How could we forget those ancient myths that stand at the beginning of all races – the myths about dragons that at the last moment are transformed into princesses. Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are only princesses waiting for us to act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

When I graduated from high school in 1970 I swore I would never attend a reunion. I was never part of the in crowd and was often cruelly treated. I hoped never to see my classmates again. I threw my invitations to my fifth and tenth reunions in the trash. When the invitation to my twentieth reunion arrived I was standing in my kitchen with my teenage daughter. “Mom, you should go,” she said.

“They were never my friends,” I replied.

“Show them how well you did. You’re Dr. Jones now,” she said.

“Success is the sweetest revenge,” I said. “But it is a poor reason to go. I have better things to do with my time.” I chucked the invitation into the trash and moved on.

Eighteen years later I joined Facebook for the sole purpose of marketing my book, Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct. First, I added my family and current contacts to my circle. That was easy but when Facebook suggested I add classmates from my high school I recoiled. Why would people who had refused to be my friend 38 years ago accept my invitation to be friends now? I moved the cursor to the close button. I paused. What did I have to lose, I thought. Maybe I could sell some books. I clicked ‘send invitations’ and went to bed. The next morning my inbox was filled with replies. They didn’t remember me. That was okay. I didn’t remember them either. Why would we? Although we shared a hometown and school, we hadn’t seen each other since graduation.

My high school experience was radically different from my classmates who were now corresponding with me on Facebook. They good memories of teachers, classmates and events. All I could remember was the daily torment. I walked to and from school by myself. At home I spent my afternoons and evenings alone in my bedroom. I didn’t attend school dances, proms, or sports events. Unable to stop the bullying I retreated to my bedroom and focused on my studies.

It took several decades and a series of traumatic experiences with local churches before I understood the bullying wasn’t my fault. I was an easy target. Short, introspective and shy, I didn’t know how to defend myself. No one, not my parents nor my teachers, offered any useful advice or help. Some of that was ignorance on their part. Some of it was neglect. My father often told me how stupid and selfish I was. There would be no help from him. My mom wanted me to be popular and had no understanding why I wasn’t.

Unsure how to participate in the discussion on Facebook I wrote, “I was not part of the in crowd so I don’t have a lot of fond memories of social events. But I did get a good education.”

Maryann Hughes, who lives an hour from my current home replied, “I know what you mean. I can remember dreading going to school knowing what would happen.” Maryann and I met at a Newport restaurant not far from her home. She shared with me how she was bullied in high school. I didn’t remember that. I had been so caught up in my own misery I hadn’t noticed hers. Sitting at the restaurant we browsed through our yearbook. My classmate identified who she thought had bullied her. I was surprised I couldn’t name my tormenters. Although I have some specific memories of being bullied I have no memory of who the culprits were. I remember vividly the people who showed me a kindness here and there. I figure the rest were either guilty of bullying or were passive bystanders. I was certain most of the bullies would not remember us nor would they realize how much damage they did. My classmate agreed.

When I arrived home in the late afternoon I found Richard Marks had written a public apology to Maryann on Facebook. I was elated. Bullies rarely apologize to their victims. Richard not only did it but he did it publicly. Good for him. I looked at my yearbook. I remembered his face and knew he hadn’t been kind to me either. Even though he addressed the apology to Maryann I understood he was sorry for bullying others. He had become a man with honor. His apology was a blessing and took some of the sting out of my old wounds.

Soon Alan, another classmate, suggested we have a 40^th reunion. We contacted Reunions of America. “Who are your class officers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why?”

“You have to do this right,” she said. “You wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

“Look we are just a group that got together and want to have a reunion. I’m not into this to recreate the old class hierarchy. That would leave me on the outs. Besides the class president died in a car crash before the prom.”

I hung up and began looking for other ways to plan the reunion. I had help from four other classmates. At first we tried to do the traditional reunion in a hotel ballroom or a dinner cruise. But that required risking a large sum of money. Carol Ostrom suggested we hold it at a restaurant. While I thought the idea made financial sense I was still hoping for a more formal occasion. Then Carol suggested Savino’s Sit-Down Deli, owned by our classmate. I didn’t remember Jimmy Savino but recognized his face in the yearbook as one of the guys that was never kind to me. Carol assured me that Jimmy was a great guy, had excellent food and knew how to organize things.

The week before the reunion high levels of anxiety kept me awake. Why was I doing this? Despite receiving a few written apologies, I worried that I would still be rejected by my classmates. I considered staying home.  These are the people I forsook forty years ago. But as the day approached the excitement grew. Saturday, August 7, 2010 was a clear summer night. Jimmy set up a tent in front of his place and arranged for a DJ to play our music. He also got our late high school president’s younger brother to sing for us. Later that night a group of older graduates stopped by and sang Doo-wop just as they use to at the candy store on the corner of Lake and Deer Park.

