(Continued from https://johndenugent.com/unshackled-4/)
At Dad’s request, the judge handling the criminal case moved the
grand jury hearing forward by several months, making the older child’s
videotaped testimony inadmissible in court. I was told that the child
would have to testify in Dad’s presence.
As much as I loved Dad and wanted the best for him, I didn’t believe
I had any other choice than to testify against him. Clearly, he was still
capable of sexually assaulting little children. I wanted to be a solid wit-
ness and not fall apart in court. I didn’t dare tell anyone that I constantly
visualized myself talking like a little girl on the witness stand.
I knew I wasn’t ready to go through with it. Terrified and ashamed,
I didn’t know who to tell. When I prayed for additional strength, none came.
Notes
1. Carla Emery explained why amnesia is used to keep a “hypno-robot” from remem-
bering and breaking free:
The hypnotic suggestion that makes a subject most likely to carry out
orders contrary to their self-interest is amnesia. The most important
element in a case of abusive hypnosis is amnesia. The biggest road-
block to uncovering a crime of criminal hypnosis is amnesia. Amnesia
is, therefore, the central problem of a survivor of abusive hypnosis.
It is central to the operator’s setup, central to the years of secret life
hidden under the consciously known one, central to the struggle to
escape and heal. (pg. 227)
2. Before the oldest child disclosed that child’s negative experiences with Dad, the
adults who carefully questioned the child did not indicate what I’d said about my
own memories. The child freely and willingly disclosed to them-in graphic detail-
without being coached.
3. “Psychogenic amnesias are quite different [from organic amnesia] in their origin, as
the causes are psychological and tend to involve the repression of disturbing memo-
ries which are unacceptable to the patient at some deep subconscious level.
Psychogenic amnesias can be disorienting and disruptive to the patient, but they are
rarely completely disabling, and as there is no actual brain damage they are reversible
and in most cases will eventually disappear.” (Groome, et al., pp. 137-138)
4. One of the therapeutic memory recovery techniques that FMSF spokespersons
occasionally ridicule and try to discredit is left-hand writing. I believe they attack
its credibility because they don’t want the public to know how well it works!
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REVERSING DAD’S GUILT MESSAGES – 7/29/02
Death
Gone
A month later, in January of 1990, my abreactions and flashbacks
increased in intensity and frequency. Although I’d been consulting with
a local therapist, she wasn’t used to working with sexual abuse survivors,
and didn’t know how to help me-other than to listen.
I learned about an eight-day Intensive Experiential Program (IEP) at
Charter-Peachford, a psychiatric hospital north of Atlanta. The next IEP
session would start in one week. I signed up for it, believing it would give
me the strength and tools I needed to keep on going.
That Monday night, Bill and I went to a banquet hosted by a funda-
mentalist Baptist Bible college that we both attended. Sometime between
that night and the following Wednesday morning, Dad died.
Dreaming of Justice
On Wednesday morning, I awoke from an unusually strong, vivid,
symbolic dream. In it, Dad was dressed like a desperado cowboy. Chased
by a big gray wolf, he rode a brown horse down a steep hill. At the
bottom, he crossed a stream; the wolf stayed on the other side. Knowing
he was finally free, Dad smiled. I smiled too and felt happy for him.
Then, as Dad looked at the gray wolf, a huge black wolf, its hackles
raised, emerged from a dark cave above Dad and his horse. As it moved
stealthily towards them, a bell slowly tolled.
The dream changed. I saw a huge, blond male angel, robed in white.
As he stood and watched the wolf kill Dad (I didn’t see it), he held the
oldest child witness in his arms. The angel said, “Now justice is served.
The child is mine.” I woke up, trembling, still hearing the bell toll.
The dream was so powerful, I never forgot any of the details. At that
time, I believed it was a message from God.
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Death
195
Phone Call
Several hours later, as I stood behind the counter at McDonald’s, I was
still dazed by the dream. As I pondered it, my stepmother called on the
phone and said, “Kathy, your father is gone.” I felt relieved, thinking that
she meant Dad had gone underground to start a new life. She elaborated:
“Your father is dead.” My hands and body turned to ice and I became
robotic. My manager told me to go home. I never went back to that job.
At home, I called my stepmother. She said Dad’s body had been found
on the back seat of his Grand Prix in the garage that morning by his
apartment manager and his criminal lawyer, who grew alarmed when Dad
didn’t show up for an appointment.
She said because Dad’s body had started to decompose, making the
time of death impossible to determine, the coroner had instead used the
time of the discovery of his body.
Believing God must have given me the dream to prepare me for
the news of Dad’s death, I told her about it. After I hung up the phone,
I dropped to my knees and cried with grief while at the same time
thanking Him for having protected the children. I didn’t know how I was
going to survive the rest of the week-I felt so cold!
Final Visit
Because I needed all the support I could find to get me through the
next couple of days, I went to my weekly codependency group therapy
meeting the next evening. After that, I planned to go to the funeral home
to see Dad’s body. The support group encouraged me to spend time
alone with his body, reminding me that I needed to say goodbye to him.
My stepmother agreed, and arranged for me to have a half-hour alone
with his body, despite grumblings from some of his business-suited
mourners.
Dad’s official cause of death was sequelae of carbon monoxide
poisoning. And yet, I’ve since been advised by three different profession-
als who are familiar with the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning, that
the car exhaust would have turned Dad’s skin bright blue. One calls the
unusual color, “Smurf blue.”
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Unshackled
If these professionals are correct, I am not suggesting that the
forensic examiner didn’t do a thorough job. According to an article
in the Atlanta paper from that time period, his office was swamped
with cases. Several of the consultants told me that the examiner
probably didn’t see any point in pursuing an investigation because no
one was raising a fuss about his death, and all other signs did point to
suicide.
When I was alone with Dad’s body in the funeral home, it was
so swollen I had difficulty recognizing it. The only way I could positively
identify him was by standing beyond the crown of his head and looking
at him lengthwise. My stepmother had warned me that his skin was
dark red from the carbon monoxide. Although I believed her, I still
needed to see it for myself. As I stared at his face and neck, I noticed
that someone had covered the skin with heavy beige makeup. I had
to know. I unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt and saw that the
skin beneath it was dark red. The body really was Dad’s, and he really
was dead.
Funeral
The following day, my brothers, their wives and children, my
stepmother and half-siblings, Dad’s sister and her husband, and others
gathered in a small room next to the church sanctuary to prepare for his
funeral. Other visitors joined us, including a retired, slim, grey-haired
pediatrician who had been a neighbor and close friend of Dad’s for years.
Although I didn’t yet recognize that man, he glared at me with obvious
hatred and loudly told whoever would listen, that I’d lied about Dad.
I later learned that Dad had claimed in his deposition that this man had
actively coached him for his defense-including telling him to say that
I’d wanted Dad, sexually.
When Mom entered the room, I broke down and wept, happy
that she’d come to comfort us. Instead, she grabbed my arm tightly,
pulled me out into the hallway, and said I had to get myself together and
not let my brothers see me cry. I remembered what the people in the
support group had told me: I had the right and the need to grieve.
Defiantly, I told Mom I would cry as much and as often as I needed to.
Death
197
I remained stunned by her callousness as we silently walked back into
the waiting room.
The funeral was surprisingly healing for me. Dad’s Methodist pastor
didn’t try to pretend that Dad had been anyone other than who he really
was. He didn’t try to minimize or cover up for what Dad had done.
He did tell us that on the previous Sunday night, Dad had walked up to
the altar and had asked the pastor to pray with him. That gave me some
comfort.
Dad’s death was one of the most shattering experiences in my
life because he was the first person I had ever bonded with. When
I was young, we were much closer than a father and daughter should ever
be. He had been my first long-term sex partner. And yet, I was also
able-at least as an adult-to love him in a non-sexual way. Some
of the love and grief that I felt after his death was for the terribly
wounded little boy inside who had never had a chance to grow up
and experience love. For the funeral, I purchased a flower arrangement
with a small teddy bear, and addressed the card to that little boy.
Perhaps part of my ability to love Dad non-sexually had come
from what I had learned about God as a little girl. I’d almost always
believed that He cared about me when no human did. And although
He couldn’t make the bad people stop, or magically pick me up in
His arms and carry me to safety, I believed that He’d always been
with me.
I believe that God also gave me the ability to love Dad because
of the love I’d received from caring people. Unfortunately, Dad had
been too broken to be able to receive my love-his soul had been a
sieve.
Disposal
Due to his prior arrangements, Dad’s body was cremated after the
funeral. Ironically, that wasn’t dissimilar to what he’d done to the bodies
of some of his ritual victims. His widow scattered his ashes in a ceme-
tery fountain. This could have symbolized the way he’d denied some of
his victims a burial place. I still have no place to go, to kick his headstone
and curse his memory or fall down on my knees and tell him again how
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much I love him. His family has no place to put flowers, just as I’d had
no place to put flowers to honor my baby girl.
In so many ways, the giant blond angel in my dream had been right:
justice was served.
Betrayal
Mom and her second husband stayed in our home through the
following weekend. On Sunday, the day before I entered the hospital,
Bill received an emergency call from work, informing him that the
building’s burglar alarm had been triggered. As he exited the house,
climbed into his truck, and prepared to drive away, Mom walked towards
him. His window was down. Knowing that the rest of us were still asleep,
Mom leaned in, pulled Bill’s head towards her, and kissed him full and
hard on the lips.
Stunned, Bill moved his head away and said, “I want you to know I’m
a happily married man.”
She looked surprised, then stepped back and said, “Well then, I’m
happy for you.”
As Bill drove away, he felt angry and decided he would have no more
contact with her.
