"And No One Stopped Them" (Memoir Part 2)

Image by Alexa from Pixabay

 

My family, already limping along and damaged, not that any of us realised it, pretty much came unglued within minutes of arriving in Calgary.  Everything blew up and it was all wrong, wrong, wrong.  My mother went to work full time, leaving me alone with Paul and allowing him to torment me more than ever out of school times.  My dad lost his job almost immediately and began to drink heavily, unleashing his drunken rage on me in the afternoons before my mother got home from work.  It was bad enough I’d always had to worry about Paul and my mother, but I couldn’t believe that my father had become so cruel and awful, too.  

To top it off, I had not made any friends.  And I didn’t fit in at school.  Everywhere I turned, Life had become unbearably cold and painfully lonely.  I ached to be back in Regina where I could go to friends’ houses and I had some means of escaping the constant criticism and fear, the frequent beatings I endured at home.  I ached for the little bits of happiness I’d managed to carve out for myself back home, before everything got so horrible and ugly.

I missed my father more than I could stand.  He’d been an infrequent enough presence in my life before the move, but afterward, even when he was at home he was absent, glued to the television for at least 18 hours a day, his own means of escape.  At dinner time one night, I begged him, as I did quite often.  “Please, Daddy?  Please, please will you eat in the kitchen with the rest of us, just this once?”  But as usual, he did not answer me.  There goes Daddy and there goes his plate with him.  Again.  And off  he went to sit in his chair in front of the television, where he lived whenever he was home.  

Later that evening, I crept into the living room and sat on the sofa under the guise of watching television with him.  I couldn’t have cared less about the rubbish program that was on; I just wanted to be near my dad and this was as good as it got.  He was right there in front of me in his armchair, but I missed him desperately.  

My eyes kept wandering across the room to my father, sullen and staring at the television but I don’t think he was actually watching it.  His temple twitched rhythmically as he ground his teeth, still fuming about some man who had gone back on his word, causing the job at the radio station to fall through.  My father had taken a job selling cleaning products instead.  “It’s beneath me!” he’d said with disgust, but there was a mortgage to pay and there were children to feed.  I was just a kid, eight years old, but as I cast my gaze upon this broken man across from me, I could feel his anger, his frustration, his unbearable, crushing disappointment.  It was all I could do not to cry.

The program ended.  It was my bedtime.  I don’t think Daddy was even aware that I was in the room but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  How I longed to have him sit on the edge of my bed again with just the light from the hall coming in, nice and cosy at the end of the day.  How I longed to have him lay his hand on my cheek again, to feel his love even just for a moment.  He was oblivious to the tears welling up in my eyes, to the ache in my throat.  Hesitantly, I opened my mouth to ask if he’d tuck me in, like he used to do, certain that if only he would, it would do him as much good as it would do me. 

  But as I rose, I thought better of it.  “Goodnight, Daddy,” was all I dared say. 

“’Night,” came his clipped reply as I made my way across the room, leaving him to his thoughts.  I’d lost hope of hearing “Chuch” out of his mouth ever again.  He wasn’t my dad any more.  This man was a stranger, and quite prickly, more like my mother, so I was learning very quickly to stay away from him.  It was as though I lived in a house full of enormous cactus plants and I was the most delicate little bubble, floating and drifting at the whim of the next current of air to sweep me along.  I was always watchful but no matter how careful I was, more often than not avoiding disaster was beyond my control.

One Sunday afternoon, I was at the kitchen table with crayons, drawing a picture for my mother and telling her about it as she stood at the counter, making a cake.

Suddenly, she interrupted me mid-sentence, slamming a measuring cup down on the counter.  “Now look what you made me do!” she yelled.  “Damn it all anyway!”

Guilt washed over me, familiar and strong.  Oh, no!  What did I do this time?  

“You shouldn’t have been talking to me!  You made me put in too much flour and now my cake is ruined.   It’s all your fault!”

“I’m sorry,” I offered, hanging my head with shame for yet another of this kind of infraction.  As I stood and began gathering up my crayons, she came over to the table and kicked me hard in the thigh.  “Go on!  Go away!” she yelled, slapping my upper arm before tearing up my picture and stuffing it in the bin.  I went to my room, closed the door and cried. 

