Running down the vast expanse
of hot sandy beach, the gulls circling overhead, the sound of the waves as they
break on the shore. I am 7 years old, crouched down with a stick in my hand –
creating a masterpiece in the sand. Once finished, I jump up and look into the
perfect blue sky – I hold my hands up and cry to God to take me there to be one
of his angels. My masterpiece is simple – a heart drawn in the sand – I Love you
God – carefully drawn in the centre of the heart. I wished so hard that God
would take me away that day – but He didn’t – and that day I began to lose my
faith.
It all began when I was about 5 years old. That was when my
world came crashing down around me. I remember so clearly, there were my older
sisters, my brother and me, sitting in the backseat of my parent’s big old
Buick. I was wearing red stretchy pants – and I was crying. My little heart was
breaking and I didn’t even know why. I just knew that something very bad was
happening and my world would never be the same again.
“Mommy, what are you doing? Where is Daddy?” I cried, big fat tears
sliding down my face. The dirt and tears leaving behind long bruised stains. A
hint of what was soon to come?
“Shhh, Daddy is not coming with us. You be quiet and go for a sleep. We
are going to Nana’s house for a visit”. My Mom was in one of ‘those’ moods
again. I knew better than to say anything – besides, she said we were going to
Nana’s house. I liked it when we visited my Nana and Grandpa. They had a big
farm with lots of animals. And a big barn to play in
too!
But then I remembered that I had left my special teddy bear in the
trailer – I began to cry even more. Then I peed my pants. This was only the
beginning…
It was fun visiting my grandparents on their farm. I wished I could stay
there forever– but that was not to be. Before the summer was over, we were back
in the car, full of all our clothes and blankets and pillows – off to live in a
new home.
It was a big house, (actually it was a duplex) which looked as
if it were made of rocks and glass. And so close to a very busy road! All the
cars going by so fast frightened me. And there was a strange man living in the
house with us. Where was my Daddy? And who was this man who acted so strange
sometimes? He scared me when he yelled – scared me so bad that sometimes I went
and hid under my bed. The image of my Daddy began to
fade…
Most of grade one was spent living in this duplex, going to Happy Valley
Elementary School where I sang in the glee club. I have very few memories of
that year – I became very shy and withdrawn during that time – not sure what was
going on in my little world. My mom and her new ‘friend’ Al, who lived with us,
spent much of their time out and when they did come home they were loud and
scary. And they brought many friends over who were just as scary.
I remember one day that same year, I was asked to bring a case
of beer downstairs for Al, but I tripped as I was struggling to carry the heavy
case of Labatt’s beer. I fell down the stairs, amid broken bottles, and was
covered in beer and glass. All I remember is the look on Al’s face as he glared
at me. His voice was like a giant’s, rumbling so loud that I tried to hide deep
inside of my soul. Big fat tears slid down my face and I sat there, trembling as
he raised his big hand against me.
I have no memory of what went on after that tirade, other than
me being placed in a tub of water, naked and shivering, while Al glared down at
me. I defecated in the tub. That is the last memory I have of being 5 years
old.
We moved quite a lot over the next few years. When I was six we moved to
an old shack outside of town, off of West Coast Road. It was small, rundown and
in the middle of nowhere – perfect for a sexual abuser to house his victims, out
of sight. He was free to reign in any sickening way he wished.
I remember many nights, lying in bed, terrified when I heard the
creak of my bedroom door open, saw the sliver of light and the monstrous shadow
of my new ‘stepfather’ as he made his way to the lower bunk where I slept.
I began to sleep in not one but three pairs of pyjamas, anything
to help keep him away from my young form. Nothing worked. I learned that if I
lay quiet and pretended to sleep, he went away much sooner, and sometimes I
could make myself go far away inside of myself to a nice place – with trees, and
birds, a place so peaceful and safe that nothing could hurt me there. This is
where I began to go every time he came into my
room.
I remember my favourite book from that time; “Now I am Six”
by AA Milne. This book was much loved, and I read it all the time. Sometimes
I would let my imagination go so far that I was really in the forest with
Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear.
That was the year my Mom and Al got married. I remember one day
being told that my brother, sisters and I were going to visit Nana and Grandad
for the summer. We were not told about the marriage until we returned. This was
also the time when the relationship between my Mom and Al began to go really
bad. There was a lot of drinking done by Al, and when he drank he got mean.
Really mean. I soon learned the word pain and found out what it meant to be
terrified. All when I was just six years old…
I also learned what fear was. I witnessed such extreme violence
against my mom, brother and sisters. I felt the sting of the belt many times
myself. I witnessed the pain and end result to being bad. We used to have
animals when I was growing up – animals that would be killed when they were
bad. There were no second chances for them. And I knew if I were bad there
would be no second chances for me
either.
I was made to crush the skulls of newborn baby rabbits. Why? All
I know is that they were born and my step dad didn’t want them. So he made my
brother and I kill them. We were forced to lay the tiny bodies on the chopping
block, take rocks and crush their little heads. I protested until I saw the look
in my step dad’s eyes and saw he was getting angry. I killed the baby rabbits
that day and the memory will never go away. Those that are not wanted can be
gotten rid of pretty easy.
We had a dog – Sheba – who was bad. Sheba was my sister's
dog and one day he bit the goose. This was a very bad thing to do – so my step
dad took the gun out and blew Sheba’s brains all over the place. That is what
happens when you are bad.
My brother and I shared a room on the main floor of the shack
and my two older sisters shared the attic. There was an old set up stairs in the
ceiling that you had to pull down with a little rope handle. I found out later
that Al would go up those stairs at night and hurt my sisters too. This was the
year my oldest sister left home. She went to live with my Auntie on the
same farm as my Nana and Grandad. She still blames herself for not stopping the
pain and abuse the rest of us endured even after she left. I don’t blame her and
I never have. She made a decision, which I wish my Mom had been strong enough to
make for the rest of us.
My new stepfather Al would come into my room many times during
that year. He would pull up my nightgown and touch me in places a child should
not even know they have. He would whisper words in my ear that to this day still
haunt me. Words a child never should have whispered in their ear. Words that
only should be uttered between man and wife – not a man and child.
This soon became normal for me, and I adjusted as many children
do. Deep inside, the shame began to grow. Those words and caresses even today
make me feel dirty – make me want to just close my eyes and return to the dream
world of my childhood.
This was
also the year that I attended grade one at John Muir Elementary School in a
little town called Sooke. We had to take the big yellow school bus, driven by a
nice old man named Mr Rudd. Sometimes Mr Richardson drove us depending on which
day it was. We always knew who driving even before it was stopped in front of
us on that long stretch of country road, we knew by the shape of the bus. Mr
Rudd’s bus had a flat front while Mr Richardson drove an older bus, one with a
front that extended in front of the front windshield. They were nice older men,
always smiled and treated us kindly.
Grade one was a difficult year for me, I was hiding so much pain
inside that sometimes it would come out in a torrent of swear words and tears.
Both my brother and I would lash out at anyone who got too close to us. We did
not make friends easily. It was difficult to get close to anyone when you knew
that if you told about what was going on you would get a beating so bad at home
that you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. So we pretty much stuck to
ourselves. Besides, inside I felt pretty icky and didn’t feel that anyone would
want to play with me – especially if they ever found out what I did at night
with my stepfather.
Grade one was also the year I found out about spankings. Most of
the time I didn’t even know why I was in trouble. I only knew that Al had this
mean look in his eyes and when he told me to take my pants off for a licking, I
knew I had to do it. Trying to jump around or hide only made the beating worse.
He would turn me over his knee and count out each swing of his belt.
One…two….three…. most times 15 but sometimes more, depending on what I was being
punished for. I was always naked while he did this, and thinking back I now
realize this may have been part of his sexual deviation. This was not about
punishment it was about power and his pleasure. Often the bruises and welts far
outlasted the memory of the spankings as I learned to escape deep into my mind
and leave behind a world of pain and
abuse.
There was a time, before my oldest sister left home, that I saw just how
dangerous Al could be. We were out in the back forty cutting trees for firewood
when Al turned towards my oldest sister, yelled and threw the chainsaw at her.
It just missed her, the scream of the motor faded into the background we ran,
terrified back to the house. I
knew that this person was capable of hurting us beyond anything we had
experienced so far. I told my Mom, but nothing more was said of the
incident.
My Mom was in her own pain during this time, taking pills to
sleep, pills to stay awake and pills for her headaches. Her new husband was also
beating her on a regular basis; there fore I do not place a lot of blame on her
for not stopping what was happening to us. I do have my own judgments towards
her; these are never spoken out loud.
Grade three was when we moved from that old shack to a big old
house in a tiny logging camp called Jordan River. Looking back, we lived in a
place many long to go on vacations to. It was right on the water – the Strait of
Juan de Fuca and looking to the west lay the great Pacific Ocean. Beautiful. We
would play on the great expanse of sand when the tide was out – turning over
rocks in the tidal pools – examining the treasures that we found.
But grade three was also the year that I became even more
withdrawn – scared – and very insecure. I was frightened of everything – the
geese, dogs, and bears. It was my terror from being in such an abusive and
violent home – this terror ate me up and soon was projected outwards. I was once
a child who knew no fear – there was once a time where it was okay to cry out
loud or play and laugh. But this was no more.
Now I would have nightmares almost every night – horrible dreams
of being chased by a faceless monster. Running in slow motion through a forest
of monstrous trees. Trees that had long roots that would grab me and pull me
down to the forest floor. I would sink into the earth– while my silent screams
went unheard – Nothing could wake me from these terrors – until finally I would
force myself to thrash in the bed until the movements would finally waken me.
Sweat would pour from my body as I huddled clinging my blanket close. Often I would wake to find myself
standing at the big bay window – pointing at unseen objects– terrified it was a
bear coming to eat me up.
Looking back I realize this fear came from being teased about the bears
and how they would eat me up if I were left out in the forest alone. I was told
not to tell anyone about what was happening in our home – and I knew better.
Bears were big and scary and I knew that I would get left out in the forest if I
ever told what my stepdad was doing to
me.
