I was born in Surrey, British Columbia on an early spring morning. My mother, being accompanied by only her parents was resting from the harsh birth just hours prior. My mother was married just weeks prior to her admittance into the hospital and with some surprise, my father entered the room with another woman. He wasn’t one to stay with the same woman for long before he’d discard the relationship to move on. The first two years were hell, I was abandoned in my crib for elongated hours with nothing more than a sippy cup of apple juice. My biological parents were incapable of taking care of me. My teeth were not brushed and I was not bathed or changed regularly. I was neglected. My birth mother had good intentions but from a combination of her mental disabilities and constant demand to provide attention to my egotist father, she couldn’t keep up. One morning, my father had an appointment in a medical office. My mother and I were in the seating area waiting for his session to conclude. He stormed out of the medical office and in a panic, my mother hopped up and pushed me with her foot to make me go faster. She was holding all of the bags, struggling to make it to the carpark. The receptionist noticed that the environment I was growing up in was unsuitable for children and contacted the local authorities. I was picked up by a RCMP officer later that afternoon. Over the following months there were multiple complaints made against my biological parents questioning their aptitude for taking care of a toddler. My grandfather on my biological father’s side is a registered sex offender and there are allegations against him that my father would sneak me out at night to go to his father’s home, where I was molested. I have been told these stories, but they’re mostly unproven allegations because the courts could never get a confession.
I was eventually brought into a hospital by the authorities for allegations regarding abuse. With multiple paediatricians surrounding me, with intentions to remove my shirt to confirm bruising, I would not consent. I was in tears and screaming. The doctors decided to call my grandmother into the room and she has reminded me that I happily allowed her to remove my shirt and let the doctors examine my torso. After the appointment was finished, the doctors concluded that the home I was staying in was unfit for children. My father was not allowed to be with me alone, so my mother moved in with my grandparents so she could still be a part of my life with readily available help from her parents. This arrangement was eventually labeled as unfit by the courts as well. I was officially up for adoption, my mother wanted to be a part of my life and to see me grow. Coincidentally, my mother’s sister was longing for another child and because she was diagnosed with a medical condition blocking her from conceiving another child, I was adopted into their family and with three adolescents in their large suburban home I could finally have something of my own. My own toys, books, bed and surrounded by people who’d love and nurture me, a place to feel safe, the list goes on and on. I was roughly two and a half years old when this transition happened. My newly adoptive parents brought me to a dentist, spending several thousand dollars repairing the damage my biological parents had caused from failing to attend to their responsibilities as parents. For several years, my life was filled with happiness and harmony. I grew up thinking my adoptive parents were my biological parents. I had suppressed any memory of my biological parents being my parents. I thought my biological mother was my aunt.
I was like any child when I was younger, I would play with Tonka trucks, hotwheels and pretend I was a super hero, but around five I started to gradually display dominant ENTJ characteristics, which were common in ENTJ children, but unusual for my guardians as most of my siblings were more submissive adaptations of my adoptive parents. I was a very rude and blunt child, which grew to be a burden for my parents. I clearly remember one summer, where my parents took the entire family to DisneyLand in Anaheim, California. I was being ornery and my father abruptly shrieked: “You’re adopted, is that what you wanted to hear??” or something along those lines, and left me sitting on a bench. I didn’t know what that term meant, or even the significance of it. I just remember that this was the beginning of the distinctive change in how I interacted with my parents. My parents always ran a tight ship, but the ship started to sink.
I attended kindergarten in Surrey, British Columbia and moved with my parents to Chilliwack, British Columbia when I was starting the first grade. I remember within the first week, I was given a detention slip because I was blamed for tipping over the porta-potty. I did no such thing and I remember crying in the field because I thought my parents would be outraged by the news. I faked being sick the next day thinking I wouldn’t need to attend my detention the day I returned. I was never accepted for who I was in school, as I was just different. I have never been able to put a finger on why I was taunted by my peers. I was often blamed for things I had nothing to do with, verbally harassed and spat on. I would constantly tell my teachers, but nobody would intervene. I remember sitting across from my counsellor talking about “ways you can make some friends”, planning an exercise that my fifth grade class would go through. My counsellor requested that my teacher would have the class ‘write one positive thing about me’ while I was out of the classroom. We were reading these notes after school was finished and most of them didn’t follow that one rule. I remember reading comments that were filled with negative or cliché remarks and having a heavy heart of disapproval. I was emotionally frustrated.