Once again, I had got in trouble, despite doing my level best to please my mother and to be good.  Once again, I had made her angry.  Once again, I felt overwhelmingly guilty for being such a screw-up.   I wished that I could figure out what I’d done wrong so I could stop being so stupid.  But all I knew for sure was that I felt a little smaller, a little more horrible and a lot more worthless on every one of these occasions.  And on each one of them, as my mother figuratively twisted the knife after shoving it deep inside me, I learned a little more about feeling guilt, shame and responsibility which were not rightfully mine.

Outside of my home, I’d often seen warm and loving women, maternal and kind women who genuinely seemed to care about me.  As a child, I concluded that because my own mother didn’t like me - much less love me - she must have been the one who had it right because she knew me better than they did.  She must have seen the truth about me, that I was unlovable.  That I was bad, through and through, just like she said.  I believed and accepted that I was inherently flawed and defective.  And I was certain that my mother was perfect.  

I adored her.  I loved her fiercely.  And I needed her to love me, too, although I knew I did not deserve it.  I was simply not good enough for that.  Yet I could not stop trying to be perfect in hopes that maybe someday, I’d get it right and might get to feel a mother’s love.  I suppose that as a child, I was hard-wired to need it and to do anything I could to get it.  And I was a child who had already been ripped away from previous mothers and who was clinging desperately to the one she had.

 * * *

It was always such a relief to come home after school and find an empty house.  It was the only time I felt some measure of safety from my father’s drunken rages or Paul’s beatings, although it was always short-lived.  On one such day, I was lying on the living room floor, watching TV when Paul came home, looking for his own particular brand of fun.

“C’mere, you little brat!” Paul shouted at me moments after coming in the back door.  I leapt to my feet and ran while he chased me through the house.

Oh, no, he’s gonna beat the crap outta me!  A quick glance over my shoulder and I could see he was gaining on me.  My socks slid on the bare floor as I tried to round a corner and I almost fell.  That would have been suicide but I grabbed the wall and stabilised quickly.  As I tore through the kitchen, I managed to shove a chair over on the floor behind me, blocking Paul’s path, hoping to make it to the bathroom, the only room with a lock on the door.

“I’m gonna kill you for that!” he shouted, enraged as he tripped on the chair, slamming his shin into the wood and nearly falling.

I know you are!  I know you are!  Oh, please get me to safety!  I prayed to a God I hoped existed and could intervene.  I ran through the house but it was pointless.  Paul’s legs were longer.  He caught up with me.

Tackling me from behind, Paul spun me around and threw me down on the hardwood floor, pinning me there by kneeling across my thighs.  Grabbing my shoulders, he raised my upper body, then slammed my back and head into the floor, as hard as he could.  I was dizzy, dazed, but he grabbed me in the same way, and once again, shoved me into the floor, my head and back hitting the wood hard.

“Stop!” I screamed.  “Stop!  Please!”  I begged.

But he did this repeatedly until I was in too much pain to cry out any more.  I was about to pass out, when finally, he stopped.

After he left me, and the dizziness had passed, I rang my mother at work, sobbing as I told her what he had done.  I begged her to do something to make him stop, in hysterics as the level of violence was escalating. 

“What am I supposed to do about it from here?” she barked angrily.  “Why do you always bother me at work with your nonsense?  Just go to your room and stay out of his way and stop calling me here!”  And with that, she hung up.  Just like every other time.

Paul just laughed at me, seeing that - as usual - there would be no consequences when our mother returned and knowing he’d got away with it.  Again.  

My father had quit his job selling cleaning products and had begun sporadic work as a musician in nightclubs and dining rooms, leaving home around dinner time and coming back late in the evening.  This meant he was home during the day but more and more often, he went out drinking in the afternoons, giving me a little time by myself after school if Paul happened to be out with friends.  

I got brave one day and invited a girl called Brenda to come over after school, knowing what she might see at my house but praying she would not.  My dad was home the day before so chances were excellent that he’d be out on this occasion.   Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please, let the car be gone, oh, please!  We rounded the last corner and my heart sank.  The car was there.  My dad was home.  And probably just in his underwear, as usual.  With a bit of luck, he’d be parked in his chair watching the telly where he could not be seen, and we could go straight to my room without Brenda learning about one of my most embarrassing and humiliating secrets - my father.

As quietly as I could, I opened the back door, listening in the porch to see if I could work out where he was.  The TV was on, as usual, and the house reeked, my nose and eyes  instantly assaulted by the thick, blue haze from my father’s relentless chain-smoking.   

