Since things have gone so far with talking about my cult experience (and I haven’t even covered a fraction of the stuff that happened,) I’m going to talk about how I actually got out. Its hard, as always, to share my embarrassing past, but the incredible, supportive response I’ve gotten, the way people have shared their personal stories and really empathized with me, well…why stop now? Because it took a very specific set of circumstances to get out, at least for me.
Hollywood Boulevard was getting more and more chaotic. The money wasn’t coming in at the level it had been. Part of that was just the economy fluctuating; everyone was making less at that time. I think a bigger part for us may have been that we were no longer performing well. Perhaps I should restate that: I was no longer performing well. I always made much more money than he did. Jordan stopped being Legolas and became Puss in Boots (for once, not related to any “core” changes but because Lord of the Rings was getting lest popular). When I worked alone as Fiona, I made approximately the same amount as when Jordan worked with me. He had a creepy vibe, especially how he’d hover next to me and whisper in my ears, and it was off-putting.
At that point in the storyline, we had only limited contact with any of the original Others, beyond my Guide and the “Doctor.” We were fully enmeshed in the story which was later re-worked into Dumbledore’s Army and the Year of Darkness, the epic fanfiction-slash-cult that Jordan moved on to create. There were a lot of teenage “soldiers” from an alternate timeline set in 1942, all of whom were astonishingly beautiful, remarkably talented and usually had incredibly fucked up childhoods. I know I say “that’s for another post” a lot here, but that’s just the truth; it was an insane and multilayered clusterfuck with so many plot threads that I could probably write multiple novels about it (like Jordan has, just redressing it with Hogwarts uniforms). For now, lets maintain a little focus.
At any rate, there were soldiers and secret conspiracies and top-secret government prisons. It may have been an alternate timeline, but the Others were eager to explain how they also existed in our timeline as well. Further, they told me extensively how these dangerous Men-In-Black-type characters knew about us. Were watching us. And would, if given the chance, imprison us in the same X-Files-esque facilities. For those of you who read Stephen King: it was based on The Shop, which might help outsiders understand. As much as anyone could.
Hollywood Boulevard is the perfect place to introduce a conspiracy theory. There is a lot of paranoia out there. Regular rumors of upcoming “sweeps” that would “get rid of” the “bad” characters took over like wildfire (I can only assume this has gotten worse since the job was briefly made illegal). Lots of people believed that Homeland Security had “moles” that were keeping an eye on the characters, and that any moment we might all be dragged to Guantanamo Bay and questioned as possible terrorists, just because some people wore masks when they worked. It was a ridiculous echo chamber of fear and paranoid delusion, so it was easy to make the threat seem terrifyingly real.
After several months of building up to it, Jordan announced that we needed to flee the country and move to Toronto. I don’t really know what his real motivation was. He painted this picture of Canada as free, safe place where the mean ol’ Bush administration wouldn’t harm us, where there was socialized medicine and open minds and not so many damn mean people. He had a character who was a Mountie who explained how very, very easy it was to seek political asylum in Canada. Jordan backed this up with a handful of documents he pulled up on different immigration sites. I was wary, but eventually just let myself be convinced. I knew I couldn’t tolerate life as it was much longer. Maybe that was his reason; change the scenery enough that I would stay.
At any rate. He concocted an elaborate story about opening a cafe with some people we met, who were going to let us move into their apartment. We told everyone we knew we were moving to New York, but really, that’s just where we were landing. We were going to just walk to the border from Buffalo (so that no one knew we were leaving the country.) The funny thing is, there was nothing stopping us from getting passports and visas. There was no reason we couldn’t leave the country. I even had a valid passport, and Jordan had a perfectly legal ID. But no, that’s not possible; THE MAN might find out and then it was off to the Shop for us. Everything was super secret. We reduced everything we owned into three giant suitcases, the cheap wheeled style that is favored by the homeless.
We did get travel paperwork for Boo, our little bird, mainly so we could fly with him without complication. Granted, we had to pull him out of his cage to go through security (and there are few things as uniquely stressful as trying to hold a sparrow while agents poke at him) and pay an exorbitant “pet fare,” but there was no question of leaving that little birdy behind. So there we were, two crazy people, a bird in a pet carrier, three giant duffle bags and a pack of lies, heading from Los Angeles to Buffalo. In February, 2007.
