Post a Comment Full of Rage, Then Recover a New Memory - Another Day in the Life of a Pedophile Priest Rape Survivor

By Kay Ebeling
City of Angels
September 12, 2008

Federal Agents should storm archdioceses across the country with search warrants so they can find and SEIZE pedophile priest documents. Now in Portland, Oregon, as well as LA, we find bishops still fighting the plaintiffs and siding with criminal priests, fighting just as mean as they fought the civil cases to begin with, against the release of files that was ordered as part of civil settlements. Bishops will tell news cameras the church has changed, and then in court church attorneys continue their Mad Hatter Tea Party. The Catholic Church has bottomless briefcases full of cash, enough to keep paying lawyers to file meaningless motions and prevent civil release of predator priest files for decades and decades and decades.

WHERE is law enforcement? It is time to stop being afraid of this organized crime operation known as the Catholic Church. WE ALL KNOW they are pedophiles.

What else are they hiding? Otherwise they would be forthcoming with the files.

(This Just came in as I was posting: Dec. 5 at 10:30 will be a hearing before Judge Lichtman on the publication of the documents from the 2006 Santa Barbara settlement. "Yes, we're still fighting that fight," Says Tim Hale, "a sign of things to come in the LA and San Diego settlements undoubtedly as well.")

How Much Evidence do Attorneys General from the USA at the top on down to every city attorney in the country need before they see-

The Next Step From Here is Prosecution. These guys are thugs in robes, little more.

Kay Ebeling

Evangelical Christian Survivor of Catholic Pedophile Priest Rape

I just put a comment at Kelly Clark's website saying that, more or less


Just A Typical Morning In My Life

Post a raging comment on a blog

Recover new memories of rapes I lived through at age five and six

Go to work


Here is how it started. Reading the blog of Oregon attorney Kelly Clark, in the middle of a paragraph this phrase: "Plaintiffs in these cases are crime victims, are covered with the shame of child abuse, and do not need or deserve to be identified publicly." (The entire post is at: )

My mind slips to - wonder why I always want my name and story out there almost like a compulsion. In fact my sister who was also raped by Father Horne around the time of First Communion went through life with a very similar compulsion to mine, to write our life stories, focusing on all the weird sex, even when we didn't know why we were compelled to write.

So many pedophile priest crime victims I've met DON'T want their stories out, DON'T want their adult friends to know. I'm thinking why am I always so compulsed.

And then I remember, even say out loud - "oh yeah the cameras."

And there I was in the middle of the memory as I sat at my computer. Hot lights, I even feel the chubby almost baby skin under my chin and arms, look to the left, silhouettes of males standing above and out of the light. I'm in the light and it's hot.

No wonder my sister and I were so compulsed to go on film or TV or now me on a blog, go public, expose every detail of our contorted lives.

We were initiated into this club on camera.

For years all I've remembered of this incident was the big round thing. The big metal round thing pointed at me. It's suspended in the air pointed at me holding incredibly still. And everyone in the room is being painstakingly quiet, working hard at being quiet, but occasionally a gasp of breath -

Lots of smoke in the room. Then I see a familiar face, now the cigarette goes to his mouth -

Projectile tears.

Those tears are a sign it's a real recovered memory, for me anyway. The tears shoot out, huge thick oily salty globs of teardrop, along with a kind of choked sob, without any preliminary crying or even thought in advance, just all of a sudden, squish, out of both eyes.

No wonder my sister and I went through life writing draft after draft after draft, started and restarting our life stories. We were both stuck for life trying to figure out what really happened, and trying to tell it to the world.

I have file cabinets full of first second drafts and then first drafts all over again. That's not counting all the notebooks and stacks of typed manuscript I've lost.

My sister took her only copy of her life story on a flight to New York once to try to sell it, don't know why she only had the one copy. It was in the days before computers but after Xerox machines. Still she only had one copy, carried it on an airplane, got drunk with some guys in first class, and lost it. Lost her manuscript. Left it on the plane.

In her version, she had graphic details of her time as a topless dancer in the early 1970s in Northern California. She'd go from tavern to tavern, dance, select two or three men from the crowd, and have them follow her home as she drove this blue beat up convertible sports car she drove then on the two lane country road to where she lived in inland Sonoma County. These new strange men would be in a line of VW vans or Mercedes or whatever behind her panting after her all the way to this metal barn she rented in the middle of nowhere -- to party into the night. . .

It was my sister's former girlfriend who told me about the lost manuscript. Helen had been one of few people to read it, and as she described it to me her face took on a look of horror. Shocked at the sexual escapades, Helen said, "She was bragging about it all," said Helen and I twitched.

My sister and I both have had trouble maintaining friendships. . .


Most child rape victims do not want their names and stories in the news


Unlike most pedophile priest rape victims, my sister and I keep wanting to tell our story to the world, in detail. I just assumed everyone else did too.

But more and more the few victims who I have gotten to know don't want their names used, will tell me details of what happened to them only if I promise to keep it off the record, and then as we talk and get to know each other and they realize how much everything in my life spills out onto this blog, they tend to stop returning my calls and emails after awhile.

Barbara Blaine was in the news recently saying, "We're not here to help victims, they have to learn to help themselves," and my first reaction was, man, that's cold. But she's right.

For one thing there are hundreds and thousands of survivors.

Probably hundreds of thousands of people in the US today were molested in some way by a priest, either by an incident of inappropriate touching all the way to serial sodomy rape before serving Mass as an altar boy.

Young men in seminary getting their life dream slaughtered by the reality that so many priests are sodomite rapists that it's almost woven into the tapestry of church structure.

Since there are close to five thousand predator priests in the Bishop Accountability database now, considering each one of them had as many as ten victims, probably more, you do the math.

There are too many of us to make any generalizations about where the priests were sent or what kind of kids they went after.


They were everywhere and they went after everyone


They were everywhere throughout the Catholic Church in America and they went after whatever kids they could get their hands on. It's time to start looking at this epidemic for what it was -- an EPIDEMIC -- thousands of priests identified so far with hundreds and thousands of crime victims.

The entire structure of the church all the way back to putting men in seminary away from other people to become priests is corrupt and led to the pedophile epidemic of the late twentieth century in the United States.

Assuming it's not continuing into the twenty-first century.

Onward. . .


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