The good will filled the tent and deli. Classmates kept coming up to thank me for organizing the reunion. I was at the center of the class and not on the outskirts looking in. I finally belonged to the group I was always a rightful member of. By discarding the old class hierarchy, by people admitting and apologizing for ridiculing me and others we as a class were able to meet each other in the here and now and enjoy the company of those who shared a common heritage. Memories of those painful, lonely school years were replaced with acceptance, love and friendship.

Since the reunion classmates continue to talk to each other on Facebook and there have been several mini-reunions. I have visited a classmate at his home, ate his food and then spent the evening at Water Fire and Federal Hill in Providence, RI with four other classmates. There are plans to keep meeting at Jimmy’s and to set up a class webpage.

Facebook has given us all a chance to redeem ourselves and build a caring, inclusive community. As one classmate wrote, it is like finding long lost family members. We not only went to high school together but many of us knew each other in grade school. Some of us had a blast in high school, others were miserable.

I was not completely blameless. All of us could have behaved better. There were times I witnessed bullying and did nothing to stop it. I just watched. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid the bullies would turn on me if I said anything. One of the strange blessings of the Columbine shootings is it spurred research into the problem. We understand more about where, when and why people are bullied. Schools have implemented programs to stop bullying. The better ones assist the bullied to build friendships with other children like themselves, teach bullies how to be compassionate leaders and encourages bystanders to stand up for the victims.

Who did what to whom forty years later is not important to me. What matters is how we behave today. We are all saints and sinners. “How many times should I forgive?” Peter asked Jesus. “Seventy times seven.” Jesus replied. Richard Mark’s apology made it easy to forgive. The reunion was my gift to my class. Not because they earned it, but because after 40 years I discovered I was and will always be connected to them and the town in which we grew up.

Not of My Making, is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble Online, Barrington Books or directly from www.pluckpress.com

Saturday, May 22, I participated in Crafts  in the Park to benefit Ipswich River Park.

I put a lot of time, money and energy getting my booth ready. After reading a couple of books on craft fairs, I researched booth design, tent weights and other related issues on line. I purchased my tent from Amazon and practiced putting it up by myself in my driveway. While working on my display layout a gust of wind moved my tent reminding me I needed to stake and weigh my tent down.

I got back online and learned that I needed at least 40 pounds on each leg of my tent. I read about various ways to do this and decided the most economical and effective approach was to make PVC pipe weights. I made the mistake of using pipe my husband had in the garage. The diameter was too small. I used too much water and wasted most of my afternoon. The end result was weights that were only five pounds. I went back to the store and got the 4 inch pipe recommended. This time I made my weights in only two hours and less effort. I decided not to use end caps because they were close to eight dollars apiece and did not sit flat on the ground. Instead I taped up the bottom and poured a cup or two of Quikcrete into each pipe and added a little water. You don’t need much to get the concrete to set. Then I filled each  pipe to the top with Quikcrete. Don’t use sand as it is lighter than Quikcrete. I added more water, tamped it down by tapping the pipe on the ground. I then added a eye screw with two bolts on it into the top. After the Quikcrete dried I removed the tape. This resulted in 32 pound weights.

A couple of days later I set up the tent again but this time I attached the weights to the tent using rope. I chose not to spend money on expensive tie downs but recalling my scouting days I knew that I could lash and hitch the rope securely to the tent. After watching YouTube videos I was able to lash my weights to each leg of my tent and to tie it securely to the upper corner using a trucker’s hitch. I didn’t understand why it was necessary to hitch it to the upper corner until I did it. It stabilizes the weight so it doesn’t tip over.

On fair day I noticed other crafters reading directions on how to erect their tent. One of the fair organizers told me he didn’t think I needed the weights but I replied I needed the practice and put the weights on any way. The woman next to me told me how the week before a sudden gust of wind blew her tent and damaged it beyond repair. I was pleased that I was so well prepared.

Several other crafters commented on and admired my honeycomb cardboard display table. The  closet organizer for my bedroom came packed with the honeycomb. I immediately saw its potential and rescued it from the trash. I designed the display table and then stained it. I was surprised by how good it looked. 

Throughout the day I spoke to customers about my book and the negative impact of bullying on my life and other victims. A crafter behind me told me about his experiences at school. A woman  looked over my book and then told me she was more interested in bullying at work. I replied it wasn’t much different from the bullying I experienced at school and church. It is all about power and dominance and has very little to do with the victim. We talked about the need for the victim to learn to defend themselves much in the same way women take self-defense classes to protect themselves from would be attackers. Sometimes if a potential victim asserts themselves early in the relationship they can prevent the bullying from escalating. Often, however, the individual does not have enough personal power to stop it. To assist potential victims those in charge at school, church or work must exert their institutional power to establish a bully free environment.