We took off our shoes and I went up the four steps to the kitchen with Brenda right behind me, just as Dad walked through from the living room, naked except for his underwear which hung loosely enough on his body that some things were visible which shouldn’t have been.

“What are you doing?” he barked with a scowl.  I could feel Brenda’s eyes on him, her disgust with him, with me and my family, burning a giant hole through my back.

“Nothing, Dad, we’re just going to my room.”  My head was hot with guilt and shame.  Oh, why can’t you ever be dressed?!  I wanted to disappear into the floor, taking all memory of me and this horrible incident with me so that Brenda would never think of it again.

As he turned back to his beloved television, I led Brenda quickly through to my room.  I prayed that I’d been in her line of vision in the porch.  I prayed she hadn’t seen his near-nakedness.  But I knew she had.  She was quiet.  Awkward.  And she never came home with me again.

There was another day when the car wasn’t home after school.  Hallelujah!  As long as Paul is gone, too...  I could only hope.  And thankfully, he was.

I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich and poured a glass of milk, noticing the dishes left from breakfast and lunch.  I ought to do those now, in case Daddy comes home and it gets as bad as last time...

I decided to risk it.  He’d usually give me an hour or so.  I got a book from my room, and took my plate and glass to the living room where I settled in on the sofa.  I was delighted to have just a little peace and freedom from fear. 

But he didn’t give me an hour that day.  It wasn’t long before I heard the screen door open and Dad’s key rattling in the front door lock.  The adrenalin flowed.  Oh, no.  Please, don’t be drunk, just this once!   

Dad stumbled in, eyes glassy and bloodshot.  Oh, God, here we go.  

“Hey...” he said with a drunken half-smile.

“Hi, Dad,” I replied, aware that my heart was beating a little harder than usual in my chest as he removed his shoes, turned on the TV and settled into his chair.  I ate the last of my sandwich as quickly as I could, gulping my milk to wash it down.  The quicker I got out of that room, the better my chances of avoiding a replay of the last time.  Shoving my book under an arm, I put the glass on my plate, then carried them to the kitchen where I filled the sink to wash the day’s dishes before my mother got home.

I knew I should have done these sooner; I could have been in my room by now.  

I’d just begun washing the dishes when Dad startled me, appearing next to me and plugging in the kettle to make a cup of coffee.  I jumped, my hand reflexively flying to my chest.

“What’s the matter with you?” he bellowed, leaning on the counter with one elbow before turning and frowning at me.   His breath was foul; it very nearly made me gag but I fought the urge to screw up my face against it, fearing the consequences.

I managed a nervous smile.  “Nothin’, Dad.”

“Why are you always so goddamned jumpy?” he slurred, his tone intimidating.

“Sorry, Daddy, you just startled me ‘cause I didn’t hear you coming.”  Please stop.  Please stopI was trembling, praying he wouldn’t notice.

“Why the hell should you be scared of me?” he asked, still frowning and obviously angry as he leaned in a little closer to me.  My heart pounded a little harder in my chest.

“I’m not Daddy,” I lied.  

I prayed I could finish the dishes quickly and go to my room where I could hide from his drunken fury, although that didn’t always stop him.  He was as unpredictable as a Rocky Mountain grizzly; I never knew what to expect.

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you!” he snarled, taking a step closer to me.  I felt myself shrinking away from him as he growled, “Are you just trying to piss me off or what?”

Alarm bells screamed in my head.  Only inches away from him, I couldn’t help but make a run for it.  I started to dash across the kitchen, my legs like rubber as he chased me.  “You get back here, you little bitch!” he bellowed.

  But I had to keep running.  In seconds, he’d caught up with me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around just as I made it to my room.  “I’ll teach you to walk away when I’m talking to you!” he spat as he squeezed both my upper arms and threw me hard into the door frame.  My back and head hit the wood and I felt a little dizzy as I stumbled and fell on the floor.  Curled up and cowering on the floor, my arms protectively over my head, I waited for the blows I was certain were coming.  But this time, my father stumbled back to the kitchen, made his coffee and went to his beloved television.

My father had become just as frightening as Paul and my mother had always been.

