Living in the Third Dimensional Soap Opera... A Spiritual Guide to Sanity

By Carrie Shubert

Living in the Third Dimensional Soap Opera is a guide book combining spiritual, metaphysical, and psychological thoughts to give the reader a deeper perspective on life.

This book offers simple concepts that are easy to apply to take the 'edge'off day-to-day living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carrie Shubert
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310337406

Carrie Shubert

CARRIE SHUBERT is a professional clairvoyant and psychic consultant, medium, and certified hypnotherapist. She believes that her psychic ability is a spiritual gift meant to promote joy, not fear. Blending humor with insight to connect to those people she reads, Carrie helps to restore faith and hope in those she touches. Her readings support clients through difficult times. Carrie has been a guest on both television and national radio programs. She has clients worldwide she reads for on a regular basis. She volunteers her abilities as a medium to bereavement groups. Carrie teaches a workshop, ‘Develop and Control Your Psychic Abilities.

Book preview

CARRIE SHUBERT

BE SURE TO READ CARRIE’S OTHER BOOK:

Living in the Third Dimensional Soap Opera…

A Spiritual Guide to Sanity

Available in paperback or eBook

OR LISTEN TO HER MEDITATION CD

Develop & Control Your Psychic Ability

Visit her website at http://www.carrieshubert.com

In The Wake of Lies

A N A U T O B I O G R A P H Y

CARRIE SHUBERT

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Carrie Shubert, In The Wake of Lies

Copyright © 2002 Carrie Shubert, formerly – You’ll Never Get a Cent!

Copyright © 1992 Carrie Shubert, formerly – I Was Swindled Too!

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Published in the United States by Carrie Shubert

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

ISBN-13: 978-1500616304

ISBN-10: 1500616303

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Book design and composition by Kim Hansen

Cover design by Anna Pasquale

Photography by DW Photography/Debby Wolvos

Book trailer by Kim Hansen

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Notes From The Author

Chapter 1: Where it all Began

Chapter 2: Hitting Bottom

Chapter 3: Getting Sober

Chapter 4: New Baby; New Business

Chapter 5: Business Boom

Chapter 6: Incline Village: Follow the Leader

Chapter 7: Parker Bryant: Off Shore Drilling

Chapter 8: Conspiracy Theories

Chapter 9: Here They Come

Chapter 10: Tug Of War

Chapter 11: Letting Go

Chapter 12: The Road Ends Here

Chapter 13: The Turning Point

Chapter 14: Who Did I Marry

Chapter 15: The Tip Of The Iceberg

Chapter 16: The Heat Is On

Chapter 17: Murder for Hire

Chapter 18: Michael, My Inspiration

Chapter 19: Going For My Life

Chapter 20: New Beginnings

Chapter 21: Getting a Career Break

Chapter 22: Keep Moving Forward

Chapter 23: Can I Get Some Peace?

Chapter 24: Full Circle

Index

About the Author

Other Books by Carrie Shubert

DEDICATION

I have many people to thank for this book and for my life. Much love and thanks to my children for their love, support and belief in me. We went through the growing process together. Special thanks to the twelve-step programs for saving my life and the many women there who shared so intimately. They inspired me with their openness and honesty and provided me with a safe place to grow. My parents gave me the foundation of courage, honesty and have supported me through every endeavor. Thank you Ken for taking me further than any therapist in my emotional healing. Many thanks to Stu, Jon, Kathy, and the friends who watched the course of my emotional development through the years. I am grateful to Mel and Pauline for their daily legal advice without compensation. I especially want to thank my clients for putting their trust in me and allowing me to probe into their lives. Michael and Grandma Rose, during my darkest times, I feel you beside me. Thank you all for your love.

*This book is my life story. The events are accurate although the names of several people have been changed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It’s important for me to add a special thanks to the people who played a special part in my journey; Stanley Behrens, Mel Minitor, Randy Meisner, Dony Wynn, Bobby Kimball, Steve Jones, Gary Dickson, Rudy Guess, Skip Heil, Sarah Cavallaro, Rahla Kahn, Richard Rossner, Rick Kennedy, Judith Ray, The Nardone Family, The Millstein Family, Ingela Gustafsson, Carmen Hurtado, Sheree Adams, Kitty, Fran Charbeneau, Cindy Davis, Donna and Bill Rice, Susan Di Staulo, Mike Mahoney, Wendy Tipp, Michael Harrelson, Julie Miwa and my agent Matt Englehart. Wendy Brigode and Teresa Steinway for your generosity and hospitality. Susan Rogers and Will Mc Crum for all the movie dates. Bryan Kest for being a facilitator in my growth. Bernard Cartoon for your legal advice. Michael Lynch – I appreciate you helping me with projects on a moment’s notice. Jeff Garrison, I’m grateful to you for taking a chance and jump starting my career.

