CHAPTER 1
ABUSE
You can hear the truck pulling up and its door shutting. You hear his footsteps getting louder, one by one, as he gets closer and closer to the door. The door handle slowly turns. Your heart is racing. What mood will he be in? He comes in. He looks happy—for now. So you start the delicate dance of walking on eggshells in hopes that you will not do anything to upset him. Watch the words you speak; be careful of the thoughts you have. Most of all, watch your actions, your body language. One wrong move, in his eyes, can change everything in a split second.
This describes what every month, day, week, hour, minute and second is like living with an abuser and being his target. Domestic violence is not a bad dream; it is reality—to me, to you or to someone you know.
What keeps it alive and festering is the secrecy, embarrassment and shame. By talking about it openly, we can protect ourselves and our children. I offer my story of sexual and physical violence with the hope of giving another venue for awareness and the opportunity to stop the violence.
CHAPTER 2
ROOT CAUSE
My earliest memory is one of the most positive feelings I ever remember about compassion and love. When I was a baby, less than one year old, I developed a high fever and was choking to death on my own vomit in my crib. My uncle was visiting for Christmas and he was the only one who heard my body thumping up and down in my crib. He had been a medic during World War II and was able to clear my air passage and get me breathing normally. No wonder he was my favourite! Throughout his life, he always made me feel adored, special and loved. He was the only man in my entire life to show me all of this without wanting anything in return. I will always hold a special corner of my heart for him. If only I could have received this gift from the rest of my family on a daily basis, perhaps I would not have had to go on a life-long journey trying to duplicate the genuine love and affection he had shared with me.
Instead, my reality was that I was born the youngest child in my family and the only girl. My parents had me much later in life, when my mother was going through menopause. What a surprise I was! My life started off with complications right from the beginning. My mother always made a huge point of letting me know that she endured two major traumas while she was in labour with me. First, I was a dry birth. My mother's water had broken the day before and she had stopped dilating. Second, my umbilical cord was tightly wrapped around my neck and I almost died from strangulation. My mother was warned to never get pregnant again, as the end result could very well be dying during childbirth.
My family was definitely dysfunctional. That came with many aspects. My father was an alcoholic and my mother suffered from bipolar disorder. My mother's cycles would last for months and months on end. The cycles were one extreme to the other. My parents fed off of each other's illnesses. This caused confusion and chaos in the house. When my mother was depressed, she would stay in bed for months and only get up to do the bare minimum for survival. My father would slow down his drinking and try to take care of day-to-day matters. During my mother's manic stages, which meant she had excessive energy and slept only a few hours per night, my father would increase his drinking. My mother was by nature a judgmental person, more so during a manic period. She could give anyone and everyone a tongue lashing, not filtering a word she had to say, regardless of who she hurt or isolated. She would also compulsively shop to buy high-end items priced well beyond what the family income could sustain. As a teenager, I liked this stage, as she would buy me clothing and accessories galore. I did not realize the financial hardship her shopping was bringing. It was the only time I felt like my mother showed me affection.
When I was 5 years old, I found out what a sexual predator was. I was abused by a relative who resided with us. This continued until I was 10 and my menstrual cycle began. The abuse entailed inappropriate touching. From that time I started to block most of my childhood memories of what was happening in the house until I was 12 and he was no longer around on a daily basis. During this time, I developed various coping mechanisms, one of which was leaving my bedroom to crawl in beside my mom in bed. But on the weekends, my father was home and he did not share the same enthusiasm around having me sleep with them. He would tell me to get back into my bed and he would close their door. I would sit on the floor outside, crying, sometimes falling fast asleep right on the hall floor. I was terrified to sleep in my room; it scared me.
I developed a hatred for my father. One day, he walked into my room while I was being abused, and he looked in and thought that it was only harmless child's play. I felt abandoned and betrayed.
My abuser told me, "See, no one will believe you."
I did go to my mother one day to tell her. She was busy getting supper ready and didn't even hear me; I was shushed away. Once again, the abuser was right. I was trapped with no one to save me. No one else cared.