* * *

I was startled out of sleep by the terrifying sounds of my father, violently retching and moaning over the toilet again in my parent’s bathroom, just on the other side of the wall by my bed.  Shocked and frightened, I daredn’t move.  It was so horrible, I began to feel sick, too.  It went on for what seemed like days.  I lay there with my pillow over my head, my fingers in my ears, humming and biting my teeth together repeatedly, trying unsuccessfully to drown out the horrifying sounds.  I was paralyzed with fear.  But then I was equally terrified when the sounds stopped and it was deathly silent on the other side of the wall.  I was certain he had to be dead that time, having been so violently sick.  I began to shiver and shake uncontrollably.  

But as with so many other occasions when he’d had far too much to drink, he was not dead.  And I knew it would probably just be a few days before I’d awaken to the same nightmare.  Or to the other one which was becoming very frequent since he started these evening entertaining jobs and coming home very late. 

SLAM! went a door.  “Shhhhh!  Please!  Stop!” Oh, no!  Mummy is crying again!

“I will NOT stop!” Daddy, please don’t yell!  Please don’t!  You’re scaring me!

And he carried on raging and my mother went on crying.

WHAM!  Pounding on something, I didn’t know what.  I prayed it wasn’t my mother. 

“Aw, quitcher bitchin’!” he yelled at her.

“Please!  Please!  Just stop!” she begged.

“Aw, fer Chrissake!”  BANG!  BANG!  

She was sobbing then.  “It’s 3.00!  I have to get up for work in a few hours!  Please, stop!”

I was certain he was going to kill her. Or that one of them would have a heart attack.  I just felt certain that someone was going to die.  And all I could do was lie in my bed, terrified and shaking violently.

And no one stopped him.

And so it went for a long time that night, and it continued like this on very many other nights for all the years I lived so painfully in that house.

As if I didn’t spend enough nights lying awake and shaking, terrified and alone, my brother had another special treat up his sleeve, knowing how very trusting I was.

“There’s a vampire living in our basement, you know,” Paul said, his eyes wide and his voice low and ever so serious.

“No, there isn’t!” I said, my own eyes even wider than his.  “There are no vampires! They’re not real!”

“Ohhh, yes, they are!  Don’t you hear those little sounds in the night when everything is quiet?” he asked.

I heard sounds all the time when I was lying awake, shaking.

“What sounds?” I didn’t really want him to answer that.

“Little creaks and thumps.  They’re not very loud.  That’s him, moving around in the basement and through the house before he goes out and sticks his fangs in someone’s neck and sucks out all their blood.  He goes through doors just like a ghost, and stands in hallways watching people sleep before he kills them.”

I felt a little dizzy.  “Well, why hasn’t he sucked out all my blood yet if there’s really one living in the basement?” I challenged, fear rising from my stomach.

“Because he does whatever ...I...ask,” he said, emphasising each of those three terrifying words whilst looking at me intently.  “And whenever I ask it,” an evil grin lighting up his whole face. 

I lay awake for a very long time that night, and almost every night after that for many long months, frozen in fear, listening to those creaks and thumps, doing my level best to ‘play dead’.  It was especially difficult to hold my breath for any length of time, or to breathe so my chest didn’t move.  But if only I could do that, maybe the vampire would think I was already dead and wouldn’t suck all the blood out of my body and turn me into a vampire, too.  I was certain it was lurking there in the darkened hallway, just outside my door.  

Night after night, all I could do was lie there, trying not to move my chest with each breath, waiting and hoping I would not be killed.  And it was like this for a very, very long time...until I was well past nine years old and I was finally sure that there was no such thing as a vampire.  It was just one more reason for me to lie awake at night, scared to death, shaking and fearful.  And all alone.

People often laugh when I tell them this story which they say is “cute” because of course there are no vampires.  But they forget that I was just a child.  They forget that my brother was cruel and convincing.  They don’t realise that my brother was constantly coming up with ways to terrorise me.  They don’t realise that for every waking moment of my childhood, thanks to my brother, I was always on guard, always ready for an attack, always fearing for my survival, waiting for some Big Frightening Thing to leap out at me from the shadows and kill me.

And no one stopped him.

One night, I was awakened out of a deep sleep as if I’d been startled by something.  An overwhelming sense of panic flooded through me.  Instantly, I opened my eyes, sat up in bed, and was on the alert, listening for terrifying vomiting sounds.  There were none.  I listened for a drunken rage.  But all was dark and still.  Everyone was sleeping and there was not a sound to be heard, other than the quiet hum of the furnace or the occasional creak or groan from the house.  There was no pounding or slamming, no raging or yelling, no crying or pleading, yet suddenly, my body tensed, as if I’d been plugged into an electrical socket.  My jaw was clenched and I began to shake quite violently.

