There’s a shadow man
he lives in the shadows
appears; disappears
you don’t know where he is
then suddenly, silently, he’s there
and pulls you in.
You can’t get out
like in a nightmare when you try to wake up
you try really hard
but you can’t.
And no one comes to save you
because they haven’t noticed you’re gone.
No one misses you
you just disappear.
And when they think they see you
it’s not you at all
because you are gone and only a shadow remains.
I am being so triggered by the Philadelphia revelations.
Nightmares. Hyper-vigilance. Tremors. Dissociation. Intensified startle reflex. Insomnia. Anxiety. Irrational fears.
Not fun.
I write Letters to the Editor; I journal; I read newspapers, then wish I hadn’t. It feels strong to respond and challenge people, but it makes me more paranoid about the Church sending priests in black cars to “come and get me,” to kill me for telling their secrets.
I keep telling myself, “I am safe. I am safe.” But then I journal and don’t feel safe any more.
How do I process my grief?
Does suffering have any meaning?
Do we live in a random chaotic universe?
Is it time to re-evaluate my understanding of “God”?
This book is for anyone who has suffered a loss – of safety, of one’s home, of health, of a loved one or a relationship, or of one’s faith … and found themselves asking, “Why?” And then wondering, “Who am I asking?” and hoping they were not alone.
Over the past few years I have used the opportunity offered by this blog to reflect on many aspects of my healing from sexual abuse by Catholic priests.
I have a new book coming out that tells the story of my healing journey and my journey through grief and loss if you are interested in my full story.
Blond hair
Curly
Blue eyes, wide
In a knitted sweater
Crafted with care
She looks real
Two legs
And panties
She’s soft and warm
Down there
Why did they make her like that
The doll makers
Because They want real skin
The softness, the smell
Mingled with Their spit
They rub and rub
And she just looks
Wide-eyed and still
Clasping the knitted lamb
Crafted with care
They’ll be done soon, little lamb
Then we can sleep
But for now we play the doll game
And remember not to cry
Reference:
“Hard work awaits pope and abuse survivors”
Mary Gail Frawley-O’Dea | NCR Apr. 23, 2013
A response:
I read the article and was impressed, as always, by Frawley-O’Dea’s passionate and insightful comments. She not only counsels but truly understands the struggles of victims. Not all therapists can comprehend the spiritual devastation of priest abuse.
Then I read the comments and was sickened by two themes: 1. The problem is homosexuality; 2. Compensation is a miss-use of church funds and neglects the poor and needy.
To the second point I want to say that the victims of pedophile and sexually abusive priests are, in my experience (11 years active in the survivor community; 54 years living with the effects of the abuse) some of the poorest, most damaged and needy people in the catholic community. Sadly they are no longer actively catholic and hence not included in the charitable giving of the church. But the reason they are no longer actively catholic IS the church – the behavior of abusive priests in the church.
I have known suicides, alcoholics, drug users, homeless, bankrupt, mentally ill victims whose lives were irrevocably damaged by suffering priest abuse. Counseling is vital, but so is the ability to earn a living, a place to live, and food to eat. Unfortunately the emotional and psychological ability to process a claim against the church is beyond the mental and certainly fiscal resources of most victims. This is where pro-active lawyers must step in and when they do the claims made must cover their fees and they are expensive. And getting a large settlement is what lawyers do. It helps their reputations. This is just the facts. If the church would make settlements before lawyers are engaged it would lesson costs to the church. But the bishops are the first ones to lawyer up. Again, my experience: 17 years seeking help for therapy, the bishop eventually said – “don’t write to me any more, talk to my lawyer. ” It was downhill from there.
Now to the first point. Homosexuality is not and never has been the issue. No more than heterosexuality. If we throw out homosexual priests we have to throw out heterosexual ones too, because pedophilia and ephebophilia are two very different issues and not strictly homo or heterosexual. Sexually abusive priests I have known, or learnt about, were psychologically deformed in some manner. Some abused girls and boys, some abused adults and children. One of my abusers raped my mother, molested me and one of my brothers. How should he be categorized? Simply a sick man with a corrupted morality and deformed psycho-sexual nature. He was an opportunistic abuser, not a homosexual or heterosexual abuser. We have to stop labeling this a homosexual issue. Healthy homosexual relationships are between consenting adults and are as committed as heterosexual ones. The problem for some of the commenters is that homosexuality is seen as evil so it must the root of the sexual problems of abuser priests. Wrong! If anything, the common sexual issues for abusive priests are chastity and celibacy.
