Enough!

* * *

Hearing the term "the addicted church" always made me feel uncomfortable because it paints everyone in the church with the same brush. I was more comfortable referring to the addicted hierarchy, the one percent who suffer an addiction to power and control while priests and the ninety-nine percent enable them to remain in their addiction.

The signs of an addiction are often obvious to others but not to the addicted. Most of us know someone with an addiction. If we approach someone with our concern about their drinking, overeating, codependency, gambling, or sexual addiction, they will often insist they don't have a problem. They'll say that we are the only ones who have a problem with whatever they are doing.

This scenario would be the same if we were to approach someone within the one percent and, not fearing excommunication, express to them our concern about their abusive addiction to power and control.

Shortly after arriving at my first parish as an assistant pastor, I felt like I was back home with my mother. I was not happy. I felt trapped and wanted to run away. I had to justify everything, live up to another's expectations, and endure ultimatums and constant criticism. I was isolated, on edge, humiliated, submissive, and childish.

Every few years after that I displayed signs of withdrawal, depression, and aggressive behavior. My body tried in vain to tell me I was in an unhealthy situation. I tried to escape, but I felt trapped on a treadmill of trying to live up to an impossible ideal, stuck in religiosity, clericalism, and guilt. Like an abused housewife, I always went back for more.

I often saw myself in the young couples I met in the parishes who were also caught between expectations. I enjoyed their independent spirit and rebellious outlook. I found them refreshing and wished I could serve them without strings attached, but I could not.

Hence, because of the church's expectations, a lot of those young couples did not get involved, preferring to take a passive role and be aloof within the church.

Many priests can relate to the pain of having no one to speak to about their feelings of isolation, humiliation, helplessness, fear, and vulnerability. Many of us have seen the impact of that on others, and how the situation affected our own thinking. Many of us have been silenced.

When I finally saw that those who abuse do not change, I said, "Enough!"

Danielle

* * *

Early one August morning in 2012, I opened my e-mails. One read:

Congratulations on your book, and thanks for adding your e-mail to the press release. While you were in the Interlake area, you performed our marriage about thirty years ago, and ten years ago, I also lost my title as "Mrs." I'm living in Winnipeg now and am hoping to meet with you. I'd be grateful to hear from you.

Danielle

I was intrigued. I contacted Danielle shortly afterward, and we set a date, time, and place to meet. The day quickly arrived, and after politely acknowledging that neither of us looked anything like we had back then, we enjoyed a long chat that covered many things beyond our mutual delight in meeting and how we moved on after our respective "survivals."

It wasn't long before I realized that our conversations were probably the best way to illustrate just how similar my life as an abused person in the priesthood was to that of an abused housewife.

Danielle admitted having longed for a time when she would be able to share her experiences with someone she had known during the time of her abuse.

We agreed to meet at least a few more times, but to focus each meeting on a different aspect of our experience of abuse. It would be an additional bout of catharsis for both of us, but we wanted it to be a structured learning experience as well as just a friendly sharing.

So we agreed we would focus each get-together on a different aspect of abuse and talk about it from our respective perspectives. Our next meeting would be a luncheon, and the topic would be isolation, whether physical, emotional, or social.

We were also going to try for better coffee.

Isolation

* * *

Danielle and I had agreed to meet at the Paddlewheel Restaurant in downtown Winnipeg. It was a favorite place of mine to meet friends for lunch, with good food and an environment that was conducive to relaxed chatting. I arrived a tad early and laid claim to a secluded table for two against the far wall, away from the buffet area and most of the other guests. During the week, most of them tended to be business people, doctors, and lawyers from the immediate area with its jungle of office buildings and clinics. They were in a hurry to eat and run, so they generally took up the tables nearest the buffet.

I returned to the entrance area to wait for Danielle. She was right on time.

"Hi, Danielle," I said as she approached from the nearby elevator. "Good to see you again."

"Hi, Ray," she replied with a wide smile. "Same here. Do you think we would have recognized each other after thirty years if not for that last meeting and the e-mails?"

I laughed and said, "Probably not."

"That hat you're wearing today would not have helped," she added, "but it looks good on you."

"Thank you," I replied as we headed for different areas of the buffet to make our choices.

"A word of advice," I said before she got too far away. "When piling the salad plate, just remember you will be charged by the weight."

Back at our secluded table, we settled into our lunch. I asked Danielle if she was happy with her life—if she had adequately come to terms with everything. It had been years since she got out of the abusive relationship with her husband, Doug, just as it had been a few years since I had gained my freedom from abuse.

"Yes," she said, followed by a short hesitation before adding, "thank God! Otherwise I wouldn't have been strong enough to communicate with you,...