Everything that could have gone wrong did. First off, we both developed a nasty chest cold the week we were moving. Emptying the apartment (while being low key about it, so as not to alert any “agents” that might be watching us) drained both of our energy, and we weren’t working enough to build up any kind of monetary cushion. We missed a train, which made us miss our first flight. Jordan turned on the charm and got us rebooked on a later flight with no fee. Somewhere, I think maybe Atlanta, we missed a second flight, and again he managed to smile and charm his way through it, getting us rebooked on another flight without a fee. That’s pretty impressive, but he generally got his way. That’s how he works; an easy smile and a silver tongue and people just believe him. He calls it “Blarney.”
Finally, finally, late at night, we landed in Buffalo, to the coldest weather either of us had ever experienced. By now, Jordan was claiming that his illness had progressed to pneumonia and, thus, had “shut down” his abilities to bring anyone through. He could “sometimes” see them, but was “too sick” to really communicate. Thus, we completely on our own. We walked the frozen streets of Buffalo for hours, dragging ourselves from hotel lobby to hotel lobby to keep warm enough to move, occasionally catching a bus to get us closer. The wheels gave out on one of the suitcases and we were forced to abandon it. I really should have at least seen that coming; there had been mention of packing the most important stuff all in one bag “in case” we couldn’t carry it all. Eventually, we were dragging ourselves across the Peace Bridge.
It was the last endless leg of the journey, and I was filled with relief and hope. There were these incredible, perfect star-shaped snowflakes falling on us, and I remember thinking that I’d never seen a snowflake that looked like a snowflake before. I remember that cold, roaring water beneath us, and the wind that was so frigid that every breath was pain. I remember that glorious moment that we went into the Border Patrol office, where it was warm and dry. Any minute, we’d be signing our forms for political asylum and could start our new life! We had made it!
Obviously, you can’t just walk into Canada, say “Gov’mint spies are after me!” and just get handed an apartment. I don’t know why I ever expected differently, but by that point I was pretty much a non-thinking entity. We told our story (as Jordan had coached me) and the border patrol agents laughed in our faces. Before I could even process that, Jordan completely lost his shit. He started screaming and tearing at his hair, shrieking like the crazy person he really is. He wailed and cried and howled like a spoiled child, and I was left to be the only adult handling the situation. And I couldn’t. When I was interviewed by the (surprisingly sympathetic) immigration agent, I couldn’t even explain why we were there. I had no answers.
They let us sleep on the floor of the office, since we had nowhere to go that night. We huddled under a blanket and Jordan alternately sobbed and slept, periodically commenting that he was probably going to die of pneumonia. I dozed occasionally, repeatedly waking with a jolt to check that both Jordan and Boo Boo were alive. Poor little bird; he was in that cage for so long in those couple of days. He didn’t chirp or fuss, just cuddled closely into my palm when I’d slip it into his carrier. I had never felt as utterly defeated. So hopeless. So done. I thought a lot about what options were left, and spent several hours thinking about just going out into that terrible cold and lying down in a snowbank. I’ve read that when you freeze to death, you feel warm and sleepy at the end, and just drift away. It sounded so tempting to just let go. The only thing that stopped me was that tiny feathery body in my hand. I knew that little birdy would die of exposure long before I would, and I could not kill him just to spare myself.
In the morning, Jordan pulled himself together a little. He talked some about calling Amy’s parents and asking for help. But all I really wanted was to call my mother. I hadn’t spoken to her for several years, only once since the agonizing day I gave her a book Jordan wrote full of accusations of abuse, none of which had happened. It was terrifying and scary and shameful, but it was that or the snowbank, and I’d already decided against that. I told her I needed help. I asked if Jordan and I could come home. She said to give her an hour and call back. Jordan filled that hour with big, new plans. I just nodded a lot and waited.
What I didn’t know is that my mother had been doing a lot of research over those years. She made more than one trip down to Hollywood, just to see for herself that I was alive and reasonably safe. She had been saving money in a dedicated account, waiting for the day I might call. She had kept tabs on all the internet gossip about Jordan and I. She had read up on (and worked with a therapist extensively) on folie a deux and the proper treatment of it (which is generally separate the usually sane person from the crazy person). She was ready for the day I called.
So when that hour had passed and I called her back, Mom had already bought herself a ticket to Buffalo, arriving the next day. Further, she had prepaid for a hotel room next to the airport for us, where she would meet us when she landed. She said she would discuss what would happen next once she arrived. Jordan was elated, but I didn’t feel much of anything other than panic. We walked back across that same bridge and went through U.S. Customs, which was a pain since we hadn’t actually gone to Canada. They grudgingly let us back into the country we’d not really left, and it was up to us to find a ride back to the airport. We had no money left, but a very nice young professional offered us a ride. Jordan jumped all over that, keeping up his “blarney” the whole ride. I agreed when prompted and otherwise stared out the window and hoped that this man really would take us to the airport and not harm us. He didn’t; he handed me a twenty dollar bill with pity-filled eyes as he dropped us at the hotel. I can only imagine what we looked like.