“Postman Pat, Postman Pat,
Postman Pat and his black and white cat,
Early in the morning,
Just as day is dawning,..”
The children’s tape player sang the words through its red and white face. Primary colors for a baby’s room. The tape was a distraction for me, and it covered my cries – but his hand usually sufficed.
People ask, How could a man, a priest? It’s popular to ask, now, those taboo questions. Safety in numbers for those who dare to criticize God’s men.
But that night, so many nights, no safety. No one questioning. Not even the mother. And the father? He was around.
My face hurts now, as I tell you this. Pain in my jaw like after a long session at the dentist. As if it had been stretched wide beyond its comfort. And my throat is tight, golf-ball sized anxiety, so I can’t catch my breath. Give me a minute, here!
…..
…..
It was always hard to breathe during story time.
And now the inevitable pain in my rectum. Even though I am telling you this over 50 years later, the pain memories are so near. They live in my muscles under my skin.
In prison there are similar pains for many of the inmates. But I am separate. Solitary. Suits me just fine! Dangerous, they say, to myself and others. A sociopath by nature, or a victim whose violation of his body caused an irreparable tear in his soul through which all feelings escaped. Which am I? Maybe you don’t believe in souls or God. That’s fine. I’m The Wrath of God … and no one wants to believe in me.
I sought out one of them, one of the owners of those bodies that stole my breath and my sanity. One of the Men in Black. I burned holes in his body where he had torn holes in mine. Pathology or justice? Am I a righteous man or a criminal? It’s up to you to decide, my twelve peers. But let me ask, first, that you take my place for just one night in that child’s bed, just one, and then you can judge me.
cold, cold, hard, damp tiles
bare feet
they didn’t care
with their thick shoes and heavy clothes
pale legs above bloodless toes
the cold hurts
before it numbs
but fear is hot
insides shaking
lips trembling
don’t cry, she warns
don’t whimper or weep
it will be worse for you
stand strong, little mona
stand and stare
see what they point to
see it and know
there is no safety
for little girls
who don’t do what they are told
tears fall silently
on downy cheeks
please don’t notice
i promise i’ll be good
i won’t make a sound
i’ll be daddy’s good girl
you’ll see
The Shadow Self
There is nothing outside of me to be afraid of any more – it is inside of me.
But if it is inside me –
I can control it. If it is inside me –
I can repair it. If it is inside me –
I can console it!
I can be safe
I can create safe
I can live safe
I can!
“Thrive”
Been fighting things that I can’t see
Like voices coming from the inside of me and
Like doing things I find hard to believe in
Am I myself or am I dreaming?
I’ve been awake for an hour or so
Checking for a pulse but I just don’t know
Am I a man when I feel like a ghost?
The stranger in the mirror is wearing my clothes
No, I’m not alright
I know that I’m not right
A steering wheel don’t mean you can drive
A warm body don’t mean I’m alive
No, I’m not alright
I know that I’m not right
Feel like I travel but I never arrive
I wanna thrive not just survive
I come alive when I hear you singing
But lately I haven’t been hearing a thing and
I get the feeling that I’m in between
A machine and a man who only looks like me
I try and hide it and not let it show
But deep down inside me I just don’t know
Am I a man when I feel like a hoax?
The stranger in the mirror is wearing my clothes
No, I’m not alright
I know that I’m not right
A steering wheel don’t mean you can drive
A warm body don’t mean I’m alive
No, I’m not alright
I know that I’m not right
Feel like I travel but I never arrive
I wanna thrive not just survive
I’m always close, but I’m never enough
I’m always in line, but I’m never in love
I get so down, but I won’t give up
I get so down, but I won’t give up
I get so down, but I won’t give up
Been fighting things that I can’t see
Like voices coming from the inside of me …
From Hurt to Healing 