A Client’s Tale

I enjoy my job a lot. I love guiding people on their own journeys to greater health. I find fulfillment in helping them cope with past traumas. I've done this for about twenty years so far, and I see myself doing it for twenty more.

So, you may ask me. Would I recommend this line of work to others? Well, no. At least not to everyone. While I enjoy the good I do, it always comes with a dark side. The clients who walk through my door bring in some terrible traumas. It is up to me to help them explore their own individual tragedies. They take me through some of the darkest memories and events they've had the misfortune of experiencing.

My life is actually pretty good. I make good money, own a beautiful home, and raise a loving family. I live in a very friendly community where everyone pretty much knows each other. However, this job has taught me that others aren't so lucky. Many come from abusive homes. Some from poverty. Though for others, it gets worse. Despite the good life I lead, I am often haunted by the stories my clients tell me. These stories are often dark and grim. I can swear, I sometimes find myself living them in my nightmares. It's frightening. I help my clients heal. However, I find them teaching me about how cruel the world can be. I even find myself trying to figure out why some people go through these terrible experiences while others like me don't.

One such story happened in the late nineties. I hadn't been a psychologist for too long during that time period. So what was to come, I wasn't prepared for. It was a nice and sunny afternoon. Only two hours before hand, I had taken my family to church. I had the windows open to let in the warm spring air. The leaves were rustling in the wind and the birds were chirping. I sat there in my office enjoying the sounds of nature as I awaited my next client. I then hear a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Dr. Redding, it's me." A male voice answered. "Jonathan Grind."

I smiled as he had finally arrived.

"Yes, come in." I expressed enthusiastically.

The door opens up and in comes a young man. He stood somewhere between 5.8 to 6 feet. He had a lithe build and was adorned in a red flannel over a Gwar t-shirt and blue denim jeans. Johnathan had a shadow on his lower jaw and hair reaching to his neck. He appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s.

I got up to greet him as I enjoy meeting new clients. I like to treat them as friends as to ease them. I held out my hand as I offered a friendly shake, a smile on my face. He lowered his head to look at the open hand. Then he looked directly at me, showing that he wasn't comfortable with this. I retracted my hand.

"Have a seat." I suggested gesturing to a chair behind him.

Without a word, the man sat down. I took my own seat, excited to begin.

"So, Jonathan." I began. "What brings you here?"

"I've been diagnosed with depression." He answered as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "To tell you the truth, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit it."

"There's no need to feel ashamed." I assured him. "Depression is actually very common. Though few people are brave enough to seek help."

"Can you tell me why?" I asked.

"Years ago," Jonathan began, "I lost someone who was dear to me."

"Oh, that's terrible." I expressed. "Can you tell me the story?"

"I can try." He tells me as he lifts himself from the seat.

Jonathan walks over to the window silently and looks outside. I see him looking at a nearby church, a tall white building with large red doors. His eyes glare at it with sheer disdain. His arms are folded behind his back. That's when I see upon his wrist a five pointed star pointing downward trapped within a circle. My eyes widen at the sight of this tattoo.

"It was 1985." He begins as he bows his head and closes his eyes. "I was 16. I knew this girl by the name of Chelsea. She was a year older than me, but we were childhood friends. However, she had strict parents. They made her go to church every Sunday. Chelsea didn't really believe in God, and neither did I. Though she had to pretend around her family."

I gulp nervously as I jot down some information on a note pad.

"Her parents were hard on her about her grades." Jonathan continued as he returned to his seat.

He sat back, pushing the back of the chair as far as it could go, turning his gaze to the ceiling. I got a good look at his shirt. It was a gross display of color. A set of five humanoid creatures dressed in armor. The armor didn't cover much of their veiny fleshy bodies. Below the neckline, was "GWAR" written in large neon green letters, appearing like overly inflated balloons covered in blood.

"Could you tell me who Gwar is?" I asked.

"Oh." He exclaimed. "It was this band that Chelsea and I would listen to."

"They were just starting up at that time." He said as he smiled. "But they're still going on. Chelsea wanted to see one of their concerts. I've been going to them when I can in honor of her."

"I see." Said I with a thoughtful expression. "Could you tell me more about her?"

"Chelsea was one of the nicest people I knew." Jonathan answered as he returned to his leaning position. "She always had a smile on her face. She would laugh and everyone would laugh with her. She was really smart too. She always wanted to be a physicist."

"So why were her grades so bad?" I asked.

"She was dyslexic." He told me. "She was constantly teased over it by some of the other kids in school."

"That's terrible." I said. "Did her parents know?"

