Pedophile privilege

I was looking up the title of my book: The Secrets of Lilly Lake, and up pops this news article about Lily Lake. It is spelled different ways on different signs/sites  so I am not sure what the real spelling is but here is the article. 

http://www.gainesville.com/news/20040610/home-to-world-class-water-skiing

On the cover of the article is this picture:


I was so sickened by this article and this picture that I lay awake late into the night. This man is the man who molested me through out my childhood. We calculated the times and dates today and he had over 200 opportunities to assault me. 

When an individual says: “Forgive and forget….move on….let it go…” I am pretty sure they are unaware of social media reminders (hard to forget when reminded) PTSD, triggers, and the burden they are putting on the individual to have to DO something. I want to know if the person who throws out this insensitive advice knows what it even feels like to BE raped. Now, the man who abused me,  HE can apologize, but How am I burdened to let him go. How am I burdened with years of therapy to somehow learn how to release the chains he has over me, release the power he has. It is not that he has any power over me at all. He HURT me. My body and my mind remembers these things through nightmares and PTSD. I go through all of this therapy and still suffer immensely and someone has the NERVE, the gall, the audacity, to suggest, let it go!!! 

I am not educated enough on the ins and outs of white privledge to comment on that topic. I can tell you that this man has a good amount of money, well known in society, and is PRIVLEDGED!!!! He happens to be white. Does that have anything to do with it? I have no idea and therefore I don’t want to get into the color of his skin. Somehow though, someway, I feel if he had a different skin color, different socioeconomic status, his outcome would have been different. Just a thought so try not to tear me apart on this issue. Right now, his color means nothing to me. 

I care that he is featured on a newspaper article as some sort of superman. But he is just a pedophile. 

I went to bed last night thinking about how he has no power over me. I just have unwanted memory of him. The nerve of someone to tell me I need therapy., Tell me I need different modalities to help me. You can tell me any suggestions you want to tell me but the truth of the matter is that evil happened to me. Nothing will take that away. Good can exist within it and within me and around me. But the evil that has been done to me by this man and others is a part of who I am. PTSD did not happen on it’s own. I very much wish I could send the thousands of dollars of bills for mental health (that by the way have still not allowed me to “let him go.” 

Furthermore I am sick and tired of the stigma of mental illness or mental health. If I explore and examine and express my rage, my anger, my depression, my anxiety, my ongoing issues with the abuse then I am judged. Yes some asshole can park in a disabled parking spot and just be called an asshole. Someone at an office can send me the wrong bill, over charge, over bill, late fee, as a mistake, and I am supposed to THANK her for fixing HER problem. 

There are no stigmas for being a straight up asshole and there should be. But stigmas for anxiety, OCD, PTSD galore. “I had an OCD moment earlier.” I has a total “panic” when I forgot my keys. ” I had a total “crazy” episode when my mother in law wanted cheese trays at my wedding. NO! These terms are not lightly used. A PANIC is what happened yesterday when I could not feel my legs, dissociative did (another misunderstood stigma word) an had no clue where I was for a good hour. I hate the word crazy. But if you were to use it it would be the screaming that happens in my head when a person comes up and hugs me with the cologne the man who raped me was wearing and my head goes manic(preferred word) and I have to then scrub myself in the shower until I almost bleed. 

All because of MR. Famous up there in his picture and his glory. So “get over it” is not in my vocabulary. Telling me to “calm down” won’t help me. If you take the time to learn about PTSD you will understand me. But people won’t any more than they will try to understand what multiple chemical sensitivities are or my muscle disease. 

Hence. Me feeling alone. 

I said it a few days ago and I will say it again, I am not Okay. And I am Okay with saying on MY blog that I am not Okay. I am overwhelmed wtih the magnitude of weight put on my shoulders of healing from abuse, healing from a muscle disease, caring for my daughter, and living with the consequences of these disorders in the face of constant judgment. 

This man gets to be on a cover of a newspaper, our newspaper, honored. Where am I? I overcame his abuse to become a professional waterskier myself. But they want to focus on his family who along with the entire ski team AND my family covered up what he did to me. 

And I am the one who needs to “let go?” Because it will “heal me to feel peace and love.” I will NEVER feel peace and love for a pedophile and those who support him. EVER. That does not keep me or hinder my healing. Anyone wants to honor that man on the cover of a newspaper you go for it. 

God will see fit to do what HE so chooses with that man. 

It is NOT MY responsibility to do ANYTHING FOR HIM in the name of somehow helping myself. 

