Spring 2010 — Los Angeles, CA

I'm in Running Springs, California for two weeks to help my Pops recover from hip replacement surgery. This is the same guy with whom I stopped talking in my late 20's. Now I'm making his lunch, helping him down the steps with his walker and driving him to doctor appointments. I live in St. Cloud, MN and for the past year I Skype with my dad most every Sunday evening. I have my lovely partner Ashlynn to thank for the consistency of these weekly phone calls. I really did not think my dad cared one way or the other, he wears his logic on his sleeve and his emotions are tucked away in a drawer somewhere in downtown businessville. But after the first few video-chats, Ashlynn noticed that he really likes talking with me, that it's good for me to have this relationship with my dad. I believe her and so, now I'm back here in California assisting with his recovery.

On any given Sunday afternoon, she would ask, "Hey, you gonna Skype with your dad tonight?" The first few times she did this, I could not understand why she was asking, I was suspicious ... of what, I don't know. Why did she care if I talked to my dad? She told me that my dad looks forward to these chats. I was honestly puzzled, having never had a solid, enjoyable relationship with my father since my teen years, and I never had a partner who truly cared about my relationships with my biological family. Then one day, it happened – I got a text message from my Pops! My 78-year old dad was texting me from his little flip phone mobile, "Hey u pops here Skype later?" With the biggest smile on my face, I about cried.

He lives in the mountains with my wonderful step-mom Marilyn, works full time in private practice as a clinical psychologist and had been trying to manage the painful degeneration of his right hip joint for about eight months. A doctor finally managed to see that it needed to be replaced and so he got the surgery last week. My Pops - who never needs any type of pain medication, hasn't imbibed in alcohol or smoked anything in over 25 years, ran more marathons than I know about and still rides his Harley Deuce, now in trike form - had to get surgery. It is his first serious surgery and so I cancelled work for a couple of weeks to help him out. It was an odd choice for me to make on so many levels and of course, Ashlynn was completely supportive.

She keeps suggesting that I write, so I finally attempt the feat. She suggests that I write "my story" and my inner cynic replies quickly, "Everyone has their own story, who cares about mine?" Then, when I slow down and sit quiet, I become aware, once again, that it's just my ego blabbering on. I've learned that ego likes to swing in an algebraic sort of way with its "I'm greater than/less than (but not equal to) you" formula. Stating that my story is not important, which I know is a false, self-defeating thought, keeps me in a moment of focused attention from others who will then say, "No, really C.M., you should write ..." And so it goes, avoiding attentive care to my soul for fear of becoming too self-focused keeps the focus on my fear. So I just let go and let love take the reins.

I am not even sure how to write this story. Do I continue in a chronological manner or just do the stream of consciousness, rapid writing method. My brain wants to control the process: Attention! All thoughts will now proceed in a calm and orderly manner! I keep a watchful third-eye on any memories or ideas that might stray out of line, then watch them run wild through my hands as I type and I learn that it truly is good to write your story.

In the quiet moments, when I sit long enough to feel my own heart beating, I go deep inside and find the true self. Stepping up and to the right of my ego lives all that beautiful spirit/core/ fire/unearthly unself of pure light energy and love. Thesaurus describes the antonym of ego as humility, meekness and servility. Humble, yes. Meek and servile? No and sometimes. I'm often just one of the masses holding the massiveness of all one-pure-love. I'm okay with the idea that my presence is just one in the crowd. When I'm stuck in traffic on the freeway, I acquiesce to the knowledge that I am part of that traffic slowing me down. I am part of that long line causing me to wait in a long line and I find it somehow comforting, a reminder that I am one of us. We're all one of the same universal light just walking around in different bodies. The human part is just a soul delivery system ... or maybe it's the other way around, I can't remember.

Sugar, the pint-sized Chihuahua scratches at my chest and even though she's already sitting cozy in the crook of my arm she wants more, wants to go deeper in order to get more comfortable. I mean, don't we all want that, just in reverse? I prefer to get more comfortable before I go deeper and for the past few years, I kept trying to snuggle my way toward stability so the depth would be easier to digest, so I could breathe without a regulator, so I could think and not feel but it just didn't happen that way, not for me, anyway. So I try to listen to my guides instead of my ego.

My guides communicate to me in ways they know I'll recognize. They're smart like that. They apparently know that I like numbers lined up in time or space. Like when I wake up gently from a sound sleep and the clock shows 3:33 or 4:44. Or when I look at the clock for no reason during the day and it reads 12:34. My favorite is 11:11 - AM or PM doesn't matter, I see it when I need a nudge. Like when I randomly glance at my odometer for the first time in months and it shows 77,777 miles. These things always get a smile of gratitude and if you find me saying, "Thanks" to no-one in particular, look around ... there's probably a clock nearby.

