Stories

Julia

3 year old saw her father kill her mother...

Three year old Julia was referred to For The Child after her mother was shot to death by her father, who then turned the gun on himself. She was found asleep on the bed, in between the bodies of her parents.
This fatal incident was the last event in a chronic pattern of domestic violence, substance abuse, and chaotic living.
The aunt and uncle who adopted Julia wanted her to just forget what she had gone through, but her nightmares and behavior showed that her memories were sad and frightening. Working with a specially trained For The Child therapist, Julia used toys - a doll house, family figures, and police cars-to communicate through play her memories, fears and worries.
Her aunt and uncle knew she was recovering from the trauma when she began normal play with other children and stopped playing scenes of fighting, death, and loss.

Rape

9 years ago, a 13 year old was raped...

They just found the rapist.
In 1996, a 13 year old girl was brutally raped behind a dumpster while walking to school. A foul smelling homeless man pulled her behind a dumpster and assaulted her. He pulled her shirt over her face so that she could not identify him.
Now, nine years later, an unexpected hit on a cold case DNA run has finally identified her offender, a serial rapist in state prison for other crimes. The girl's mother and the original detective on the case both called For The Child to ask that we provide support, treatment and advocacy during the court process for this victim, who is now an adult. Without hesitation, we said "of course." The excitement that we feel about obtaining justice in this case is tempered by the awareness that criminal proceedings could force the victim to relive painful events and to face an offender she has never actually seen before. Hopefully the support she receives will assist her in even greater healing.

Marcus

8 year-old Marcus was sexually abused...

8 year-old Marcus was sodomized by 9 year-old in school bathroom. Marcus was sexually abused by one of his classmates in the school bathroom – more than once. His family discovered the abuse after he began soiling himself, something he didn’t usually do. When questioned, he told them what had happened to him. His older sister brought him to the hospital as his mother was “too busy” to come. They had called the school principal, who told them to take Marcus to the emergency room. The principal, a mandated child abuse reporter, did not call the police or make a child abuse report.
For The Child’s CART team met Marcus and his aunt at the hospital. The volunteer helped them through the process, gave the aunt referrals for treatment service and gave Marcus a teddy bear to hold onto through the process. He named him “Roger.” “Roger” went home with this young man whose crisis had not ended. He was going to have to return to school after the weekend. The police would be following up with the principal.
For The Child worked with Marcus, his family and the police to help him feel safe and protected when he returned to school.


The True Story of the Worst Child Abuse Case in U.S. Recorded History

We’ve all heard fantasy stories, or true events that are either too good to be true, rags to riches tales, or so full of suffering and unspeakable human misery that we have a hard time comprehending its reality. No wonder that some of the biggest blockbusters made in Hollywood come out of true stories of ordinary people doing the impossible, exemplifying the good in us and not the all-too-common tragically wasted potential and literal loss of life when it comes to horrific circumstances like those of Debra Luptak’s.

The unbelievable true story of Debra, which is becoming the talk of the town as Hollywood producers compete for her story, incorporates not only the impossible, but also the exceptional and unprecedented. It’s a story that begins in the deepest hell and most barbarian of conditions ever seen by the mortal eye, and yet transitions into a tale of triumph over impossible odds, redemption and a shared hope for the human existence.
Debra’s story is not an easy one to tell, some of the details are not only disturbing, but also painfully unnerving. Yet, the chilling perplexities while astonishing, also serve as a sad illustration and soul-penetrating lesson of what an individual “Homo sapien” is capable of by revealing both the darkest and most uncivilized characteristics, as well as the triumphant resourcefulness of the human spirit.

The nightmare began at birth. When Debra Luptak was born she was dubbed “The Devil’s Daughter,” as her paranoid schizophrenic mother bizarrely identified her as a child from the Devil in a family where she desperately wanted only male children. Sexually abused herself as a child, Debra’s mother began to abuse her daughter at birth, putting her crib in a confining closet at the back of the house. She was convinced that her newborn daughter was trying to destroy her marriage and would end up having sex with her husband.