Kim Hansen – Thanks for formatting, marketing and getting this book out to the public.

Anyone I didn’t name—you know who you are. Thank you for being there for me.

FOREWORD

Dear Reader,

I first met Carrie in the spring of 2010 when I contacted her to do a reading for my family regarding an unsolved case. Immediately, I sensed she was a very compassionate, caring, and down to earth individual. I was astounded with Carrie’s reading—with not only the accuracy and details of the case, but her ability to describe in detail potential suspects, witnesses, and the victim. I was so impressed with Carrie that I continued to hire her for additional readings, both professional and personal.

At the conclusion of one of our psychic/medium sessions on a missing person/possible murder victim, Carrie thought there may have been a parallel to a person involved in the case. She began sharing with me bits and pieces of her past. I was intrigued and said, You should write a book! Carrie quickly replied, I wrote a manuscript several years ago and just happen to have it in my trunk! and handed it over to me. I took the manuscript home and couldn’t put it down. Page after page I kept saying to myself—is this really the same Carrie Shubert I have come to know? Never in a million years would I have guessed Carrie had been through so many life challenges, yet somehow managed to find the courage and strength to rise above it all. We all have heard at one time or another ‘you can choose to be a victim or a survivor.’ Carrie is the ultimate example of a true survivor. She has made a positive impact on my life, and I feel extremely blessed our paths have crossed.

I have summarized a few of the readings below and excerpts from Carrie’s psychic/medium readings.

My husband, John Hansen, was led to believe—for nearly 25 years—that his mother, Janyce Hansen, had committed suicide on September 21, 1984. After reading the police reports, polygraph tests, and looking through the 21 crime scene photos we now believed that her husband Richard may have killed her during a fight, and then covered it up to make it look like a suicide. We needed to know the truth so we decided to enlist the help of a psychic. John knew that his mom had always believed in the supernatural, and at times, she felt a connection to the spiritual world. And maybe through the help of a psychic, he would be able to get some sort of closure on what happened the night she died. We met with Carrie on two separate occasions—the first on April 20, 2010, and the second a year later. The only information we gave her prior to our first session was our first names [John and Kim] and that we were looking for answers as to how John’s mother died. When the session started, the first thing Carrie got was a name like Annie. Janyce’s nickname was Janny. Carrie began describing in detail what Janny was showing and telling her—including the fight she and Richard had the night she died. It was as if Carrie was describing the crime scene photos, even though Carrie had never seen them before. Both sessions lasted for about an hour. They were very emotional for us. We felt as if Janny and Richard were there with us.

Since Carrie was so precise with the Janyce Hansen case; I decided to meet with her again regarding another case I was working on for a true crime book project. Once again, Carrie only knew I was seeking answers regarding a missing person who had possibly been murdered. The individual [Cliff Lambert, Palm Springs, California] had been reported missing on December 7, 2008, but Detectives believed he had been murdered—even though there was no blood evidence or a body. I met with Carrie on June 18, 2012. The 1-hour session was recorded and then transcribed.

Over the next several days, our literary team reviewed thousands of pages of discovery we had received, interviews, and a confession by one of the killers. We realized that during my session with Carrie, she had been describing the night Cliff was actually murdered, right down to what was being said—nearly verbatim. She even described where they buried his body. The Detectives had previously performed numerous searches for the body, but they were unable to locate it. We sent the transcribed session to the lead Detective and Deputy District Attorney. They were both very impressed with Carrie and invited all of us to search for Cliff’s body together. However, just days before the scheduled search, we received exclusive information that led us to believe the body had been moved to a different location, burned—and his ashes scattered.

