CHAPTER 1

My Journey

My childhood was not a great one, but I've come torealize that life is easier when I replace the chip onmy shoulder, anger in my heart, and bitterness in mymind with peace from within. So many of us can't say that, whichis sad. We must share the tragedies of our childhood and teachwhat we have learned to help others.

I now believe that everything I went through was essentialin making me the amazing person I am today. I've endured thischallenging journey so I can be wise and help others who alsohave endured this kind of pain. It is my soul's journey, as I amjust a vessel for my soul.

It's been a rough life, but I have no regrets, for I love who Iam today. I'm also sure I have more lessons to learn, but now Ican see and understand why these lessons are coming to me. Youknow how we all say, "If I knew then what I know now ..." Sotrue. But some lessons keep coming to us until we finally listenand get it.

Now I accept everything that comes my way, and I let theuniverse guide me, for my spirit knows where I belong. Join meon this journey.

This Is My Story

Not many of us remember our earliest days, and I amthankful for that. There's a reason our brain protectsus sometimes from certain events. My earliest memoryof any part of my life is from when I was about four years of age.It's a memory of my birthfather. He did things no father shouldever do to his daughter, or any child. This man sexually molestedme for years.

My mother was only fifteen years old when she becamepregnant with me. In 1967, that was a major sin. My grandmotherdid not want my mother to have the baby. Mom had a choice: acoat-hanger abortion or a wedding. She decided to get married,with no idea that the road she had chosen would bring suchdespair.

She was sixteen and he was twenty-two when they were married.Unable to wear white because she was expecting, my mother woreblue.

From what I recall of my childhood, my birthfather wasabusive to my mother. I remember the beatings. I remember beingleft alone a lot with my father, as my mother worked a lot. Shehad to pay the bills. It was her money that kept food on the table.She had no choice.

My mother was so young when she had me that we neverhad that bonding experience mothers and babies should have.How could a baby love a baby? She had no idea what I needed.I was deprived of the bond that every child needs so much. Thisexplains my need for such affection today.

She suspected I was being abused, and she says she asked meabout it when I was five years old. Well, of course I said no. Hetold me to say no or my mother would take me away. What littlegirl wants to lose her daddy? I mean, it wasn't all bad. He tookme shopping, to Ontario Place. We had fun when my mother wasworking. Every little girl wants her mother and father. I was tooyoung to understand my fear and confusion.

When my mother decided it was time for her to leave, mybirthfather wouldn't let her take me. So she left me behind forwhat seemed to me to be days, but it was only hours. She calledthe police, and I remember being in the police car. They askedme if my dad touched me. I remember urinating in my pantsbecause I was so scared, so I said no. How intimidating it was,being in a police car. That is no way to ask a child about such asensitive subject; neither, for that matter, is a counselor's office. Thequestioning needs to be done in a natural setting, with someonewho can offer trust and patience. Just picture any little childlooking up to authority. This is why so many will not talk. Veryintimidating.

I don't remember how, but somehow my mother got custodyof me, and we moved into my grandmother's house. But the abusecontinued, since my birthfather still had visitation rights. In the'70s, they didn't protect children the way they do now. Since Idenied the abuse, it looked as though my mother was making upstories.

My grandmother didn't care for me. She blamed me for ruiningher daughter's life, and it made her angry. She wasn't a pleasantwoman. To her, I was just a mistake, and she took her bitterness anddisappointment out on the only person she could: me.

When it finally came to blows, I can't remember exactly whatshe said, but I remember yelling and screaming at her, "You hateme! It's not my fault! I never asked to be born. I don't want tolive, I don't want to be here, and I didn't ask to live." It finallycame pouring out. I was so angry and hurt. I asked God to takeme every Sunday when I was at Sunday school. No child shouldfeel like this.

After that, it was like something came over my grandmother.From that moment on, she cared. I no longer felt that she hatedme. She hugged me, and I felt loved. Her tone, her attitude—everythingchanged. I can only assume she realized I really wasinnocent of everything. This had not been my choice.

During this time that we lived with my grandmother, mymom continued to work a lot, so I spent time with a babysitterwho lived across the road. This babysitter had sons my age andolder. When I was home from kindergarten, she would send meto play in the basement while she made supper upstairs. One ofher older sons would always come down too. At first he wouldplay with me, but then things started to change, and he slowlystarted molesting me.

