The Road Back From Hell: Soaring With Eagles!

Life

Foreword

The book is a collection of all my memories up until my 32nd year of life here on earth. These are my honest memories, written from my own perspective. The memories and perspectives of those around me may not be the same. My sole purpose for writing this book, and exposing so much of myself, is to give everyone that reads it a living example of how childhood abuse can cause the most depraved forms of human behavioral dysfunction. It is also meant to be a living example of how releasing soul injuries and walking in the Power Of Transparency can not only completely change a person, and a person’s behavior, but also how it can change a person’s Law of Attraction in a powerful way. I am NOT writing this book to expose others in their own private lives. This is NOT my intention, and in light of this, all names and locations have been changed for privacy reasons.

Preface

The human soul has the capacity to change all the way up until the time of a person’s death, and even beyond into the Spirit World. I should have been dead more times than one can count the fingers on one hand, but here I am…alive and changed. Thirty-two years old, and sitting in a federal prison for two years, I made a promise and a choice to change every day, one moment, one feeling, one day at a time. Now, at 47 years of age, the change is very noticeable. The purpose of these two books of my life is to show others where I came from, and how I made the changes in my life so that my life can be followed as a blueprint to healing…and ultimately to happiness. The world I was born into should have reduced me to being a prostitute on the streets, and an early death. The absolute truth of abuse is that if one never chooses to heal the deep soul injuries caused by abuse, perpetrated upon us throughout our lives, eventually we will be doomed to come around full circle into being the very perpetrator that hurt us. You may think that this is a very cruel cycle that can never be broken, but this is not the truth. I found that having to wear the same label as the people that abused and hurt myself, and my children, had the profound effect of allowing me to see them with more compassion, as injured souls like mine, to varying degrees, not as the monsters that lived in my nightmares. It took away the fear that I had for perpetrators, to the point that I could see it more objectively, and logically, without judgment. Don’t get me wrong, this did NOT increase my tolerance for perpetrators of abuse to be allowed to continue abusing, but it did teach me a lot about the varying degrees of perpetrators, which ones were at high risk to re-offend, and which ones weren’t, depending on what they would need to do to heal their soul injuries, including myself. When one takes fear and judgment out of the equation, one is able to help with wisdom, clarity, and surety, the healing process of injured souls, whether they be in physical or spirit form. My psychologist, Doc, was very instrumental in not only my own healing process, but also in my ability to see objectively, without fear, myself and others. I think the most important lesson I took away from my time with him was that if a person, including myself, is not being completely honest with themselves and others, and if we are trying to hide our true selves and thoughts, then we are a danger to others, whether we have criminal records or not. I true sign of strength is when a person can stand in a place of complete honesty, and vulnerability, and transparency, without having to hide anything. Writing this book is my final step in getting to this place. From all of my healed heart, thanks, Doc. I know that you must get tired of wading through the muck of our minds, and the depravity of human soul injury, facing anger and hate, without gratitude from very many people to show for it, but just know that I am truly grateful for what you do, and whether anyone else knows it or not, I KNOW what you do on a daily basis, makes this world a safer place for our children, and grandchildren. I would also like to thank my adopted Native Nation for bringing me back to my spirituality. Even though my tribal heritage was different than yours, you adopted me into your loving family circles and took me into the womb of the Sweat Ceremony to heal. You understood what is was to be a person like me, abandoned, and broken by religion and abuse. You grounded me back to the roots of my heritage, with Mother Earth, and Grandfather God, and then you taught me the difference between religion and spirituality. You saw my gifts and taught me about them, when I didn’t have the self worth to even acknowledge them myself. You gave me back the warm sense of home. You taught me that being perfect in our imperfection was not only necessary, but also beautiful, and that pain, mourning, and death, make laughter, good times, and love much more sweeter. Finally, you taught me the most valuable lesson that I still hold on to in life, and that lesson is that humility is the path to honor, to abundance, and peace. In order to be great, one must be prepared to be the least, to be no better than the worst person on earth. To my Middle Angel Son...words cannot describe how much I love and miss you kiddo. Thank you for teaching me so much in your short 24 years here on earth, and for your unconditional love. You can guaranfuckintee that I’m gonna slid into my death point like you did yours...with my hair a mess, eyes wide with glee...shouting WHAT A RIDE...I’M COMIN HOME TO SEE YOU SON!

