...Walk With Me...

Distraught, distressed, in tears, annoyed, irritated, irate, unaccompanied, unaided, disillusioned, frustrated, heartbroken, robbed...
Does this sound rational to you? To most, this seems like an inventory of emotions, ones that are brought about in different situations, different times, when and if needed. To me, this is a list of emotions that I can feel at any given moment, triggered by any situation, even something as simple as a thought, a smell, or a word spoken. Can you possibly imagine feeling all of the above in one spontaneous moment without warning?
...Welcome to my reality...

Through out the passage of ones life, often they sit back to reflect what has shaped their personality, traits, habits, stance, weaknesses and strengths. Our past is not necessarily what defines who we are today, however, it does play a crucial role in what paths we choose, our outlook on life, values and morals.
For many, the path of discovery is rather simplistic, and seems to come with ease. They know who they are, where they come from, and what they believe. Most of these traits are formed through out childhood, passed down from parent to child, during the tender "learning years".
What is one to do when these learning years are distorted and inaccurate?
This is where my roller coaster of emotions comes into play.

~1986...My first breath was taken, I had been given life. In the years to come, I would realize that my right to breathe was the only right that would not be stolen from me.~

I was born in a small close knit community, Simcoe Ontario. Everyone knew each other, grew up together, and were likely related in some way. Your typical "feels like home" community.
My mother was in her 30's, and a housewife. My father was in his 50's and still spinning circles around the young fellows in the tobacco fields. Sounds like your typical family right? Wrong...
The relations between my mother and father were soon to die short. By the time I was a few months old, what was left of their tattered relationship, could no longer be mended. Alcohol consumed both of their lives, and unfortunately tore them apart.
My mother's inability to remain a faithful wife was ultimately what destroyed what little bit of hope that was left.

Before my first birthday, she packed me up and left our country life to move to the city, London, where she continued to see her new flame, soon to be my stepfather.
We moved to a ragged motel that likely wasn't fit for the rats who inhabited it.
We remained there until I was three.

My memories of this time are very slim to none due to the fact that I was so young. Although there are a few memories that stand out in mind. I remember my first bee sting, and how we discovered that I'm deadly allergic. I remember going to a colossal church, beautiful in every form, old architecture, I thought it was a palace. I remember being baptized there. I remember my dog Shasta, she was my best friend. I remember my cold dark room, where I spent most of my time. I remember my mother putting something "yucky" in my drinks every night and telling me "I know it tastes horrible Maggie, but you have to drink it, it's the only way you'll sleep". I remember all the strident voices that scared me and kept me awake at night. I remember all the screaming, the cries of those being struck in anger, the drunken stupor that seemed to occur more than it should. I remember the sound of the sirens outside of my window, and all to often the "click click" of the handcuffs being wrapped around someones wrists. I remember hearing his footsteps come down the hall. I remember hearing my door creek. I remember my screams in terror and pain. I remember his hand over my mouth. I remember clutching my teddy bear for dear life. I remember feeling like my insides were being ripped to shreds. I remember the grunts, the groans, the filthy words spoken. I remember when he was done he threw me a towel, told me to clean up, and we'd be sure to make a date of this again. I remember my blood soaked bed. I remember *this* as the moment my life was stolen....

**As a young child, we don't comprehend "right" from "wrong". We comprehend what makes us "happy" and what makes us "sad", what feels "good" and what "hurts".**

We remained in this motel until I was three, when the neighbors motel room caught ablaze, and smoke damage deemed the place unfit to live.
From there we moved to the place that I consider my childhood home, where I spent the majority of my years.

We lived in a split level 3 bedroom home, white with green trim. It had a cute little yard surrounded by beautifully groomed hedges. It was painted inside with the traditional cream colored walls, white trim, and finely finished hardwood floors.
My bedroom was painted a handsome blue, my favorite, just as I requested. It was filled with teddy bears hanging from the ceiling, posters of unicorns, and many pieces of artwork I attempted to create myself.
Down the hall was my playroom, filled with all my treasured belongings, the things that made me smile. Across the hall from my room, was my stepfathers. Painted a flat white with no character, it was as cluttered as it could possibly get. Shelves suspended from the walls and ceiling, holding book upon book, how to manuals for vehicles, maps, encyclopedias, and some of his favorite fictions. The room was dark, curtains were never pulled back. It smelled stale, and stunk of grease, oil, and unaired laundry.

Most of my days were spent out in the yard, playing with my favorite toy, my yellow Tonka truck. I wasn't your typical girl. I used Barbies for the props that held up my ramps when making jumps for my dinky cars. I enjoyed getting down and dirty, digging for worms, catching bugs, climbing trees and building things. I was more less a loner. I spent most days alone, entertaining myself, wishing for the day to be over.
My mother typically stayed in the house, and wasn't much of one to spend time with. Her time was passed by wallowing in self pity, chain smoking, and drowning her fears and problems with liquor.

