The elementary school I was attending only offered grades K-6 and I transferred to junior high for 7th grade. At the end of that year, the elementary school I had attended in the past began offering classes from K-8 and I transferred back. You may or may not have noticed that the majority of my memories do not seem to include any classmates or close friends. Due to the trauma I experienced on an on-going basis on top of having ADHD, my brain only retained my most impressionable memories; my working brain sometimes struggles even though I am very high functioning. I remember people from school, but I only see a sea of faces. I am able to recall names, I have an excellent memory for facts, but I very much struggle to recall memories, conversations, activities, or even images of teachers from my formative years.
My experience of having transferred schools 6 times by the time I entered 8th grade, coupled by the verbal, psychological, and emotional abuse going on at home did not help my social status. I found it difficult to make friends because I was so shy and timid. I was afraid people would not like me and I always felt awkward when making small talk. I did not like to smile because I had severely crooked teeth, an overbite, eyeteeth that were on top of my other teeth and a complete set of matching silver molars. Dad did not believe in going to see a doctor unless you were dying and dentists, in his humble opinion, would rob you blind. I saw a dentist for the first time when I was 12 and he told my dad I needed two root canals – after being told the cost Jack demanded he pull the teeth out. The dentist explained that he would not because it would affect my jaw and lead to other problems. Seeing that Jack was not going to budge, he offered to try to fill them. He was an excellent dentist. I had those molars refilled about 12 years ago, and only recently had to get crowns.
When I lamented about how much I hated my teeth and was embarrassed by how crooked my teeth were; dad laughed stating this was not important. He did not want to have to pay $7,000 for something I could pay for myself as an adult. It did not matter how much I cried, or how miserable I felt he would not budge and told me to ask my mother. My mother said, “How much and can I pay monthly?” I am so thankful she did. She also has bad teeth and we both have bad gums.
For how badly I wanted straight teeth, I really disliked wearing braces. I smiled even less than before because one of the Schizophrenic's who lived upstairs used to insist on following me around when I was working and telling me I had to cover my braces with aluminum foil because they interfered with radio frequencies and some other frequency that affects the planet’s rotation. Yes, he wore a foil hat.
Prior to having the braces put on my teeth, I was advised to eat something soft for dinner, like soup or pasta; when I got home after the appointment; Jackass was reheating a tourtière in the oven for dinner. By the time I sat at the table to eat, my teeth were killing me! No, I was not allowed to eat something different, I had to eat what was served… um…although not all the time, sometimes I was allowed to eat right after school -the same meal the residents would be eating for dinner but it meant I was also not allowed to eat after that meal (yup, at 15:45). Tourtière is definitely not a good meal to have on the first day of your braces… those tiny little balls of meat get stuck under the wire. I spent a significant amount of time wishing I had not asked for this. No, I don’t recall taking aspirin; dad was a big believer in only natural remedies.
Turns out the tourtière had been reheated once too many times and the pain in my jaw was quickly replaced by a bad bout of food poisoning.
At some point either just before my court date or very near after, Dad and Big M sent me to see a child psychologist to “get over” the sexual abuse. I am certain this was neither one’s idea. I can only conclude it was either court mandated or suggested by Sonia, Big M’s best friend. In any case, Big M is the one who told me I would be going to therapy and that it was OK to “talk about it”. Uh-huh, OK. I was terrified of going. I did not want to talk to a stranger with my parents sitting right next to me hearing all this embarrassing stuff I had let happen to me.
Turns out, I didn’t have anything to worry about, I was dropped off at the medical building with a cheque for $50. Dad said he would pick me up after the appointment. I remember going up the elevator to the office and sitting down in front of a woman with brown hair, glasses, wearing a bright red tailored suit jacket who sat surrounded by various stuffed animals, books, puzzles, etc. All items designed to distract a child while speaking to an adult about uncomfortable memories.
I remember her telling me that what we spoke of within the walls of her white office remained confidential. No one, not my parents, not a police officer, not my aunt, not anyone had a right to what I spoke about with her and she also told me I should feel no obligation, because I had none, to repeat what we talked about within these walls. Huh. OK then… I thought I could maybe do this, but I wasn’t sure when because I didn't trust her. She was saying all the right words, but her face, body, arms weren’t really moving so I was not able to adequately gauge her sincerity, genuineness, or truthfulness. Just because I was OK with trying this therapy thing out did not mean I was ready to trust her or anyone else for that matter. In fact, I realized much later in life that I have never trusted anyone until I was well in to my late 20s.