When she was three weeks old a mosquito from the nearby swamps got through a hole in Debra’s closet and bit her, causing encephalitis, a high fever, convulsions and eventually a coma. Debra had to have her spine drained and spent weeks recovering in a hospital. All along her Mother insisted that she had been “born crazy.” At six weeks, Debra had to be rushed to the hospital when she stopped breathing and turned blue from lack of oxygen. Her Mother claimed that “Debra tried to kill herself” by stuffing her blanket down her throat ( as if a six week old were able to do that,) not admitting to paramedics that she had tried suffocating her daughter until she was near death.

Debra, being the oldest daughter, took the full brunt of her Mother’s abuse, although younger sister Danielle was also badly mistreated when she was born. They were both routinely subjected to vindictive deprivation and homicidal rage, yet Debra was her Mother’s main target. In the young family living near St. Louis, MO, which also included two boys, but only the girls were subject to the terror and dread dealt to them by their mentally disturbed Mother. “My Mother wanted nothing to do with me or my sister Danielle, who was born eleven months after I was born in 1962,” Debra says. “Both of us were kept in separate cramped closets as infants and toddlers, and when we moved to our second home we were kept in a damp, musty, unfinished basement with just a mattress. The meager food we received was placed on the stairs, as if we were sub-humans or pets. Neither of us ever had any potty training and we would go for days without having our diapers changed and we both had terrible rashes and sores from our soggy diapers.”

Those sores caused Debra to scratch herself continuously, and when her mother discovered it, she became convinced that her daughter was touching herself sexually and was “queer.” Her delusional thinking led her to devise homemade straightjackets that she made Debra wear to control her “evil” habits. “The straightjackets made sure that I couldn’t move, and I was continually strapped into this restraint with one of my legs placed over the other,” Debra says. “That was how I learned to walk, in this straightjacket, with one leg over the other, hobbling in a contorted position, trying to move myself forward.”

The straightjacket also had long term physical implications. “One of my legs grew to be deformed since I had it continually strapped over the other one,” Debra says. “It took six months of physical therapy in a hospital to reduce the effect of that deformation.”

Debra’s mother also forced Debra to sit with strapped arms and legs to a potty chair for hours, and tried to get her to urinate by forcing a syringe up her vagina. For years Debra learned to hold her urine and bowel movements, but eventually she would make a mess in her panties, which caused her mother to smear her face with feces and then dry it with an electric fan, a humiliation that she found humorous. “And later when Danielle and I were together in the damp basement in our second home, she would stand us over a drain and hose us down with icy water in that cold basement in the dead of winter,” Debra remembers.

Mother just wasn’t cut out for housework either, and didn’t think it necessary to attend to cleaning and housework. “She never washed dishes. There were pots of food molding in the kitchen and in the refrigerator,” Debra says.

It was a terrifying existence for a child. Every day was simply something to endure, a test of survival. Eventually young Debra thought her father might come to her rescue and become her savior, but he was a slight man and powerless to deal with the destructive behavior his domineering 5-foot 9-inch, 250-pound wife exhibited toward his daughters.

Things worsened when Debra’s Mother would fight with her father, Larry, whose concerns for the girls would cause her to increase their abuse. Shouting and arguments could continue for hours, as she verbally abused the girls’ father. When police arrived they would arrest the Father, and he would spend a night in jail.

The daily torture continued in many ways. Physical abuse was commonplace, and included cigarette burns and the use of pharmaceutical drugs (such as Valium) to keep Debra quiet, beginning at an early age. “I was fed an assortment of adult pills to keep me sedated and immobile beginning when I was about two years old. Mother had convinced a doctor that she needed a prescription for stress and anxiety, and she used whatever drugs she could get to keep me in a stupor,” Debra says.

Within days of being force fed adult sedatives, Debra fell into a coma, losing sensory perceptions. Her Father found her on the floor of her closet reeking of urine and feces in a comatose state. She was rushed to Children’s Hospital in St. Louis, where she spent several weeks recovering from her Mother-inflicted drug overdose.

The overdose was reported to social services, which finally stepped in and took serious action against the family, telling them that Debra would be placed in a home in southern Missouri for a year until the family decided whether or not they wanted her or could take care of her.

Debra eventually was returned to her family after her one year stay at a foster home. A number of relatives gathered at the family home to welcome her, and were impressed with how nicely her hair had grown out during her time away. Angered by the attention her daughter was getting, Debra’s mother took the scissors to her hair the next day, chopping off the offensive object of admiration.

