Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love

260 Pages·2011·0.8 MB·English

by  Liberty Elspeth

RITUAL ABUSE
AND
OTHER ACTS OF LOVE
BY
ELSPETH LIBERTY
The front cover art is by kind permission of Rebecca Arman and is
copyright. This is the picture I refer to regularly throughout the book.
Many people were gracious enough to allow me to use their real
names in the telling of my story. Some names have been changed
and some people are a composite in order to protect individual
privacy.
The poem “I Built My House By The Sea” is by Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ.
I was unable to contact her to ask permission to use this poem.
Please contact me if you have an address for her.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love by
Elspeth Liberty is licensed under a Creative
Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-No
Derivs 3.0 Unported License. For more information go to
www.creativecommons.org.au
ISBN: 978-0-646-55065-7
For more copies or to download this book in pdf please go to
elspethliberty.com.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 3
To Susan, John, Annette and Pushkin.
Each of you has shown me love
and enriched my life in your own unique way.
My deepest thanks.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 4
The Los Angeles County Commission for Women defines Ritual
Abuse as: A brutal form of abuse of children, adolescents, and adults,
consisting of physical, sexual, and psychological abuse, and involving
the use of rituals. Ritual does not necessarily mean satanic. However,
most survivors state that they were ritually abused as part of satanic
worship for the purpose of indoctrinating them into satanic beliefs and
practices. Ritual abuse rarely consists of a single episode. It usually
involves repeated abuse over an extended period of time.
The physical abuse is severe, sometimes including torture and
killing. The sexual abuse is usually painful, sadistic, and humiliating,
intended as a means of gaining dominance over the victim. The
psychological abuse is devastating and involves the use of
ritual/indoctrination, which includes mind control techniques and
mind altering drugs, and ritual/intimidation which conveys to the
victim a profound terror of the cult members and of the evil spirits
they believe cult members can command. Both during and after the
abuse, most victims are in a state of terror, mind control, and
dissociation in which disclosure is exceedingly difficult.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 5
CHAPTER ONE
O
n the wall of my sun-room is a wonderful, moody, abstract
seascape. It is made up of layer upon layer of paints. A wild abundance
of shapes and colours. Sometimes these colours merge together, other
times there are squiggles and squirts of paint that rise above the
general height of the painting. Some parts are enhanced by a thick
glaze and in other places the paint has been scraped back to the
canvas. These layers, and the light of the room, adds to the ever-
changing feel of the work. It has been a metaphor for me over the last
couple of years as I have worked on my manuscript, adding texture
and depth, scraping back, allowing memories to emerge higgledy-
piggledy, some blending with existing colours while others stand bold
and distinct. I try to make sense of them all.
I've written them all down, these memories of mine, and have
them lined up in chronological order like a row of beans, waiting to be
topped and tailed, to be part of an exciting, exotic and flavoursome
dish. I am proud of this work, the time I have put into remembering,
writing, going back into the extremes, the drama of my life.
The view from my window never ceases to thrill me. I overlook
Bass Strait so the seascape outside has even more moods and colours
than the one inside. The sky's colour ranges from the dramatic, vibrant
red and gold of the bursting sunrise; to the myriad muted mauves,
pinks, lilacs and silvers of evening; to the heavy, oppressive grey of
imminent rain. The sea changes from scintillating in the sunlight; to a
smooth surface that looks as if it should issue an invitation for ice
skaters to twirl, swirl and dance; to tumbling, roaring, troubled and
wild.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 6
Today is a crisp autumn day, the smell of salt comes in through
the open window and the park and surrounding hills are returning to
verdant green now that summer has almost let go her hold. The fruit
trees and weeping cherry have not started to lose their leaves but
there is just enough hint of autumn for my spirits to rise. There is a joy
that moves into my hips and legs, the cooler weather promises long
walks along the beach, windswept hair, salt spray, a wild ocean and
two dogs, heads bowed against the sand and wind, wondering why on
earth I have taken them away from their warm and comfortably
cushioned chairs.