Our home life when we lived in Jordan River was unhealthy. Many
nights we were kept from sleeping as the music played and the adults drank and
laughed and smoked. I remember my brother and I, peeking around the corner
watching them. They were passing around a wood thing, which looked like a penis
– and they were putting it near the faces of the ladies who were at this party.
Everyone was laughing – but I was really scared. I knew what this piece of wood
looked like and I was scared that my stepdad would use it on me – in my private
parts. This scared me because it was so big. But that never happened – not that
I remember anyways.
I remember my stepdad coming to my room once when my mom was out
– he came into my room and he was naked. I was about 7 years old. He had a weird
look in his eye and he picked me up and held me up in the air. Then he slid me
down his body. That was when I heard my mom come in the front door. He quickly
put me down and went out to talk to her.
My mom called the police and they came to the house. They asked
me in front of my stepdad if he had done anything to me. My stepdad was right
there – I was scared – he was looking at me – I said no, nothing happened. The
police went away and nothing more was said. (The memory of what happened after
he left the room is very hazy – however the memory of him sliding me down his
naked body stays as if set in stone).
Soon, I was moved from the upstairs bedroom that I shared with my brother
– down to the basement room to share with my sister. The abuse continued
and even became worse as most nights my sister was out late – with her friends.
Al would come down to read me a bedtime story. But he didn’t read to me. Instead
he would crawl under the covers with me and touch me. He would touch me under my
nighty. I tried to squirm away but he did not stop. He kept touching me. And
saying weird stuff to me. Stuff that made me feel really creepy and bad inside.
Then he took the covers off me and put his face down there. I didn’t like it
when he did that. I was so scared that I thought I would pee my bed.
He also brought our dog FiFi down there and made the dog do the
same thing to me. I was terrified that the dog would bite me down there – I did
not want to move – I squeezed my eyes tight and tried to escape into my dream
world once again. I have never told anyone about the dog – the shame washes over
me whenever I think of that night.
I push those memories far into the darkness of my mind – for
when they surface I feel the sick blackness well up from deep within my soul.
That feeling scares me – the only thing that made those memories and feelings
disappear was when I was high. I don’t want to return to that life – so I try
very hard to not think about that time with the
dog.
It didn’t matter if my mom was home or not – the abuse still
happened. He was very sneaky and would say he was going to read me a bedtime
story. There was a time when I was still in the bunk bed upstairs when I shared
a room with my brother – I think my brother was on the top bunk. My stepfather
came in to the room very drunk and crawled into bed with me. He touched me under
my nighty and said those words to me. Words, which even though I do not remember
the actual words – I do remember the tone and the way he said those words as he
touched my body- Words which made me feel very scared and very bad. This time he
was really drunk and when he finished touching me all over he lifted me up over
him and put his mouth on my privates and licked me with his tongue – it hurt so
bad. I remember crying and asking him to stop – but he did not stop until he was
finished.
The next day at school I remember sitting in the washroom for so long
that my teacher had to come in and ask if I was okay. I was crying because it
hurt so bad to pee – it was all red and hurt down there. I knew if I told I
would be in big trouble and then the bears would come eat me up – or worse –
maybe he would cut me up with the
chainsaw.
There were times that he brought his friends into the room to watch or to
touch me as well. I slid deeper into my dream world, pretending to sleep. I knew
better than to ask him to stop. I knew the penalty for that.
I also came to the realization that it must be something that I was doing
to make him touch me like that. He always told me how cute and sexy I was – what
a little heartbreaker I would become when I grew up. I came to hate my body for
what it was – if only it was different then he would not be doing those things
to me. I thought I was deformed – if only I had a normal body like my friends
then nobody would be touching me in those ways. This carried over into my adult
life – and I was forever running from the pain of who I
was.
During this time there was also much physical and emotional
abuse. We were not allowed to cry “or we would get something to cry about”. We
were not allowed to talk or play or laugh in the house. There was not a day go
by that we were not working on something or another around the yard. Usually it
was regular taking care of the farm animals we had. Other times it was plucking
chickens. Other times it was digging trenches in the yard or splitting and
carrying firewood to the house. We were not allowed to ever have our hands in
our pockets – for this would earn us a spanking and being reminded how useless
and lazy we were. Even to this day I find it so difficult to just sit and watch
TV. I have a need to be working at all times. The words come back to haunt me –
the taunts of how lazy and useless I
am.
We were constantly told how stupid we were. Nothing was every done good
enough for my stepdad. Dishes had to be rewashed – dresser drawers were emptied
out and we had to refold all the clothes. I remember being pulled out of bed in
the middle of the night when I was just 6 years old and being yelled at because
someone had drawn a happy face in the bacon fat in the frying pan. All of us
kids were hauled out of bed that night and had to get the belt until one of us
admitted to doing it. I think I finally said I did it just so the beating would
stop –but it may have been my brother who finally spoke up. I do remember the
spanking after it though. Turned over my stepdad’s knee – no pants on – as he
counted out loud – one slap, two…slap …on and on until he reached twenty-five.
My bottom was so sore I could not sit down for days. But like everything else I
pushed this night far back into my mind. It too became
normal.
He was beating my mom almost nightly and when my mom wasn’t
around to beat on he would take his anger out on my brother. I remember walking
up the stairs from the basement and seeing my brother curled in a
ball on the kitchen floor – my stepdad was kicking him and yelling and
calling him names. There was blood – my brother’s blood splattered all over the
cupboards. My brother had his eyes squeezed tightly shut – I didn’t know what to
do. I yelled at him to stop – and he finally did – and walked away like nothing
had happened. I cried with my brother that day – we didn’t know what to do –
there was nobody there to protect us.
The abuse continued while we lived in Jordan River – it evolved
into finger penetration and oral sex. He would also rub my body on his and force
my hand onto his body to rub. My mom walked in once and saw him leaving my
bedroom obviously sexually aroused, the police were called, they came out and
asked us kids (with both my mom and stepdad present) if there was any bad stuff
going on.
He was right there in the room with us – of course the answer was no –we
knew what would happen if we told. Had lots of animal graves around to tell us
that. The abuse continued and became worse. It seemed that the day the police
came was a realization to my stepdad that he could do whatever he wanted to do
and nobody would stop him. He knew we were too scared to say
anything.
The angels are crying for all
who are lost, while zephyr picks up and carries the
cost….
Living in that small village was like living on the edge of the world. The
entire town had no more than 80 inhabitants – and that included dogs and cats!
The school I attended for grades 3-6 was located across the road from the beach,
beside the old community hall. It had 2 rooms – one was for teaching the 9
students (kindergarten to grade 6) and the other room was used for the
kindergarten’s playtime and as a gym when it was cold outside. This room was
also used for our Christmas concerts.
I remember one
year – I must have been in grade 4, my stepdad teased me unmercifully about
kissing Santa Claus during the concert. A really cute boy was
playing Santa – and did I ever have a crush on him! I was so scared that my
stepdad would make me go up and kiss him that I remember crying and begging not
to go to the concert – even though I was supposed to be one of the singing
angels. My stepdad tried to convince me to take my clothes off and streak across
the stage too – its no wonder that I didn’t want to
go!
The only store in that village was Maria’s – she ran a little
general store and post office at other end of town. This was a pretty
small place and it only took about 10 minutes to walk from our house to the store.
Sometimes we had a few nickels to spend and off we would go to buy penny candy
from Maria. And there really was penny candy –mojos were my favorite!
There were no clothing stores there– we usually went
to the garbage dump outside of town to rummage for clothes and toys. Most of my
school clothes and all of my toys came from the dump. At the time I never knew
that people didn’t always go to the
dump to get stuff. I just thought it was normal. My first pair of rollerskates
came from the dump and so did my purple bike! It was an adventure to jump on the
piles of garbage – breaking open bags to see what treasures lay
inside…
There were no playgrounds in town; however, with our imagination
we would play on the beach – and build cities complete with roads and houses. We
would run through the forest – pretending to be explorers – yelling our special
crow calls back and forth – to let others know where we
were.
There was never any supervision while we played outside – well
into the night. Even when swimming in the ocean there were no parents around to
be sure that we were not hurt. I think about it now and thank God for keeping us
safe.
Most nights, my parents would be out late at the bar – and we
knew that when they did come home there would be fighting and hitting – and we
would lay awake until morning came and we could be off to
school.
On the beach, I had built a fort out of driftwood and tree
branches. This was my special place – a place that was safe for me to hide when
the pain was too much at home. Many nights I would sneak out of the house, run
across the road and hide in my special place. I remember the day that my
stepfather found out about my fort, and came to see it. It was never the same
after that – because he had been there. It seemed like no place was safe from
him.
By the time I was
almost 10 years old we had moved into another house. This house was in a bigger town on
a dead-end street right on the water.
The sexual abuse continued – as did the physical abuse on my Mom and
brother. I remember walking into the basement where my brother and I had
separate bedrooms. My brother was standing in the middle of his bedroom,
helpless, big tears rolling down his 11-year-old face – mixing with the blood
that poured freely from his nose. The walls were splattered with his blood – and
Al was towering over him –with this horrible angry look in his eyes. Al growled
at us that we were not to tell anyone or we would be sorry. I don’t believe we
ever spoke of that moment until we were
adults.
I remember that this was also the year that I lost one of my best
friends. She had invited me for a sleepover – and when we were watching TV I put
my hand between her legs. I just wanted her to know how much I cared for her. I
did not realize that this was bad. I had always been taught that when you love
someone you touch that person between his or her I guess I was not taught
correctly.
That year, my body began to change. I was
becoming a woman – but nobody told me that this was normal. All I knew is that
Al soon wanted to touch my breasts more and more. I hated when he touched me and
whispered words to me – words that made my skin crawl with shame. This was also
the year that I began to menstruate. I was in grade six gym class and wearing
white shorts. I was terrified that I was bleeding because of what Al had been
doing to me – and I didn’t know what to do. So I ran home and hid my bloodied
shorts. I told my Mom that I was not feeling well and I went to bed. I remember
my Mom coming in and talking to me to see what was wrong with me. When I told
her about the blood – she showed me how to use feminine products. I do not
remember being told about the change happening to me – I still thought it was
because of what Al was doing to me. I was so scared that someone would find out
and tell Al that they knew what he was doing to me. If that happened – I would
be in big trouble. Besides – I knew that he would just blame me for the abuse.