Introduction

When I first started writing this book, it felt like I was making a confessional of all my sexual sins and I felt so much shame and unworthiness. Then Spirit reminded me that this was my story, the story of a little girl who started out beautiful and pure, but ended up very hurt and broken, and in turn she ended up hurting others along the way. This is a story of a little girl’s courage to heal, to face shame and embarrassment, and to face her ultimate fears. This is my story of healing and change, in honor of the little girl that still lives inside of me. It is only after facing my shame and fear that I know in my heart, if you read this, you will find your own healing in my story. On the other hand, if you read this and feel judgment in your heart towards me, that it is not, in truth, judgment for me. You see, my dear friend, if you open your heart and look really close, and feel your own pain, the judgment you feel is for your own self. I pray every day that somehow you will learn as I did to heal and to see yourself in a more loving light just as I have learned to do. You see, God, our Creator Parent…the omnipotent being from where we all come…is a loving Super Parent, and She/He loves us in an unconditional way that no natural parent could compare to. My prayer is that one day you will know this love, that you will know how to love this way, and that the first person that you start to love is… yourself. Just know that if you ask to for truth from our Creator Parent, and if you truly long for our Creator Parent’s love, you will never be denied

Chapter 1

The Gas Station

When I was a little girl…I was born in 1970 to a young mother who was barely eighteen, and a father who had just returned from the Vietnam war, a little over two years earlier. When my real father came home, everyone was happy and relieved that he came home alive, but nobody wanted to hear or acknowledge, the damage that the war done to his mind and soul. Things like this weren’t spoken of, so when my father was expected to suck it up and get on with life, eight months into my life with him, his marriage fell apart, and my mother found herself divorced, and single-parenting a son that was just shy of being two years old, and me, still yet an eight month old baby.

My brother looked like my mother, and she was comforted by him. I, well unfortunately, I looked just like my father and I was a painful reminder to my mother that her dream of being married, having a family, and owning a home, was dashed by the fact that war had taken my father’s soul, and he would not ever be a normal man again. When I was a little girl, my hair was long, straight, and blond, and my eyes were as big as saucers, droopy, and brown. At times my mother would call me, upside-down eyes, or root-beer eyes. My face was as round as a cherub, and I had inherited the pixie nose of my grandparents. I was a mix of Irish, Italian, English, Chippewa, Choctaw, and Cherokee. I looked like the Caucasian side of my family, but my eyes saw the world through my Native Ancestors, and my soul and mind felt and thought as if I was a purebred Native American. I felt the earth more than anyone else around me, and she comforted me in many moments when my mother could not, because to her I was a reminder of her failed marriage. In light of her divorce my mother ran north, to Washington State, with us two kids in tow, to the comfort of being in the same area where her Grandmother lived. She worked as a waitress to support us, and that is where she met a married man with five children. This man spoke of a God that would save her, and save her children, and when his wife was not with him on his trips to the diner where my mother worked, he spoke of love for my mother. Little did she know that he had seduced another single woman with a child, and moved her into his home under the false pretense of just being kind and looking after poor defenseless single mothers, in the name of Christianity.

Soon, my mother would also be talked into living with this charismatic Christian man, and his family, under the same false intentions. It wasn’t long before this charismatic, self-ordained minister had to cover his true lusty intentions, so he began to encourage young wayward men, and impressionable young couples to also live with his family, and within three years, he was the head of a budding Christian commune of around 20 people. Somehow in his zest for his God, he was able to hide his molestation of his own children, well at least the ones that he felt were not conceived by him in his marriage, and one stepdaughter, and no one was the least aware…and so began my life.

The year was 1973, and the ex-gas station, turned into a home for a budding Christian commune, was the place I called home, along with around 20 other men, women, and children. My first memory was one of both innocent bliss, and utter darkness. I was three, almost four years old, my hair was long, stringy, and blond, and I was wearing a pretty blue and white flower print dress with white socks and saddle shoes. True to the nature of a girl being raised alongside two boys, I had been outside playing on a sunny day and my cheeks were flushed from running to the house, so that I wouldn’t late for supper. A woman from the second story window had called for us children to come in and wash up, to get ready for supper, and I was happy to comply with her wishes. I remember that I was humming the song, Jesus Loves the Little Children, as I went into what was considered the back porch area, in which stood a stainless steel, three compartment sink, like those used in restaurants. By now I came to the realization that my two male playmates had run a different way into the house, so this meant that I had to clean up for supper on my own.

My body was way too small to reach the faucet on my own, and I needed some sort of assistance, in order to reach the handles that turned the water on. Upon scanning the area I found a plastic milk crate, that if turned upside-down, made a good stepping stool for me. Pushing the upside-down milk crate to the middle sink and looking down, I could see a short green hose curled up in the bottom of the sink, like a coiled-up snake, that the women at the house used for washing off the garden vegetables, and produce before bringing them into the house. I knew I needed to wash my hands and be quick about it, so that I wouldn’t get in trouble for taking too long to report to the dining room, so I strained vigorously in my reach to turn the faucet on.

In my height of straining I could sense someone come into the back porch room, and I felt relief that someone would help me get the water turned on more easily. I could tell by his heavy steps that the person was a man, and he steadily made his was directly up behind me, to the point of touching my backside. I thought that since I was in the way, this was quite necessary for him to do, so that he could also reach the faucet. His arm reached out for the faucet, but he didn’t bother to turn in on, so I patiently waited for him to do so. Instead the man used his left hand to brace himself as he began rubbing his midsection against my tiny bottom. In a panic I tried to turn around. but he stopped me by placing his right hand over my mouth and bringing his left arm around me to keep me in place. Before I knew it I felt warm hard flesh poking into my bottom, and what seemed like knives stabbing my stomach. It seemed like my heart had stopped beating, and I couldn’t breathe, and as the man kept pushing up against me, my hips hurt from being forced against the sink.