Autumn in rural Tasmania, my favourite time of year. Ten years
I've been here now and I thank the breakup of my second marriage for
prompting my escape from inner-western Sydney with its pollution,
busyness, humidity, barrage of advertising, and bigness. A population
here of six thousand including the hinterland suits me just fine.
How strange it is to be content with this idyllic life, the bright lights
of the city hold no allure – they broke their promise to me long ago.
My move from Wollongong to Kings Cross was both a running away
from and a being drawn towards. Running away from a failed
marriage, my parents, and friends who were becoming increasingly
concerned about my drug-taking.
I was drawn towards the promise of bright lights: excitement, a
bohemian existence, philosophical conversations, bars that stayed
open until dawn and a whirlwind of social activity that would keep me
spinning above my heartache and loneliness.
I had married at eighteen to escape from home, having no idea it was
possible to get a job and a flat by myself. My parents saw themselves
as upper-middle-class. My mother viewed herself as a cut above most
people she met, my father considered the majority of the population
stupid. Marrying a wharfie's son who was on an invalid pension was
my rebellion.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 7
I met Steve at a party. He was sitting in a bamboo chair that hung
from the ceiling, he was climbing up the wall and back down again. I
thought he looked lonely. He was stoned. I was fifteen, he was twenty-
one. Steve was my first boyfriend. To begin with we had a lot of fun
together. He had a great sense of humour and we went to many
interesting parties where there was an eclectic mix of people, wearing
some of the most amazing clothes I had ever seen. I remember a guy
who would swan in wearing the most stunning dresses made up of all
different coloured patches of soft and shimmery fabric. He made the
dresses himself and they had a train, or varied hemline or dramatic
sleeves that he swished and swirled all around him. He wore masses of
silver filigree jewellery, and usually waved a lace handkerchief around
as he moved in a cloud of patchouli oil. That was Jeremy. I thought he
was utterly gorgeous. Everyone was older than me, many were at
university and there were always discussions on philosophy, literature,
fashion as art, the meaning of life and religion.
Not long after Steve and I consummated our relationship I was
worried about pregnancy and my parents' reaction. Steve said that if I
was pregnant he would marry me. Unfortunately, neither of us knew
how to get out of that proposal once there was no pregnancy. I could
not believe he wanted to marry me and acted out in all sorts of ways,
trying to prove he didn't love me, didn't care, didn't want to be with
me. I would frequently burst into floods of tears that left us both
bemused, confused and guilty. I would throw my engagement ring
back in his face and walk away saying it was all over, I was leaving him
before he could leave me. He did his best to reassure me but it was
impossible.
Since becoming a teenager I had struggled with life. I would cry or
curl up in a ball of depression and despair wishing my life would end,
that the earth would open up and consume me. I constantly thought of
death, hated my life and considered myself fat, ugly and unlovable. I
was sure my friends secretly hated me and could never trust their
friendship or loyalty. Earlier that year my parents sent me to see the
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 8
school counsellor and when that failed they took me to see a
psychiatrist. He prescribed Stelazine, an anti-psychotic medication also
used for non-psychotic anxiety. It didn't help.
My parents opposition to our marriage was a source of pleasure to
me. I would do anything to hurt and upset them. I also wanted to
escape from them. Steve was my ticket to freedom, I knew no other
way. My parents had insisted we wait until I was eighteen before we
could marry. As the time drew near I knew I was making a huge
mistake. Our sex life had dwindled to non-existent. There was more
angst and arguments than good times and I did not want to marry him
but had no idea how to stop the wedding. It was a big white wedding
with all the trimmings. It seemed to have taken on a life of its own. As I
was agonising about this my parents suddenly went into panic mode.
They had stood back for a while knowing opposition would fuel my
determination but now they started to fear I really would marry him.
My father took me aside and told me I was killing my mother by
planning to go ahead with this marriage. My mother took me aside and
begged me to see sense because it was such a scandal, I was
embarrassing my father, and how would he ever be able to hold up his
head again. That was all it took for me to become determined to go
ahead.
