A Debatable Act of Bravery

Content Warning: References to Child Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Teen Death

I would like to say that I don’t know what I was thinking, or that I don’t know what I thought I was doing. Because it’s embarrassing. Shameful. The fact is, I knew exactly what I was doing – and exactly what I was thinking.

I cocked my fist and swung my arm as hard as I dared. The punch landed with a dull, heavy thud.  I prepared myself again, determined to land an even heavier blow. Again and again, I swung my arm, the punches landing harder and harder till my fist began to ache. I eyed the cupboard door, and thought it would be a suitable weapon providing I could swing it hard enough; and land it well. I moved my target into position and grasped the bottom edge of the cupboard door. I breathed deeply and swung it hard. The blow landed much harder than I thought it would and I was briefly stunned by that. Determined to make it count now that I’d begun, I lined up my target again. This next blow was weak, barely causing harm at all. I closed my eyes and swung it again, as hard as I dared. The door landed hard and the impact reverberated through me. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I worried I’d gone too far. Not worried, exactly. I knew for a fact I’d gone too far. I was worried the consequences of having gone too far would be more than I could bear. As it turns out, those consequences would more than I could bear – in a manner of speaking, at any rate.

I left the kitchen and followed the hallway to the bathroom, gingerly touching the rapidly swelling cheekbone. I closed the bathroom door and looked into the mirror. The lump and my face was tight and swollen and slightly purple. I winced as I pressed my fingers against it, jagged streaks of light shot to and fro behind my eyes. Pain shot across my temple. Belatedly, I realized I might get caught, and worry thrummed through me like a drum announcing my failure. I hoped Shirley wouldn’t see me. I wondered if I’d manage to go days without seeing her; that would be the best-case scenario. I looked in the mirror again, impressed I was able to generate such a lump, so much bruising and swelling, without any help whatsoever. I kinda liked the way it looked, honestly; I thought there was something vaguely romantic about it.

Shirley and Jim rarely left physical marks on me; and definitely not on my face. My legs were a different story; in the winter months, anyways. The backs and sides of my young thighs were generally covered in a mess of overlapping loop-shaped bruises thanks to belts and electrical cords and such. Years ago, in gym class, some of the other girls changing noticed the bruises on my thighs; the blue and purple maze of lash-marks must have startled them, and one classmate asked why did I have those loops all over my legs. With little emotion, I told her it was from beatings. She looked stunned, and horrified, and the tiniest spark of hope ignited in that moment. I assumed she’d tell someone, a grown-up; maybe her parents would adopt me, take me in, give me a better life. Or a less violent one, at least. Or maybe she’d have social worker parents, and they’d find me an entirely new home, far from here, and I’d be loved and wanted and cared for.

I really didn’t know what those things would look like. I had no idea at the time that I was already irreversibly damaged; that a lifetime of stress, anxiety, gaslighting, beatings, and sexual assaults had rewired my nervous system and that it would forever work against my best interest. Despite valiant effort on my part to never be like those who’d harmed me, my own nervous system had been enlisted, and it now worked against me, for them. I was filled to overflowing with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it would rage against me, pitting me against myself, the rest of my life.

But in that moment, I was content to imagine as best I could, what I thought a good life would mean. I pictured a pool, and enough to eat. I imagined not having to keep the house or babysit daily. I had no idea what would replace the physical violence, the sexual assault, the cruel words and the fear and self-loathing – so I just didn’t imagine anything in those spaces. It made for a spotty mental image, but it was dear to me in its way. There was a mother figure, she was kind. There was a father figure, who did not ever come near me except for the rare pat on the back, but who was kind, and provided for the family. There was my little brother, my younger sister, my older brother, my cat… The house was clean – not because I was terrified I’d wake in the middle of the night being slapped by adult hands. The house would be clean because adults would see to it. I’d have chores, of course. All of us would. I was hard-pressed to imagine reasonable chore-loads, beyond kitty litter, dishes, and taking out the garbage. 

Mostly all I could imagine when I thought of a good home was the absence of violence, and sexual assault. And not being responsible for so much cleaning and childcare.  My heart aches now, thinking back to those times.  I couldn’t tell the difference between an actual good home, and one that was just devoid of abuse.