This is just the way life is, I thought. It's all I knew. It feltso wrong, and they always said "Keep it a secret," which wasconfusing. But a child doesn't need to understand these things toadapt to them. We learn to live outside our body. We are not therewhen it's happening. We take ourselves somewhere else.

Years later, when Grandma was near the end of her days,she had bad diabetes and her kidneys were failing, so she had tomove to a nursing home. It became an amazing time to really getto know her. When she was there, she needed to be bathed, andshe did not want the nurses to help—yet she couldn't do it on herown, so I volunteered.

Grandma was so embarrassed being naked in front of hergranddaughter and vulnerable while I bathed her. For somereason, I am very aware of others' feelings, and I knew how shefelt. She deserved to have her dignity, so one day I also strippeddown. I told her, "Grandma, we are in this together." After theshock wore off, she laughed. She then looked forward to our timetogether.

Sometimes in our lives, we need to put ourselves in the otherperson's shoes. We should always be aware of and try to understandhow the other person we are dealing with may feel. Some of ushave this ability to be aware of others and our surroundings, andsome just don't understand.

I learned so much from my grandmother at this time. Wow,what a family history lesson. We really should take the time toknow our grandparents. They have lived such amazing lives. Thosepeople sitting on a bench, driving slowly, walking slowly—theyhave lived and have seen things that we can't even imagine.

Near the last few months of her life, Grandma really came outof her shell. This grumpy lady told dirty jokes, flirted with the oldguys, and got drunk off the rum raisin pudding. I had never seenher laugh like that, ever. I am so glad we had that time together.

I don't think my mother had ever had so much fun with herown mother before either. Our family had a lot of deep-downbelly laughs during this time. It's a time we will never forget.

My grandmother passed away on Valentine's Day, 2006. Howfitting—her husband had passed away when she was thirty-three,and she'd always remained true to her vows. She was now with herhusband, who I know greeted her and they did a waltz.I can honestly say I would not remain single if I lost myhusband at an early age. How amazing and respectful this ladywas.

I miss and love you dearly, Grandma. I know you are myguardian angel.

My Childhood

I remember things happening in an apple orchard. Even tothis day, I feel sick when I'm near an orchard. Again, thankGod for those mental blocks that keep the frightening detailsfrom coming back. The abuse continued until the age of eight ornine. I was too afraid to speak up, but I know there were otherlittle girls being harmed. I had to stop bringing friends overbecause I was so afraid of what he would do to them. My motherhad told me the neighbors' mom had contacted her to talk aboutmy father. I'm unaware of what happened, but he moved shortlyafter.

My mother finally moved me to a town two hours away,which stopped the abuse. I wonder what it's really like to have theinnocence of a child and not a care in the world.

My father still had visits with me, but now he had a girlfriend,so the abuse for me was over. We went camping with his girlfriend,and we did fun things when we had time together. But the fearand the memories were always there. They don't go away, but youpush them aside. It's called survival mode.

My mother once said she wished she had given me up foradoption. I was heartbroken for years to think she never wantedme. This is, however, not what she meant. She meant that if shehad given me up, I would have had a different life, and she couldhave saved me from abuse.

But who knows? We can only assume.

When we finally moved away, my mother had met mystepfather and started a new life for me, but I had trouble adjusting.My mom thought she could fix me by putting me in a home forkids who needed help. Well, during that six-month stay, not oneperson asked me why I was angry or what was making me act out.No one even talked about anything. More anger kept buildinginside of me. I wanted so badly for someone just to talk to me asa person—just sit and talk with me. It never happened.

If one person had asked me, I would have told everything.Instead, I left that home feeling more stupid, dumb, and useless.This was my first chance to tell all and get help, but it didn't helpat all.

Years later, I wrote a letter to the board of this home I was sentto and received permission to view my records. When I openedup the file, I was so shocked. I couldn't get past the first page tothe next page. The first sentence said that I was given Valium forsedation. I was nine and on Valium. I couldn't read anythingelse. I got up and left. I didn't want to know anymore. There aretimes in life when you just can't go back. Your memory blocksthings out for a reason. It helps you to survive, and for that I amthankful.

The first time I ever talked about the abuse was when I wasin the sixth grade. I told a friend, and she was so shocked. Itold her please, don't tell anyone, and she didn't. What a greatfriend—but deep down, I so wanted her to tell. I was still carryingthis burden.

