Tuesday 3 September 2013

Unspoken Words


The earliest recollection I have of his abuse was about the age of 3 1/2 – 4 years of age. It was late at night and I had been awakened by the sound of them struggling together. I turned into their room, which was on the lower level the same as me and my two sisters, to see my father strike my mother in the side of the head with her handbag. He was looking for the keys to drive and as he had been drinking my mother hid them from him to try and protect him. I’ve replayed this incident over in my head countless times growing up. I remember from that early age the fear of my father being instilled deep into my heart and soul. Never would I have imagined the brutal attacks that I would be a victim too before my mother decided to leave him at the age of 12.

Most of the attacks and abuse are vague, though a few occasions are still very fresh in my mind. I’ve wrote in a previous blog about how around the time I started school, the sound of my heart beat beating in my head, I thought were sounds of footprints outside my ground-level window, the footprints of my father coming to attack me. Can you imagine being that young and having that fear? Or having to fall asleep to what you think are footsteps of your alcoholic father coming to release his wrath on your young, frail, innocent body? I remember wondering from a young age if it was because I was the ‘sick’ kid out of me and my sisters. Why me?

Most of the attacks were either a hand or a belt taken across my bum or back. I remember lying in bed for hours after because the pain would leave me paralyzed. I would cry myself to sleep on most occasions, asking that God would please just let me die so I could escape this ‘hell’ that I was living in.

My father never understood the concept of proper discipline, or even communication for that matter. His was of communicating was with his limbs or screaming unholy words at people. I shouldn’t expect anything different from him I suppose. He was raised in an alcoholic home. I am not making excuses for him, believe me. But they say that you learn how to treat people through how you are raised. Sometimes I wonder why I turned out so good.

The footprints in my head continued…..

I was about eight years old when the worst attack happened. We were arguing over something. I can’t remember what it was, something stupid I would imagine. Before I knew it my father had grabbed me by my ear, my legs dangling, and then I was thrown onto my bed, hitting my head against the wall. A headache and an immediate bump I could feel. I still have the scar at the top of my ear where it tore a little from the weight of body being carried by my tiny little ear. In fear of him returning for a second blow, I jumped out of bed and propped my desk chair against the door so he would not be able to get in even if he tried. It didn’t take long though until he noticed the door had been closed. He tried a few times with little force to try and open the door, to no avail. But it didn’t take long until I witnessed the chair crumble into little tiny pieces as the weight behind my father crushed the chair to allow him to enter. The door was hanging off the hinges as I looked behind him getting closer towards me when I felt the next blow. First a smack across my rear end, then he lifted me the second time and flicked me against the wall. I then remember crying, hurdled in the fetal position hoping he would have mercy on my lifeless form just lying there, silently begging not to be beaten anymore. It must have worked because I remember falling asleep that night, pillow soaked with tears.

The footprints in my head continued….

I cannot remember any abuse towards my sisters, except for one incident with my older sister where my father flicked a garbage bag full of clothes at her in our living room. My little sister was his favorite. And my old sister wasn’t far in line for second place. My entire childhood, even sometimes now I would ask myself, “why me?” Little do they realize they have been abused by my father, just not in the same ways as I have been. His manipulations and emotional and mental abuse affected us all. And I still see it evident in my two siblings lives. Even though they never suffered any physical pain from our father, they do not recognize harmful traits in men they date and see the damaging effects as harshly as I do of alcohol and drug abuse.

It was summer of 1997 when I had reached my limit. We again were arguing and fighting over something stupid when I remember seeing that rage in his eyes and he proceeded to attack me. At that I started to run away from him, but he was too fast. My mother had a crystal ashtray laid on the sofa table that was in the hallway of our home. I turned just in time to see it heading straight for my face. I didn’t catch it, but hit it with my hand and it shattered all over the floor. I grabbed a chunk, cut myself with it, and then running towards the exit to go find help, I cut my father with it, hoping it would cause him to bleed out. Ending my suffering. Ending my pain. But sadly that didn’t happen. I ran to a nearby neighbor, Joanne who lived behind our house and made up a story of self-defense, hoping my father was dying in our house from the blood pouring out of his wrist. The police were not called and when everything settled I returned home. It wasn’t long though until the regret of what I had done was felt all over my body with another attack. It was after this day, that I had reached my breaking point.

