This article had been one of my lifelong visions. I just never had the courage to write it due to the lack of positive surroundings. I was also reluctant because, although I screamed for attention,for a different purpose,I didn't want to be forced into the spotlight.
If someone who didn't know my story asked me why I felt I should write it now,my answer to them would be because now that I'm home,where I am connected to my roots,where I belong,despite some hardships,I'm in the right place in my life to share that dark chapter,which will begin my healing journey.
I am,in no way, shape or form doing this article out of spite for what may have happened,or may not have happened.
Although I am aware that some children apprehended by Children's Aid Societies don't often have the best experiences, with some even dying,I am grateful for surviving that. I am also grateful I was apprehended and adopted. Being removed from my mother was something I don't remember because I was so young but I was apprehended with good cause. When I share this with people, I'm often challenged because some believe,despite my explanation,I should be mad that I should walk away knowing the truth,but then there are those who support my reunion 6 years ago. I am a person who hears both arguments,considers them then combines the two in my outcome with my own insight. Should I be angry? Yes I should, if you give birth to a baby you are committing to that innocent life, and when your struggling to make ends meet yourself,how fair is it to that life who depends on you? But then,no, I shouldn't be mad because despite her struggles, with mental health and addiction,she gave me life,she didn't fight to keep me because she wanted me to have the life she knew she couldn't give me. And as a mother knows, you have to make ultimate sacrifices for your kids whether you like/agree with them. I'm not going to lie. It took years for me to be able to come to this realization. That's not to say that I didn't get angry when I was struggling through life. All I ever wanted was my mother,at times I didn't even care about her flaws,I just wanted my mother. The need for my real mother proved evident when it came to establishing a relationship with the woman,whom,along with her then husband,adopted me into their already established family of four,they had two boys who were both older than me. Not that I condone my behaviors or hers,but I think its fair to say that she didn't know how to raise a girl,much less a girl that was not biologically hers, so her interactions reflected that. Note, that this is the first time I've come to acknowledge it that way. But at the same time, I'm coming to acknowledge it in that sense,I am also conflicted because,although she tried,it still seems as though she didn't. I'm not trying to target her abilities,or start something. I just don't agree with the majority of her parenting strategies.
This next door I am opening up to share with you is extremely personal and difficult to relive even through pen and paper. Traveling again down this,the darkest part of the road,I know is key and needs to be shared in order to heal,but bare with me as I struggle to do so.
I am uncertain whether my lack of bladder/bowel control was related to stress, my birthmom's history of substance abuse or anything else. For all I know,it was all of the above. It got so bad that it had been decided that I would clean up and that meant I would be doing laundry. A girl,aged 5, in 1988 doing laundry was apparently acceptable for a parent to force upon their kids. That's one thing I didn't accept at that time, and to this day, I still don't accept it. I believe it was because of these,later diagnosed conditions,that strict and I do mean strict,limitations were forced upon me that I had to follow or the consequences would be devastating. In my defense, I was a CHILD, stressed out by the fact that strangers were providing for me and the fact that I never had the proper upbringing to gain the potty training much less anything else,and although some would think its a no brainer, which it very well may have been,but again,in my defense,I was really struggling in this new environment enforced upon me so it impacted everything. When your agreeing to love and guide,as well as provide for someone else's child, you're agreeing to teach them what their parents weren't capable of for whatever reason. I was not fortunate enough to have adoptive parents who thought the same as I did. Instead I was forced to face the ultimate punishment of washing by hand the clothes and bedding. Until it became a daily thing, for which I learned how to use the washer and dryer. It was due to this condition that I was not allowed to attend sleepovers unless the parents knew of my situation. It was due to the embarrassment of how they treated my conditions that I started to act out by lying and hiding things. I'd do it simply because for starters, I WAS A KID, and extremely stressed to say the least and when I lied, I got treated better,until they caught on. The very first time I got caught lying,I felt like I was about to transfer to a new home. I thought that was my punishment. Instead, I was introduced to writing lines. Soon, every bad thing I did resulted in me writing lines. Every line, every word,she wrote every sentence spelled correctly with a period at the end,using both sides of the paper. It got to the point I'd be woken up earlier to complete them before school,after school,sometimes skipping dinner,and on weekends and holidays. Now, remember it wasn't every single day. There were just so many days and hours. I got so rebellious I began to talk back,which I thought then was smart,but only prompted more lines. So,up until Grade 5, I enjoyed school,and up until then,excelled in it.