I screamed and cried but the huge hand clamped tightly over my mouth muffled the sound, and soon only snot and saliva oozed out from under his hand. After few short pushes of pain it seemed like my brain became frozen, and I’m not sure if I felt pain, pleasure, or numbness. In what seemed like a few short minutes my stomach filled with warmth, and the man was brusquely pulling up my panties. Suddenly, with a sense of urgency he had pulled down my dress, and turned on the water. In what seemed the blink of an eye he quickly whispered a threat close to my now slimy ear, then turned around in one fell swoop, and while wiping the snot and saliva off his right hand down the front of his pants, and making sure he was put together, exited quickly and quietly.

I was too terror-stricken to look behind me, so I quickly splashed water on my face and washed my hands in a daze, dried both my face and my hands on my dress, and ran up to the dining room. The room was filled with people already seated, filling their plates with food, and I stood there, numb and in disbelief, that no one looked up or saw anything different about me, or even seem to notice that I was late. My Mother called me over to my plate and filled it with food, and then we prayed, but mostly my body just shook, and I was glad everyone’s eyes were closed for prayer. I couldn’t eat much for supper, and I was scolded for the waste, but I was happy that I was allowed to go to my room afterwards.

My bed and pajamas were comforting and warm, and the covers hid my shaking, curled-up body, and tears. Soon a large, ominous figure entered my room, with his wife following close behind him, and as he drew closer I could see that it was the founder of the commune. He spoke in a very low and scary voice telling me that what happened wasn’t supposed to happen but that I was never to speak of horrible acts, and this was one of those. He assured me that if I were to talk about it that I would receive a spanking that was more painful than any I had ever experienced before. Then he laid his huge gorilla-like hand on my tiny quivering shoulder, and he looked sternly into my eyes, through eyes that seemed like cold, hard steel, and I knew that he would keep the promise that he had made. His wife, who stood silently behind him, was solemnly shaking her head up and down in agreement.

Exhaustion from the sheer terror of what happened, crying, and uncontrollable tremors, took over my body as I shook my way into a sound sleep. This, my first memory, would soon become a dark unknown hole in my memory and life. My second childhood memory was one of embarrassment and shame. I was so proud of my big girl panties, of being able to pee in the same toilet of my two boy playmates, and of not needing a booster chair to sit at the dining room table. To my shame and horror the day after the assault, I ran as fast as my tiny legs would carry me, but try as I may, I could not make it to the bathroom in time. I had soiled my precious big girl panties, I had made my mother angry, and now I sat fidgeting in embarrassment, back in the diapers I thought I had outgrown. I don’t remember how long I had to wear them, I only know how much my little heart broke because my body would not work the way I wanted it to. I was 45 years old before I was told by my brother that the young man that had raped me was in fact, the founder’s oldest son, and that when the founder had learned of his oldest son’s attack on me he had retaliated by taking him out to a nearby abandoned farm, where he had beaten him mercilessly. I don’t know to this day if this is true, and I don’t know what happened to my brother to keep him silent for so many years, but I do know that he suffered many of the same experiences as I.

My third major childhood memory was about the war I was having with getting my body to follow the rules in this commune, to avoid getting into trouble. There was one rule in this commune that I genuinely hated, not because I didn’t like it, but rather because no matter how hard I tried, I could never make my body go to sleep in the middle of the day. This rule stated that ALL children were to take naps…NO EXCEPTIONS! I remember one sunny day, trying to comply with the nap rule, I was not tired, and definitely not having any success in getting my mind and body to go to sleep, so I tossed and turned in the middle of the bed like a propeller. Pretty soon I heard footsteps at the door, and I tried desperately to be still and fake like I was asleep, but to no avail. My mother was angry because I was not asleep, so she left to go get council from her best friend, who was also a single mother.

A short time later my mother and her best friend came into my room, each one with a black trash bag in her hand. In the span of about five minutes they had gathered all of my clothes and belongings, and were herding me out to the communes brown station wagon. Once loaded in the back seat of the station wagon, with my belongings, my mother slid into the driver’s seat, and her best friend rode shotgun. We now began a long drive out to what seemed like a sea of wheat fields, with no a houses or buildings in sight. When they felt like we were out of reach of any civilization, they ordered me out of the station wagon. I stood on the side of the road frozen in fear, while my mother and her best friend placed my belongings next to me, and by then it had hit me that they were going to leave me here. At this time all that ran through my three-year-old head was that coyotes and snakes would come and attack me here, so I screamed a cry of terror that fell on their deaf ears, as they drove away and disappeared. I cried in terror for what seemed like forever, there on the side of the gravel road, in the middle of nowhere.

