Tuesday, November 17, 2009

(Continuing in editing phases. If you've read this before, read it again, it's probly different, still a work in progress.)

I read a description in the news of one of the few women who got away from Anthony Sowell, in whose Cleveland, Ohio, home 11 dead female bodies were found last week. This is the way people treat whores, why I'm glad I managed to make it to age 61, in spite of the surroundings I'm living in now, for now.

As they fought, she said she could see a little bit of the outside through a door. She grabbed Sowell's crotch as hard as she could and when he collapsed to the floor, she crawled out the door.

Wade said she shouted to people walking past Sowell's house but they ignored her. Then she ran into a nearby restaurant. They refused to call 9-1-1 and told her there was a pay phone outside.

Soon she saw Sowell coming toward her on the sidewalk. She said he walked up and laughed, telling a group of men standing in front of the restaurant "this bitch tried to rob me."

I obsess these days about sex crimes, especially child sex crimes, but also crimes that happen to whores and crack addicts, as there but for fortune go I. In fact, I'm amazed I am even alive.

My daughter was describing in tears to me this morning Shaniya Davis' body "was just dumped by the highway" when they found it in North Carolina.

"Dumped," I said, and kind of drifted.


They do kill children after they've sexualized them, often. Especially when there is film of the crimes, as there was in my case. I know someone tried to kill me right around the time I was babbling to everyone what Father Horne did to me.

I remember it plainly, it comes up often.

I was riding in the back of a dump truck, preschool age or maybe six. We got to the dump outside Bartlett, Illinois. In the the payload area of the dump truck was little girl me riding happy as can be. After the driver stops the truck, he starts the dump mechanism, and the payload starts to angle up. I'm falling out.

I get to the top, hang on, screaming, "Hey, I'm in here, stop the dump, stop dumping the truck."

I can see through the back window into the cabin of the truck. The man driving stares straight forward stiff, unmoving, acting as if he does not hear me calling out, but he has to.

"Hey, I'm in here! Stop dumping the truck, stop dumping the truck!"

The driver just looks straight ahead but there's a reaction, like he makes his body stiff so he cannot turn his neck. As I go into the memory and elaborate on it, imaginary or not, he turns his head just enough for me to see it's my own father's face, but I refuse to let that image continue.

I landed DUMP on the ground, at the dump, outside Bartlett, Illinois, circa 1954.

Everyone thought I was dead.

The way I know more about this incident than most from pre-age six is my Aunt Irene a few weeks, months, years (?) later told me about it.

The Ebeling family is gathered at dinner for some special occasion around a dining room table, aunts uncles cousins along with dad mom and sisters.

Aunt Irene, still a little Irish brogue, says in her high piercing voice, "And what about the time little Kathy died and came back to life."

The room got quiet. Silent. Tension.

She said to me, "Do you remember that? The time you came back to life?"

I say, huh? I don't remember, I don't know.

My Aunt Irene was a bit of a rebel, grown up Irish in Chicago, always had a look on her face that said, You're not going to get away with that with me. No one was going to tell her not to keep talking. Her posture is, "I got this much out of my mouth, I'm going to go ahead and say the rest."

She said, "You mean you don't remember? You were riding in the back of the dump truck, he gets to the dump yard, forgets you're back there, and what a miracle. You don't remember? You were dumped out on the ground, and you landed so hard, afterwards you just lay there not moving. Everybody thought you were dead. People were coming from all around the dump, everybody thought you were dead.

Then Up with a start like you'd been struck by the Holy Jesus himself, you popped up onto your feet and started running around like a chicken with its head chopped off.

Tense laughter releases the grip around the table, and we all finish dinner.

From then on, every now and then someone in the family would bring it up again, the time in Bartlett when little Kathy died and came back to life after being dumped out from a dump truck at the Bartlett dump. "Then she was running around and around like a chicken with her head chopped off."


This morning my daughter Lizzie was forlorn saying, "The way that poor little Shaniya was just dumped."

And I was right back at the Bartlett Illinois Dump in 1954.

That's PTSD.

1954, we would have been building the house in the town of Bartlett that we moved to from "the woods," the 20 acres my dad bought in 1949 and sold, flipped in 1953, on U.S. 20, on the road to Elgin.

At that time U.S. 20 was a major highway. Now it's a forgotten connecting road going through endless suburbs, a lot of gang activity. My dad was smarter than average, and like me, could see the future by looking very carefully at the present and the past.

When we were building the house in Bartlett, there would have been lots of reasons to drive out to the dump, and no laws against kids riding in the back of an open dump truck back then.

Although these fellows don't follow laws that much anyway.


Whoever masterminded the sexual molestation and photographing of my sister and me age 4 to 7 that somehow involved Father Thomas Barry Horne and my father had to get rid of me. My sister became quiet and calculating, but I was acting out loudly.


No older than six, after incidents with Father Horne, I had taken a group of kids into a treehouse in a backyard on Hickory Street in Bartlett to show them what Father Horne had showed me.

