted back, “No it's not."  

Then he emphasized how correct I was by repeating it back to me loudly:  “It isn't a shared experience you make best friends around.”  

The anger in his voice was palpable.  

Our eyes shared a moment of connection, a second of shared rage, then we both looked away.  

Never to see each other again.  
.

What is happening?

.

Not Posting for now

.

It's just not happening.  Every time I develop a story for this blog, it gets stymied one way or another.  I'll put in hours and days of work on posts, then when I'm about to put them up here, I get a phone call or an email saying, "Don't publish my story."  

So last summer I decided (continued at http://cityofangels12.blogspot.com ) 

Preview

,

Dialogue from Episode One: 

“My story is so outrageous, people don’t believe it.”

“I have the same experience.”

.

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
.

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

http://cityofangels1.blogspot.com/2007/01/teen-years-add-on.html

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  

http://cityofangels25.blogspot.com 

And

http://cityofangels12.blogspot.com

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.
.