Tuesday, 16 April 2013

I Hated Stephen King

I hated Stephen King with a passion. I hated him the second most that I have hated anybody in my whole life. I hated him almost as much as I hated my adoptive mother who beat me senseless every day I lived with her. She was four foot nine and a half inches tall, little and dark with a huge Hitler complex. She had been a beauty in her day but now I was 13, tall willowy and fair. I had the youth she longed to regain. She hated me for everything she wasn’t and her jealousy was vicious.

Yet the viciousness I experienced because of Stephen King was worse. It haunted me relentlessly everywhere I went. When I turned twelve, weird things had begun to happen around me. Things were going bump and bang inside walls near where I was sitting. Cupboard doors were opening and slamming. Lights and radios would turn on and off. Things were falling off shelves and disappearing. It happened most often after I had been teased at school. It seemed to target those who were picking on me by irritating them. This drew even more unwanted attention, and my school mates soon learned that if they could gee somebody else into bulling me they would get a great laugh out of the reactions that followed the victimizer around all afternoon, driving them nuts.

I tried not to attract attention. I had severe acne and combed my hair forward around my face and kept quietly away from others. I spent my lunchtimes in the school library researching what was happening to me in the .001 section. It was very hard for bullies to try to target anybody in there. Too much quiet and supervision. I loved the quiet and enjoyed the luxury of being left alone. It was there I began to understand that what I was experiencing was fairly typical poltergeist activity, common to teenage girls from religiously and sexually repressed families. Boy oh boy was my family ever that. My Jehovah’s witness nut job mother accused me of all sorts of sin and sexual perversion every day. things that I had not even heard of.  And then would molest me herself.

Poltergeist activity appeared to be a natural reaction to the pineal and pituitary glands being over stimulated by the upsurge in teenage hormones. Yet people did not want a natural explanation. They wanted to fear it and vilify it. Perhaps they fear what they feel they cannot protect themselves from. To me if felt like the denigration, especially the religious maligning, was just a basic cover up reaction for their personal jealousy, that there may exist in another an ability that they cannot access.

Some of the bullying was very serious. I was injured and many times hid it from my parents and teachers. The more serious ones I could not. Injuries to my legs, a torn knee were hard to hide and I was hospitalised for consequences of a collapsed lung that later gave me a propensity for pneumonia.

The more serious the bulling the more serious the reaction. My private Erines seem to dish out natural justice in proportion to the crimes against me. Erines were angry spirits in Greek myth that followed a guilty person around who had eluded justice harassing them ceaselessly until the gods felt that justice had been done. For instance far more than just wall rapping happened to a girl who slapped me up the side of the head, unprovoked and then ran in the other direction. Don’t get me wrong; I was not a passive victim. I hit back. The good thing about being hit and intimidated on a regular basis is that you learn how to hit and scare others. I never victimized others. In fact I was known for sticking up for the under dogs and those who could not defend themselves. I had a berserker persona I assumed when an attempt at group victimisation occurred. It kept the majority of tire kickers away from me. I would pretend to snap and scream and pick up the nearest thing and swing it around wildly. The shock of seeing this complete and scary transformation deterred many who thought it might be easy to pick on the quiet, skinny, weird girl in the corner.  Those that got knocked on their asses by me would mutter to the others, “Stay away from that crazy bitch. She’s nuts.” The good thing was that nothing else weird ever happened to the ones I hit back. However, this hit and run girl was too fast for me. As she fled a door flew open into her face and broke her nose. My classmates thought this was very funny. When they turned to try and find me I had already left. I wanted none of this.

Yet I was forced by governmental wisdom to return to school and each day I had to stand in line with the worst of human nature. To make matters worse a new horror novel about poltergeist activity around a teenage girl at school had just been released. It grew in popularity and soon was followed by a movie. I refused to read it. I have still not read, nor seen the movie to this day. It turned up in the bags of my classmates. They would read it in the breaks and whisper to each other and nod and point at me. I looked like Sissy Spaceck with bad acne. Fine features and pale pustuled skin stands out in a surfy town. My insane mother had dyed my naturally pale hair rich burgundy as a warning for others to “…stay away from the demonic child.”