For the first formative years of her young life, Debra Luptak was routinely brutalized, physically and emotionally on a daily basis. She was physically malnourished and beaten, emotionally and cognitively stunted, and completely without any nurturing or schooling. She was caged both physically in a closet and later in a basement, and mentally with pharmaceutical drugs and strong adult sedatives, but through it all she learned to survive.

“Many days I heard a tiny voice inside me say that things would be all right, the voice telling me that ‘It’s not you,” Debra recalls. “If it hadn’t been for that I don’t know if I could have survived the daily torment. Something deep inside me told me that there was something better for me and that I would survive my mother’s hatred for me. I somehow knew that my mother could beat me, could physically and emotionally torment me, but she would NEVER take away my will to survive or destroy me.” Despite the reassuring voice, Debra’s life was always about “hanging on just one more day.”

In 1967, after her parents divorced, Debra’s mother packed up the kids and moved to Arizona to live with a man who owned a ramshackle 10-acre ranch out in the middle of the Palo Verde desert, about fifty miles west of Phoenix. “He was an ex-military man who had a twisted sense of discipline, and was an ideal partner in crime for the demented behavior of my mother,” Debra says. “He built a form of animal pen for us out there, and we had to surrender our shoes so that we couldn’t run away on the scalding hot desert sand. Years later I went back to the site of the ranch and found a pair of my shoes there. I keep them on my desk now as the only keepsake as a little girl, and what I had to survive back then.”

Life at the ranch in Arizona also included other forms of abuse for the young daughters, including forcing them by cattle prod to scrub the bathtub in the trailer, constrain them to eat horse manure and dog food while the boys ate Oreo cookies and making them walk on hot galvanized metal in the 110-degree desert heat without shoes as a daily punishment. The girls, Debra and Danielle, were never allowed to stay in the trailer, and in many cases the boys were forced to torment their sisters as well. “My Mother thought it would be fitting if we were branded, and encouraged my brother Matthew to use a hot fork to make brand marks on us, Debra says.

Other forms of abuse at the ranch included burning the girls with cigarettes, Mother wrapping her finger around her daughters’ hair and yanking chunks of it out, and pouring hot pepper spice or paprika on the girls’ private parts in her delusional mind’s attempt to destroy her daughter’s female parts.

It’s almost impossible to believe this kind of torture was routinely inflicted on young innocent children, three young girls trying to survive a life that seemingly couldn’t get any worse. But Mother Jayne and stepfather Harold continued to find new ways to enhance the misery. It was years later that Harold decided to sexually molest the youngest sister Doreen.

Debra and Danielle became desperate to find ways to escape the compound, and they were finally able to run away. The police became involved, and the girls’ rebelliousness eventually got to be too much for the mother and step-father who got “tired of the runaway girls” and, before Debra’s 6th birthday (an occasion the family never celebrated), she and Danielle were dumped at a social service center to begin new lives in a series of foster homes. Strangely enough, Debra’s Mother was never arrested for her brutality towards her daughters for the simple reason that no one ever pressed charges.

“I had no frame of reference for what a normal family life was,” Debra says, “but I didn’t think things could get any worse. The odd thing was I really didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave my siblings.”

Their first placement at a foster home happened to be with a family who were nudists. The second foster family had an 18-year old son who raped Debra at the age of six. There were a series of other homes for the girls, and eventually Debra went to a family on her own and separated from Danielle, which was yet another pivotal turn in her life.

Each foster home was far from ideal. When Debra was nine she moved to the home of an older couple in Minnesota who wanted a daughter to replace their daughter who had been killed in a car accident. “That was a very strange experience for me. They had sealed off their daughter’s room and kept her things in place like she was still alive.”

Life in Minnesota for Debra offered some stability, but also more torment. By the 3rd grade Debra had figured out that she could get attention from boys, and by the 6th grade was running with a free spirited and unruly group of kids. When she was eleven years old, Debra was raped again, and she then became a school drop out in the tenth grade. “I was very rebellious towards the adult figures in my life, and yet on the flip side sexually very promiscuous with the boys, looking for the love and affection that I never got as a child,” she says.

While living with her adoptive parents in Southern MN, at the tender age of fourteen, Debra became pregnant. She had a son at fifteen, who she ended up keeping. She also tried to commit suicide later on, but her inner strength triumphed over death. The world needed Debra.

