Praying for Strength

Let’s start with the beginning, which always seems like a good place to begin.

My memories are fuzzy when it comes to life before 5 years old, but I can remember those 5 years as being happy, with good feelings and the excitement of my first sister’s birth.

I have a great Mother, the fiery red head kind that can crochet the softest blankets but will rip your heart out and feed it to you if you hurt her children. She made the best sandwiches, told the funniest jokes, and healed every "ouchies" with a single kiss. She knew when we were sick and made sure we had everything she could give us.

I had a Father. This Father is the Father that my sister and I know. The one who took us on bike rides through Rouge Valley. I would lean back and look up at the leaves above me watching as they danced past me. I would stare at the Don River and dream about being a mermaid, swimming into the ocean—which I thought Lake Ontario was at the time.

This Father coaxed my sister and I out of bed, telling us he had something amazing for us to see. That night, my sister and I became nerds. We watched the first three Star Wars movies and begged to see Phantom Menace when it came out. We saw the midnight screening and I declared it was the best Star Wars movie ever—hey, I was 8 in 1999 okay? Don’t judge.

1999 was a long time ago, during that time I got three more gifts from my mother. Two brothers and a sister. They arrived in summer and before Christmas. One right after another, two easy births and one troublesome that made me realize I had a duty to my siblings:

I am the eldest. I am a shield. I am the protector.

I’m not sure when the abuse started but that's why my Mother is so great. We didn’t really know until it started happening to us. My friends talked about their parents fighting, their parents living apart, and how they’d known all along. I didn’t think it could happen to us—which is a cliché that I laugh at now, was I so self-centered at 11 I didn’t notice the matriarch of my family was so hurt, broken, and lonely.

The world suddenly came apart. Falling all around me, my grades began to slip, I didn’t like the things I used to enjoy, and I spent most of my time in my room.

I listened to the fights that woke me up, that made my heart race with terror. I was unsure of what to do, what could I do? So, I made as much noise as possible, stomping around in the middle of the night, pretending I couldn’t sleep. I drank at least 9 cups of water before bed, so I’d have to get up, pee every hour on the hour.

For a while, I think it worked.

But nothing really changed. All I really remember was being scared, tired, cold, and so alone. I did everything in my power to make sure my siblings were the perfect kids I saw on television. I kept them quiet, even hurting them to make sure they stopped doing bad things because I was scared we were the cause of everything. We were breaking our family, we were too loud, we were too much.

I had a teacher, the first black woman I’ve ever met, that was an amazing person—and I've met more amazing women, but she will always stand out in my mind. I don’t know if other teachers noticed or if they cared. But she did. She noticed the bruises and she saw the withdrawn behaviour. She asked but I lied, so she asked my mom. That was the first time I’ve ever seen her cry. My teacher with the name of the man Jesus who rose from the dead, prayed with my mother in the middle of my half-lit hallway. Both crying as they asked God for the strength to do what my mother knew she had to do.

She asked me what I loved the most in the house and I said, my teddy bear she gave me—sorry I stole from her—as a child. He’s a white polar bear that I’ve named Teddy. She asked if there was anything else I wanted from the house, I said no, just Teddy—who I still have today.

She picked my sister and I up from school, the family green van packed to the brim with six bags. She asked us how our day was as we drove away from the house of horrors we lived in. We didn’t ask any questions because she’s our mother, she wouldn’t do us any wrong. We pulled into a building’s parking lot that I’d seen hundreds of times before, I thought it was just a regular house, but it wasn’t.

It was a house for women fleeing from domestic violence. The workers at the house asked if my siblings and I wanted to watch some TV. While my siblings watched Dora the Explorer I scanned the kitchen/living room area of this house. The posters around the dining table featured women with bruises trying to cover them up with makeup, some of them said simple sayings like "Help is out there" or "Did you walk into a door again?" Phrases my 12-year-old brain couldn’t figure out, I was so confused by them. It was then when my Mother came and took us to our rooms. The room I shared with my sisters had a small TV, one bunk bed, a regular bed, a closet and a nightstand. I found a Bible in the stand with highlighted quotes about violence.

Being a church kid from birth I knew what they talked about, so I hid the Bible from my siblings and mother. I didn’t want them to see the book with the highlighted verses that hurt my heart.

For the most part, no one knew where we were, expect for important people. I wanted to tell my best friend, but I couldn’t. It would shatter me if he went after her and I love her like a sister.

And that’s when my first dose of depression came in and took over everything in my life. I hid in the bathroom with her because I didn’t want to see my friends laughing and having a good time. I did as much work as I could to pass with a decent grade. I drew on my assignments that I was supposed to be working on. I faked illnesses to hide in the bathroom and just stare at the ceiling—most times teachers didn’t even come to find me. Sometimes I walked the halls and checked on my siblings, peeking into the kindergarten room to see if my brother was still there, then checking to see if my sister was still at her desk in the grade 3 and 4 spilt class. Then I’d venture back to my room, if I had the energy to endure the questions of: Where were you? What were you doing? Do you know how long you were gone?