I will just step over his memory as best I can like I step over a dropped piece of food on the floor. Step over and move towards the best things I can like love for my family, animals, friends, but him? He gets nothing from me. 

25 thoughts on “Pedophile privilege

  1. It is true,the ones who abuse get all the praise and the victims of their abuse are left behind, with nothing, nothing. I can’t even say I am sorry or want to give you a big hug because what I am feeling is like kicking him and all others like him or supporting a movement to get him indicted or removed.
    Susie

    Like

    • I want to start the same movement. I sat on that lake today and watched all of them like nothing happened to me ever. It was sickening. To think i would mourn my brother selling that house. It was cathartic to see, feel , and know the truth.
      Thanks susie

      Liked by 1 person

  2. My heart sunk when I read the article that recognises BB as someone who represents the community and portrays him as someone to identify with. What a creep.
    I’m the same – there’s no way in hell I’ll be forgiving the people who sexually abused me. The damage is too extensive to ever forget what they did to me. I think your anger is healthy – it’s motivating you to keep a blog that inspires people (in simiar situations) to confront the truth of their abuse, so they can break the cycle of abuse and heal.
    My therapist reminded me last session that I’m so much more than my trauma… You are too.

    Liked by 4 people

  3. A photograph of your abuser is one of the most sickening PTSD triggers there is. I feel every feeling you have and am glad I have a friend as passionate as you to do my healing alongside. 😘 xxx

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    • I saw it, hoped it wouldn’t rigger others since he was not there’s, but hoped there could be empathyin the shock of seeing this man. Utter shock. And my need to close the door onthe lake and this bastard for good

      Like

  4. I dropped my tablet when I saw this picture and read that he is the pedophile who raped you. I picked my tablet up, wiped it off, read the post and all of the comments, and then I dropped my tablet again. I kept dropping my tablet, because I know. I know what it feels like to unexpectedly see a photograph online of your rapist. The same thing happened to me a few years ago. But at least, the evil monster that raped me is dead. He died about a year and a half after he raped me for the last time and almost killed me. He died in 1970. There was no internet then. And yet his picture, looking all smug and full of himself, is online.

    Like

    • I was 11 when he started grooming me. 11-15 years old. 200 times of being assaulted in one way or another by this man we figured.
      You really do get it. To see that face. Unexpectedly.
      To see him. Out there on the lake still where I grew up, where he hurt me, where he is still hurting me.
      And here I AM with a muscle disease and there that bastard is out on that lake skiing. I felt sick. Then to go out to the lake the next day and see them al (that’s why I wrote part 2 because I had to do something about this) I just broke down. To know they just continued on.
      I am actually afraid of how I will feel when he dies. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that. But I feel afraid of him haunting me or me having nightmares. I know I open myself up here for the christian/religion lecture but this is just what I am FEELING I fear him. Dead or alive I fear him. And those around him that support him.
      I am so so very sorry that you were raped and almost killed. I am so sorry. Even when they are dead though does the PTSD still linger?
      I’ve often wondered if someone with PTSD feels like I do. It isn’t spoken about much. I searched it on reader and there isnt’ much about it. It is paralyzingly. It feels life threatening. And yet, mine is so haywire. The alligator. Post i posted where the alligator was a foot from me , i felt nothing. Because my brain is broken. And i want it fixed. So i went to a pscychitrist. No one talks about that either. She gave me sedatives to knock out a horse. And here i am at 1 am texting you wide awake.
      Thank you for understanding. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for that reaction. I needed someone to actually FEEL for me

      Liked by 2 people

      • ***MULTIPLE TRIGGER WARNINGS***

        Dear Bethany. After reading your comment, I feel so much right now, I don’t even know how to put what I am feeling into words.

        This is what happened to me. I was 15 years old. I was his patient, in the state mental hospital where my abusive parents had put me when I began having symptoms of PTSD in 1968.

        Actually, my PTSD symptoms began in 1965, but my parents did not realize it for a couple of years, because they were too wrapped up in their own craziness to notice, until I finally told my mom what was going on with me, hoping she could help. Instead of helping, she put me in a mental hospital. Even though my behavior was outwardly normal and I was never violent or threatening in any way.

        My PTSD symptoms began when I was 12, on the night when my dad came so close to murdering my mother that I thought she was dead. I became hysterically deaf that night, until I found that my mom was still alive, and my hearing came back on. It was weird.