My stomach was as hard as a rock.  I felt sick and instantly began to freak out, in a major panic because I might throw up.  On a very regular basis, I heard just how terrifying it was when my father was so violently ill.  I was certain that I would die if I vomited like that.

I didn’t know what was happening to me.  My body was rigid, my fists were clenched.  My teeth were chattering as if I were freezing in sub-zero temperatures.  And I could not, for the life of me, stop shaking.   

I was desperate to call out for one of my parents but I dared not wake them.  It had never gone well when I tried that in the past with the witch nightmare.  I didn’t recall ever feeling so terrified.  Or so desperately alone.

I don’t wanna throw up!  Why am I shaking?  Am I gonna die??  Oh, God, what do I do?  What do I do??   

I stayed in my bed, nine years old but curled up like a little baby, hugging myself and rocking back and forth, unable to stop the violent shivering and shaking, or the overwhelming panic.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name...”  I whispered the prayer over and over to try to calm down, rocking, rocking, rocking.  It was all I could think of to distract myself from this horrible shaking until after an hour or so, when it finally subsided and utterly drained, I fell into a troubled sleep. 

And after that first time, this middle-of-the-night shaking and panic happened frequently.  I began to dread going to sleep about as much as I dreaded being awake.  

* * *

It was recess.  With my hands stuffed into my pockets, I stood wistfully at the side of the playground, as usual.  Yet another fifteen minutes of hell, watching groups of children laughing, playing tag, pushing each other on the swings.  I’d have cut off an arm to have just one of them come and ask me to play, too, and maybe ask to be my friend.  

But my wishes and imaginings took me to the same place they always did:  It was better that no one asked.  Because having friends was dangerous.  Having friends meant exposing the Family Secrets.

There was no safe place for me any more, nowhere to go, no escape from fear.  At home or at school, daytime or night, awake or asleep, I feared for my survival in one way or another.  If my body managed to live through this, my spirit would surely be killed.  It was just a matter of time.

* * *

Eight had sucked but Nine was much worse.  The only good thing that happened during Nine was Mrs. Jorgenson.  I worshipped this kind and gentle woman with the soft, flowing skirts.  She actually acted as though she genuinely liked me.  Or at least she faked it really well but if that’s what she was doing, I didn’t care.  It still felt wonderful.  

“Did you have a good week?” she asked in honeyed tones every Saturday morning, opening her front door and greeting me with a warm smile.  From the day I had the good fortune to meet her, I noticed that her soulful eyes always seemed to be smiling, too.  

“Yes, thank you,” I said as I put my music books down and took off my shoes.

“Did you have any trouble practicing?” she asked, putting her arm around my shoulders as I came in, her affectionate gesture welcome, desperately needed, but awkward and unfamiliar.  I was aching for her to give me a proper hug while at the same time being terrified that she would.

“No, thank you, it was fine,” I replied, obviously distracted.  I bit my lip and stared at the floor, wondering if I should tell her the rest.  Having taught myself for five years, I wasn’t sure what the rules were for proper lessons.

“What is it?  What’s wrong?” she asked, wearing a genuinely concerned expression.  It was what I thought ‘motherly’ should look like.  

Oh, dear, I couldn’t bear it if she gets mad at me!  

I hesitated.  Then had no choice but to say it.  The words fell out of my mouth in a rush, one after another.  “I love this new book so much, I went ahead of where we were and learned a couple more songs.”  

I held my breath, waiting for an assault of angry words and harsh criticism.  

“Oh!  Lovely!” she exclaimed, surprising me.  “You’ll have to play those for me!  Good for you!” 

Much relieved, I scrambled up on the bench, delighting in a half-hour of warmth, peace and another music lesson, the highlight of my week.  I should have known Mrs. Jorgenson wouldn’t be like Mummy. 

For half an hour every week, I got to play to my heart’s content. For half an hour every week, I felt just a little bit good about myself and felt just a tiny bit special.  For half an hour a week, I was happy.

My mother had a hysterectomy and when she was finally home again, she limped around in pain, holding her tummy.  I just wanted to hug her and make her feel better but I knew that would have been suicide.  She was even awkward and embarrassed when Dad tried to give her a kiss.  But then, she was always like that with him.