A month later we went back to our old house, but my father wasn’t there. Gone like most of our things and his old yellow car in the driveway. I went back to my room I shared with my sisters, I tried to go back to the way I used to be. I tried to be the sister I used to be, happy, protective and… happy. Able to smile without being forced, able to play games like a normal person, able to stop controlling everything and forcing everyone to follow my will then their own.

One day, he came back. With Timbits in hand and toys, I was hesitant, but I wanted him back in my life.

That’s it. The end. Happily, ever after...

That’s where I wanted the story to end. My family lived happily, and no one was ever scared or sad ever again. While I wanted my life, and the lives of my siblings, to have a happy ending, it wasn’t meant to be.

Most of my memories of the time after The Great Return are mixed up, with jumping dates, different words thrown around and a confusion of who I am as a person. Although I can remember the key dates and information of World War 3.

Event One: Bathroom Battleground

I don’t remember what I did to get the rage I received from my Father. I’m quite sassy and have comebacks for every comment you give me, even at the age of 13, I could be funny or snarky at the drop of a hat. I was sitting on the stairs; the stairs have carpets. I remember that detail very clearly as I run up the stairs, I slip on a step and slam my face onto the carpet. I get up quickly, though, and run. The only door that has a lock is in the bathroom. I run in and slam the door closed, locking it as the door shakes. I can hear him banging on the door as I jump into the bathtub, I pull the shower curtain closed and I hide in the tub. Soon the banging stops and I stay there a little longer. Waiting, praying that he’d get bored with me and move onto something else. He did, and I ran into my room and waited until my Mother got home.

Event Two: The Kidnapped & The Runaways

I wanted to stay home from school. I was miserable, uncomfortable in my own body and discoverer of my new obsession, self-harm. I picked at my skin, pinched at the bruises I got from my Father or I poked myself with my protractor tip. I wanted to run away, to where I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be with my family, but I didn’t think I belonged. My siblings at the ages of 11, 4, 3, and 2 seemed better at everything than me. I was pushing 13, I have a learning disability and couldn’t focus on many things. I spent most of my time listening to music or reading books. That afternoon my sister and I started walking home from school, I walked behind her—she used to be my best friend but during those years, I shut her out and pushed her, and everyone, away because my pain was my own. My mother and her best friend pull up beside us, telling us we’re going out of dinner. We get in and I notice right away…

My youngest siblings weren't there…

When I ask where they were, my questions are brushed away. My sister and I are dropped off at a friend’s house and no answers were given. We slept at that friend’s house and then went to school the next day. I was anxious, and I ran away from class a lot, hiding in the bathroom or in my favourite stairwell. At the end of the day, I went to another friend’s house and waited. My mother came back again, this time she had all three of my siblings with her.

Now I don’t know what happened in the house for those 24 hours, and my three youngest siblings have created a close bond strong enough to shatter a diamond. They don’t talk about it and the things I saw when I returned to the house, were proof. The television was shattered, dozens of holes in the walls, broken glass, destroyed rooms, and upturned furniture.

What I want people to know...

My father was a great man. He made me laugh, he could fix anything with an engine, and he was the original nerd in my eyes. All the memories I have, and have chosen to keep, are the happy ones. He taught me to ride a bike, he taught me how to speak when I had a hard time with my stutter. He listened to weird music but still knew my favourite band as a kid.

If this does come out on the June 17th, 2018, which is Father’s Day, the following day is my 27th Birthday, that’ll be 18 years since I last saw my Father—although I do Facebook stalk him—and there’s only been a few words exchanged since then. A few hellos and even more threats. If he does, somehow get his hands on this work I want him to know the following things:

For a while, I’ve hated you and blamed you for so many things. I blamed you for my mental illness, my trust issues, and my haunting anger. I wished sometimes you’d die in a horrible way, pulled apart by dog, run over by several trucks… anything to get over my complete hatred of you. I hated the part of me that is you. My dark skin, my curly hair, my face, and my last name.

I sliced myself up, letting the blood run down the drains and starved myself to gain the control you stole from me. The control you used to run my life and the fear you used to force feed me. It all became too much in the last 18 years. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t function, and couldn’t feel anything. I was heading down a path last summer that was going to end with train headlights or the simple cut of the knife.

But then the artist you called a slut and banned her music came out with a song…

Praying…

I liked Kesha as a teen, but you said her music was for sluts, but I still listened whenever I could. When I heard this song, by the same artist you banned, I started crying and realized I needed to change my life, right there and then.

I stayed in the hospital, I’m trying to move on. I listen to "Praying" every day to give me the strength to fight for myself, to stand up and try to be loved again. To be proud of my mental illness and be an advocate for it even though you wouldn’t. I will choose to be happy—even though it’s a struggle.

While this song means many things to many people, to me it's a song about forgiveness. It's about not forgetting about being thrown down the stairs because the cat peed in the kitchen, but accepting that it happened and forgiving.

If you can survive through parental abuse, you can survive anything. You don't have to let this, or anything in this life, weight you down. Be proud of who you are, there might be monsters but there's some much more in this life. You might feel weak right now but you'll be stronger because of this.

And, even though many don’t think you’ve earned it…

I forgive you.

Happy Father's Day...