When I was 13 I remember picking up one of my dad's straight-razor blades. I then sat on the floor with the blade between my fingers and started to gently slide the blade along my wrist. I was contemplating slicing my wrist and ending all of the emotional pain I was feeling. Then I had a thought: Even if I did end my life, no one would notice and I would be quickly forgotten. I got up, put the blade down and went to my bedroom to cry alone. That was the first time I felt depression and despair. Instead of following through in the bathroom that day, I turned to alcohol and marijuana to numb my pain.
I felt that I needed to go on a life-long journey to try to find genuine love and affection outside of the immediate family, as there was none to be found within it. These values and beliefs had been strongly instilled into me instead of the love I so desired:
Do not show affection, especially if others can see.
The neighbours do not care what is happening in your life, so do not share information with outside people. Keep secrets.
Whatever happens at home stays at home.
Always make sure that you look good when you go out in public; appearance is everything.
Always attend church on Sundays.
Do not show emotion and definitely do not cry.
The last one, my mother was exceptionally proud of. No matter how depressed she got, she never cried.
My focus became working on ways to be popular and get attention from the boys. I was seeking recognition and attention and hoping that, through touch—whether it was appropriate or not—I would be loved and accepted. I thought this was normal. I had no comparisons besides how my abuser had falsely made me feel loved, and that was done through touch.
I faced two rape attempts at the ages of 13 and 14. The first was by a second cousin that I had never met before. My parents had sent me on a trip with my mom's second cousin, who was a nun. She and I were to stay with her brother on the west coast. How much safer could I be? Everything was good where we were staying until one Sunday after church, when a guest came over: their brother. After dinner, he offered to take me down to see the beach. We drove down, got out of the vehicle and started to walk in the sand. All of a sudden, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into him. He tried to kiss me and grab my breasts. I recognized this danger. Not again, I thought. I needed to protect myself. My only escape was the ocean, as he had shared with me that he could not swim. I ran into the strong waves and started to swim along the shoreline. He yelled, "Come out of there! I won't touch you! You misunderstood!"
I could not swim forever. The beach was secluded with no one in sight. I was getting tired and he was walking along, looking out at me. I had no choice but to chance getting out. I did and told him that if he touched me again, I would tell his family. He told me to calm down and then he drove me back. As soon as we got there, I called another aunt and told her I needed to stay with her. She said, "No problem."
The cousin I was staying with drove me to her place. I never said a word to anyone. After all, who would believe me?
The second time was at a wedding. An older guy approached me and asked me to dance. I was very developed for my age so I believe he thought I was older, just as I always wanted them to think. He asked me if I wanted to go outside and share a joint with him. Why not? We walked out of the safety of the hall, down the street and into a dark back alley. We smoked the joint and then he called me his "Queen Bee." Unexpectedly, he grabbed my waist and roughly pulled my dress up. It all happened so quickly. I automatically reacted by lifting my foot and I stomping down as hard as possible on his foot with my high heel. This threw him off and gave me the chance to run. I ran all the way back to the hall only to find that my parents had left. Hadn't they wondered where I was? Weren't they even concerned? I spotted one of our neighbours and rushed over to him. He could see something had happened, and I did tell him about it. He drove me home and that was the end of it. He never even told my parents. I certainly kept it quiet. In my mind, it was entirely my fault for going outside with him. The next day, the guy called me. "Hi, Queen Bee, let's get together and finish what we started." I hung up the phone in a panic. I stayed at home for a couple of days until he was gone—he was only visiting town for the wedding. I never heard from him again.
Not only did I have to face abuse at home, on vacations and during family outings, I also faced the same behaviour at school. When I was in Grade 10, one of my high school teachers started to make advances toward me. He talked to me like I was an adult, which I liked. One evening, we stayed late after school to work on a project. When we were done, he offered to take me out for dinner. I accepted, ignoring the signs. I thought singling me out like this was just his way of being nice to me. Over dinner, he talked about his family. Then he changed the subject, telling me how pretty I was, how attracted he was to me and that he was willing to continue covering for me when I skipped classes for a small price. All of a sudden, I felt dirty. I continued to be polite until dinner was over. He offered to walk me back to the school and said he would give me a ride home, but I told him I needed to hurry to catch the bus. I ran from him as quickly as possible. I was scared. I recognized what was happening and wanted no part of this deal. From that day forward, I ensured that I was never alone with him. It was not long until rumors started to fly about this teacher pursuing a different girl in my class. She thought it was great. No adults in the school put a stop to his behaviour. What conclusion were we students to come to? Obviously, this must be acceptable.