By the age of sixteen Debra was married, and by the age of twenty-two she had four boys. She was now a full-fledged mother, and was determined to give her children the love that was denied her as a child. By this point in her life Debra Luptak was determined to be the best mother she could be, virtually exploding with love towards her family.

Through her twenties, with the years of torture behind her and the healing ahead of her, Debra Luptak was finally on the right track to a balanced life. She busied herself with her family, getting an education, earning a 3.7 to 4.0 GPA and studying psychology and paranoid schizophrenia in an attempt to understand her mother’s illness. She had acquired a passion for learning as a college student and became committed to pursuing a career that would fulfill her potential. She had begun to recognize her true talents both as a woman and a teacher.

At that time in her life Debra felt ready and pursued a 3-year search on her biological family. It was when she summoned the courage to contact her mother on the phone as an adult for the first time in many years. Her Mother’s first words to her were: “Yes, I remember you, you are the Devil’s Daughter.” In 1992 the family was reunited on “The Jenny Jones Show,” but there was no real reconciliation possible for Debra and her Mother.

And there were still many bumps in the road before Debra Luptak was to find her way to a stable, happy, fulfilling life. In her thirties she attempted suicide twice, and in her forties her third son Bryce lost his life in an ATV accident in 2005. She dedicated her third book, (“Why we Cry for a Soul set Free”) to helping other parents heal from the unbearable tragedy of losing a child. But, almost as if each setback made her stronger, there was a healing process, a pivotal turn of life going on underneath it all.

“I took many different paths,” she says in her book A Survivor’s Closet, “the paths that I thought were the right ones. Stubborn and full of determination, I believed I knew what was best for my child and my adult. Long stretches of time were spent in tears, releasing endless pains from the inner part of my soul. Allowing myself to breathe, to deeply inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth over and over to calm my restless body. I revealed my deepest emotional and physical courage so I could reshape my future. It was as if a hurricane was living deep inside me and after years of life-threatening waters, I could finally find calmer seas.”

Today, Debra Luptak, after having survived inhuman conditions and constant torture, is a highly successful businesswoman, the author of three books ("A Survivor’s Closet," "Why We Cry for a Soul Set Free," " …and then There Was Light," with as many as 11 more books in the works, a life coach, and a corporate lecturer (www.debraluptak.com) teaching others, either as individuals, or groups, what it takes to be survivors and become successful at beating the odds when the odds are stacked against you.

Her story is a very vivid example for even the most skeptical of souls that with the right thinking and determination we can not only endure adverse circumstances, but can also reach the highest of human potentials and triumph into the light from the deepest of darkness. With a strong sense of self, Debra today commands all excuses begone, defines the true meaning of extraordinary, and proves every word of her teachings with her life experience. She earned her power through discovering her personal ability, which allowed the transcendence of intense and horrific situations and circumstances, something that other motivational speakers, although greatly recognized, cannot say about their own lives. Nobody has the personal history of terror and torment that Debra Luptak does.

Debra does not lecture philosophies; she puts thinking and realizations into practice. As Oprah once said: “We need to thrive to achieve the highest good within us and transform others through our own example.” Debra Luptak, a genius in her own right, dedicated her life to the most noble of causes: helping her fellow humans through a complete transformation of the self. For as Einstein said: “Only a life lived for others is worth living.”

In her very successful hard cover book, "A Survivor’s Closet," Debra says: “Leave your memories buried beneath the dirt, Share your gift with those you inspire, and Dive into life with your gift of strength. “

This courageous, beautiful woman inside and out, turned her life into a raving success, raised four boys with love and caring, has the most supportive and giving marriage and is here to help all of us if we are willing to listen. Debra Luptak is God’s angel, an unparalleled inspiration and blessing to the World! She possesses the biggest treasure there is: the gift of forgiveness. That something inside her that was able to transform terror and daily fear into love and compassion is the very essence of what our 21st century crises-stricken humanity needs to find in each and every individual’s heart. Making a better world starts from within and is not only a must, but a responsibility that the majority of mankind does not understand. Most people in Debra’s shoes would choose drugs and alcohol to numb the pain or remain in denial, and even justify it, instead of realizing that the most joy and the biggest transformation is born out of hardship and not fun and games.
With Debra, a full presence emerges empowered by the encoded iron will granted by God to all humans, asking us to awaken, to become conscious and realize that our choices are the ones determining our destiny and not our outside circumstances, or other people’s actions.