        The next day my dad was arrested. Without his income we soon ran out of money, ran out of food — at age 12, I did not know there was such a thing as welfare, so in the days without any food, I thought my four younger sisters and brothers and I were all going to starve to death. I remember wondering how long it would take all of us to die. Meanwhile, our only car was repo’ed, our house went into foreclosure, my traumatized mother was threatening suicide every day or so, and my siblings and I kept begging her not to, until that last time, when she pulled a butcher knife out of a kitchen drawer and screamed that she was going to stab herself in the gut right in front of us, and the five of us kids just continued sitting on the living room floor in silence, numb, in shock, unable to even beg her please don’t do it, so then she tried to gas us all to death while we slept in our beds. And other insane scary abusive things happened, too, in my childhood from both parents, these things I am telling you are just the most major ones. So yeah, I had trauma, yes, I had PTSD at age 12. But post traumatic stress disorder did not become an official psychiatric diagnostic label until 1980 and, like I said, this was the 1960s. In those days, people with PTSD were usually diagnosed with schizophrenia.

        One day I told my mother about my strange trauma related symptoms, hoping she could tell me what to do to make it stop. Instead, she says “You are crazy like your father!” and she puts me in a mental institution.

        That’s where the psychiatrist sexually assaulted and eventually raped me. He was in his forties, married, with a daughter in her twenties, and I was 15.

        I fought him off at first. I told a nurse what he was doing. He then put in my chart that I was a pathological liar. After that, he used drugs. He injected me with sodium pentathol, the drug they called the truth serum, and he raped me while I was powerless to fight him off. I don’t remember how many times, but I know it happened several times. The last time, he either gave me too much of the drugs, or else I had a severe allergic reaction to it — I am allergic to a lot of drugs now — but whatever happened, I almost died. I felt my soul leave my body. Two nurses found me collapsed on the floor, with no pulse and my lips were blue. They brought me back, I felt my soul go back into my body. Then they kept me awake by walking me up and down the long hall between them, for an hour or longer, until I was awake enough to ask to go to the bathroom. One nurse accompanied me to the restroom. She saw by the condition of my underwear that I had been raped. She called the other nurse to come and look.

        The two nurses called the police and reported all this. I was told that a third nurse had earlier heard me “screaming bloody murder” in his office. She tried to get in. The door was locked. He told her through the locked door that I was under hypnosis, reliving a trauma.

        Two plainclothes detectives came and asked me questions. I was afraid to talk to them, but I finally did. They searched the doctor’s office and found tape recordings, audio recordings locked in his desk, that he had made of his rapes. I wasn’t the only one.

        He was arrested. The psychiatrist who temporarily took over his wards, was a close friend of his. He called me into his office a day or two later, and called me a whore and blamed me for “ruining a good man.” He said, “I listened to those tape recordings, I know that YOU are the one who lured him into having sex with you! I suppose that you want to screw me now, too, on my office floor?” I remember sitting there in shock, saying nothing. In disgust, he told me to get out of his office.

        Being 15, by law I had to go to the little school there. A social worker at that school, a man who had always talked kindly to me before, told me he wanted to talk to me outside the building, in the parking lot. We went outside, and then he screamed at me for ruining the wonderful doctor’s life. Again, I did not say anything. I was too dead inside to speak.

        Things got worse. A nurse on the ward saw me quietly crying while I was sitting on the open stall toilet (you could never pee or poop in private there). She yelled at me to stop crying, she said I was upsetting the other patients. (One patient, who was a friend of mine, had seen me crying and went and told the nurse, thinking the nurse would come talk to me and soothe me, or give me a sleeping pill to calm me down. Instead, the nurse came screaming into the restroom that I needed to stop crying. I said “Bitch, I can cry if I want to.” I did not yell or make a threatening move, but I had called her a bitch, which apparently was unforgivable. She reacted as if I had physically attacked her. She ran and called the goon squad, 3 or 4 big men in white, male attendants from the mens wards. Moments later these guys swarmed into the restroom where I was still sitting on the toilet. They grabbed me by my arms and hair and they dragged me, with my panties still around my ankles, down the hall to a solitary confinement room. They shoved me inside and slammed and locked the steel door.

        That was when I hung myself. With the bedding. From a big pipe that ran across the ceiling. I climbed up on the wide window sill to reach the pipe. I was a skinny girl, but the pipe broke. Otherwise I would have died in 1969.

        A new psychiatrist was hired to take the place of the one who had raped me. He went to bat for me and finally got me released. He told me I never should have been there.