In a sense, we had a traditional lifestyle. My mother looked after the house, cooked the meals, did the shopping etc.
My stepfather worked everyday, very long hours, and most times on weekends too. We ate supper every evening at 5pm sharp. When supper was finished, dishes were to be done, a bath was to be had, and homework was to be done when I had finally started school. The remaining time was to be spent quietly before bed, whether I chose to read, watch TV, or do something in my room.
**These Were the Hours Spent in Unease**

Just as our family had routine for meal plans, cleaning, and daily activities, there was also a routine for bedtime.
For as long as I can remember, my stepfather was always given the duty of putting me to bed.
Every night, I gave my mother a hug and kiss, told her I loved her and made my way down the hall, into my room, into my bed, to await in anxiety, wondering, "Can I just go to sleep tonight?".

Bedtime Song

I’m a little girl, awake late at night..
Covering my head, I’m filled with fright..
I hear your steps come down the hall..
In your head, my name you call..
You are quiet, ‘cause mommy’s in bed..
You don’t want to reassure her of the things I’ve said…
You want her to think that there’s nothing wrong..
And that you’re just singing our bedtime song…
I hear the door creek, I know you’re there…
Why doesn’t she stop this? Why doesn’t she care?
In you come, as quiet as can be..
I’m scared to death, oh God why me?
As the moonlight shines in, it gleams in your eyes..
I see no remorse; I see nothing but lies…
I try to pretend that I’m asleep…
But this doesn’t detour you, under my covers you peek..
My body now filled with intense heat and fear..
You reach out your hand, and try to wipe my tear..
As I tremble and cry, I push you away..
In hope you will go, Daddy please don’t stay..
Then comes the fierce look that lies in your eyes…
You raise your hand, because you I defied…
I let out a scream, but you don’t seem to care..
You restrain my hands, and pull my hair…
I call out for mommy, but she’s no where to be found…
She’s learned to ignore this excruciating sound…
I can no longer fight, my back’s against the wall…
You’ve won again, no one hears my call…
When you’re finished, you say “goodnight”…
“I love you angel” and tuck me in tight…
I hear the door creek, you’re gone down the hall…
Back to tell mommy I was no trouble at all…
That I’m such a good girl, and I do as I’m told…
That you were just tucking me in, making sure I’m not cold…
As I lay there awake, I think of questions for you…
But I will never ask them, in fear of what you’d do…
I feel like I’m numb, I feel nothing inside…
You made me this way, I feel like I’ve died…
My pillow is drenched, from my tears that flow…
The damage you’ve done, you will never know…
Eventually I manage to fall asleep…
But slowly into my dreams you creep…
The next day, I pretend that there’s nothing wrong…
Until it comes time for our bedtime song…

Empty, dead, unoccupied, hurt, saddened, confused, perplexed, persecuted, abandoned, alone, unworthy, ashamed, dirty and sullied...
Does this sound rational to you? These are some of the emotions I battled with, at such a young, tender age.

**A young child does not have the courage, nor the strength to speak out against a sexual predator. Regardless of how much pain it inflicts, the silence remains.**

The sexual abuse was not the only battle I struggled with in my mind. There was another piece of me out there, a huge part of my life missing. One that I had never grasped in my hands, but wanted it so desperately.
**My siblings**
I found out at a very young age that I had older siblings, 5 sisters and 4 brothers to be exact, 6 of which (including myself), were my mothers.
As far as I understood, my 5 siblings were all "taken" from my mother, due to their abusive fathers, and that my fathers children were just given away due to his negligence. This made sense to me, after all, the only man I knew as my father was abusing me, and later in years to come, I would realize that my biological father had given up on me. I all too often clutched their photos, crying, wishing someone would just come save me. I wondered why they hated me, and what I did that was so wrong to be left in the home. They were a piece of my heart, and even at a young age I knew I had to find them. I kept their pictures under my bed, hidden, for I was scolded if I showed any interest in my mothers past doings, regardless if they were my siblings or not. I was empty without knowing that part of my life. Who do I look like? What characteristics do we share? My mind always asked questions...

Someday

The tears I shed,
My heart that bleeds,
The thoughts in my head,
The longing need,
The lost hope,
And Feeling despair,
I'm all alone,
And no one cares,
Will you love me,Or hate me,
Or talk at all,
This is not my fault,
Not at all,
What she did,
I can not erase,
I cant wipe,
The tears from your face,
I too lived,
The torture and fear,
It only got worse,
With every year,
I keep you alive,
With thoughts in my head,
Your crumpled up pictures ,
Under my bed,
In hope one day you will see,
She’s nothing like you,
Nothing like me,
My heart aches,
It longs for you,
You’re a piece of me,
As I am you,
Do we look the same?
Are we alike?
Do you feel my pain?
Are you alright?
So many questions,
Too little time,
You are lost,
But are forever mine,
In my heart ,
I’ll hold you dear,
Until we meet,
I’ll hide my tears,
If each other we don’t find,
I’ll see you on the other side,
Together forever we will be,
Siblings…for eternity.

**Knowing that there is somebody out there that may understand just one small tidbit of information gives a wounded child faith and hope, all too often to lead to disappointment. Sometimes those persons abused children lean towards, aren't the kind, loving people they are perceived to be..**

Finally, a breath of hope. A brother. Someone to confide in. Someone to help me, take me under his wing, help.
~1990~
At the age of four, I was all too excited to learn that my older brother had made contact with my mom, was in some trouble and wanted to move home. He left his foster home, and moved right in with us. He was 14 years older than I, making him 18 at the time of his arrival. Shortly after he arrived, we took him to the high school to register him, took the time to show him around the community etc. He took over what was originally my playroom, and seemed to settle in rather well.
He spent his days in school, and evenings at home with the family. I grew fond of my brother. We used to sit around for hours playing video games, watching movies, listening to music, but most importantly, talking. I let him in to the reality no one knew other than my mother and stepfather.