My mother didn’t need to do that. Thanks to Stephen King they all just called me “Carrie” and waited to see what they could force to happen in the next chapter of this real-life unfolding horror story. I never went to my school dances or my school formal. Every time I missed one my classmates would tell me they had a bucket of pigs blood from one of their father’s butchers shop left over from the night before.

Don’t people who write horror think about the impact that these books can have on people who are going through similar circumstances to the characters they create. Often they research a real life situation and then use the process of suspension of disbelief to create a scary yarn that will earn them millions. A miss-trial can be declared if the judge feels “trial by media” has occurred. The news media may sell millions of papers via sensationalism but there are consequences for them but not for popular fiction writers. A miss-trial cannot be called in some ones life if popular media anchors something into the collective consciousness that makes a group of people a subject of loathing. Children die every year when subjected to exorcisms because they are exhibiting perfectly natural poltergeist activity. Today hundreds of children in Nigeria and Angola are declared witches and are being macheted or beaten to death because of this kind of popular fiction. Where are the consequences for this? A life is ruined yet people are entertained, books are sold and a million is made. Where is the justice?

After the birth of my first son, the poltergeist activity decreased yet my private Erines seemed to stay on the job meeting out their special brand of natural justice. Though I have not done anything against another consciously, not one person who has ever attempted to victimize me has escaped without consequences.
  • My abusive mother was in a caravan in her front yard that was picked up and shaken around at night – she never victimized me again after that. She later developed anorexia and starved herself to death.
  • My first husband went off to sleep with the wife of his quadriplegic business partner whilst I was giving birth to his son. When I confronted the other woman she laughed: “Oh well, you can’t blame him if he enjoys my company more than yours.” One week later she went face first through the windscreen of her car and my husband developed boils on his testicles.
  • I was teaching hospitality at Newcastle Worker’s Club in 1989. I had been dating the head bouncer Bob. We split, by Bob’s choice. I started dating a beautiful sensitive man - a weightlifter and gym owner. One night he came to collect me after work. The bouncers beat him up and threw him out. He was too terrified to see me gain. The club collapsed in an earthquake two weeks after that an incident.
  • A business partner who ripped me off for a magazine we started together was flooded and all of the stock of the magazine was destroyed, she went out of business.
  • A star motorcyclist who wanted to increase my rent by ten times the amount agreed too in our lease, because he thought that I was earning too much money. He got arrested and publicly disgraced on another matter. He has had a run of bad luck ever since. 
  • A former boyfriend who bashed me and hospitalized me so that he could steal content from my computer for a book we were writing together, and then attempted to destroy my computer so that he could claim full credit for the book, got caught misusing the privilege of his governmental office and had to flee Australia.
And so on…. Justice has always been served on my behalf, even though I have not pursued it.

Though I feel permanently marred by the experiences of my youth, I have learned to use the abilities that nature gave me for helping others. I see the future and give predictions that have saved lives. I help heal sickness and can restore a person’s soul to balance. I also write for many alternative magazines and have authored several books, a tarot deck and DVDs. I now live at peace with my abilities and have gained some positive recognition on TV as one of the top psychics in Australia demonstrating before skeptics that what we do is real.

Though I bare Stephen King no personal ill will and I acknowledge the many positive things he has written about people with my abilities like “Hearts in Atlanta” and “The Green Mile,” yet, at 51 years of age, Stephen King was seriously injured when he was struck by a minivan while walking near his home in North Lovell, Maine, at 4.30pm on Saturday 22 June 1999. A motorist approaching from behind lost control of his van when a dog in the vehicle distracted him. The car accident has left Stephen King with permanent disabilities including massive injuries to his legs and a collapsed lung that later gave him a propensity for pneumonia. I feel a deep sadness for him for this, as sometimes fact is far stranger than fiction.

© Copyright Rev. Dr. S. D’Montford  Thursday, September 22, 2011 Hamilton Island. Australia

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