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FRONT PAGE 2
FRONT PAGE 3
STORY INDEX 1
STORY INDEX 2
STORY INDEX 3
STORY INDEX 4
STORY INDEX 5
THE MOLE
LEMUEL JAMES
KOPPENHAVER
TED BYRNE
TICKET TO RIDE
OH, THE BYRNE 3
SWEET DREAMS
YOUNG GIB
PRELIMINARY HEARING
JUSTICE
ANGELICA RIVERA
WHO SAYS FLUID
ARCHIVE 7-20/7-27
ARCHIVE 7-27
INCEST
INCEST1
YOUNG GIB 1
ARCHIVE 3
ARCHIVE 4
ARCHIVE 5
FRY HEARING
INCEST - OPEN EYES
ARCHIVE - 6
ARCHIVE 7
ARCHIVE 8
SMITHGALL 1
SMITHGALL 2
ARCHIVE 9
ARCHIVE 10
SMITHGALL 3
CHARLIE'S PROMISE - SEX
KING'S SPEECH
INCEST - TRAGEDY
LUDWIG/BORDEN
ARCHIVE 11/LCCCA
SUNDAY NEWS SAGA/COMEDY
INCEST - TRAGEDY 2
ARCHIVE 12
ARCHIVE 13
LYNCHING 1
MILLERSVILLE LAWSUIT
ARCHIVE 14
NO QUESTION
VONDERHEIDE/HARPER
RIGHTS AND FREEDOMS
INCEST & HATCHER
JUSTIN QUINN
JANET KELLEY
SCRAT
NOTES & QUOTES
HE'S A RAT
HOLY COW!
TALKBACK
TOTARO MUST GO
SNEDDON
ARCHIVE 15
ARCHIVE 16
ARCHIVE 17
TOTARO/FRY
LOVELACE
THE GAY GUYS
HARRY ENG
WOMEN AND PARTON
HERR, BOYD & LIARS
HARPER IS SANDWICHED
BEATING A PATH
VONDERHEIDE & CRY BABIES
LANCASTER/RACISM
PULL THE PLUG!
KIRK & HARPER
RESOLUTION 37
SOUL AND PASSION!
ALL ABOARD
SUPER JERKS
STEWART OPINION
DEVON SMITH
END IT NOW
COMMON CAUSE
SEXISM & MURDER
DOUBLE CROSSED
JOURNALISTS
A FAMILY TRAGEDY
BANANAS & BRETT
WHO'S WATCHING BRETT?
EXTRA! EXTRA!
FEAR FACTOR
DESCENT INTO MADNESS
BURIED IN DEBT
PICTURE THE TRUTH
NEWS - STREAKER - WHITE ARCHIVE
ARCHIVE 18
GRAND JURY - FULL VIEW
INJUSTICE - RIVERA
INVESTIGATE PSP/STEVENS
COVER-UPS & LIES
DON'T MAKE ME MAD
JUDGEMENT DAYS
STEWART TRIAL
FRY, F&M & INCEST
JOURNEY OF PAIN
CHRISTY MIRACK
SUE ME
WHEN WILL I GET A LAWYER?
STURLA - BUM
COOLEY'S EMAIL
CONVENTION CENTER
GAG ORDER
RENTERIA - STEWART MISTRIAL
CONVENTION CENTER 2
FAUST - COLD CASE
CONVENTION CENTER 3
MADENSPACHER - MONEY TALKS
TOTARO - SCHREIBER
CONVENTION CENTER 4
EURYTOPIC
ARCHIVE 19 - CC & CROW
INJUNCTIONS
HARPER IS
HARPER IS SCUMMY
LIES, LIES AND MORE LIES
DOG DAYS - LANCASTER POLICE
LOVELACE - FRY
HARPER - BEINGREAL ARCHIVE
SHELLENBERGER
ARCHIVE 20
ARCHIVE 21
TERRYP
MADENSPACHER 2
ELECTION
RONNIEDOG
ARCHIVE 22
STEWART TRIAL
ENG - FOR THE RECORD
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“THE FAMILY SECRET”

 

                                                                                    

                       OPEN YOUR EYES

 

    The story that begins below is the lead story in the special eight-page newspaper I published in December of 2003.  I posted it on the “old” site in October of 2004, and possibly a hundred people read it.  Since then, my readership has grown and I am reposting it.

    As noted yesterday, January 20th was my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary.  Parents who molest their children are not “nice” people.  My parents have a loveless, abusive, humorless and dreadful relationship.  They would not recognize their grand-children if they passed them on the street.  They don’t like their own children.  They have never done one thing for their children.   They have ridiculed and criticized us our entire lives, and in the ultimate irony, let us know that we could never hope to achieve their intellectual or moral “superiority.”  They had to keep us powerless to protect the “family secret.”

    They are frauds.  There will be much more on all of this – and a detailed look at my brothers and sisters – to come.  Two escaped. Three of us didn’t.  I almost escaped many, many years ago.  At eighteen I had the good sense to fall in love with a brilliant, kind, patient and wonderful boy.  But he knew the “family secret” – and my father couldn’t allow that... 

 

 

- The Holzinger Story -

INCEST

 A FAMILY TRAGEDY

(Reprinted from LIP- Special Edition, December 2003)

 

    My name is Becky Holzinger.  I am trying to survive incest.

    We are desperate to believe that we had a happy childhood.  We are desperate to believe that our parents loved us – that they would never do anything to harm us.