"They were made aware." Jonathan answered. "But they just thought she was lazy. They wouldn't pay for a tutor. They just said they believed in discipline, not made up diseases."

"Did they beat her?" I asked, terrified of what he'd say next.

"Luckily no, but they would abuse her emotionally." Jonathan stood up and began pacing the floor.

"They'd remind her that Jesus died for her and she's only upsetting him."

"Wow!" I exclaimed.

I couldn't imagine a parent using Jesus to guilt their children. It just didn't seem like something anyone would do. I tell my kids constantly that Jesus loves them for who they are. I'd do it to encourage them, never to control them.

"Can you tell me about Chelsea's parents?" I asked.

"Their names were George and Susan Bloom." Jonathan told me. "We all lived in a small town where everyone knows each other, but there's always those prim and proper, gossiping busy bodies. That's what George and Susan were. They always watched those stupid televangelist shows on tv and swallowed whatever bullshit those money grubbing priests and preachers told them."

My eyes widened at his language.

"It sounds like you have a lot of anger at religion." I point out as I jot something down. "Can we discuss it?"

"Why wouldn't I be angry about religion?" Jonathan expressed as he rose from his seat and threw his hands into the air. "People are made to worship this god who doesn't even exist. They're told that if they don't, they'll go to Hell. All it's done for centuries is rob people of their rights, their independence, progress, and even their lives."

"I don't think that's true." I tell him as he was pacing around the room. "My family is very active in our church community. We volunteer in many of its activities and help out a lot of people. Various charities, community services, activist projects."

"So did Chelsea's family." Jonathan turned to me with a smirk. "Anyone can do charity work, but that doesn't automatically make them good people. And getting involved with that shit should be for its own sake."

"The thing is about people is their shallow grasp on the world around them." Jonathan continued. "It doesn't matter how much good you'll do. Each one of us holds some form of bias or prejudice towards someone or something. Religion helps people pretend that it's not true, that they are loving or peaceful. But those same sorts of people will eventually show their true colors once they're taken out of their comfort zones."

Jonathan then gave me a smug look as if to say that I was no different. I admit that I have my own biases. I wouldn't go out of my way to call myself prejudice towards anything. But, I guess I have felt a bit uncomfortable by those sorts of violent heavy metal bands like Gwar. And I don't agree with the way he sees religion. Sure, there are some Christians out there who are judgmental and self important. Yes, maybe they hide behind their community service to look good in the public eye. Though, I wouldn't put all Christians into the pot. I like to think many Christians are kind and compassionate people. Though, I suppose as a Christian, I am very bias.

"So we've been talking about tons of things, lots of background information." I point out to him.

"But we haven't gotten to the most important topic. What happened to Chelsea?"

Jonathan returned to his seat. Leaning forward, he buried his face into his hands as he took a moment to gather his courage and relive the horrible story.

"So like I said, Chelsea was dyslexic." He began as he removed his hands from his face his face. "But her parents didn't believe in that shit. They'd watch those mother fuckers on tv telling people that a bunch of shit's satanic. One of the things they talk about is music. They like to point their bony little old man fingers at whatever music's new or popular and say it's of the devil. In fact, they usually have a fuck'n list of bands."

"Go on." I tell him as I anticipate the rest of the story.

"One day, she was with me." Jonathan continued. "We were just hanging out, listening to Def Leopard while playing some Dungeons and Dragons."

"She used to love that game." He said with a faint smile as he reminisced. "Chelsea always played a druid. She enjoyed playing healer and taking care of the party."

"Meanwhile, her parents went into her room and snooped around." Jonathan told me as I wrote down the story. "They found some DnD sheets, some figures and books, and some cassette tapes of her favorite bands. They were horrified."

"When she got home, they yelled and screamed at her." He continued. "They blamed her bad grades on all this stuff. Instead of getting help for her dyslexia like normal parents would, they instead brought her to the local pastor."

I could see his fingers scrape against the wooden armrests as he told the story. Jonathan began grinding his teeth. He grew ever more emotional as he told the story.

"The two of them forced her to attend church activities against her will. They forced her to pray at each meal. If she ever refused, they would take away portions." He went on. "Eventually word got out in school. Kids started calling her names like Satanic Chelsea and would make the sign of the cross when she was around them. They shunned her. Some other girls would even get physically aggressive with her, yelling out "She's a witch! She's a witch!""

"Apparently, her parents were going door to door telling people about the "EVILS" of modern day music and pop culture." Jonathan got up and paced as he continued. "That's how the other kids found out. When she confronted them over it, explaining how they were treating her, they told her it was only natural they'd persecute her for rejecting God. And the only way to stop it was to repent."