All my imagining was for nothing, anyways. The girls who’d seen my wounds in the time we’d been changing for gym class did tell the teacher. Sadly, the only thing that ever came of it was that many of my classmates, as well as that gym teacher, started calling me “Loopy”. When I asked someone, “Why are yous calling me that?” I was told it was because the loop-shaped bruises on my legs. Thankfully, the nickname didn’t stick beyond a few weeks.

This, though… this was going to stick. I was determined; driven by the romantic notion that I could be saved from what seemed like my fate. I imagined the school getting involved, the Children’s Aid Society, the police, maybe. I drifted off to sleep that night comforted by the notion that somehow, this visible act of self-abuse would expose and bring to justice, the abuse I experienced at home.

But fortune does not always favour the brave.

It’s maybe a stretch to consider what I was up to bravery.

Regardless, I was trying to get out of a bad, bad, situation. I mean, gimme a break; I was a very traumatized 13-year-old girl with no boundaries or self-worth to speak of, and certainly no productive problem-solving skills. So, this was me, in grade 8, doing my best to face the foe with what integrity I had.

The past had taught me that naming abuse plainly would leave me with no one, and nowhere to turn. I don’t know how many adults I’d told by that point – a handful, for sure. Two of them, police officers. I’d run away, as I sometimes did, to the arms of a boyfriend. He was too old for me, and truthfully, I didn’t even know what all I liked so much about him, beyond the fact that he seemed to like and want to give attention to me. A sad state of emotional affairs, granted. But it was what it was, and I was glad he liked me. Again, with the romantic notions, I had it in my head that somehow he’d rescue me from my homelife. And that would lead me to then rescue my brothers and sister, and to bring abusers to justice. GOD, I was adorable. Adorably naïve, anyways. I really feel for that young kid that I was back then. I admire that I managed to hold onto that much innocence, despite my experiences to that point. I mean, at least I had hope, right? It’s hard to get back into that mindset and really grok all the ins and outs of how I was feeling and thinking. Partially because I’ve grown, and developed healthier communication skills and boundaries. Partially, it’s because it hurts to recall that self, and all of her pain.

So February 16^th, 1986, at the tender age of 13 years old, I was looking to run away from the family home, and to stay with my boyfriend, who was 5 years my senior. I’d been at Sea Cadet practice earlier that day, and desperately did not want to go home. I was sick and tired of being molested and abused, and I was exhausted in some way that I couldn’t describe to anyone. Like, deep in my soul, I ached. I felt as though my soul was shrivelling up and drying out. I felt like if I spent another day in that home, with those people, I’d die. I didn’t understand how to express the depression I felt. I didn’t even understand that it was depression, and then some, so I simply said what I thought would most closely describe it while also keeping me from having to go back. I told them I was terrified to go home. I told them about my mother beating me, about having been molested, about having too much responsibility around the home. My boyfriend told one of our Sea Cadets officers, that officer told the police, and the police picked me up from his rooming house and brought me home.

Once there, I was made to sit and talk with the adults of the home. The officers asked me to talk about what was going on and why I didn’t want to be there, while my mother and her boyfriend played innocent victims in response. Everything I said was countered with incredulity and such hurt that I genuinely began doubting my own self and my responses to how I was treated. I was called dramatic, histrionic, irresponsible, and manipulative. I now know this is called gaslighting. And that gaslighting is pure evil, from the pits of hellish minds. I was accused of being particularly willful and problematic toward my mother’s boyfriend. When he addressed me, and asked what was wrong, saying he didn’t understand my behaviour towards him, I felt downright hostile. If looks could kill, that man would never have hurt another child from that night forth. But they do not, and all I could manage was a very bitter, “You know exactly what you did.” To which he feigned, of course, confused innocence.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he said, hand over his heart, his hated face a mask of innocence and perplexity. “I do know that a few months ago you started acting very resentful towards me, and now nothing I do is good enough for you.” This last part, cunningly enough, he delivered while looking back and forth between me and the police officers who were attending that night. He sickened me. And had sickened me. Literally.

“I don’t want you to touch me like that any more,” I said, feeling defeated but still fighting for a chance to expose the situation, to break free. I thought I was doing it wrong. I wasn’t being convincing enough, I wasn’t explaining it well enough. I wasn’t enough enough.

“Like what?” he asked, his bushy brows shooting up together in the middle, his forehead creasing with concern. “The hugging?” he asked, before I could answer. “That’s fine. We don’t have to hug if you don’t want to. And I won’t rub your back when you’re feeling sick or sad if you don’t want that, either.” He was the very picture of concerned compassion. I felt sick.

