USA sided with pedophile priests, and soon after, the nation fell, Prologue
(Read this series online as I write it by clicking chapters in the column to the right)
A fantasy helps me write this difficult story. Dead at age six, an alien entity journalist entered me and I popped back to life, so that I'd be there decades later, the only reporter in the courtroom, covering the crimes of hundreds of pedophile priests in Los Angeles.
A big part of the clergy abuse crisis in the Catholic Church is how the world lost the contributions of thousands of people like me. We had so much to offer to the world, but weird behavior from being sexually assaulted by a priest at an early age prevented us from succeeding, not all hundred thousand victims, but a lot of us. After interviewing dozens of victims for City of Angels Blog, I know it's true for many of us. I think about all the jobs I had and lost because of weird sexual behavior, planted in me by the fingers of a pervert priest.
I could have been a contender, instead I'm a broke blogger. I got hired for so many Com jobs that should have led to success. But I always screwed it up by screwing the wrong person, or rather persons. The brain part is the worst because I'm really smart and never really got to use that brain, as a scientist or professor or... anything. The behavior caused by sexual molestation at age 5-6 screwed me up before I even got started.
“Father Horne he’s so handsome,” as my mom used to coo. From what I remember, she was screwing him too.
At one point in my life when I was about five, my own father tried to kill me* but I came back to life [see rerun below]. Considering the time and circumstance, it's likely my dad felt he had to get rid of me to make me stop babbling about Father Horne and showing people what the priest had done to me with his fingers.
Over the next decades, several times in my life my sexual behavior got me very close to dead, but something always rescued me.
When I found myself in 2007 the only journalist covering the 660 lawsuits against the LA Archdiocese re its pedophile priests, I began to wonder, did I really die that day in the dump outside Bartlett Illinois?
Sometimes I even wonder if I'm still Kathryn anymore since that day.
Perhaps some alien journalist entity entered me before I popped back to life, knowing that at some point I was going to be the only journalist in the courtroom covering the crimes of hundreds of pedophile priests.
Pervert priest crimes were at the bottom of all my outrageous behavior, and that of about a hundred thousand other persons on Earth at the time, and the "eternal journalist" inside me knew that someday I'd blog about it. And I did here:
then CofA Blog 2008
and CofA Blog 2009
and CofA Blog 2011
Now in 2024 at age 76 when I don't write about that subject mucj anymore, I feel so COMPELLED sometimes to blog and post comments and point out evil and corruption and crimes against innocent persons anywhere under any circumstance.
I have created a fantasy that helps me find the strength to write this story:
I'm an eternal journalist, I travel the universe to different planets where I enter and live and work as a communicator in whatever medium they use on that plane. Along with other eternal journalists who I encounter along the way, we work to rid that world of whatever atrocity against life is taking place there.
And I'm still here on Earth after 76 years and I still have more to report.
* Re: My father tried to kill me. Here is a rerun:
My daughter was describing in tears to me this morning Shaniya Davis' body "was just dumped by the highway" when they found it in North Carolina.
"Dumped," I said, and kind of drifted.
"Dumped."
They do kill children after they've sexualized them, often. Especially when there is film of the crimes, as there was in my case. I know someone tried to kill me right around the time I was babbling to everyone what Father Horne did to me.
I remember it plainly, it comes up often.
I was riding in the back of a dump truck, preschool age or maybe six. We got to the dump outside Bartlett, Illinois. In the the payload area of the dump truck was little girl me riding happy as can be. After the driver stops the truck, he starts the dump mechanism, and the payload starts to angle up. I'm falling out.
I get to the top, hang on, screaming, "Hey, I'm in here, stop the dump, stop dumping the truck."
I can see through the back window into the cabin of the truck. The man driving stares straight forward stiff, unmoving, acting as if he does not hear me calling out, but he has to.
"Hey, I'm in here! Stop dumping the truck, stop dumping the truck!"
The driver just looks straight ahead but there's a reaction, like he makes his body stiff so he cannot turn his neck. As I go into the memory and elaborate on it, imaginary or not, he turns his head just enough for me to see it's my own father's face, but I refuse to let that image continue.
I landed DUMP on the ground, at the dump, outside Bartlett, Illinois, circa 1954.
Everyone thought I was dead.
The way I know more about this incident than most from pre-age six is my Aunt Irene a few weeks, months, years (?) later told me about it.
The Ebeling family is gathered at dinner for some special occasion around a dining room table, aunts uncles cousins along with dad mom and sisters.
Aunt Irene, still a little Irish brogue, says in her high piercing voice, "And what about the time little Kathy died and came back to life."
The room got quiet. Silent. Tension.
She said to me, "Do you remember that? The time you came back to life?"
I say, huh? I don't remember, I don't know.
She said, "You mean you don't remember? You were riding in the back of the dump truck, he gets to the dump yard, forgets you're back there, and what a miracle. You don't remember? You were dumped out on the ground, and you landed so hard, afterwards you just lay there not moving. Everybody thought you were dead. People were coming from all around the dump, everybody thought you were dead. Then Up with a start like you'd been struck by the Holy Jesus himself, you popped up onto your feet and started running around like a chicken with its head chopped off.
Laughter releases the tension around the table, and we all finish dinner.
This morning my daughter Lizzie was forlorn saying, "The way that poor little Shaniya was just dumped."
And I was right back at the Bartlett Illinois Dump in 1954.
That's PTSD.
Weblogged Book by Kay Ebeling, Prologue
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