I spent the first session talking about myself, school, my sister, my hobbies, pets, books, anything except the reason I was actually there. My second session, I spoke about my parents. She seemed pretty interested, so I tentatively tested the water by just talking about my regular day to day life. I wasn’t ready to share my deep dark nocturnal activities from my younger years with her yet. I did not want her to tell me it was probably my fault and that I should pray for forgiveness.
After my second session, Big M sat me down and pretty much demanded to know how therapy was going and what we were talking about. Truthfully, we hadn’t spoken about anything, and I responded with “Margaret said I was only supposed to talk about my therapy sessions with her and no one else. She said it’s private.” Big M was NOT happy about that response but there was nothing she could do. In that moment, I was really happy Margaret told me that.
Sessions 3 - 8 were spent with me spilling my guts about my home life, how I felt stupid, how I had to clean up after her, pick her clothes up off the floor, put their laundry away, change their sheets or how I spent time in my room listening to music, or reading the dictionary. One day after school as I was dropping my book bag in my bedroom, I hear Maeve yell, “Margeaux! Get in here!” Great, what did I do now? She jutted her chin out in the direction of the office chair and I sat down.
Maeve: After today there will be no more therapy. Your father told me to tell you he cannot afford $50 a week for this anymore. You need to learn to deal with life. Life is hard and it won’t always be fair. The time to feel sorry for yourself is over.”
When we got home after our walk:
Maeve: How long have you been going to her? Why did I not know about that?
Me: [shrugging my shoulders]…… I, I, I don’t know (I respond in a small voice, eyes on the floor I wasn’t about to tell her because I didn’t want to be questioned about what we talked about)
Maeve: yeah, well, that’s done now, she is way too interested in you.
And that was the end of therapy for me.
Recently, after a very heated argument with Jackass over the phone, I was essentially calling him a cheap shitty father; this was the deciding event leading me to finally walking away from him permanently; he argued that he paid for my braces. FALSE! I screamed into the phone. (I do not want to foreshadow too much), the exchange went back and forth until I finally reminded him that maman sent the monthly cheques to ME so I could take them when I took MYSELF to the orthodontist. He did not even apologize, he just grunted. After hearing his ‘revised’ version of my childhood, a.k.a., he rewrote the narrative, I politely informed him that it was “for this exact reason I can longer speak to you” and I hung up and blocked him from all platforms. Just before I spoke those words, after I called him out on rewriting the narrative, he shrieked in delight “Are you really? Hahahaha you are! You are as crazy as your mother!"
That was February 22 of this year. I started my blog shortly after to set the record straight and take my life back. No more will others tell MY story. Jack’s Bed-warmer has been going around town telling people that I am an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a whore. My sister, a professional, highly respected and sought RMT, has had her reputation tarnished also by claims that she is a “Happy-Endings” kind of masseuse, like her mother. My father has never refuted these “facts”. Ever. Both my sister and I cut ties with Jack’s Bed-warmer/Girlfriend/ Concubine/ Big M/Cunt in October 2018. I have never, in my life been happier. It took nearly a year for me to cancel the home phone line putting an end to my panic attacks whenever I thought she was calling. She is also blocked on all platforms along with her flying monkeys.
Apologies for that little rant, it is my birthday next week, nearly 2 months since the ‘incident’ with Jackass and I recently popped the card back in the mail with "RTS" across the front. Maybe it was an Easter card; I really just don’t care anymore about him and his happiness. He is an adult and can live with the consequences of his poor, selfish decision-making skills. He refuses to hear me when I say I am a Humanist/Atheist. I am solely responsible for picking up the pieces of my life and putting myself back together. I feel incredibly offended when he tells me that God gave me the gifts and intelligence, blah blah, blah, to which I always get Über Pissed and say “I worked hard for my skill-set and for all the knowledge I acquired. I did NOT learn it by osmosis.”
Furthermore, hitting my 40s made me face a lot of truths about my childhood. As I continue to recount my experiences, I would like you to read this article linking trauma and chronic illness, my health journey is an interesting one.
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