CHAPTER 1

My Normal

* * *

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 could be doubledwith a snap at the bottom to anchor the double width. It had noother use than to strap us. That would give way to welts beyondanything one could imagine. Imagine a grown man, over six feetand two hundred pounds, using a leather strap to reprimand hischildren with force. After the spanking we would be sent to ourroom. I shared a room and bed with my older sister until the ageof eight. Upon returning to our bedroom, we would stand onthe footboard of our bed, looking in the mirror to compare thewelts, as if to argue who had endured the worst beating. Twisted,I know, but as we seemed to say to ourselves if we could survivethis, we could survive anything.

The sexual abuse had started in the crib. First it was oral andtouching. By the age of seven, things would change drasticallyand would continue until I was fifteen, with each assault gettingworse as time passed and opportunity presented itself, whichwas often. Perhaps my consciousness of how wrong this wasmagnified as I grew up.

During yet another assault when I was under the age ofseven, my father molested me. I lay in my bed, confused as towhy he would hurt me like this. What had I done wrong? I wasa good girl, and I helped in the house with chores. I could notunderstand, and I needed to know why. I crawled out of bed andwent into the kitchen, just outside the bedroom door. As I openedthe door, my mother was there ironing clothes, something she didat night. I remember asking her, "Why did Daddy do this to me?"It was in that moment once again that I would make yet anotherrevelation in my crazy life.

She commented, "Daddy was just showing you how muchhe loves you."

In that moment I proclaimed; "Mommy, if that is what it feelslike to be loved, I do not want anyone to ever love me again." Igot a glass of water and then returned to bed, somewhat wiser yetmore confused by the explanation. Was love supposed to hurt?Was it supposed to make you feel yucky and dirty? That did notmake my heart happy. Why would Mommy lie about this? Wasshe confused about what love was supposed to feel like? My youngmind tried to wrap itself around the emotions and the words tomake sense of it all. I never came to any resolution. With myproclamation that I did not want anyone to love me ever again, Ikept people at a distance.

The abuse would continue. In the mornings my dad wouldkeep me on alternate days to clean house, and the other kidswould be sent on to school. After the sexual assault, he wouldgive me a quarter to go get a treat for being a good girl, and thenhe'd send me to school. My walk to school was done in a blur,trying to understand what had happened, as if I was out of mybody looking downward.

As I entered the classroom, late and dazed from the assault,I would take a verbal lashing from the teacher. She asked whyI was late again. I could feel the blood drain from my body as Ithought of an explanation that would satisfy her. "I had to cleanthe house." I could hear the words as they hit my ears, and Ipanicked. Would I be punished for telling? The fear floodedmy faint body and I felt as if I would collapse at that moment. Imanaged to get myself to my seat.

She barked out, "Well, I suggest you do your chores at night,not in the morning."

The morning assaults continued, spanning over three years.

It was my turn to clean house again. I knew what the teacherhad expressed to me, and I did not want to get into trouble again.My older sister and I had a plan: she would lower me out thebedroom window and pretend that I was still in my bed. As shelowered me, my feet hit the ground, and I realized that I had noshoes on—and even worse; I had been so intent on getting out ofthe house that I had not changed out of my pajamas. I panicked,but I would have to go to school dressed as I was. I did manage toslip on a pair of shoes from the back porch. All the way to school,I knew that I would never live this down. I did make it to schoolon time, but I was picked on all day about my pajamas.

My mind was reeling about what would happen when I gothome. Would he be waiting? What would be the punishmentthis time?

As we all returned home from school, we were standing inthe kitchen. My older brother looked around the kitchen andproclaimed, "If you stay home to clean the house, why does itnever look clean?" Unaware of my morning descent from thewindow, he looked directly at me, and the blood drained frommy body. I looked at my older sister for help, but all she coulddo was look back at me. My brother punched me and asked meagain. I would not speak, and so he threatened me. I guess he waswatching his father and learned that if he wanted something froma female, he should apply force. I still refused to tell, until he beatme up and brought me to tears. He forced me to show him whatour dad made me do. I was paralyzed in fear, and he punched meagain. I showed him what Father did to me. At only the age often, himself that was the day my brother crossed over from beinga victim to being an abuser.

The next day was one of terror for me. It was Saturday—noschool to keep me safe. I was sent to my room as punishment foryesterday's events. I knew what that meant. My father came intothe room and started molesting me, but this time it was different.He laid his adult body on mine, and the weight of his body wascrushing my seven-year-old body. I tried to distract myself fromwhat was happening, and I could smell the scent of lilacs comingin my open bedroom window. I liked lilacs, the way they smelled,and how they looked. As he molested me in this way, I couldfeel that as I tried to breathe, it was getting harder. His weightoverwhelmed me, and then everything went black.

The next thing I remembered, I was floating in the cornerof the room, looking down on the event. In that moment Iproclaimed, "You can take my body, but you will not take mysoul." I did not really know what that meant at the time, but Iknew it carried weight regarding how the future attacks wouldaffect me—or more important, how they would not affect me. Iwatched the assault from a distance and knew that he would neverhurt me deeply again.

As he finished with my body, he looked at me with confusion.I think he realized something had changed. It had, and in a waythat he would probably never fully understand.

How could a father do this to his daughter? Why would heimpose his adult actions on an innocent child? Did he not knowhow wrong this was? Most children grow up feeling safe withtheir parents, being able to go to them when life got tough tohandle. I did not have that. When it is your family that createsthe unsafe experience, to whom can you go for guidance? Wheredo you go in order to feel safe, or to have that conversation aboutall the things a child needs? I lived my life alone. I did not havesibling support, either. Why did this happen? There were morequestions than answers, and I did not know whom to go tofor what I needed. I made the decision to figure it out myself.Guidance from God would be the place to which I turned.

I had a very important conversation with God that day. Iasked him why was he letting this happen, and why was he lettingme get hurt this way. It was then I heard something that wouldagain change my life. Very clearly I heard the words, "I did notsay that you would not feel pain. I only promised I would be thereto walk you through it."

I was taken aback from this—I did not know that God couldtalk to us that way. In some way, the words brought me solace.I would continue to have conversations with God, and it wouldbring me comfort and direction. I did not know that most othersdid not have that ability to hear God this way.

I had emotionally separated from the experience of abuse.I became the record keeper of the family. I watched what myfather said and did. All his words were carefully stated to instillfear and obedience. I would challenge his words and threatsfor the days, weeks, and years that followed because I knew inmy heart that what was happening was wrong. This defiancewould bring even a greater separation between the others inthe house. Divide and conquer. The more the adults could pitthe kids against each other, the easier it would be able to livetheir lie.

There was something happening to me that I could notexplain. I noticed as the days passed that I knew when peoplewould be sick or would die. I could also touch things and getinformation. I would hold a wrapped present and know what wasin it. I would use that later and make a game out of it. My siblingswould let me hold a Christmas present and get me to tell themwhat it was. I was not sure what that was about, but it made lifea little more exciting, at least. I would not fully understand thisfor years to come.