By telling her story, Debra conveys to us both the teachings of Jesus Christ and the latest discoveries in science about the workings of the human mind and how we connect to that higher intelligence we know exists. Are we ready to understand our own power? Are we ready to wake up from sleepwalking through life, and instead, become valued individuals helping the world and ourselves evolve? Are we ready for a new way of thinking, a new reality, a new life, a new destiny? Are we ready to hear the words of the universe through Debra’s voice?

Debra Luptak has been ready all along, sensing even as a child that someday she would be called to shine her light throughout the direst circumstances of the human condition. Her destiny has been written from the beginning, unbeknownst to her, but something that humanity cries out to hear from a source that has been through it all. And, that source is her story: the Debra Luptak story!

THE BEAST IS SILENT

A personal story by "Michael" -- a survivor of clergy abuse

THE BEAST IS SILENT A personal story by "Michael" -- a survivor of clergy abuse Sponsored link. The beast is silent: Alone in his room the priest would mastermind his hunt. He would examine his conscious as he looked in the mirror. He admires his body and hungers for it to be touched by a young boy's hand. He is reminded of his vow of celibacy but knows it does not work for him or for most of his peers. Many of them share stories of their affairs with the outside world and the temptations they confront daily. Few, however, speak about "crossing the line" by submitting to their carnal desires. At the fortress nightly visitations by young boys are frequent and are masked as "vocational counseling." The women gatekeepers bow their heads in disgrace, saying their rosary, as they silently watch these situations unfold. After many years of devotion, commitment and faith, these women are mystified by such actions. They dare not tell their husbands whose faiths are already shattered by what is written in the daily papers. The newspaper headlines shatter the myth that priests are infallible and remind us that they are sinners like us all. One priest in particular was not happy with this afternoon's appointment. The boy was stocky about fifteen with red hair and freckles. He was asked if he would like a massage before the "vocational counseling" and he obediently but fearfully replied, "yes." He stood before the priest and was directed to remove his clothes. Then with only his briefs on he was directed to the bed. He followed instructions and was given his "special" massage. However, he could not keep his mind off Michael, the boy he met last week. "He's the one I want on the bed," he thought to himself. "He's the one I want to massage". But the moment is now and the deed must be done. An hour passes and not a word was spoken. The young boy soon left in tears and the priest knelt by the bed for his afternoon prayers. "Bless me father for I have sinned…." After prayers the priest tells the reflection in mirror that he is a man of power and that his following worships him like those who followed Jesus. He even thought of how Jesus was tempted and that eased some of his guilt from his sexual rituals. He cried out to the mirror, "everyone keeps secrets." However, this lasted only a few seconds as he was reminded of the worshippers anxiously awaiting his presence on the altar. His ego was stroked by how ecstatic they would get upon their sighting of his holiness. He loved the center of attention. He felt like a king on his throne. He would tell himself that they were there for him, and he was there to perform miracles. He held power over the weak, vulnerable and wounded. He was stronger then them. Without him their problems, illnesses, and hardships would remain unresolved. They believed by his mere touch the blind would once again see, the crippled walk, and those with cancer be cured. He doubted his very own intentions when it came to miracle working but the congregation believed and that's all that counted. He communicated with God by keeping his desires of the flesh veiled behind his consciousness. He read from a prayer book constantly to keep his thoughts focused on holy words not on his secret desires. For some reason, the Bible scared him, and it would tremble in his hands. The prayer book was safer, more comforting, less powerful. He was a distinguished author of books and cassette recordings about healing, using them as bait to increase his selection of potential prey. He had set up a web site to increase his popularity and profit. He thought to himself "money for healing". His admirers gathered by the thousands, feeding his ego and adding to his choice of captives. He wore a gold ring on his finger that symbolized that he was God's servant. But deep down inside he believed he was no one's servant. He would always take his ring off when he engaged in his secret activities found wrongful by man, the Church and God. Whenever he walked down the aisle he would say to himself, "They love me, look at them, how could I be of anyone's harm. What would they do without me?" He also would take this opportunity to search for a lonesome stray soul that would require his intercession. His cage (trap) was empty, and it needed to be filled tonight at any cost. He paced around the room thinking how lucky he was to be in the position to have such a dedicated following. He said to himself, "No one will betray me; I'm greater than other priest; I have the power to heal. I have the