My next show will be in Attleboro, MA at the Expo for the Senses on Saturday, June 26.

Below is a speech delivered at the Women’s Tea, All Saints Anglican, Attleboro, MA  on May 15, 2010 The speech was based on exerpts from Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct

Choosing Joy in Times of Trial. I had to think about that one. My book, Not of My Making, reveals the challenges I faced and overcame at school and in church. Did I choose joy during the dark times of my life? Is it possible to choose joy? My psychological training tells me joy is an emotion and while what we say, do and think can influence how we feel we cannot directly choose to feel anything. When I think of the years of depression and anxiety, I see myself in my mind’s eye hanging on to a piece of drift wood in turbulent seas while resisting the urge to let go and drown. Letting go would have been so much easier but while it may have ended my pain it would have spread it to others. So I hung on.

My standing here before you today is evidence that I overcame the forces that sought to destroy me. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to share with you my struggle and how with the help of God I finally found the peace, contentment and joy that often eluded me.

I was raised Roman Catholic and lived in Italian Catholic neighborhoods. When discussing the back story to my book, my editor referred to those neighborhoods as “oppressive”. I protested. The priest walking through the neighborhood in his black cassock blessing our homes while we followed him as if he was the Pied Piper are among some of the treasured memories of my childhood. When I communicate with my high school classmates on Facebook, we share this common experience. Even though my classmates rejected me when we were young, as adults our memories of catechism, First Communion and Confirmation at St. Cyril and St. Methodius connect us to each other. Rather than being oppressive, the Church was a safe haven. A place I went to during times of distress. Even when I insisted there was no God, when distressed I sometimes slipped in and sat in a back pew and felt comforted.

So why, at age sixteen, did I stop going to church? After years of neglect and abuse my father’s heart attack triggered my decision to leave. I can’t say why exactly. We weren’t close. My father was an angry, bitter man who told me frequently that no one would ever want or love me. On a Sunday morning in February 1968, my mother woke my sister and me to tell us that our father was in the intensive care unit at Good Samaritan Hospital. My mother, who only went to church on Christmas and Easter, insisted we attend mass before going to visit him. She drove us through a blizzard to St. Cyril and Methodius in time for the service being held in the church basement. We sat crowded together on folding chairs with our hats and coats on. Although I remember the priest delivering a good sermon, it had absolutely nothing to do with my life. I felt numb and had a deep sense that I no longer belonged there.

While my father recovered, I began wondering why God required Sunday worship in a building built by human hands. If God was omnipresent and omniscient, couldn’t He hear and respond to my prayers no matter where I uttered them? At that point in time I didn’t understand it wasn’t about where God could hear me but rather about Christians joining together to help each other remain faithful and obedient to God.

I stopped going to church. I stopped praying. It seemed that asking God for something was one sure way not to get it. All the praying, pleading and begging didn’t end my isolation. Yet, if I didn’t pray to God and ask for His help, whom could I turn to? Who else besides God would listen to me? Not my mother. Not my father. Not my classmates. I was alone. No one reached out. Maybe God wasn’t there at all.

I threw myself into my schoolwork believing that knowledge was the one thing that couldn’t be taken from me. I was alone but gained comfort and strength from my books and my journal. It didn’t occur to me that on the day I discovered the joy of reading it was God showing me a way out.

Two years after my father’s heart attack I argued with my boyfriend about God.

“Everyone is alone,” I told him. “The only thing you have is yourself. You make who you are. If you get knocked down, it is your own courage that gets you to stand up again, not God.”

My boyfriend, a devout Christian Scientist, had enough confidence in his own faith to listen to my rants. He challenged my agnosticism and accused me of running away from God. I denied it, but I worried he was right.

When my boyfriend ended our relationship without explanation, I was devastated. Heartbroken, I sat in Evans Chapel in the center of the garden below the library. I found some comfort in its simple interior of pale pink walls, arched stained-glass windows and polished-wood pews. I prayed, but God didn’t send anyone to hold me and love me. My father’s prediction that no one would ever want me appeared to be true. I dropped out of college and sank into a severe depression. I put all religious questions aside. Whether God existed or not was irrelevant to my life.

I sought answers in therapy and psychology. With the help of mental health professionals I returned to college, prospered and earned my degrees. I married and had children. When my son was about five years old and my daughter seven, I became aware of an emptiness in my life. I missed church.

