I M Perfect lady

Tag: pedophiles

  • Reacted Like Me.

    Today I sat in the office of Detective Tom Rosemurgy, (Rosie to his friends) and we talked about sexual abuse.  Of new information and suspected abusers and how we can help victims share their story and how without their stories, the wheels of justice will not begin turning…and we talked about my father's case and how peculiar it seemed.

    He had my father’s file on his desk or most of it… and inside where pages of little girls stories, and the man they described fits my terror.

    My feelings match their pictures and they are talking about my father.

    I didn’t read this file until a few minutes ago.  

    It is odd to read them, knowing the girls, the house and the visuals they painted, all correctly describing our childhood home, the chairs, the places and clothing my father wore, and then the awful acts he subjected these little girls to.  Years worth of criminal sexual assaults rained upon the neighborhood girls, one after another, year after year, and what is so striking are the adults who know this all along.

    Insane.  Totally criminally INSANE!  

    What strikes me so blatantly horrific is the details of the girls and the knowing of the adults, and the longevity of his run, and then after all these DETAILS and TRUTH are given over to the Detective, the prosecutor who at the time was a member of the FALC, he doesn’t use their cases???

    OH MY GOD does this infuriorate me.

    It is like all these little girls carry my memories and they are left sitting on paper and only one little girl’s makes it to the court of the land. 

    IT is criminal what this prosecutor did to each girl who wrote her memories down.  He should be sitting in jail with Ray Huhta.  And instead both are walking around free as the breeze…while the little girls are left to heal and deal the best we can.

    He raped, masturbated, fondled and had them fondle, he rubbed and touched their privates and them do the same to him…FOR over 35 years.  And when the detective gathers this information, the prosecutor uses just one little girls???

    What in the hell is up with that???

    Here are some of the accounts…just random sentences…fragments of their childhood experiences with my father.

    Chair that spun around,

    Back to microwave,

    Long johns,

    Red nylon long johns,

    Rocking chair by heatrola stove,

    Nice and friendly,

    Easy going,

    Strong,

    Kept my hand on penis,

    Rubbing my privates,

    Won’t let me off his lap,

    Wife in kitchen,

    Other children in room,

    Sunday dinners,

    Father across talking,

    Forced hand on penis,

    Masturbating,

    Raping,

    Wife at church,

    In his bed,

    Wife at hospital having baby,

    Tent with friend,

    Pulling my pants down,

    Friends mother knew,

    Minister told, not believed,

    Child protective services…he’s been under suspicion for 30 years.  Hide in bushes attempt to catch Ray in the act of abusing.

    It is all like a mad mad dream where nothing makes sense and the senseless wins.

    How the voices are ringing out clear as a bell as to who he is and what he has done over 35 years and yet it falls once again upon an adult who acts poorly, the prosecutor so totally dropped the ball on this, and you have to wonder why? 

    To think Ray only served a few weeks in jail is beyond what I can comprehend. And what startles me is that my mother read these same stories and at the end of his trial she drove him to Texas.  Imagine???  How can you read these and not react in revolt or in horror.

    The cry should have been to do what ever it takes to keep him locked up and instead it seemed that so many wanted him free. 

    Our voices on paper meant nothing. 

    Not sure if our trial, (for it seemed like it was a trial for all the girls who wrote a statement,) was unique or is this typical?

    Somehow the response to the words written by the girls seems to not bring forth the action necessary or one that fit the words.  It just seems all wrong.

    The words that should have adults springing into action and becoming fully enraged and setting about to seek justice, did the opposite.

    No real attempt was made or so it seems, just the very bare minimum required, the least of the least…and yet the stories are detailed and stretch over so many years.

    I just don’t get it. 

    Yet, while I always was accused of over reacting, I believe even I under reacted.

    Hindsight it 20/20…and I am not sure I could have convinced not only the prosecutor, my brother and the rest of the family, but it just seems that I missed calculated the amount of repeated abuse heaped on one child.  It would be bad enough if one girl had one incident, but it seems that most had years of abuse. 

    And he gets a few weeks in jail…

    What strikes me the most now, is that for years now I have been criticized for being so dramatic, for over reacting, for not letting it go, etc.  And all I can say is that I certainly wish that others reacted like me.

     

  • Disguised as a religious church.