From what my mother says, they were really only gone for about twenty minutes, and then in the distance I saw a car coming towards me. I didn’t hear it first because I was too busy screaming in terror, trying to keep the coyotes and snakes away, but as the car drew closer, I could see that it was the brown station wagon with my mother in the driver’s seat. I cried all the way back into the car, and then collapsed in utter exhaustion when the station wagon pulled back onto the road with me in it, taking me home. That was the one day that my tiny body was able to take a nap.

My fourth childhood memory was one that I wished was more like the first, a blocked out, black hole, but I wasn’t that lucky this time. I was four, and here I was again dutifully trying my best in obeying the nap rule, so that I would not face the possible loss of my home again. It was summer, and needless to say it was unbearably hot and sticky, because there was no air conditioning. Being made to wear dresses made things worse because my legs would sweat and stick together in a universal feeling of yukkiness. So, I would lie on my back, spread both my arms out, and both my legs, so they wouldn’t stick together, and pretended to close my eyes and sleep. A few minutes into doing my best to comply with the nap rule, I heard the sound of someone coming to my door, and I peeked out from under one eye-lid. It was a different young man coming into my room, and I froze stiff in terror. The next thing I knew he was on top of me with nothing between his penis and me, except my big girl panties. He felt warm, hard, and powerful. I felt curious as to why he was doing this, but also terrified of what he would do if I made any noise, so I kept my eyes closed and tried to hold my breath as much as possible.

After a few minutes of him rubbing himself against my frightened, little body, he stood up and turned his back to me so that I wouldn’t see his own self-gratification. After that he put himself back together, and left my room in complete and utter silence. All I could do in response was turn over on my tummy, and bury my head in my pillow in fear and shame, hoping that no one would ever know, and that I would never get in trouble for this. After that moment, I promised myself that I would never sleep on my back again. Having been threatened with my near death with a beating if I ever spoke of such things, I remained silent about it.

I remember at this place that I was awoken in the middle of the night, and asked if I wanted to see something amazing, and well, of course I did! My mother let me sneak out to the flat roof-top, with other commune members, to watch a train wreck fire in the distance. Another memory was one of hearing a loud popping sound, and being herded into the house hurriedly, and up to my room. Listening to the people talk outside my door, I could hear voices talking about suicide, and that an ambulance was on the way. A few days later my brother told me about how he had dared one of the men there to shoot himself with what he thought was a BB gun, only to watch the man in disbelief as he shot himself to death with a shot-gun.

Yet another memory was one of being able to walk across the street to the school playground to play on the swings, with the other children. We would swing as high as we dared to, jump out of the swing, and somersault down the hill. Oh, and I could never figure out why my two male playmates, one being my brother, and the other being the son of my Mother’s best friend, had penis’s and I didn’t, because we just didn’t talk about those things, but that didn’t stop me from borrowing a dish soap bottle from under the kitchen sink, and using it to win in our pissing contests! You see, not all of my memories at this place were bad. I try to tell myself this as my way of coping, but underneath my pseudo-bravery, my whole being quivers. It was at this point that my soul was shattered, and in my brokenness a couple of things happened to me.

First, I was given the use of more than just my five senses. At this point I see and feel what others around me felt, I could sense and hear people who had died and gone into spirit form, and I could see the future. Knowing the future, and what people felt and were going to do, before they did it, and being able to sense the spirits around me, was God’s way of helping me survive the hell I had unknowingly been brought into. Second, my soul being fractured and injured from what had happened so far to me, had drawn injured souls in spirit form to not only being around me, but also enabling them to attach to my deep soul injuries. These injured souls ranged from men spirits, wanting to gain sexual satisfaction through me, to females that were in a rage with other females that they deemed immoral, and finally injured spirits that felt alone, and had committed suicide. From here on my life was a war zone, and my world toggled between one of being an innocent child with my Spirit Guides around me, and one of being terrified of sexually perverted men, and angry women in spirit form, and hopeless lonely souls that no longer had a will to live, that were attracted to my now shattered soul. It seemed as if I didn’t have a chance in hell, and for the most part, I shouldn’t have.

Chapter 2

The Old School House

By 1975, our budding commune had outgrown the old gas station, and we had all moved to an old school house near a remote mountain community. I was 5 years old at the time of our move and it was quite common for me to see deer, elk, and bear, out of the old, drafty, picture window on the back side of the old school house. My memories now are no longer sequential in nature, I feel, because my sense of being was no longer complete and whole…it was more shattered in my memory bank. Speaking of wildlife, while living at this old school house, I had both a deep seeded fear, and hatred of snakes. Whenever I would see what I thought to be a garter snake, fear and loathing would grip my stomach, and my response to it was to pick up a rock, and smash the snake’s head so that it was no longer a threat to me.