Listening to public radio I learned about Unitarian Universalism. Soon I joined the local UU fellowship where I found a large numbers of Catholics who, like me, wrongly concluded religion and Christianity in particular was the cause of the world’s and our own problems. Not wanting to be told when and with whom we should or shouldn’t be sexual or whether we should or shouldn’t use birth control or have an abortion, we struggled to establish a new religious identity for ourselves and our families. While we rejected God-talk and modified the old hymns, we still celebrated Christmas and Easter while adding Passover and Kwanza. Longing for a world free of hate and violence, we embraced tolerance and strove to be inclusive. A decade later when I questioned the selection of a lesbian minister I discovered that Unitarian Universalists had their own hidden dogma. Thinking this was just an anomaly of one congregation I joined another UU church.

While I’m grateful for the freedom Unitarian Universalism gave me to explore and think about religion it began to feel incomplete. I didn’t know it then but what I really missed was not the trappings of church, but God, Himself. I asked myself why did so many people that I admired believe in God? People like my grandmother, Martin Luther King Jr. and Albert Schweitzer. What did they know or understand that I didn’t? I began reading books about Christianity and to use Marcus Borg’s phrase, I met Jesus again for the first time.

In August 1998 while vacationing in New Mexico my husband and I drove north through the high desert and past the mesas. Unlike Long Island where I grew up, the sea didn’t limit the landscape. Instead, it literally went on as far as the eye could see. I was unsettled by the land’s hugeness and immensity. Standing at the base of the white cliffs painted by Georgia O’Keefe, I knew I was in God’s country.

That August night, sitting in our room at a bed-and-breakfast, I read a discussion of the Ten Commandments. I knew them, of course, but hadn’t really reflected on them since leaving the Catholic Church. As I read the first commandment, “I am the Lord, your God, thou shalt have no other gods before me,” I remembered a conversation with a fellow Unitarian Universalist.

“I think it is just as likely for there to be more than one God as there is to be only one,” she asserted.

“That’s fine,” I said. “UUs have no creed. You can believe whatever you want.”

“Including paganism?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

I blinked and dropped my book in my lap. Was it really okay? Polytheism was a violation of the first commandment. In my desire to be tolerant and open, I had supported her idolatry.

My return to Christianity contributed to a conflict at the Unitarian Universalist church I belonged to and I was forced to leave. Memories of my childhood victimization were triggered and I was overwhelmed by anxiety. I returned to therapy.

Devastated and numb, I went to the healing service at the local Lutheran church. I allowed the minister to anoint my forehead with oil and lay her hands on my head. Her touch was gentle and loving. I was comforted.

Almost every week after Bible study, she and I would talk privately in her office. She would sit across from me in her rocking chair while I sat on the black couch. She told me she liked me and I was always welcomed even though I didn’t believe in Jesus as Savior. I shared my childhood history of neglect and sexual abuse. We discussed why God had allowed me to be abused.

I read holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel’s The Night Trilogy. While I went about my daily routine, I was haunted by Wiesel’s image of the hanged child as God. I was uncertain what Wiesel meant when he saw God in murdered children. Were they Christ-like figures, or did evil kill God, or is God with the oppressed? It was disquieting. The Nazis turned their captives into godless, wild, hungry animals. Did clinging to God and love help a prisoner maintain some dignity, some humanity?

I didn’t have any answer for where God was when children were being raped or abused. If evil was the work of the devil, why didn’t God, who was more powerful, stop him? But how could God stop it? With a lightning bolt? By yelling at pedophiles to stop? How? How could God intervene without us losing our sense of self? Is evil the price we pay for free will?

I needed to believe God valued me and didn’t want any harm to come to me. But where was God? Was I, as Elie Wiesel asked, a mere toy for God to play with? Surely God didn’t want to harm us, any more than a parent wants to hurt their child. There are things that happen, painful experiences we cannot protect ourselves or our children from. Maybe God, like a good parent, knew that you often have to allow your children to work things out by themselves.

Where was God? I remembered St. Augustine’s words: God is always with me even though I have not always been with God. God hadn’t abandoned me. It was I who abandoned God.

During my struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I read the Psalms and prayed to the God I said I didn’t believe in. One Sunday morning I lingered in bed, I recalled my visits with my grandmother. In my mind’s eye, I saw us sitting at the table on her sun porch. She fed me roasted peppers and apologized for not having more food to give me. She told me stories of how and why our family left Italy for America.

“Everything works out for the best,” she often reassured me. “Margherita, keep your faith,” she urged.

“I will,” I promised her.

Suddenly I knew with certainty there was a God. My entire being radiated with joy. God had always been there for me. In the midst of my worst times, I prayed to God and He eventually helped me.

I had been teetering on the edge of a cliff about to fall to my death. There were people offering their hands, but I didn’t know which ones, if any, could be trusted not let go. Then I thought, God is there, too. God will catch me if I am betrayed. I felt calm.