And partly this is true – for I had learned to recognize when Al had that look
in his eyes. That look which I knew meant that he needed me to be his toy. And
sometimes I would go to him first, just to get it over with. I knew then that he
would not bother me again until the next day. I remember one time, I came home
from school and Al had that look in his eyes. It was just he and I alone in the
house – and I was scared because I just didn’t want him touching me anymore. I
thought if I played with his hair that he would be satisfied – and not have to
touch me. I climbed up behind him on the couch and played with his hair – but
after a few minutes he turned and picked me up in his arms and carried me to his
bed. The bed he shared with my Mom. I closed my eyes and escaped to my dream
world – I do not know what happened in that bed – it’s just a big black hole in
my mind. I was wearing slippers and I remember one of my slippers was left in
the bed. My mom asked me about it later – and I had to lie to her and tell her
that I went for a nap in her bed. I felt as if I was Al’s wife – the guilt
washed over me – if my mom ever found out she would hate me. With all these
feelings pulling me from the inside out – I knew I had to find a way to escape
for real. I began to spend as much time as I could away from the house. This is
the year I began to run to the streets – I would do anything to avoid the abuse
at home.
The group of kids that I began to associate with – they all came
from messed up homes too. We never talked about sexual abuse – only the
beatings. We shared something in common – and I found a release of some of my
pain. I soon learned that smoking weed would take me to my dream world where
there was no pain – I was able to laugh again – and it felt good. By the summer
after grade 7 I was getting high all the time. I was avoiding Al – and my Mom.
Because I was never home – the abuse became less frequent. The drugs were
messing with my mind though – and I became very angry and violent. It seems as
if all the pain I had been holding inside of me for so many years just had to
explode out of me before I burst. This affected my relationships with my friends
who did not get high. Soon the only people I was associating with were those I
got high with. With the drugs though – I soon learned that I had to let boys
touch me in the same places that Al touched me in. I already knew how to escape
to my dream world when this was happening – so the cycle
continued.
I remember one day coming home – Al was packing up his truck and
moving out. I remember thinking, “where is my Mom? Is she okay?”. And I also
remember this huge feeling of dread. Al had always threatened my mom that he
would burn us all up in the house if my mom ever left him. I was thinking that
my mom had thrown him out – and I was scared of what was to come. The first
memory I have of Al after he moved out was when he came to our house and put an
axe through my mom’s windshield of her car. My fear
grew.
I became very scared. I though that if I could keep him happy
then he wouldn’t come burn us all up. So I began to visit him in his new place.
It was a yellow house – he had birds in cages and he always had friends over and
was drinking beer. He would get me to sit on his lap and move around –then he
would carry me to his room and touch me – I just closed my eyes and went into my
dream world once again. He would give me money afterwards – most of the time he
was too drunk to figure out just how much money he was giving me– often I would
leave there with close to 100 dollars. The shame I felt inside would not go
away. I knew it was wrong but I had to make sure that he would not come back and
hurt us. This happened only a few times before the shame and pain I was feeling
inside became too much for me to handle. I was so scared of him and of his anger
– I didn’t know what to do. I knew what he was doing to me was
wrong.
I was about 7 years old when I realized that alcohol would take
away my fear – it would help me to laugh and play once again. If only I could
foresee the pain it would bring….
By the time I was 9 or 10, I found that I could no longer use my
imagination to take away my inner pain. I began to feel ashamed of who I was, of
what I did with my stepfather behind closed doors. I did not know how to make it
go away anymore. I began to show anger whenever I felt ashamed or humiliated – I
would strike out at my closest friends, at my Mom and at my teachers. If
everyone would just leave me alone then they would not be able to see my shame.
They would not be able to reject me if they were not allowed into my life in the
first place.
I began to sneak out at night and walk down the beach, alone,
with my pain – and during those walks found a new set of people to associate
with. They understood my anger – and accepted me without question. They never
acted like I was different – they understood the pain that I felt and showed me
how to make it go away. I began to
smoke pot and drink with my friends, I felt immortal – no pain – no fear – and
it felt good.
Soon, I began to smoke dope before, during and after school. My
grades dropped – I went from a straight A student in grade 7 to a drop out in
grade 8. By the time grade 8 started I was a mess. I was smoking weed and
drinking whenever I could get my hands on it. I was no longer a straight A
student. Now I didn’t even go to my classes. I began to skip out of school to
get high. I was 12 years old and for the first time in my life I felt free. I
did not have to give my body to Al – or anyone else. I chose who came close to
me and who didn’t. I never let boys touch me – it brought back such bad thoughts
and feelings of shame that I just couldn’t let them. It was bad – any touching
was bad. Kissing was okay though – that is not something that Al had done to me.
I soon had a reputation of being a tease –for I would let boys kiss me but
nothing more. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I continued to get
high.
I became violent –
especially when I wasn’t high – I needed the drugs to keep my emotions in check–
to keep the pain from growing inside of me. I remember trying to stab my best
friend when I was 12 years old – for no reason – just because she happened to
be in front of me when the rage hit. I punched my math teacher in the head –for
the same reason.
My drug use escalated my anger – at the same time it took away
my feelings of shame and fear. I chose to keep getting high because I did not
want to remember anything about what I was. I was getting high every day,
drinking alcohol and taking my mom’s headache pills. Anything to make the pain
go away – to make me fit in – I wanted to be normal – but the only way I could
be normal was to get high and make the pain go away. I also started to go over
to Al’s new place – because he would give me money, beer and weed. All I had to
do was let him touch me – and I had to touch him – make him feel good and then
I could leave. I always left with money or weed. Getting high made it okay.
I was soon kicked out of grade 8 – for fighting and skipping
school. I remember the day clearly – I didn’t even go home. I ran to the streets
the day I was kicked out of school – straight into a world of drugs, violence
and crime. I began to experiment with different types of drugs– from huffing
aerosol sprays, to sniffing cocaine and smoking pot with PCP. I didn’t care – I
chased that feeling of complete freedom – the loss of my emotions meant the loss
of my shame. I was free….. I decided to run away for good that year – if I
wasn’t around then he couldn’t touch me or hurt me. I didn’t even think about my
family and what they would go through when I left. I packed a bag and ran to the
city.
I knew that I was different – not normal like other kids. I was
so ashamed of what was happening to me – not only because I knew it was wrong
but also because sometimes he made me feel good. I felt that I did something to
make him do those things to me – and I was ashamed because I liked it sometimes
– and when I didn’t like it at least he gave me money which I bought drugs with
– and that made me forget all about it. It wasn’t long before I could not stand
the shame of what I was – nothing but a whore. I left for good this
time.
I was 11 – would be 12 in one month. I left the school and went
to the road and stuck my thumb out to hitchhike to a place far far away. The
first car that stopped was my principal – he tried to get me to get into his
jeep – but I wouldn’t even listen. I kept walking. The second car that stopped
was a friend of my stepdad. I got in and he drove us to a steep road down by
Sunny Shores. He parked the car and brought out a joint. We got high. Then he
started to touch me. I froze up – I didn’t know what to do – I knew he was a
friend of my stepdad – and I figured that my stepdad must have told him that I
would let him touch me. I closed my eyes and escaped into my dream world. I only
remember the first few minutes of him touching me – the rest is a haze. He
started the car and drove me to the road where he let me out of the car.
I caught the bus into Victoria and went to my best friend's
school. I pulled her out of class and told her that I needed a place
to live since I was not going home anymore. She let me crash at her place for a
few days. Then I hopped from one house to another until I couldn’t stay at
anyone’s house anymore. That was when I found a flophouse on Princess Street
that I stayed at for a few weeks. High every day – I was introduced to cocaine.
I was 11 years old. I remember walking down Pandora Street when I met this guy
who invited me to his place to get high. He cut out some lines of cocaine on
the table and showed me how to do a line. I didn’t feel high like when I smoked
weed – but I did feel happier. I continued on my way.
Back at the flophouse there were about 6 of us staying in this
tiny room. A mattress on the floor and a crate for a table. Graffiti and poetry
covered the walls – we had no money and ate from the dumpster behind McDonalds.
I knew I couldn’t stay there much longer. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to
run with the night, no rules, no pain, no memories of my childhood. I just quit
thinking about my Mom and my brother and sisters. I didn’t want to think of
anything in my past – I thought if I ran fast enough I would be able to
escape….
That was when my friend Donna and I decided to go to Vancouver –
we had heard that it was crazy there – the streets were never dark, people were
out 24 hours a day, and there were parties, drinking and more fun. We hitchhiked
to the Tswassen ferry terminal and panhandled enough money in the parking lot to
get us on the ferry. We arrived downtown Vancouver close to midnight and it was
everything we had been told – and more. There were so many kids just like us,
hanging out on the corner, selling drugs, getting high, laughing and being free.
I felt like I finally found my place in
life.
As soon as we hopped off the bus a guy named Damien walked over
and introduced himself. I guess he could tell that we were new and he wanted to
make sure we were okay. He showed us a place where we could sleep without being
bothered. It was in the basement apartment of an abandoned building. He showed
us how to jimmy the window to get in. It was warm – and a safe place to sleep.
I soon found that
if I held drugs for the dealers down on the street I could make enough money to
get high every day and still have money to give to someone over 18 so they
could rent me a hotel room down on Granville Street. The year was 1985 and I
was 13 going on 14. I felt grown up – I was taking care of myself – and nobody
was touching me anymore. I was high every day – soon it didn’t take my pain
away anymore. I now had new pain – I needed to forget my family – my brother
and sisters and my Mom. It hurt too much to think about them because I missed
them so much. I couldn’t go back though – here on the streets I never once
thought about what Al had done to me. I never thought about the abuse – but I
did think about my family. I soon began to do acid every day – tripping out
24/7 made it possible for me to forget about everything except the streets.
