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So, quick update.

The new semester has started, it's good....lots of work, but still good.

On to juicier things....well....I got kicked out of my house last week. For the past 8 months my Mom's been going on about going back to school (for the third time). This wouldn't be a problem, except that she wants to go to Lakehead University, which is in Thunder Bay, which is about a 2 days drive from here. I told her 8 months ago that if she went back to university, I'd be moving out, as I only tolerate her husband #3 as it is, and that living alone with him would simply be unacceptable.

So, the other day she said "I'm going back to university, and I don't care what you do." My reply was "alright, I'm moving in with my aunt in September." That complicates things, because of the issue of child support payments from my father, which I will receive as long as i'm in school. She was opposed to handing them over to me, to which I told her the money is for me, and when I leave, it will be coming with me. So, her response was "Save me the money, then, and get out now."

At that point, I wasn't sure if she was serious, as we've had this same argument many times over. Later that night, she handed me the phone. It was my aunt, who had been informed that I would be moving in with her. In the next hour, I was told to get out 4 times, and was even threatened with having the police called to remove me. So I packed up my stuff, and went to my aunt's.

Now I'm living here, and it's a big hassle because I have to do alot of change of address BS because of my university and funding applications, and to have support payments changed, and to force my mother (much to her chagrin) to start paying support as well.

So now I have no clue what's going on with university, where i'll be going, etc. At this point, it may be easier simply to move into residence in September.

This is just a hassle, and nothing makes me angrier than when things waste my time.

[ March 16, 2002 | 1:49 am ]

For as long as I can remember, all I wanted was to be alone, to be left alone. I can remember being in second grade, and learning about drugs. A police officer was in our class explaining things to us, and I tried to keep the guilt from showing on my face, knowing the shed in our backyard was full of many green plants hung up to dry, knowing that smaller plants were growing in our basement, knowing that every weekend my stepfather would put on an old, dusty backpack and trek out into the woods by our house. I was terrified of being noticed, and I became very quiet. Looking back, I wonder if that was the cause of my ‘slowness' in the earlier grades.

I remember my grandmother popping in early in the morning to pick me up. I always ran frantically to empty the ashtrays, which contained the remains of joints, fearing still that the garbage man might discover them and turn me over to be arrested.

Once my grandmother was staying with us. She vacuumed, and I had to draw her attention away from the brown paper bag she discovered behind the couch, making sure she didn't look inside, thinking I might actually be keeping the secret from her.

Another time, I was sent to the store. The owner knew my stepfather, and I had know trouble picking up a few packs of cigarettes even though I was only 9. He looked to make sure no one else was in the store, put the smokes in a paper bag, and joked that "we don't want anyone to see this, now do we?" I agreed nervously, but was happy to use the change to buy candy, then hurry home.

I can recall my mom and stepfather leaving my sister and I home alone. They left in the car, carrying 3 swollen garbage bags with them. After about an hour, they came home--the garbage bags were gone, but they had something else, something better: two stacks of money, each about 10 cm tall. I wanted some, and they gave me five dollars. The rest was put in the freezer until they could decide what to do with it. One of my uncles also knew of it, and after several days of fighting, he got one of the stacks.

I feared always that my father would find out, and that my mom would be arrested, leaving me with no choice but to move in with him. So I was always extra quiet around him, avoiding the questions he asked about my home life with stealthy expertise. Soon, I stopped doing much of anything while at his house, knowing that the moment I got up, I would be on the receiving end of a "hey, where are you going?" It got to the point where even going to the washroom became a burden.

The years went on, and I became more aware of my situation. But this was a mixed blessing--I discovered more shame that must remain hidden, more secrets I had to keep. My mom's second marriage started to fall apart, and it became my duty to dance around questions about the holes in the wall, the blood on the floor, whose car that was in the driveway. The holes were from my stepfather, and later, the stepfather that was to come. The blood was from both my mother, and my stepfathers, and a myriad of characters who had come and gone. At least I can be comforted that the blood was never my own. My role was as a witness. And the cars, they belonged to strange men and women who came to the house depending on whether my mother or stepfather was working that night. Some of them I knew, and had known for years. Some I had never seen before.

In grade three, I went on a vacation to Florida, my first real vacation. It was great, but about halfway through the two week trip, my grandmother got a phone call. Something was wrong, but no one would say. It turns out, the rest of my family became as good at being quiet as myself. It wasn't until a few weeks later that I heard news of my mother's first suicide attempt. Within a few months, the fragments of the story I had were completely elucidated when my mother and stepfather, drunk of course, decided that a fun family activity would be to read through my mother's long-winded, and barely legible suicide notes. After that was done, we decided it might be fun to make up a will, in case this should ever happen again. My sister and I scrambled through the house, calling dibbs on whatever we could get our hands on, while my parents scribbled our lists on old and yellowed paper.

The situation grew increasingly worse after that. Fighting increased, drinking increased, drugs increased, and the house was up for sale every other month, depending on whether my mother and stepfather planned on getting divorced or not. After a dozen or so affairs, my mom settled for the loser who would become her third husband, though possibly not her last, and certainly not her last affair. He was a spineless nobody, with lots of muscle and no brain. It worked out well, because he did anything my mother told him to do, and her confidence could be boosted by berating him, with him too stupid to feel bad about himself, or realize anything was wrong. Naturally he was a drinker, unemployed, and quite ugly, with no goals or aspirations--definitely my mom's type.

Stepfather #1 moved in with some equally vapid and depressing woman, and Stepfather #2 moved into our house. The house went up for sale one last time. Stepfather #1 and my mother got together one day, getting drunk, and sending me to the store with a 2 dollar bill to buy myself some candy. From what I've gathered, Stepfather #1 signed a paper saying my mom could have the house, and in exchange, she slept with him. At some point my mother passed out, though, and he took the paper from her purse, leaving that house for good right after.

A few days later I took my dog to the vet. At the same time, my mother went to see stepfather #1, to negotiate return of the paper. When I returned to the car with my dog, accompanied with Stepfather #2, I found my mother in the backseat, her clothes covered in blood. The story became Stepfather #1 trying to rape her, and her defending herself by stabbing him repeatedly with a ballpoint pen. I never believed it though. I knew about her temper, her rash decisions, and her ability to lie her way out of anything. But I kept quiet, because I was afraid, and didn't want to be sent to a foster home, as I had heard about in my mother's stories. So I kept quiet, and became even more isolated from others.

Over the following years, we moved eleven times, leaving holes in the walls of each apartment when we left. There was more blood, and easily twenty times the polices showed up at our various residences. All the while, I became more and more quiet. And I don't know when, but at some point I stopped letting people touch me.

And now I'm realizing that I don't want to be alone, or left alone--I simply don't want to be around those people, or this family, or this sickening way of life. And I don't want to be quiet anymore. I don't want the silence to ruin my life. I want to be able to talk to people, to know them, and to ask them questions. Most importantly, I want to be able to touch them, and to let them touch me. Somehow I know that if someone were to put their arms around me I'd be able to sleep, and I might for once be able to be happy.

I want to call Mike, and tell him how much he means to me, that he's one of only three people I love, for no other reason than the fact that's he's never hurt me. I want to tell him that when I struggle to fall asleep at night it's his arms I envision around me. I want to be there for him, to make him feel better when he's had a bad day, to massage his back when he finishes work, to whisper good night in his ear when he falls asleep, and to hug him just so he knows someone cares about him. But I can't, because I don't know how, and I don't know if I ever will.