    When that belief is shattered, we crumble.  I crumbled over Thanksgiving three years ago.  

 

    “I’ve had some memories come back,” I said.  “I think my father molested me.  I made a list of all the memories that point to it.”

    It was my first visit with Martha.  After a year of being haunted constantly by memories, I was crumbling fast.  I realized that to save my sanity, my son, my job, and my house, I had to find out what was going on.  I needed help.

    I called my HMO. What coverage did I have for mental health? They sent me to a counseling service close to my home.   

    Martha nodded.  She never asked to see the list.  Instead she asked me simple questions; “Do you have happy memories of your childhood?  Are you married?  Have you ever been married?  Do you have children?  Tell me about your son’s father.  Do you date?  There are a lot of available men.  You’re an attractive woman.  Why don’t you date?”

    “How many brothers and sisters do you have?  Where do they live?  What do they do?  Are they married?  Do they have children?  What does your father do?

    I felt guilty.  “He’s a professor,” I said softly. 

    “Becky,” she said, “Professors are known for this.” 

    “Oh,” was all I said. 

    I said he and my mother were well known in the Lancaster community.  They were liberals in a conservative town.  They were Quaker pacifists and deeply involved in the American Civil Liberties Union. 

    She listened.  Then she briefly told me about sexual perpetrators and what makes them abuse their children.  She said that when fathers abuse their sons, it is not necessarily homosexuality.  It is about aggression and power and control. 

    She listed a few of the effects of sexual abuse – low self-esteem, poor choices in life partners, an inability to form intimate relationships, alcohol and drug abuse.

    Well, there was looking in a mirror.

    I called a friend as soon as I got home.  “There are patterns to these things!” I said.  “Patterns!”

    On my second visit Martha asked how I was.  “I’m tired,” I said. “Very, very tired.”

    “You’ve been thinking about this for a year?” she asked. 

    I nodded.  “Non-stop for a year,” I said.  “I can’t think about anything else.  If I’m not thinking about memories of the old boyfriend, I’m reviewing every memory of my childhood and my parent’s relationship.  I don’t sleep.  I don’t eat.  I can’t think about anything else.”

    And I felt guilty.  All of my brothers and sisters were saying this was not possible.  They said our father may be a deeply flawed human being, but he was not capable of this.

    My house fell apart.  I needed a new heater and electrical system.  I missed my third appointment and didn’t call to reschedule.  I felt guilty.  I decided to brave this on my own.

    Then, on April 13, 2002, I received the e-mail that is printed on the front page of this paper, “An Open Letter To Tom Holzinger.” 

    I made another appointment.  “Would you read this e-mail?”  I asked.  I didn’t know.       

    She nodded.  I handed it to her.

    Watching her face as she read it is something I will never forget as long as I live.  She was shaking her head by the second sentence.  In the middle she was saying, “Oh, my.”  After finishing she looked directly at me and asked, “Is this man homeless?”

    “No,” I said.

    There was fear in her eyes.  “How many children does he have?  How old are the two boys?”

    She looked at the e-mail again, and again asked me with the same fear in her eyes, “How old are his sons.”

    I grasped the concern.  “It’s too late,” I said.  “They’re almost grown.”

    “Becky,” she said.  “It’s obvious he was sexually abused as a child.” 

    I could barely speak.  She told me that when boys are abused, their emotional growth stops.  They, of course, can go on to college and jobs and marriage, but their emotional growth is stunted.  And, she said, his actions indicated a tremendous level of hostility.

    Well, that fit like a glove.

    My very first question was, “It didn’t have to be my father, did it?” 

    “No,” she said, “It didn’t have to be your father.” 

    I cut the meeting short.  I was stunned.  As I was about to leave, I asked, “Is it okay if I tell my sister what you told me?”

    I watched her brain digesting this question.  I almost thought I could see it ticking.

    “Becky,” she said, “After you leave here you can tell anybody you want what I said to you tonight.”

     “Oh,” was all I said.        

    As I was about to get up from my chair she looked me directly in the eye.  “Your family is not normal,” she stated.

    “So there goes the normal family; right out the window.”  I said as we walked down the hall.  I had so much to learn.

    When I got home, I screamed for my son.  I called both my sisters and my former sister in-law.  I called a friend who knew my brother, one of my sisters and myself.  “Ding, ding,” she said, “There’s your answer.”

    His sexual behavior had been notorious for years.  He was obsessed.  He would pick up anyone.  He would sleep with anyone.  In family circles it was well known and we would roll our eyes and say, “Well, you know how Tom is.”

    Here was the beginning of an answer.  I thought he should know.  I called him.  I said, “My therapist says it’s obvious you were sexually abused.”

    There was a pause.  “It didn’t have to be Dad, did it?” he asked.  “No,” I said, “It didn’t have to be Dad.”

    There was another pause and then he said, “Well, that is ridiculous.  I wasn’t abused.  I remember my entire childhood and nothing happened.”

    He said he wanted to talk to my therapist.  He wanted to get all of this “straightened out.”  I had no idea if Martha would agree.  She was more than willing as long as it was in my presence.

     The next few days at work were the hardest I have ever experienced.  All that occupied my mind was that someone had done something terrible to my brother. Something terrible to a child.

.  There was no turning back now.  I would never miss another appointment.  Finally, after over a year, I knew that I would find the truth in that little room with Martha.  And I knew, no matter what, I had to know the truth.

                                                                   

CONTINUED HERE.