Someone soon showed me how to escape in another way – the
needle.
I was introduced to needles just after I turned 13 – I had met a
guy who was letting me crash at his hotel – there was a big party there,
everyone was doing needles except for me. I felt left out – but nobody would let
me get high that way. Once everyone left he got me high. I remember it was the
strangest feeling I had ever had. Once the needle went into my vein– the room
got darker, he turned into a big lizard and then his head started spinning
around. That’s all I remember – I woke up on the floor the next day.
The parties continued – I had a good job holding drugs for the
dealers and life seemed to be going pretty
good.
We had found this burned out building downtown that was great to
use for parties and jam sessions for punk bands, and a place to sleep too. There
was a group of 10 of us, we had just picked up a quarter pound of hash – and
decided to party! We rolled it out nice and flat then rolled it into a tube,
stuck a knife through it and lit it on fire. Oh man – we passed that around the
room more times than I can remember – the whole room was hot boxed and we were
so stoned we couldn’t even move. That was
life…..
By 1986, Expo was coming to Vancouver – and it got very busy on
the streets. Lots of drugs were being sold, lots of parties to go to, and lots
of police. We had to become creative in where we stayed as the kiddie cops were
on the lookout to get all the street kids into group homes before tourists
arrived for Expo86. I remember sleeping down on the beach at English Bay and
being woken up by the cops kicking me in the ribs – telling me to get out of
there. I didn’t even take my blanket – I just got up and walked away…
My time on the streets was getting short – the cops wanted to
have Vancouver as appealing as possible to the tourists and I guess a bunch of
strung out street kids was not so great for that image.
Summer of 1986, Damien and I went down to Wreck Beach for the
day – what a sight! There was dope being sold everywhere and if you didn’t want
dope there was alcohol – anything you wanted – it was for sale. We stayed there
all day, by the time night fell, we had built a fire on the beach and were just
kicking back drinking, talking and laughing. So free…until we say the telltale
lights on the stairs leading from the road to the beach – cops! We rushed to put
out the fire, while someone else buried the beer in the sand. By the time the
cops got to us – the only sign of a party was a few drunken souls.
We had to leave the beach that night and it’s a good thing I was
so drunk and high – I passed out once we got back to the hotel –but when morning
came I woke up in such pain – I was so badly sunburned that my nose was just one
big scab. I couldn’t even walk. Damien and I rolled off the cot and we were
crawling around on the floor – almost in tears – but laughing too. We knew what
would take care of the pain…
A few weeks later, I was alone in the room when the cops decided
to kick the door open. I was told that the guy whose room I was staying in was a
known heroin dealer and a kid like me shouldn’t be staying there. The police
took me to social services – and they gave me a bus ticket home. I guess they
thought that’s what it would take for me to just go home. Yeah right! They put
me on the bus – but they couldn’t make me go home – I just stayed on the streets
of Victoria until I had saved up enough money to return to
Vancouver.
I was hanging out on the streets of Victoria –hitchhiking wherever
I needed to go. I soon found that I had to let guys touch me in return for rides
or food or money or drugs. Every time I would escape to the dream world while
they got their satisfaction. One day I met this guy on the street – he bought
some pills from me and invited me back to his hotel for a beer. He was here from
Montreal with a work crew. We started hanging out a lot and when his work was
transferred to Vancouver he gave me the address of a hotel there and told me to
look him up if I was over there.
2 weeks later I showed up on his doorstep. He welcomed me in and
let me crash there. I slept in his bed – but he never touched me. Until one
night – he came home from the bar and started to touch me. I closed my eyes and
escaped to my dream world. He was gentle with me and stopped when I cried out in
pain. I became pregnant that night. I was just 15. We did not know. He moved
back to Montreal – and we stayed in touch. When he left to return to Montreal I
went back to the streets.
I met a girl named Cherry and we decided we wanted to go to
California – so off we went to the freeway and began to hitchhike south. It
wasn’t long before a car stopped, inside was a nice older man named Ray. He
told us he was an engineer and he was delivering bread to the homeless shelter.
He told us that he would give us a place to stay at his home. We agreed and he
took us home where we met his wife. They were the nicest couple I had ever met–
they lived in a big house in Ladner – and gave me my own bedroom. And, he wasn’t
a freak – I mean he never once tried to make a move on me. He was an honestly
nice man. One of very few out there.
After being there for about a week I became very ill. They took
me to the hospital where it was found I had pneumonia – and I was pregnant. They
told me that I had to make arrangements with social services to make sure that
my baby and I stayed healthy. We contacted social services and they came to get
me. I was placed in a group home on Christmas Eve. At 3am Christmas morning –
the police showed up and took me to the Youth Detention Centre at Willingdon. I
was so angry – I did not want to be locked up! Christmas morning – everyone in
the unit got up and had presents under the tree. Everyone except for me. I had
arrived too late to get a present. I was very
sad.
A week later I was handcuffed, shackled and placed on a small
airplane. I was transferred to Victoria Youth Detention Facility. I stayed there
for a few months and upon release was sent to another group home. When I was 8
months pregnant I was placed in a foster home until I had my son. The day I
returned from the hospital with my son – my foster mom kicked me out of her
home. My son’s father flew down from Montreal and took me to my real Mom’s
house. It had been a few years since I had seen her. It was a bittersweet
reunion. I had so much anger towards her – for not protecting me and for
keeping me from my real Dad. I did not trust nor believe anything my Mom told
me. It was difficult for me to let go of my pain.
I remember losing my temper one day and I just blurted out all
my feelings and pain that I had inside of me – all the years of abuse –I finally
told her. My Mom believed me. After many meetings and answering so many
questions from the police – charges were finally laid. It was difficult for me
to tell my story to the police – because deep in my mind there was that memory
of when my Mom told them. They didn’t help me then – I was scared they were not
going to help me now.
Court day arrived and I remember the fear – dread – and I wanted
to get high so bad. I told my story that day – I tried to tell them everything
that I remembered. They only wanted to hear about the times that my brother was
in the room. They said they needed a witness because my word was not good
enough.
My brother told about the times he witnessed the abuse on me. I
know it tore him up inside to tell the story. My brother had been there and he
did not know how to stop the abuse. I don’t blame my brother – there was nothing
either one of us could have done to stop what was happening in our house. I just
wish that he did not have to go through the pain of testifying for me – nobody
wanted to hear about the abuse he suffered – even though we knew that Al should
have been sent to prison for the beatings he gave my brother. The blood is
washed away – but the scars never go
away.
He ended up getting only 28 months in prison, which I believe he
served only a few weeks of that time before being released.
During my pregnancy and for the first few months of my son’s
life, I avoided the drugs. I had my son to take care of and to love and to
protect. I was finally happy – and living a real life. But I soon found out that
without education I had to rely on social assistance to support us. I was 15
years old with a grade 7 education – and did not know how to change that.
Because I had left everyone behind in Vancouver – and it had been close to 4
years since I had lived with my Mom, I had no real friends to spend time with
there. My life revolved around my son – holding him and dancing, singing to him,
cuddling him– but soon I heard the call of the night once again. My mom would
watch my son once in a while and off I would go – to the lights of the city, the
freedom, and the night. The baby's father had returned to Montreal by this time – and we
had decided that we would see other people. We remained close – and talked on
the phone often.
During one of my trips downtown, I met a guy – he was
cute, mysterious, and had an aura of danger about him. I was intrigued– and we
soon began to exchange phone calls. I found out that he was in prison and the
day I had met him was while he was out on a work release pass. I believed him
when he told me he was innocent. I never thought twice about it. The day he was
released from prison – he came to my Mom’s to visit. We began to talk about
getting an apartment and becoming a family. I never knew what was soon to
come…
When it came to sex – I hated it. It hurt me so bad – and every
time he touched me – it brought back memories of growing up. I would freeze up,
close my eyes and escape into my dream world once again. I knew this was not
normal – sex between a couple was supposed to be fun – and feel good. It did not
feel good to me though. I pretended that it felt good because I did not want to
lose him. ). I was scared
and still had so much disgust for who I was – I ignored my sexuality – I
wouldn’t let anyone become close to me in that way. The only role models I had
to show me how to act in a relationship were my mom and stepdad – I slipped into
the same role my mother played. I became the ‘perfect’ mother and girlfriend to
this man. During sex I would close my eyes and escaped into a dream world – the
flashes of my childhood – bright and painful filled my mind. There was no
escaping it. I found that sex hurt, I would tense my whole body when the moment
came that I was to have sex. The feelings of not being normal grew larger. The
shame and feelings of disgust returned. I was not normal – I would never be
normal – I hated myself and who I was. My relationship faltered – with my
inability to have a normal sexual relationship – and with my feelings of hatred
for myself –I tried to be perfect everywhere else in my life. I tried to hard to
fit in with my spouse’s friends – if only I could be like them that would prove
I was okay – that I was normal. He was nice to me at first and even said he
wanted my son to take his last name. I was ecstatic. Life was starting to be
normal for me. But then a darker side appeared. I found myself living in fear
once again – anything could set him off. I thought that if I behaved then it
would get better. I thought if only I tried harder to be the person he wanted me
to be then the beatings would stop. I was wrong. They only got worse.
I longed for an escape – and soon one was presented to me. I was
at a get together with him and his friends when I saw that they were getting
high with a needle. I remember that I had done it before once –and it was not so
bad. They shot me up with cocaine that day – and my nightmare began. I found
that with using these drugs I fit in – I no longer felt the feelings of shame
and inadequacy, which had plagued me since I was a child. I did not know the
dangers of this means of escape.
He found that he could control me completely with his temper
and the drugs. I found myself escaping more and more into a narcotic dream
world. I pushed my fears away and stayed high. During this time, he had made
me quit taking my birth control pills, as he wanted a baby of his own blood. I
knew I was not ready – I knew I had to escape from him – I did not know how. I
told myself that this was how life was supposed to be. I saw it growing up – the
beatings my Mom endured – and this was how life should be. I didn’t know that it
should be any different. When it came to sex – I hated it. It hurt me – so I
closed my eyes and escaped once again. I was 16.
of hot sandy beach, the gulls circling overhead, the sound of the waves as they
break on the shore. I am 7 years old, crouched down with a stick in my hand –
creating a masterpiece in the sand. Once finished, I jump up and look into the
perfect blue sky – I hold my hands up and cry to God to take me there to be one
of his angels. My masterpiece is simple – a heart drawn in the sand – I Love you
God – carefully drawn in the centre of the heart. I wished so hard that God
would take me away that day – but He didn’t – and that day I began to lose my
faith.