**Building the trust of a child is the easiest, and most common way for a predator to find his way in..**

I trusted. My brother was there for me, he loved me, and wanted to help me. That's what he told me everyday. "Don't worry little sister, we'll make our way out"...Oh how badly I wanted to believe him. He witnessed the physical and mental abuse endured, but was still in the "closet" about the sexual abuse. I put my full trust in him, only to find out, I "trusted" the wrong one again.
As my nightly routine of sexual abuse continued with my stepfather, I held a spark of hope. No matter what pain I was feeling at the moment, it was all going to be washed away. My brother was going to help me.
A night of partying, a regular occurrence in our home, everyone was drinking, hooting, hollering, having a grand old time. It came time for bed. I drug my feet down the hall to my room to await my nightly fate. For some reason this night, he was late, he didn't follow me right down the hall. Instead I could hear the faint whispers of him and my brother. None the less, the time arrived. My stepfather came in, removed his clothing, and fought to remove mine. As usual, I lay there helpless, in pain, screaming for help, once again ignored. But then I hear something, footsteps on the floor, someone is headed my way, that once dreaded creek of my door, lifted my spirits. It was my brother, standing in the door, with a look of bewilderment on his face. "I'm gonna be okay", those were my thoughts. My brother was there to save me, just as he promised he would. This never detoured my stepfather, he continued to have his way, but this time, more intense, more fierce, noises became louder, I hurt more. "Why isn't my brother doing anything?" I recall asking myself. He finally moved from the doorway, to the other side of the room, where my bed was. I was awaiting him to furiously grab a hold of my stepfather, pull him away and remove me from the situation, this is not how it played out at all. He sat, on the edge of my bed, reached his hand over to my head, grasped my hair tightly, and whispered "I love you"...I looked down and to my astonishment, he was masturbating, enjoying the thrill of his baby sister being raped.
My dream of being saved, was crushed.
For the remainder of the time he lived with us, the abuse from both parties continued, like clockwork. Daytime and evenings were ample opportunity for my brother, while nights remained for my stepfather.
My brother now took advantage of "game time" and more less turned it into a pornography scene. It gradually went from touching and fondling, to vaginal penetration, and finally to using foreign objects.
The trust in my brother, was now gone, life remained hopeless.

**A mother is the guardian, the one individual a child should have to turn to, and undoubtedly know, she will always be there...**

For most, they look to their mother for love, support, stability, hope and inspiration. I look to mine with shame, anger, resentment, emptiness and rage. The common questions, Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How? cross my mind. The questions I would like to ask, and receive an honest answer.
You see, all these years of sexual abuse were not hidden from her, she knew. From the very beginning at 3 years old when it first happened.

My mothers childhood was not an easy one to swallow. She too came from a family of deceit, lies, physical and sexual abuse. She was tortured. She too felt the sting of negligent parents, lost siblings, and feeling worthless.
My mother, however, didn't seek this as an opportunity to change, or break the cycle.
In her late teens, she gave birth to her first child, my sister, and shortly to follow, my brother. Both of whom she allowed to be abused, and abused herself. I can't speak of details in this area, as I don't know exactly how the whole story played out, but I do know that however the story goes, my brother and sister didn't deserve the life they had been dealt. Ultimately, they both ended up being removed from the situation. My sister eventually was adopted, and my brother (the earlier mentioned) was placed in foster care, but never adopted.
Amongst all this time, there were 3 more siblings born, two sisters, and a brother. Once again, I can't state the facts. All were eventually removed from the home, and placed for adoption. Five children caught in the webs of our distorted, unfair child welfare system.

I was born just 5 years after the last child was removed from my mothers care. It baffles me as to how a woman can physically and mentally abuse her children, and allow others to do just the same, yet be allowed to bring another child into the world? Where is the justice? There is none....

Unhinged, unsound, illogical, unreasonable and unstable. Just a few words to describe my mothers frame of mind. Verbal and mental abuse was her game, and oh how well she played. When words didn't quite hurt enough, hands and blunt objects did.
This was a woman who never quite learned how to deal with emotion, whether it be anger, sadness, or even happiness for that matter. My mother lacked confidence in everything she did, always second guessed every decision, and deemed herself "Not Good Enough" for society. She battled with many psychological barriers that she herself had never quite overcome from her past.
When my mother was born, she was basically abandoned by her parents, and raised by her Aunt and Uncle. She was raised to believe that these, were her parents. When the person she believed to be her father (her uncle) passed away, a new man came into the picture. This man, was abusive, physically, sexually, and emotionally. My mother was constantly badgered for her stuttering problem, which was a result of a blow to the head from a fall. Belittled and demeaned, my mother hung her head in shame. She was sexually abused by many family members, beaten, and left to fend for herself.
When she finally discovered who her biological parents were, her mother passed shortly after.
She too, dealt with the feeling of emptiness and not quite knowing where she came from. There were many siblings that were removed from the home, placed in foster care, never to be seen again, even a few that weren't even known about until years later.
My mother leaned towards alcohol to numb the pain, and men to fill the lonely void. She transformed her personality to whomever she had to be to feel accepted. She lived in the cast of what others thought she should be.

