I was born on March 26th, 1989 in Toronto General Hospital at 4am. I weighed 5lbs and 7ounces. While I was a breech birth, for the most part, the starting of my life was and is, what many would consider to be normal. But it was anything but. From the get go, CPS (known as CAS in Canada), was involved. While the details vary depending on whom you speak with, calling a spade a spade is just that; I was left first by my mother and then by my father, in the care of my father's mother. A woman who by rights, had been finished with raising children but still took me on, not wanting me to end up in the CAS system of abuse, neglect and in severe cases, death. Some would still consider this to be normal and I will agree. However, from there, things began to spiral. This is my tale of survival. Of a woman whose never known what 'thriving' means or let alone is.
When I was 5yrs old, I was going through Sunday school when the sexual abuse began. The pastor, who was good friends with my grandmother at the time, began touching me inappropriately. By the time I was 7, the abuse had gone on for such a long time, that it felt 'normal' for me to touch myself, believing, quite firmly, that doing so was an 'okay' thing to do. By the time I was 8yrs old, I'd been confronted by my grandmother, who'd finally caught on to what I was doing and upon telling her what had been going on at Sunday school, charges were filed but due to the man's age, his status within the community and within the church community as a whole, it was simply easier to revoke him of his license as a pastor and have him 'leave town', versus making a spectacle of it all. In a sense, I was robbed of justice.
From the Anglican Church, I began studies with the Jehovah's Witnesses and for the longest of times, I bonded fairly quickly with several of them, even grieving when I lost contact with the husband and wife who eventually continued my studies. However, once again, it was through yet another church, that I was being abused. Only this time, it was happening at school, by a classmate, who felt it was 'okay' to harass and belittle me for my passion and love of horses. While for the most part, the bullying was never physical, it was the mental 'whiplash' I would get from his first, during school hours, being outright cruel and saying cruel remarks about me, to being all love and light at church, that had me very confused, conflicted and even wanting answers, answers to which, I never got, even after bringing the abuse to the attention of his mother and father, both of whom, seemingly and discreetly, seemed to side with their son's antics, often citing 'boys will be boys'. Other instances of abuse came when my grandmother sadly passed when I was 15 1/2 years of age and being told, I would never see her again and that she had no soul. This was often in relation to my wanting to see my pets who'd long been passed on, in the 'New Kingdom of God' only to be told, that because they had no souls, I would never see them again.
Eventually, this abuse would lead me to having repetitive nightmares, often so severe, I would vomit in my sleep, only waking up because I would be choking on it. The nightmares would eventually get to the point where even my night medication, used to knock me out, would only become a major trigger and I would find any way and means possible to avoid taking it, fearing if I fell asleep, the nightmares would return, and oftentimes, they did so with a vengeance.
When I was roughly the age of 10, I developed a strong fear of thunderstorms, this coming on the heels of the tornado that hit Warkworth Ontario in the year of 1995/1997ish. I'd been woken to the strong storms rumbling that night and due to how my bed was positioned, I could look outside into the backyard and beyond, to the hayfield and it was here, I witnessed the tornado that eventually did catastrophic damages to the Warkworth church and to several other buildings. Shortly after this, my fear was often so strong and overpowering, that storms could wake me from a dead sleep and see me screaming/sobbing uncontrollably for my grandmother and resulting in my spending the rest of the night in her bed. It was during one such daytime storm, that my uncle locked me outside in the backyard to quote "get me over my fear of thunder" while never realizing, the storm in question, had instead, not been a regular thunderstorm but was instead, an electrical thunderstorm, meaning that the lightning being produced was far more dangerous and unpredictable. It took me till I was roughly 18yrs old, before I could sleep through a storm. If it hit during the night and never woke me up, I would be none the wiser, but if I woke up, I would often remain awake, unable to go back to sleep, often fearing the storm would get worse, as it did that hot, summer night when I was just a child and saw a swirling monster in the back field.