It all began when I was about 5 years old. That was when my
world came crashing down around me. I remember so clearly, there were my older
sisters, my brother and me, sitting in the backseat of my parent’s big old
Buick. I was wearing red stretchy pants – and I was crying. My little heart was
breaking and I didn’t even know why. I just knew that something very bad was
happening and my world would never be the same again.
“Mommy, what are you doing? Where is Daddy?” I cried, big fat tears
sliding down my face. The dirt and tears leaving behind long bruised stains. A
hint of what was soon to come?
“Shhh, Daddy is not coming with us. You be quiet and go for a sleep. We
are going to Nana’s house for a visit”. My Mom was in one of ‘those’ moods
again. I knew better than to say anything – besides, she said we were going to
Nana’s house. I liked it when we visited my Nana and Grandpa. They had a big
farm with lots of animals. And a big barn to play in
too!
But then I remembered that I had left my special teddy bear in the
trailer – I began to cry even more. Then I peed my pants. This was only the
beginning…
It was fun visiting my grandparents on their farm. I wished I could stay
there forever– but that was not to be. Before the summer was over, we were back
in the car, full of all our clothes and blankets and pillows – off to live in a
new home.
It was a big house, (actually it was a duplex) which looked as
if it were made of rocks and glass. And so close to a very busy road! All the
cars going by so fast frightened me. And there was a strange man living in the
house with us. Where was my Daddy? And who was this man who acted so strange
sometimes? He scared me when he yelled – scared me so bad that sometimes I went
and hid under my bed. The image of my Daddy began to
fade…
Most of grade one was spent living in this duplex, going to Happy Valley
Elementary School where I sang in the glee club. I have very few memories of
that year – I became very shy and withdrawn during that time – not sure what was
going on in my little world. My mom and her new ‘friend’ Al, who lived with us,
spent much of their time out and when they did come home they were loud and
scary. And they brought many friends over who were just as scary.
I remember one day that same year, I was asked to bring a case
of beer downstairs for Al, but I tripped as I was struggling to carry the heavy
case of Labatt’s beer. I fell down the stairs, amid broken bottles, and was
covered in beer and glass. All I remember is the look on Al’s face as he glared
at me. His voice was like a giant’s, rumbling so loud that I tried to hide deep
inside of my soul. Big fat tears slid down my face and I sat there, trembling as
he raised his big hand against me.
I have no memory of what went on after that tirade, other than
me being placed in a tub of water, naked and shivering, while Al glared down at
me. I defecated in the tub. That is the last memory I have of being 5 years
old.
We moved quite a lot over the next few years. When I was six we moved to
an old shack outside of town, off of West Coast Road. It was small, rundown and
in the middle of nowhere – perfect for a sexual abuser to house his victims, out
of sight. He was free to reign in any sickening way he wished.
I remember many nights, lying in bed, terrified when I heard the
creak of my bedroom door open, saw the sliver of light and the monstrous shadow
of my new ‘stepfather’ as he made his way to the lower bunk where I slept.
I began to sleep in not one but three pairs of pyjamas, anything
to help keep him away from my young form. Nothing worked. I learned that if I
lay quiet and pretended to sleep, he went away much sooner, and sometimes I
could make myself go far away inside of myself to a nice place – with trees, and
birds, a place so peaceful and safe that nothing could hurt me there. This is
where I began to go every time he came into my
room.
I remember my favourite book from that time; “Now I am Six”
by AA Milne. This book was much loved, and I read it all the time. Sometimes
I would let my imagination go so far that I was really in the forest with
Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear.
That was the year my Mom and Al got married. I remember one day
being told that my brother, sisters and I were going to visit Nana and Grandad
for the summer. We were not told about the marriage until we returned. This was
also the time when the relationship between my Mom and Al began to go really
bad. There was a lot of drinking done by Al, and when he drank he got mean.
Really mean. I soon learned the word pain and found out what it meant to be
terrified. All when I was just six years old…
I also learned what fear was. I witnessed such extreme violence
against my mom, brother and sisters. I felt the sting of the belt many times
myself. I witnessed the pain and end result to being bad. We used to have
animals when I was growing up – animals that would be killed when they were
bad. There were no second chances for them. And I knew if I were bad there
would be no second chances for me
either.
I was made to crush the skulls of newborn baby rabbits. Why? All
I know is that they were born and my step dad didn’t want them. So he made my
brother and I kill them. We were forced to lay the tiny bodies on the chopping
block, take rocks and crush their little heads. I protested until I saw the look
in my step dad’s eyes and saw he was getting angry. I killed the baby rabbits
that day and the memory will never go away. Those that are not wanted can be
gotten rid of pretty easy.
We had a dog – Sheba – who was bad. Sheba was my sister's
dog and one day he bit the goose. This was a very bad thing to do – so my step
dad took the gun out and blew Sheba’s brains all over the place. That is what
happens when you are bad.
My brother and I shared a room on the main floor of the shack
and my two older sisters shared the attic. There was an old set up stairs in the
ceiling that you had to pull down with a little rope handle. I found out later
that Al would go up those stairs at night and hurt my sisters too. This was the
year my oldest sister left home. She went to live with my Auntie on the
same farm as my Nana and Grandad. She still blames herself for not stopping the
pain and abuse the rest of us endured even after she left. I don’t blame her and
I never have. She made a decision, which I wish my Mom had been strong enough to
make for the rest of us.
My new stepfather Al would come into my room many times during
that year. He would pull up my nightgown and touch me in places a child should
not even know they have. He would whisper words in my ear that to this day still
haunt me. Words a child never should have whispered in their ear. Words that
only should be uttered between man and wife – not a man and child.
This soon became normal for me, and I adjusted as many children
do. Deep inside, the shame began to grow. Those words and caresses even today
make me feel dirty – make me want to just close my eyes and return to the dream
world of my childhood.
This was
also the year that I attended grade one at John Muir Elementary School in a
little town called Sooke. We had to take the big yellow school bus, driven by a
nice old man named Mr Rudd. Sometimes Mr Richardson drove us depending on which
day it was. We always knew who driving even before it was stopped in front of
us on that long stretch of country road, we knew by the shape of the bus. Mr
Rudd’s bus had a flat front while Mr Richardson drove an older bus, one with a
front that extended in front of the front windshield. They were nice older men,
always smiled and treated us kindly.
Grade one was a difficult year for me, I was hiding so much pain
inside that sometimes it would come out in a torrent of swear words and tears.
Both my brother and I would lash out at anyone who got too close to us. We did
not make friends easily. It was difficult to get close to anyone when you knew
that if you told about what was going on you would get a beating so bad at home
that you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. So we pretty much stuck to
ourselves. Besides, inside I felt pretty icky and didn’t feel that anyone would
want to play with me – especially if they ever found out what I did at night
with my stepfather.
Grade one was also the year I found out about spankings. Most of
the time I didn’t even know why I was in trouble. I only knew that Al had this
mean look in his eyes and when he told me to take my pants off for a licking, I
knew I had to do it. Trying to jump around or hide only made the beating worse.
He would turn me over his knee and count out each swing of his belt.
One…two….three…. most times 15 but sometimes more, depending on what I was being
punished for. I was always naked while he did this, and thinking back I now
realize this may have been part of his sexual deviation. This was not about
punishment it was about power and his pleasure. Often the bruises and welts far
outlasted the memory of the spankings as I learned to escape deep into my mind
and leave behind a world of pain and
abuse.
There was a time, before my oldest sister left home, that I saw just how
dangerous Al could be. We were out in the back forty cutting trees for firewood
when Al turned towards my oldest sister, yelled and threw the chainsaw at her.
It just missed her, the scream of the motor faded into the background we ran,
terrified back to the house. I
knew that this person was capable of hurting us beyond anything we had
experienced so far. I told my Mom, but nothing more was said of the
incident.
My Mom was in her own pain during this time, taking pills to
sleep, pills to stay awake and pills for her headaches. Her new husband was also
beating her on a regular basis; there fore I do not place a lot of blame on her
for not stopping what was happening to us. I do have my own judgments towards
her; these are never spoken out loud.
Grade three was when we moved from that old shack to a big old
house in a tiny logging camp called Jordan River. Looking back, we lived in a
place many long to go on vacations to. It was right on the water – the Strait of
Juan de Fuca and looking to the west lay the great Pacific Ocean. Beautiful. We
would play on the great expanse of sand when the tide was out – turning over
rocks in the tidal pools – examining the treasures that we found.
But grade three was also the year that I became even more
withdrawn – scared – and very insecure. I was frightened of everything – the
geese, dogs, and bears. It was my terror from being in such an abusive and
violent home – this terror ate me up and soon was projected outwards. I was once
a child who knew no fear – there was once a time where it was okay to cry out
loud or play and laugh. But this was no more.
Now I would have nightmares almost every night – horrible dreams
of being chased by a faceless monster. Running in slow motion through a forest
of monstrous trees. Trees that had long roots that would grab me and pull me
down to the forest floor. I would sink into the earth– while my silent screams
went unheard – Nothing could wake me from these terrors – until finally I would
force myself to thrash in the bed until the movements would finally waken me.
Sweat would pour from my body as I huddled clinging my blanket close. Often I would wake to find myself
standing at the big bay window – pointing at unseen objects– terrified it was a
bear coming to eat me up.
Looking back I realize this fear came from being teased about the bears
and how they would eat me up if I were left out in the forest alone. I was told
not to tell anyone about what was happening in our home – and I knew better.
Bears were big and scary and I knew that I would get left out in the forest if I
ever told what my stepdad was doing to
me.