That same afternoon, I lay down on my bed to take another nap-I was
so exhausted! As I relaxed, Mom came in and sat down next to me. I was
shocked as she quietly told me not to tell anyone at the hospital about
her; then she said that if I did, she’d have me killed. 1
When she finished speaking, she gently stroked my hair. That
made me feel crazy. Because the two conflicting realities about
Mom’s personality and motives clashed, one had to go. When I woke up
later, I didn’t remember the instruction and threat, and believed
she’d come into the bedroom to comfort me. Her touch lingered for
days.
For twelve years, Bill stayed silent about Mom’s inappropriate
behavior earlier that morning. He was furious that she’d done it when my
dad had just died, and I was deeply grieving. He was certain, and I agree,
that because Mom was never a casual social kisser, she had
cold-bloodedly attempted to seduce him. 2
Death
199
Epitaph
Throughout his adult life, Dad had secretly operated on the dark
edge of society. He’d locked himself into an insatiable sex addiction with
his back to an unyielding wall that had blocked off the immense pain
fueling and driving the addiction. He died a lonely man who had spewed
his incessant pain and rage onto innocent victims for probably more than
forty years. When the sexual addiction had stopped working in the last
decade of his life, I had also watched him turn to cocaine to numb his
psychic pain.
Until a sex addict is willing to stay away from other sex addicts and
victims, and actively seeks help to go through the childhood pain that sex
temporarily numbs, that addict cannot give or feel genuine love. Most
sex addicts confuse sex with love, perhaps because as children, they’d
been seduced or sexually assaulted by adults who had claimed to rape or
molest them because they “loved” them. For these victims, the concepts
of “sex” and “love” are super-glued together. Too many sex addicts
believe if others have sex with them and accept their bodies, then they are
loved and accepted. What a sad lie!
Because I was addicted to sex for decades, I have no right to judge
others who still struggle with the addiction. I’m one of the lucky ones;
with much therapeutic help and my husband’s genuine love and devotion,
I’ve been able to excavate and accept the excruciating emotional pain
from my childhood that perhaps thousands of orgasms had masked and
medicated-although never for long. I now know that love and sex are two
distinct (albeit overlapping) facets of humanity, and that having sex with
a partner does not guarantee that partner’s love.
I recently found a poem, written by an anonymous recovering sex
addict, that seems to be a fitting epitaph for my father:
We know better than others the limits of our sexual addiction:
that it is solitary, furtive, and satisfies only itself,
that, contrary to love, it is fleeting,
that it demands hypocrisy,
that it enfeebles strong sexual feeling,
that it is humorless and cruel,
that it is hollow,
that it distances us from our feelings,
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Unshackled
that it works to exclude our family,
that it exploits power over others,
that it destroys good feelings about ourselves,
that it causes us to abuse our bodies, and
that we end up broken and alone.
Notes
1. Years after I remembered Mom’s death threat, I learned that most people are highly
suggestible to verbal suggestions for several days after a trauma. I believe she knew
that because Dad’s death had traumatized me, her words would go deep inside
my mind.
2. Based on numerous memories I’ve recovered, I am certain that Mom blamed me
for “seducing” Dad. Instead of intervening and protecting me from his sexual
assaults when I was a child, she seemed to view me as a competitor for his
affections. I have yet to recall a single time in which she attempted to intervene as
Dad sexually assaulted me in front of her-in fact, sometimes she gleefully joined
him in the assault. At such times, she seemed to be in her normal state of mind. And
yet, I’ve also had many memories of her switching into an older “stranger” alter-
state while Dad was absent, punishing me for my sexual sins and calling me a
whore and worse.
A therapist who has worked extensively with child sexual abuse victims and their
mothers told me that a surprising number of mothers do turn against the children
and blame them for “seducing” the mothers’ partners. She explained that this espe-
cially occurs if the mother is an unhealed survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
Often, such mothers unconsciously choose a partner with poor sexual boundaries,
which opens the door for the mothers to reenact their repressed traumas by not
intervening and by sometimes even encouraging their partners to assault the
children; and then, blaming the children for the sexual assault.
Rosencrans discovered the same bizarre dynamic when she communicated with
adult female survivors of maternal sexual abuse:
Some of these mothers must feel they have, for better or worse,
reproduced themselves through their daughters. These mothers
may re-experience their childhood pain, ambivalence, and rage
through contact with their daughters, their daughters’ little girl
bodies and vulnerability . . . For example, a mother might feel
sexually ashamed and sinful and repeatedly project those feelings
Death
201
onto her daughter as a way to get them out of herself. The daughter
may take those messages in as true about herself, (pg. 125)
My experience has been that my mother irrationally hated me and
repeatedly sought to harm me and enlisted others to harm me-perhaps because
she had made me “little her”. Of course, she was careful to do this only in
private and at gatherings where child abuse was encouraged. For this and other
reasons, I choose not to have any more contact with her. Her shame belongs to
her alone.
Without outside intervention, maternal abuse-including mothers passing on the
baton of undeserved guilt and shame to their daughters for their having been
sexually assaulted-can continue through many generations.
Healing
Charter-Peachford
I guess it’s common for abuse survivors to fantasize that when their
primary perpetrator dies, their traumatic memories, nightmares, flash-
backs, and abreactions will magically stop. In reality, the opposite often
happens-they get worse.
After Dad’s death, the number of flashbacks and abreactions increased
noticeably. I suspect it happened because I felt safer. I was ready to
remember more.
The Monday after his funeral, as prearranged, I entered the eight-day
Intensive Experiential Program (IEP) at the Charter-Peachford psychi-
atric hospital. I was still hoping for a quick fix.
Upon admission, my diagnosis was major depression. 1 Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder (PTSD) delayed was added later. 2 As a nurse led
me by the hand to the IEP unit, I noticed that a large part of me seemed
to have died. I was beyond exploring my emotions anymore. They were
gone.
Most of my eight days in the Intensive Experiential Program were a
blur. One day, I play-acted a mock funeral at a female counselor’s
suggestion, pretending that Dad’s body lay on the floor, surrounded by
small paper cups symbolizing lit candles. Although I said-to Dad-what
the counselor suggested, I still felt nothing.
A day or two later, she told our therapy group to visualize stepping
“on and off a stage” during a skit. As I did, I flashbacked and relived a
pornography shoot that Dad had forced me to participate in when I was
small. I sat on the floor with my back to a row of wooden cabinets and
refused to budge until the flashbacks subsided.
One night, our group was herded into a room outside our unit to watch
Barbara Streisand’s movie, Nuts. We were left there, unsupervised.
I wasn’t prepared for the content of the movie-it included a very sick
relationship between Barbara’s character and her father. Halfway
through the movie, I started to hyperventilate and weep. When I couldn’t
stop, a neatly groomed, gray-haired male patient comforted me as he
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Healing
203
guided me back to our unit. A nurse standing behind a window told me to
sit on a sofa until she had time to talk to me. I kept shaking and sobbing.
I didn’t know that a friend from Hebron came to the hospital each
week to encourage recovering alcoholics. I was surprised to hear his voice
as he spoke to the nurse behind me. He was equally surprised to see me sit-
ting there, and hugged me as I wept even more. His unexpected presence
restored my spiritual footing. After that, I believed that no matter what
other surprises emerged from my subconscious, God still cared about me.
On the last day of the experiential program, we had a small graduation
ceremony. Without warning, the head counselor told me I would have to
stay in the hospital. As each of the other patients said goodbye to me and
walked out the door to awaiting loved ones, I wanted to die. Having come
there to take me home, Bill was angry. We were equally in denial about
the severity of my condition.
That weekend, I was placed in a dual diagnosis unit that housed
patients who had a combination of mental difficulties and chemical
addictions. Because I didn’t understand why I was there, I grew more
depressed and stopped eating altogether. After meeting with a psychiatrist,
I was transferred to the hospital’s general adult psych ward. There,
I enrolled in an experiential track that was similar to the IEP.
In those group therapy sessions, our petite, gentle female counselor used
techniques similar to what I’d learned at Crossroads. They included Gestalt
methods, relaxation, and visualization. Because all of the counselors were
careful not to use guided imagery that could suggest memories, mine
emerged on their own.
I remembered that when I had been in the city of Atlanta one day as a
teenager, I’d been sexually assaulted by a group of Black men in a
run-down neighborhood. I relived the emotional pain of seeing their
neighbors stand on their front porches across the street from the empty
lot, watching silently as the men group-raped me. No one tried to stop
them. I relived the rape so intensely that I felt the sharp corner of a par-
tially buried brick press into the back of my head as I left my body by
focusing on wispy clouds in the blue sky above.
I also worked through previously recalled torture memories in greater
detail. Although I felt embarrassed about sharing the memories with
male patients in group therapy, their gentleness and genuine concern
helped me to understand that not all men were like Dad. I needed to
know that.
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Unshackled
During my two-month stay at Charter-Peachford, I was aware that
I seemed to be at least two people: a rebellious teenager and a cooperative
adult patient. I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid that I’d be kept
there longer. 3
Dr. V., my assigned psychiatrist, was petite, dark-haired, and intelligent.
When I told her that I was embarrassed about having had so many orgasms
as a child, she said: “Your sexual sensory neuron path developed very
early in your childhood.” She helped me to understand that I had no reason
to feel ashamed-it hadn’t been my fault.
In our therapy group, we were asked to write affirmations (positive
statements) about each other. Afterwards, we were to go to our bedroom
and look into our own eyes in the bathroom mirror as we read, aloud, the
affirmations that the others had given us. As I spoke to my
mirror image, I felt as if I were lying. Further, I was spooked because a
complete stranger stared back at me. What was happening to me?