    What came to me is that religion wants to be separated from the people in the church, each and every time a scandal darkens it by one of the congregants. It is then there is a separation between religion and the people who worship it.

    What is it? Does it stand separated from the people; can you add it on and take it off at will? Is it within the walls of a church, where is this religion that stands alone?

    If the people are not all representatives of the religion, then where is it?

    When I discussed the pedophiles within the church, they make it seem like those folks are not representatives of the religion, that they somehow are now separated.

    I just can’t see where you can take the religion out of the man…

    Where is religion stored in a person, where is its compartment of being?

    From my experience the religion was the man/woman. How you moved and where you went all pointed to which religion you were.

    There is no separation between who you are and what religion you worshiped it was all one.

    My mother made no moves without her religion.

    I made moves that went against my religion and was made to feel less than, but they made sense to me, so I moved.
    I was a rebel in my religion when I made decisions that went against the rules. The goal of the religion was to keep us all uniform.

    What I think they failed to take into consideration is the human factor, for their religion looks good on paper but its application fails in reality.

    While trying to preserve the religion they disregard the children, so intent are they on the practice of forgiving sins, they fail to see the wounded.

    And the wounded fill the benches and continue to bleed upon the walls of their religion unseen or cared for.

    How is that religion any different than my childhood home?

    Wasn’t the cover of family supposed to protect the children?

    Somehow in the minds of the people in the pews they believe their children are safe from pedophiles, while pedophiles are preaching to them, sitting by them, singing with them, their blind faith has them unseeing.

    Their faith is to please God by blessing the sinners, while the sinners are free to sin against them again and again.

    The blessers fail to see that the it is not working, that the tools they are using are useless to stop children from being raped.

    And even more importantly, they can’t see themselves harboring criminals when they do so.

    A den of criminals is how my old religion feels. One huge moving abiding blind horrifying mess.

    If you can’t get the blessers to stop blessing, how in the world can you get the pedophiles to stop raping?

    What tools does your religion have to stop this insanity?
    How powerful is that religion if it condones this?
    Who are you as you sit in the pew?
    What are you truly part of?
    What are you supporting?

    I am sorry, but if you belong to a group that has had generations of pedophiles roaming freely, you are not in a religion but in a cult of pedophiles, that is disguised as a religious church.

  • Warn the Authorities.

    I had a multifaceted dream just before waking this morning, confusing about places, time lines and doings, but yet totally clear with overall theme.

    I was at a high school reunion that was taking place at my childhood home and I left early, just walked out. In my car as I was leaving I seen my old neighbor running through his house with little boys chasing him. The next time he passed in front of the big bay window, he is wearing underwear, boys still laughing and chasing him. He then heads for the upstairs, stops midway and I see his underwear have fallen and his butt is showing. He stops on the step and turns…it is like he wants me to see him…doesn’t move for a second or two and then ascends the stairs…little boys following.

    I even notice that the stairway has been moved, for in the old floor plan, I would not have seen him taking the game to the upstairs bedrooms, out of sight.

    In the dream I call my brother to tell him…and then the next thing I am in a grocery story and see another old neighbor boy who is now an older man with a gray haired ponytail, and he is carrying a little boy who wants to get down…he lets him go. He and the boy are fully dressed and appear normal.

    I am buying a drink for my son who is in the hospital for a surgery and have witnessed in the dream my husbands loving teasing ways with him.

    This underwear game man juxtaposes the normal or regular men to boy scenes. The cat in the matrix, that something isn’t right, showing me the differences…and how I didn’t run over and wrestle with the man who was in the midst of a pedophile game.

    Yesterday Oprah asks her audience after listening to the Freedom Riders, what do you know that is wrong and what are you doing about it?

    What do you know or sense or feel isn’t right and what are you doing about it…?

    Leads me to sit with my life and ask what do I know that is wrong and is there something I should be doing about it?

    It just occurred to me in the past few days, that I don’t recall others talking about pedophiles to me. Of me being aware of knowing about other families. I just have no memory of them warning me of creepy men…and then I had a flash of knowing, it was me they were talking about. I lived in the creepy home. I was in the subject of what others were talking about, they didn’t tell me, for I was already there.

    This was shocking to know. No one brought the discussion about pedophiles and creepy men up to me, for my father was a known one.

    I find it fascinating and sickening to know that many knew and only warned others to stay away.