Our home life when we lived in Jordan River was unhealthy. Many
nights we were kept from sleeping as the music played and the adults drank and
laughed and smoked. I remember my brother and I, peeking around the corner
watching them. They were passing around a wood thing, which looked like a penis
– and they were putting it near the faces of the ladies who were at this party.
Everyone was laughing – but I was really scared. I knew what this piece of wood
looked like and I was scared that my stepdad would use it on me – in my private
parts. This scared me because it was so big. But that never happened – not that
I remember anyways.
I remember my stepdad coming to my room once when my mom was out
– he came into my room and he was naked. I was about 7 years old. He had a weird
look in his eye and he picked me up and held me up in the air. Then he slid me
down his body. That was when I heard my mom come in the front door. He quickly
put me down and went out to talk to her.
My mom called the police and they came to the house. They asked
me in front of my stepdad if he had done anything to me. My stepdad was right
there – I was scared – he was looking at me – I said no, nothing happened. The
police went away and nothing more was said. (The memory of what happened after
he left the room is very hazy – however the memory of him sliding me down his
naked body stays as if set in stone).
Soon, I was moved from the upstairs bedroom that I shared with my brother
– down to the basement room to share with my sister. The abuse continued
and even became worse as most nights my sister was out late – with her friends.
Al would come down to read me a bedtime story. But he didn’t read to me. Instead
he would crawl under the covers with me and touch me. He would touch me under my
nighty. I tried to squirm away but he did not stop. He kept touching me. And
saying weird stuff to me. Stuff that made me feel really creepy and bad inside.
Then he took the covers off me and put his face down there. I didn’t like it
when he did that. I was so scared that I thought I would pee my bed.
He also brought our dog FiFi down there and made the dog do the
same thing to me. I was terrified that the dog would bite me down there – I did
not want to move – I squeezed my eyes tight and tried to escape into my dream
world once again. I have never told anyone about the dog – the shame washes over
me whenever I think of that night.
I push those memories far into the darkness of my mind – for
when they surface I feel the sick blackness well up from deep within my soul.
That feeling scares me – the only thing that made those memories and feelings
disappear was when I was high. I don’t want to return to that life – so I try
very hard to not think about that time with the
dog.
It didn’t matter if my mom was home or not – the abuse still
happened. He was very sneaky and would say he was going to read me a bedtime
story. There was a time when I was still in the bunk bed upstairs when I shared
a room with my brother – I think my brother was on the top bunk. My stepfather
came in to the room very drunk and crawled into bed with me. He touched me under
my nighty and said those words to me. Words, which even though I do not remember
the actual words – I do remember the tone and the way he said those words as he
touched my body- Words which made me feel very scared and very bad. This time he
was really drunk and when he finished touching me all over he lifted me up over
him and put his mouth on my privates and licked me with his tongue – it hurt so
bad. I remember crying and asking him to stop – but he did not stop until he was
finished.
The next day at school I remember sitting in the washroom for so long
that my teacher had to come in and ask if I was okay. I was crying because it
hurt so bad to pee – it was all red and hurt down there. I knew if I told I
would be in big trouble and then the bears would come eat me up – or worse –
maybe he would cut me up with the
chainsaw.
There were times that he brought his friends into the room to watch or to
touch me as well. I slid deeper into my dream world, pretending to sleep. I knew
better than to ask him to stop. I knew the penalty for that.
I also came to the realization that it must be something that I was doing
to make him touch me like that. He always told me how cute and sexy I was – what
a little heartbreaker I would become when I grew up. I came to hate my body for
what it was – if only it was different then he would not be doing those things
to me. I thought I was deformed – if only I had a normal body like my friends
then nobody would be touching me in those ways. This carried over into my adult
life – and I was forever running from the pain of who I
was.
During this time there was also much physical and emotional
abuse. We were not allowed to cry “or we would get something to cry about”. We
were not allowed to talk or play or laugh in the house. There was not a day go
by that we were not working on something or another around the yard. Usually it
was regular taking care of the farm animals we had. Other times it was plucking
chickens. Other times it was digging trenches in the yard or splitting and
carrying firewood to the house. We were not allowed to ever have our hands in
our pockets – for this would earn us a spanking and being reminded how useless
and lazy we were. Even to this day I find it so difficult to just sit and watch
TV. I have a need to be working at all times. The words come back to haunt me –
the taunts of how lazy and useless I
am.
We were constantly told how stupid we were. Nothing was every done good
enough for my stepdad. Dishes had to be rewashed – dresser drawers were emptied
out and we had to refold all the clothes. I remember being pulled out of bed in
the middle of the night when I was just 6 years old and being yelled at because
someone had drawn a happy face in the bacon fat in the frying pan. All of us
kids were hauled out of bed that night and had to get the belt until one of us
admitted to doing it. I think I finally said I did it just so the beating would
stop –but it may have been my brother who finally spoke up. I do remember the
spanking after it though. Turned over my stepdad’s knee – no pants on – as he
counted out loud – one slap, two…slap …on and on until he reached twenty-five.
My bottom was so sore I could not sit down for days. But like everything else I
pushed this night far back into my mind. It too became
normal.
He was beating my mom almost nightly and when my mom wasn’t
around to beat on he would take his anger out on my brother. I remember walking
up the stairs from the basement and seeing my brother curled in a
ball on the kitchen floor – my stepdad was kicking him and yelling and
calling him names. There was blood – my brother’s blood splattered all over the
cupboards. My brother had his eyes squeezed tightly shut – I didn’t know what to
do. I yelled at him to stop – and he finally did – and walked away like nothing
had happened. I cried with my brother that day – we didn’t know what to do –
there was nobody there to protect us.
The abuse continued while we lived in Jordan River – it evolved
into finger penetration and oral sex. He would also rub my body on his and force
my hand onto his body to rub. My mom walked in once and saw him leaving my
bedroom obviously sexually aroused, the police were called, they came out and
asked us kids (with both my mom and stepdad present) if there was any bad stuff
going on.
He was right there in the room with us – of course the answer was no –we
knew what would happen if we told. Had lots of animal graves around to tell us
that. The abuse continued and became worse. It seemed that the day the police
came was a realization to my stepdad that he could do whatever he wanted to do
and nobody would stop him. He knew we were too scared to say
anything.
The angels are crying for all
who are lost, while zephyr picks up and carries the
cost….
Living in that small village was like living on the edge of the world. The
entire town had no more than 80 inhabitants – and that included dogs and cats!
The school I attended for grades 3-6 was located across the road from the beach,
beside the old community hall. It had 2 rooms – one was for teaching the 9
students (kindergarten to grade 6) and the other room was used for the
kindergarten’s playtime and as a gym when it was cold outside. This room was
also used for our Christmas concerts.
I remember one
year – I must have been in grade 4, my stepdad teased me unmercifully about
kissing Santa Claus during the concert. A really cute boy was
playing Santa – and did I ever have a crush on him! I was so scared that my
stepdad would make me go up and kiss him that I remember crying and begging not
to go to the concert – even though I was supposed to be one of the singing
angels. My stepdad tried to convince me to take my clothes off and streak across
the stage too – its no wonder that I didn’t want to
go!
The only store in that village was Maria’s – she ran a little
general store and post office at other end of town. This was a pretty
small place and it only took about 10 minutes to walk from our house to the store.
Sometimes we had a few nickels to spend and off we would go to buy penny candy
from Maria. And there really was penny candy –mojos were my favorite!
There were no clothing stores there– we usually went
to the garbage dump outside of town to rummage for clothes and toys. Most of my
school clothes and all of my toys came from the dump. At the time I never knew
that people didn’t always go to the
dump to get stuff. I just thought it was normal. My first pair of rollerskates
came from the dump and so did my purple bike! It was an adventure to jump on the
piles of garbage – breaking open bags to see what treasures lay
inside…
There were no playgrounds in town; however, with our imagination
we would play on the beach – and build cities complete with roads and houses. We
would run through the forest – pretending to be explorers – yelling our special
crow calls back and forth – to let others know where we
were.
There was never any supervision while we played outside – well
into the night. Even when swimming in the ocean there were no parents around to
be sure that we were not hurt. I think about it now and thank God for keeping us
safe.
Most nights, my parents would be out late at the bar – and we
knew that when they did come home there would be fighting and hitting – and we
would lay awake until morning came and we could be off to
school.
On the beach, I had built a fort out of driftwood and tree
branches. This was my special place – a place that was safe for me to hide when
the pain was too much at home. Many nights I would sneak out of the house, run
across the road and hide in my special place. I remember the day that my
stepfather found out about my fort, and came to see it. It was never the same
after that – because he had been there. It seemed like no place was safe from
him.
By the time I was
almost 10 years old we had moved into another house. This house was in a bigger town on
a dead-end street right on the water.
The sexual abuse continued – as did the physical abuse on my Mom and
brother. I remember walking into the basement where my brother and I had
separate bedrooms. My brother was standing in the middle of his bedroom,
helpless, big tears rolling down his 11-year-old face – mixing with the blood
that poured freely from his nose. The walls were splattered with his blood – and
Al was towering over him –with this horrible angry look in his eyes. Al growled
at us that we were not to tell anyone or we would be sorry. I don’t believe we
ever spoke of that moment until we were
adults.
I remember that this was also the year that I lost one of my best
friends. She had invited me for a sleepover – and when we were watching TV I put
my hand between her legs. I just wanted her to know how much I cared for her. I
did not realize that this was bad. I had always been taught that when you love
someone you touch that person between his or her I guess I was not taught
correctly.
That year, my body began to change. I was
becoming a woman – but nobody told me that this was normal. All I knew is that
Al soon wanted to touch my breasts more and more. I hated when he touched me and
whispered words to me – words that made my skin crawl with shame. This was also
the year that I began to menstruate. I was in grade six gym class and wearing
white shorts. I was terrified that I was bleeding because of what Al had been
doing to me – and I didn’t know what to do. So I ran home and hid my bloodied
shorts. I told my Mom that I was not feeling well and I went to bed. I remember
my Mom coming in and talking to me to see what was wrong with me. When I told
her about the blood – she showed me how to use feminine products. I do not
remember being told about the change happening to me – I still thought it was
because of what Al was doing to me. I was so scared that someone would find out
and tell Al that they knew what he was doing to me. If that happened – I would
be in big trouble. Besides – I knew that he would just blame me for the abuse.