Our group therapy counselor consistently challenged us to go beyond
our emotional comfort zones. One of my greatest fears was to be in a
room with Dad, even though he was dead. To help me overcome that fear,
she suggested that I sit on the floor and surround myself with large pillows
to create an imaginary protective barrier that he couldn’t breach. Then
she asked who else was I especially afraid of. I said, “My ex-husband.”
She asked me to choose two men in the group to represent Dad and
Albert. For Dad, I picked a large, gentle Black man who had become my
buddy. I sensed that he wouldn’t hurt me. I picked another man to play
Albert. The counselor asked me to choose someone else to stand guard
between me and the two men. I chose the largest man, also Black, to
protect me from Dad and Albert.
She then asked me to tell “Dad” and “Albert” to go farther and farther
away. Each time I commanded them, the two men took another step back-
wards, until they were out of sight in the hallway. The third man blocked
their way. For the first time in my life, I felt stronger than Dad and Albert.
In music therapy sessions, we were asked to pick our favorite songs
from a large selection of record albums and explain why these songs
were special. My favorite was Leader of the Band by Kenny Loggins.
I said the song represented my relationship with Dad because “he’s
my leader, and his blood runs through my veins.” Although the music
therapist’s expression seemed odd, she made no comment.
One day in art therapy, I fashioned a clay heart with a jagged line down
the middle. I made a clay knife stick out of the crack. Although I knew it
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205
represented what Dad had done to my heart, when asked, I only said that
it represented my relationship with him. The female art therapist looked
stunned, but said nothing. Refusing to take it to my bedroom, I told her
to destroy it.
On another day, I drew a picture on a large piece of white paper with
felt-tipped, colored pens. It was me as a child, lying naked on my back
on Dad’s cold, metal power saw table in our basement in Reiffton. He’d
used thick, metal C-clamps to fasten my wrists to each side of the table.
That day, he had worn a red shirt, blue pants, and brown boots. In the pic-
ture, his hands were reaching towards my lower body. This must have
been one of the times he’d tortured me on that table, because I was
unable to draw my body from my chest down. I just left a blank space
where it would have been.
In another art therapy session, I used watercolor paints to draw Dad’s
outline. Again, he wore blue pants and a red, long-sleeved shirt. This
time, he held a black wire and a red wire in his outstretched hands. They
were attached to a black battery he’d set on the basement floor. His gray
eyes stared.
In another picture, I used a black felt-tipped pen to make an outline of
what seemed to be a giant bat wearing a black robe. Again, Dad’s eyes
stared. His two long fangs were tipped with fresh blood. To his side was
a green-painted, wooden door to a closet. In a child’s scrawl, I wrote,
“He raped me in there sitting on the shelf 9 years old.”
At no time did our art therapist suggest my memories. Although she
was visibly shocked by nearly every creation, she wisely kept her
hunches to herself.
For many weeks, each time Dr. V. asked me if I was considering suicide,
I honestly told her yes. Since Dad had died, I just didn’t feel like living.
Dr. V. brought up another subject: she was concerned that I hadn’t
expressed any emotions about my mother. When she encouraged me to
start talking about her in group therapy, I felt strangely frightened. What
if Mom found out? Dr. V. continued to insist.
Still nervous, I agreed to at least think about my relationship with
Mom, although I wasn’t willing to talk about her to anyone-including
Dr.V.
Although Mom had presented herself as loving and caring when I was
young, she’d been a different creature in the privacy of our home. I’d
always known that she didn’t love me. I’d never forgotten an afternoon in
South Carolina, long after Mom had married her second husband, when
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she’d insisted I sit beside her on their king-sized bed and listen as she told
me, in detail, what a wonderful lover he was and how he pleased her
sexually. I also never forgot how, from childhood through my adult years,
she’d insisted that I sit on her bed or stand nearby as she sat, naked, in
front of the mirrors in her bathroom-preening. She’d seemed to enjoy
exhibiting her naked body to me, despite my obvious discomfort.
I’d never forgotten a week in our house in Reiffton when she had
walked through the house, up and down the stairs, every day-stark
naked. She’d insisted that she’d done it to tone her muscles. When
we’d protested and asked her to put clothes on, she’d angrily exhibited
herself more !
I’d never forgotten how each time I left her home in South Carolina as
an adult, she gave me at least one paper grocery bag full of steamy paper-
back novels that she’d recently purchased. She’d collected so many erotic
novels, her husband had attached long brown wooden shelves to their
bedroom wall to hold them all. Although I’d told Mom I didn’t like the
novels because I was uncomfortable with their detailed descriptions of
intercourse and orgasms, she’d continued to insist that I read all of them.
Away from Mom’s presence, I now felt braver to question some of her
past behaviors. I’d always felt uncomfortable with how sexually inappro-
priate she’d been with me, but I’d been too afraid of her to say it to her face.
I decided to send several letters of confrontation to her. Dr. V. advised me
to keep copies of them (I did) and assured me that if Mom really loved me,
she would try to work out our relationship in family therapy. When
I asked Mom to come to my family sessions, however, she flatly refused.
Adhering to our family’s “protect Mom at all cost” tradition, another rela-
tive soon contacted me and took me to task for having upset her.
Although Mom never communicated with any of my therapists and
didn’t know what my recovery entailed, she nonetheless told family
members, including my teenaged daughter and my stepmother, that I’d
“gone off the deep end” and had inherited a “bipolar disorder from Bill
Shirk’s side of the family.”
She alternately accused my husband and therapists of implanting
“false memories” about her inappropriate past sexual behaviors in
my mind. Years later, she even sent my teenaged daughter a magazine
article promoting the FMSF’s bogus claims about recovered memory.
She said the article “proved” that my memories had been implanted by
therapists ! 4
Healing
207
During the last month of my stay at Charter Peachford, I met an adult
female trauma survivor who had Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD).
I was discomfited by her odd behaviors and stayed away from her as
much as I could. Each time she regressed into a child alter-state, several
nurses led her into her private bedroom that was full of stuffed animals.
Although the nurses always closed the door, we could still hear her
screams as she relived one trauma after another.
After two months, my primary insurer’s mental health benefits limit
changed from one million dollars to a hundred thousand. Since I’d stopped
wishing I could die, my secondary insurer claimed that I must be stable
enough to be discharged. I was pleased, because I wanted to go home.
Being in a locked psych ward was too much like prison-I’d had enough.
Before my discharge, Dr. V. asked: “Do you think you might have
amnesia?” I said no. Years later, I realized the irony of my reply-if I had
amnesia, how could I know that I had it?
After my return home, I was surprised at the difficulty I had in per-
forming the most simple chores. I felt like a young child, having to learn
basic life skills all over again. The flashbacks continued, although not as
intense as before. I was convinced that I was almost finished healing.
Clash with Religion
In therapy at the hospital, I’d learned how to identify people who were
overly controlling. I’d also learned how to set mental and emotional
boundaries with them, so they wouldn’t take advantage of me. This
caused a problem, because I now felt become uncomfortable with some
of our denomination’s teachings-especially its insistence that members
should do whatever the pastors said “God” wanted us to do.
We were even told that God required us to tithe a minimum of ten per-
cent, then twenty percent of our gross income to the church! Our pastor
insisted if we did this, God would “bless” us financially. Although we
complied, the promised blessings never came. Instead, our financial
situation deteriorated.
Still, I tried to believe what we were told in church. During worship
services, I continued to raise my hands and sing praises to God both in
English and in “tongues”-really, babbling like an infant. At the altar,
male leaders and established female members placed their palms on the
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heads and bodies of members, to pray for our spiritual help or physical
healing. As usual, their chants and “speaking in unknown tongues”
washed over my mind.
When we sang songs over and over again during the worship part of
each service, we seemed to enter a group trance. We were told that our
subsequent feeling of joyous elation “proved” that God’s Holy Spirit was
in the sanctuary. In response to that sensation, we raised our hands and
praised Him. At that point, I entered a total trance state, my eyes rolling
up in their sockets. 5
Being in a trance made it much easier to accept mental suggestions
from the church leaders that otherwise, I would have rejected as ludicrous.
I now believe that was their intention. During the trance, the door to my
subconscious mind opened, flooding my mind with many new flash-
backs. Several church leaders and members tried to convince me (and
perhaps themselves) that my emerging memories and flashbacks were
evidence of demons lurking in my body.
They told me that when I’d consulted with secular therapists, I’d
sinned against God because I’d sought their help instead of His. They
claimed that these rebellious acts had enabled demons to enter my mind
and body. They said the demons were giving me false memories to make
me “accuse the brethren.” 6 They repeatedly criticized me for not depend-
ing solely on God, Jesus, and the Bible for healing. They convinced me
to repent and seek spiritual “deliverance” to get rid of the demons, and
said this would make the false memories go away.
Unfortunately, when they encircled me at church or in a member’s
home, putting their hands on my body, chanting and speaking in strange
tongues, louder and louder, I relived occult ritual traumas that I’d other-
wise had no memory of. As I abreacted, these people became my former
abusers. 7
I screamed and writhed, although I was in too much of a trance to leap
up and run out of the room. The more I physically struggled and cried
out, the more they were convinced that the “demons” inhabiting my body
were fighting their prayers and the invoked “blood of Jesus.” When
I stopped fighting, sometimes after an uncontrollable, ear-splitting
scream, they congratulated themselves for having cast the demons out.
As a result, I felt lower than an ant’s belly. And yet, I wanted to believe
that invisible demons had caused the memories and flashbacks. Because
my esteem was still scraping bottom, to occasionally endure several
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hours of demeaning deliverance sessions at no cost was vastly preferable
to suffering daily flashbacks and abreactions, spending months in hospitals,
and paying many thousands of dollars for therapy.