power to cure!" With a twisted grin on his face, he said silently, "It's amazing what people believe when they are in such desperate need. Be glad you lowly ones; may your hearts be glad!" "I must leave now in case Michael decides to come early. I will ask him to be my alter boy," said the priest. Michael mentioned he would be coming. This made the priest's blood rush throughout his body that he could hardly prepare himself to leave. "By tonight I will have him all to myself, he will be mine," he thought to himself. As the priest walked down the stairway he could smell the fresh batch of cookies prepared by the housekeeper. He could not resist. He bit into one and smiled. The sweetness reminded him of the taste of the child he was about to meet. The child's sweat so clean and so sweet. His scent mingled with cologne given to the child as a passage to manhood. He thought, "with that scent I could easily find my sweet child amongst the crowds of New York City." He kept whispering Michael's name as if he would appear after a certain amount of repetitions. As he stepped outside, he noticed it was raining. He envisioned showering with Michael while exploring every part of his body. The priest gave himself permission to do such an act of cleansing because he was the master and Michael was his favorite boy. As the rain fell upon the umbrella, he longed to share this moment with Michael. Crossing puddles he could see his reflection and for a split second he thought, "Am I out of control?" He crosses the eerie castle's walkway and heads to the church. The congregation is full and awaits their mighty self-appointed king. He's thrilled that the church is filled. He prides himself on the number of people in attendance. It assures him that he is a good man and loved by many, and atoned by their mere presence. He is the one they worship. He bathes in their praises. Their singing and chanting gives him a rush of excitement. The congregation began speaking in tongues as the priest stood outside the vestibule. The two alter boys by his side were new to the parish and he thought perhaps one day new to his carnage of innocence. He thinks, "The collection offering will exceed my wildest expectation." He knew that the money was not always used toward the church, especially when it was beyond the average collection. He acted independently from the other priest and most especially from the archdiocese. He was given a license to do what he wanted and that included child exploitation. He was unaccountable—responsible to no one but himself. He had succeeded in manipulating the system to work for him and not he for the system. He placed all other priests in a similar category, one that concealed secrets of the human soul. He was a proud man because of the battles he won with the archdiocese. He reported to no one but himself. The Church authorities set him free because it wanted to avoid trouble and conflict. They rationalized that he was bringing in enough crowds and money so let him be. However, they also knew he had a problem with his vow of celibacy because of previous incidents of which they had become aware. They insisted that he attend a support group for priest with similar sexual proclivities. To this he conceded. Although he attended the support group, it was just for the sake of being counted. Even there he was conceited feeling above everyone in attendance. As it turned out, this priest had a previous record with the prosecutor's office. Two other boys were once held in his power. How many more were unaccounted for? It was time—the performance began. The music was loud and instruments were joyfully playing. As he walk down the aisle, his eyes glazed around the congregation hoping to find the young boy he met several weeks ago. This boy seemed to have fallen into his trap, and he was confident that he would be at this service. Michael was young and innocent. The priest was able to hug him when they first met. When he hugged him he knew then Michael was the boy he yearned for. As the priest arrived at the alter he became distraught because Michael was not amongst the crowd. The priest felt like leaving instead of going ahead with the mass. The mass meant nothing now. He was actually tired of saying mass and plus he wanted to hunt Michael down. But this was the only reliable way to meet his prey, to feed his ego, and to satisfy his secret desires. He said to himself, "You have to go to the ocean if you want to catch the fish". Was not it true that these services were more for solicitation purposes than prayer? It seemed that his appetite for young children had become insatiable over the years. It was coming to the point where it occupied his mind constantly. Even when performing the sacraments this passion to be with a child would take control, and he could hardly concentrate on what he was saying or doing. All he knew was his cage was empty. On his throne he eyed his audience but did not see his most important person. He said to himself, "He must come; I must have him tonight. I am hungry." While the choir sang, the priest was calculating on how he would capture Michael's attention if he arrives. He was a natural hunter and smiled at the thought of what easy prey suffering children were. He would think how he used his priestly trappings to fool innocent children. The hunt thrilled him. He became excited at the thought of taking advantage of the goodness of a child. He could not stop thinking about Michael, who was introduced to him by his cousin. He was grieving his father's