CHAPTER 1
My Normal
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I was the third child born in as many years and wasborn into a family that was already in crisis. We movedto a small town in Northern Alberta from BritishColumbia. I started school on my sixth birthday. We lived in apink-and-white house, and the street we lived on was filled withchildren.
Most children can say they felt loved and safe growing up. Inever experienced that. Most children can look to their parentsfor guidance. I knew at an early age that I would have to findmy own way. I feared my father and would later learn to fearmy older brother, because he became his father's son in so manyways. I would learn early that I could not trust my father, andthat would never change. Most siblings bond with each otherin a positive way, however we were pitted against each other byour father in attempts to control and manipulate us. Separate anddivide—that was how he would keep control. As I grew, I wouldnotice how different we were from other families, but I did notunderstand why.
In grade one I was tall for my age, gangly, and extremelyshy. I was left-handed, and in those days that meant I would bereprimanded for using my left hand, in the form of a yardstickbeing whacked across my fingers. My grade two teacher drew ayardstick across my knuckles as she stated, "If you were meant touse your left hand, it would be called lefting, not writing."
Even beyond that, I was very different from the other kids:I had a secret. That secret would be the driving force in my lifeand would govern every relationship, every moment, and everydecision that I would make from that point onward. The secretwas that I was being molested.
This was something that happened from the crib to the ageof fifteen. It happened in the mornings before school, in theevenings, and on weekends. My abuser was my dad and laterexpanded to include my oldest brother. The life that I lived wasviolent and very scary. I made sure that nothing that I said or didwould give the secret away; that would not change for twenty-sixyears.
I lived in a family where there were numerous secrets. Whathappened in that house stayed in the house—that was the rule, andwe had best not break it. We did not talk about what happened,and life went on. Moments of horror, of sexual abuse, and ofviolent rages from my father and the delusion of my motherprotecting the secret—that was my normal. The days and yearswould pass with daily assaults and the knowledge that if we spokeof any of it, there would be consequences for our actions.
To the outside world, all was normal. It was a time whenpeople would not speak out, even if they saw something.
My dad coached baseball due to his need to be admired. Hewould reward the team with root beer after the ball games. Hewas a good guy, according to them. I would watch how he wantedpeople to see him. Knowing who he was behind closed doors, Iwondered why he would choose to be two different people. Whydid the outside world get that other person and we got the angryand violent one?
After a night of my dad being drunk and full of violence, theneed for more alcohol beckoned him. He got up and left the houseto the bar. His walk would take him past the homes of my friends,and they saw him. We would go to school and our friend sharewith us that they saw him completely naked, with not a stitch ofclothing. They joked with me about it, but I was devastated.
My older brother went home and announced at the dinnertable that I had told the neighbors that he had left the housenaked, but I had not. My parents were seated at either end ofthe table, and the four kids sat on the sides, the girls at the backwall and the boys on the open side of the table. My father's ragebecame evident. He raised his hand up and slammed it down ontothe table. He barked, "What happens in this house stays in thishouse." I felt the table shake as I sat at the other end, and I knewhe was not kidding. In a blink, he reached for the cast iron fryingpan that held liver and onions, which was to be our dinner. I knewwhat was going to happen next. I yelled at my youngest brotherto duck, and without hesitation he coiled into his seat. The fryingpan was thrown from the table over the top of his head, landingagainst the freezer that sat against the far wall. The contents ofthe pan splattered everywhere as the pan hit the freezer, leavingan incredible dent. Nothing more was said. We ate what was onour plates and then went to our rooms.
The emotions and trust in the house became more strained.My two older siblings became physically aggressive towardme. They learned that violence got them what they wanted.Banning together, they pointed the finger at me rather thantake responsibility for their actions. This would set me up for alifetime of observing people who didn't take responsibility fortheir actions, and this would trigger me so deeply that I can't evenexplain the emotions that it would invoke in me.
Both sides of the family offered their religious teachings, butwhat happened in our house was anything but religious. The onlytime I saw my parents in church was for weddings and funerals.However, I did remember my older sister and I leaping out of bedon Sunday mornings to bike off to church. I'm not sure if I wastaking refuge, or if I just wanted to make sure God rememberedwho I was. After all, there were things happening down hereof which I was not sure he was aware. I was sitting in churchbefore going down to Sunday school. We were praying, and Ihad some things that God needed to hear, and as my conversationgot heated with him and was at a high point, my Sunday schoolteacher hushed me. I spoke up, not realizing how loud my voicewas: "I'm talking to God!"
The priest said, "Yes, that is why we are here, to talk toGod." The congregation then busted out in laughter. Not fullyunderstanding the laughter, I went back to having my conversationsilently; after all, this was important, and I felt that it neededexpressing.
I questioned God's presence because if he had known whatwas going on, he would have sent someone to help. Repeatedlymy relationship with God would be tested; I stilled prayed, butperhaps there were other people who needed his attention more.I was used to waiting for things—after all, I was from a family offour children by the age of two. I could guarantee you that I wasnot the first on the list when it came to having my needs met.That would instill my independence at an early age, knowing thatif I needed something, I would have to get it myself. Despite theconstant fighting, violence, and abuse, I tried to love my family.
Being punished for existing was a good way to describe whatwas happening in the house. My father's rages would result inspankings, but they were not just a smack on the backside—it wasa staged performance on his part. His routine was to take a chairand sit in the middle of the dining room. Then he'd take one ofus over his knee. As a final insult, he would rip down the pantiesof us girls, exposing us to the others. His hand was big enough tocover my entire backside, and he slapped me until he producedwelts. If we cried, he barked, "I will give you something to cryabout." I learned early to take the punishment without dispute.He needed to be in control, and if he was not, or if he felt we hadbroken one of his rules, then over his knee we went.
There was also the leather strap, and it...
