I loved living with dad, just the three of us. Maybe my grandparents were there also, but I only remember my dad.   I remember my sister and I slept with him nearly every night; and even though my sister often wet the bed, Dad never got angry.   I was 9 months old when I was potty-trained. I wonder if it involved a hairbrush.   In any case, shortly after I was potty-trained my parents went up North to visit family and, well, their host was horrified to find a baby not in diapers! Mom (maman) had to re-potty-train me when we returned home. When it was just dad, my sister, and me, I mimicked everything dad did and wore.   I had a belt very similar to his and at around age 4, I remember feeling something I could not quite identify. I recognize this emotion as shame when I revisit this memory. One morning, we were shaving in the mirror, as usual me with a comb and him with the real deal.   I was barefoot, wearing my blue jeans, belt with horse buckle, and no shirt. My father looked at

Let us recap a little before I recount what I remember happening after my mom left.   Jack left his small Northern Ontario village in 1954 to attend University in the Big City.   He was studying Political Science while dreaming of one day beginning a career as a Narcotics Agent – to fight the war on Reefer. Jack was approached during his first year of post-secondary and offered a very unique opportunity – would he like to fight for his country to help defeat the Communist Threat ?   Jack was disappointed after explaining his career ambitions only to be told his aptitudes would be better suited in a different field.   Once he accepted, he was sent out West for 6 weeks Basic Training with the military.   Jack was told never to reveal his true identity and was provided a cover story.    He worked in a bookstore and was, I thought, a door-to-door books salesperson.   [What follows is what I was told by various sources. Many of the sources, are the characters themselves so, believe what

The Mayo Clinic identifies narcissistic personality disorder as “ a mental condition in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance, a deep need for excessive attention and admiration, troubled relationships, and a lack of empathy for others. But behind this mask of extreme confidence lies a fragile self-esteem that's vulnerable to the slightest criticism .” I remember my dad as a strong, happy man who seemed capable of accomplishing anything and everything. I remember he was not home a lot, or if he was home, it was late at night and occasionally on the weekends. Often, if I had not seen him in a few days, I would listen for him to arrive, late into the night, usually around 23h30. On the nights I did get out of bed to hang out with dad, he usually had an assorted sub from Mr. Sub with him. He would always share it with me and then he would put me back to bed before heading to his small basement office prior to typing his intelligence reports. I remember idol

My Mom LOVES Elvis Presley. I remember she would blast her records, and I mean FULL BLAST. I must have been 3 or 4 years old, I remember running around the house as if possessed by a Tasmanian devil. I do not remember feeling bothered by the volume, at least it did not seem to hurt my ears, but I do remember it felt like the sound was vibrating from under my skin, and I did not hate it. I had a “full” feeling in my head, I remember the absence of thought and like my thoughts were just a blank, white slate. It is most likely why I prefer to feel my music rather than just listen to it, even as a full-grown adult. I am usually the one standing in front of the speakers in the front row of a heavy metal or hard rock concert. I love feeling the pressure of the sound waves coming out the speakers while carrying my favourite songs and allowing every fiber of my being to absorb the lyrics, feel the mood, while floating in the positive vibes, and concert energy. Music is the main reason