Michael Roberts - Behind Sacred Walls - The True Story of My Abuse by Catholic Priests

An Addicus Nonfiction Book

Copyright 2021 by Michael Roberts. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information, write Addicus Books, Inc., P.O. Box 45327, Omaha, Nebraska 68145.

ISBN: 978-1-950091-53-9

Typography by Jack Kusler

Cover by Johnathan Constanski

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Roberts, Michael, 1965author.

Title: Behind sacred walls : the true story of my abuse by Catholic priests / Michael Roberts.

Description: Omaha, Nebraska : Addicus Books Inc., [2021] | Identifiers: LCCN 2021041677 | ISBN 9781950091539 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781950091669 (PDF) | ISBN 9781950091683 (KDL) | IBSN 9781950091676 (EPUB)

Subjects: LCSH: Roberts, Michael, 1965| Catholic ChurchClergySexual behaviorUnited States. | Child sexual abuse by clergyUnited StatesBiography. | Adult child sexual abuse victimsUnited States.Biography. | CatholicsUnited StatesBiography.

Classification: LCC BX1912.9 .R57 2021

DDC 261.8/3272088282dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041677

Addicus Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 45327

Omaha, Nebraska 68145

AddicusBooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

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To Earl, without whose encouragement, creativity, editing, and friendship, this book would never have come to fruition.

To Lee, who has been my greatest support and dearest friend.

To my husband Johnathan, thank you for showing me unconditional love and for encouraging me to tell the world my story.

To the memory of Johnny, who was the spark that ignited my interest in writing. I miss you.

To Fred, for your support, friendship, and love.

To Peter, a warrior, a friend, and a survivor.

The world is full of suffering.

It is also full of overcoming it.

Helen Keller (18801968)

W hen I was a teenager, everyone in my family was a devout Catholic. We never missed Sunday Mass and we were active in parish activities. The walls of our home were adorned with crucifixes and with pictures of Jesus. And we always adored our parish priests. They all but walked on water.

Like all good Catholics, I knew that God was watching every move I made. In all of my years growing up, I knew God was sending me messages, telling me to be a good Catholic. I feared Gods wrath if I did something wrong.

Never did I think that my life would plummet into an abyss of abuse and manipulation at the hands of a popular parish priest. But sadly, it happened.

Please no more! I said, begging him to stop the sexual assault. Perhaps he would see my distress and stop. But, he didnt.

He shoved my body against the back of the chair. Relax. No one will know. I will never let your parents find out. This is just between you and me.

This isnt a good idea. I have to go home, I insisted.

He continued rubbing me. He leaned in and whispered into my ear, God would just love you for pleasing a priest. We all have needs.

A ll my life, I had believed the teachings of the Catholic Church. I was a believer even when a priest, whom I will refer to as Father Gregory, began sexually abusing me. But my story is more than just a story of abuse by a single priest. Its also my account about the total indifference I encountered when I eventually reported the abuse to the officials of the Catholic Church back in the early 1990s. In one case, I was even sexually molested by the priest to whom I first reported my abuse.

To be clear, this is not the story of a prepubescent child. Quite the contrary. I was a painfully naive seventeen-year-old boy in 1983, which is when the abuse started. The age of consent in my state was sixteen at the time, but I was anything but consenting. My story is more than one of sexual abuse. Through my years of abuse, I was totally controlled by the priest who abused me.

As he destroyed my self-esteem with his constant criticism, I became easier for him to manipulate. I was conditioned to respond to him with unquestioned obedience. He dominated me emotionally, requiring me to always report my whereabouts to him at all times. If I disobeyed him in any way whatsoever, I would face his rage. I felt totally powerless. I was always afraid of him. I feared hurting my parents if they learned of the abuse. I feared being punished by God. I feared the priest. I saw no way out. I felt like I was a member of a cult.

To further complicate matters, Father Gregory was a charismatic religious figure, who endeared himself to his parishioners. Everyone in the community admired him, especially Catholic boys, like me.

Father Gregory was quite adept at grooming me. The affable cleric easily infiltrated my family, becoming a weekly guest at our dinner table. My mother was enthralled with his down-to-earth nature and with his clever sense of humor. He ingratiated himself into a position of trust within our family. Both of my parents revered him. To them, he could do no wrong, and they made that perfectly clear to me and to my siblings.

This is the backdrop for my story. The names of all the characters in this book have been changed for privacy reasons. Any likeness to a real Father Gregory Burgess, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names of cities and places have also been changed.

The exact location of your dream lies entangled in your childhood memories.

Vanshika Dhyani

Poet

I can still remember the musty smell of Peters basement, paneled in dark oak. We sat together on his green-tweed sofa. A single ray of sunlight streamed through old rust-colored curtains. The only sound you could hear was the fizzing of our carbonated sodas.

Peter Sullivan was one of my first childhood friends. Even as a kid, he was a Dick Van Dyke look-alike, and, like Van Dyke, he had a unique comical streak. He was great fun to be around, and he was quite intelligent as well.

Throughout our grade school years, Peter and I spent a lot of time in his room. As little boys, we played with multicolored, circus toys. I was always envious of the fact that he had his own private space. Built-in bookcases filled one side of the room; they held a hodgepodge of his brothers books and model airplanes. Beyond his brothers room, was another small room where Peter slept. A blue cotton comforter covered his bed, which had been pushed against the wall.

Peter had many toys, but no plastic soldiers. No toy guns. No metal dump trucks. He had only bright, gay, fanciful collections of little animals, circus trains, and circus figuresthe people we placed under the carnivals big top. The toys were scattered across the braided rug. We separated the pieces between us, arguing who would acquire more townspeople. We would spend many afternoons in his bedroom, playing with his toys. I was envious of Peter for having so many toys.

When I was in elementary school, I had a lot of friends and was fairly well-liked by everyone. My dad Russell, who was a police officer, often dropped me off at school with me riding on the back of his police motorcycle. All of the kids envied me for getting a ride to school.

Peter always arrived at school with a bagged lunch, prepared by his mother. I, on the other hand, received a round token each morning that was required during the class roll call. That token was my lunch ticket. I would hand it to the lunch lady, who, like all of the lunch ladies, wore white uniforms and black hairnets. One lunchroom lady would hand us kids a brown, plastic tray, as though it was a gift from Tiffany. Wed grab those trays like trained dolphins at SeaWorld. From there, we peered through the foggy glass of the steam tables and made our lunch selection.