And partly this is true – for I had learned to recognize when Al had that look
in his eyes. That look which I knew meant that he needed me to be his toy. And
sometimes I would go to him first, just to get it over with. I knew then that he
would not bother me again until the next day. I remember one time, I came home
from school and Al had that look in his eyes. It was just he and I alone in the
house – and I was scared because I just didn’t want him touching me anymore. I
thought if I played with his hair that he would be satisfied – and not have to
touch me. I climbed up behind him on the couch and played with his hair – but
after a few minutes he turned and picked me up in his arms and carried me to his
bed. The bed he shared with my Mom. I closed my eyes and escaped to my dream
world – I do not know what happened in that bed – it’s just a big black hole in
my mind. I was wearing slippers and I remember one of my slippers was left in
the bed. My mom asked me about it later – and I had to lie to her and tell her
that I went for a nap in her bed. I felt as if I was Al’s wife – the guilt
washed over me – if my mom ever found out she would hate me. With all these
feelings pulling me from the inside out – I knew I had to find a way to escape
for real. I began to spend as much time as I could away from the house. This is
the year I began to run to the streets – I would do anything to avoid the abuse
at home.
The group of kids that I began to associate with – they all came
from messed up homes too. We never talked about sexual abuse – only the
beatings. We shared something in common – and I found a release of some of my
pain. I soon learned that smoking weed would take me to my dream world where
there was no pain – I was able to laugh again – and it felt good. By the summer
after grade 7 I was getting high all the time. I was avoiding Al – and my Mom.
Because I was never home – the abuse became less frequent. The drugs were
messing with my mind though – and I became very angry and violent. It seems as
if all the pain I had been holding inside of me for so many years just had to
explode out of me before I burst. This affected my relationships with my friends
who did not get high. Soon the only people I was associating with were those I
got high with. With the drugs though – I soon learned that I had to let boys
touch me in the same places that Al touched me in. I already knew how to escape
to my dream world when this was happening – so the cycle
continued.
I remember one day coming home – Al was packing up his truck and
moving out. I remember thinking, “where is my Mom? Is she okay?”. And I also
remember this huge feeling of dread. Al had always threatened my mom that he
would burn us all up in the house if my mom ever left him. I was thinking that
my mom had thrown him out – and I was scared of what was to come. The first
memory I have of Al after he moved out was when he came to our house and put an
axe through my mom’s windshield of her car. My fear
grew.
I became very scared. I though that if I could keep him happy
then he wouldn’t come burn us all up. So I began to visit him in his new place.
It was a yellow house – he had birds in cages and he always had friends over and
was drinking beer. He would get me to sit on his lap and move around –then he
would carry me to his room and touch me – I just closed my eyes and went into my
dream world once again. He would give me money afterwards – most of the time he
was too drunk to figure out just how much money he was giving me– often I would
leave there with close to 100 dollars. The shame I felt inside would not go
away. I knew it was wrong but I had to make sure that he would not come back and
hurt us. This happened only a few times before the shame and pain I was feeling
inside became too much for me to handle. I was so scared of him and of his anger
– I didn’t know what to do. I knew what he was doing to me was
wrong.
I was about 7 years old when I realized that alcohol would take
away my fear – it would help me to laugh and play once again. If only I could
foresee the pain it would bring….
By the time I was 9 or 10, I found that I could no longer use my
imagination to take away my inner pain. I began to feel ashamed of who I was, of
what I did with my stepfather behind closed doors. I did not know how to make it
go away anymore. I began to show anger whenever I felt ashamed or humiliated – I
would strike out at my closest friends, at my Mom and at my teachers. If
everyone would just leave me alone then they would not be able to see my shame.
They would not be able to reject me if they were not allowed into my life in the
first place.
I began to sneak out at night and walk down the beach, alone,
with my pain – and during those walks found a new set of people to associate
with. They understood my anger – and accepted me without question. They never
acted like I was different – they understood the pain that I felt and showed me
how to make it go away. I began to
smoke pot and drink with my friends, I felt immortal – no pain – no fear – and
it felt good.
Soon, I began to smoke dope before, during and after school. My
grades dropped – I went from a straight A student in grade 7 to a drop out in
grade 8. By the time grade 8 started I was a mess. I was smoking weed and
drinking whenever I could get my hands on it. I was no longer a straight A
student. Now I didn’t even go to my classes. I began to skip out of school to
get high. I was 12 years old and for the first time in my life I felt free. I
did not have to give my body to Al – or anyone else. I chose who came close to
me and who didn’t. I never let boys touch me – it brought back such bad thoughts
and feelings of shame that I just couldn’t let them. It was bad – any touching
was bad. Kissing was okay though – that is not something that Al had done to me.
I soon had a reputation of being a tease –for I would let boys kiss me but
nothing more. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I continued to get
high.
I became violent –
especially when I wasn’t high – I needed the drugs to keep my emotions in check–
to keep the pain from growing inside of me. I remember trying to stab my best
friend when I was 12 years old – for no reason – just because she happened to
be in front of me when the rage hit. I punched my math teacher in the head –for
the same reason.
My drug use escalated my anger – at the same time it took away
my feelings of shame and fear. I chose to keep getting high because I did not
want to remember anything about what I was. I was getting high every day,
drinking alcohol and taking my mom’s headache pills. Anything to make the pain
go away – to make me fit in – I wanted to be normal – but the only way I could
be normal was to get high and make the pain go away. I also started to go over
to Al’s new place – because he would give me money, beer and weed. All I had to
do was let him touch me – and I had to touch him – make him feel good and then
I could leave. I always left with money or weed. Getting high made it okay.
I was soon kicked out of grade 8 – for fighting and skipping
school. I remember the day clearly – I didn’t even go home. I ran to the streets
the day I was kicked out of school – straight into a world of drugs, violence
and crime. I began to experiment with different types of drugs– from huffing
aerosol sprays, to sniffing cocaine and smoking pot with PCP. I didn’t care – I
chased that feeling of complete freedom – the loss of my emotions meant the loss
of my shame. I was free….. I decided to run away for good that year – if I
wasn’t around then he couldn’t touch me or hurt me. I didn’t even think about my
family and what they would go through when I left. I packed a bag and ran to the
city.
I knew that I was different – not normal like other kids. I was
so ashamed of what was happening to me – not only because I knew it was wrong
but also because sometimes he made me feel good. I felt that I did something to
make him do those things to me – and I was ashamed because I liked it sometimes
– and when I didn’t like it at least he gave me money which I bought drugs with
– and that made me forget all about it. It wasn’t long before I could not stand
the shame of what I was – nothing but a whore. I left for good this
time.
I was 11 – would be 12 in one month. I left the school and went
to the road and stuck my thumb out to hitchhike to a place far far away. The
first car that stopped was my principal – he tried to get me to get into his
jeep – but I wouldn’t even listen. I kept walking. The second car that stopped
was a friend of my stepdad. I got in and he drove us to a steep road down by
Sunny Shores. He parked the car and brought out a joint. We got high. Then he
started to touch me. I froze up – I didn’t know what to do – I knew he was a
friend of my stepdad – and I figured that my stepdad must have told him that I
would let him touch me. I closed my eyes and escaped into my dream world. I only
remember the first few minutes of him touching me – the rest is a haze. He
started the car and drove me to the road where he let me out of the car.
I caught the bus into Victoria and went to my best friend's
school. I pulled her out of class and told her that I needed a place
to live since I was not going home anymore. She let me crash at her place for a
few days. Then I hopped from one house to another until I couldn’t stay at
anyone’s house anymore. That was when I found a flophouse on Princess Street
that I stayed at for a few weeks. High every day – I was introduced to cocaine.
I was 11 years old. I remember walking down Pandora Street when I met this guy
who invited me to his place to get high. He cut out some lines of cocaine on
the table and showed me how to do a line. I didn’t feel high like when I smoked
weed – but I did feel happier. I continued on my way.
Back at the flophouse there were about 6 of us staying in this
tiny room. A mattress on the floor and a crate for a table. Graffiti and poetry
covered the walls – we had no money and ate from the dumpster behind McDonalds.
I knew I couldn’t stay there much longer. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to
run with the night, no rules, no pain, no memories of my childhood. I just quit
thinking about my Mom and my brother and sisters. I didn’t want to think of
anything in my past – I thought if I ran fast enough I would be able to
escape….
That was when my friend Donna and I decided to go to Vancouver –
we had heard that it was crazy there – the streets were never dark, people were
out 24 hours a day, and there were parties, drinking and more fun. We hitchhiked
to the Tswassen ferry terminal and panhandled enough money in the parking lot to
get us on the ferry. We arrived downtown Vancouver close to midnight and it was
everything we had been told – and more. There were so many kids just like us,
hanging out on the corner, selling drugs, getting high, laughing and being free.
I felt like I finally found my place in
life.
As soon as we hopped off the bus a guy named Damien walked over
and introduced himself. I guess he could tell that we were new and he wanted to
make sure we were okay. He showed us a place where we could sleep without being
bothered. It was in the basement apartment of an abandoned building. He showed
us how to jimmy the window to get in. It was warm – and a safe place to sleep.
I soon found that
if I held drugs for the dealers down on the street I could make enough money to
get high every day and still have money to give to someone over 18 so they
could rent me a hotel room down on Granville Street. The year was 1985 and I
was 13 going on 14. I felt grown up – I was taking care of myself – and nobody
was touching me anymore. I was high every day – soon it didn’t take my pain
away anymore. I now had new pain – I needed to forget my family – my brother
and sisters and my Mom. It hurt too much to think about them because I missed
them so much. I couldn’t go back though – here on the streets I never once
thought about what Al had done to me. I never thought about the abuse – but I
did think about my family. I soon began to do acid every day – tripping out
24/7 made it possible for me to forget about everything except the streets.