When I was around 11 or 12, I began my monthly cycle {yay} and you can't imagine what being an early bloomer felt like. First, I was hit by unbearable pain that I simply couldn't understand. I was also very nauseated. And then, when you go to the bathroom and find your pants and underwear soaked in blood? Yeah, you don't calmly yell for your grandmother, you scream for your grandmother, who, thankfully, knew what was happening, but even still, you, yourself, didn't and being handed a pad and told you'll be fine that it's "normal" isn't the most reassuring thing you could have said to you. But it was around this time, that I was raped by at first, an unknown assailant. For many years, my young mind thought it was my stepdad however, over time, I began to realize, it hadn't been him, but had, all along, been my step-grandfather. What many of my classmates don't understand is that, while they were enjoying their lives as both pre-teens and teens, I was having to go through an abortion as I was simply too young and my body not equipped to handle such a situation. For many years, I blamed myself for what had happened. Did I insist too much on wanting to 'blend in' with the 'in crowd' by wearing short mini skirts even though I wore shorts underneath? Or was there some other, unknown reason for the attack, one that to this day, no one really understands?
I want so badly to tell you that from here, things get better, but they don't. The get worse. Much worse. By the time I was 16, I was seeing someone full time. I was sexually active and not taking the proper protective methods needed to remain 'safe' from pregnancy and while I strongly suspect that I had prior miscarriages, I can't say yes and I can't say no either. But either way, when I began dating my daughter's father, I should of seen the red flags right from the get go. But I didn't. From day one, his mother hated my guts. I was, in her own words 'trailer park white trash' despite not living in a trailer park, having never lived in a trailer park, and while I may be "white", I certainly, am not, nor was I ever, trash. On many occasions, while seriously ill, his mother would force me to attend church, despite being in agonizing pain from first a miscarriage (our first as a couple) and then from a my monthly cycle after having an emergency D&C. In her mind, I was, somehow, someway "faking it" to gain "sympathy" and "attention". And the issues didn't end there. When we eventually moved in together, if and whenever his mother would visit, often times, unannounced and more often than not, uninvited, she would demand I leave my own home. On numerous occasions, this was done so she could convince him to take a trip to Toronto and leave me behind with no money, no means of communication with him, and often times, no clear date as to when he'd be back.
As the relationship continued to spiral, my daughter's father and I's relationship began to spiral dangerously out of control. With us becoming physically violent with each other on more than four known occasions, with him more often than not, being the aggressor and often because of something his mother had said to me, and or done towards our relationship as a whole (such as attempting to hook him up with his current girlfriend/fiancé). Shortly after our daughter's birth, his mother visited us in the hospital with her husband who is a registered sex offender and child predator. When I made my discomfort at having him in my room known, I was informed I was being 'overly dramatic' and to 'get over it'. This mere minutes before, CAS took my daughter into care. After we lost custody of my daughter (more on this later), our relationship continued to spiral with several attempted sexual assaults from her father on my person, with at least four being attempted while I was trying to sleep or was asleep. Eventually, the violence and the abuse became too much and upon discovering him cheating on me with my cousin's girlfriend, dumped him and gave him two choices; leave of his own accord, or be escorted out of the apartment by the police. He left of his own violation but not before thrusting a jeweler's card in my face and saying he'd had intended to ask me to marry him - this being right after I'd discovered his cheating on me with multiple women, not just my cousin's girlfriend.
After my daughter's father and I split, there was a slew of relationships with each one being more toxic, more hostile than the last, with the final one being what I'd hoped to be the end all. I'd forewarned my ex from Burien Washington of my past relationships and how abusive they had been, thus resulting in me forming a shell around myself as a means to protect myself from attachments. He had stated he was fine with this but clearly, in the end, wasn't and I woke up, 12/31/2015 to an empty apartment with no note, no phone call, no text, nothing, to tell me where he'd gone and my apartment door slightly ajar. Later, after phoning my uncle and having him tell me what was going on and then calling my ex to tell him to keep on trucking, I discovered he'd been using my laptop to hook up on dating websites and search for locals within his town's limits. Although he denied this accusation, the fact remained; I didn't know his login details for his bank, yet they were saved to my laptop. I had no idea what Tumblr was at the time, yet the site and his login details were saved to my laptop. I had no idea what his Facebook login details were, but again, if you guessed the details were saved to my laptop, you'd be correct. Everything, right down to his Hotmail, was saved to my computer, along with MLP porn sites (keeping in mind I detest MLP and have ever since I turned 13).
Later he and his ex would abuse his having my phone number to call me, accusing me of being mentally unstable simply for scoffing at something they had said. But yet, when I threw that they had no legal rights to even begin a psych evaluation on me as they weren't my doctor, nor were they licensed, they simply stated that it was "in their opinion" while trying to deflect any and all blame from my ex onto me, right down to his giving me money, amounting to around $4k (while also failing to remember, I'd kept our Facebook conversations where he gave me his card number and permissions to use it).
