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...