I hadn’t planned on making this a two-parter, but I didn’t count on how sad and exhausted it would make me to tell this part of the story. This was the day I finally hit the bottom. The first real crack had formed in Jordan’s hold on me, but it would be almost six weeks before I could sever it. I hope my readers will understand that I need to go cuddle my son and maybe call my mother and thank her one more time.
To Be Continued…
Heather said:
More more more. I know u need the cuddles but it’s so damn unreal Abbey I just can’t get enough! Xo
C.M. (@Necromommycon) said:
Wow. Just…wow. I have never felt more sorry for Jordan, but am simultaneously HUGELY relieved that you got away from him.
I can’t think of anything much more miserable than trying to walk into Canada in the winter (and I speak as a Canadian). Holy crap, that must have been ghastly.
This does kind of explain the depth/complexity/words fail me of DAYD, though. I’d never realized it had been, uh, so many years in the planning.
Your mum sounds amazing.
QR said:
Understand? I’m all teary-eyed and choked up over it myself! The way your mother prepared over years for the day you would call her! Your mom is an inspiration. And I’m glad to hear about the strangers who did you acts of kindness too.
I am literally in tears over this. Thank you for sharing it all with us.
Petra Goode said:
So good to be hearing the whole story. It must be really cathartic and cleansing, although draining and exhausting as well, to tell it. Therapists say confrontation can be good for you, even if you don’t confront an abuser directly, but I have been skeptical. Reading your blog is making me wonder if it’s time for me to make moves I’ve been avoiding in my own life.
Hmmm so thank you, my friend, for the inspiration!
KumquatWriter said:
Pete – never be afraid to move forward. As my mother says: You have to stand in your truth. And I strive to do that. Live with compassion, take the high road, and to hell with ’em if they can’t take a joke.
Much love.
Chelsea Hawk said:
I’m in tears, too. I love you, my friend.
grannieof2 said:
Amazing, and miraculous. They say we don’t change until we hit that bottom; you survived that crash against the odds. I hope you go look into the eyes of the woman in the mirror and thank her for being so strong.
(Is that quilt your mom’s work? Gorgeous!)
KumquatWriter said:
Grannie, my mother is a gifted quilter. She made those beautiful matching quilts for my 30th birthday (at the time, she didn’t know if she’d live to see me receive mine). She always said she envisioned bringing me home and wrapping me in that quilt. And when she flew out to meet me, she brought it with her and did just that. It is in my living room right now, a few feet away from me (its twin is in her house).
There is a third quilt that matches; a miniature version that hangs on my wall. The back of it is the receiving blanket my first son was wrapped in for his one day on earth.
There is nothing my mother cannot survive. I get my strength, my courage and my ability to own my mistakes from her. She is my hero.
grannieof2 said:
That’s a mom for ya, as you now know. There’s nothing you won’t do for your kid. š
I’m a quilter too, although not on her level for sure. Those three quilts are heirlooms for sure. Imagine all the love and hope in every stitch!
Gemini Sarah Cooper said:
I felt the same way about my mom, Abbey. And I miss her every day. this article made me sad, but strangely not for you, for me. It brought out feelings of how much I miss mom and wish I could just give her a call or a hug, or have her teach me how to sew like she could (I shunned learning to sew when I was younger, not seeing the value in it….I was DUMB. lol)…… Love u Abby! Thanks for sharing, and in turn, reminding how precious life really is.
An Observer and former casual Daydian said:
Before anything else, I want to congratulate you on rebuilding your life and on your beautiful younger son, as well as offer my prayers for peace and comfort for your older child. You seem like a good person, and I am not trying to cast you as a villain, but you have said yourself that it’s hard sometimes to be objective from inside pain, and I have a few questions. They’re not meant as attacks, and if you’ve considered them and have answers, I’d very much like to hear them.
You have talked about how Jeanine’s campaign against you and Jordan only made it harder to leave and prolonged your time with him. Being under attack both made you feel like you had nowhere to go and also made you circle the wagons, as it were. When you set Jeanine on Thanfiction and the Daydians, did you consider that it might have the same effect? From my perspective, at least, it appears to have done so to a certain degree. The community as a whole is smaller, but it seems like the inner core is only tighter and now listening all the closer to him while turning a deaf ear to anything having to do with “the wank.” Do you think what you’re doing now might just continue that process, and if not, how are you hoping to prevent that?