After a while, I lost interest in dating. I had relationships but nothing physical ever became of them. I had thought, that my relationship, my very last one, with a man named Ellis, would be the 'happily ever after' I'd hoped for, as he'd seemed to understand my past hurts and trauma, and had sworn not to repeat them, but instead, I knew better and my guard was always up and later, after months of his being weird and acting weird online, I discovered the harsh truth; he'd been cheating on me. Not once, but multiple times. It sickens me to think, now, that I had wasted so much money on him. So much time. Four years is a long time to waste on someone who quite literally, has no interest in you, whatsoever and only views you for what they can get and gain from you sexually.
But there was more than just the above abuse. I endured years of bullying, both online and offline. Both on and off the schoolyard. From both friends, classmates and family. It makes me want to cry, knowing just how little my overall well being meant to so many.
Tying into when I was roughly 14yrs of age, my dad assaulted me quite severely resulting in long term brain damage. I don't rightly remember the date this happened, just that I was 14yrs old when it did. I remember my grandmother (his mom) ending up in the hospital yet again. For whatever reason, I can't remember now, but it had had something to do with her medications not working. For context, and unknown to her family, my dad's mother had been battling varying forms of cancer and taking medications for it. At varying stages, these medications would often stop working, resulting in her becoming violently ill and ending up in the hospital. This was one such day.
For added context, the below photo of the hospital should be viewed. Otherwise, you won't understand the next piece of context provided.
It was while we were waiting on blood results, that my dad showed up to the hospital drunk. Or rather, beyond drunk. The first red flag was while I was reading a magazine article on NASA and why they'd not gone back to the moon. He'd seen me reading this article and had yanked the magazine from my hands, citing I was "too stupid to read that" and proceeded to throw the magazine on the floor. The next red flag was when I told my step-grandfather I was gonna go to the washroom, having had several pops (sodas) that night and was running on back to back full bladders. Upon getting up, my dad roughly grabbed me by the arm, and despite having been sitting right next to me when I had said this, proceeded to demand to know where I was going and when I once again, stated I was going to the washroom, proceeded to berate me and called me a liar, where upon I got up and proceeded to go to the washroom. He thusly followed me but for whatever reason, never followed me into the ladies room but proceeded to yell profanities at me through the door.
By this point, my anxiety was reaching an all time high and once I'd left the washroom (after making sure my dad wasn't around), proceeded to tell my step-grandfather and my dad's girlfriend, that I was going to go outside for some fresh air.
For further context, please view the below photo. In this photo context has been given of where the high school soccer field is.
In the red square is where the Emergency Room entrance is. From the wall, you can view the local high school and it's soccer field and it was here, that I was standing, with my headphones on, listening to music on my walkman. I never knew anyone was coming up behind me. I never knew anyone was even near me that night. I also had no intentions of leaving my grandmother's side as I was very worried about her and scared. I'd only been outside for roughly twenty minutes when I felt someone slap me on the back of the head and start yelling at me. I don't remember the context, I simply remember being very scared. You see, two weeks prior, a woman had shot and killed her daughter. This was the first time in our town's history, that such a thing had occurred. Two weeks prior to that, a teen from my school, had been found behind a dumpster at the local grocery store, stabbed to death. So you can imagine how uneasy everyone in my town was. Upon turning, I realized it was my dad, yelling and screaming at me, accusing me of trying to run away.
Naturally, you can imagine my confusion at this as I'd had no intentions of doing so and even if I had wandered off, it was never very far from the hospital's grounds and always within view of security cameras. In essence, I could of been found at any given point and more often than not, I often wandered down to the catwalk (the bridge like structure between the main hospital building and the hospice building). When he proceeded to yell at me to 'get back inside' I proceeded to pick up my walkman, as it'd fallen during the previous attack, and was heading inside. Here is where photo one comes into play. In the red square is the concrete pillar that should be of noteworthy value, because not only is this reinforced concrete, it's the very pillar that mere seconds later, the right front of my head connected with, after my dad, for reasons still unknown to this very day, smashed my head into. The force of which, resulted in a moderate concussion which, due to not getting treatment for well over 24hrs, resulted in long lasting brain damage.