I was the prodigal child returning home and finding there was still a place for her there. Just as Hosea kept taking back his faithless wife, God had taken me back. God had always been with me, even if I had not always been with God. When you believe in God, you accept life as it is without despair and know it will work out in the end.

A few years later I again found myself in the center of a church conflict and pastor’s promise that I would always be welcomed in her church was not kept. Desperate to belong to a spiritual community I attended a service at an Episcopal church in Providence, where there was little chance anyone would know me. As if I had a scarlet letter sewn to my dress, I furtively took a seat away from the other worshipers. Speaking to no one, I sought God’s protective embrace.

During the service, a woman who had been raised in the church and who raised all her children in the same church spoke about the love and care she had received from her religious community. Like a starving child looking through a window while people feasted and who would never
be invited to stay, I envied her. Tears filled my eyes. Where and when would I find a spiritual home? Exiled, I had become a spiritual nomad, taking up residence for a season and moving on when I was no longer welcomed.

Feeling the sorrow and fear rise within me, I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I purposely breathed slow and deeply. I leaned forward, placing my elbows on my knees while resting my head in my hands. If anyone noticed they would think I was praying and would not see my tears. In my mind’s eye I saw Jesus walking close to me. I touched his robe and God blessed me. I belonged to Him.

Last fall my church, All Saints Anglican, hosted a craft and vendor fair. When I asked if I could sell my book, Not of My Making, there, I received an enthusiastic yes. I feared a church fair was an unusual place to sell books and my book wouldn’t sell. I decided I needed a craft item to attract customers and boost sales. But what would go with a book on bullying in churches? As documented in Not of My Making, when faced with rejection and emotional abuse I turned to prayer and meditation so I chose to make flex wire rosaries and chaplets. Despite the pouring rain, I sold more books than rosaries and spoke to many people about the problem of abuse in churches.

Pleased with my success at All Saints Anglican’s fair, I am committed to doing one craft and vendor fair a month. To gain experience I have chosen small fairs as I develop my display and product line. In March I attended a craft and vendor fair in Middletown, Rhode Island, hosted by the local chapter of the American Cancer Society. My friend and editor, Hannah Goodman, was going and this was a chance for us to do an event together. Despite the poor turnout, I sold several books and chaplets making a small profit. Again I got to share my expertise about spiritual abuse with several people.

Encouraged I prepared for the art and craft fair at The Cathedral of Saint John in Providence, RI. It was a juried show and I was pleased to get in. There were several fine crafters there and I worried I couldn’t compete with my book, rosaries and button jewelry. Next to me was Bishop Geralyn Wolf who makes and sells brightly colored whimsical figures out of scrap wood. Down the steps was Pentastic Plus selling wooden pens. Across the hall was Leave it to Weaver selling hand painted silk and velvet garments, LynWorks selling handcrafted bowls and photographs and studio DDB selling stained glass art. I wanted to purchase something from each of them since I needed gifts for my daughter-in-law and husband but none of them took credit or debit cards. The cash I had I needed to make change for customers so I took their cards with the intention of making purchases after the fair.

At the start of the fair I gave each fellow vendor a bookmark and prayed that we would all be successful. It turned out the sunny day and Rhode Island School of Design student fair were bigger competitors. Despite this I was one of the few vendors to make a profit.

Since the traffic was slow I spent a lot of my time talking to Bishop Wolf. This was my first time speaking to a bishop. Growing up Catholic I only saw bishops from a distance at my confirmation and on television. Bishop Wolf rather than being remote and inaccessible was easy to talk to. When she was a parish priest in a challenging parish she started making figures out of scrap wood to relieve stress. A parishioner who made high end furniture supplied her with the needed wood. I was amazed to learn Bishop Wolf has no formal art training and aspired to be as creative as she is. Bishop Wolf only exhibits at two shows a year: St. John’s and The Foundry Arts Association.

Besides talking about her art, Bishop Wolf and I talked about church conflict. I felt validated when she said it was important for a bishop to intervene early in a conflict no matter how small the issue appears to be. She likes to get everyone involved to sit down and talk. She finds it takes approximately six sessions.

“I would have settled for one,” I told her. “No one in the bishop’s office would even meet with me once to hear my concerns.”

Bishop Wolf was empathetic to my situation. She looked over my book but to my disappointment did not buy one. However, I did sell to other people and made a small profit.

Hannah, my writing coach and editor, asked if writing, Not of My Making, was cathartic. No, I told her. It wasn’t like that. Although many people assume it was. Writing my book was not an exercise in releasing pent up anger or other intense emotions that I had repressed years before. After all, most of the book was written shortly after the events or as they were unfolding. I was fully aware of my feelings and was actively seeking a solution to the conflict that confronted me.