    In order for this disease to stop spreading, the ‘early warning’ system has to be ended, we have to learn how to step in, speak up, tell the authorities…do something.

    Even if you have known for years, now is a good time to do something different.

    I was taught to not speak ill of others, to not point out their negative behaviors, ‘for we all have faults’…silence was my first response.

    And I know I am not alone, there are pews full of well-intentioned good people, silently sitting by warning others to stay away, but not wanting to use their voice in a ‘negative’ way, to use it to tell someone suspicions of a child being abused.

    All it takes is for someone to alert the authorities and they will ask the child.

    It takes someone from the outside in the land of normal to come in and rescue those who were born in captivity.

    We know no different, we need you to speak up on our behalf.

    I have heard a few stories in the past six years, but I too didn’t move on it, didn’t speak up, for I who they spoke of I didn’t know, didn’t know their children or who they had access too. But what I also didn’t do is tell the person who told me, to not warn me, but warn the authorities.

    “What do you know that is wrong in the world and what are you doing about it…” Oprah Winfrey

  • Gateway Into Self

    A blog called, Brave Girls Club, has a wonderful story about wearing signs, or the lack there of at;

    http://www.bravegirlsclub.com

    As I pondered which signs I am hiding or what I am not revealing it occurred to me that a sign was hung upon my neck, when my father’s truth hit the daily news.

    His past hung heavy around my neck.

    A sign I did not want to wear.

    His sign and my sign were puzzle pieces, they went together, he was a pedophile and I was his victim.

    Yet the sign wasn’t hung upon me until a niece spoke up and her words matched my feelings, and now I had a sign as proof.

    What an awkward, clumsy, shameful, disgusting sign, I had to wear.

    It was this sign that all turned away from, old friends became strangers, acquaintances dodged me, my sign didn’t fit into many relationships.

    The sign entered into the room before me, it over shadowed any cute outfit I wore, there was no way to hide or dress it up, It was exposed.

    Sadly some signs are not given the same considerations as most.

    In the first blushes of wearing this sign, I stood alone.

    Me and my new sign not knowing how to stand, to walk and carry myself with this new found history, I soon seen how I was someone to steer clear of.

    It is so interesting that some signs gain many friends and tons of support, while other signs are shunned and feared, their darkness too dark to approach.

    Standing up in those early days, with the weight of the devastation upon me, the sign nearly collapsed my spirit.

    Surprisingly that by having had to walk alone, I have more strength, not less.

    I still wear my sign, it will not go away, it and I are one, my past is me, and I am it.

    Some signs are the gateway into self.

  • Caught

    One last section from ‘Sickened’…by Julie Gregory.

     

    Spring thaws the farmhouse, and in front of the mirrors, my breasts begin to form. They get white, tigerlike stretch marks on their sides from a burst of growth.  My hipbones expand like a time-lapsed flower in bloom.  I grow like a girl in puberty. The pod I was stuffed into has perforated breaks in the skin, and I, ever so painfully, am unlacing myself from the tight shell.  I use my fingertips to tug and pull laces loose, unfurling myself from the cocoon I’ve been kept in, folding and falling, jutting the angles of crooked atrophied limbs out of its hold.

     

    I touch my face in the mirror, study it for hours.  I need to see what my face says.  What my expressions look like to others, what my eyes do, whether my face twitches, like hers.

     

    Away from the mirror, I do not register that I am pretty.  I cannot comprehend I have an attractive body.  Or that it holds in its untapped wisdom the potential to heal itself.  My instincts are wound tightly into a ball of fishing line, so tangled and knotted that it will take months of daily, delicate picking to see loops in the line and pull them free.

     

    I curl my body up in front of the mirror; skin and bones, the ribs of my back casting curved shadows over my thin skin.  I study tiny blue veins, fascinated by the light pulse that pushes blood through on its own; an affirmation that I am living.  I do not have to pump the blood myself; it is my heart that keeps me alive.

     

    I look at every part of myself through the mirror, wanting to see what anyone outside my skin would see.  My hands, they look so beautiful, I turn them around and around in the mirror mesmerized.  I look at my face again, soft and childlike, my body lean and lithe.  I step away from the mirror but nothing comes with me. The moment I lose contact with my reflection, I lose touch with what I see there.