After awhile my confidence grew in being able to protect myself, so for fun I would flush them out from the base of sagebrush bushes, and smash their heads to kill them. The problem with me at this time was that I was easily bored, and soon killing the snakes was no longer a thrill. Soon I graduated to taking the dead bodies of the snakes and putting them on electric fences to fry, or in ant piles, to feed what I considered a more worthy life form. By this time my mother had taken to being away from the commune on a more frequent basis, because she had been convinced by the founder that being of service to God and her commune was a greater calling than staying home and caring for her children, and that God would honor her service and protect us children in her absence. In a rare time of her being at home, my mother took notice of a plethora of dead snakes as she walked out of the back door of the old school house, and at this point she began musing to herself what the cause might be. In her quiet musing she looked up and caught me in the act of smashing a snake’s head, and in my focused place of fear and adrenaline, I did not even notice her until she spoke to me…and yes…I was in deep trouble! Corporal punishment was not only expected, but also required of commune members, and my mother was no exception, especially because she was a single parent. My spanking for killing the snakes consisted of her using an orange hot wheels track for my sound thrashing, and then she sent me to take my dreaded nap early. Little did I know that the severity of my punishment was based on the fact that what I was killing was in truth, not garter snakes, but rather the much more poisonous baby rattlesnakes!

Speaking of punishment, most of my memories at the old school house involved more severe punishments that I did not understand as a child. For some reason the elders of the commune held a belief that I had a problem with lying, so every day I was asked a variety of questions, and everyday I was given a spanking whether I told the truth or not. On one of these occasions I was given a spanking and I was not able to stop the crying hiccups that ensued. Feeling that I was being defiant, my mother stripped me down naked and shoved me into a cold shower, to which I panicked because the cold in the shower took my breath away, and I couldn’t breathe, so I cried even more. After the cold shower the hiccups were still there and more intense, so I was taken to another smaller building and told that I was to put my face into a pillow and cry, and if I stopped crying, I would receive another spanking.

After about an hour of forced crying, and feeling as if I was being smothered to death, I was taken to the barn by an elder, single, male commune member. It was winter and ice had formed in an old coffee can. The elder pulled the clothing off my rear-end, bent me over his knee, rubbed the ice from the coffee can on my bare behind, and then proceeded to spank me some more with a wooden spoon. After two times of this, I was taken back to my room and put to bed. To this day I still don’t understand the why of it.

On better days when my two male playmates and I would all get in trouble at the same time, we would be lined up in the big living room and told to touch our toes. In the interim, a bigger male commune member would then take in hand a huge paddle, and give one really big swat to each of us to make us jump like frogs across the room, landing in a mutual puddle of tears and remorse. I remember one time I was sent downstairs to call my Aunt and Uncle up for supper. In my eager state of mind to please the elders, I vigorously knocked on their bedroom door, and called out to them that it was supper time. Before I could get a sense of what was happening their door flew open, and towering over me was my strangely naked and enraged Uncle, bigger than life itself. In one fell swoop he grabbed me by my arm, hauling me high into the air, and in a blind rage of fury, he gave me sound thrashing for disturbing their privacy. Before I could even breathe enough to cry, I was deposited outside their door, and the last thing I remember before bolting back up the stairs, was their door slamming shut. In sheer terror, I ran straight to my bed and buried my head in my pillow to cry quietly so as not to draw attention to myself, and incur more punishment from other commune members.

I was used to being spanked with paddles, wooden spoons, hot wheels tracks, extension cords, hangers, and leather belts, but I was not used to being spanked by naked, angry men! I tried to offset things I didn’t like happening by burying myself in playtime, and for the most part, my two male playmates were there to keep me company. One day I went to their room and they were gone, so I proceeded to set up an elaborate hot wheels track, in hopes that they would come back soon, and be impressed with my genius. Next to my playmate’s room was a very large room that housed the single male commune members. As I hummed to myself, in my happy creative mood, someone called to me from the single men’s dorm, and I went to the door to see who it was. The person who had called me was the founder of the communes youngest son, and he was laying on his bed, because he had stayed home sick from work.

It was strictly forbidden for any female members to enter this room, but he said that he was sick, and that his father had given him permission to have me come in the room to him. My seven-year-old mind wanted to think everything was ok, and I wanted more than anything in the world to please anyone that was bigger than me, so that my life would be easier. As I entered the dorm and walked towards the bed of the young man, my heart was pounding, and my stomach was doing flip-flops, but I still obediently complied with the young man’s wishes. It did not really surprise me as I approached his bedside, that his hardened penis was in his hand, and his first request was for me to touch it. Prior to this, I had seen a magazine where elephants were mating in pictures, and when I asked a commune member what that was about, my question was dismissed, and I was sternly instructed not to ask about it again. This young man’s penis looked a lot like the elephant one I saw in the magazine, so out of unanswered curiosity, I asked him if we could try that mating thing. At that time I did not realize how small my body still was, and although he made an initial attempt to try, he was not willing to force the entry, and leave any evidence of our doings to be found.

For some unknown reason, I was utterly relieved that he didn’t try any harder at this. Finally, he begged me to put my mouth on his penis, and at this point his hardened penis was the size of a log to my small body, and I really couldn’t breathe while doing this, but I tried my best to please him, and then quickly sneak out of the room, as his parting request was that I keep this a secret. When I got back to my playmate’s room, and the elaborate hot-wheels track that I had almost finished, I no longer felt safe being so close to the men’s dorm, so once again, I slipped into the comfort and safety of my own bed, without having to be told to take a nap. At this old school house, two of my most prevalent feelings where fear, and shame. They were my constant companions when I was alone, and in reality, I was rarely ever left alone, with the exception of when I was allowed to play outside.