They send me animals, too, and like Sugar, I'm scratching to go deeper here with this story because it's no longer comfortable walking around on the surface. I shift again, a new gear for me and I no longer ask for guidance because it's always already there. I now ask for help to see the guidance, to follow it without forethought or doubt. It reminds me of the trust walks we used to take during the Catholic school catechism class when I was a pre-teenager. We would pair up and hold hands; one of us blindfolded while the other guided us around the church grounds or the beach-camp during a weekend retreat. The lesson, of course, was to learn to trust your partner but in retrospect, I wish they directed us to focus on trusting ourselves while being guided by someone or something that could see more clearly, the path that lie ahead. THAT would have been the lesson to last a lifetime.

When others want to tell me about something that happened to them or an event that occurred and they say, "Well, I don't know where to start" I usually reply, "Just start in the middle and work your way out." So I'll take my own advice and start in the middle of my story.

* * *

The year was 1988, I was 28 years old and the universe had conspired to support me, as usual. Apparently, it was time for me to confront Benjamin Stringer, aka Father Ben Stringer, one of the men who sexually abused me when I was a child. I was completely unaware of what was about to unfold and of how this jigsaw of a journey would fall into place.

My good pal Maggie and I were living together in Mill Valley, California which is located in Marin County about 15 miles from the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge. We had a great time together riding our motorcycles throughout Marin, as much as time would allow. We rode up around Mt. Tamalpias overlooking the Pacific, went North to wine country, over the bridge to join Dykes on Bikes in the Pride parades, to the beaches and beyond.

We were still in our 20's, laughed most of the time, and danced in the living room to the Fine Young Cannibals, Little Feat and Erasure blasting from the turntable. We finished each other's sentences. She was my first best friend.

Maggie was employed by a forestry consulting firm and planned to spend that summer working a project on Bainbridge Island up near Seattle, Washington. We had been intimate with each other, the proverbial 'friends with benefits' type of relationship and so, not wanting to spend the whole summer apart, we agreed that I would visit for a long weekend. It was an easy decision, a little vacation to a new place that neither of us had seen before. Although we had built a solid bond that summer, our relationship has ebbed and flowed throughout the years simply because we've both moved around so much, losing contact here and there. However, I called her last week and it was like we never left the living room ... more on that later.

I was working as an auto mechanic at a women-owned shop in San Rafael. Our crew of three women and two men wrenched on German and Japanese cars, but Volkswagen's were our mainstay. It was a pretty great scene for a while. After work, Deidre, the owner, let us stay at the shop and tinker with our own vehicles. I learned how to rebuild the engine and the clutch on my '78 VW Bus. I replaced the brakes, air and fuel lines and also learned about torque. For the mechanically challenged, torque is simply a measure of pressure or tightness using foot-pounds. Some screws and bolts require a specific amount of pressure on the torque. For example, the 10 mm nuts on the oil sump plate for a VW bug require a torque of five foot-pounds each. Any tighter and you'll strip the stud requiring the mechanic to split the engine case and replace the stud. That's way more hours than anyone wants to spend on a simple oil change. Wrenching taught me much about fixing what's broken; I learned that you have to strip a few screws before you learn the torque.

Starting in my late teens, I went to see many different therapists. My mother took me to my first therapist once she learned that I was a member of the "Lesbian Nation." She actually found me sleeping with a friend when I was 18 years old. I was still living with mom and I truly was just sleeping, but because we were both on my single-sized mattress and the other one was empty, Mom figured it out. Her daughter was a Dyke and she had to fix that quick.

The psychiatrist was an odd, creepy sort of character and his office smelled like old food. I was his last client on a Friday and he seemed completely bored with his job. The building was an older, converted army-corps type office building, hollow and empty, not unlike the therapist himself. Neither of us had anything to offer the other, so the search for the cure ended after the second session. That was mom's first and final attempt to rid me of the gay.

It was not until my mid 20's that I sought out therapy of my own accord. I found many wonderful older crones to assist me on this path but I never stayed long enough to thoroughly work through anything. In retrospect, I think it was perfect how it all played out. Each one taught me something, showed me new perspectives as old issues spiraled back around in new situations. These teachers, all womyn, have appeared consistently and easily throughout my life, not only in the therapist office, but also in numerous other places I chose to appear: the softball field, the Womyn's Music Festivals, the Brick Hut Café, the twelve-step meetings. I have always been so grateful to these teachers who taught me the concepts of deep love, process, communication and spirituality.