        Meanwhile, as I said, the rapist shrink had been arrested. I don’t know if he was convicted or what, I only know that about a year and a half later, HE committed suicide.

        His picture is online, on a memorial page.

        The mental institution where I spent almost two of my teenage years was closed, and the huge main building was torn down, in the 1990s. My husband and I drove there in 2014. It was surreal. The building they tore down was more than a mile in circumference, packed full of involuntary patients. Where did all the people go?

        Some months after I was released from the asylum, the school guidance counselor/social worker, the one who had yelled at me for “ruining the life of a wonderful doctor,” drove something like 200 miles to my mother’s house to apologize to me. I refused to go to the door to talk to him. It gave me a small sense of power.

        I was not haunted by the evil doctor at first, because no one told me he was dead for about 2 years. Then I ran into someone from that hospital who told me.

        I felt horrible. I felt, insanely, like it was all my fault. I immediately went to a bar and got very drunk.

        After that, on the rare occasion when I would talk about him and tell what he did to me, I would feel weird, like his evil spirit was trying to shut me up. I had a few nightmares about him screaming at me from hell.

        Then I began to pray, and to say out loud when I felt oppressed: “In the name of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I command you evil spirit to go. Leave me, now!”

        It worked. He is long gone. I have not felt haunted by him since 1974.

        You know what, Bethany? You and I are awesome, beautiful, kick ass SURVIVORS! ❤ ❤

        Liked by 1 person

      • There is a reply. And let me first say that I am very sorry I did not put a trigger warning. I did not think that his picture would affect others. I just wasn’t thinking. Please accept my apology.
        My parents also put me in a hospital in 1989.
        I was also hoping for help. Not a hospital.
        The idea that your mother victimized you and then did it again by just dumping you there is abhor-able. I don’t know if that is even a word.
        The deaf part I know well. I was completely deaf and wrote about it in a poem that I recently wrote called dark poetry where I was not able to hear until my ring hit the door knob. So i understand this.
        Oh my god I am must mortified that you were worried you were going to starve to death. That you sat their wondering how long it would take. This is horrifying. Absolutely horrifying. She terrorized you all is so many ways. So many ways of fear. Lack of safety. There WAS no safety. Reading this I just have a lump in my throat.
        The psychiatrist found a vulnerable girl and raped her. The evil isjust beyond anything I have ever heard thank god the nurses found you and saved you. You must have had a near death experience where you were almost just gone and came back. The horror went on after you thought you were saved and then his FRIEND took over!!! I cannot believe this place existed and they did not move you to another location away from the trauma. You were pushed beyond what anyone should be pushed to and suicide…absolutely how could anyone not understand why you felt his was your only way out. You were trapped with monsters! How petrifying.
        Holy crap, the psychiatrist commited suicide.
        The mental place where I was was also shut down. Not for those reasons but unethical treatment.
        You know i have looked for the other patients where I was put and cant find one. I wish I could. Maybe it is good I can’t.
        Thank you for sharing with me what happened and what happened after too. I’ve said similar prayers as you for protection. Evil from men like that seem to just linger around just in their memory of the horrible things they did. That is why it ENRAGES me when someone says let it go. Yeah. Not that easy!!!
        I am truly happy you have not been haunted by him. That he is gone. Gone forever more. I needed to know that and I thank you so much for sharing it with me. Thank you for all of this. For your story. For your survival. For your living!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Tears are in my eyes now, after reading your precious, affirming, caring reply.

        No worries about not putting a trigger warning. The picture and your post made me remember, yes. But I do not feel traumatized or emotionally “triggered” by it. That is 100% due to the 25 or so neurofeedback treatments I have had since February for my PTSD. I have to drive 265 miles round trip to have the treatments, and pay $95 for each treatment, plus $500 for the initial assessment, since insurance won’t cover it. But it is so worth it!! Think what we pay for housing and a car to drive. Paying for mental health is even more important. Even though my husband and I live mostly on social security — well, we have credit cards.

        I hope reading about my experience did not traumatize you. I hope it validated and affirmed you, only.

        Before neurofeedback, I could not think about, talk about, or write about these things without feeling unbearable emotional pain. But as I wrote all of this, I felt… peace. Peace, and happiness! Because I am not there anymore. Because I survived. Because my life today is GOOD.

        That is like a miracle.