Being in my heightened senses now, I picked up easily on the rumor that the commune had taken in a woman that was possessed by an evil spirit, who had, in the middle of the night jumped over twenty feet away in one fell swoop, onto another single woman’s bed to attack her. The commune members had made sure to whisk her away after the attack, to make sure that the rumors were not substantiated. My last two memories of this place were more on a lighter note. One time I walked out to the back of the school house to discover, much to my delight, that we had acquired some geese. As I approached one of the geese, another gander started to hiss at me and flap his wings. When I backed up in fear, the gander lowered his neck and nipped at me with his beak, then chased me all the way back to the house, hissing and flapping his wings. Needless to say, I don’t like being around geese to this day!

The one good memory that I hold close to my heart to this day, from living at the old school house, was one that included mushroom hunting. There were times when the founder of the commune would take my mother, brother, and I out into the forest to find and pick mushrooms. Once we knew which ones were edible, we were allowed to go a distance away from each other to find and pick these mushrooms, just as long as we did not go out of hearing range. The only time that fear and shame were NOT my constant companions, were the times that I was outside playing, and the times when we went mushroom hunting in the forest. I felt safe and at home in the magical forest setting, and it was always a huge disappointment when we had to head back home…but we always headed back home to the old school house.

Chapter 3

The Hotel

The year was 1978 and our commune had gone from struggling and building numbers, to booming and bulging at the seams. In the wake of all the increase the commune moved on last time to a three-story hotel in a small farm town. There were so many memories here, and not all of them were traumatic. Ones like getting a .35 cent allowance and taking it to the drug store to buy penny candy, roller-skating down the sidewalk, spending summer days swimming at the swimming pool, and playing in the creek that ran behind the motel. There was also endless times playing in the backyard, and digging holes over six feet in depth, only to be told the next day that they were to be filled in. One day after catching and releasing crawdads in the creek, and making a sand castle in the backyard sandbox, it was time to go do my chore of setting the dinner tables for over one hundred people. I decided to take a short-cut through the basement shop, so that I wouldn’t be late getting done with my chore. The basement shop was damp and dark, it smelled like coal soot and dirt, and to me it was a hauntingly scary place, so I would always run as fast as I could through it, until I reached the stairs going up and out of this abyss. On this particular day the founder’s youngest son was in the basement, which made me run ever faster for the stairs, but right as thought I was safe at the base of the stairs, he called out to me and caught me by the arm in a manner that forced me to turn around and face him. In a sickeningly sweet voice he asked me to do him a favor. At nine years old my stomach sank, as I knew what was coming next, so I bravely tried to get out of it by pleading the point that I didn’t want to be late for my chore. He responded that this wouldn’t take very long, and before I knew it his hardened penis was in my face and he was asking me to suck on it. Not wanting to get in trouble for my willing participation the last time he asked me to pay attention to him, I complied as best as I could, without choking too much. After a few moments when my mouth was numb and I couldn’t breathe, I asked if I could go now. When I saw that he was ok with this, as he turned his back to me in self-gratification, I ran as fast as I could up the stairs, through the hall, through the dining room, and I didn’t stop until I had buried myself far away in the kitchen. I set the tables as fast as I could possibly go, hoping that he didn’t come into the dining room, and then I buried myself way back into the safety of single women’s door until supper time. I don’t remember if I went to supper that night, but I do remember taking solace back in my bed, once again. A little while later, I made a logical assumption that if I stayed in the company of other little girls, then I would no longer have to deal with the founder’s youngest son, and for the most part that I should be safe. I was wrong about this. As I played in a room with two sisters, one younger than me, and one my age, the founder’s youngest son spotted us without adult supervision, and jumped at the opportunity to play his own demented games. He had one of the sisters touch his penis, while he put his hand down the other sister’s panties to feel her private parts, and I shrunk back into a corner in horror, too afraid to make eye-contact with anyone, or any sound at that. When he heard voices way down the hall, he jumped up and left before anyone could see where he had been. I felt so ashamed that I had brought this onto these two sisters, that I waited until I was sure he was gone, and then ran all the back way back to the single women’s dorm, and once again, back to the safety of my bed.

I had learned that the founder’s youngest son didn’t like to go outside, and he was forbidden to go in the single women’s dorm, where my room was, so I spent most of my time either outside playing in the creek, or playing in the single women’s dorm, and the sewing rooms that were part of the dorm. After awhile I ventured out to the big room that housed the nursery, just outside the single women’s dorm. It was so close to the dorm that it felt safe to me, and I loved helping to take care of the babies that the mothers would drop off while they helped out around the commune. Much to my frustration, after all the mother’s had picked up their babies, as I was tidying up the nursery alone, the founder’s youngest son found me yet again. This time as my stomach turned with nausea, he put his hand down my panties to feel my private parts, and I watched in disgust as I could see the outline of his penis getting hard in his pants. Just when I thought I was going to have to go through this horrible time again, someone from the commune started talking close to the door of the nursery, which made the founder’s youngest son bolt out of the nursery with haste. Much to my relief I ran through the door of the single women’s dorm to safety.

