It's not all about ME!

NOT starting at the very beginning is refreshing because it allows me to talk about ANYTHING! Recently I have felt this nagging feeling that something is missing from my life.   Apart from the fact that I don't have much of one anymore....it was something else.  I used to be really close to God and I have let that relationship stray.  I used to wake up with the joy of wondering "what will God bring for me today?" It was exciting and new each morning and I waited to see who or what he would bring into my life and how could I be a good steward of God's gifts that day. Sitting in my house all alone doesn't bring much opportunity and my depression and pain overwhelmed my desire for God. But I feel Him nagging at me...calling out to me...and I in turn am reaching out to HIM. I'm delving into His word again, and finding solace in it.  I'm worshipping with music and feeling joy in that. I haven't felt joy in a long time.)

This is a very exciting time for me and I wanted to share that with you.

Lets NOT start at the very beginning right now.  Its too depressing and that's not where I want to be right now! Just had a huge fight with my sister (not the first one by any means....she knows how to push my buttons). Depressing! Spent a month with my eldest son Paul and wife Jacquie with 2 of my grandchildren. Spending my first night alone again and missing them already.  But I don't mind being alone, and I'm testing out my new laptop by blogging for the first time in a long time and it feels really good.

Right now I'm fascinated with the #VanLife and wondering if its an option for me for the next few years.  I have to sell my house (its too big for just me and my pups, Ollie and Zim) and I don't have lots of money but my Father passed away in November so I'm an orphan, but he left me some money and I have some decisions to make.  I'm 59, so not a typical Van Lifer, but I'm very intrigued by the concept.  I was previously obsessed with owning a Tiny House, but I cant see myself towing one, or finding a place to park it.  Whereas a van is more feasible but has additional challenges like sleeping in Walmart parking lots, and surviving winters.  If your van breaks down your home is inaccessible while its being fixed.  But its cheaper than renting an apartment in Burlington or any city in Ontario basically.  My family think its a crazy idea for me but I'm not convinced yet so I'm watching all the non Instagram (glossy fantasies with no "real life challenges) videos.  I'm also sick with fibromyalgia and depression so I have additional challenges myself...limitations physically and emotionally.

Anyway its time for dramatic changes...not sure which way I'm going to go.  Let me know if you have any ideas or input.  Happy to be back. Hey, have a great day.

Let's start at the beginning...

My birth mother was unwed, and as a result I was put up for adoption and was adopted at the age of 3 months by a couple who had already adopted a daughter 3 years earlier, having no children of their own. My adoptive mother was about 40 years old at this time, although she was very secretive about her actual age right to the end of her life. My adoptive father had wanted a son, but my mother wasn’t sure how she would manage a boy so they decided upon a girl instead. When my sister was born, the adoptive parents were allowed to visit the nursery and choose a baby, but 3 years later the rules had changed and you were able to choose the sex but the child was unseen until arrival, and the adoptive mother had six months, during which time she could change her mind.  This must have been a terrible torment for adoptive parents. I was a plain, chubby baby with straight blondish brown hair, and blue eyes. My new sister, on the other hand, had auburn wavy hair, beautiful long eyelashes and a sweet girlish look about her. We were very different children from the very beginning!

I was a Tom baby...that's a tomboy before you're even a child! My appearance was not feminine really and, as I grew, I didn't really care if I was a mess or not! Whereas my sister was always well dressed and neat and tidy. As a baby I could have been mistaken for a boy but my sister would never have that problem! You get the picture!

Hard things

this is harder than I thought it would be.  I find myself re reading these posts and knowing that there's something huge missing.  That something is me...my heart and soul are missing from those posts...it's as if a robot reached down in to my brain and typed out the facts of this ordeal but omitted the emotion ...the most important stuff about it is the depth of emotional destruction that continued, no continues, to haunt my every thought and decision in my life.  I'm 58 years old now and I continue to react to relationships in self destructive ways as if I've never understood the severity of the damage that was done to me.  I can intellectually analyse why and how these things continue to haunt me this way but not the ability to change it.  How do you start again...it's like asking me to learn to breathe in a different way than I've always breathed!  People do heal.  They're called survivors for a reason, but I'm still not a survivor. I'm still a victim.  I still dont have the skills to change what appears to be
A long list of self abuse.  Not physical, although the stress of it all has made it physical too.  Made me even less worthy than I already thought I was. I write as if this all happened to someone else.  Sterile, clinical observations.  I have to start again from the beginning somewhere else. I know I'm talking to nobody out there and it's sad that this feels like the safest place to vent!  I am sad.  I am alone in myself.  I don't know if I can do this anymore.

A new beginning...