In May 2012, I was having serious health issues. After numerous tests, my cardiologist informed me my heart was failing and I needed open heart surgery. Without it, my life expectancy was less than two years. My family and I were devastated. I immediately contacted Carrie for a personal reading via telephone. She informed me that I would not have open-heart surgery, but she did see me having three heart catheters or tests back to back. She advanced through several years of my life and told me I would be around for a long time to come. I immediately sought out another cardiologist for a second opinion. I met with a team of doctors at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, Arizona. To my surprise, I had three echocardiograms back to back—during the same visit. The specialists studied the echos and concluded I did NOT need open-heart surgery—but rather changed my medications. My health quickly returned. Since meeting Carrie, we have developed a very special connection. I keep telling her she is ‘scary’ because she can read me 100%!

Carrie’s life story is a remarkable one and she takes the reader on an emotional raw journey from beginning to end, and leaves them feeling inspired. I feel blessed to have been a part of this very special and personal book project.

Sincerely,

Kim Hansen

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

Although you may not have had these exact experiences, I know you will be able to relate to much of my story. By sharing openly and honestly, I hope you benefit in some way.

When I began writing this during my divorce, I wasn’t sure if my story would actually become a published book. The writing was meant to be therapeutic and help me gain insight into my life and relationship choices. Journaling has always been a way for me to see what my patterns are and look objectively into any situation. Thoughts rolling around in my head aren’t as helpful as putting pen to paper.

As I shared what I was going through with friends, they said my story was so crazy I should write a book. The contents of this book are completely true. There was no reason to exaggerate facts. I kept daily minders and documented everything that occurred. I still have all my original court documents, letters and magazine and newspaper articles. I had to leave out several events that occurred, particularly in the later years, so I wouldn’t have an enormous book. My stories were far too many to include all, even though every part of my journey has been important.

There were many painful years—many of my own doing. Others were outside circumstances of which I had no control, except to learn tools to maintain my own sanity and peace of mind, while going through them.

The advantage of my work with clients has been that I have to practice what I preach – ‘walk my talk.’ My friends and clients have contributed to my personal growth more than they will ever know. My first inclination is to reject peoples’ suggestions because they aren't my ideas. I’m still working on putting ego aside and allowing others to contribute to me more.

The first 17 chapters of this book were written by 1992. The agent I had back then sent out book proposals. A producer signed an exclusive with me and shopped it around to get movie funding. Though there was good feedback, there were too many ‘Hollywood’ names included in the pages. Discouraged, my manuscript sat in a box in my closet. The timing was off back then.

I pulled out the manuscript several times and began changing some names. Reading those pages again was like ripping off a bandage and exposing an open wound. I put the manuscript away again.

A few years ago, a family came to my office to do a session on a cold case. They were writing a book and included my session with them in a couple of pages. One of the women approached me a couple of years later to do a session on a murder. At the end of the session, I had a conversation with the client and told her a little bit about my past. You should write a book, she said. The manuscript was in my trunk. I handed it to her to take home and read. The rest is history.

Enjoy,

Carrie

CHAPTER 1

Where it all Began

LIFE SHOULD HAVE BEEN easy, peaceful, and beautiful. Instead, I found a strange land of which I didn’t feel a part.

I was raised on the east side of Cleveland, Ohio, in an upper middle class community called Beachwood. My father was the president of several divisions of a major corporation. My mom stayed busy at home raising five kids. The oldest and different from my siblings, I was the black sheep of the family.

One of my earliest recollections was being visited by ‘ghosts and monsters’ in my bedroom at night. I hid under my covers to get them to leave.

A discontent four-year-old, I recall a scene in our kitchen when I told my parents to call a cab to take me back to the orphanage. My parents couldn’t figure out why I was so unhappy. Early on, I butted heads with my mother. She was the outspoken parent. At times, I wished I could rescue my dad from her. She had four children in a row starting at age twenty-one and always seemed to be overwhelmed. She complained to Dad about us the minute he got home from work. He would administer the punishment, including spankings.