        Like

      • You completely validated me and i feel so honored that you shared with me.
        It’s been one year with this therapist and also a psychiatrist and then before that a few years with her and before that many years with another. There is a therapy that has beeen mentioned called DBT i think it is called that I may try next. We do not nave neurofeedback here or i would have done that a long time ago. I am so so so happy to know it has helped you. Thrillled. Joyous that it has helped. Yep. We have it all on the credit card too because it is important to take care of this just as it is to put oil in the car!
        I cherish your words. I will remember them and you and your story and your victory always

        Liked by 1 person

      • OOOOH, thank you SO MUCH for this comment!! After I read your post about being frustrated with God and feeling so tired of people telling you to pray, etc, I got very worried, thinking that maybe me going on and on about my trauma history, had put you in an even worse state of mind. I wanted to validate you, not bring you down!!!!! But now, thanks to this comment, I feel a lot better.

        Speaking of being mad at God — my dad was a minister for part of my childhood, my mother was a holier than thou Bible-thumper, and after all their abuses and insanity, by the time I was a teenager, I had completely lost my faith in God. I started going to church again when I was in my 20s, and I even went to work for a major international TV ministry for a few years when I was in my early 30s. But then, the hypocrisy and hatefulness that I witnessed behind the scenes while working for that very popular televangelist, caused me to lose my faith in God a second time. I remained an agnostic, almost an atheist, up until a few weeks before my 50th birthday. Now, I am a Christian believer, for the simple reason that the preponderance of the evidence in my life compels me to believe. However, I still don’t have the answers to a whole lot of my questions, particularly WHY is there so much evil, abuse, and suffering in this world, especially the suffering of innocent little children and animals?

        So I totally understand being mad and not wanting to pray. The last time I drank alcohol, which was on the night of January 14, 1990, I walked out into a freezing blowing snow storm along the coast of Maine where I lived at the time. I walked outside of town and down an unplowed road, I walked for hours, for a total of 17 miles in the freezing cold and blowing snow. As I walked, I YELLED at the top of my lungs at the God I did not believe in, yelling about wars and children with cancer and earthquakes and rape and child abuse and all the horrible things in life that are so WRONG… I walked and yelled until there was nothing left inside of me to yell, and then, when I finally stopped yelling… God was there!!! No, I did not see a vision, no I did not hear a voice. But it was as if He had pulled back a veil and made me aware of His presence everywhere, all around me, in and through everything, sustaining everything… and His presence was LOVE and GOODNESS and COMPASSION and GLORIOUS. It was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced, more real to me than anything. But I kept thinking, wow, this is the most vivid hallucination EVER! I was miles away from any houses by then, way out in the boonies, surrounded by forest and snow. My intention had been to walk until I could not walk any further, and then lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. But moments after I felt that amazing presence of God’s love in response to me YELLING at Him for hours, suddenly here came a truck chugging through the deep snow down that unplowed road, and the truck stopped right beside me and a man I barely knew, an old Canadian lobsterman, said “Lynda? God told me you were in trouble and that I needed to go find you.” And he took me home!!

        Yet I continued to call myself an agnostic for the next 13 years, that was how stubborn I was!! I thought that surely I had imagined God’s presence, because of the two beers I had drunk, and the mental and physical exhaustion I felt after walking and yelling at God for 17 miles in the freezing cold. And yet…. how did the old Canadian guy know I was out there, if God did not really send him?

        Today, I believe in Christ Jesus. He is my Savior and my Lord. But I totally understand being mad at God and not wanting to pray. And you know what? God understands it, too!!

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  5. PS: I just realized, Bethany, that there is no reply button under my really long comment. I figure that you may want to say something in reply, so I am leaving this PS where you can do so.

    As I was writing and remembering all of this, it occurred to me that the people who did not believe me, the people who actually blamed me, hurt me just as bad, if not worse, than the rapes did. Blaming the victim is the worst thing.

    Even the rapist blamed me, in a way. He told me that I would “never be well” until I admitted that I really, deep down in my subconscious, wanted to have sex with him. But I didn’t!! I wanted love, yes. I was starved for someone to genuinely care about me and love me. But I did not want him touching and using my body without my permission!!

    Even my dad fell under this evil doctor’s spell. A few months after I got out of the institution, my dad told me that he got really mad when he heard about the psychiatrist being arrested for raping me. So while the shrink was out on bail, my dad said he rode his motorcycle all the way to the doctor’s house, intending to get revenge on him. (Which was insane. My dad had been sexually abusive to me when I was 12 and 13, although he did not go all the way and rape me, because I fought him off the second time. After his arrest for almost killing my mother, I knew I did not have to obey my dad anymore. But if I hadn’t fought him off, my dad would probably have gone all the way and raped me when I was 13. Apparently it was ok for him, but not for someone else, to do that to me.)