Someone soon showed me how to escape in another way – the
needle.
I was introduced to needles just after I turned 13 – I had met a
guy who was letting me crash at his hotel – there was a big party there,
everyone was doing needles except for me. I felt left out – but nobody would let
me get high that way. Once everyone left he got me high. I remember it was the
strangest feeling I had ever had. Once the needle went into my vein– the room
got darker, he turned into a big lizard and then his head started spinning
around. That’s all I remember – I woke up on the floor the next day.
The parties continued – I had a good job holding drugs for the
dealers and life seemed to be going pretty
good.
We had found this burned out building downtown that was great to
use for parties and jam sessions for punk bands, and a place to sleep too. There
was a group of 10 of us, we had just picked up a quarter pound of hash – and
decided to party! We rolled it out nice and flat then rolled it into a tube,
stuck a knife through it and lit it on fire. Oh man – we passed that around the
room more times than I can remember – the whole room was hot boxed and we were
so stoned we couldn’t even move. That was
life…..
By 1986, Expo was coming to Vancouver – and it got very busy on
the streets. Lots of drugs were being sold, lots of parties to go to, and lots
of police. We had to become creative in where we stayed as the kiddie cops were
on the lookout to get all the street kids into group homes before tourists
arrived for Expo86. I remember sleeping down on the beach at English Bay and
being woken up by the cops kicking me in the ribs – telling me to get out of
there. I didn’t even take my blanket – I just got up and walked away…
My time on the streets was getting short – the cops wanted to
have Vancouver as appealing as possible to the tourists and I guess a bunch of
strung out street kids was not so great for that image.
Summer of 1986, Damien and I went down to Wreck Beach for the
day – what a sight! There was dope being sold everywhere and if you didn’t want
dope there was alcohol – anything you wanted – it was for sale. We stayed there
all day, by the time night fell, we had built a fire on the beach and were just
kicking back drinking, talking and laughing. So free…until we say the telltale
lights on the stairs leading from the road to the beach – cops! We rushed to put
out the fire, while someone else buried the beer in the sand. By the time the
cops got to us – the only sign of a party was a few drunken souls.
We had to leave the beach that night and it’s a good thing I was
so drunk and high – I passed out once we got back to the hotel –but when morning
came I woke up in such pain – I was so badly sunburned that my nose was just one
big scab. I couldn’t even walk. Damien and I rolled off the cot and we were
crawling around on the floor – almost in tears – but laughing too. We knew what
would take care of the pain…
A few weeks later, I was alone in the room when the cops decided
to kick the door open. I was told that the guy whose room I was staying in was a
known heroin dealer and a kid like me shouldn’t be staying there. The police
took me to social services – and they gave me a bus ticket home. I guess they
thought that’s what it would take for me to just go home. Yeah right! They put
me on the bus – but they couldn’t make me go home – I just stayed on the streets
of Victoria until I had saved up enough money to return to
Vancouver.
I was hanging out on the streets of Victoria –hitchhiking wherever
I needed to go. I soon found that I had to let guys touch me in return for rides
or food or money or drugs. Every time I would escape to the dream world while
they got their satisfaction. One day I met this guy on the street – he bought
some pills from me and invited me back to his hotel for a beer. He was here from
Montreal with a work crew. We started hanging out a lot and when his work was
transferred to Vancouver he gave me the address of a hotel there and told me to
look him up if I was over there.
2 weeks later I showed up on his doorstep. He welcomed me in and
let me crash there. I slept in his bed – but he never touched me. Until one
night – he came home from the bar and started to touch me. I closed my eyes and
escaped to my dream world. He was gentle with me and stopped when I cried out in
pain. I became pregnant that night. I was just 15. We did not know. He moved
back to Montreal – and we stayed in touch. When he left to return to Montreal I
went back to the streets.
I met a girl named Cherry and we decided we wanted to go to
California – so off we went to the freeway and began to hitchhike south. It
wasn’t long before a car stopped, inside was a nice older man named Ray. He
told us he was an engineer and he was delivering bread to the homeless shelter.
He told us that he would give us a place to stay at his home. We agreed and he
took us home where we met his wife. They were the nicest couple I had ever met–
they lived in a big house in Ladner – and gave me my own bedroom. And, he wasn’t
a freak – I mean he never once tried to make a move on me. He was an honestly
nice man. One of very few out there.
After being there for about a week I became very ill. They took
me to the hospital where it was found I had pneumonia – and I was pregnant. They
told me that I had to make arrangements with social services to make sure that
my baby and I stayed healthy. We contacted social services and they came to get
me. I was placed in a group home on Christmas Eve. At 3am Christmas morning –
the police showed up and took me to the Youth Detention Centre at Willingdon. I
was so angry – I did not want to be locked up! Christmas morning – everyone in
the unit got up and had presents under the tree. Everyone except for me. I had
arrived too late to get a present. I was very
sad.
A week later I was handcuffed, shackled and placed on a small
airplane. I was transferred to Victoria Youth Detention Facility. I stayed there
for a few months and upon release was sent to another group home. When I was 8
months pregnant I was placed in a foster home until I had my son. The day I
returned from the hospital with my son – my foster mom kicked me out of her
home. My son’s father flew down from Montreal and took me to my real Mom’s
house. It had been a few years since I had seen her. It was a bittersweet
reunion. I had so much anger towards her – for not protecting me and for
keeping me from my real Dad. I did not trust nor believe anything my Mom told
me. It was difficult for me to let go of my pain.
I remember losing my temper one day and I just blurted out all
my feelings and pain that I had inside of me – all the years of abuse –I finally
told her. My Mom believed me. After many meetings and answering so many
questions from the police – charges were finally laid. It was difficult for me
to tell my story to the police – because deep in my mind there was that memory
of when my Mom told them. They didn’t help me then – I was scared they were not
going to help me now.
Court day arrived and I remember the fear – dread – and I wanted
to get high so bad. I told my story that day – I tried to tell them everything
that I remembered. They only wanted to hear about the times that my brother was
in the room. They said they needed a witness because my word was not good
enough.
My brother told about the times he witnessed the abuse on me. I
know it tore him up inside to tell the story. My brother had been there and he
did not know how to stop the abuse. I don’t blame my brother – there was nothing
either one of us could have done to stop what was happening in our house. I just
wish that he did not have to go through the pain of testifying for me – nobody
wanted to hear about the abuse he suffered – even though we knew that Al should
have been sent to prison for the beatings he gave my brother. The blood is
washed away – but the scars never go
away.
He ended up getting only 28 months in prison, which I believe he
served only a few weeks of that time before being released.
During my pregnancy and for the first few months of my son’s
life, I avoided the drugs. I had my son to take care of and to love and to
protect. I was finally happy – and living a real life. But I soon found out that
without education I had to rely on social assistance to support us. I was 15
years old with a grade 7 education – and did not know how to change that.
Because I had left everyone behind in Vancouver – and it had been close to 4
years since I had lived with my Mom, I had no real friends to spend time with
there. My life revolved around my son – holding him and dancing, singing to him,
cuddling him– but soon I heard the call of the night once again. My mom would
watch my son once in a while and off I would go – to the lights of the city, the
freedom, and the night. The baby's father had returned to Montreal by this time – and we
had decided that we would see other people. We remained close – and talked on
the phone often.
During one of my trips downtown, I met a guy – he was
cute, mysterious, and had an aura of danger about him. I was intrigued– and we
soon began to exchange phone calls. I found out that he was in prison and the
day I had met him was while he was out on a work release pass. I believed him
when he told me he was innocent. I never thought twice about it. The day he was
released from prison – he came to my Mom’s to visit. We began to talk about
getting an apartment and becoming a family. I never knew what was soon to
come…
When it came to sex – I hated it. It hurt me so bad – and every
time he touched me – it brought back memories of growing up. I would freeze up,
close my eyes and escape into my dream world once again. I knew this was not
normal – sex between a couple was supposed to be fun – and feel good. It did not
feel good to me though. I pretended that it felt good because I did not want to
lose him. ). I was scared
and still had so much disgust for who I was – I ignored my sexuality – I
wouldn’t let anyone become close to me in that way. The only role models I had
to show me how to act in a relationship were my mom and stepdad – I slipped into
the same role my mother played. I became the ‘perfect’ mother and girlfriend to
this man. During sex I would close my eyes and escaped into a dream world – the
flashes of my childhood – bright and painful filled my mind. There was no
escaping it. I found that sex hurt, I would tense my whole body when the moment
came that I was to have sex. The feelings of not being normal grew larger. The
shame and feelings of disgust returned. I was not normal – I would never be
normal – I hated myself and who I was. My relationship faltered – with my
inability to have a normal sexual relationship – and with my feelings of hatred
for myself –I tried to be perfect everywhere else in my life. I tried to hard to
fit in with my spouse’s friends – if only I could be like them that would prove
I was okay – that I was normal. He was nice to me at first and even said he
wanted my son to take his last name. I was ecstatic. Life was starting to be
normal for me. But then a darker side appeared. I found myself living in fear
once again – anything could set him off. I thought that if I behaved then it
would get better. I thought if only I tried harder to be the person he wanted me
to be then the beatings would stop. I was wrong. They only got worse.
I longed for an escape – and soon one was presented to me. I was
at a get together with him and his friends when I saw that they were getting
high with a needle. I remember that I had done it before once –and it was not so
bad. They shot me up with cocaine that day – and my nightmare began. I found
that with using these drugs I fit in – I no longer felt the feelings of shame
and inadequacy, which had plagued me since I was a child. I did not know the
dangers of this means of escape.
He found that he could control me completely with his temper
and the drugs. I found myself escaping more and more into a narcotic dream
world. I pushed my fears away and stayed high. During this time, he had made
me quit taking my birth control pills, as he wanted a baby of his own blood. I
knew I was not ready – I knew I had to escape from him – I did not know how. I
told myself that this was how life was supposed to be. I saw it growing up – the
beatings my Mom endured – and this was how life should be. I didn’t know that it
should be any different. When it came to sex – I hated it. It hurt me – so I
closed my eyes and escaped once again. I was 16.