I was deeply disappointed when the deliverance sessions didn’t stop
my flashbacks and nightmares. I had to face the truth: there was no mag-
ical or supernatural quick fix for the effects of long-term trauma. What
I really needed was courage, time, energy, and support from people who
were either unscathed or had gone through their own recovery.
Some church members tried to silence me in other ways. They insisted
that God wanted me to let go of the past-as if flashbacking and having
vivid, recurring nightmares was a choice! They claimed the Bible said
I was to “forgive and forget” (forgive, yes; forget, no).
They said because God had cleansed me of my sins, I ought not to
revisit them by remembering and talking about them. How odd! I was
remembering sins that had been perpetrated against me as a young child
by my father and other adult predators-and yet they seemed to be saying
that when I was an innocent child, I’d sinned against God by being raped
and tortured! 8
Their constant criticism and lack of emotional support left me feeling as
if I had to fight the whole world to do what was I sensed was right.
Within months, Bill told me that he wanted to become a missionary.
I told him I couldn’t do it. I didn’t feel right serving in a church system
that discouraged its members from seeking professional help to heal.
SIA
During this phase of my recovery, I attended 12-step group meetings
with Bill and Emily. They included Al-Anon and Co-Dependents
Anonymous (CoDA). I wondered if any 12-step programs existed for
sexual abuse survivors to talk freely about what the sexual assaults had
done to their minds and souls.
Searching for specialized support within the 12-step community,
I found Incest Survivors Anonymous (ISA) and Survivors of Incest
Anonymous (SIA). Soon, I started the first SIA 12-step meetings in the
Atlanta area. Although I did it to meet my own needs, I felt honored to
support other recovering survivors who also sought to heal from the
effects of childhood sexual abuse.
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Therapeutic Fragments
It was time to review my artwork and journals from the previous sum-
mer at Crossroads of Chattanooga. I hoped they’d give me more clues
about my childhood.
Looking through my Crossroads folders, I was dismayed to discover that
a lot of what I’d written and drawn at that facility still didn’t make sense.
First, I looked through the folder from Emily’s family week. As part of
our homework after each session, we’d been expected to journal all of
our dreams. I still couldn’t make sense of what I found in one night’s
dreams:
5/31/89 – Wednesday Night
1. Getting on expressway ” starting downhill ” other cars going 70.
Me and some others on roller skates, skateboard, bike, can’t keep
up. Keep having to pull over to let cars go on, get on again, can’t
keep up. Recurring dream.
2. Maid of honor in church. Inappropriate dress ” slip instead of
gown. Recurring dream.
3. Husband fesses up about sex with other women due to our going
through problem time. Wants me to forgive and accept his
weakness. Binds together through sexual act.
4. On a large boat. Enemy invasion ” enemies come with mines and
other explosives. I dive off, swim to enemy territory, try to hide or
pretend to be one of them, to be safe and try somehow to help com-
rades in trouble.
5. Large centipede ” two-colored ” stinging many people in room. It’s
poisonous, but they don’t realize it when it stings them. Bill and I
approach it cautiously ” hit it with something. Cut it in pieces.
Parts scurry off. I’m still afraid of parts.
6. Recurring ” snakes.
On a questionnaire entitled “Family Systems/Roles,” I’d written the
following responses:
Describe Mom and Dad in one word each.
Mom – sick (emotionally); Dad – dictator 9
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211
What childhood role(s) do you see for yourself growing up?
List characteristics of roles:
Hero: hypercritical of self, overachiever (grades)
Lost child: quiet one, withdraws, daydreams, fantasy life, inde-
pendent, ignored, forgotten, loner/confused, materialistic
(things and pets), solace in food, intimacy problems
Scapegoat: defiant, rebel (not to Dad, just social rules and
morals), peers important, law and school problems, unplanned
pregnancy, self-destructive, negative attention, family focus,
addict
What adult role do you see for yourself?
Addict: Alcohol & drugs up to 18; strong sex drive within
bounds of marriage; work; food; religion (gives me bound-
aries, family, and morals); excitement (crisis oriented)
How do you feel about the roles you see for yourself?
I feel angry, afraid, stuck in a way I don’t want to be. Afraid
for our family’s children ” that patterns would continue. Angry
that we children are still covering up for Dad and Mom, carry-
ing their guilt (Dad still won’t be honest about his own guilt).
On another questionnaire, Day of Change – Day of Decision, I’d
written:
Where were you stuck last night? Role (in family):
Lost child and hero
Feeling:
Angry and not whole and afraid
Who or what set you up for the role?
Dad
What has been/is the payoff (reward) for your role?
Keeping peace in the family ” no upsets. Peace.
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What has it cost you to play role ?
Health, relationships, ability to be myself ” don’t really know
who I am, except spiritually.
What are you willing to change ?
I’ve had to stay away from Dad and brothers for a long time ”
want to begin own counseling. Want to be more open with
mother ” caused her much hurt in past by invalidating her pain.
Will need to give Dad his shame back and quit carrying it for him.
Want to be myself and accept my faults and own needs and wants.
As I reviewed these papers, I realized that Emily’s family week had
probably been my first step in recognizing how dysfunctional my child-
hood family had been. Except for a few rebellious teen years, I’d tried
hard to be the family peacekeeper ” I mustn’t upset anybody; mustn’t
rock the boat. The counselors at Crossroads had helped me to recognize
how much I’d sacrificed to make my family happy.
Next, I reviewed my inpatient Crossroads folder. In it, I found a set of
diagrams of my childhood home in Reiffton that I’d drawn with colored
pencils. I’d color-coded anything in the house that still bothered me,
whether or not I understood why. I’d outlined certain furniture with colored
markers, indicating suppressed anger, sadness, happiness, guilt, anxiety,
shame, and depression. I’d indicated that I’d felt anxiety and shame when
near my parents’ bed. I’d made a blob of black shame, surrounded by the
color for guilt, on the bathroom floor, where I’d often slept at night. I’d
marked a trail of anxiety and sadness at the stairs where Dad had stomped
from the ground floor kitchen to the landing in front of our second-floor
bedrooms. I’d color-coded other areas of the house for reasons I still could-
n’t explain.
I reviewed lists of family messages and values that I’d internalized as
a child:
¢ Victim
¢ Future marriage failures ” bitterness ” due to Mom’s example
with Dad
¢ Male/female role confusion
¢ Triangular communication
¢ Lack of self-esteem
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¢ Isolation
¢ Fear of heavy stomping on stairs (Dad’s)
¢ Abusing future children
¢ Fear of anger directed at me from others, even when their anger
is appropriate
¢ Lack of trust and fear of males
¢ Treating sex as a tool instead of expression of love
¢ Fear of criticism
¢ Lack of confidence in groups and around older people
¢ Inability to express emotions
¢ Inability to make choices for self
¢ Co-dependency (excessive dependence on others)
¢ Wives must resent husband
¢ Sex is a duty ” no love involved
¢ I am not wanted by Dad except to work and be an object of
vented rage
¢ I am not wanted by Mother
¢ When adults are present, kids must stay in another room. No
mixing
¢ Kids stay out of sight and mind ” don’t mix with adults unless for
adults’ pleasure
¢ Children shouldn’t be seen or heard unless they’re doing chores
¢ If I fall down slippery stairs, it’s my fault
¢ Boys can have fun and toys, girls can’t
¢ If the dog goes hungry or thirsty, and dies, it’s my fault
¢ The dog is more important to Dad, than me
¢ My physical needs are unimportant
¢ Don’t talk at table
¢ Don’t talk about feelings
I pulled out another diagram from the file. It was so big and bulky,
I had trouble unfolding it. As I scanned it, I remembered that each adult
patient had been instructed to take turns lying on their back on a large
sheet of paper on the floor, and then another patient outlined the body,
being careful not to be disrespectful. After our outlines were completed,
we were given crayons with instructions to color-code any emotions and
experiences from our past that were especially important. Looking at the
paper now, I was stunned to see a large gash of red crayon drawn
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between my hips and the beige outline of a large fetus above that. And
over one breast, I’d drawn three people holding hands. What did it all
mean? I couldn’t remember!
On the back of another large piece of paper was a crayoned message
to my counselor, scrawled in a little girl’s handwriting: “4 U – Kathy. ”
I didn’t write like that!
As I reviewed a second full- sized body diagram in the same file, I was
amazed that I’d viewed myself as a container of negative emotions: fear,
anger, pain, sadness, and loneliness. Nothing good, nothing happy. Where
was my joy, peace, and happiness? Why did I feel so icy inside? Why was
I still unable to feel love for my husband? What was wrong with me?
Those questions seemed to prime my mental pump. More emerged:
Why did I still freeze when strange men were sexually inappropriate with
me in public, even rubbing their engorged penises against my butt in
supermarket checkout lines? Why couldn’t I get angry and yell at them
or at least move away?
Why did I have so much difficulty opening my mouth to tell Bill that
I was bothered by something that he’d done? Why was I filled with pain?
Why was I so terrified that if I expressed myself, he’d leave me?
Why did I have anxiety attacks whenever I anticipated having to go to
social gatherings in rooms full of strangers? Why was socializing so easy
for Bill, and still so hard for me?
Next, I reviewed several entries in my Crossroads journal:
6/16/89 – Dreams last night
Major gore. Going up path up hill to home to where brothers
are. Path through woods. Try to go past girl and dog/boy. Dog
tries to attack and bite me. I have scissors ” have to cut head
off to make it stop. Then girl does same. It grieves me. I do
same to her. I reach top of hill. Two spreads were laid out
(different foods) ” 1 on one side, 1 on other. Tempted to eat
from 1 side, start to, put it back in dish. Poisonous (Dad’s).
6/18/89
Me and other person with Princess Di and husband (not
Charles) in water, frozen underneath, Styrofoam under that.