I competed with my siblings for my parents’ attention and would do anything for it. Often I would dance in front of the television. There was plenty of screaming and yelling in our household. I envisioned my mom as a witch on her broomstick. She was fanatical about keeping the house spotless. The bathroom sinks were always wiped clean. My clothing had to be neatly arranged in my dresser drawers or my mother yelled at me. The living room was off limits to children and more the ‘looking room’ so I interpreted this to mean that material things were more important to her than I. Growing up with Leave It To Beaver, Donna Reed, and Ozzie and Harriet, I thought everyone had parents like that. I hated dinnertime. We all ate together and pretended we were the perfect TV family. To this day, I have difficulty sitting down to eat a meal with others unless it’s in a restaurant.

In kindergarten I had an experience that affected me to this day. My teacher made me stand in the center of the room and told my classmates to hold hands and form a circle around me. She had them sing a song about Buttercup, a fat little girl. She became thin and beautiful, received her wings, and was swept off her feet by a prince. I was average in build but prone to a bloated tummy. I hated myself after that song—I thought I was ugly and unlovable. I guess I missed the part of the song where she grew to be beautiful and the handsome prince came along and married her.

School was difficult for me. I was compared to my siblings who were great academically and without effort received A’s and B’s in school. I struggled to get a ‘C.’ I was bored to death. When studying, I would read a paragraph over and over and couldn’t comprehend much of the information. My fifth grade math teacher, Mr. Merano, reinforced my low self-esteem. He scared the crap out of me and even looked intimidating. My biggest fear was realized when he called me up to the chalkboard to solve a problem in front of the class. I was so worried about getting it wrong and looking dumb that I couldn’t do the problem. My brain completely froze. He humiliated me saying, Are you an idiot? My face turned beet red.

Whenever I was grounded or had to study, I was sent to my room. I passed the time looking at the pictures of The Beatles I had taped on my mirror above my dresser. As I walked around the room, I fantasized Paul was looking back at me and would come rescue me from my family. Dr. Kildare was a popular television show at that time and I would recreate episodes where I was his patient and he would fall in love with me. In one of the episodes I acted out, I was a beautiful blonde surfer girl with epilepsy. I stood on my bed pretending to ride the wave on my surfboard. As I got close to shore, I clutched at my throat while choking on my tongue, complete with gurgle noise. I fell on the bed (the shore) and Dr. Kildare stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth until the seizure passed. Then he kissed me on the lips. Yes, I had quite the imagination!

My mother, didn’t get along with my dad’s parents, Rose and Lou. There seemed to be a constant underlying power struggle between my mom and grandma. I was surprised when my mom allowed them to take me to Los Angeles for a five day vacation. I loved my grandma Rose and felt closer to her than any of my grandparents. I was excited to take my first big vacation with her. I was eleven years old and it was my first time on an airplane. We stayed at my Aunt Jean and Uncle Joe’s home. I got to go to Disneyland and Universal Studios. One of my cousins directed the popular TV shows of the sixties, and he invited us to the set of the Danny Kaye Show, which he was directing at the time.

The 1965 Watt’s riots began shortly after we arrived in California. The Los Angeles International Airport was closed and my flight home was delayed. My vacation was extended for an additional five days. I could overhear my mom yelling at my grandmother through the telephone.

I didn’t want to go home. I loved California. I knew one day I would be back. After that vacation, I frequently said I left my heart in California.

MY MOM ENJOYED watching ESP [extra sensory perception] shows. They helped cultivate my interest in the paranormal. Around eleven or twelve years of age, I held séances with my siblings in our upstairs bathroom. Almost every Sunday, my family and all the cousins on my mom’s side of the family, went to her parent’s home for dinner. I persuaded my cousins to gather around in a circle in my grandparents’ basement where I conducted séances. I always felt there was something more to life then ‘just here’ in the physical and I searched for those answers. I began reading books on astrology and anything metaphysical I could get my hands on.

At age thirteen I had my first experience with a mind-altering substance. I broke my ankle on a school skiing trip and was given the painkiller Darvon. It was love at first high. The drug made me feel happy and confident. I painted my cast with psychedelic colors and sought out the crowd that smoked pot. They were the older high school guys and one of them turned me on to my first joint. I found escape from reality through drugs and alcohol. Being high, I felt beautiful, lovable, and confident. Now, I was thin and wore tight hip hugger jeans and halter-tops. Negative attention was attention, so I continued to act out. By now, I was a full-fledged rebel.