As a child, I recall that my mother was, for the lack of a better word, "moody". Even when life was at it's peak, and things were going great, there was still something there that held the happiness back, as if she wasn't "allowed" to be happy. At one moment she could be on top of the world, the next, her knees hit the ground. When situations became too much to handle, or if she felt she was being "put down" or "frowned upon", she resorted to anger, lashing out in rage. A simple telephone conversation could turn from pleasant, to an absolute fit of fury, just because she stuttered a couple of times, or someone may have asked her to repeat herself.

These traits, made life difficult. I constantly walked on eggshells, starting at a very young age. The fear of being beaten, for no reason what so ever, was enough to keep me quiet and anti-social. I secluded myself from most situations where I may have had to interact with her. I avoided the typical "quality time" moments that most parents and children enjoy, such as reading, playing games, or something just as simple as talking about the day.
The verbal abuse, far outweighed the physical abuse in my life though. I had become so accustomed to having no control over my own body, that it no longer mattered. The one thing I had control over was my mind, my thoughts, my dreams and my hopes.
I don't honestly think my mother ever realized the impact that her words had on me. They struck harder than her fists possibly could have, and scarred deeper than any lashing.
My mother knowing about the sexual abuse from my stepfather, was likely more crippling than if it had of been a secret. This was her form of black-male in our home, when things didn't quite go her way.
I was told that I deserved the abuse that I received, that I was asking for it, and if I didn't present myself as so appealing, men wouldn't want to touch me.
I was told that I was useless, a waste of life, and would never amount to anything other than what I was good for at the time, sex. Starting at a very young age, I was constantly ridiculed for my appearance, told that I was "fat", "ugly", "hideous", "disgusting", and "overweight". This was the slow death of my confidence, self esteem, and poise...

**A child looks to their parent for love and support, acceptance and approval. Showing a child unconditional love teaches them to love themselves, not for the beauty on the exterior, but the true inner beauty that radiates from the inside out..**

Although I felt fear, pain, and loneliness through out these tender early years, I never comprehended that what my stepfather was doing to me, was actually wrong. I had no guidance on the matter. My mother closed her eyes and acted as if it were ok, I was never taught that it wasn't right. I thought that all daddies did this to their children, hence the reason I never spoke out.
It wasn't until I was six years old when I discovered different.
I started a normal day, went off to school excited for the days activities, but, something was different this day. For once there was a different topic spoken in class. Not the typical math, reading or social studies. It was about "Bodily Space", and who was "Allowed" in it. I listened carefully and attentively, probably the longest attention span I have ever held in my life, and as I listened, my teacher never mentioned that it was "OK" for fathers to do what mine did. I was crushed. Instantly, my heart sunk, I felt ill...
**This was the moment that changed it all...**

"I don't feel good, when will this stop?" is what I recall asking myself.
December 24, 1992, a Christmas Eve I will never forget. Crashing, thrashing, smashing, hooting, hollering, the sound of partying. A Christmas Eve celebration, spent with a keg of beer, countless bottles of liquor, and a table full of drugs; ones you swallow, ones you smoke, ones you eat, ones you snort, and ones you shoot.
As most children were sitting around singing Christmas carols, spreading holiday cheer and anticipating old Saint Nick, I was being fed straight shots of Jack Daniels and Black Diamond Rum. Apparently this was how it was supposed to be done, regardless of the fact that I was only six.
I lay on the couch, dizzy, disoriented, and unable to function on my own.
~Intoxication~
By the time 10pm rolled around, I had no stability left, no control over bodily functions, words were slurred, I was drunk.
My mother, stepfather, neighbors and biological father were there for the party.
In a hurry, my mother scampered me down the hall and told me it was time for sleep. "You'll feel better tomorrow Maggie, you're going to be fine" was whispered in my ear.
I stare at my ceiling as it spins out of control, I can't close my eyes, I feel as if I'm one step away from falling off the face of the Earth.
Eventually, I passed out. Off into a deep slumber, hopefully to arise in better shape then when I laid my head down.
My next recollection, me screaming in excruciating pain, a pain that I have never felt before. I was being mauled, completely under cover, hands restrained, face in my pillow, legs restricted. Toe nails sliced the backs of my calves, knees forcefully bruising the backs of my thighs, teeth, ripping my neck and shoulder blades,my bottom being torn and violated, the horrible stench of liquor, grease and an unbathed body overpowered me.
I remember screaming repeatedly "Somebody Help Me", my cries were over run by the AC/DC CD blasting in the background. Being raised with strong religion in my life, I recited my prayers in my head, my last hope. Maybe God might help me. Much to my surprise, he let me down again.
After what seemed to be my entire life passing me by, the final moan was heard, he was done. The door creaked, his footsteps went down the hall, I let out my sigh of relief from behind my whimpers and tears.
"Tonight is the night" I said over and over again, as I tried to regain my composure, balance my drunken self enough to stand. To me, this was my escape plan. For once, I wasn't held captive in my own home by just my mother and stepfather, there were others there that night, "they can help me".
I slowly crept out my door, and quietly made my way down the hall, relying on the walls to hold me up. I reached the entrance to the living room, and cautiously poked my head around the corner. Music was still blaring, everyone still remained at the table drinking. I discretely caught the attention of the man, who I would find out in years to come is my biological father. He calmly walked over, almost making it seem as if he were headed to the bathroom. He looked down at me, in my blood soaked nighty, our eyes locked, he knew what had been done.
This man (my biological father) lashed out in absolute anger. He flipped the table upside down, liquor flew everywhere. He grabbed my mother firmly by her arm and said "Get your ass in that f**kin car, if you're not ready in five minutes, I'm taking her without you!".
Teeth chattering, cold, wet, and scared, I cuddled my mother in the backseat of the car. "Mommy, where are you taking me?" I asked in fear. "You better keep your mouth shut Maggie", was said in response.
I was taken to the local hospital, and immediately seen by an intake worker from the Childrens Aid Society.
As much as my mother allowed bad things to happen to me, I still wanted her by my side. I screamed for my mother to be with me as I was interrogated, stitched and examined. Once again, I felt alone, and violated.