By this time, it was time for me to get ready to go to church in the main dining room of the commune with all the people there, my Mom was on another trip…again, and all I wanted to do was go to my bed and cry. I knew that if I didn’t go to the church meeting and make contact with my Mom’s best friend, who was my acting guardian in her absence, that I would be in trouble, and a spanking with the leather belt she used was not something that I wanted right at that moment. So, I pushed my tears way down in my stomach, smoothed my dress out, and went to the dining room to sit next to my Mom’s best friend and her new husband. Half-way through the church meeting the tears I tried so hard to stuff down and out of sight came tumbling out my eyes, and this time there was nothing I could do to stop them. When my Mom’s best friend noticed that I was crying she leaned over, and in a whisper, she asked me what was wrong. I tried to whisper back in her ear that someone was touching me in my private parts, and in her disbelief she hurriedly rushed me out of the meeting room into the adjacent, empty nursery, so that I didn’t have to whisper, and so that she could hear everything that I was trying to say.

For the first time I told someone all my deep dark secrets that I held inside, with everything that had happened with the founder’s youngest son, every incident, every time, and everyone that he had involved. As I stood in the nursery I shook with both fear and exhaustion, so my Mom’s best friend took me to the single women’s dorm and told me to wait. About ten minutes later around seven elders from the commune entered the room I was in, and I was asked to repeat everything again. At that time, with whatever remaining strength I had in me, I repeated the whole horrific tale once more, and answered the hail of unrelenting questions that came afterwards. Finally, I was asked to leave the room and the safety of the single women’s dorm, and wait out in the nursery. Standing in the darkened nursery my knee’s felt like buckling underneath me, but I did my best to stand until one of the married male elders, that was in the room when I repeated my tale of shame, came into the nursery with me. In his hand he held a glass of cold water, and as he sternly towered over me, he dumped the cold water on my head, told me to, never do that again, and then he promptly turned his back to me and left the room. I guess it didn’t matter if I cried now, I was wet anyway. Somehow I managed to sneak back into the single women’s dorm, past the room where the rest of the elders were still talking, and into my room in the dorm, and the safety and solace of my bed. Officially now I was dirty and bad, and definitely not worthy of being called a Christian, let alone a member of this commune.

And so, in a commune of over one hundred people, I felt as if I was the loneliest person there, with a heart that was shattered in a million pieces. After that darkest of nights, I never saw the founder’s youngest Son again. The elders had kicked him out of the commune for what he had done. I now felt fear, shame, and an overwhelming amount of guilt, for being the cause of his homelessness, and for staining the commune’s pure image with my sickening sin. I also felt endless guilt for not protecting the sisters, that he had involved, from his slimy touch. I was only nine years old at the time, but I felt as if I should have been a million years old. In an attempt to feel better, to feel safe, I begged my Mother to stay home with me, and not go on any more trips. Little did I realize that this person that I knew as my Mom, this beautiful, proud, tall, strong woman, was in reality a vulnerable, broken, single mother of a soul.

Shortly after coming to reside at the commune, she had been brainwashed with guilt, and duty to God, into being one of several secret love interests and women that took care of the married founder of the commune, during the many trips that he took away from the commune. I did not know, as she sewed a life-sized, stuffed doll for me, how she agonized over leaving her children, and how much she hoped and prayed that this token gift, and God, would soothe my tormented soul and keep me safe. Unfortunately, my mother made the doll to look like me, and although initially I slept with it to keep from feeling so abandoned and alone, I could not bare to look at it. After a few weeks of not being able to look at my prized gift, I gave it to another daughter of a single mother around my age, in the guise of charity and good will. The outcome of all this was that my Mother still never stayed home for very long, and I could never comfortably keep any one particular doll for any long period of time, no matter how much I initially loved it. Resigning myself to the fact that I was the sole person responsible for my safety, I took solace in food, and the whole milk that was donated to the commune from a local dairy. I grew from feeling and looking like a tiny gaunt ghost, to being big for my age, and to put it bluntly…fat.

The only time that I felt free of my feelings of guilt, shame, fear, loneliness, and a deep sense of self-loathing, was when I was outside playing in the creek, swimming in the small town pool, or staying in the safety of the single women’s dorm. Teaching myself to play the guitar, and being able to play at the church meetings, helped me to feel as if I could redeem my place in the commune, and maybe a small corner of God’s world. I tried so vigilantly to get into the good graces of the members of the commune, and to be accepted, only to feel as if I was a failure in every sense of the word, by not being able to avoid corporal punishment. In a continual effort to be liked and accepted, I gave away almost everything that I would acquire with my allowance, I would trade my brand new doll that cried, and drank a bottle, for another younger girl’s older doll, that looked more like a real baby to me, only to be told that I was selfish, and taking advantage of someone younger than I. I would watch people intensely to see how they felt and interacted, so that I could help them more, only to be told that I was flirting, and that this was wrong. In every way I was pushed away like a leper, for fear that I would bring whatever happened to me, to other families in the commune.