“Oh, stop!  Stop it!” she’d say, screwing up her face and pushing him away, always reminding me of the little black cat who was horrified and so desperately squirming and struggling to get away from Pepé Le Pew in the cartoons.  Only it was never even remotely funny when my mother did it.  My father’s face fell, his broken spirit quite evident every time.

My mother hadn’t been home from the hospital very long when one night, we were both in the living room watching TV.  I was on the floor and she was lying on the couch on her side with her knees drawn up.  

Slowly, I inched toward to the couch, doing my best to be nonchalant and hoping she wouldn’t really notice what I was doing, until eventually, I climbed onto the end of the sofa, near her feet.  I curled up and tried to stay as small as possible, careful not to touch her.  I was afraid to breathe, afraid to spoil the moment, afraid that she might kick me or shout at me to go away.  

It was a while before I dared move.  I picked up a little cushion that was there behind me.  Ever so cautiously, I put it on the sofa, laying my head down and curling up in the little space behind my mother’s legs.

I lay there, tense, paralysed, waiting for a blast of anger, yet feeling such a rush of love for her, I could barely contain it.  I couldn’t believe she let me get that close, but it wasn’t close enough.  I remember wishing I could unzip her like a huge coat and climb right inside to be completely surrounded and held by her.  

To be so close, yet so afraid to touch her...it broke my heart.  I loved my mother desperately, yet I lay there terrified to tell her so, the words lodged in my tight and aching throat as I choked back bittersweet tears.

  How I longed to hear her tell me once, just once, that she loved me!  Every day I wished and prayed, silently begging her to utter those words.  But she never did.

There were plenty of other words, however.  There was a constant barrage of insults and criticisms, many words about my past and present inadequacies, as well as predictions about my future ones.  Looking back, it is tragic to understand that I wasn’t particularly bothered by these comments because I believed I deserved every single one of them.  They had already eaten their way into the heart of every single cell of my body, every thought I had, straight through to the center of my soul.  They drove me to do my very perfectionistic best at school.  At home, I kept my room clean, tidy and organised.  I did my chores, often without being asked.  

Everywhere I went, I was sure to mind my manners.  I did exactly as I was told.  I was as quiet as a mouse.  I did my anxiety-drenched best not to be a bother or to be in the way, clinging to an ever-shrinking shred of hope that one day, it would make a difference.  One day, I might be good enough.  One day, I might be worthy of just a little of my mother’s love and attention.  One day, she just might see me.  

But until then, I would go on feeling entirely lost and utterly alone.  I didn’t belong in that family, or in that house.  I didn’t belong to anyone, anywhere, nor did I have any value.  I had been given away as a baby.  In the heart and mind of a desperate little girl, this spoke volumes about her worthlessness.  My family’s behaviour only validated those beliefs, and they were beliefs which would shape my life in a profoundly negative way for decades, their mushroom-cloud toxicity radiating outward, poisoning me and many of the people I loved most in the world.

We lay there for quite some time that evening, my mother and me, together but not really, neither of us moving until she got up and that perfect little moment was gone forever.  For many long years, I prayed that there would be another one like it.  But there never was.   

We’d been in Calgary about a year when my uncle came to visit for a few days.  He was married to Daddy’s sister and he was quite creepy.  He looked at me in a way that made me want to cover myself up.  He’d stayed with us in Regina when I was about five, but I didn’t remember much about it and I think I was glad about that because of what happened this time.

It was morning.  I was getting ready for school.  My brother had already gone.  My parents were at work.  My uncle was in my brother’s bedroom where he had been sleeping during his visit with us.  He came out into the hallway and saw me in my room.  Crooking his finger at me, he said, “Come here.  Do you want to play a game?”

Oh, goodie!  Monopoly or Snakes and Ladders or maybe Checkers!   I was so excited!  We didn’t have very many games but the few we had were kept in Paul’s room.   He wouldn’t let me touch them unless he was really hard up for something to do.  Then he’d play with me but he always cheated.  

“Which game?” I asked my uncle, eager and curious as I followed him inside.  I had to leave for school soon but I could play for just a few minutes...

And for the rest of my life, I would not remember what happened next, except for the part where my uncle was forcing something up inside me, inside a private part of me and I felt searing, hot, ripping pain.  Make it stop!  Make it stop!  You’re ripping me in two!  Oh, God, what are you doing?  I’m going to be sick!  