Charges were laid against my stepfather, and court was to follow in that New Year. The longest, drug out journey I have ever embarked on in my life. It was one thing to suffer the abuse, but to try and convince a courtroom full of judging eyes that it was all true. Sitting there explaining my story, while the eyes of the very man inflicting my pain stared right back at me, I could only imagine what I'd be in for when I got home.
Sentencing took place, a mere slap on the wrist, and life moved on. The abuse continued, my mother continued to close her eyes and walk away...ignore the cries for help.

**Where is a child to turn, when the people at hand wont help?**

Ill treated, battered, deserted, inconsolable, dejected, and timid. Does this sound rational to you? This was the mind-set of a now seven year old, lost and confused little girl. My stance in life was to remain hidden. Show no pain, be asked no questions. I became cold and callus. Let no one in, no one gets hurt.
I felt unaccompanied in life, walking the dark lonely road alone. After all, how could one feel protected? My mother chose to act oblivious to the situation at hand, my stepfather was the abuser, and those from the child welfare system left me to endure what I had already dealt with for four years.
I never spoke out again for many years, in fear I would have to let that guard down, only to be hurt again. I bottled my emotions inside, screwed the lid on tight, only to experience the the feral explosion of dealings that were about to come.

**The hurt can only subside for so long before it turns sinister...**

I changed. The happy go lucky, patient child that always bared a smile was now angry, destructive, vicious, and became heated very easily.
It started out with the typical temper tantrums that children have. It felt good to finally holler back. Screaming the words "I HATE YOU!" was like a breath of relief. Gradually, I worked my way into destructive behavior, breaking toys, throwing objects around, slamming everything I touched. Playing with dolls was never my cup of tea, until I discovered that ripping their heads and limbs off alleviated rage. This behavior to most parents would be punishable, but not necessarily alarming. The vast majority of children go through a "destructive" stage, and when corrected on it, it subsides.
Mine however, did not. The simple ripping and smashing was no longer enough, I needed more. I was fueled by fury, sweet revenge. The once simple method of ripping Barbies head off now played out as a crime scene. I snuck knives into my room, and hid them under my mattress. When I knew I was alone and no chance of being caught, I staged a scene that replayed a similar plot to my life. I'd take Barbie and lay her on my bed, pretend she was sleeping. Ken would then enter the picture, being forceful, with bad intentions. I would then reach for those hidden knives, me now taking the part of Barbie. I mutilated this male doll, tortured it. I'd spend what seemed like forever grating the knife over his entire body until the once smooth plastic surface was rough to the touch. By the time I was finished, Ken, was in pieces. It was my way subconsciously of getting "even". I was addicted to inflicting pain, even though it was only an inanimate object. Just as with any addiction an adult suffers, the craving becomes more fierce, you build immunity, it no longer does the trick, you seek a new thrill.
I continued acting out with the dolls until I discovered something new. During one of my murder scenes with the dolls, a new sensation occurred. I slipped with the knife and sliced my upper thigh. It was deep enough to require four stitches. This was a new beginning. Barbie and Ken no longer numbed the pain, but the knife slicing across my legs sure did. My exacto knife was now my new best friend. I spent hours carving, creating a masterpiece of lines and squiggles that only meant something to me. No one else would see the true beauty in what I saw. The cold metal against my skin, the stinging sensation as it whittled through my flesh, the rush I would receive when the blade got caught up and needed that extra "rip" to break though. The ultimate bliss of it all, to watch my freshly carved work of art bleed. The warm trickles of blood running, I was mesmerized. To me, it was like sitting by a waterfall, zoning out, admiring it's beauty. For every drop of blood that was shed, it let go of one more tear from my heart.
I continued slicing...

**"The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain"..~Karl Marx~**

Although I sought self-destructive behavior as a form of relief, I never understood the true magnitude of it all. Obviously I realized it was deemed as wrong, or I would not have hidden it, but I didn't fully understand the shadowy journey it was about to take me on.

For the next couple of years, I struggled with the thoughts that raged through my mind. After all, who can be at peace with themselves when they constantly have a sideshow of self thought images on how to inflict pain and misery on another being?

