My name is Cathy. I invite you to follow as I tell memories and musings of my life as a kidnapped child.
Much of this will be hard for me to write. I can’t promise, some the stories I must tell will be easy to read.
Because of how young I was for many of these memories and I’m certain that I’m telling the timelines are mixed together. The words I type are true but the timeline is off. Other parts are acurate because they are taken from police, medical and Child Protective Services records. Other posts are words, and memories by those who knew Cleo, Lou and myself.
I have some clear memories.
The clearest is the actual kidnapping.
When I was 3 years old a psychopath named Cleo kidnapped me while my mother shopped for grocery’s in Philadelphia. Cleo was ahead of her time. She was adept at Identity theft. The farm was purchased and taxes were registered under a former tenant of Cleo’s. He had died in 1956. She kidnapped me in the spring of 1967. I’m don’t know how she was able to get me to go with her. She was my parents boss and former landlord. I would have known her.
I remember being carried by Cleo up, up, up,up on an escalator, into a parking garage. I do remember at one point wanting to go back to my mommy. It was too late for that. I remember Cleo putting me in her green Cadillac. I remember Cleo driving on the road. I wanted to go back to mommy. I remember crying for mommy. I remember Cleo smacking me in the face. I remember being terrified. I remember Cleo cursing at me, screaming at me to Shut up! I remember Cleo telling me, “I am your mother now!” I remember the moment Cleo realized I had wet myself.
Wetting myself, due to terror, caused Cleo to become more irate at “this damn kid.” Irate isn’t the word for the evil that seemed to exude from Cleo’s very pores when she was white hot angry. White hot anger came easy too. She cursed and smacked me. The next thing I remember was her green Cadillac coming veering off to the shoulder of the road. Cleo slammed on the breaks. Cleo hit me again and again. Screaming, cursing. Cleo then at some point got out of her Cadillac, stormed around the front end of the car. She opened the front passenger side door, pulled me from the seat, half marched, half carried me to the back of her green Cadillac. Cleo was pulling my hair, the she picked me up.
Next thing I remember was— bang.
She closed the lid of the trunk with me inside.
Darkness would become a large part of my life. Dark basement of her farmhouse was my first home. Eventually, she and her lover and farmhand, Lou, did let me out of the basement. . There were times I slept in a real bed, in a real room, more often I was banished to the barn with the animals.
As I write more, I will tell all about Lou.
Anything that displeased Cleo, meant I would be thrown into the basement.
Cleo was displeased a lot.
That memory of the kidnapping is crystal clear. It has never left. Even as I was brainwashed into believing and telling everyone Cleo was my mother. I knew, deep down inside she wasn’t my mother. I knew, it crept into my dreams. It invades my nightmares all these years later.
Note: I have chosen to share my story to get the truth out there and to encourage other survivors of abuse, not to create a debate. I will not be accepting negative or abusive comments to protect myself and other victims from additional trauma.
Thanks for understanding.