On occasion, p* would come to my classroom and announce he needed some little helpers. He would pick 5 or 6 little boys and me. We would follow him single file, silent, like little robots, down to the church basement, where we found ourselves surrounded by damp, cold, cinder block walls. To the left was the door to the boiler room, another torture chamber. But the actual rituals were performed in the room through the doors on the right.
……………
The room is almost dark. There’s just one light. There are holes in the floor. It’s so cold! Over there are spooky piles of church-stuff.** It smells “funny” in here. It’s hard to breath. I'm scared. I'm afraid to move . What does he want us to do? P goes into a closet and comes back with a big, brown, wooden cross.
Why is he so mad? Why is he being so mean? He grabs my arm and yanks me next to the cross. He starts tying me to it. He's hurting me. He mumbles, “You don’t deserve to die the way Jesus did!” He is really mad!
He keeps yelling at the boys over and over. He tells them to do things to me. We’re all so scared.
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This event was repeated several times. I do not remember how many times or how often. Sometimes, p would command the little boys*** to do something different. He acted like he was possessed. One time he kept screaming, “Stir the pot! Stir the pot!” and shrieked a bizarre kind of laugh.
The incidents ended differently. Sometimes he would shepherd the boys out of the room, turn out the lights and leave me alone in the dark. One time, he fumed out of the room and left all of us there. That time the school nurse came. She made sure the boys were all right and sent them back to class. Then she came to me. She did not say anything as she untied me. I thought she was mad at me. Why was everybody mad at me? What did I do that was so bad?
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I’m writing this now because I have recently been troubled by frequent anxiety attacks. I begin shaking, perspiration pours from my face and I feel fuzzy headed and disoriented. I have struggled with them since my early teens. (I am now 68.)
Several years ago, I was blessed with finding a therapist that specializes in trauma. Through my work with him, I have learned that the attacks are a result of CPTSD - Complex PTSD. CPTSD is PTSD that was developed over years of repeated trauma. In my case, years of being abused.
The process of making sense of the anxiety is exceedingly difficult. I will cover it at another time. A simple explanation is, the anxiety is a result of a traumatic event my mind has yet to process. Once I am able to consciously experience the event, I am able to place the fear and anxiety where it belongs. It is no longer a “free-floating” response, to something that is happening now.
There is nothing frightening about going down my basement steps or something that is down there. Telling myself that does not help. I need to connect going down my basement steps with whatever tauma I experienced years ago. Like going down the steps that led to the church basement.
Though I consciously experienced the event for the first time about a year and a half ago,
I feel incredible stress recalling it now. My body cannot be any more tense. My stomach is clenched. I’m grinding my teeth. I am finding comfort in wrapping my arms around myself and rocking.
************
*P, was the pastor of the parish at that time. His name appears on the Archdiocese of Baltimore’s credibly accused List of Priests and Brothers Accused of Child Sexual Abuse. https://www.archbalt.org/child-and-youth-protection/priests-and-brothers-accused-of-abuse/
**I later recognized some of the items as the stained-glass windows from St. Mary’s Industrial Center where p was assigned (1948 - 1951) before establishing Our Lady of Victory Parish. He had planned to have them installed in the church. However, the church was never built. The current "worship space" was originally intended to be used as a gymnasium. The windows continue to be moved around to various locations of the parish’s property.
***I have often thought of the boys p abused with me. One I can identify. I wish there was some way I could talk with them. I do not want them to ever feel badly about what happened. They had no choice. They were afraid, too. They were forced by someone they had been taught to obey.
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I had no choice but to go with him
and the other “little helpers” he had chosen
down the hall in silence, single file
our little robot footsteps echoed
the stairs to the church basement swallowed us
surrounding us with damp, cold, cinder block walls
to our left the monster in the boiler room roared
it will stay hungry today
past the doors on our right
a dimly lit room summoned us
mounds of useless relics
stoically huddled along one wall
we cringed with fear
what were we supposed to do?
I wanted to go back to class
I wanted my mother
our captor brandished a wooden cross
his eyes locked onto mine
he grabbed my arm
and began tying me to the cross
“You don’t deserve to die the way Jesus did”
the voice I heard was not his
it sounded strange
like the look in his eyes - pure evil
he frantically wrapped
with heavy rope
my little arms and legs
he stood back and admired his work
the voice summoned the boys
issuing orders to the little helpers
the pain that followed
I feel to this day
the pain of fear,
of disbelief,
betrayal,
confusion…
“You don’t deserve to die the way Jesus did!”
I didn’t deserve to die at all
but a little piece of me did
then another, and another …