My closest high school friends were afraid I would overdose. One afternoon, I showed up at my friend Amy’s* house on downers. I had been sniffing hairspray. When I left for home, I could barely walk. Apparently concerned, Amy called my parents and told them about the drugs. They completely flipped out and were waiting to question me as I stumbled through the door. After being interrogated and shoved around, they concluded that a psychologist could fix me.

He was a joke. He gave me a reflex test, an inkblot test, and a five hundred twenty two question psychology test. His diagnosis—I had a lot of anger. No kidding! Now that I was seeing a shrink I really felt different than others. Woody Allen hadn’t made therapy popular yet, and I felt like some kind of freak. I did even more drugs and made it a point to be especially high for the appointments. At some point, shrink number one gave up on me.

LSD was popular and I experimented with that and Dexedrine (speed). My first LSD trip was with someone I barely knew. He had dark eyebrows, and as I hallucinated his face looked like a werewolf. When I shook my head, his face returned to normal. The air filled with colorful psychedelic patterns. It was amazing.

I proceeded to take ‘acid trips’ frequently during school and went to classes high. My best friend’s brother was a dealer and had cookie sheets filled with LSD. He offered me a tab from whatever was his latest batch. I prided myself on being ‘the guinea pig.’ One day I popped a pill and didn’t realize I had ingested STP. It was a three day trip and much stronger than LSD. I saw man sized rats and other animals driving cars. Somehow, I got to school and was so high I could barely speak. That day my science teacher came up to me and congratulated me on being well behaved. I could only nod my head. After class, I located one of the senior guys who owned an old hearse with a bed in the back. I managed to tell him what was going on and asked him for help. With me in the back, he drove down to Coventry Village to find someone who might have a drug to counteract the STP. Coventry Village was an artsy, hippie area, comparable to New York’s Greenwich Village. We located some Thorazine, but it only made me tired and seemed to increase the hallucinations. At dinnertime, he dropped me off at home. Somehow, I was able to hold it together during my family dinner. My mom made the comment my complexion looked green. Of course, the suggestion planted the thought in my head, and when I looked in the mirror, my face appeared green. I thought that trip would never end. It didn’t discourage me from continuing to get high. I vowed to be more careful with what drugs I took. Within days of coming off the STP, I ran a high fever and was diagnosed with mononucleosis.

My parents began to get suspicious. They observed me more closely. It was difficult to carry on a conversation when I was tripping. If I had to be home, I mumbled a couple of sentences and headed upstairs to my room. My mom followed me and pulled me into the bathroom where she proceeded to turn on the light and check my eyes. My pupils bounced around from dilated to small. They kept moving. She screamed to my dad, Norm, come up here. Look at Carrie’s eyes! They inspected my pupils and concurred I was high. What are you on? What did you take? If I told them I was on acid I would be taken to the nearest hospital, which would freak me out, so I told them I took some speed. Satisfied with my answer, they sent me to my bedroom. As I lay in bed, I began hallucinating six-inch stencil ants crawling all over the walls and ceiling. There was an overlay of bold psychedelic colors consuming the air. My trip turned bad as I watched the beautiful colors ooze blood. Having a bad trip did not dissuade me from doing acid close to five hundred times over the next few years. Several times while I was tripping, I went through the same grilling from my parents.

My brother Michael loved to smoke pot. Having ‘the marijuana munchies,’ his ritual was to return home with a couple of whoppers and fries from Burger King, and a frozen Sara Lee cheese cake. I watched in amazement as he consumed every morsel.

When my parents went out, I was the designated babysitter. I was eleven years older than my baby brother Andrew. One evening I took a hit of acid and Michael decided to screw with me. We went outside. I was hallucinating a gigantic psychedelic butterfly sitting in our driveway. It was at least ten feet tall and slowly moving its wings. After I described to Michael what I saw, he put his hand over his mouth and gasped, Oh shit! I locked us out of the house by accident. I believed him and panicked because our little brother Andrew was in there by himself. After a few minutes of freaking out, Michael would then say, I’m kidding.

My parents attempted to control me. They tried to monitor who I hung out with and where I went. It was smothering. Now that I was almost fifteen and knew it all, I was going to go out into the world alone. I felt certain I could get a job, an apartment, and be self-sufficient. I ran away from home, taking with me only my collection of pierced earrings. I gravitated toward people who lived in the city, or on the Westside, because I thought they were more spiritual and not consumed with material wealth. I always went for the underdog because I felt like one myself.