By the age of eight, I had finally found a safe place I could escape to. Although it wasn't far from home, it was far enough away from the fire, that the flames didn't burn so much. I found a friend. A single father of a boy and girl, and his three nephews that he had in his care, moved into the apartment in the basement. I visited on a regular basis, and basically became a part of the furniture. I began to slowly open up and smile again. I had children my own age to play with, and do what "normal" children do. I was still suffering the abuse at home, but at this time, it didn't seem quite so bad, it was manageable. This new neighbor became a guiding light in my life, a man that didn't have any interest in hurting me. He visited my parents often, a new "drinking buddy". He too was an alcoholic, but this didn't change who he was inside. I referred to him as my uncle, he took me under his wing. Even though words were never spoken about my home life, I always had the feeling inside that he knew. I remember him as a gentle, huggable teddy bear, rather short and stalky, a true native complexion, and long hair that I used to spend hours braiding. He painted, oil paintings, as beautiful as could be. He had a love for music, and an amazing voice, he sang to me. Finally, I had a place of comfort.

Just as I thought my life was finally headed from hell to a normal existence, something changed it all.

Once again, a party. The neighbor from downstairs, and quite a few of my mothers friends were over, drinking and having fun, as usual. The neighbor from downstairs had been going through a hard time, battling back and forth between the courts over his children with his ex wife. I'm not sure what all took place, but the children ended up being removed from his care. He was depressed, hence the reason for the party, a "pick me up" so to speak.
I watched television for the later part of the evening while the adults stayed out in the kitchen drinking. At one point, the neighbor left, and went downstairs, nothing was thought of this, just that his party was over. A short while later, my mother called to me and asked me to run downstairs and grab her beer that she had left down there earlier in the evening. I gladly went for this chance to go visit my new favorite person. There was a door in our kitchen, we kept it unlocked, it lead down to the basement apartment. I headed down happily. I reached the landing and hollered as I usually did, asking if it was okay to come down, no response. I continued down the stairs, thinking that he may have been in a back room, unable to hear. I reached the kitchen and hollered, no response. Odd. I slowly crept through the apartment, calling his name, yet nothing in return. I checked each bedroom, thinking that he may have fallen asleep somewhere, he wasn't in any of them. The only room left was the bathroom. The door was closed. I knocked and hollered again, still, no response. Not thinking too much of the situation, I returned to the living room for a few minutes, waiting for him to come out, he never did. Finally, worry started to set in. I thought maybe he slipped and fell, something that has happened before. I returned to the bathroom, knocked again, and entered this time.
I dropped to my knees...
There, my guiding light, the only man who never hurt me, hung. Suspended from the rafters of the ceiling, he hung.
**More than one soul dies in a suicide..**

Crushed, betrayed and hurt, I resorted heavily back into my destructive, angry behavior. No matter how much I sliced, it didn't numb the pain. No amount of blood could relieve the hurt I felt right to the core of my soul.

**A damaged and lost person will resort to whatever it takes to "fix" their pain...**

To sit here and write this, now as a mother looking at my own children, it sends chills up my spine to think that around my oldest child's age, I was contemplating if life was even worth living.

I went shopping with my mother, grocery day. I did my usual, dawdled along behind, dragging my feet, staring at the floor. We walked every aisle, as my mother checked all the items off on her list.
"Shoe laces", I needed shoe laces. I convinced my mother to buy two packages of them for my sneakers. I needed them because the other laces were the round cheap kind that just wouldn't stay tied.

Depression. Who would think at nine years old one would have to worry about depression? I only wished that I could laugh and play as the other kids did. I smiled, but didn't mean it. I laughed, but didn't feel it. I tried to fit in, but always felt alone. No matter how hard I tried to hide my home life from people, I always felt like they could see right through my act, and felt as if they frowned upon me, like I was dirty and worthless. I was mortified at the thought of anyone ever knowing what went on behind closed doors. I lived in fear of someone elses judgment.
The pain had to end...
**Suicide is the remedy of pain..**

I tied them together, as tightly as I could. I tested their strength, pulling and tugging. I tied one end to the towel rack and pulled for all I was worth, they held together.
Numb, it's the only word to describe what I felt. I was going to cheat my way out of life. End it all. I tied one end around my neck, made sure it was good and snug. I climbed into the shower, stood on the footstool, and tied the other end around the shower head.
"You can do it", I recited in my head. I kicked the stool out from under my feet, I hung. Dangling there, short for breath, I flailed so much, the weight and movement broke the shower head. Unsuccessful. Once again, I failed.
The slow, choking death of myself would have been much easier than the beating I received when my mother realized what I had done. You see, she did not care that her nine year old child had just attempted to take her own life, that was in small comparison to the damage done, a broken shower head.

To many, hearing of my story of attempted suicide is funny. They seek the humor in it all. Who would use shoelaces? Wouldn't one be wise enough to know that either they would break, or that the shower head wouldn't be strong enough?
It was my cry for help. One that once again was cast away in the shadows.