My heart pounded in my chest as I listened. My hands shook as I somehow felt how he felt.

"Then one weekend." He paused with tears running down his face. "Her parents sent her on some church retreat."

Suddenly, Jonathan buried his face into his hands as he burst into tears. His sorrowful crying was too much for me to bear.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"That pompous bastard of a pastor!" He wailed through the tears. "He assaulted her! He fucking raped my friend!"

"How did you know?" I asked in shock. "Did she tell you?"

I saw Jonathan fight through the pain. He forced himself to stop sobbing, but tears still ran down his face. I saw in his tearful eyes a look of both anger and pain. But it was not towards me.

"Yes she did." He answered. "She told her parents, but they wouldn't listen."

"So I decided it was up to me to help her out when her parents refused." Jonathan continued. "I called the cops on that mother fucker hoping to get his creepy ass in prison. There was an investigation, and it turned out he actually had child pornography he had taken during those stupid retreats."

The pen in my hand fell to the ground as I heard. I froze with my eyes wide open. I sent my own kids to church retreats whenever they were available. I couldn't imagine them falling victim to such predators like that.

"What happened to him?" I asked hoping for some good news.

"He was arrested, tried, and jailed." Jonathan replied with a smug grin. "Good riddance to trash like him. But that didn't help Chelsea."

"Why, what happened?" I worried.

"After the trial, her parents were furious with her." He continued. "They wanted to punish her for what they called spreading lies about a good man of God. So they made plans to send her away to a catholic school half way across the country. They even explained to the head master of the school what happened, telling her to expect being made to repent."

"Did she go?" I asked.

But no answer came. He stood up and silently walked away. He went over to the window and stared hatefully towards the church outside.

"She took her own life." He said solemnly with no tears left running down his face. "She took her dad's gun, and blasted her brains out. Grey Matter everywhere. Her parents blamed me. They said I tempted her."

"I…I'm very sorry." I replied, giving my condolences.

"So, what happened to them?" I asked. "Did they get arrested?"

"No, they're still around." He answered in a sigh as he returned to his seat. "They like to spread awareness of the devil's presence in media."

"I'm sorry that she went through that." I consoled him.

"She wouldn't have if I had the courage to stand up to them." Jonathan sobbed. "If I would've reported them, she'd still be here, going with me to concerts."

"I understand how you feel." I tell Jonathan. "But we can't change the past. We can only move on."

"But I'm afraid our time is up." I say. "I have plenty to work on with you. We'll have to pick this up in the next session."

"Thanks." Jonathan exclaims as he left the room.

After he left, I was alone. The room went silent. However, where once this silence felt peaceful, that peace was replaced with a sense of eerie calm. Jonathan's story ran through my head like a hamster on a wheel. My mind started to absorb the story. I felt an overwhelming combination of feelings of guilt, grief, anger and terror. I then made my way to the window where I took a look at the church just outside. The midday sun's light shined on it's pristine white paint. The bell tower created a looming show that fell over the red painted doors. They began to ring. Ringing, ringing, and ringing as if to call to the church's followers. I found myself staring at the church with a fierce scrutiny.

I could never at one point imagine religion being used to abuse someone. However, Jonathan's story was not something I could ignore. My heart pounded as I considered. What really goes on behind those doors? I decided I must look into this.

Over the next few years, I've had clients much like Jonathan. They grew up in the 80s and dealt with some traumatic experience involving the persecution of something or someone they love, often involving religious close-mindedness. I found out such persecutions were actually quite common during that decade. Collectively, it was called the Satanic Panic. Church officials accuse various forms of media of corrupting the young. This included television, pop or rock music, games, and ideologies. They'd play records backwards, claiming there's some demonic message. They'd claim players of fantasy games would perform blood sacrifices of virgins, cats, and goats. They'd say that Saturday morning television shows would hypnotize children into rebelling against their parents.

The satanic panic gave rise to modern day witch hunts. People were unlawfully arrested. Many are still imprisoned despite being found innocent. Many of my clients come to me, knowing someone who was victimized by this mass of unlawful hysteria. I took in their stories. I began to question my own faith, and the faith I taught to my family. I remembered when Jonathan told me of the priest who assaulted Chelsea. I became wary of the men who ran the local church. I wondered to myself if they are the men I thought I knew.

I questioned and questioned more. There must be some truth I am not seeing, a realization I am missing. That's what I thought. And that is when I decided to sit with my local pastor. I considered him a good man. I told him about my client, Jonathan, and the tragedy of Chelsea. I then asked him for his opinion. That is when he confirmed everything. He then told me.....