My adoptive older brothers were well respected in the school I attended with them. The only way I was acknowledged was as 'Dave Vigon's sister' or 'Matt Vigon's sister', which,of course,never sat well with me. As the years went on,though, I became more vocal about it,but it was more evident in my struggling years of Grade 5. My teacher,dubbed Killer Klein,with good reason,absolutely dotted on both of them,so when I approached her about the treatment I was receiving at home,it came as no surprise my claims were followed up with calls home and followed that with lines,spankings,and a bar of soap for my mouth. This treatment happened with every report,so it soon became something I expected, and made me hate the end of school days especially Fridays and holidays. My adoptive brothers were hooked on wrestling and I was often used as a guinea pig so they could practice the moves they'd see wrestlers do. I am pretty certain that the hospital trips I went through growing up were a result of the lack of discipline they gave them whenever I tried informing the adoptive parents of what they were doing to me. I still had CAS workers come by for home visits, but when I told them, the response the adoptive parents gave was that it was all in my head. So again I was ignored,while the treatment escalated. Because I also had a lazy eye,a speech impediment,and mobility issues,I also had an occupational therapist,and speech therapist visiting me. During the 1:1 times I tried confiding in them my struggles but nothing was done. It was suggested that the therapy be transferred to the school because that was where it was needed most.
It was that summer,the summer I was preparing to begin Grade 5, that our 'family' did a lot of traveling. We went to New York, Cooperstown,Cape Cod, as well as Watkins Glenn. And since my adoptive brothers were involved with Cubs and Scouts,and my adoptive parents were leaders, we were also known to participate in those activities,as well as going to baseball games because my adoptive dad was a coach,umpire,and my adoptive brothers played. We also spent many nights attending barbecues, and get togethers at one of the other Scout leaders homes. It so happened that this was also the home of my then best friend. We spent many hours imagining what it would be like if our parents split up and switched partners causing us to be stepsisters twice. Then,to my amazement, that August 3rd, weeks before Back to School shopping,my adoptive parents called us into the living room. They were divorcing. As soon as we were told, I bolted to my room, slamming the door, crying, refusing to leave. My adoptive mom was the one who left. But it didn't last because 2 weeks later, when we should've been shopping for back to school, she returned for a short time, then it truly became official. As often as I'd hoped and prayed to be "rid" of my adoptive mom, and despite being told I could choose which parent I wanted to live with, this new arrangement was still a difficult pill to swallow. Suddenly my heart was not into being the typical Grade 5 student. Somehow with school, and the pending divorce, I was forgetting that the eldest brother that I'd grown close to was heading to University of Guelph and wouldn't be at home. This truly began my journey to the dark days. I stopped taking medication, fell behind in school, refused to participate in gym class,causing my adoptive mom to encourage the teacher to use force, I also stopped eating which prompted her to leave the teacher menus in my communication book and if any items came home untouched, I'd be writing lines. I had to repeat that year, with that same teacher, only this time my adoptive parents were dating other people as was my eldest adoptive brother. And, I, of course, was not too pleased with any of it. But this time,my coping strategies involved locking myself in my room for hours writing, often getting so lost in thought I'd be missing meals and pulling late nights. When my grades got worse, the principal suggested to my adoptive parents to try counseling. This marked the first attempt at trying to build a father daughter relationship. Right now, to be honest with you, writing and reading that in memory, makes me wanna throw up over the horrible experiences. If, what I'm about to share doesn't make you wanna do the same, well, let's just hope you agree once I've shared.
Because I was so lost and confused, I could never express what I truly wanted so I often made things up. For example, the counselor suggested I list activities for my adoptive dad and I to do so that I had a sense of security I longed for, and suggested going for walks, drives, curling up and watching movies. This professional didn't seem to mind if he tweaked the activities. When we'd go for walks, I had to hold his hand (preteen years) while he drove stick shift,he wanted me to hold on to his hand but if I refused, I either got yelled at or he pulled over and I had to switch to the back seat. Then I had to go with him everywhere.