For the rest of my life, it would remain like a snapshot, nothing before or after it, only that moment of violation, pain and terrible shock.

He left on that same day, driving back to British Columbia where he lived.  I told my parents about it later but they did nothing.  Nothing to stand up for me.  They left him free to do this to other little girls, too.

  And no one stopped him. 

No one ever spoke of this incident again for many long years.  Until I was well into adulthood, it was as though it never happened...whatever “it” was. 

Something else happened when I was nine years old.  

I was lying in my bed one night after a bath, trying to settle down for sleep.  I was nodding off when an image drifted into my mind .  I imagined a man’s face buried between my legs, licking me, which gave me a strange but pleasant tingling sensation there that I could not explain.  It seemed like a faded memory, lying at the edge of my consciousness but just out of reach.  I found myself wishing this could really happen.  And I wished for it quite often after that because I loved that tingling feeling.

Somehow, I knew it was secret and private and I shouldn’t tell anyone.  Somehow I knew it was bad, bad to think about it, bad to want it, bad to do it.  But then I believed I was bad anyway so it was no surprise that I felt that way.   And it would be a very long time before I knew just how wrong it really was that a nine-year-old should know anything about it.  And only then would I begin to wonder how I knew...

* * *

I was on the toilet having a pee, just about to get into the bathtub the day Paul learned how to pick a lock.

“Look at you!  Look at your little titties!” he teased, bursting into the bathroom.  “Haha, I saw you on the toilet!  C’mere!  Lemme see your bum!”

“Get out!  Get out!” I screamed, trying to cover my body with my arms but he grabbed them away from me with both of his hands, pulling me off the toilet and exposing me while he taunted and jeered, laughing at me and loving all that power as he stared at my naked little self and my broken little soul.   He added a few pinches and a couple of slaps for good measure, laughing all the while at my humiliation.  

From that day on, he did this at every opportunity, sometimes more than once a day.  I complained to my parents but as with every other time he tormented or assaulted me, it was no big deal to them.   

One night, I tiptoed through the house, peering around corners to see where everyone was, hoping it was safe.  I could hear my mother in the basement, the washing machine churning away.  Paul and my father were watching television.  I darted into the bathroom, my bladder bursting.  Closing the door as quietly as possible, I prayed no one would hear anything and know I was there.  I began to do this any time there was anyone else in the house, desperate not to be discovered while I was using the toilet.  

It was hard enough to avoid Paul when I was in the loo, but I really dreaded my mother seizing an opportunity to do her worst, which was always in the bathroom.

“Take off your pants and get on the floor!” she demanded with some regularity - at least once a week, maybe twice.

After years of enduring her forceful and angry violation of me, I knew there was no point in arguing.  It always took longer and hurt more if I did.  Obediently, I did as I was told, unbuttoning my jeans, removing them and my panties, my face hot with humiliation and my stomach beginning to roll.

“Get those legs up and spread them for me.  Now!”  

Covering my face with my hands, I went to many places in my head in an effort to escape.  It was about all I could do until she was finished hurting me.

And no one stopped her.

I was powerless to escape her, but I found a way to keep Paul out of the bathroom.  I was running a bath one night, worrying about Paul bursting in, as he so often did.  And that’s when it hit me.  If I opened the drawers in the vanity, they blocked the door.  So even if he unlocked it, he could only open it an inch or so. 

Sure enough, I had just got into the tub when I heard the jiggling of the doorknob as he stuck something in the hole to unlock it.  How I detested that sound!  My heart leapt to my throat, knowing he couldn’t get in but well aware that he was going to be furious.  

Thunk!  The door opened just a crack and hit the sides of the drawers.

“That won’t keep me out!” he raged through the crack in the door.  “You just wait, you little brat!”  He pulled the door shut, hard.

Oh, God, what’s he going to do to me?!  

I was terrified, expecting him to be lurking right outside the door, ready to pounce on me and do his worst the moment I left the safety of the bathroom.  But I couldn’t stay in there forever.

My heart in my throat and my hand trembling on the knob, I was deathly afraid to open the door after I finished my bath.  

Ever so slowly, and ever so quietly, I turned the knob and pulled the door open.  I was a bit dizzy and my heart was banging away as I stepped out into the darkened hallway.

But Paul was nowhere to be seen.  