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On bottom of pond was trash and coolers. I tried to get out
quick. Tried to warn others. Snakes ” various kinds. Water
moccasins that look like rattlers. Later on, in a house ” man
with boots had snake in boot. Tried to take off boot without
disturbing snake. Took boot off, snake hanging on leg with
fangs in knee. He pulled snake’s head out ” harmless ” round
head. Put in old hamster container as pet. I felt sorry for the
snake ” used to living in the wild.
6/23/89
Dream ” in institution, large building somewhere upstairs.
Radioactive accident, people contaminated, became mutated.
It tried to go after others in building. I was only person who
knew what was going on upstairs. I was afraid, tried to find
way out of building without being spotted. On highway,
accosted woman driver in front of me. Next step was to hide in
woods, but afraid they were in the woods, too. Dream ” mute
woman alone in house set me up to have sex. Dream ” going
up apartment stairs ” I played role of husband with woman and
child ” I was both!
In these early journals, my handwriting had changed from day to day.
Many of the words were tiny. Why had I been so secretive? Who had
I tried to hide my thoughts from?
In an envelope in the file, I found pieces of paper on which fellow
patients had written positive affirmations for me. I felt sad because I still
didn’t believe any of them. Why?
I found an early left-hand communication that I’d written there. I must
not have wanted to read it, because I’d crumpled it up as if to throw it
away. Then I’d smoothed it out, folded it, and put it in the folder:
Dear Kathy
I hurt real bad Mom is never there every time I try to
catch up to her she goes more away from me sometimes she is
too much ahead and I cry I want my mommy she wont hear me
she leaves me alone and goes away in front of me. I am all
alone it is scary I don’t know people where is she I am
scared I want to go home Mom I need you. Grandma are you
there help me please .
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I was startled by the way some of the words had been spelled-the note
had been written by a child! And why had I written that Mom kept going
away? What did that mean? Unnerved, I shoved the paper back into the
folder.
I found more drawings that startled me. I’d drawn one of them because
a counselor had asked us to divide the big piece of paper in half, draw-
ing our “public” self on one side and the person we preferred to be
known as on the other.
Using brightly colored markers on blue paper, I’d first drawn my adult
persona on the left side. I looked almost male as I flew through the air,
wearing a blue “Superman” suit with a red cape and belt. The only feminine
detail was my pink boots. I was carrying the world in my hands.
On the right side, I’d drawn a young girl sitting cross-legged on the
ground with a brown bunny rabbit in her hands. She had blue doll’s eyes
and wore a pink, short-sleeved T-shirt and blue pants. I’d used those
colors for the clothes because pink represented the girl part of my per-
sonality and blue, the boy part.
I’d made a similar drawing in art therapy at Charter-Peachford. That
counselor had also challenged us to draw our public and hidden selves.
Again, I’d divided the drawing into two parts. On the left side, I’d used
crayons to draw myself as a young woman sitting cross-legged on the
ground, reaching for a spring flower, wearing blue jeans and a short-
sleeved, pink T-shirt. In this picture my arms and body were muscular.
I was smiling.
On the right side I’d drawn my hidden self, using a pencil to outline
an androgynous face with no nose or mouth. I’d used blue chalk to out-
line my staring, lidless eyes. The face peered wordlessly from behind
thick black, vertical lines that seemed to represent prison bars.
I felt chilled as I pulled that drawing out of my Charter-Peachford file
and stared at it. What did it mean? Who was that prisoner? After I put it
back into the folder, the hairless creature’s face haunted my mind.
Looking through the Crossroads folder one more time, I found a drawing
that had embarrassed me, because I hadn’t been able to explain it during
group therapy. Our counselor had asked us to each draw a picture of our
relationship to our higher power. With colored pencils, I’d drawn a tunnel
of yellow light that was walled by many strands of different colors.
The tunnel was preceded by a larger circular wall comprised of many
hundreds of diamond shaped fragments. Some fragments were individual,
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while others were conglomerations of two, three or four pieces. The darker
colored, more vivid fragments were closest to the tunnel of light.
I’d also drawn a winged female angel flying up into the mouth of the
fragmented part of the tunnel, holding little girl me with one arm.
The first diamonds and clusters they approached were given lighter, more
soothing pastel colors.
I wondered: what did the hundreds of diamonds and fragments repre-
sent? Although I remember having felt a powerful compulsion to draw
them, I’d had no conscious reason for doing so. Why had I drawn a multi-
colored tunnel of light, extending up beyond the fragments? And why
had I drawn myself as two persons ” a flying angel in blue jeans and a
little girl in a dress?
I sighed as I put the picture away. The strong sensation that more
mysteries lurked inside my mind wearied me. Would I ever know all of
myself?
Notes
1. More about Major Depression can be found at this website:
http://www.psychologyinfo.com/depression/major.htm.
2. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, the symptoms of PTSD are:
. . . flashback episodes, memories, nightmares, or frightening thoughts,
especially when . . . exposed to events or objects reminiscent of the trauma . . .
emotional numbness and sleep disturbances, depression, anxiety, and irritability or
outbursts of anger . . . intense guilt . . . [avoidance of] any reminders or thoughts
of the ordeal. (Facts 1)
3. Although I did check into the hospital voluntarily, leaving wasn’t as
easy-especially if I still appeared to be a danger to myself or to others. A common
warning given to me and other patients in psych hospitals was that if we left
“AMA” (against medical advice), our insurance might not cover our previous days
in the hospital. That always kept me from attempting to leave before I was
properly discharged.
4. Memory researcher Laura S. Brown wrote:
I am aware that therapeutic malpractice exists and that rarely such
malpractice includes iatrogenic induction of false beliefs that are
co-constructed by therapist and client as memories of childhood abuse.
But I view this line of the discussion as a red herring that focuses
attention away from the more basic questions of the way trauma affects
memory. (International Handbook, pg. 196)
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5. At the World Congress of Professional Hypnotists Convention in Las Vegas, Dick
Sutphen explained why such techniques are sometimes used in church services:
If you’d like to see a revivalist preacher at work, there are probably
several in your city. Go to the church or tent early and sit in the
rear . . . Most likely repetitive music will be played while the people
come in for the service. A repetitive beat, ideally ranging from 45 to 72
beats per minute (a rhythm close to the beat of the human heart), is
very hypnotic and can generate an eyes-open altered state of con-
sciousness in a very high percentage of people. And, once you are in
an alpha state, you are at least 25 times as suggestible as you would be
in full beta consciousness. The music is probably the same for every
service, or incorporates the same beat, and many of the people will go
into an altered state almost immediately upon entering the sanctuary.
Subconsciously, they recall their state of mind from previous services
and respond according to the post-hypnotic programming.
Watch the people waiting for the service to begin. [In our church, this
occurred during the worship part of the services.] Many will exhibit
external signs of trance-body relaxation and slightly dilated eyes.
Often, they begin swaying back and forth with their hands in the air
while sitting in their chairs. (Sutphen p. 4-5)
6. One winter, I’d noticed that an adolescent girl in our church acted very sexual while
in an obvious trance state. After I tried to communicate to her mother that I was
concerned, the girl’s father and our pastor insisted on meeting privately with Bill
and me. In that small room, both men angrily accused me of letting Satan attack
the “fine family” through me. Their accusation was odd, because I’d never sug-
gested that the father had done anything-nor had I even considered it! Several
weeks after that, during a worship service, Bill and I watched the same father
absent-mindedly caress his younger daughter’s buttocks in front of us in a way that
should have been reserved for his wife. In response, the younger girl smiled hap-
pily at him and leaned into him. I think Anna C. Salter, Ph.D. was right on the mark
when she wrote: “If children can be silenced and the average person is easy to fool,
many [sexual] offenders report that religious people are even easier to fool than
most people.” (p. 28) We all want to believe the best in people, as they present
themselves to us. But sometimes we do so at the children’s peril.
7. After discussing marching and meditation during group meetings designed to gain
control of the minds of participants, Sutphen explained how chanting can also put
a person into a suggestible trance state: “The third thought- stopping technique is
chanting, and often chanting in meditation. ‘Speaking in tongues’ could also be
included in this category. All three thought- stopping techniques produce an altered
state of consciousness.” (Sutphen, pg. 11) My experience has been that, when I was
“speaking in tongues,” I was actually regressing into my babyhood-hence, my
infant babbling. I now wonder if this is what I heard from others, who might have
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also been in regressive altered states of consciousness. I am not suggesting that
“speaking in tongues” is a bad thing. It can be a very peaceful experience. In fact,
being in a trance state can be very addictive. I am, however, concerned that many
people who “speak in tongues” may not realize that when they do this, they are
indicating to the wrong people that they are vulnerable to mental control.
8. I’ve been told by several believers in reincarnation that when we were sexually
assaulted as children, we were being punished for sins that we’d committed in past
lives. This seems to be another version of “blaming the victim.” I’m amazed that
so few people are willing to place the guilt and blame where they belong-on human
predators who willingly hurt, rape, torture, and sometimes even kill innocent
children.
9. Mom usually presented herself as the emotionally sick, downtrodden wife (which
she was, to a degree) while hiding the fact that she wielded enormous power in all
of our lives. I called her manipulative crying, “crocodile tears” because she knew
how to use it to manipulate me (and others) to feel sorry for her miserable state in
life and to protect her from the consequences of her behaviors-especially when oth-
ers were disgusted by the behaviors. At the same time, she narcissistically ignored
my emotional needs and continued to abuse me. From her, I learned that
I had no importance or value; only she did. I had to fight very hard not to
perpetuate the same kind of relationship with Emily; unfortunately, I failed
many times.
