Mental Health

Chapter 2…Going home

Going to the hockey game with my dad was a highlight. Watching the Toronto Maple Leafs live at age 8, what a memory. The players looked so much bigger than on TV when we watched the games at home. Every time hockey night in Canada plays that iconic song I go right back to childhood and watching the games with dad or falling asleep to that song when they had later games.

My dad had a new girlfriend when I moved in with him. The last one he told me he broke up with because she made me eat green beans every time I went to spend the weekend with him and she knew I didn’t like them. I remember that conversation. I remember feeling so special and protected. His new girlfriend was so nice. She was so pretty and fun. We lived in the same house that my parents bought together, so I was back in my bedroom and had my playroom again. We took pictures together with Bonnie our dog, each one having a turn, pictures of me and dad and ones with me and his girlfriend. My dad asked why I wasn’t smiling. I said because I was told to not show my teeth. He looked at me with a sad expression and said not to listen to them and to smile big, you’re so pretty he said. From that day on I smiled with all my teeth showing, not afraid of what anyone thought and I was happy because my dad was praising me instead of hurting me, making me feel sad or making me feel bad.

I finished off grade 4 at a new school, school number 5, when I moved back home. But once I was half way through the 5th year, the school and my father decided the best route was to have me put back in grade 4. My mom being Catholic, had me enrolled in Catholic School, going to church every Sunday and Sunday school for me for the 8 years I was with her. I am grateful for having God be present in my life, I certainly needed him going forward. My father being Protestant, I had to go to a public school. A whole other school system and learning system so that was their reasoning why I had to be put back in the 4th grade. I’m sure I was nervous and anxious about first, starting another new school then having to be put in a new class half way through the year. Thank goodness school is not run that way any longer.

My dad was having a hard time with me at the babysitters. I was being very aggressive and misbehaving. Not listening and acting out. My grade 4 report card said if I couldn’t get my point across verbally, I would get it across physically. It was a family joke for years. What I was doing was what I had learned and what I watched and how I was punished. I watched and learned that, this is how you communicate, through yelling and hitting.

I was getting better though, I stopped sucking my thumb at 9 years old. I was so excited. I ran to my dad’s room and told him. He was so proud of me. My sleep walking however wasn’t going away. I didn’t leave the house anymore like I did when my mom lived there, so that was a good thing. My mom had put a lock on the outside of my bedroom door so I couldn’t get out. I would walk all the way to the corner store. That was where my bus stop was so I imagine I was dreaming of having to go to school. The sleepwalking, latching on to my thumb for security, as well as the night terrors eventually stopped. I was feeling safe. I was happy and building a good relationship with my dad and his girlfriend. I was also very happy to be back with Bonnie. My ultimate protector. I knew nothing could happen to me if Bonnie was there.

School however was a challenge for me. I was a slow learner and had difficulties. I can still visualize my dad sitting with me at the table helping me with math and using fruit to assist us. He was very patient with me. He taught me how to clean, with after school chores, he taught me how to ice skate at the park on a pond that froze over. It was just a short walk. We’d gather our skates and walk and talk along the way. He taught me so much. I loved being with him. He was my best friend.

Mental Health

In the back of my mind…Preface

My story. I keep hearing, “tell your story”. Do I tell my story? Do I expose the truth for everyone to read and have opinions? Do I tell my story for myself to heal fully? Who am I telling my story for? All these questions come to mind when I put my fingers to the keyboard and try, again and again to not start, but to finish my story.

When someone sits to tell their story it isn’t just about them, it’s about all the people around them that had a hand in their addiction, their trauma, their path of success or failure.

I’ve told my story in a round about way but never divulging the entire story because of fear of hurting the people I love or starting something I never intended to start.

It’s time. It’s time to tell the story of how I became powerless over alcohol and how at the same time it made me feel powerful, how it gave me an escape to live through what I was living with and then how it almost ruined me and my children.

I am not sure how I will get this out, maybe a chapter book, or blogs as chapters. I guess the main thing is to start and finish. Continue to heal and help others. Time to unveil myself and the secrets I carried since I was 4 years old. The blindness, and countless nights of prayer and hope.

The name of my book will be, “How did I get here”. Isn’t that the big question we always ask ourselves when we are at our lowest and full of toxins that fuel our brain and emotions. The unraveling of the tied up ball of mess that we had become. Who would be there at the end of the tunnel when we became whole again.

My trauma started at the age of 4, witnessing my father abuse my mom. I walked in on them one night after hearing my mothers cries and screams. I saw her face was full of blood and my dad full of rage. My father saw me and picked me up, brought me to my room and threw me on my bed, pointed his finger in my face with his teeth clenched and said, “You stay in here and don’t come out!” It was that day that I started to self-sooth and stay quiet. The first time I felt scared and alone, but at that age I didn’t recognize those feelings so I began to express them in different ways.

While still at the age of 4, I remember standing in the hallway between my room and my parents, holding my mother’s hand with a suitcase in her other hand and asked me while standing in front of my father, who I wanted to stay with, her or my father. Of course a daughter always wants her mom at that age so naturally I went with her. I believe I would have been scared to stay with my father after what he had done to my mom.

We stayed with my aunt and uncle for a bit until we moved into a basement apartment. My mom had a job selling encyclopedias door to door, this was 1974-75 so that’s the kind of work that people used to do. Funny now as we look back at how times have changed, but for some reason, some people don’t. Ever. While on her route she stepped into a Collection agency office, while trying to sell the receptionist books, the owner of the business came out from his private office, and, while stunned at her beauty, asked her what she was doing selling encyclopedias looking like that. Blushing and defensive, she laughed him off. He asked again. She replied, “I have a little girl I have to support and this is what I have to do!” He asked her if she could type, and how many words a minute. Again, 1970’s, we had typewriters. Anyway, I honestly don’t think he cared if she had experience or not, he was so taken by her. Her deep blue eyes and pale skin, with long black hair, so petite she was, and dressed to the nines. Of course he offered her a receptionist position as long as she came back at 5:00 that evening for a drink. She refused because she had to get home to me, and that was not something she did. Is this guy nuts, I could hear her saying, but he insisted and she did go against everything she stood for as a woman, that night, that job, changed our lives. There was hope and my mom was proud to be able to get out of her sisters and have our own little nest. We could put everything behind us and go forward.