On a night, I swear that was like a movie, he came home from work, to find his own adoptive mom, and I engaged in yet another heated conversation. Did I fail to mention she moved in after the divorce?? Can you tell she was my fave?!? The night we chose to really go at it, also happened to be the night my adoptive dad came home angrier than I'd ever seen him but for some reason I was not scared. In fact, I think it only prompted me more to purposely tick him off, which of course I did. We had neighbors calling because they'd never heard us this loud before. Finally I called him out on things and to this day he denies ever having done them, while I remember every detail when he picked me up off my bedroom floor, shook me so hard, I fell and smashed my head against my water bed's headboard. We shared the kind of glance at each other like you'd see the victim and attacker exchange in the movies. More words were exchanged and I put my shoes on and bolted to the local convenience store where I knew a payphone was. It had started to pour. Don't ask me what prompted me to look in my shoe but when I did, i found $.25 which was the amount payphones took at the time. I used it to call a friend working at the local radio station but she wasn't working. So I called another friend, also a radio DJ, this time in London. After trying to tell him I wanted to die, he hooked me up with Kids Help Phone. It wasn't long after, I was sent to a group home in London,only going home on weekends they wanted to get me. It was during these visits I pulled all nighters, stopped the medications and went back to hiding them which resulted in my visits being cut. When I was discharged I let them,believe I was following their plans. Then I began slipping again, but this time I was noticing pain so I began raiding the medicine cabinet. At first a few pills worked. Then I needed more because I'd started to slice my wrists which led to bleeding and excessive pain. When we had meetings I kept hearing the same as I'd heard before and I was not about to experience a repeat. When on visits, I would raid all the places I was not allowed near like the junk food cupboard, where the emergency money was kept, and the study hall where the pens and paper meant for school were. The more junk food wrappers and scrap papers I used the more I had to hide the pills I was supposed to be taking and I also hid them under the rugs in my room. Due to my "good behavior" (okay I was a**kissing!!) I was allowed to be home for 2 weeks, for which I continued on this path but pulling all nighters and I had earned a job babysitting a young girl. I was excited. I ended up being discharged again for good behavior and for a short time I stopped the behavior. Then my adoptive mom and dad both announced they were engaged. My adoptive dad knew to ask me beforehand so as not to shock me, but the same couldn't be said for the guy who'd become my adoptive stepdad. He told my brothers before Christmas because he was proposing Boxing Day and knew my oldest adoptive brother wanted nothing to do with my adoptive mom and I believe its because she cheated on my adoptive dad with this same guy. Naturally the proposal was last and as soon as I saw what was happening, all eyes were on me waiting for my reaction. I got up and bolted to the bathroom slamming the door and locked myself in for hours. As soon as I got home, I beelined to my adoptive dad's medicine cabinet and poured the bottle down my throat crying and shaking hysterically. Luckily there wasn't many left. My next intervention led me straight to my family doctors. My behavior escalated as a result. I began eavesdropping in on my adoptive dad's calls. I learned of his thoughts of me through a journal I discovered he kept during one of those calls. Everything I was reading deeply hurt me confused me and filled me with such a rage I'd never before experienced. All I remember thinking was "If you want a good fight, you just earned it". We were forced to attend counseling again in sessions. Just me, then me and my adoptive dad,then us with my adoptive brothers. It was during a session with everyone that my adoptive dad wanted to reveal something despite my eldest brother's protests. I learned that my brothers girlfriend had shown up to the house one day with an axe trying to kill him. As it was going on, I was downstairs. Stairs weren't far from entrance and the bottom of the staircase was feet away from my room. I was not even aware of what was going on upstairs so when I finally learned, I bolted from the family session. Which led me back to another group home in London this time for a 2 year run. I had enrolled at St Thomas Aquinas but it was short lived when I told group home staff I had to participate in a strip search. With the staff, my psychiatrist, my adoptive parents and myself, my adoptive parents cut visits home and even calling home and had arranged with staff for me to start their in house school program. I loved English and Society, Challenge and Change. I got great marks on the reports and passed both which earned my calls home back. My group home worker set up a program where if I did a good deed I'd earn a reward of my choice and if I got 3 rewards a month, I'd get to go home for a weekend.