The marriage lasted three years during which time Steve trained as
a metallurgist and got a good job with BHP. I was working for a bank,
my second job since leaving school. There were some fun times, great
holidays and firm friendships. And my crumbling emotional and
mental health.
I had an insatiable need to know I was loved while being completely
incapable of believing anyone could care for me. Steve was a good,
kind man without a shred of violence in him. My emotional fragility
and mental instability were way beyond his ability to understand or
deal with. I was desperately unhappy with no idea why. I was
disintegrating. I consistently tried to make Steve responsible for my life
and happiness.
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 9
As the marriage fell apart I started drinking heavily. Steve worked
shift work and I developed separation anxiety. I would beg him not to
go to work, to not leave me. I would ring him at work sobbing for him
to come home because I was going crazy, convinced he was going to
leave me and I would die without him. How could anyone stay with
someone as revolting as me? We sought marriage counselling. Her
advice was that we separate. The counselling itself was unremarkable.
However, in one of life's strange twists, this woman was to play a role
in my life at a later date.
Steve was broken-hearted when I left. He had done nothing wrong
but had been unable to take away my pain. He did his best, but there
was no way it was going to work.
I moved back to my parent's place. That was a mistake of gigantic
proportions. If I had been unhappy there before, returning was now a
total disaster. My drinking was steadily increasing and I was consumed
with sadness and guilt over my failed marriage. I went to see the
mother of a friend of mine. Yvette worked at the local drug and alcohol
clinic. I didn't want help to stop drinking, I needed a supportive,
listening ear. Something she offered me on several occasions.
The home situation was untenable and could only be endured with
the anaesthetising effects of alcohol and hash. I now had a boring job
at a finance company. This too, could only be endured if stoned.
Breakfast, morning tea, lunch and afternoon tea were always hash, in
the evenings it was mixed with alcohol.
I went out drinking every night. If I arrived home and the lights were
still on I would drive off and find another bar. One result of this
behaviour was I had sex with a lot of men I had no interest in. I was
trying to prove to myself that the lack of sex in my marriage to Steve
was not my fault. All I proved was my ability to have sex with a variety
of men, contributing to my growing self-hatred and despair.
My parents, understandably, were not happy with my lifestyle. I
would often arrive home with no idea where I had been or where my
car was. Many was the time my mother would open the door to a
Ritual Abuse and Other Acts of Love 10
complete stranger who was returning my car and keys. It is amazing I
was not raped or my car stolen.
I found a bar where I felt comfortable and got to know the staff.
They started to watch out for me, driving me home when I was too
drunk and protecting me from my worst excesses. Many of the staff
were gay and they would go out partying at the end of their shift. They
invited me to come along too. This was my introduction to the
Wollongong gay scene. I loved both the high drama of being with a
bunch of queens and dykes who were always in ecstasy or despair
about their relationships, and the glitz and glamour of the drag scene.
I'm a drama queen from way back so thrived on the exuberance,
intensity, humour and melodrama. There was something about a
screaming queen in full flight that warmed the cockles of my heart. It
was at one of these parties a queen first introduced me to
barbiturates, a relationship that blossomed. As far as blotting out the
pain went they were quick, cheap and effective. It was 1978 and a
hundred Seconal cost $2.50, courtesy of the Pharmaceutical Benefit
Scheme.
Some of the gay guys loved nothing more than getting all glammed
up in stunning evening gowns and strutting their stuff, a pastime that
found little acceptance in the rural/urban municipality of Wollongong.
It amazed me just how stunningly beautiful these guys could look. They
would spend hours on their hair and make-up. They would shave their
legs, manicure and paint their nails, and tuck a box full of tissues into
each bra, back then no one had heard of using chicken fillets for a
more natural look. They had the figure, style and grace to enter a room
and turn heads. They looked magnificent. I was the ugly step-sister; no
make-up, hairy legs and wearing Indian skirts and cheesecloth tops.
Glamour was never my style.
Often at the weekend we would head up to Sydney's Oxford Street
with its gay bars, or hang out around Kings Cross. It was through this I
made friends in Sydney. One night three of us decided to go to Les
Girls, the famous, or is that infamous, all-male revue theatre