HIDDEN “PRISONER” PART, EARLY 1990
DAD PREPARED TO TORTURE ME WITH ELECTRICITY
WOMAN RITUALLY MURDERED BY DAD, 4/31/90
DAD WITH RITUAL ROBE AND KNIFE, 5/3/90
«I.«U* kMVf h~.^~ i»~ ¢ A«K
DAD RITUALLY KILLING A BOY ATOP ME, 5/19/90
Alter-States
Back to the One
After I reviewed the drawings and journals, I sensed that I needed help
to reclaim hidden territory in my mind to which I still seemed to be
amnesic. I told Bob, a local codependency support group facilitator, that
I was having trouble finding a therapist who was qualified to work with
sexual abuse survivors. 1 Because I was comfortable with him and he was
already familiar with my history, he agreed to be my therapist. Careful
not to prompt any memories, the big, bearded man patiently listened to
whatever came to my mind during each fifty-minute session.
He kept big boxes of Kleenex in his office, which helped me to feel
comfortable about crying in front of him. Because he had a Master of
Divinity degree, he helped me to understand that God had never aban-
doned me, and that if He’d been angry at anyone, it was at the adults who
had hurt me.
I didn’t want to believe that, contrary to what I’d been taught in
church, God didn’t send His angels into dangerous situations to magi-
cally rescue and protect His children from being harmed. It took away
my sense of safety and left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. And yet,
no matter how spiritual or righteous I tried to be, I was really no safer
from being assaulted than any other human being.
As I struggled with my anger towards God for not intervening on my
behalf in the past, Bob reminded me that all humans have free will. He
said that, having given us the ability to choose between right and wrong,
God does not miraculously intervene and change the minds and behav-
iors of hurtful people; only they have the power to do that. And because
their free will can include the will to harm children, God in all His power
and glory will not stop them.
This explained why, no matter how hard I’d prayed for God to touch
Dad’s life or speak to his mind, he had never changed, had never indi-
cated that he loved me, and had never said he was sorry for what he’d
done to me and the children.
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227
A powerful new anger stirred inside me. If God couldn’t protect me,
then he wasn’t my loving Father. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d wanted
a father who would love me. Because Dad had been anything but loving,
I’d chosen God to be his big, strong replacement. In Sunday school, I’d
been taught that God had created the world; He’d formed the seas and the
biggest, most ferocious creatures. He’d decided when the sun would
come up, and when it would set. All my life, I’d been told that He even
created millions of angels to protect us!
The knowledge that God didn’t protect us from harm stoked new rage,
disappointment, and disillusionment. In my mind, God had become help-
less, His hands tied behind His back.
What in the hell good was He, then? Why did He let me be born when
He knew I was going to be hurt so badly? What kind of cruel, sadistic bas-
tard was He, to put me on this earth, knowing I’d be betrayed and tortured
and raped, over and over?
Bob encouraged me to express my anger towards God. He said that
prayer was communication-that God made our emotions and wanted us
to tell Him what we felt towards Him. Bob said that God, like a loving
father towards his little children, was big enough to take our rage and still
love and accept us. He encouraged me to cuss and yell at God, if that was
what I needed.
Too embarrassed to do it in front of Bob, I did it at home-first on my
knees beside the bed, then standing when I would not kneel for God
anymore. My fist raised, I yelled and cursed at God. Let him strike me
dead! I dared the lightning to come!
“Where the fuck were you?” I demanded. “Why didn’t you care? Why
did you let me be born to the bitch and bastard? Do you get off on send-
ing kids to twisted parents, knowing what they’ll do to them? Why did
you give Dad free will, knowing what he’d do to me? What perverted
kind of cosmic joke is this? You know what, God? I don’t believe in you
anymore. I think men just made you up, to keep us controlled. To make
rules for us.
‘”Don’t blaspheme.” GodTl get angry and strike you dead. ‘Honor
your parents so you ’11 have a long life. ‘ Oh, that one is a real joke, isn’t
it, God? And, ‘Obey your husbands to please God.’ Even if they hit you
or rape you or hurt your kid in front of you? Yeah right, God. Sure thing.
That’s how much you really care about the children, isn’t it? And all
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these damned angels you created to protect us-why are you still holding
them back? Why, God, Why?”
Time and again, after my rage was spent, I found myself sitting on the
floor, my legs bent under me, rocking back and forth. I held myself as
snot and tears ran freely. “Why God, why? Why?” I keened like a small
child, then lay on my side on the carpeted floor, curled into a fetal posi-
tion, still weeping. “Why? Why?”
One rainy afternoon, an old set of memories drifted into my exhausted
mind: I was in the children’s choir of our Lutheran church in Reiffton.
We sang “Beautiful Savior” and “Fairest Lord Jesus,” two soothing songs
that made me love Jesus all over again. And “Onward Christian Soldiers”
had a rhythmic cadence that sent the blood marching through my veins.
They and so many other hymns had helped me feel positive and
comforted. I remembered how, many times, regardless of what else had
happened in that church, I’d still felt comforted by what had seemed to
be God’s direct presence.
On the floor of my bedroom, I remembered what that presence had felt
like-a powerful, pure love that had filled my body with every breath. It
was a love that was so eternal and so “now” that nothing else had
mattered. It said, “I’m here, I’ll always be here, I’ll always love you. No
matter what you do, I’ll always love you. I’ll always be your Father.”
As I remembered, I realized that my greatest anger wasn’t at God; it
was at myself-because I hadn’t been what I believed God had wanted me
to be. I’d failed Him; I’d done so many things that had displeased Him.
I felt dirty, soiled, and filthy.
Wanting to hide under the bed from His nearly tangible presence, I
prayed: “Oh, God, I fucked up so bad. I did everything you didn’t want
me to do. I’m dirty; I don’t deserve you anymore.” I meant it. I was ready
to walk away from God forever, not because He’d failed me-but because
I’d failed Him. He deserved a better daughter than me!
I was surprised as the same message broke through to my mind that I’d
received so many times as a child: “I’ll always be here, I’ll never change,
I’ll always love you.” His love gently broke through my shame-barrier
and drew me back to Him. As it did, I knew that God really was my lov-
ing spiritual Father. He always had been and always would be.
I took comfort in the words of the apostle Paul who, as a rebel named
Saul, had once caused the murder of many followers of Jesus: “For I am
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sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things
present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor
anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of
God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” {Romans 8:38-39, RSV)
In a flash, I understood why I’d felt ashamed, why I’d distanced
myself and blamed God for the distance between us. I’d foolishly tried to
understand Him as I would a human father. Over the decades, I’d accepted
teachings from a succession of church leaders who had preached that our
heavenly Father had the same attributes as their earthly fathers. Thus,
God was judgmental, angry, punitive, demanding, rigid, shaming, and
non- accepting.
Now, I knew those men had been wrong: the God I’d known as a
young child hadn’t changed one iota. Before my mind had been tainted
by human teachings and beliefs, I’d had the purest understanding of who
He was.
Rising from the floor, I came back to the One who had been with me
from the start. I vowed on my very soul that I would never deny God or
turn from Him again. It was time to separate God from Dad in my mind,
to stop blaming God for what Dad did and stop blaming Dad for not
having loved me as God did.
Revelation after revelation came as I stood alone in the bedroom,
enveloped by God’s gentle comfort blanket of love. My heavenly Father
had never deserted me. Maybe He couldn’t break the rules by entering a
room when I was being raped, to throw the human beast aside and carry
me out of the room in what I imagined to be His big, strong arms. But
He’d been right there with me.
And when my heart had cracked and broken from tears I’d dared not
cry, He’d felt the awful pain and had cried for me. And when I’d hurt,
He’d hurt with me. And when I’d lost the ability to withstand any more
pain and horror, He’d given me the ability to dissociate, to block it all
out, so that my mind and body could continue to survive.
Knowing this now, I was ready to feel the pain, to cry the tears,
to endure what I could not bear as a child. As long as I had my
heavenly Father and His enduring love, I could bear anything. He
would be with me, right there with me, as I went through each torment-
ing memory. And then He would heal my terrible wounds with His
eternal love.
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Inner Children
Because I hadn’t held a job since quitting my part-time position at
McDonald’s, I now had extra time alone at home to tap into whatever
was still hidden in my unconscious mind. I did this, in part, by using
several of the techniques I’d learned at Crossroads-especially right-
hand/left-hand journaling.
I always kept a spiral-bound notepad next to my bed. Uninterrupted,
I sat on the bed and used my right hand to journal any dreams I could still
remember, and then diary what had happened the previous day, as well as
the previous day’s flashbacks.
Then I held the pen in my left hand and mentally invited my “inner
child” to write to me. As before, each time I did left-hand writing, I was
slammed by the physical, visual, and emotional effects of newly emerg-
ing traumatic memories. Sometimes I cried for hours; sometimes I
stormed and yelled in rage at Dad for having hurt me.
Bob encouraged me to invest in a punching bag. I went to a second-
hand sporting goods store and paid fifty dollars for a nice, big Everlast
bag. Bill used a thick chain to hang it from a big wooden beam in our
large garage. On weekdays, when I knew the neighbors living on our
cul-de-sac were away from home, I whaled away at the punching bag. It
was satisfying to hit and kick it as hard as I wanted.
As my rage erupted towards Dad and other men who had raped me,
I screamed at them and pummeled their imaginary faces and bodies with
my fists and feet.
Although the anger work sessions helped me to feel empowered, I was
dismayed by the way more memories emerged right on the heels of
previous ones. Would they never end?
When my rage erupted on weekends, I carried a children’s plastic
bat into our spare bedroom that was partially below ground. After
placing a “Do Not Disturb” sign in front of the closed door, I whacked
the bat as hard as I could on a pile of sofa cushions, screaming until
my rage-energy was spent. Each time I ran out of anger, I collapsed
and wept.