The only way the injury was noticed, was the next day was the Sandy Flat's Sugar Bush Festival, a festival held each year in March. I went with my dad's brother, my uncle, his wife and I do believe their three kids. Upon coming back to their place, the original plan was, I'd stay for supper then be picked up that evening and go home. However, my aunt, whose a PSW, noticed right away, after I'd entered the house, that something was horribly wrong. When she checked my face over, she spent roughly 5 minutes looking at me, before rushing to the front door and screaming for my uncle to come back to the house, whereupon, he began checking my face and then demanding to know who had beaten me. Confused, as I'd yet to notice anything abnormal, I asked what they meant. This is where my aunt produced a mirror and staring back at me, was, of course, me, but also, not me. Both my eyes were bloodshot, I had severe bruising on the entire right side of my face, and swelling around my right eye. It was seeing the injuries and knowing how I'd gotten them, if but in tidbits, I managed to tell them my dad had gone to the hospital, the night prior drunk. I remembered him hitting me but nothing after that. This resulted in my uncle calling the cops on his brother and a court case in which my dad was found to be guilty of assault on a minor and being inebriated while on private property (the hospital). It resulted in a one year restraining order in which he wasn't allowed anywhere near me and he was to cover any and all medical costs.
Dealing with the Traumas of the Past
I wouldn't ever wish my traumas on anyone. The fact remains; they're there and they have served as a near constant reminder that I've never been able to trust humans like I have people. It is disheartening when you realize, that out of all my relationships, only two ever ended in amicable terms. One because my partner (who I'd never met) was killed in a car crash and the other because he'd left Canada to join his home nation's army in Pakistan shortly after the events of 9/11. It's heartbreaking to think that, I've had to endure this and have remained silent on much of it because, at the end of the day, no one wants to hear it. No one cares to hear about a person's life story. No one cares enough to want to know how the past of someone has shaped them into who they are today.
With my traumas came alot of guilt and self hatred. There were many times where I attempted suicide, firmly believing myself to be a burden on society, nevermind anyone else. But with each failed attempt (with the earliest attempt being at age 12), I found a certain resolve, that, the attempts weren't failures, but rather the Gods keeping me here for a reason, a purpose. In each failed attempt, I found strength in my pets. Often realizing, during moments of severe weakness, and before attempting anything stupid, I would look at them and say "If I hurt myself, I leave them to an uncertain future and no one understands them like I do. No one can care for them like I do." And thus, here I have stayed.
Nearly 12 years ago, I was diagnosed with severe social anxiety, severe manic depression, severe cPTSD with increased thoughts of suicide. We tried numerous anti-depressants and each one just made the issues worse, compounding upon each other. Either they worked but turned me into an immobilized zombie, or they didn't work and they simply increased my anxiety. Eventually, I was pulled off the meds entirely with my doctor deeming them not worth the effort to continue putting me through hell just to be a guinea pig. And so, I began working with my cat Bastet to become my emotional support service animal and discovered, she not had a knack for detecting when my anxiety would strike, but that she was able to help me refocus and recenter myself by purring.
But then, the summer of 2018 hit and I began to spiral once more. Even with Bastet's help, I felt a deep sense of hopelessness and knew then, if I didn't do something, and do something soon, I wouldn't make it past 2019 and thus, contact my mom and stepdad and said "look it, I'm moving to BC and I need some help". On April 1, we loaded up and I left my home province of Ontario. By May 29, I was in British Columbia and while the first year was rocky (what with COVID19 hitting and all), my depression did take a nose dive, but by the time 2021 rolled around, I was living Port Alice. By the time July 22nd, 2023 rolled around, I began living in Port McNeill where I've been for one month now.
My demons are always going to be there. There's no denying that factor. They are, sadly, apart of who I am. They're always going to be apart of my life. I've hit rock bottom I don't know how many times. I've gone without food, I've squatted in an apartment that wasn't legally mine for 2 months, I've gone without food and self sustaining on only teas and coffee to get me by. I've known what it's like to subsist on the barest of things. I've had to rebuild my entire life 4 times thus far. And it genuinely does scare me to think, is this going to be my forever norm? But at the end of the day, I've also acknowledged that, as long as I have a strong support group, a group built upon trust, respect, and mutual understanding, then I'm able to accomplish anything I set my mind too.