I hated school in this new town because I have olive skin. I'mItalian, but there was an Indian reservation on the outskirts oftown, and everyone thought I was native. I got beat up and pickedon. I knew how to throw a good left hook at an early age. I knowwhat being bullied is all about, and I just never fit in at school. Ifelt like I didn't belong anywhere.

I feel sorry for kids today. I can't imagine with Facebook andtexting how I would have handled any of the stuff I went throughin school.

If only children could put themselves in the other person'sshoes. Every child has feelings, confusion, and pain. We all needto stop and think and not follow the crowd.

When I was thirteen, my friend and I went to the cornerstore to get snacks. We went to the fridge at the back of the store,and there was a guy standing there looking at us with his penishanging out of his shorts. This unexpected sight threw me into atailspin of despair.

I became angry, violent, and aggressive, and I went crazyfor days. I ran away from home. I slept on the beach that nightwith a friend. Some people brought us blankets, but the policebrought me home the next day. I told my mom I was sorry andthat I couldn't imagine her worry. I was so full of anger; I couldn'tcontain my feelings when the police brought us home.

My friend's mom finally said, "What the hell is going on? Soa guy flashed you. No big deal!" This is when I finally broke downand blurted out that my father had raped me! The tears came anddidn't stop.

It was finally out. My mother now knew. She wanted to getthe gun and kill him.

After she calmed down, she asked if I wanted her to call thepolice. I said no, but I really, really wanted her to. She didn't, andI spent a lot of years angry at her for that. She has said she is sorryfor listening to me and not doing that—not doing what a mothershould. She said I was so distraught, she was worried that if shecalled, I would crumble.

I have to remember that she was only twenty-nine at this time.I remember how I felt at that age—I still felt so young. Now I canunderstand her. We think at that age that we are so mature, butlooking back, we were still so young.

We finally went to court over the flasher at the store. Guesswhat: I got the color of his jacket wrong, so he got off. What ashock!

Well, why say anything here. Another person gets away withit. That's what this child was learning about life.

I tried to get help again at the age of sixteen, telling a counselorabout the abuse I suffered as a child.

The first thing out of the counselor's mouth was, "Are youhaving sex yet?"

I said, "Yes."

His response was, "Don't you feel like a slut?"

Well, I shut down instantly and stopped talking. Ashamedagain, and no help. Yes, I felt ashamed and like a slut, but wasn'the supposed to help me not feel that way? It was a lost cause.

I tried again in my early twenties. It was a self-help groupfor incest survivors. The information was great and it was niceto be around people who understood what I went through in mychildhood. But instead of an open discussion of the issues we allneeded to talk about, it became a man-hater's group. I hated goingafter a while. I had to have faith that there were good men outthere. I needed this faith to survive in this life. I had to leave thegroup. I didn't want anger in my life. It wasn't good for me.

Inside me, I had faith that the world had to be a good place. Ifelt it. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to see it. I just knew, deepdown. I am so glad I had that gut feeling. It was what kept megoing in life.

High School

During my high-school years, my mother and I did notget along. We were both bitter and angry with life. Iremember the first time I hit my mother back. I hadspilled milk in the kitchen when I was pouring it, and my momcame out of nowhere and smacked me. I saw red. I did not deservethat. I turned around and hit her back. There we were, fistfightingon the kitchen floor, beating the crap out of each other, with mystepdad just feet away watching TV. He didn't do anything, justturned up the volume.

Another time, I called the police on her. She wanted me toshovel two feet of snow in the driveway. I refused to do it; shethrew my coat and boots outside and shoved me out the door.Really, aren't there child labor laws against this? Seems kind offunny now that I'm a mom myself.

We had a few fights like this. She was an angry person, and Ijust hated her back then. After all, she was the one who broughtme into this shit. They say we pick our parents. Seriously, whywould I pick these two messed-up humans for parents? I knownow my soul picked what it needed in order to learn in thisjourney.

I felt like my mother never protected me when she shouldhave, never cherished and loved me. But I was just a reminder ofher mistakes, of her guilt and pain. She hated me because I wasa reminder of him.

I slept in the back shed one night. I also got kicked out of thehouse another night and slept under a bridge. There is so muchmore I could discuss. But we are doing our best to make amends,my mother and I. She is a strong, cutthroat, no-emotion woman,but that's just on the outside. I know she has such tremendousguilt. She thinks she should be tough and I should be more likeher. Yes, I'm sensitive, but I like my way. It works for me.

It shows we all deal with life so differently.