**When acceptance and love isn't found at home, one will look for it elsewhere, by any means possible, in the most disastrous of places regardless of the consequences..**

As I entered my pre-teen years, I needed guidance, more now than ever before. There was a world out there that would chew me up and spit me out, and I was merely sundering through it.
Being raised in the environment that I was, I looked more towards the company of adults, rather than kids my own age. By the time I was eleven and twelve, the majority of the friends I associated with outside of school were in their twenties. I was a well developed girl for my age, this attracted the wrong people. I became rebellious.

At the age of twelve, I was about to discover something that would forever change my feelings towards my mother.
During all of these years, I was hurt that my mother never stopped my stepfather, my brother, or the few other men from hurting me. I never hated her for her lashings or her hurtful words. I still loved my mom. No matter how bad things were, she still carried that "mother" title, and to me, it was something to be respected. I still had happy memories of her, it wasn't bad all the time.
I remember music playing all the time, from old classic country to classic rock. I remember cuddling up on the couch every Sunday afternoon watching old re-runs of our favorite Bugs Bunny and Tweety Show. I remember how she used to draw, always making me home made coloring books. I remember coming home everyday from school to a home cooked meal. I remember the smell of the bread baking in the middle of the night, and how she would sneak me a piece if I woke up. I remember playing cards for hours, Euchre, Cribbage and 45's. I remember making crafts for every holiday, even the simple ones like Valentines Day, or St Patrick's Day. These are the memories that made me still love her.
A few years prior, I had found out about a sister that I didn't know I had. She was older by twenty-three years. We met a few times, but I was rather shy and withdrawn, and never opened up to the "sister" relationship.
By twelve we had finally established a relationship. Although we were separated living in two different cities, the bond gradually grew stronger. I finally trusted again. We spoke often on the phone, and I made regular visits to Chatham to visit her.
~March 1998~
Screaming filled the house, my mother in a belligerent rage. She found something, actually, she found many things.
I was asked to clean my room that day, and I failed to do so. I skipped out on it to go hang out with friends. She cleaned that day, she snooped that day. What she found surprised her.
I wrote. My only form of expression without actually speaking. No one has ever understood my relationship with my pen. You see, through out all the years, my pen has never raised it's hand and beaten me. It has never called me names or made me feel worthless. It has never violated my body, or touched me in my secret places. My pen has never taken it's own life and abandoned me. It's stuck with me through thick and thin, never turned me away.
The pages of secrecy she found that day contained my deepest and darkest thoughts. Within those papers were my heart and soul. They disclosed the tears I shed, told a story about the scars on my body, revealed the hate I felt to the core.
She read them all, she was hurt, and in return, I got beat.
That night, I lost it. Something inside me snapped. This had to end.
I called my sister, the only person I had in my life that I trusted enough to reach out to. We talked for a few minutes, the usual chit chat. From out of no where, I blurted it all out. I poured my heart out over the phone. For once, someone understood. As I was trying to swell back the tears and keep quiet so my mother wouldn't hear, my sister said something that flipped my heart upside down.
After I mentioned that my father sexually abused me, she replied with "Margret, he's not your father".
~Silence~
What do you say when you've just discovered that the man you thought of as your father all these years, really isn't. I can't explain how I felt at that moment. Just as with my mother, I never hated my stepfather. I loved him dearly. Other than the sexual and physical abuse at bedtime, he was a wonderful father. We walked, talked, played games,and did all the things fathers and daughters do. It was only after hours when things were "different".
I got off the phone, wiped my tears, and gathered the strength to look my mother in the face, regardless what the consequences may have been. What was one more beating?
I asked, and an answer I received. A slap clear across the face followed by "yes, he is your father" was all I needed. Within the next couple of weeks, I left my mothers home in London and moved in with my biological father in Chatham.
The abuse ended...

~The hurtle to overcome...How to let go...How to move on~

Easier said than done. Although I was now away from the abuse at home, the emotional burdens started to surface, one right after another.
I leaned towards all of the wrong people for support, thinking they truly cared.
With these people, I felt like I fit in, that I for once was "accepted". The road these friends led me down was a self destructive journey, one that would take a few years to overcome.

Drinking numbed the pain, sweet intoxication, to be completely oblivious to my surroundings. Reality didn't seem all that bad with the inebriated blur infront of my eyes. My new found mission, to drink the past away.
All I found were my tears in the bottom of my glass, feeling alone more now than ever.
I looked for acceptance, I leaned towards anyone who would give me the attention I so desperately craved. This attention, mostly came from men.
One would think, after being abused for so many years (by men), that I would more less avoid them at all costs, not true. I can't explain why, I just did.
This being around men only led to more abusive situations, ones that were never spoken of.

Trying to build a relationship with a man that carried the title of "my father" was no easy task. To move right in, and try to make things right, just didn't happen.
I held resentment, bitterness and anger towards this man. Although he himself, never hurt me physically, I couldn't help but push part of the blame on him.
You see, it is not only the duty of a mother to protect their young, the responsibility is rested upon a fathers shoulders as well. Mine walked away. Left me out in the cold.
He knew of the abuse my older siblings endured from my mother, yet he let me remain with her. He knew of the abuse I personally endured from the age of six onwards, yet closed his eyes. Once again, I felt betrayal, from a person who was supposed to protect me.
I never fully allowed myself to open up to the "father-daughter" relationship. I always held back, tried not to get in too close.