However, the writing process allowed me to sort through events and figure out what had happened and why. I was desperate to tell my story. My adversaries did everything they could to prevent me from talking to others including shunning, expulsion from church and threatening legal action against me. It felt as if they had bound and gagged me and if I didn’t find a way to fight back I would lose myself. Then it came to me. I could take my journal and emails and write about what happened. While my adversaries were successful in silencing me within our church community, the First Amendment of the United States Constitution protected my right to talk to others outside of church and write a book about it. Every time someone reads my book or talks to me about bullying in churches I and other abuse survivors win.

Not of My Making provides support and comfort to those who have been similarly mistreated. United in a common cause we can seek ways to reduce the incidence of abuse in schools, work and religious communities. If you haven’t read the book, I urge you to do so. You will learn who is targeted and why; what the long term consequences are for the target; and what the target can do to protect themselves. The book is of interest not only to survivors of abuse but to clergy and mental health professionals who want to help their clients overcome their own abuse experiences. Click here enter the pass code Thrive to get 35% off the book. Or you can order the book from Amazon or Barnes & Noble Online.

Friday, September 18th, while I was inline skating at Poncin Hewlett Athletic Park, Jim stopped me. “Did you hear?” he asked me.

“Hear what?” I asked.

“Do you remember that lady that used to walk here?”

“Do you mean Kathy?” I asked.

“Yes. She passed away,” he said.

“Passed away,” I repeated. “How? When?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to go to the wake.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said as I skated away.

I hadn’t known Kathy was ill. It had been months since I heard from her. I kept trying to get together with her but she never had enough time. I thought she wasn’t really interested in being friends. I gave up but kept thinking I should call.

When I got back to the house I called First Baptist Church and asked if the rumor was true. “Yes,” the woman said. “We are very upset about it.”

“Do you know the funeral plans?” I asked.

“Calling hours and the funeral will be on Wednesday at the funeral home next to the church.”

Sunday Ken, Kathy’s second husband, called early in the morning while I was dressing for church. He was upset when he realized he wasn’t the first one to tell me of his wife’s death. “She was well loved by many people,” I said. “The news spread fast.”
We talked for thirty minutes. “The doctors,” he said, “kept saying she needed to eat but at home she was eating.” He then told me everything she ate before going into the hospital. But it was too late. Ken’s deep love for his wife couldn’t fix the damage done by Kathy’s first husband. She had aged early. Her back was bent. She lived in fear. She grazed but seldom ate a full meal. She remained underweight. In the end her electrolytes were out of balance. She had a heart attack and died the day she was to be discharged from the hospital.

Victims of abuse struggle their whole lives. On average they die younger than those who have been well treated. One of the lingering effects for me as a survivor is I never know who is or isn’t a friend or ally. I expect abandonment. When Kathy stopped calling I assumed she was no longer interested in being friends. When Ken called I realized he regarded me as his wife’s friend. My eyes filled with tears as I set the phone in its cradle.

I remembered meeting Kathy approximately four years ago in the early hours just before dawn as I stretched before my skate at the park. Kathy was a newcomer to the park who unlike the park veterans chattered gaily as she walked the path stopping to introduce herself to everyone she passed. “Do you know Jim?” she asked. “He walks here too.”

“Oh, the old man,” I said.

“Who is that guy walking the golden retrievers?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“I’m going to find out,” she said. In that way, Kathy turned strangers into the early morning exercise club. Soon we were talking and joking as we passed each other on the trail.

Kathy entered my life at a time when I was friendless and hungry for connection. As we exercised in the park she told me she was a retired chemistry teacher and was widowed and remarried. She often praised her first husband but once she trusted me she told me he had been an abusive alcoholic. As a Christian Kathy didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. On Tuesdays Kathy frequently traveled into Stoughton near my office to visit her mother and the graves of her late husband and father. Despite numerous invitations she never joined me for lunch. I also tried to get her to go with me to book club. She didn’t want to go out at night. Finally as I skated along side her near the basketball courts I said, “Don’t you have time for friendship?”

“Of course I do, Miss Margaret,” That was Kathy’s affectionate way of addressing me. It was a compromise. I wanted her to call me by my nickname but after learning I held a doctorate in psychology she refused to address me without an honorific. Doctor was too formal so she called me Miss Margaret.

A few days later on Friday she finally came over to my house for lunch. She brought her own sandwich. After we ate we sat in the living room talking about faith. Kathy told me about her friend who was a nun in the convent in Plainville.

Kathy invited me to her husband’s choral concert to be held at Immanuel. Fearful she would learn about me from my enemies I asked her not to believe everything she heard about me. Kathy wasn’t interested in the church gossip. She encouraged me to come any way. My husband and I went despite my fears. Kathy greeted us and had no problem being seen with us.

