Child Abuse Story From Canadian Survivor

by Paul
(Ottawa, Ontario, Canada)

Although I have often told "my story", the people I told it to were never abused in the various ways I was. More importantly, I have never met anyone who has been "affected" by abuse in the way I was and am.

Even my older siblings, who went through the same experiences, are happy, positive, caring and generally well-adjusted people.

Was it because I was so young?

Also, I've yet to meet anyone who has dedicated himself and worked so hard and so long to "fix" what was "broken" inside of me. And after all this work and time, here I am, no longer able to work after some 33 years of work, the life and joy sucked out of me to the point I don't care to go on anymore.

Here is my story.

I was born in Ottawa Ontario Canada in 1956.

It's possible that the abuse started while I was in the womb. I am pretty sure my sister said that my dad punched my mom in the tummy when she was pregnant with me. It could explain why I came out feet first.

At age two, I was dying of double pneumonia. I was quarantined in the hospital for 19 days. I am told I had to be tied to the bed while they gave me blood transfusions. I have absolutely no memory of this event. But I sure remember what happened a few months before going to the hospital. It was late at night. I was in my pjs. My mom, my dad and I were sitting on the couch. Mom was in between us. My dad was drunk, angry and calling my mother names. I didn't know what they meant, but I knew they were not nice words. He then grabbed his freshly-brewed cup of tea, and threw it over her bare legs. She screamed his name saying he burned her. I don't think I got burned.

I told this story to my mom, with all the details: what he said; what she was wearing; who was in the room, etc. She was shocked that I could remember this incident since I was only two.

It was the beginning of what I call "when hell was in session".

My mom was often beaten in front of my older brother, sister and me. We were hit too, but not like Mom. My dad was super strong and aggressive – a bully really – and people were very afraid of his temper and strength.

At age five, he was beating her again. I ran up to him and held a knife next to his eye saying, "Don't you EVER touch my mother again!" He said, "Go put that away", and I did.

The cops were at our house often. There was screaming and beatings and food flying. It was awful and I was terrified.

Maybe if I had to deal with just the violent episodes, maybe I would have recovered at some point. But it was all the other stuff that happened that affected me too.

Like being really poor and seeing other kids and families have cars, nice clothes, go on trips, etc.

It was the shame of having a mom and dad who were alcoholics.

And the constant criticism from both parents was really hurtful. He would look at us and constantly correct whatever it was we were doing. My siblings and I remember sitting on the couch, watching TV, because we were told that's what "we are going to do", even if we hated what was on TV. We hardly moved, sitting erect, for fear of being scolded or hit. I held my pee in for what seemed like hours, too afraid to get up and go by his chair, because he would often grab me by my pjs, pull me in, and bark his anger at me. I was so scared.

So many bad things happened in that house, it would take a book to describe what took place.

Not sure how we managed to afford to do so, but we had a car for a few months. There was the "who wants to go for a Sunday drive?" event. "I do, I do!" my siblings and I would say. Only to be driven five minutes across to the next Province, being told to stay in the car, while he went into the hotel for hours to drink.

He was also a bit of a religious nut. So whenever he thought we did something wrong, we'd be forced to kneel in front of the wall for half an hour.

I was so scared when I was little, that when I woke up and was hungry, I would tip toe to the kitchen to get something to eat – anything! Sometimes it was a slice of bread – most times, it was uncooked bacon. I was too afraid of waking either of them up (Mom was moody and had a temper, too).

At age 5, my mom told me I was "too big to rock to sleep" anymore. And so, for the next 15 years - yup, till I was 20 - I rocked myself violently left to right, right to left, to fall asleep. It's a rare form of sleep disorder called total body rocking.

I lived in fear of everything: violence, fighting, school kids, doctors, hospitals, dentists, needles, insects, etc.

Finally, the day came! The BEST day of my life! I was 14. The cops took him away, saying he would kill one of us if they didn't. We ended up on welfare.

Two years later, he jumped off a bridge, into the frigid, winter river.

I was diagnosed four years ago with bipolar disorder. I was depressed for what seems to be a lifetime. On top of that, I had PTSD, ADHD, social and general anxiety, phobias, and sleep disturbances.

We were not taught anything at home except to obey on command. So you can imagine how "clued out" I was about the real world. Heck, I didn't know about sex or how babies came into being until I was 17.

Between not being taught anything, having no voice or say in the house, and all constant belittling and put downs, I thought I was the stupidest guy on earth! And I was just a bundle of nerves and impulses. I got addicted to booze, then sex, and eventually gambling, but I beat them all over time.

At 25, I read my first self-help book. This led to 27 years of reading books on psychology, philosophy, neurology, nuclear physics, the paranormal, religion, anything to help me find THE TRUTH about me and life. I did 27 years of almost non-stop self-analysis. I saw 15 shrinks/therapists, did individual and group therapy, trauma workshops, and I read much literature on psychiatric and psychological personality disorders, and the effects of trauma and abuse. I even tried subliminal tapes. I was that determined and that desperate!

I went from being a nervous kid who felt stupid and afraid, beat most of my fears, worked as a mail room clerk, and finished my career as a Federal investigator.

And now, at 52, I find I just lock myself in my apartment. I can't work (couldn't take stress anymore – is it any wonder?), can't seem to have a long term relationship, and gave my best shot at trying to make my dreams come through.

But for the love of me, I (and all those therapists) can't figure out what is wrong – I feel broken up inside. I have lost interest in all of the things that meant something, because I came to realize that all these things were simply my way of getting some attention.

Although I have felt suicidal most of my adult life, and had six attempts, I could never do that to my family. But I am so tired of being here. I feel like I did all this work for nothing.

Somewhere, somehow, the hurting that goes on in this world has to stop.

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