*Bury the pain...Tuck it deep inside...Harbor the hurt..Until it subsides*

I pushed the abuse out of my mind. Tucked my secrets deep within my soul, thinking they eventually would disappear. This theory worked for some time, and worked well. I finally felt somewhat happy with life. I had my sister, who I had grown very fond of. I had a niece and nephew, who I considered to be my younger siblings. I was back in school, made a few new friends, volunteered at the church and started to live the life of an average teenager.
I spent every weekend going bowling with the family, I looked forward to family dinners, watching movies with my niece and nephew, looked forward to the many all night chat sessions I had with my sister, and went to church every Sunday. We went for walks, long drives, sat outside for hours...We were a family. I couldn't have asked for more.

As much as I despised my mother and step-father at this point, I still returned home to London for visits, sometimes only for a weekend, sometimes for a couple of months.
The visits were always filled with tension and hatred. I hated them for what they had done, and they hated me for realizing the truth, and discovering right from wrong.

*Tick-Tock...Watch the bomb drop..*

I was in London visiting for a couple of months. Catching up with old friends, putting in my "time" before I went back to my fathers.
I got a call, from my sister. This phone call would bring back every emotion I had tried so hard to suppress.
My niece, my unbiological sister had been hurt. Not any injury a band-aid could mend. A mere seven years old, her and her friend from next door finally broke their silence. They had been sexually abused by the man who lived in the basement apartment. The very man who had abused me the previous year, but I never spoke out.

My emotions rocketed, I was engulfed with rage, hurt, and guilt. I felt that if I had of disclosed my incident the year before, this man would not have had the chance to hurt her.
Yet again, the process of police reports, victim statements, newspaper reports and court dates consumed life.
My niece never openly told me what had happened to her, nor did I ask. I was there to lend support, not to pry.
It wasn't until our Victims Impact Statements were submitted when I finally found out what had happened to her, once again, I was guilt ridden.
The day that both the little girls were abused (separate dates), I was present. Totally unaware. I was crushed.
To this day, I still carry the guilt of what happened to those two little girls. Why them? Why couldn't this pervert be happy enough with me?

~Frustration~
Newspaper reporters prying, hoping they'd get the front page story. Repeatedly going through every detail, taking pictures, everyone so wrapped up in the publicity of it all. They got their front page story, and I could care less that we had made it there. How could someone be so consumed by "success" that they push aside the pain and emotion wrapped up within those pages? How could one be so selfish? No one involved in that case sat back to think about the three little girls who had their hearts ripped out and stomped on, who felt worthless, and scared to death. No one cared, No one.
My niece and I stuck together, closer now than ever before. I had to be her rock, I hated watching the torment she went through. No words were ever spoken about it, but I knew, after all, I was walking in her shoes, and I wore them well.
Court date after court date, preparing for trial was brutal. Constantly being remanded to a future date so the pedophile could save his own ass, creating a pity-pot story that a courtroom judge would fall for. He succeeded.

...The Sentencing...
~For three girls-A lifetime of shame, hurt, anguish, guilt, visual memories, and violation...
~For a pedophile-3 charges of sexual assault, 3 charges of sexual interference and 3 years probation..Not one night spent in jail..Nice...
Isn't it funny how we as the victims receive the longer, more severe sentence?

~The Judge~
A very stern man, cranky facial expressions, had no tolerance for anyone who entered the courtroom that day. Teenagers with the simplest charges against them were sent into custody. This character almost gave me a sense of hope. He was much different than the previous judge I had dealt with in years before, the one who let my stepfather slip through the cracks...
We were the last case on the Docket for the day. We waited with anticipation. Being followed by newspaper reporters, "How do you feel? What are your thoughts? What are you hoping for?" Honestly, all I wanted to say that day was "F*** OFF!!" I was in a foul mood, full of rage. Standing in the waiting area with that creepy bastard looking at me, with his smug eyes, his cheeky little grin, staring me up and down. His older brothers there intimidating me, wanting me to run and cry. That I did not do. I was furious, and gladly shot daggers back.

~It's do or die~
Finally, 4pm, our case was called. I listen carefully, to what the Crown is requesting, and what the Defense is bargaining. I'm not happy. There were originally 12 charges against this man, he bargained his way down to 6.
Every time the court dates were remanded in previous times were to gather more information for the "accused". Assessments and so forth. What they compiled was the biggest load of BS I have EVER heard in my life.
He was sentenced~ sent to sign papers, and walked as a free man, with very few restrictions.
I was sentenced~ walked out of the courtroom, down to the washroom, locked the door, and collapsed. There I lay, on a cold, public, cement floor, crying. I was emotionally drained, I didn't think I could possibly shed another tear. Shows how wrong I was.
It wasn't the sentence that killed me, the lack of time served was no surprise to me. It was the reasoning. During the course of our court proceedings, the assesments done on this man, they were what determined his punishment.
Those evaluations determined and diagnosed him with what they called a "Psycho Sexual Disorder" They determined this by talking with him, a few brief times. They came to this conclusion because he claimed he watched his father beat his mother as a child. So, in the end, because he suffered some form of child abuse, it was acceptable to let him walk out of that courthouse, a child predator, and grant him freedom to inflict pain once again. Unbelievable.