I saw the one officer stiffen and sit straighter in his chair. I shrank back into mine, sure I’d land in jail, and Shirley lunged into the fray, with tales of my maltreatment of Jim, my resentment at him for my father’s abandonment of me, and with a long montage of out of context facts about my behaviour, which, while technically true, painted a wildly inaccurate picture of both me and them.

She delivered this brief monologue mainly to the officers, occasionally looking my way to shoot me a hurt look. By the time she ramped up to actually wringing her hands, she’d successfully deflected my attempt to speak about the sexual abuse I was trying to tell about, and derailed my entire emancipation mission. She was tremendous. Even I was breathless by the time she finished. She managed to throw in enough startling details to redirect the officer’s attention, and he turned to me.

“Is this true? Have you been sneaking out at night and leaving the door unlocked?” he asked me, concerned.

“Well yes,” I responded. It was the truth, afterall, even if it didn’t tell the whole story. “But-“ and he interrupted me.

“You know how dangerous that is, don’t you?” he asked.

“Very dangerous,” replied Shirley. “And your brother’s here. He’s just a child. How would you feel if something happened to him?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “If your brother died because of you,” she said, “you’d never forgive yourself. And I don’t know if I’d be able to, either,” she finished with a subtle flourish. Her eyes burned into mine like hot coals, and I stiffened, looking flatly at her. I knew it was lies. I knew I was being both manipulated and warned. I was daunted by the task of detangling the wrong impressions they were painting for the police, and I was afraid my little brother would come to literal harm.  “What if someone walked in here one night after you’ve run away and left the door unlocked, and stabbed your brother to death? You’d never forgive yourself,” she repeated.

I’m ashamed to say it, but I broke under the pressure. I know full well that it’s unfair to shame myself for that, but there it is. The magic power of the serially abusive parent: mental torment of the child, to the point of confusion, fear and overwhelm. “Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him,” I cried, complex tears running down my face.

“Then why would you risk,” she began, turning to face me angrily, and I brightened inside, thinking perhaps her temper would show to the police, and my hopes would be fulfilled. But they were dashed yet again when one of the police officers interrupted.

“See that you keep that door locked, then,” he said to me. “Does she have a housekey?” he asked Shirley. She, of course, claimed I was too irresponsible to have a key, because I was constantly losing things. And the conversation devolved from there into the nature of young teenagers, and how one of the officers had a teen who was also always losing things.

The only thing I cared about losing in that moment was the battle for my freedom. Which, I did. As far as I was aware at the time, nothing ever did come of that attempt.

But this, I thought, this would bear fruit.

Kid after kid after kid gasped and asked what had happened, and where did I get that bruise from. I told a number of slightly different stories, and each of them boiled down to a bad night at home. But that didn’t really matter. The point was not to get attention from my peers, but to get help from the school. And I did finally get it. After a fashion.

I was called to the principal’s office the following Wednesday, then sent to the nurse’s office. I feared I’d have to lie again about the bruising on my face. I was losing my faith in my plan, and feared I was just going to be treated for bruising, so made my way there, both curious and dejected. I was surprised to find a stranger in the office along with the nurse.

The nurse introduced us, and left me alone with the social worker. A spark of hope leapt up in me, and I could hardly wait to get free. I explained about the bruise, that Shirley had hit me in a fit of temper after I’d taken my baby brother to a coffee shop to use the phone to call my boyfriend. She nodded as she wrote, and asked me about home.

I explained that there was violence, a lot of yelling, that I was responsible for children and cleaning at home, and that my mother’s boyfriend molested me. She asked questions and wrote and finally asked me if she could talk to her supervisors, and my parents, about what I’d said there. I encouraged her to do so. And so she did.

And that’s how I wound up in Children’s Aid.  Every single person in my family denied the truth of life at home. Jim denied everything, of course. Shirley denied it all, threatening to force me to take a polygraph test, which I pleaded for. She then demanded that Children’s Aid remove me from the home, telling them that I was a manipulative, power-hungry little bitch, and that I needed to face consequences for my actions. My younger sister later told me that Jim had threatened to murder our mother if she told. My youngest brother later told me he both had never seen it happen, and had been told it had never happened and that I was lying. And my other sibling, my older brother, the only one with whom I shared a father… he didn’t tell me anything. He died 29 days after I was taken into custody, without ever having been allowed to speak to me again.