Finally, when I couldn’t spend time outside near my beloved sanctuary of the creek, I took solace in helping to take care of the babies in the nursery. To me, the pregnant women of the commune where the most beautiful, and watching them give birth to perfect little beings drew me into a feeling of awe and amazement. Little did I know that the mothers did not really like me helping out in the nursery, because I was forever comforting the crying babies into a blissful sleep, which in turn kept the mothers up through the night. Being taught to be tolerant and patient, the mothers in the commune kept their secret complaints quiet, until they could find a legitimate way to keep me out of the nursery, and away from their babies.

There was one baby boy that drew my attention in particular. When his mother would drop him off in the nursery he would always have soiled diapers, his face would be caked with dried snot and dirt, and I could feel that she didn’t really want to care for him. My heart ached for this tiny being, so when she would coldly drop him in the nursery crying, I would be the first to change his diaper, wash his face and hands, and soothe his incessant crying. Soon, the baby boy’s face would light up with glee when he would see me in the nursery, and he would play happily in my care. I finally felt as if I could possibly good at something in my life, as if I could finally make a difference and be accepted, and the only way I could be this, was to be a mother myself.

I had no idea how I could get a child to come into my tummy, so my ten-year-old mind logically deduced that if I pushed my belly out far enough to make room for a baby, then God would put one in there for me. After all, I was taught that this was the way that Mary conceived Jesus, so…why not me? About a week into my altered appearance of a big belly, the women of the commune became very concerned and nervous, and shortly after my Mother returned from another endless string of trips, she was told of these concerns. The afternoon after she had returned to the commune she brought me into one of the sewing rooms, that were part of the single women’s dorm, and the look of sternness on her face brought a feeling of fear and foreboding to me. She quickly pulled up my dress and looked at my tummy, turned me to the side and glared again at my big belly, with her eyebrows knitted together in deep concern. When she finally asked me how my belly got so big, I innocently told her about my logical deduction that if I made room in my body for a baby, that God would give me one. After telling my mother what I firmly believed, I searched her face to possibly catch a glimpse of her approval. Instead what I saw in her eyes was that of a storm brewing.

Afterwards, I was excused so I went back to the safety of my bed to brace for what I could feel coming my way. That night, I was brought into a group of elder commune women, which included my Mother, her best friend, and the wife of the commune’s founder. I was then interrogated as to what I had been doing with the baby boy that had so strongly bonded with me. I was asked if I played with his penis in any way while changing his diaper, if I had maybe put my mouth on his penis, or if I had done anything sinfully in that nature with him. I honestly answered no to all their questions, but once again, as I was excused from the group of elder women, I could feel their consistent belief that I was a liar, and that I was lying to them. They day after the meeting judgment was handed down, and I was no longer allowed in the nursery or around the babies. I was also unceremoniously told that my logical deduction was wrong. Babies were not created out of sheer faith in God, and I would never have a child that way.

Once again, my heart was shattered into a million pieces, and I was dirty, shameful, and unworthy of having, and/or being around young children. God had become an angry entity to be appeased, and he was not pleased or in any way accepting of me. I did not know or understand at this time that the commune members were highly suspicious of my Mother’s constant interaction with the founder of the commune, at his request. This made it easier for them to shun both my brother and I as the tainted offspring of, what they had intuitively and jealously deemed, a very immoral woman. At this time I withdrew trust in my mind and heart from everyone in the commune with the exception of my Mother’s best friend, and her husband. In my heart I held one last glimmer of hope, that these guardians of my brother and mine, in my Mother’s absence, would not shun and reject me also.

A few months into my last glimmer of hope, my Mother’s best friend was in her eighth month of pregnancy, and I was probably more excited for her to have the child than she was. The child before this pregnancy was still-born and the whole commune, myself included, grieved for this beautiful matriarch. One Friday night, when the children of the commune were allowed to stay up late my two male playmates asked my Mother’s best friend if they could take the cushions off the couches in the main living room of the hotel, so that we could jump on them and play, creating our own care-free play time. My Mother’s best friend was in a lighter, good feeling mood, and she readily agreed to this as long as a responsible adult was there to watch us. Needless to say, after two single women of the commune tired of watching us, and we were still bouncing off the walls, or should I say living room cushions, we finally cajoled a single male commune member into not only supervising us, but also playing with us. At this time around ten of the communes children had joined in the fun and ruckus, and it got even better with the supervising male joined in, catapulting us into the air, onto the pile of cushions, by lying on his back and heaving us into the air with the bottom portions of his legs.

At this time I was almost 10 years old, and I had put on a lot of weight in order to protect myself from being molested again. While most of the children in our spontaneous play group weighed around 30-50 pounds, I came in at a whopping 80 pounds. Our male supervisor was more than happy to catapult us children into the