In May 2007 things took a turn for the worse in Kathy’s life. She was in a major car accident. I went to visit her at Rhode Island Hospital and then at the rehab center in Boston. It was then I became aware she didn’t like to eat. Mary at the park had commented once on how Kathy’s back was curved and bony and wondered what was wrong. I suspected anorexia.

Ken and Kathy listening to music at the launch of Not of My Making

After her discharge from the hospital Kathy would occasionally stop by with gifts for my newborn grandson or to show me her new car. She supported my book, Not of My Making by attending my book launch party and buying copies for herself and family.

The last time I saw Kathy was about a year ago when I returned from my church trip to The Museum of the Russian Icons. She had an article about bullying she wanted to share with me. She also had concert tickets. I couldn’t go this time. Conflicting obligations. I am sorry now that I didn’t make the time. I thought I had more time. I didn’t.

When I skate at the park I see Kathy in my mind’s eye greeting everyone and encouraging me as I practiced my spin stop.
“You’ll get it, Miss Margaret, I know you will.”

My eyes filled with tears as I set the phone in its cradle.

Despite the rain and having to move inside, business at the First All Saints Anglican Fair was brisk. Sales of both the rosaries and Not of My Making: Bullying, Scapegoating and Misconduct in Churches were excellent. Most people knew someone who was abused and mistreated not only in churches but in school, home and work and were able to identify with the author’s story.

When I first read Daphne’s review of my book, I gasped. Oh, my God, I thought. She is identifying with the clergy who breached confidentiality and congregants who chose to gossip about me. What does that say about her? Does she value civility over truth and kindness while stigmatizing anyone with a history of depression and anxiety?

In her review Daphne distorts the facts of my life by minimizing the abuse I suffered and exaggerating the length and intensity of my emotional problems. She appears to view my depression and anxiety as long-term and unchangeable character defects rather than the predictable and treatable response to sexual, physical and emotional abuse. Consequently, she rejects my premise that nothing I did merited the spiritual abuse I suffered. Instead she agrees with my adversaries that I have “significant problems getting along with other people” and that I “fail to take responsibility”. Like my adversaries Daphne does not take into account my successful marriage and good relationships with my children and others outside of the congregations I wrote about.

In addition to her belief that I lack good social skills, Daphne concludes my therapist had to be right when he wondered if my perceptions created a self-fulfilling prophecy. Dr. Emmett’s knowledge of the self-fulfilling prophecy comes from a well-known study where it was shown that teacher expectations about student’s potential achievement influenced how well or poorly students performed. Less widely known is that the study was never replicated and subsequent research showed that the “effects are minimal for most teachers because expectations are generally accurate and open to corrective feedback.” Even if the phenomenon of self-fulfilling prophecy was real and significant Daphne ignores that prior to being betrayed and rejected I had expected friendship, loyalty and understanding. Instead I was emotionally abused and shunned.

Finally, in her review Daphne is using the self-fulfilling prophecy as a way to blame the bullied and to exonerate the bully and the bystander. By blaming victims and insisting that if they behaved differently abuse wouldn’t occur gives onlookers a false sense of security that it couldn’t happen to them. Some how they are stronger and wiser than the victim and it is the victim’s weakness that is the cause of the problem. However, all of us have vulnerabilities that other people can manipulate to further their own selfish agendas without regard to our welfare.

The second round of my virtual book tour occurred during the first weekend in May. It was a challenging weekend. I found myself debating with atheists while responding to comments about spiritual abuse at five different blog stops. It all started when I began promoting my blog stops by posting on Tweeter:

Problems with church started when I said I was uncomfortable with having a gay minister. Unitarian Universalists weren’t tolerant.

The problems followed me as clergy talked about me and allowed others to gossip. In the end the Lutherans didn’t want me either.

I have finally found a safe place among traditional Christians who walk the talk. Learn more at …

It is then that Taigitsune, a systems administrator for the Unitarian Universalist Association, asked, “In what way did you question it?”

I hesitated. What did he mean “in what way”? Was he asking if I was polite and respectful or was he asking what my specific doubts were about having a gay minister? Why did it matter? I replied by directing him to the day’s blog stop.

He replied he didn’t see any mention of Unitarian Universalists there and Unitarian Universalists weren’t mainline Christian. Some UUs are Christian others are not, I replied. In New England they are certainly mainstream. I was a UU for ten years. Taigitsune then wrote, that one of Unitarian Universalist’s seven principles is the inherent worth and dignity of each person including gay ministers. So who, he asked, was really intolerant?