Our now small family of four left England and flew to Canada for a new start....away from my grandfather but also leaving behind everything I had ever known and all my extended family, including my grandmother who I loved dearly.
As we touched down and dis boarded the plane I remember being struck by how big everything was...and the sky seemed to never end!  Our first home was a cottage on Lake Erie, which suited me fine! It was right on the water and I swam everyday that I could.  My parents made new friends and even they seemed big...larger than life! We were surrounded by nature and even a huge deer head hung on the wall over the fireplace and we used him as a drying rack for our unmentionables and bathing suits!
Not everything was rosy though.  My sister and I were teased terribly for our English accents, and that made it hard at school.  Even some of the teachers seemed to be unforgiving of our cultural differences, such as using the the term naught instead of zero, lorry instead of truck, and our English penmanship was vertical in nature which was also wrong! Canadians slanted their writing, so we were chastised for all these errors, and subsequently teased.
There was another thing that had followed me to Canada that had resulted from my abuse at the hands of my grandfather and that was sexualized behaviour, totally inappropriate for a girl of 8.
My parents not knowing what I had endured found this to be quite repugnant and I felt their disapproval but didn't quite understand it. I thought that I was "bad" and I suppose I was, but I was confused at the same time. Why was I different from other children my age? Why was I so out of place. I had no way of understanding that my experiences with my grandfather had changed me forever.  I didn't think the same way as other kids my age and the older I got the more apparent that was.
Once, at school, after being teased relentlessly and pushed and shoved to the ground over and over again, I attacked my perpetrator, threw her to the ground one recess and proceeded to tear off her clothing and throw it over the fence! It must have been awful for her but I was so enraged that I lost control and that was my revenge...totally inappropriate and I paid a hard price for that! I was attacked even more after that, being thrown onto gravel and dragged, being chased on my bicycle and thrown off into the ditch and beaten. Their revenge was unrelenting and by the end of that year we moved to a different subdivision and a new school. A relief but new bullies were ready to take their place and they did so with gusto!
It took some years to settle in but I did and had "boyfriends" in grades 4 -8, but something else happened by the time I was 12 that changed the game again.
My grandparents had decided to emigrate to Canada as well, and their arrival resulted in a new round of abuse, and a new perspective on my relationships with my family.

I pretend I'm sleeping...

At some point my mother, my sister and I, are staying with my grandparents in their apartment back in England. At night after getting ready for bed we're tucked away in bed and Angela's breathing gets slower and slower while mine speeds up.  I wait, knowing what's coming next. I finally fall asleep but waken to the sound and smell of breath on my face. Tooth powder and soap, strong smells cover my nervous body. He's here again, touching me again. My body stiffens and I squeeze my legs together as hard as I can. I keep my eyes tightly shut so he thinks I'm asleep. He tugs at the blankets, wool and scratchy wool at that, I try to hold the folds around me clenching my fists on them, but he gets under the covers anyway and begins to stroke my little body. He starts at my chest, fondling me while the nausea fills my throat. Then he slowly moves down but when he starts to fondle between my legs I feign restlessness and quickly roll over. He stops...my breathing is rapid now and he knows I'm awake..he tries again but I make groaning noises and he stops again. Part of me is afraid my sister will waken, but another is terrified that she will. I'm so confused because as much as I felt sick with the wrongness of it, there was a part of me that enjoyed it and that scared me most of all.
He looms over the bed for what seems like forever, but finally leaves and I softly cry myself to sleep.
I'm not sure how long we stayed with them but the pattern never faltered and I thought I was going to have to tell my mother, but she was busy with my grandmother being ill, looking after her, and my father was in Canada so I didn't tell anyone. I was afraid of what might happen.  Would there be a big fight or would no one believe me. Where would I have to go? Too many things for me to ponder.
So it continued until my grandmother was better and my father came to England from Canada and we  were all going to live in Canada together without my grandparents.  I was sad about leaving my grandmother and my Aunts and cousin Penelope and my dear Uncle Stan...but it was a relief to be separated from my grandfather.

Car rides and boiled sweets

I'm older now...I'm not sure how old, but I'm going to school with my sister now, at the convent, and there's another girl on the car that I'm not sure who she is but goes to the same school and rides with us.
For some reason my grandfather picks us up from school, and I'm not sure why but this happens more than once, it is a repetitive scripted event that makes my stomach churn. It starts with the arrangement in the car. My sister and her friend always sit together in the backseat leaving me in the front seat with my grandfather. As we're driving, my grandfather offers us all boiled sweets that he keeps in a tin in his glove compartment which is in front of me. Of course the girls want sweets and I am instructed to get them out and offer them to the girls. It is at this point that the plan begins to take shape.  In the moment of offering the sweets I have to physically twist around with the tin and hold it out while they pick. During this time my grandfather slides his hand up my school tunic and to my panties. I am terrified that my sister is going to see what's happening and just want to throw up while he massages my thigh enjoying the whole situation. It only takes a few minutes for them to pick their sweets but it feels like hours. Once they pick I quickly push myself back into my seat and away from his grasp. He tells me to take a sweet which I dutifully do and then he says, speaking to us all but staring at me..." Say Thank you", the girls chime out "thank you" but the words stick in my throat along with the vomit I'm now swallowing. He pursues it again and finally I manage the words and he smiles knowingly at me.
This event plays out enough times as to make is a repetitive and dreaded activity rather than a shocking one time experience. Each time he picks us up it is a dreaded event, evoking nausea and anxiety, wanting to escape or scream but somehow I'm trapped by his stare and the knowing this is secret, wrong, but I'm in it with him. I can still smell the tooth powder he uses and the sound of his breathing which changes whenever he is doing these things to me.  It's disgusting, and I am ashamed. To this day I haven't discussed all the things he did to me with my family and it's partly because I'm afraid of their reaction. Will they believe me? Will they think badly of me? In therapeutic sessions I've been able to share most of my experiences and received support from my therapists but it still feels like it's a secret in a way.
Secrets are bad.
Secrets keep you trapped.