It`s been a few weeks since I have been able to get my ass in front of this computer to blog – I was feeling overwhelmed by my previous post regarding a former foster parent (Wayne Haydamack) and the sexual abuse that started at the age of 8 and lasting another four years. I have no memory of what made Wayne finally give up with me- however I do know the abuse lasted 4 more years before the ministry was finally able to sever all forms of contact between Wayne and myself. More importantly however is that my previous blog on Wayne is the first time I have ever written, talked or openly shared my memories pertaining to any sexual assaults on me – as a child. I can’t believe sometimes that I am so afraid to write and talk about the sexual abuse, I thought I was fearless, I was a survivor? Yet many years later my mind, heart, body…fingers even fight with the keyboard to get the words out.
Funny thing is, I used to think and share my opinion to others that I really was not that affected from the numerous sexual violations I endured as a child. In fact, for the first 30 years of my life I truly made light of the act of rape. I had made a complaint sexually assaulted many times over, and over again – I do remember But, four years is a very long time for an eight year old girl I feel like I have been really struggling lately. It`s almost as if I am lost in my own skin . Not many people in my life know the battle going on inside my brain, body and soul lately, or how bad it has really gotten. I feel unfocused in my goals, where I was so clear for most of my life. I was always confident that I was going to have any life I worked for. I always had big dreams that started as a very young child.
I`m finding myself feeling lonely a lot lately, in fact I would say that the past 3 years have been the saddest times in my adult life. Even though I have had friends and family that have been there for me. Those that love me , those that I love so dearly in return; amazing husband, three beautifully delicious children, can’t leave out our little pooch “Rosco“ – all tidied up in a bow…so to the naked eye out there, I bet you would start praising me right away. OK , I made it technically. Saying that I ‘made it’ is usually what people say when they hear even a fragment of my story.
I am very blessed, and recognize how lucky I am to have loyal, loving husband that works very hard to provide for our family. He helps to ensure our children grow up in a safe, supportive, and loving home. My children never go without. They even have their very own beautifully furnished and painted to their liking. For example; my oldest daughter has a beautiful pink room, with a white canopy bed (with the actual pink canopy) and the dresser and side table to match. Each has their own color, at first it was what I wanted, however now that the kids are getting older they have more say how their room looks. I digress.
What I really want to say is that I am very aware of how blessed I am to be in the situation that I am. When I start to show weakness, others are quick to remind me of how lucky I am… you know, considering. Well, I do know. I am currently beating the odds – and should be celebrating all the cycles I have broken all the while remembering to thank god that for my unwavering sense of resilience. It was always one of my best qualities; the ability to get the fuck back up on my feet and keep fighting. I did it because I could. I refused to allow myself to become a part of that cycle.
At a young age I started to compare my “resilience“ or as I understood it to mean my strength in coping and healing was to one of those blow up clown, that no matter how hard you try to knock that fucker down – it just keeps popping back up really for another blow. That’s me, that clown balloon.
But, at times I feel as though my family made the easy choice. They just get drunk, high and have very little respect for themselves – but mostly they just don`t give a fuck about what anybody else feels about who they are or what they do. They don`t work. In fact, they feel entitled to say the government, and everyone in the fucking world owes them. Then they can spend up an entire lifetime spewing hate and anger to the very ones that are after all – paying their living expenses. All of my immediate family has been on welfare from the get go. Their clown balloon deflates though, it`s covered in masking tape, trying in vain to keep them in the game and able to fight for their own existence.
But they were weak, all of them. Sometimes I just think that being weak, and allowing myself to be broken, shattered so badly that I gave up – well that’s the easy route. My sister gave in. My heart aches when I say that, I have guilt that weighs heavy in my heart that I am sure will be with me until I die. She is broken, completely shattered, leaving her empty inside and unable to see the beautiful soul she really is. She is an IV drug user/addict (crack, meth, heroin, crystal meth, cocaine…) and a sex worker in various towns throughout the lower mainland, such as Surrey & DTES Vancouver.
Then there is my brother, J, who is four years older than I am. By the time J was 21 years of age he already had a murder conviction along with several sexual assault convictions. But even before those crimes, my brother was sexually abusing me when I was 7 years of age. I always say that my parents raised him to be a killer. They raised him to be cold. Never cry. Fuck them before they fuck you. He began to enjoy the suffering of the vulnerable. There should be no surprise that my brother ended up being so violent giving the extent of abuse that he was forced to endure for the first 18 years of life. They broke him. The last time I saw my brother in person he was being tried for murdering a man in Maple Ridge in 1995. Even though my brother was in custody, in shackles behind a very thick plexi glass; I was terrified. At one point during the trial Jason noticed I was in the courtroom watching and this made him very angry. He glared hard at me; I knew he hated me already because I told on him for sexually abusing me – but this was so much more intense. He made a very clear ‘slitting of the throat motion with his cuffed wrists looking dead at me.
To be honest, I did not realize his trial was being held at that court room or courthouse before getting there with a high school law class on a field trip. Some of my classmates started coming up too me shortly after arriving at the courthouse saying that they believed that my brother is in one of the court rooms. Students were already in seated and silent, in amazement that they knew the sister of the defendant that brutally murdered someone just to see what it felt like to watch someone die. I myself couldn’t believe it was happening.
I need to explain as well how the hate and or punishment were dispersed between me and my siblings. From the age of approx.…4 years of age I have reoccurring memories of the clear biases that my parents had in terms of us; their three children. This is something I can say for sure though; my brother was treated differently from my sister and I entirely. My parents often referred to my brother as a ‘King’, this was simply due to the fact that my brother was a male. I don’t ever recall hearing my father say this – but I do have several memories of my mom explaining to me how she and our father felt about each of us. Our brother was a boy, therefor he would be excused from a variety forms of corporal punishments each of us would receive from either parent. My mom would say that boys do not need to be hit as often, as girls are naughty and they don’t always understand how important it is too listen. She would sometimes say that girls were more sneaky, conniving and more inclined to rat out their family. From as early as I can remember my father has always despised my sister. I have flashes of conversations between my natural mother and I discussing my sister. I was always very cautious talking about my sister to anyone of my family members; but especially my mother and father. Many, many times throughout the years I can recall both my mother and father making snide comments when referring to the time she was forced to live in a closet and bet tortured without any sign of mercy.
When T was at the age of 7 she ran away – she was quickly found and apprehended permanently from our mother and father. For the following seven years I always wondered and worried over how my sister was doing. I worried about her. I missed her, and that’s hard even for me to understand because all my memories are with her both locked in my parents’ bedroom closet, and slivers of flashbacks to the many beatings and even witnessing her being forced to eat her own feces. She was made to eat her own poo because she went to the ‘toilet’ within her small bedroom closet that was her world. I know that she would be in there day and night. Sometimes they would allow her to come into my bedroom, but usually that was too standing in the corner and wait for her next ass whooping. After nearly two years of horrific abuse that my sister endured, she was finally supposed to be safe. I remember believing that she was doing so well. My mother told me that she only went there because they offered horseback riding, ballet, and other fancy activities and belongings that we for sure would not be able to enjoy if we were still in our home.
The way I see it is that my sister has a target on her back. How can my mom and dad already have decided that Teresa was more of a burden than they had planned? My mom has said too me several times when I question why my father hated my sister SO much. I can honestly say that to this day I still do not understand where this deep rooted resentment and hate stemmed from.