My Story

I have finally decided to write my story from beginning to end.   I am not certain why I feel the need to write it but the need is great.  1995 was the year my memories began to return.  I'd been in therapy for seven years at the time, seven long years.  I always knew something was "wrong" with me.  I knew I had to "fix" it.  My marriage was failing, my life changing in a direction I did not want to go.  I felt I was out of control.  So many things just did not feel right.  I struggled daily just to cope, just to make it through another day.

Then, finally, I had some answers, disturbing, frightening answers.  But, answers nonetheless.  I'd been sexually abused at age ten.  That was the start.  The start of something I never could have imagined.  The abuse memories were the beginning.  So much to tell.  All my life, I related what a wonderful childhood I had.  A loving family, a wonderfully, loving, caring mother, lots of friends. 

And looking back, I still say I had a good childhood.  I want to remember my mother as the wonderful person she was.  I understand her struggle. 

I was born in 1954 in Southern Ontario.  A special child, born on my father's birthday.  The light of his life.  The product of a profoundly deep love. 

I grew up thinking all was normal.  A normal family, a normal life.  But it was far from normal.  Keep in mind that most of what I am about to tell you, I was unaware of for most of my life.  So many secrets.  So much hidden from me. 

My parents loved each other, of this I never had doubt.  It has been said that my mom was my dad's only true love.  He sacrificed a lot for her, she sacrificed for him.  My hell began when my mother became pregnant with the brother I never knew until 1997.  You see, my parents were not married, at least not to each other. My mother was only 19 when she gave birth to me, I was 15 months old when she became pregnant with my brother.  My father was married, 42 years old, with four daughters.  His wife was quite ill with cancer and being a "good" Catholic, divorce was out of the question. 

My father doted on me, but when my mother became pregnant with my brother, life as I knew it changed drastically.  My mother made the painful decision to give her baby up for adoption.  I can only imagine her struggle.  She knew in her heart that she could not manage two children as a single mother.

They swore to secrecy.  A secret kept for 40 years.  I try to understand their decision, their struggles. My father's only son - given up for adoption.  And the beatings began. 

I understand the concept of multiple personality disorder or Dissociative Identity Disorder, but looking back I have difficulty understanding how or why it happened to me.

I feared my mother.  Totally and completely.  Every move I made, every thought I had was governed by mother's approval.  Anything to avoid Mother's wrath. But it seemed the more I tried to avoid her wrath, the worse it was.  I struggled to be the perfect little girl my mother wanted. 

At the age of seven, we, my mother and I, moved to a new home. Mom was so excited.  A new job, a new home and the best part was that my aunt and uncle would be living in the apartment below us.  Someone to watch me when Mom was at work.  She worked shift word a the local cotton mill which was only a block away from our new home.

What Mom did not realize was what was going on. My uncle was not a nice man.  Afraid as I was, he had the opportunity to take advantage of a little scared girl.  My aunt (great-aunt) was crippled.  She spent most of her day in the kitchen, knitting or crocheting.  My uncle found many ways to be alone with me.  My fear of my mother bread in me a fear of adults in general.  A fear of someone in authority.

So, I feared my uncle.  He was a very bad man.  While I do not have vivid memories of him touching me, placing my hands on his genitals.  But mostly, I remember being so terribly afraid of him.  He was not a good man.  this went on for three years. 

For the most part, life in our new home was good.  I had my own bedroom.  Mom seemed happier.  I had friends nearby.  One of my friends was a young boy who lived in the apartment next door, Billy.  We were the same age.  We had fun.  We explored together.  One day I went to call on Billy.  But he didn't answer.  Someone told me to come in.  I ran upstairs to look for Billy.  What I found was Billy's Dad.  An adult.  An authority figure.  Someone to fear.

He wanted to show me something - No was not a word in my vocabulary. What he wanted was to show me the view from his bedroom (or someone's bedroom) window.  A view of the field in the backyard.  The field where Billy and I "explored".  He had watched us and somehow thought this gave him the right to explore me.

As he began to touch me I felt myself leave my body.  Watching in horror from the upper corner of the room.  In retrospect, he was kind, gentle, but as a 10 year old it was pure terror.  

When it was over, I ran into the bushes in the back yard where I hid for what felt like hours.  The story I created was my truth for 30 years.  I believed what I said.  To explain the blood and bruising I told Mom I had fallen on the bar of my bike.  So real was my lie, I can remember the pain of hitting the bar of my bike.  No questions.  My story was believed, by everyone, including me.  I became very good at making up stories to cover the truth.  