I ended up in Coventry Village. I sought refuge with a guy I met named Turtle. He and his friend Snake let me stay at their apartment. My parents found me within a few days and dragged me back home—thanks to a friend who squealed.

I proceeded to run away several more times, only this time I cut and dyed my hair in order to disguise myself. They always came looking for me. My mother and grandmother walked around Coventry Village posting my picture. I later found out through my little Polish grandma that she had gone into a bar frequented by the local chapter of Hell’s Angels, and with her heavy accent pointed out to one of them that he had lice in his beard. She was lucky he only thanked her and walked away.

Located again, my parents took me to shrink number two. She was a family counselor at the Jewish Community Center. I don’t recall much about her except my feelings of contempt.

I now added a special accessory to my wardrobe, sable colored moccasins. They had no soles and I wore them all the time, even in the rain and snow. I became accustomed to having orange feet from the dye soaking into my skin. My hair was blonde, straight and almost down to my waist. I managed to get free concert tickets and attended rock concerts all the time. In those days there was no security surrounding the band so I usually ended up on or backstage.

At fifteen, I met a junkie at Coventry Village. Bill was in his early twenties. He had shoulder length blonde hair. I was infatuated with him. He became my boyfriend. I didn’t dare bring him home. There was no way my parents would approve of him. We made out but I was afraid to go all the way with him. When he’d grind his crotch against mine, it felt strange. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold him off much longer so I decided to lose my virginity to someone else first. That way I would know what to do with Bill and it wouldn’t be awkward. My friends and I were getting ready to attend a Led Zeppelin concert at Music Carnival. I told my friend Leslie my plan. We knew a cute guy named Peter. I decided he was going to be the one. To get up the nerve, I took several reds (a barbiturate). We stopped at Peter’s house and I started making out with him. He came with me to the concert. We tried to have sex behind some shrubs but he couldn’t seem to get all the way inside of me. We went back to his house. Somehow, we ended up on the kitchen floor in front of his refrigerator where he was finally successful. Sex didn’t feel like much of anything. But then again, I was so stoned—no surprise I didn’t feel much.

The next morning there was a little bit of blood in my panties. I recalled the events of the previous night. Now I was a woman! I woke up my sister to tell her ‘I went all the way.’ When I broke the news to Bill, he cried. I explained what I thought was logical: that I was afraid and embarrassed to have sex with him for the first time. On the way back to his apartment, we took a short cut through the cemetery and made love there for our first time together. Sex with him felt good but I never understood what he meant when he asked me if I had an orgasm.

Just before my sixteenth birthday, I ran away from home again. I met Bob, whom I thought would be the love of my life. He was tall, thin, and handsome even with a missing right front tooth. He had shoulder length, black, frizzy hair, which he would dry in the oven for thickness. Bob let me stay at his place. Sex with him was incredible. The first time we were together sexually, I experienced my first orgasm with a man. I instantly knew what it was. From four years old on—I masturbated to go to sleep. For some odd reason I used to call it ‘goopy pot.’ As soon as I came with Bob, I cried out, So that’s an orgasm—goopy pot!

The police tracked me down one month later, just a few days after my sixteenth birthday.

This time I was sent to Juvenile Detention Hall. After being detained there for one week, my parents sent me to a boarding school in Connecticut. My classmates were getting high, so I was able to continue using drugs. A requirement to attend that school was to see the local shrink once a week. He spent most of my sessions exploring my sex life. His questions made me anxious and upset. Every time I’d divert the conversation, he would bring it back to the topic of sex. I had no one to talk to about him. I had no credibility with adults, so I kept my feelings to myself. My last appointment with him was in the winter at six in the evening. An uneasy feeling came over me as I walked down the hall to his office. I sat in a high backed chair and kept my heavy winter coat on as we had our session. From my chair, I studied the picture of his wife and kids on his desk. His back was to me. He suddenly turned around, grabbed a fistful of my hair, forced his erect penis into my mouth and quickly ejaculated. After what seemed like forever, I got away from him and ran as fast as I could back to school. I went into the bathroom and made shallow cuts in my wrists with a razor. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, it was to kill the pain. I was ashamed of what happened and told some of the girls he made a pass at me. I wanted to judge their reaction first,