Daddy got a letter at the post office a few weeks ago from maman, she’s coming to get us for 2 weeks this August 1982. I do not even really remember what she looks like in my mind’s eye. I have not seen maman is what seems like forever. I do not even have a photograph of her. The 2 weeks, waiting, were excruciating. I quickly learned to not act too excited or ask when August would arrive because neither of my current caregivers liked me using the name ‘maman’, or maybe it was seeing the joy on my face they hated. Finally, Saturday had arrived and maman would be picking us up around lunch. Roxanne and I stayed close to home; I remember drawing pictures for her, kissing my cat Princess excessively, and steering clear of Tiger.
I remember she had a maroon coloured K-car or another model Chrysler, later she had a tiny little dark blue car she called a pony. I did not care what happened to me after I got in that back seat. On the way out of town we stopped at a chip stand and in my excitement; I put mustard on her French fries. I remember stopping dead in my tracks and holding my breath, I was in automatic freeze mode expecting to hear a verbal assault since that is what my life had become - only that did not happen. She hugged me, laughed and ate mustard with her fries. I remember feeling unsure and thinking maybe, once we got in the car I would be yelled at, but again, it did not happen. By the end of my two-week holiday with my maman, I felt calm and happy and I definitely did not want to return home.
Maman had been physically absent from my life for at least two years. In that time, she got herself back on her feet by getting a job as a bookkeeper, finding a house, and eventually started dating a local business owner who became my stepfather. My favourite uncle (Sébastien) rented an apartment from my stepdad, Denis. I remember the first house my mom and Denis lived in because it had a walkout basement on one side and the other half of the basement is where my uncle Sébastien rented an apartment. My mom had spent a significant amount of time creating a nice peaceful space for my sister and me. We had an adorable bedroom in the basement, with walkout patio doors. We had matching white captain’s beds so our cousins could sleep over and I had a white vanity while my sister had a writing desk, we each had a dresser and we had a shared bookshelf filled with the full collection of Disney books, Archie comics, and Les Aventures de Tintin.
I cannot explain what came over me, but at some point during my first day or two visiting my mother, I grabbed a black permanent marker and wrote “bich”, “slut” and “hor” all over my brand new white furniture. My mom was heartbroken and I remember her crying as she scrubbed the marker off the furniture. I think she admonished me, but I also remember her saying that she knew this was not me because I did not even know what the words meant nor could I spell them when she asked that I explain myself. Obviously, she knew what kind of stories were being told at ‘home’.
That summer, and nearly every summer she took us home to Québec, we actually went on vacation. My father never took us anywhere – ever. He stated that he had traveled enough in his lifetime, he was never leaving The North and that he would die here. I loved camping with mom. She always picked the best campgrounds. We had a pop-up trailer and folding bikes to use. For some reason, the folding bikes fascinated me - I could not wrap my mind around a bike folding itself in half.
Our first night camping, we ate hot dogs, per Roxanne’s request, I fed the chipmunks plenty of peanuts so I would be their favourite, and Roxanne ate so many marshmallows that at midnight mom spent 30 minutes cleaning vomit from my sister’s sleeping bag. I still remember the scent of Pine-Sol permeating the air like it was yesterday. The campground had a pool and a playground! I had never seen such a fun place before. Denis was a great dad too. Apparently, he had two daughters, his youngest was my age and I could not wait to meet her.
Our two-week vacation was half over already, we returned home to Val d’Or to clean up after camping, do the laundry, and relax. This was the longest I had gone without being punished, reprimanded, or told to shut up and stop crying. I never wanted to leave.
We spent the second part of vacation visiting my family. I had so many cousins my own age, who were French, carefree, and so accepting of us. Roxanne barely spoke; she was incredibly shy and always hid behind my mom when we met anyone new. My grandmother had four ponies and that helped Roxanne relax quickly. In fact, the village where my grandparents lived and where my mother was born and raised consisted mostly of my family. My grandfather owned several hectares of land in Northern Québec. He was a massage therapist well past retirement age. He simply could not say no to anyone needing treatment. I remember maman’s family home as being purple inside and out - my grandmother’s favourite colour. Roxanne and I had the opportunity to meet our aunts, uncles, maman has five siblings, and several have children of their own.
I remember calling home to wish my daddy a happy birthday and mommy answered the phone. I did not want my mother to hear me call her mommy because I was with my own true mommy and it did not feel right. In that moment, when Maeve answered the phone instead of dad, I panicked and shut myself in the kitchen pantry and spoke really fast, in English, hoping maman wouldn’t hear me call Maeve that. Conversation with dad over, I noticed that my stomach was in knots again after having called my daddy and mommy. That is when the crying and begging started.
The best moments of my entire life happened two weeks a year and then one weekend every month. I clung to those moments, memories, and relived them to save my own sanity. Our visits always ended the same: maman would read us one of our Disney storybooks at bedtime, like she did every single night, and then we would cry in absolute terror at the thought of having to go back to daddy. I wonder what maman thought was going on in The North. It could not have been good if we never wanted to leave. She explained, each and every time, tears streaming down her own face, that we could not. That she had tried, twice to get custody and both times, she had lost. We would have to settle for monthly and summer visits with the occasional phone call. My father would not permit us to spend Christmas vacation with maman until we were teenagers and made our own plans to visit.
After spending two-weeks in Québec, when we returned home
we unpacked, I hid maman’s sleep t-shirt under my pillow, we were excited
to recount our family vacation.
Returning home after spending so much time speaking purely French usually
meant we needed an adjustment period. As kids, we spoke “Franglais,” but once
mommy was around absolutely NO FRENCH allowed! Of course, I still did not know
the difference between French and English and my daily struggles continued.
Eventually, I created a persona that would please my father and Maeve; I became
the person they thought I was and locked my true self in my vault. My “real
personality” would not be on full display until I reached by mid-40s. Glimpses
of the girl I was would shine out if I were not tightly in control of my
emotions, reactions, actions, and thoughts, so I learned how to live with a
permanent mask. A non-reactive mask. It turns out; no reaction is the best way
to deal with narcissists. Later in life, I discovered that there is in fact a
term for this, “grey
rock method” and it is very effective. My expertise at wearing this mask is what later leads my parents to believe I'm a psychopath.
That is the best way for me to explain the how and why the young girl in my vault is so emotionally young, even as an adult, my vault savior was a 5 year old. As traumatic as my past was, reliving all my experiences so I can feel the pain, guilt, humiliation, allows my 5-year-old protected self to grow up by acknowledging her experience was shit, that she is allowed to be mad, and that she absolutely deserved better. Feeling the pain allows me to process the memories and it serves to show me that I am brave. I am a fighter and I always was. I am a survivor who just never got to live life because I was too busy fighting for my and my sister’s survival. The concept of an inner child was always something I fought hard to acknowledge and ignored it for years. That child hidden away inside me had been cruelly punished and she felt like she was always covered by 1,000 small cuts and whenever anyone spoke to me I always took it as criticism and those words were like Kosher salt, the large pieces stinging my cuts and making the traumatised little girl hide deeper.
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