death. "He needs me," thought the priest; "the boy's wings have been broken. He came to me lost in tears." He wanted his dad back and could not accept that his dad was dead. Since this boy is in search of a father figure, it will be an easy catch. "I'm what he needs," said the priest. "I will find him and make him mine. It's essential he show up tonight and if not I will call him. I must have him tonight. I'm hungry for him. I need to embrace him, smother him with my kisses, and make him mine. He should feel privileged that I have selected him to be my chosen one. No one must have him except me. I will get his phone number from his cousin if he does not show up". Tonight will not pass without my arms around his gentle body. GRIEVING CHILD I did not want to go, but my mother thought it would help me. She thought it would help me get over my father's death. I was scared to tell her the truth. How I was scared of him and the way he looked at me. I did not want him to touch me this time. I hated how he smelled. "Why must I go, if I stop seeing him will I grow up abnormal"?. I will walk in late and sit in the back and perhaps he will not notice. Nervously, I walked in and he immediately spotted me. He interrupted the service and called out my name, and thought I now am trapped. I embarrassingly walk up to him, while the congregation gazed at me. He announced me to the congregation as his "little helper." While everyone applauded, he gave me my prescription of hugs and a kiss on my neck. I became his third alter boy by default. His power over me was frightening. His power over me was hypnotic, and I was at his beckon call. I did not want the service to end because I feared what would transpire after his grand performance on stage. He watched my every move with his bloodcurdling eyes and would give me a smile when I glanced at him. After the mass he would wait until everyone left and would walk outside with me. The church was empty and alone. I found myself trapped by the priest. He would paralyze me with his words, making it difficult to leave. He insisted that he accompany me to outside despite my assuring him that I would be fine. He stated, "I would not want my prized boy getting into any trouble." As I walked out with him, I looked up into the sky and noticed the moon and stars. I wanted so badly to have my father come down from the heavens and take this man away and to grab him only to drop him into the middle of the ocean. I wanted a set of wings so I could fly to heaven and be with my dad who left me a couple of years ago. I wanted to hold hands with my dad in a forest, listening to the soft sounds of nature. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. As we walked outside the night winds arrived transforming the priest into a beast. His heartbeat would race and blood would rush as if he were a vampire on hunt, thirsty for fresh blood. He was hungry. And behold in front of him was his feast. It was as if he turned into an adolescent himself, where his entire body yearns to explore another's sexual being. He had no boundaries. He concealed his vows in a locked drawer in his heart where no one would break his secret. At times he would fret at the thought of being caught, but his ego prevented him from stopping his ravenous hunt. He would sweat profusely knowing what he was doing was wrong. He would find himself losing control because the lure was too strong. He would lean against me on his car and mark me with kisses. I felt his body press upon mine. I could hear his breathing become more intense. I stood frozen and succumbed to this beast's desires. He began to lick my neck as if I was sugar coated, a lollypop. He kissed me and asked if he could bring me to his castle. I was trembling and said, "not tonight." I did not want to disrespect him but I was afraid of the cage. He would whisper in my ear, "I will love you even more tomorrow". Tomorrow came and in his castle he would again lock his vows in his drawer and begin the ritual of sexual experimentation. I stood lifeless while he feasted upon my body. I was only thirteen. He was a hungry beast that fed on my innocence. He enjoyed watching me as I developed into a young man. He would fondle my private parts and steal from my virtue. He would wash me after racquetball while smiling, ignoring my tears. He protected his prey by isolating them from others. He trusted no body with me so he kept me captive in his cage. I was his special boy. I was left hungry for fatherly affection after my father died, so he kept me in a cage and fed me with kind words and praises. He chased away anyone who threatened our bond in fear that he would lose me. He alone held the key to the cage. I often tried to escape but feared the consequences. He was a monster with potent power that could destroy anything he touched. He had fangs that would draw the blood from my heart and drain my soul. He also had a large group of allies who would certainly spot me and bring me back to his majesty. They knew nothing about what lied inside of the castle. His paws scared me. I would shiver when he explored my body with them. As he explored my body I would freeze and fly away somewhere peaceful in the sky over the ocean. He would whisper in my ear that he loved me and that I needed a man's love to grow up normal. The beast would lie on top of me, telling me it was normal and "o.k." I thought to myself that this was all part of the healing process and abided by his wishes. When I cried he would say, "This is why you need more of