Bob suggested that I stockpile the same kinds of art supplies in that
room that I’d used as a child. They included a big box of Crayola
crayons, colored pencils, colored felt- tipped pens, different colors of
glitter, glue, colorful construction paper, and drawing pads.
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Sometimes, as I sat on the carpeted floor and drew, I seemed to go
away for as much as several hours. When I came back to consciousness,
I was unnerved by what I’d drawn.
One new drawing was of a yellow walking path that wound through a
grassy meadow. Brown footprints temporarily left the trail to where
a dead baby had been gently deposited in the grass; then the footprints
went back to the trail and went on from there, heading towards big, stink-
ing piles of feces with relatives’ names on them.
Another drawing alarmed me. It depicted the naked body of a brown-
haired Caucasian woman with black pubic hair, lying on the floor on her
back, her abdomen cut open vertically. She was quite dead.
A location that kept recurring in my dreams emerged in another
drawing of a “road on mountain … a long drive home.” On one side of
the road was a building marked “Episcopalian College/School/Church”
and, a bit farther along, another building described as a “big red brick
house with a white porch-Satanist headquarters-[teachers] taught us
things better . . . Dad and me learned . . . demons taught here . . . later
years, [I] taught classes here . . . near Little Rock, Arkansas.”
Another drawing was of what Dad called the “Community Room.”
It seemed to be inside a building in or near Reading, Pennsylvania. The
walls and floors were painted black; the doors were brown. The drawing
included a door to a bathroom, marked “water to clean up blood,” and a
carved, brown, wooden “snake on pole carried by Dad-head pointed
DOWN.” Black squiggles on the floor represented the “killing, dismem-
bering area.” A horizontal squiggle along the wall was identified as
“woman’s intestines.” One note on the drawing was about “double doors
to outside-where cut up body in trash bags was carried out.”
Another drawing was of a different room with a brown, wooden altar.
On it were two lit candles and an upside-down bronze cross. I remem-
bered I would sit on the edge of the altar and “watch, and swing my feet.”
Facing the altar in a semi-circle were nine metal chairs: “They would
sometimes sit in chairs in robes and eat and drink refreshments.
Sometimes they would stand & line up in the same order. Men who raped
me [stood] to the right.” A spiral drawn on the floor represented “where
they would gang rape me.” One corner of the room was labeled my
“hiding corner.”
One afternoon at home, alone in our kitchen, I absent-mindedly looked
down at a large carving knife lying in our stainless steel sink. Suddenly,
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I had a vivid flashback of Dad wearing a long, black, pointy-hooded
robe. In his hands, he held the blade of a large bloody knife. I ran down-
stairs, grabbed my sketchbook, and drew what I’d just seen.
Another drawing showed me lying naked on my back on a wooden table.
Also naked, Dad stared into my eyes as he straddled and raped me. Six
adults wearing black, hooded robes stood in a semi-circle, watching silently.
Words were written on the paper: “Dad reminded me not to talk back.”
The next drawing described what had happened just before the rape.
I was lying on my back on the same table. A little brown-haired boy had
been placed atop my torso, his back on my abdomen. Dad had used his
big knife to vertically slit the boy’s abdomen open, making lots of blood
run down the side of the boy’s body, then onto and under my side and
butt. “Dad made me lay back on the altar then they lay the little boy on
top of me,” the note read. “He didn’t move-limp – they cut his tummy
open blood ran down me I tried to sleep but I felt the blood It wasn’t a
dream as hard as I tried to make it one.”
Another drawing was of Dad’s mother, wearing a hooded black robe,
and in her hands she held a thick, old book, bound in brown leather.
A picture of a naked goddess was embossed on the front of it, her torso
encircled by a snake. Its head pointed towards the side of her head. The
book seemed to be very important to Grandma. In it were symbols that
she called “runes.” Although I was expected to read and understand
them, I don’t remember if I ever did.
In another drawing, I appeared to be an adolescent, now also wearing a
hooded black robe. Dad “taught” me how to vertically cut open a boy’s
abdomen as the boy lay on his back on the floor. “First human cutting,”
read the words on the drawing. “Dad’s hands on mine. He liked brown
curly hair. I was 13.” And, “I safe now I one of them still altar girl but they
won’t cut me now Now I big girl now I have to cut like cutting a cow.”
I was confused; most of the pictures and messages seemed to come
from children of different ages-mostly between the ages of five and
twelve. What in the hell was going on?
Soon I “felt” voices talking in my mind. 2 At first, I was convinced they
must be demons that were trying to trick me into believing they were
human. I prayed to God to make them go away. When that didn’t work,
I commanded them to leave “in the name of Jesus.” The childlike voices
kept talking, whispering their names, sometimes making threats about
hurting me. Was I going insane?
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I wondered if I had Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) like that
female patient at Charter-Peachford. If I did have MPD, would my life
be ruined? Would I be locked up in a hospital for years, like she had
been? Would my neighbors think I was crazy? I chuckled at the last
thought-if they’d heard some of my screams during my anger work
sessions at home, they might already think so! It was time to stop worry-
ing about what everyone else thought and go with the flow to see what
happened next.
Several times in therapy, I hesitantly tried to tell Bob about the voices
in my mind. Although he and other codependency counselors had taught
me about getting in touch with my “inner child,” I sensed I had a lot more
than one child inside me. And although the counselors had talked about
the “inner child” in a figurative way, mine seemed quite real. Sometimes
so many children’s voices talked to me at once, I had difficulty follow-
ing them all.
When I told Bob I might have multiple personalities, he sat in his
upholstered chair with a straight face, saying nothing. Uncomfortable
with his silence, I tried reasoning with him. “Bob, I keep hearing voices.”
“Are those voices inside your mind, or are they coming from the
outside?”
“Definitely inside.”
He seemed relieved and explained that some schizophrenics hear
external voices.
I continued pushing my point. “You’ve seen my art work. It’s not adult
stuff. I go away for hours sometimes and when I come back, I don’t
remember drawing any of it.”
He said this might indicate a split-off inner child that held some of my
traumatic memories, but he was certain I didn’t actually have MPD.
I felt frustrated. Why wouldn’t he listen to what I was telling him? Didn’t
I know myself better than he ever could, since I was the one who had to live
in this body and listen to those damned voices all day long?
Because he kept insisting that I didn’t have MPD, I stopped mentioning
the possibility to him and encouraged the children inside to write to me in
my journal at home. Their journal entries were like the drawings ”
describing events that I’d had no prior memory of. That worried me. If
these child parts were part of me, then whatever they’d experienced, I had,
too. And yet their memories weren’t mine! How they could be so vivid
and yet not feel like parts of my history? Was I making them up?
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I didn’t think so, because I hadn’t read anything, anywhere, that
suggested such graphic and bizarre images. And some details of the
drawings did match details of recent dreams. Were the dreams my mind’s
way of preparing me to cope with the impact of daytime memories?
I was exhausted from the incessant voices and memories. And because
they were so damned bizarre, I absolutely could not accept them as
being real. To help me to cope with them without having to accept them,
Bob taught me to visualize a pantry room in the back of my mind with
wooden shelves along the back wall. At his suggestion, I put each
bizarre memory in a big glass jar and left it there on the shelf to “sit and
simmer.”
Living in both the past and the present was difficult. Although I talked
about some of my new thoughts and memories in therapy, I never had
enough time to process them all. I had to cope with most of them at home
on my own.
New York City Ritual
Within weeks, I suffered a horrendous series of flashbacks about a
sadistic ritual gathering that had been held in the summer that my family
had gone to the World’s Fair in New York City-either in 1963 or 1964. 3
Although I’d never forgotten about my parents taking us to the huge fair,
I’d suppressed all memory of this part of the trip. I contacted an investi-
gator at our District Attorney’s office. The investigator encouraged me to
come and give a verbal statement about what I’d remembered. A female
secretary typed it:
INTERVIEW WITH KATHLEEN SULLIVAN
On May 23, 1990 at approximately 2:00 PM Ms. Sullivan gave
the following information to the secretary:
My dad was the leader of a satanic cult in the area of Reading
Pennsylvania. We lived in Reiffton. This begin [sic] when I
was approximately 8 to 13 years of age, about 1963 to 1969.
I witnessed weekly meetings on Friday nights where I saw both
adults and children murdered, mutilated, dismembered. They
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also did a lot of pedophile rituals with boys who were not phys-
ically cut or hurt (only sexually related) … I do remember that
during the ’64 Worlds Fair in New York City my dad took me
to some kind of special meeting where it seemed to be either a
national or international gathering of pedophiles who were
involved in sadisam [sic]. I watched as they demonstrated rub-
bing a penis on the private parts of a baby and later saw
approximately fifteen dead babies laid out on the floor.
A woman took me by the hand and told me it was just my
imagination. I believe that by what I saw there may have been
some representatives from the Maffia [sic] there due to the way
they were dressed and their skin coloring and the power that they
obviously had over the group. We also moved to Cockeysville,
Maryland when I was fourteen. I do not remember any events
that occurred after that time relating to satanic activities … I
will related [sic] other things as they are remembered to . . . the
District Attorney’s Office. At this time I am unsure of who to
trust in relating information to family.
Because I hadn’t yet discovered similar information on ritual abuse or
pedophilia, I wasn’t willing to accept what I was remembering and
reporting.
Suicide Programming
After telling Bob about some of these memories, I felt a powerful,
repetitive compulsion to insert the blade of a large knife into my
abdomen and vertically gut myself. Each time the urge came, I felt
unusually peaceful and believed I would feel no pain. Staying by myself
at home during the day was dangerous; I was losing strength and was
afraid I might not be able to fight the urge much longer.