    My dad told me that when he got to the shrink’s house, the doctor explained how it was all a big misunderstanding that would all be proved in court, that I was having a Freudian Oedipus transference thing, that I was the one who had tried to have sex with him, and when he politely said No, then I made false accusations, and he would prove it in court.

    My dad said they had a great talk, they had coffee and ate something together, and he shook the doctor’s hand when he was ready to leave. Yeah, they had become good friends by then, after their nice long visit.

    My dad was an idiot. He died in 1988. I never did feel like he was trying to haunt me, and if anyone would, I would think it would be him.

    But, like you said, we Christians aren’t supposed to think like that… 😉

    Like

    • Wow. Your dad. Tries to hurt you , rape you, then feels some sort of MOMENT . A TINY moment of you are ONLY HIS to have and goes to confront this guy only to have coffee with him! Un believable.
      Sounds just like my dad. Perfect opportunity to face the abuser and shakes his hand becasue he didnt want to make a scene. No my father was a pathetic bastard who had no courage to fight for his daughter or fight for anything.
      We are not supposed to think such things as Christians but you know what….my blog will and always be how I really feel. The rules do not apply to my emotional state of being and I will share my fears whether they fit into a christian religious belief or not. And until they die and Don’t haunt me. I will worry that they will!
      Your dad was worse than an idiot. He was a monster. An absolute monster. I am glad that the monsters are gone. Those that hurt you are gone. As they should be. We don’t need any more monsters on earth.
      Thank you for sharing such honesty with me.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Honesty. It’s refreshing and healing.

        I am writing a memoir. I was tempted to leave some things out, because they don’t exactly fit the traditional psychological or the traditional Christian paradigm. But no. Thanks to the strength and courage I have now, I am telling the whole truth.

        My “mental illness” that my mother put me in the institution for when I was 14, almost 15 — I had joined a group of my 9th grade classmates who were holding seances with a Ouija board. The girl who owned the board said that a spirit, a ghost, was talking to us through the device. She said we could speak to any dead person we wanted to contact, through that thing.

        My paternal grandfather had died earlier that year. He had seemed to truly care about me, so I missed him and I wanted to contact him. Another kid in our group, a boy named Mike, wanted to contact his mom who had died when he was little.

        We held many seances. We seemed to succeed in contacting spirits. But they were evil spirits, not our loved ones. And we — meaning Mike and me — couldn’t make the spirits go away. We were haunted.

        I told my mother about the ghosts I could hear talking in my head. I sometimes could see them, too. I hoped she could tell me how to get rid of them. They were scaring me! But she said “you are crazy like your father,” and she had me locked up.

        So, haunted. Yes, I have been. Mike, the boy who was trying to contact his dead mother? He also ended up “haunted” and put in the same mental hospital where I was.

        I have tried to find him on social media and can’t. I don’t know what happened to him. But this is what happened to me: a female social worker, who by state law had to visit us minors every few weeks, asked me one day why I was even there, because I seemed so normal. (I got asked that a lot.)

        I told her I heard voices, nonstop, every waking moment. Most people, that stopped their questions. But this woman asked me what had made the voices start.

        I told her about the Ouija board, the seances, and the book a boy loaned me with detailed instructions on contacting the dead via autonomic, or automatic, handwriting, and also by putting yourself into a trance and letting the spirits come into you and speak through your own mouth, like mediums would do on tv. Yes, my friend Mike and I had done all of that, trying to contact our dead loved ones. And the spirits came, but they would not leave.

        She said “it sounds to me like you just hypnotized yourself into believing there would be spirits. Try hypnotizing yourself again, tell yourself that the ghosts aren’t real and that when you wake up, they will all be gone and never come back.”

        I tried it, and it worked. No more did I see ghostly visions. No more did I hear ghostly voices.

        So, were they “real”? Were they spirits of dead people, were they demons, were the all my imagination, a product of mental illness, or were they nothing more than a “waking dream” caused by self hypnosis?

        Nearly half a century has passed, Bethany. I have done a lot of reading and research on these things. But today, my answer to those questions is: I don’t know. I am just very grateful to God that they are GONE. And I will never have anything to do with the occult, again.

        Meanwhile, I do have PTSD. But even that is now mostly gone, thanks to neurofeedback.

        I am tired now, after all this writing! Too tired to proofread. God bless.

        Like

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