The Unitarian Universalists I answered without hesitation. Tolerance is the practice of allowing or respecting the beliefs of others. In 1993 when I expressed discomfort but indicated I was willing to discuss the issue, my fellow congregants responded by refusing to talk directly to me. Instead they gossiped.

Taigitsune expressed the common UU conceit that they are more tolerant than other churches insisting they don’t place doctrinal demands on their members. But they do. There is an expectation members are political and social liberals with an interest in other religions except Christianity. Tagitsune also wrote that the scapegoating was merely my perception of things. Not so I thought. I was expelled. Told never to return. “No,” I replied, “Scapegoating is a set of behaviors. It is how people avoid taking responsibility for their cruel behavior.”

On the second day of the blog tour Shtole, one of Taigitsune’s followers, joined the conversation by retweeting Taigitsune’s, “If you think you’re right, you’re probably not.” I replied to both of them, “Then you must be wrong since you are so sure I am wrong and you are right.” Taigitsune withdrew and soon it was five against one. I am proud to say I held my own. I didn’t flinch. While not all of my arguments were strong and articulate I did not let them bully me. I demonstrated to other survivors how to stand up for oneself. During this exchange the number of my followers jumped confirming the more I am myself, the more people follow.

During this hot debate I was simultaneously discussing on We Survived Abuse recovery from spiritual abuse. On John’s Grace Walk we talked about why I didn’t leave the abusive churches sooner. On Sunday I stopped by T Michael Cart’s Truth in Ministry where people responded to my Letter to Spiritual Abuse Survivors. We talked about making church a refuge or safe place for all. On Monday at Under Much Grace we talked about patriarchal structures and patriocentricity where the family patriarch is central to family life and family members. We also discussed restriction of emotional display and speaking up for oneself.

Thank you to all the lovely people who have supported me by hosting a blog stop. Together we will plant the seeds needed to reform our churches making them better places for everyone.

The first week of my blog tour is over. Sitting in front of a hotel window overlooking Lake George in the Adirondacks I have some time to reflect on how it went. At the end of Day 1 Deena of A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life emailed me asking me if it turned out okay and expressing the hope that my other stops would turn out better. I replied:

I think the blog stop worked out fine. It gained some exposure for both of us. I know several people read the post even if they didn’t write comments. Some people emailed me privately. One has asked me to write a book with him on friendship. You cannot tell right away how successful a marketing campaign is or isn’t. Some books sold.

Book marketing is hard work. I had to take time to read my hosts’ blogs and write a post for them to use on their blog. My hosts read my book, wrote a review and helped moderate the comments. During the blog stop I monitored comments and responded to readers as close to real time as possible. I also twittered about it motivating people to read the posts and comment. I offered the incentive of a drawing for a free book. Mary Morgan won the drawing for re-tweeting the announcement and Cat M won for writing a comment.

Day One of the tour I stopped at Aida Calder’s Forgetting the Former Things and at Deena’s A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life. Both women posted reviews of my book on their blogs. I then posted my reaction. Several women followed me at Forgetting the Former Things, commented and retweeted my messages about the virtual book tour. Deena asked me questions throughout the day and I responded.

My third blog stop was at The Apostle Wive’s Club. A few women who had commented at Forgetting the Former Things followed me there. Before “meeting” the owner of the blog I had never given any thought of how the Catholic Church responded to priests who broke their celibacy vow and married. Their reaction appears hypocritical. Over the past decades the Catholic Church has covered up sexual abuse and reassigned offending priests. Why are they so forgiving of pedophiles but not of priests who fall in love and marry?

The fourth tour was at Book Hookup where Donna Sundblad asked me to write about what inspired Not of My Making. Read The Healing Journey

The blog tour has gotten me out of my comfort zone and I have “met” several interesting people. That has been one of the unplanned benefits of book marketing. Immediately following my de-churchings I became mildly agoraphobic and withdrew into myself. Book marketing forced me to be assertive and outgoing. I wasn’t going to sell many books if I withdrew into the safety of my home.

If you missed the blog stops you can still read the posts about Not of My Making, spiritual abuse, friendship and book writing. They are located at:

Forgetting the Former Things

Haunted by the Ghosts of Spiritual Abuse

Aida Calder’s Review of Not of My Making

A Survivor’s Thoughts on Life:

Interview with Margaret W Jones, Ph.D.

Is Shunning a Form of Emotional Abuse

Deena’s Review of Not of My Making

Not of My Makng, Part 2

Not of My Making, Part 1

Not of My Making, Initial Reaction to Book

I Met Someone Today – Divine Appointment?

The Apostles Wives Club:

Margaret Answers Your Questions

Book Hookup:

What Inspired Not of My Making?

Week Two of the Tour will start May 2^nd. Please join me. The schedule is:

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