Other therapists advised Bob that I might be experiencing suicide
programming. They explained that this type of mental programming usu-
ally kicked in when a client’s ritual abuse (RA) memories first emerged.
Bob gave me the names and phone numbers of several psychiatric facilities
in the US that specialized in working with RA survivors. As I contacted
each facility, I “saw” myself cutting off my hands or cutting the veins in my
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wrists. Again, I felt peaceful and believed if I followed through, I’d feel
no pain. 4
The most highly recommended program was at the Columbine psychi-
atric hospital in Denver, Colorado. When I called there, a man said their
unit was filled to overflowing. He told me about a smaller program for
ritual trauma survivors at Bethesda PsycHealth Hospital, also in Denver.
I soon flew to Colorado to start the next phase of my recovery.
Bethesda PsycHealth
Because Denver is at a high altitude, the sky above the city was
startlingly blue. The hospital, a former tuberculosis sanitarium, consisted
of several large, red brick buildings. The walking paths and lovely flower
gardens between the buildings helped to soothe my frazzled mind. One
weekend during my stay there, my red-haired roommate talked her
boyfriend into driving us to the Red Rock Amphitheater on a daytime
pass. I was awed by the majestic mountains that I saw towering in the
distance. That was the pleasant part of my stay.
Several days after I’d checked into the specialized unit, I met its direc-
tor, a bespectacled, soft-spoken psychiatrist, Dr. T, for the first time. We
met almost every weekday during my month-long stay. Sometimes I gig-
gled when he entered the empty conference room to talk with me,
because he usually burped.
During my first consultation with the psychiatrist, I described
my internal children. He asked questions and told me that I probably
had MPD. A battery of standardized psychological tests confirmed
his suspicion. 5 When he verified my new diagnosis, I spiraled into
depression. I instinctively knew that my life was about to change
forever-I didn’t want that to happen!
Remembering the movie Sybil and the odd behaviors of the female
patient with MPD at Charter-Peachford, I believed I’d be treated like a
freak for the rest of my life. I felt angry; I didn’t want to share my body
with other personalities! Damn it, it was mine!
For about a week, I didn’t try to get better. I just wanted to die. Dr. T
and the other staff members gently explained that I needed to learn how
to work with my disability, instead of fighting it. Dr. T said if I used every
coping tool they taught me during my stay, participated in every therapy
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237
group, stayed honest with the staff, asked lots of questions, and learned
to cooperate with my alter-states, I should survive back in Atlanta.
I appreciated his honesty and decided to follow his advice.
The staff encouraged me to allow hidden alter-states to emerge and
explore the hospital grounds. Most of my alter-states had been flash-frozen
in a Rip Van Winkle way by the traumas they’d compartmentalized. When
they first emerged, they discovered that the world had changed a great deal.
Some of them had difficulty with simple things like using feminine prod-
ucts, wearing a bra, and opening white plastic packets of jelly sealed with
thin foil.
New alter-states emerged almost every day. I didn’t like the idea of
their taking control of my body. Because I resisted, they usually took
control after I’d fallen asleep. Because I couldn’t stay awake all the time,
I decided to let them emerge during the day-I usually did this by taking
a nap, knowing I’d be missing a chunk of time when I came back into
consciousness. I wanted to learn how to negotiate with them so that they
wouldn’t hurt or embarrass me the next time they had control.
During this hospitalization, fourteen distinct alter-states emerged.
Each had unique memories, emotions, and perspectives about life and
past events. I’m still fascinated by how, when they first emerged, they
were still “frozen” at certain psychosocial stages of development. That,
more than anything, proved to me that they were real. 6
Weekends in the hospital were hardest for me. Most of the other
clients were visited by loved ones and went out on pass with them.
Having no visitors and nothing to do, I used my solitary time to become
more intimately acquainted with my emerging alter-states.
Whenever I could, I walked into the unit’s combination conference/
music room, lay on my back on the floor, propped up my calves on the seat
of a wooden chair, and listened to a “love song” radio station on the stereo.
Although this technique may sound silly, it seemed to work wonders.
Each time a love song played, I mentally dedicated it to my other
alter-states, adapting the words of the songs and visualizing myself send-
ing them all the way inside-into every crack, crevice, and recess in my
soul. Over and over, I communicated “I love you, I care about you, I want
you” to every part, no matter how hidden.
Internal cooperation increased dramatically after that. I soon felt safe
enough to cede control of my body to the other parts, almost all of the time.
Because my time at the hospital was limited, I wanted them to have as
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much time “out” as possible to work through their traumatic memories,
before I was discharged. This was when the real repair work and connect-
edness began.
Neither Dr. T nor anyone else on the staff suggested my emerging
memories. They still contained completely unfamiliar material that
I frankly didn’t know how to deal with. The memories seemed so utterly
bizarre and impossible.
Warning – the remainder of this chapter may be triggering for trauma
survivors.
Cindy – Age 5
Sometimes as I “came to,” I found myself walking along a hallway in
the hospital unit, wearing my nightgown and holding a stuffed white
teddy bear that Bill had sent me. This child alter-state called it “Cindy
Bear” and insisted that Bill buy it panties because she didn’t like its pri-
vates being exposed. My Cindy alter-state had been flash-frozen at the
emotional age of five.
She recollected that she had felt terrified of round holes drilled in the
wooden floors of our living room in Reiffton. She constantly searched
my shared hospital bedroom and the dayroom floors for similar holes
(there were none). Dad had told her that snakes would crawl up through
the holes and bite her for talking to outsiders. She still believed every-
thing he had said. Because he’d been a terrifying, looming presence in
my life, he was still alive and frightening to Cindy. She saw herself as a
small girl with curly, soft, short blond hair.
Nikki-Agel3
Nikki was the second part to emerge. She insisted that she was asexual
and proudly announced to Dr. T, “I don’t do sex.” Then she told him what
she had experienced.
On my thirteenth birthday, Dad had told Nikki that she was now an
adult, and that she was in charge of the occult rituals. Although Nikki had
previously been naked during rituals or had worn a see-through
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239
“initiate’s” robe, Dad now made her don a child-sized, hooded, black
robe like the ones he and the other adults wore. Then Dad commanded
her to stand in the middle of an encircled hexagram on the floor. He said,
“Nikki, you’re a big girl now.”
He commanded her to kneel in the middle of the hexagram. She knew
not to move out of the circle because if she did, demons would attack her.
She tried to dissociate by staring at the white, flickering candles that Dad
had set on each point of the large, painted star. She obeyed him by killing
(“sacrificing”) a boy in the middle of the star as Dad and the other black-
robed cult members walked around the outside of the circle in single file,
chanting louder and louder. Nikki had survived the horror by visualizing
herself cutting a cow instead.
When she first emerged in Bethesda, she felt great emotional pain. She
still believed that she’d been solely responsible for the child’s murder.
She smoked cigarettes and plotted to run away from the hospital on a
pass so she could “get drunk and screwed.” She was restricted to the
hospital grounds after several other alter-states reported her intentions to
the staff.
Dolly/Dreia – Age 7
Dolly, who also answered to the cult name Dreia, was developmentally
stuck at the age of seven. Dad had taught occult beliefs to her that he’d
said he had mostly gotten from the writings of the infamous British
Satanist and intelligence operative, Aleister Crowley.
Sometimes, Dad’s cult had met in a large old gray stone building in or
near Reading. 7 A thick, gray, granite altar, upon which babies were mur-
dered, was in one of the rooms. Dad told Dolly that the most powerful
life-energy was stored in the blood of babies because they hadn’t sinned
yet. He said that a weaker but still effective life-force was stored in the
semen of animals and humans. He seemed to believe that his body would
never deteriorate or grow old if he continuously ingested both. He made
Dolly do the same.
As Dolly tried to explain these beliefs to a nurse at Bethesda, she said
that Dad acted as if he were a battery that needed to be recharged by
blood and semen-either human or animal. In my sketchbook, she drew a
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succession of diagrams of hooded adult cult members positioned in and
around the encircled hexagram. She drew pictures of the sequence of one
ritual from beginning to end. Dolly was proud to have been an occult
practitioner and wrote a page-with graphic illustrations-about the
Magick that Dad had taught her during those rituals.
Eventually, Dolly felt the horror of what she’d been involved in
as a child. Alone in the hospital bedroom, she frantically searched
for something to kill herself with. She tried to remove metal screws
from a metal window frame to cut her wrists, but they wouldn’t
come loose. She tried to escape by opening an emergency door-it didn’t
budge.
There wasn’t any point of trying to walk out the building’s main
door-the staff constantly checked with me and other clients to make
sure that unfamiliar alter-states wouldn’t break and run if we strolled
around the hospital grounds. Dolly was trapped with no way out, other
than to talk and heal.
Andreia – Teenaged Part
Andreia was the same alter- state that had covertly met with the retired
Army general, “Poppa,” in 1985. Because Dad hadn’t known about
Andreia’s existence, she’d successfully preserved a large portion of my
morality. Like Dolly, Andreia was suicidal when she emerged at
Bethesda. She felt great emotional pain and held memories of Dad’s
deadly rages. Even though he was dead, she still feared him. She drew a
picture of him as a deadly black tornado.
Andreia recalled having watched Dad beat a male cult member to
death in a ritual room in Pennsylvania. In the picture, the unconscious
man hung by his wrists that were tied with a rope that was attached to a
pulley Dad had previously fastened to the ceiling. (These were the same
pulleys Dad used, when making me and other children hang from the
ceiling in cages ” sometimes for days.)
Andreia mourned the red-bearded man’s death. Although she’d been
one of his sexual “partners” during orgies, he’d been kind to her. And
because of what she’d seen Dad do when he lost control of his rage,
Andreia feared her own anger and worried that her rage might go out of
control and hurt others.
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241
(Continued at