One Thanksgiving, when my dad discovered a guy he worked with was going to be all alone on Thanksgiving, he brought the guy over. After dinner, I asked him if he wanted to go to a drive-in movie. My parents let me go even though I was 15 and he was 21. We were dangerously drawn to each other and quickly became boyfriend and girlfriend. Our entire relationship revolved around drinking, toking, having sex and getting in trouble with my parents. Even my attitude toward education became negative.
He suggested that I go on birth control. I called my family doctor about it and the nurse told me I would need to come in for a Pap smear. Wait! I screamed in my head. I panicked, recalling one of the only two stories my mother had ever told me about sex. She had said this examination was a very, very painful process, explaining how the doctor would tear away flesh from my vaginal wall. (The other story was about how one of her aunts had been forced to perform oral sex on her husband and ended up developing horrible mouth sores.) Based on this, my only sex talk, I decided to hang up the phone and take my chances with unprotected sex. Well, it did not take long: I was pregnant by that July.
When the day came to tell my parents, my father was furious and my mother, true to form, told us that we had to get married quickly so the neighbors would not figure out that I had gotten pregnant before I was married. The next day, she called the parish priest. He came over to the house and explained that he was not willing to marry us, as I was already pregnant. My mother could not understand this, and I too was left in disbelief. I went to church every Sunday and whenever I did something wrong, I went to confession and asked for forgiveness. I was one of God's children, and my soon-to-be husband was a Catholic as well. I never felt the same about my faith after that encounter. I felt betrayed and discarded yet again. We were married by a Justice of the Peace. I had become a wife and mother by the time I was 17. The marriage would end in divorce in less than four years.
CHAPTER 3
SECRETS UNFOLD
I had blocked out memories of the early sexual abuse until I was in my mid-twenties, when I was feeling consumed by anger that was out of control. My doctor recommended professional help from a therapist. Every time I went to see a new counsellor, this question within the first three or four sessions: "Were you sexually abused as a child?"
I would get so enraged that I would walk out and never go back to see that counsellor. I felt like everyone was on the bandwagon of thinking that if you are having emotional challenges, you must have been abused. Well, counsellor number five was no different. The question came up, I got angry and I told her that she should be embarrassed to call herself a professional and that certificate hanging on the wall was nothing but a piece of garbage. I drove home in disgust. Without warning, there was a switch inside me; my feelings turned to extreme sadness the moment I got home. I began to cry and kept on crying for hours. She was supposed to help me. The next morning, much to my own surprise, I called her and begged her to keep seeing me. She was happy I called back.
"I need to know," I admitted.
I continued working with her for months. It all started to make sense. The pieces were starting to fall into place; there was a strong possibility that I had been abused as a child. I was still in disbelief, as I had looked up to my abuser my whole life. My therapist suggested a week-long retreat that provided intense counselling and a safe environment in which to begin healing. I signed up immediately. There, I met people who had faced every life situation and trauma imaginable. For the first time, I did not feel alone. Yet I still hung on to the idea that childhood sexual abuse only happens to other people—even though the writing was on the wall. Once I returned from the week away, I went back to see my counsellor. I told her that I was still finding it hard to believe that I had been sexually abused as a small child. I was feeling sadness and confusion about it. She recommended seeing a psychiatrist who specialized in hypnotic therapy. I contacted him and booked an appointment.
I began the process of unlocking the memories. What an experience! There could be no denial now. I could see what had happened, with whom, and when. This process took months. I wasn't able to work during these memory recalls. They were debilitating. Finally, the psychiatrist said, "That's enough. To relive anymore would only cause unnecessary pain and trauma."
I needed to decide what to do with this information. After reviewing the options with my psychiatrist, I decided to share these painful unlocked memories with my family and to confront the sexual predator. But nothing changed. My family was not supportive and my mother just wanted the information to go away.