I’m not sure if my mother still has the letter I wrote to her at that tender age of 9. But I basically wrote her and said it is time for you to make your choice. It’s either Dad, or me. I even gave her a deadline of when she had to make her decision or I was going to run away. The pain was too intense for me to have to suffer another blow, and my soul was almost dead.

It wasn’t long after that I remember waking up to a lot of hustle and bustle. We were at my aunt Linda’s friend’s house and we were up oddly early and packing our things like we were finally going to go on that trip to Disney I had dreamt of for so long. My Aunt Karen and my then Uncle Barry came and met us there, and then we pilled in the van, just me, my mom and little sister. We stopped in Mount Pearl where we left our burgundy van and hopped in the car with my aunt and Uncle. Before long we were on the highway and the only thing my Mom would tell me is that we were going someplace safe, and that was good enough for me. Before long we were on a big boat. Learning after that we were heading for Nova Scotia. It was starting to make sense in my head. “She chose me! Mom chose me! And I don’t have to be beaten anymore!” After I realized that the trip turned into something fun. Didn’t know where we were going, all I know is that I was safe in the arms of my mother.

Wasn’t long and we were at my Aunt Bonny’s house in Quebec. There we said goodbye to Aunt Karen and Uncle Barry and caught a train heading to my Aunt Linda’s house. “A new life”, I thought!  This was just what I had been praying for!

We finally arrived, unpacked our things, and things felt strangely normal right from the start. Mom and Linda tried to find us a school to attend and our two cousins made us feel so at home introducing us to their friends. The dream didn’t last long though, until I saw a chocking story on the news.

The footprints in my head continued….

NTV news had my face and my sister’s face plastered on the news and my mother was up for abduction charges. I saw our home on Greg Place, and my bike still in the driveway and the subtitle, “Man missing his family” displayed on the bottom of the news screen. I later found out that my mother had gone to a lawyer and was given wrong information on her being allowed to take me and my sister out of the province, away from my abusive and sly alcoholic father. She was given a time limit on when she was to have both of us back in the province. Wasn’t long after that we were on a flight back home and what awaited us there was nothing short of a nightmare. We were barely off the plane when my mother was handcuffed, like a criminal and taken away from the airport within 5 minutes of being on the ground. Like she had murdered someone! We were then taken by my uncle Randy and Aunt Kitty to stay with them for a few days before we finally ended up at the Kirby house, a shelter for battered and abused women and children and we were reunited with our mom.

We stayed at the Kirby house for a while before moving into a town house. I felt liberated to start living a new life, abuse-less and free of an angry monster. My sister and I started attending Virginia Park Elementary School. We didn’t have a lot, but I felt like I had the world because I was free of living with constant abuse. I no longer had to live in fear of when the next attack would come or when my father would have his next drinking binge. The fairy tale didn’t last long though, when right out of the blue, the most unexpected thing happened.

I will never forget that day. I was sitting on the couch in the living room when I heard the knock on the door. My mom answered it, and in came my father! I was so angry that all I could do was storm off to my bedroom, which thank-god had a lock on it. “How could my mother do this? How could she end this peace we had been experiencing for so long? With everything he just put us through, how could she take him back now?” I remember hearing his footsteps come up the stairs, much like the ones that I had imagined before sleep…..creep….creep….creep…..until I heard him lay down outside my door, saying how uch he was sorry, and how much he had changed and how things were going to be different! BULLSHIT! I saw right through him, but sadly my mother fell for his manipulative ways and before I knew it we were packing back up, yes you are reading this correctly, and moving back into Greg Place. Back where the horrors of my childhood played out. Back to the one place where I hated to be, and was so grateful to be away from. This was definitely not HOME to me.

The footprints in my head continued….