I remember being so excited for middle school, thinking that my situation would improve. The elementary school that I attended funnelled all of the students to a middle school in our catchment. All the people that I had problems with were coming with me to the one place I was genuinely excited for. Middle school, among other things was energised. Lockers, puberty, girls, real labs. It was so exhilarating, I found teachers that I loved and some that I heavily disliked. It wasn’t just one teacher that controlled every decision, there was diversity and freedom to explore. But the only difference between my experiences in elementary and middle school were that the people were larger, fiercer and harsher in the latter. The main individual who caused most of my childhood pain was cleared to attend my school and immediately upon arrival started his attacks again. But this time, it wasn’t just me. He was ridiculing other students in our grade, some that couldn’t even defend themselves because of being in a wheelchair, blind or having some kind of mental disability. I couldn’t let myself watch these helpless beings be tortured by this sadistic freak. I started to intervene, defending these people and redirecting the pain to me. Some have called it brave, but in all actuality I was just trying to save someone else from feeling what I felt. I was involuntarily attending a Mormon church and I was required to attend early morning seminary. I did not conform with a group of religiously hypocritical people. I don’t and never have believed in a god, yet I was forced to attend and pray. Even if I was puking, I would still be forced to go to this class. I was rushed in the mornings, because I wasn’t allowed to be late but if I made one mistake. If I forgot to turn off the lights. If I forgot to put something in the fridge. I would be screamed at when I got home for hours for the most minuscule mistakes.
My situation at home was always worsening because my adoptive father was becoming more and more verbally and physically abusive. I can clearly remember when we would have arguments for countless hours about nothing in particular. One evening after an argument—my father was getting ready to go to work. He was outside in our garage saying goodbye to my mother. I went outside to get a beverage off of the shelves and he said “why do you think you’re entitled to my drinks?” and smashed my head into the metal shelving. I blacked out and when I woke up my mother was on top of me screaming that it’s my fault that he always leaves early. There are countless other situations like this, that resulted in me being thrown around, bruised and beaten. It was starting to get really difficult to continue in January as my parents would start argument after argument about nothing. I started cutting. I wasn’t sleeping. I lost all liveliness and lust for life. One evening, after my father went to work and my mother went to sleep—I decided to take a walk out in the brisk night. I started walking down the mountain and into town.
I made my way to an overpass in the midst of the city, over a highway. I walked over to the highest peak and stood on the sidewalk with semi trucks roaring underneath me. I remember feeling the wind in my hair and rain on my hands. I was so calm, too calm. It almost didn’t feel real. My moment of serenity was interupted by a bunch of high school students who yelled “Oh hey! there’s (my last name)” and started mocking/laughing at me. These people walked off of the overpass and I was alone, again. I was pulled towards the maintenance platform, like there was a rope around my torso. My entire life was flashing before my eyes, my life was in my hands. I wanted to believe that my life would improve; that there was someone waiting for me; that I was loved. I was ready to die because I was tired of being thrown around and yelled at for no apparent reason. I know wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t deserve the treatment I received. I was standing on the edge of the maintenance platform, one step would take all of the pain away. I started to feel my heels lift off of the ground. My brain was screaming no, but my heart was shrieking yes. I started to feel my heels lifting off of the ground, weight shifting forward. I was going.
I was completely free-falling, when someone from behind grabbed the hood of my jacket. My entire body was limp and he dragged me over the railing. I remember the words he muttered to me while I was laying on the pavement. He said: “You’re too young to die, it will get better”. I do not remember the entire conversation. I have never seen this individual since, but I can say that I am glad that he was walking his dog. I doubt he left his house thinking he was going to save a life. After this experience, I started to take initiative in my life and change everything I didn’t like. I moved out of my parents house, left school and started on the path I wanted to be on.
I have been living in another relative’s house for a while now, doing my own thing and aspiring to be what I want to be. If you’re going to get anything from this post, please understand that it will get better because nothing is permanent. You can always change something. I don’t know who you are, but I want you to know I love you. You are special, unique and I want you to promise yourself to never let that flame burn out.