Maybe hiding in my room?  Nervously, I peered into the dark before snapping on the light next to the door.  Nope, not there.  Every nerve in my body was screaming.

The closet.  It wouldn’t be the first time he hid in there, terrifying me by leaping out with a loud roar...I thought I’d be sick as I walked toward the door, my sweaty hand trembling as I reached for the handle.

But he wasn’t there either.  I was always on ‘high alert’ anyway, living in a constant state of anticipatory anxiety, waiting for an attack from someone in my home.  I could almost hear one long, jittery violin note playing in the background of my life, just like in a Hitchcock film.  It never bloody well stopped.

Over the next few weeks, Paul didn’t try to get at me in the bathroom.  He just kept shooting mischievous, knowing looks at me and bursting into fits of laughter for no apparent reason.  I knew I was missing something; I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  But at least he had completely stopped bothering me while I was in the bathroom.  Or so I thought.

I was having a bath one evening when I heard a few quiet taps and a barely audible little scrape or two; every now and then, just a tiny noise but I couldn’t work out what it was.  After several minutes, I focused and tried to find out where it was coming from.  

And that’s when I saw it.  The edge of a hand mirror under the door.  My blood ran cold as I realised that he’d been watching me for weeks.  He must have seen the look of horror on my face; his sadistic laughter reverberated through the hallway, the bathroom, my heart and my soul. 

Hot tears streamed down my face as I yanked the shower curtain across the rail so he couldn’t see me.  From that day on, every time I was in the bathroom for any reason, I piled towels in front of the crack under the locked door and pulled open the two drawers which would prevent it being opened. I’d grab the shower curtain and pull it around me before using the toilet or getting undressed.  It didn’t stop Paul from picking the lock and opening the door just that crack, and it didn’t stop him from using a wooden spoon to try to shove the towels away so he peek with the mirror and try to get a glimpse of me.  

Every humiliating, terrifying second that I was in that bathroom for any purpose, I was desperate for a little privacy and fighting to find a way to get it.  Between Paul and my mother, it was downright impossible.  In time, this would be the cause of one of the most debilitating issues I would ever endure.

* * *

I had just dried myself off after a bath and was back in my room, about to get dressed.  My bedroom door burst open and there was Paul, big and strong and scary, laughing at my nakedness.  I dove under the covers of my bed, pulling them up tightly under my chin but that was no protection from him.   He tore the blankets away from my body, that sinister laugh and evil look in his eyes burning into my memory as he grabbed me hard by an arm and a leg, digging his nails into my flesh as he pulled me out from under the covers until I was exposed.

My parents were home and heard my screams.  But as I expected, no one came to my rescue or tried to protect me.  Paul threw me on the hard, bare floor, where I lay, shivering and naked, curled up and sobbing while he laughed and taunted me once more.

“I can see your bum!  I can see your little titties!”  He howled with laughter, grabbing and groping at me, trying to touch these private parts of my body.  But I coiled myself up as small as I could, hoping to cover as much of my little body as possible, utterly humiliated as I bit my tongue, praying for him to get bored with my lack of response and leave.

After I was dressed, I sought out my parents and told them what Paul had done.  I gave them every detail.

“He’s always coming into my room and being horrible to me!  Please, can I have a lock?” I begged, certain that they would understand and say yes.  After all, I was the only one without a lock on my bedroom door.

“No!” shouted my dad.  My mother did not even appear to be listening, although she was sitting right next to him, lost in thought and a million miles away, obviously not giving a rat’s ass about what I’d just said. 

The word hit me like a slap across my tear-stained cheek.

No?  Why not?  Paul’s got a chain lock on his door.  You and Mum have a lock on your door,” desperation and humiliation driving me to argue.

“Well, you’re not having one!  Now I don’t want to hear another word about it!” yelled my dad, shooting me a frightening, squinty-eyed and very angry look.  

I should have expected it.  But for some reason, I did not.  Foolishly, I had hoped that the Daddy who used to let me with with him, the Daddy who used to tuck me in so lovingly might actually surface when I needed him most.  But he did not.  

At nine years old, the decision about the lock taught me - once and for all - that I deserved to be violated.  I deserved to be disrespected. These were life-altering realisations that slammed into the centre of my soul, and a huge piece of it shattered.  Something in me died and would be lost forever. There would be many who could violate me in one way or another in the coming years.

And no one stopped them.

 
Liberty Forrest