There have been a lot of very unsettling comments on Jeanine’s journal that give the impression that she and some of her inner circle won’t be satisfied until he is dead or at the very least imprisoned for life. There is also talk that you have joined forces with her to try and make that happen. Is that true, or if not, what are your intentions or goals towards him? Is this closing the chapter of your life that he was in and moving on, or is this opening the chapter of your life where you hunt him ala Javert?
They have also gone after anything he tries to associate with or anything his friends do; do you worry that this will eventually just pressure him to change identities again, or that you’ll harm innocent or mostly innocent people the way you were harmed for your connection to him?
Also, as the person who unquestionably spent the most time the closest to him, would you be willing to answer some things that have been on my mind since I first found this saga? Is he, in your opinion, mentally ill? Is he, in your opinion, FtM transgender? And finally, is he or was he, in your opinion, out to scam money from people?
Sorry to bother you, and by the way, the duck treats were fantastic!
KumquatWriter said:
No worries. I am ALWAYS willing to answer questions. I’ve been working on my reply this morning and realized that I need to make this its own post. So that will go up later today, and then I’ll finish Operation Catch and Release (which is in the final editing stages anyway). So, stay tuned.
And glad you enjoyed the duck treats!
Notanelfanymore said:
Really meant to not come back to any more of this, but I’m disturbed by the either/or line of questioning there. As if there are only two possibilities. Looks very straw man to me. I’m interested to see what Abbey says.
“Is this the closing chapter of your life…or do you hunt him like Javert?”
How about, people who had to deal with these things have just as much a right to talk about their experiences as anyone else has the right to talk about their experiences. Warning people on a blog doesn’t compare to a lifetime commitment of following some guy to the death for stealing a loaf of bread, and then committing suicide.
Amy/Andrew/Jordan has enough of a hold over Abbey that he was able to manipulate her into making an entire book of lies about her own mother. That’s a dangerous person. I worry about what will happen next. I worry about the innocent people who may become involved. It’s the nature of cults for followers to close ranks when their leader is threatened. Does that mean people do more good by ignoring what goes on in the cult, as if it will just go away if it is all ignored? The culprit here is not the people who speak out against the cult leader by making his followers feel bad. The culprit is the cult leader for his abuse of his fellow human beings.
grannieof2 said:
“They have also gone after anything he tries to associate with or anything his friends do; do you worry that this will eventually just pressure him to change identities again, or that youāll harm innocent or mostly innocent people the way you were harmed for your connection to him? ”
There’s an awful lot of black-and-white in this entire post, of which this quote is an example. I’m guessing that’s what Notanelf calls the either/or. Not helpful, or appropriate.
A great many people were and continue to be harmed by this person. That includes the DADYians, whether they’re ready to look at it or not. He counts on their silence, whether that’s achieved by their own shame and embarrassment or by others trying to turn this around on them. (I think that’s what you’re doing here.) Abbey herself made the very wise observation, which I paraphrase: you are all his victims. That’s the important message. Talking about it, shining the light in the corners, sends the cockroaches scuttling for the exit. It’s the only way not only to heal, but to witness for others.
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Meagn said:
You don’t know me. I’ve been following this story for a couple of years now, from several different sources, from a safe distance. I’ve been utterly sucked in from the first minute. Why do I care? Well, I’m also involved in a hobby that has a strong fantasy element, and I’ve watched that work on some peoples’ heads. Certainly not to this extent, but close. And it could happen. Please don’t think I’m peering down a microscope at an ‘interesting’ culture in a petri dish, though — what pulled me in was my hope that somehow, just *somehow* the innocent parties in this could survive this and become happy again. Bless you. And bless your mom, too. If it means anything, I’m pulling for you. (p.s., I live in Portland, so there’s a local angle too). Good luck and godspeed to you.
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Rebecca said:
I just had to reply to this, because what you wrote about your mother *waiting* for you to call, for years, just brought me to tears. God, she’s amazing, that’s beautiful. (Ever since I had kids, I tend to cry at things like that. I just rewatched “The Exorcist” and I freaking BAWLED at the end.) I’m so glad for her that you called, and so glad for you that she was ready.
Rebecca
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Linda said:
Holy shit, your mom is an enormous badass. What an awesome mama bear. I’m glad she was ready.
KumquatWriter said:
She really is; she’s my hero š
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