     

    My mind is imprinted with images of a sickly reverberation of what I felt like inside and believed to be true of myself for all of my twenty-six years: That I am some bizarre, frail creature, destined to die early.  My mind’s eye sees me as a stooped and wasted, with dark greasy hair, a slaughterhouse horse’s long, sunken face, drooping bottom lip, absent eyes.  Since that is what I believe, that is how I feel. Since that is how I feel, that is how I act. And since that is how I act, that is how the world treats me.

     

    So I step back to the mirror and there she is again, that girl, that strange girl that everyone else sees.  I reach my fingers out to feel her face.  My eyes cannot get over it.  They peer at her suspiciously. Surely this is not me staring back?  Truth in my mind and truth in the mirror are completely opposites. And I am split down the middle, straddling the chasm between two worlds, flitting back and forth between the world I know and the one that exists in the glass.  It will take me three years of pacing between the two before I can finally bring them together.

                    Julie Gregory

     

    My mother had a magical mirror and words would allow her world to remain perfect, sins could be erased with the magical phrase, and it would erase all blemishes that may other wise appear, returning him always to be whiter than snow.

     

    It is horrifying and shocking to see the damage he was able to do, while she continued to stare dreamily into her cracked mirror of dreams.

     

    Behind the wall, lay many broken little girls whose wounds could not be erased so easily.

     

    There are no simple phrases that will return your world upright, restore trust and love and give you back faith.

     

    When we are taught that words can erase deeds, we are left in twisted place in our minds.

     

    In our minds a mirror appears that switches things around, but in reality nothing changes.  Nothing.

     

    It feels like the magic mirror was the release hatch my father needed, the escape door…. Her words allowed him to change magically into a kind man, always.

     

    Her catch and release program allowed another little girl to be caught.

     

     

  • She is watching you always!

    As I have been pondering, tossing and turning around in my head, how it is possible that the 4th generation is just beginning a relationship with the same pedophile, it occurred to me it was love and compassion that has kept this legacy going.

     

    I know it sounds nuts that such a kind sentiment can be the cause of this legacy continuing on, but it is.

     

    The third generation is just following the path of the second and the second of the first, the first being my mother.

     

    As my nephew goes to visit his grandpa, he is only doing what he has witnessed his mother do and his grandmother do since he was born.

     

    There is nothing unusual in his steps.

     

    His daughter will also watch and see how her father engages with this man and will follow his lead.  Her steps will echo his.

     

    There doesn’t need to be any words spoken, written or shouted to the moon, nope, just seeing how the adults in the room treat her great-grandfather is all she needs, she will mimic them all.

     

    Does it matter if her great-grandfather is on the sexual predator list, that he needs to be supervised around her, or that he has a long history of damaged little girls behind him?

     

    Nope, none of that information will stack up against the fact that her father is okay with this man, that her grandmother is fine having a relationship with him, and that is all that matters. 

     

    She will use them as her gauge, her monitor and her guide in what is acceptable in life and what is not.  She is being groomed to be comfortable with a pedophile, she is being taught not to fear him and she won’t.

     

    This one fact alone is what has allowed him to continue on, no one fears him they all love him.

     

    The ones that love him allow him access now, then and always, for they love without conditions.

     

    While most are looking at my father and his actions and watching diligently for him to make his move, no one is looking at the ones he is with.

     

    My mother was the first adult to know of his actions within our family tree, and her reaction were what we all followed to a tee.

    She never left him, had a consequence for his behavior within their relationship, she didn’t warn us of his disease, there were no outward signs in her behavior that would have sent us a signal, not one.

     

    Not once as far as my limited memory serves me did she ever act in fear of this man, not one time, never.

     

    What she instead always showed, was love, respect and normal petty complaints that two married people have, she never once suggested to me that his disease was ruining our lives, that it had ruined many, that the potential was there, that she feared for the safety of her girls, their girls and their girls, and their friends….

     

    Not once.

     

    Her actions have always been to love and support him, to show him compassion and caring, always.

     

    We only see actions, actions, actions.

    Words are meaningless unless and until an action follows.

     

    So as you tell me my fears are unfounded, that I have no reason to worry, I will tell you this.

     

    You are your mother’s daughter, you are doing exactly as she did and you will receive the same exact outcome.

     

    The legacy continues through you, your children and now your grandchildren.

     

    You are the one teaching them NOT to fear a pedophile, know it and own it.

     

    The little baby is without words but she is learning much already, she is watching you always!

     

    IMG_3829