The Garden of Roses: Stories of Abuse and Healing

“The system is abusive,” the homeless man told me as he shared his story with me.               This was many years ago that he shared his story with me, many years ago when I was young and living in Seattle. He told me what it was like staying in a shelter -- how lights went out at 10 PM or 11 PM and how you had to be up and out by 7 AM.  How you couldn’t drink or use drugs in the shelter. I understood those rules.  Many homeless people use drugs and alcohol, but drug use is a coping strategy that harms the user.  I also understood the shelter hours.  Shelter is provided but you really don’t want people to become dependent; you want them to move forward and onward. But as I worked with abuse survivors, I heard more details as to why these seemingly sensible rules don’t work.  The survivor who felt loved only by his dog could not go to a shelter because he could not take his dog.  The homeless female su...

In 2007, inspired by several survivors of Catholic clergy abuse I constructed a survey of survivor wants of needs related to healing.  I received some positive support from survivors and advocates and an instructor of Social Work from PSU.  I approached SNAP, therapists, the instructor of Social Work,, the media, and several clergy abuse lawyers but received little help in distributing and publicizing the survey.  I had previously approached three Victim Assistants who worked for the Catholic Church and was essentially told to let professionals handle this.  I attempted to work with the local Voice of the Fruitful and was told that I was too angry and hurt and drove people away. I was hurt and angry.  I was baptized Catholic along with my young children in 2001.  After baptizing me, he proceeded to groom me and my 5 year old son although I have to stress that nothing bad ever happened.  My son sat on the priests lap for almost 2 hours one time, bu...

Into the Abyss; A Survivor Struggles With Romance and Relationships I've been going through a prolonged family crisis and have not posted recently.  Life is too difficult and too demanding.  I keep trying to do my work and trying to care my children.  I don't have time for much else, but I decided to share some poems I wrote some years ago about old boyfriends. I was sexually abused at age four.  As a survivor, I was used to painful relationships, and I kept repeating the pattern, one variation or another, over and over.  Until I could afford more effective therapy, diaries and poetry were my therapy.  The pages of my notebooks listened patiently to what others tired of hearing -- the weepy sadness over loves lost.  I haven't figured out this part of my life yet.  I think my life needs to be easier before I can date again.  The easiest response is to retreat altogether.  I've retreated in part because alone is easier, but also becau...

I was in Eastern and Southern Oregon walking through small, rural towns and on scenic trails to raise awareness about abuse when the news came about an abusive priest, Fr. Angel Armando Perez,  in Woodburn, Oregon.  The abuse was very recent and the child reported it, and his family supported him, and the police supported him, and the priest was arrested. The family support and the arrest frequently did not happen in the past. We’ve made progress, real progress.  The abuse happened, but at least most of the response to the abuse was appropriate.   I could not comment on what had happened when I was walking through towns and on trails in the distant parts of Oregon.  My internet access was intermittent, and I had my two teenagers to care for and a schedule to keep, and the two teenagers didn’t want to share the computer with me. When I returned home to Portland, I read Abuse Tracker and saw Randy Ellison's blog on the case.  Randy...

One day a dozen years ago or so I pulled my car into my driveway after grocery shopping to find a middle aged woman rummaging through my recycling bin and placing my used soda cans and bottles in a shopping cart.  Instantly I felt annoyed that someone was taking my stuff even if it was my garbage.  So I honked my horn at her. She looked up, her eyes wide with humiliation. By the time I parked my car at the top of the driveway I experienced a change of heart.  I wondered the woman or her husband had lost a job or if someone in her family was struggling with a major illness.  So I opened up the hatchback and grabbed a loaf of bread from a grocery bag and ran to the base of my driveway.  My driveway is short, and I live in the middle of the block, but the woman and her grocery cart were gone.  I peered up the block and down the block and across the street, but I couldn’t even see any sign of her anywhere.  I wondered how a middle aged woma...