this." Sometimes I tried to break away but his control over me was too strong. His breath stunk with lies. His muscles gleamed with self-righteousness. His sweat was filled with a stench of treachery . He would smother me with kisses as if he were preparing a sacrificial rite of passage. I would freeze and allow it to happen giving up the essence of my heart and soul. As I said before, he was the hungry beast, and I was his fare. After his feeding, when he was sated, he would bring me to the cage and lock me in for protection. I was wary of his feedings of me. Confused, I would stand on my perch and think "is it my fault? Am I the one that's making him hungry? I feel dirty. No one must find out about this." He would walk away leaving me with memories of my day with the beast. I always feared for tomorrow. I was no longer a child he took that way from me. Not a day went by when I did not fear his presence over me. Sometimes I would hide under my covers and dream of a world outside the cage, without the beast. As I grew older I began to realize that I was too big for the cage. The world around me exposed me to realities of life that the beast had kept from me. The beast could no longer lock me in with a key, and he could only no longer trust my allegiance to him. As a free bird, I came to realize that the world was a lot bigger and the beast was a lot smaller. I knew I had to break away from the priest and become my own person. I was frightened because for many years the beast had conditioned me to think that the outside world was a bad place and that living in his cage would guarantee peace and solitude. Keeping me from feeling emotions that all humans must experience was his goal. But the cage was purely a trap preventing me from experiencing the real world for good and for bad. Out of the cage I learned that sex was not a sin or ugly but rather a pleasurable act between two consenting people. When I began to have sex in college the beast scolded me and told me I was sinning. He must have rationalized the sex he had with me as normal behavior. The priest was ruined when he finally came to the realization that he lost his pet. He became extremely jealous and desperate. He panicked and would try to entice me by offering his niece up as a potential date for me. I wanted nothing to do with it. Despite my liberation I was left with profound scars from years of imprisonment. The sexual and emotional torture I endured throughout the years left me with an empty soul and bleeding heart. This one man had done so much harm that I was not prepared as my peers to face the realities of this world. He blocked my access to God, corrupted my deepest belief system, tarnished my faith, mottled my trusted for others, and made it difficult for me to be intimate with others. I also developed poor self -image, low self esteem, identity confusion, sexual confusion, early onset of depression with suicidal ideation, strong sense of guilt and shame over the experience, obsessive and compulsive rumination over the abuse and reoccurring flashbacks. I was hospitalized twice to treat these symptoms of abuse but remain hopeful one day I'll be rid of my scars. FUTURE The only way to keep these beasts from ruining our children's lives is to report them to church authorities and to tell your story to the public. My predator murdered my childhood, but I now have control over my own adulthood. No beast could take that away from me. The Survivors Network of those Abused by Priest (SNAP) 1 made it possible for me to come out to the public. I stood in front of the press not as a victim but as a survivor. I told my story and spoke his name, and I am now a free man. My heart and soul feel liberated that I have spoken the truth and have no secrets. My bitterness and anger has subsided and has transcended into a yearning to help others face their beasts. I am no longer under his spell. He now wears the scarlet letter, and I hope he uses this time to reflect on truth and self -examination around his secret life of abuse, betrayal and sin. As we all know these beasts run their own show. The church must do a better job with their investigation of these independent beasts. If not, more horror will occur, beasts will run wild and the last act will show victims failing to regain their lives and suffering their emotional, spiritual and financial loses. The church cannot afford any more bad reviews. What is needed now is a smash hit where the beasts are held accountable, victims are cared for, supported, and compensated for losses. The church should never ever again play the ugly role of the keeper of secrets. The real heroes are those empowered by reality to clean up the current stage and refresh itself with the church's new and improved image of honesty and trust. Lastly, I regret haven fallen into the beast's trap so early in life and remain troubled by how closely he remains protected under the powerful yet shameful wings of the Church's hierarchy. Raised as a devout Catholic, who attended Catholic school through my Masters of Arts, I am often reminded of a Bible story read to me by my fourth grade religion teacher. She would describe so tenderly how Jesus gathered his flock of lambs and made certain no one was left behind, especially those in pain and suffering. As a child I was comforted by her words. As an adult, however, I have come to a sad realization that the Church's hierarchy does not call out to its lost and suffering lambs but instead silences them. For me, SNAP helped to break the silence.