Come on, kids, it's fun, and it makes you feel SO GOOD!!!

Then there was the incident with the construction paper Thanksgiving turkeys, me gluing on feathers, that got me thrown out of Brownies. I cannot no matter how I try remember what it is I did or said.

I was babbling. Always babbling.

(Maybe the same babbling that wakes me up at three AM or soon after every morning to this day.)

It just makes sense to the pedophiles.

These phreaks often feel they need to destroy, murder, mutilate beyond recognition, the children they've raped, especially ones where they can't hide the evidence, too much vaginal tearing, too much talking.

Even forty years later, we might talk.

So I guess, I should be grateful I'm still alive today. I just kept living through attempts by others and myself to kill me, all the way to 1988.


I escaped from that house in Paris where two guys were about to sell me to the two Arab men in the living room. Doubt I'd have lived too long after going away with them.

This entry is not fiction, though some posts here at City of Angels 2 are made up. I mark it clearly if it's fiction.

For some reason, after all that, I'm still alive today, writing this...


Back to Anthony Sowell and the 11 dead female bodies at his Cleveland, Ohio, home, the victim who got away said no one would call 911 for her. Then Sowell walked up and made a joke about her and her near naked bruised bleeding body. From the news at Cleveland dot com this morning:

"I just started crying," she said. "I was in this circle screaming that this man attacked me and nobody would hear me."

Been there, done that, the aftermath, when consensual sex suddently turns violent and you run out screaming Help and there are people everywhere, but they just laugh at you. It happened to me on the chi-chi streets of West Hollywood...

Nobody cares about a whore.


I just walked by my daughter's door, it was part open so I peeked in to say hello.

She squints at me and sits up, challenges: "I'm watching Fox News." I don't answer. "Bill O'Riley reports this incredible stuff, you don't hear it anywhere else in the news."

I want to scream, "Because Fox makes news up, they should be indicted."

But her words don't rouse me, for once.

Because I'm re-forming.


Lizzie is so much a part of this story. I would have never even remembered being raped if she hadn't been born when I was 40. Then she turned 5 and I started remembering things. As she approached the age, it started with me being obsessively protective of her, would NOT let her out of my sight except in government-sponsored daycare run by women I first got to know real well, and even then, I was the mom who showed up all the time to help as a volunteer.

I was a Stepford Single Mom.


TO CHICAGO newspaper November 23 responding to article about African Americans saying they get lower payments than white people:

From: "cityofangelslady@yahoo.com"
To: mbrachear@tribune.com
Sent: Monday, November 23, 2009 6:51:17 AM
Subject: Chicago Gives $0 to Little Old White Ladies

Little old white ladies get no settlement at all.
No one is writing about older persons like me, age 61, raped in Chicago Archdiocese in 1952-55 age 5 and younger, my sister too. Last October the Church managed to get the Illinois Supreme Court to eliminate any cases for people over age 40.

When I went to the Archdiocese in Chicago for help several times a few years back, I said, "I'm a pedophile priest rape victim from just outside Chicago, your archdiocese," and they said, "Get an attorney."

I am a trained journalist and that is exactly what the victim assistance coordinator said, when I approached the Chicago Archdiocese for help.

Then no attorney wanted my case until I interviewed one during a story and in the middle of the interview, just blurted it out, "Will you take my case?" and he sputtered a bit and I finally got a lawyer to take my case.

Then my case gets thrown out thanks to the Illinois Supreme Court.

I live in slums, with my 21 year old daughter we both need dental, medical care, she needs to stop working 50 hours a week with no overtime pay for one of the few corporations still going in this country. She should be in college.

Worse yet, I live in L.A. where I watched people who were raped under similar circumstances as me and my sister by priests get over a million dollars each in 2007, and I got to report on the L.A. Clergy Cases at City of Angels and now I wonder why no mainstream reporter is writing about the inconsistencies. People in some states get settlements, people in other states don't, when this is truly a national, international problem.

The church takes advantage of any law they can use to get out of helping us. So there are hundreds more like me, older, struggling- my daughter is a big part of the story you can read about our personal situation at Cityof Angels 2

Hope you see there are about a hundred more stories here that have not gotten out to the mainstream.


Kay Ebeling
Chicago Archdiocese Pedophile Priest Rape Victim Living in Los Angeles

PS: I can document that I lost every job I had because of the behavior that resulted from being raped at age 5 by a Catholic priest. My need for a settlement is so obvious, I sometimes wonder if it was because of people like me that the Church lobbied and got the Court to stop lawsuits against people older than I am.

Most 1950s era victims are probly dead. I should have been dead numerous times, again a result of the behavior, but I always came back to life or escaped.

Anyway I'm writing my story at City of Angels 2, but wish more working journalists with jobs would get on this story as it is a NATIONAL story, and me, one broke old lady in L.A. alone is not enough to get this story out...

kay ebeling

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