Time does not really come into play here, it may have been a day, a week, a month or longer.  But what I do know is Mom was working an evening shift.  I was getting ready for bed.  There was a knock at the door.  The neighbour.  Sweet talking his way into my house.  I don't know how it happened.  But it did happen.  This nice kind man somehow managed to lure me into my room then called his friends in - 5 of them - 6 all together.  They had been drinking - smelling of alcohol.  They pinned me in my room.  As far as I remember they all had there way with me.  At some point I passed out.  

What kind of man does this to a little girl, even if she is not so little?

No one picked up on the signs.  My grades fell, drastically, I became ill, my doctor explaining to my mother that perhaps I was going through puberty and would soon begin menstruating.  And I did - two years later!

From this point on, I was not abused sexually again.  After that night in my room, I changed.  Karli and Carrie took over to a degree.  There were many of them.  Some children, some caretakers, whatever the situation required.  To this day, I do not know how I survived, sometimes thrived.  Life went on, somewhat normal.  

At fourteen, life changed.  A neighbour, a girl I thought of as my friend, blew the wind out of my sails.  We were having an argument and she became cruel, telling me that my Mom and Dad were not married.  Not only weren't they married, my Dad was married to someone else and had 4 children.  

My whole life had been a lie!

I do remember questioning my Mom one day when I was young.  I asked why Dad didn't live with us.  Her answer was that she and Dad fought too much and it was better this way - I never questioned her about it further - you didn't do that with Mom.

After my neighbour broke the news to me, I changed.  I became rebellious, reaching out to anyone.  I wanted to fit in.  I didn't want to be different.  My first rebellious move was to tell Mom I wanted to attend the public high school.  Most of the kids I went to elementary school with were continuing on to the Catholic High School.  I wanted to be someone different.  I didn't want to be teased anymore.  I just wanted to be like everyone else.  

But I wasn't like everyone else, was I?

For the next two years I attached myself to anyone who would pay attention to or appear to like me, not knowing, not aware that some of these people were questionable.  I never did drugs although I did drink on occasion.  It seems I cared not for much.

At 16, the only man I felt safe with, my beloved grandfather, died, suddenly.  I was devastated, in a state of disbelief.  Five months later I met the man I would marry.  He was wonderful, smart, very good looking.  He was kind, funny and I fell in love with him.  We married 5 years later.  It was  a relationship built on lies and secrets.  He knew nothing of me before he met me and that was how I wanted to keep it. 

I gave birth to our first child 10 months after our marriage.  A beautiful little girl.  I was so proud.  But what was more important was that my Mom was proud.  My husband and I moved and moved and moved.  Always with the intent of "starting a new life".  But each "new start" was an escape.  With each new friend I made, our relationship grew more and more distant.  I could not understand why.  Why my husband resented my friends.  Why didn't he understand how much I love him.  What lengths I would go to to do anything for him.  Looking back, I realize now, that I could not be "his" friend.  We'd had too many untruths between us.  No, let me rephrase, I had too many untruths - TRUTHS to me, but untrue in reality. 

I adored my husband.  I respected him.  I also feared him. But it was not him that I feared, it was the possibility of the truth coming out.  Our relationship strained, yet still we hung on.  At this point we had three wonderful children.  Two daughters and a son.  The perfect family.  And to the outside world that is how it appeared.

We were a long way from perfect.  And I will always be sorry for that.  I was not in control for the most part of my life.  Not in control of me!  I appeared to want to control everything and everyone in my path when all I was trying to control was me.  After 11 years of therapy I can say that I finally have some of that control now.  I dug and searched for answers and when I found those answers I had to face and cope with the truth.  It is difficult to look in the mirror and see someone who lied, hurt people she loved, it was more difficult to accept the truth of my life, that I was abused as a child, that I had a mental disorder because of it, that my marriage was over - but it was most difficult to look forward, to start over, to put the past behind me. 

I divorced my husband of 23 years in 1997.  It was a bitter divorce.  I was not well mentally, but I stuck to my goal and began my new life.  Before I filed for divorce 1n 1996, I made a trip home to Ontario to clear my mind and find the truth within me - to be certain of what I wanted. 

What I found was something beyond the truth.  What I found was a lie buried so deep, even after discovering the truth, some still deny it happened.

The truth...... my Mom became pregnant when I was 15 months old.   And so a new story begins....... a new chapter in my life.  A chapter of love and hope for a future only imagined!

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