It wasn’t long before my father returned to his abusive ways and this time my mother had gained a little strength while we were absent from my father to take matters into her own hands and kicked him out. I would say we were back there for a total of 6 months to a year. And this time, thankfully was the last time they split. I guess my mother needed to see one last time that a leopard cannot easily change his spots and that my father would forever remain the same. In 2002 they were legally divorced. It was only at that time since she left him the second time that I was at ease that she wouldn’t take him back yet again. Finally, it was just me and my mom and my baby sister. My older sister quit school to help care of my father for a year, seeing past his imperfections and wanting to make sure that he would be ok.

And here we are 11 years later. There are few days that go by when I don’t have PTS (Post-traumatic stress) related to my childhood and memories often come out of the blue to remind me of the realities that other kids like me face every day. It is extremely difficult for me to talk about this issue but it feels like the right time to talk about it.

A couple of days ago I posted a picture of me and Perry’s father from our wedding day. I posted on how I had longed for a father figure my whole life for someone who I could look up to and admire in a male-leading role in my life. Perry’s father is in my opinion the ‘ideal’ father who treats his entire family with love and respect. I cannot imagine him even raising his voice. He has become such a good influence in my life. After I posted this photo on MY Facebook page I received a post from my little sister saying that she took offence to me making reference to dad being an abusive alcoholic, and that it makes her sad that I view him this way. But the reality is, their father is NOT my father. I am terribly sorry that my reality and the life that I had live offends them. But it is MY truth and I am entitled to speak of my truth. In response, it makes ME terribly sad that my two sisters cannot acknowledge the abusive childhood that I had no choice to be subjected to and that they view our father as some kind of hero. They view him as doing no wrong and that ‘he didn’t know any better’. But does that excuse the terrible things he said and did? Absolutely not!  And NO ONE has the right to tell me that I cannot express my story, and what happened to me only because it hurts them or offends them. They just don’t want my father to be depicted as the monster that he was growing up.

I share my story because I have first-hand facts that it helps people. Someone reading this will be able to empathize with my pain and may help them heal in their life journey. No one besides my mother has to this day acknowledged what happened to me as a child. The day is coming when I plan to confront my father and get him to apologize for what he subjected me to as a child. As for my sisters, they will remain in the sidelines of my life until they accept that my reality is my reality and that they had it good growing up. They have no right to tell me that what happened to me didn’t happen, and that I need to love Dad and have a relationship with him despite what he did to me.

The footprints in my head have stopped.

I now have a beautiful husband and a great father-in-law who makes me feel like I am a great young man that deserves fatherly attention. He has shown me how to care for a car, how to properly hang a new light fixture and even how to be a great supportive husband. I am so grateful for that. People give me a hard time for not letting the past be in the past and leave well enough alone. The funny thing is, is that I have 100% completely forgiven my father, though he has not asked for my forgiveness. I have learned through counseling that holding on to that anger takes a huge tole on my mental, emotional and physical health. And I have improved in all areas since I have let it go. But this week’s remarks by my little sister have made me have a huge set back. I have been in bed all day and I realized that I needed to write a blog because it is so healing for me. Instead of pushing everyone away, I need to express myself, to get people to get the real picture of why I reacted by deleting my Facebook and crawling into my shell.

From this day forward I am making a promise to myself that NO ONE is going to make me feel like things that happened to me in my life are insignificant. In fact I often wonder why I turned out so well, despite my dysfunctional and painful past. Maybe it is because I always wanted something better for myself and I truly didn’t want to live a life like that. Never let anyone make you feel bad for expressing your truth or the reality you have lived. Until they have walked in your shoes, they have no right to speak.

I feel so much better after writing this blog. Maybe no it will allow my sisters to see why I have acted the way I have with my father over the years. Maybe they will appreciate the fact that I simply talk to him and maybe they will second guess pushing me into having a relationship with him. He still drinks and his still abuses drugs, both things that I disagree with. And I often have disturbing flashbacks whenever I am in his presence.

Me and Perry's Dad
I dedicate this blog to anyone and everyone who has experienced abuse in any form. May you find the strength and courage to change your life, and seize the day by taking   control of your life and making the abuser know that it is NOT ok to hurt you!

“One’s dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away unless it is surrendered”
~ Michael J. Fox

Peace and Love,
Jamie Chaulk
xo