I've accepted I'm going to have ups and downs and sadly, these are going to be apart of life. But I've also accepted that, I have a good, strong support group, both locally and non-locally (online), who will help me when I'm down and out, who'll understand and be that guiding light whenever I need them to be. I've met so much kindness in the face of actors, actresses, singers, and just regular folks like you and me, that the amount of support has, at the best of times, been overwhelming. But all the same, so greatly appreciated.
I want those who are struggling with depression to know that, things do get better. You're going to have bad days, meh days, good days and amazing days. Please, don't think yourself less of a person, less of a human, for having bad days. Don't think you're bad for having an amazing day. You deserve those good/amazing days. Just remember, that when you start thinking badly about yourself, that it's simply your mind playing tricks on you. Albeit cruel tricks, but tricks nonetheless. The trick therein is retricking yourself into believe that the good that has happened, is something you deserve to have happen. It's hard as hell to maintain a positive mindset. Trust me, I know all too well how hard it can be. I'm the most pessimistic, non-positive person you could ever hope to meet, but at the same time, I know that things do get better. I'm a testament to this being a fact and so are you. Far too often, we run ourselves into the ground. We say we're not good, that we're broken. My friend, we're all broken in some way, shape or form. Some of us more than others. But believe me when I say, you have the power, deep within you, to put those broken pieces back together again and if you have someone standing in your corner, willing to help, please, please latch onto that help.
It doesn't make you weak or less of a human for needing help. I say this while wiping the tears from my eyes and wishing with every fiber of my being, that my grandmother had asked for that help sooner. You see, I lost her. I lost her when I was only 15 1/2 years old. On February 11th, 2004, my grandmother died of terminal cancer of varying varieties but prior to that, only a month prior to her death, she had been bed ridden at home, and while I was attending high school exams for gr. 9, I would come home, look after her, study, cook myself dinner, and often times, whenever my step-grandfather got home, would make sure he didn't burn the house down, as he had a nasty habit of going downstairs, lighting a cigarette and with it still lit in his hand, would fall asleep. I was only a child and I was taking care of two adults, with no help and no guidance on wither I was doing the right things or not.
But believe me when I say, I do genuinely wish my grandmother had asked for help sooner. I wish she hadn't instilled this rough and tough teaching upon me, where, asking for help should only happen when every other route taken has failed. This shouldn't be an end all course of action. It shouldn't ever come down too "I either get help now, or I suffer". It should of been "ask for help, the worse that can happen is someone says no".
So never think that you're too broken for love, never think you're too unfixable for someone to help you with putting those pieces back together again.
I was asked once "Why do you like me? Is it only because I'm cute and comfy? That has to be it!" And I'm so, so very sorry, that whoever hurt you that badly, makes you think having compliments such as "you're comfy!" or "you're handsome!" are the only reasons anyone would like you. I'm so sorry someone wasn't there to tell you, that such a mindset was toxicity waiting to happen. But the answer isn't as simple as we'd always like it to be. As a Pagan, I believe our souls reach out to one another. Our spirits have a way of recognizing a kindred spirit, in ways our minds, damaged and hurting, often can't. If you're mind is hurting, it will shelter itself in a bubble, in an attempt to protect itself from further harm. But our spirit simply can't be bubble wrapped. It does whatever the heck it wants to do and as such, I believe kindred spirits can recognize one another. It can recognize another hurt soul and in doing so, the stronger of the two, will attempt to help the other.
Please believe when I say, I'll do everything in my power to help you heal. But, you have to want to heal before any healing can begin. Often times, this can mean facing some of the darkest parts of your life head on, but understand that in doing so, you will come out the other side, tougher, stronger, and possibly, on the road to recovery. Understand, that this is a road you don't have to walk alone. I truly wish I'd had someone like me to tell me it's okay to ask for help. It's okay to ask for a shoulder to cry on. That it's okay to fall down, to fail, to stumble, then get back up and keep trudging on. That it'll be okay. But I didn't. It's why, I make this solemn vow, to the one who reads this, that I'll be here for you. No matter what.
And to anyone else who reads this, please understand, that there are genuinely amazing people out there, who do want to help you recover. Talk about your past. Open up about your traumas. Your life IS valid and your past, while it may have made who you are today, it doesn't have to define who you are going forward. Please remember this, if nothing else.
All my love.
Aki.
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