It was sometime after Maggie and I made our Seattle plans that I began to think about looking for Stringer. It was strange, how it came to me. I mean, I didn't plan to think about it or to even start that journey. It just happened without me realizing it. I had shared a lot with Maggie about my childhood, she knew about the sexual abuse from Stringer, another priest named Brogan; a childhood neighbor named Harvey Shirley, those guys in high school and the physical, mental and emotional abuse from my parents. One day I just found myself telling Maggie that I wanted to confront Stringer, to get an apology or something. I wasn't really sure what I wanted, but because he was the only other person in the rooms with me when I was so young, I knew I needed some type of validation. A tiny part of me had always felt that maybe that I had made up the whole sick story. I hate that aspect of abuse where self-doubt leads to self-suspicion.

I was attending the Thursday night Sister's in Sobriety AA meetings during that time, and began to talk more about my thoughts on confronting this perpetrator. Note: I had originally spoken of my perpetrator, but writing it now seems so weirdly privileged in a twisted way. It is important to understand that being sexually violated by a priest, a veritable 'man of God', brings layers upon layers of confusing thoughts and feelings, none of which are pleasant and loving, such as: I'm special enough to be 'chosen' by this priest, but I'm filthy enough to be taken by Satan if I tell anyone. Understanding my own worth was impossible. I have since learned that he was, in fact, not relegated to perpetrating only me, but he had violated others as well.

The women at the meetings gifted me with much support and compassion. Some shared their experience, strength and hope while others shared their fears, concerns and disappointments at missed opportunities to do the same. It was the first time I had openly discussed this clergy abuse and it felt good to do so. It felt like a coming out, of sorts, and it seemed to give other women the green light to share their secrets as well. Still, at that time, I did not know anyone else who shared this type of abuse. It was a lonely issue.

Orchestrated on another plane and unbeknownst to me, specific people were showing up in my life for very specific reasons and as it happens, I had befriended a woman named Lindsey. She had brought her car into the shop for a fix and being Deidre's friend, she sometimes stayed around and chatted for a bit. Lindsey was also a Sheriff in Marin County. She had plenty of experience working with pedophiles in the prisons and so we began to talk about what I would do if I ever saw Stringer again ... the perpetrator, the criminal, the thief who robbed me of so much innocence and self-love. It was a very scary thing to even think about let alone actually talk about.

Lindsey and I discussed all the possibilities that could happen if I confronted Stringer. He could deny everything, he could admit some things or he could call the police and charge me for harassment. Lindsey told me that if I find him at his house, I should put my foot in the doorway to prevent him from shutting the door. I tried to picture what this would look like and from what I remember as a young girl, he was a pretty big guy - stronger than me of course. He had dark, slicked back hair and thick black-framed glasses. His face was ruddy and red, and his look was that of an experienced alcoholic. What is interesting is that, every time I thought about the confrontation, I thought about it in terms of me being eight years old. Even though I was an adult womon, my little self is the one who would picture the scenario, as if I was a child in an adult body. See, it was my little self who was violated so it was my little self who needed to fight back.

Lindsey told me that pedophiles assault children without feeling guilty about their actions, and they often believe they are doing something good for the child. They easily remain in denial about the harm they cause and use ambiguous language to avoid the reality of seeing the abuse for what it is. She told me that, if I ever end up talking to Stringer, I have to use clear, concise language - words that state exactly what occurred. Instead of saying, "you touched me when I was a kid" I would have to be more explicit, stating exactly what occurred. I hated that I might have to say that to him, thinking my word choices might arouse him. Even now, years later, it's disturbing to write about.

Talking about confrontations with Stringer was extremely uncomfortable but I felt safe in her presence, the Glock in her holster was certainly a factor. Of course, I cried a lot and puked a few times but we got through the process together, meeting several times during the spring to practice the different scenarios and it was during this time that I got up the courage to track him down, not knowing if he was still alive but hoping he was in prison.

To my seemingly good fortune, my dad happened to fly into Oakland for a few hours on a business trip that spring. Because of his connections with the church, I was hopeful that he could assist me with my search for Stringer. As a youngster, he had been an altar boy and later entered the seminary. Sometime in the 1950's he met my mother and realized that the priesthood wasn't his calling ... not just yet, anyway. He did, however, continue to participate in the church as an usher and an upstanding parishioner. At 6' 6" tall, he was handsome, took care of his physique and sported a thick mane of blonde hair that he kept clean, neat and parted to the side. Most everyone looked up to him, asked him for advice and assistance. People really liked my dad, they felt comfortable around him; he was easygoing and very funny. To the outsider, he was the perfect dad. Inside our home was a different story though and by the time I was 10, he had become an angry, violent and powerfully abusive alcoholic toward my mother, my sisters and myself. Healing that relationship over the years was an arduous task but well worth the effort.