For a long run, things were calm. Then came the weddings of my adoptive parents. I tore up both invitations. Another resident, also Native, and I decided to bolt to her mom's, where I was exposed to my culture although at the time I wasn't aware. I got drunk with them and felt fine. I began dating her brother who was an alcoholic, a woman beater, in and out of jail, but this behavior for some reason seemed to make me happy. Days later I was charged with assault against his sister but after a year on probation, that I followed, both of them forgave me. It wasn't too long after probation ended that she was the one saving my life. I felt like I needed to take charge of my life and the only way I knew how was to find my birthmother. I truly believed she didn't want me to suffer but I felt if I found her and shared everything, she'd do everything she could to put an end to it all. So since I paid attention during rides home, I thought I knew the way from London to Toronto. I stopped at the convenience store but got frazzled so I hitchhiked on the highway and an older man who was probably in his 40s picked me up. By this time it was pouring out and getting late so we went to a motel. When we settled, I felt a sense of freedom that for so long had been burning inside me. I didn't know the guy I was with but at that moment where I was still rebellious and not thinking, it didn't seem to matter. When I realized I was only wearing the clothes I put on that morning, and had nothing else to put on for bed. Then there was my bladder/bowel control and the fact I'd never before seen the opposite sex in that sense for which I became tense and unsureof everything in general. This was out of my comfort zone and without any maternal guidance, I was now experiencing many things I'd never experienced but at the same time I felt like I finally bit off more than I could chew. But it was too late to back out, in my mind. He provided me a t shirt and it fit me like a nightgown. As I was putting the shirt on, I was not aware he'd already undressed and was in the only bed in the room. I got on the bed and told him I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing. He leaned over and began kissing my neck which was unexpected. But I still tried to talk my way out of the situation I was fearing would happen. But then something inside me leaned in toward him accepting the kissing. But this guy whom I'd never met before in my life took it too far and in my defense, I was afraid to speak for fear of my life although later sharing this nobody saw it that way because after all I did choose to ride in his vehicle to this motel. I never saw it that way until I was able to understand better of the danger I was fortunate enough not to face. Next thing I knew I was on the bottom and it happened. Up until then, since I'd lived a sheltered life,I'd never been exposed to sex or the opposite sex's body parts (minus times of sleeping in adoptive dad's bed beside him) and so for me seeing his penis then go in almost made me throw up. I raced to the bathroom just after he reassured me despite my hyperventilating and him going in, I got myself together out of shock and partially happy because I believed I had just had sex (stop laughing!!) I quickly called my friend to tell her about it and when she got specifics from me she determined it wasn't sex that I'd in fact been raped and despite any issues prompting me to run away, I should consider coming back to talk to my worker. After much encouragement, I convinced her I'd be home the next day. The guy dropped me off in front of the former MuchMusic building and bolted. Cops picked me up and when it was discovered that I was running from London, plans were made and I was on the next Greyhound back home. Things didn't get any better. I dropped out of the in house schooling, refused to continue volunteering, kept taking mental health days, sleeping and avoiding the world outside my room, lying to everyone. As if they hadn't already been told many times before I was again asked what would make me most happy and when I said being home with my adoptive family you'd think they'd be happy I wanted to be with them but no, they were reluctant until turning 18 meant they had to take me which I had turned. Being this age meant I was no longer eligible for supports from these 2 group homes I'd frequented. I considered this as a challenge the next time I was set off. Little did I know of the plans being put in place, that they were ensuring I would not be able to pull any of my "stunts". But by this time I was thinking of being the opposite of what was normally expected of me. Meaning, I'd been a pain before, so now I was going to be better than good, do things unexpectedly that normally would've caused a fight. They, along with workers were confused. They didn't know how to react. Then they started tossing little curves in their approach. They assumed I wouldn't notice, so when they were denied access inside my place, where I resided with a family through Community Living's room and board program, the lady I was renting from stepped in. Issues came up with the trustees assigned, the family I lived with, Community Living workers as well as my adoptive families. But we always worked them out because the lady I lived with acted as a mediator and on several visits had lengthy conversations because when I'd freak out or cry, she waited for me to have my moment and calmed down before having lengthy conversations that either saw me crying because I was now starting to truly understand my emotions and realized I was having enough. Despite policies of not allowing clients into homes of staff, workers I had often invited me in, letting me go for weekends as part of respite to the family I rented from. This gave them free time but it also gave me free time so I could sleep in, as I had no chores and could get lost in my new found love for nature, write and really explore to learn more about myself.
With my activities now including volunteering with Ontario Special Olympics and Black Cap Players Music and Mime Trouppe as well as for Community Living where I learned sign language as well as Facilitated Communication to be able to properly communicate with clients so I could provide better advocacy support for them, I was also working on stories, songs and even wrote a script. With Special Olympics, I started as a participant participating in darts and bowling both of which I also participated in tournaments. I was so preoccupied that I sometimes thought I'd already taken meds, when in fact, I hadn't. This caused problems for my volunteering as well as for the lady I lived with. And like everything else, it escalated. One Christmas break, we got into such a fight I was left with bruises and scratches that while bathing, I was afraid they'd fade but didn't. I showed staff while volunteering. They were already not too pleased I lived with her as she had a shady past with them. That same afternoon, it was determined that when I went home my caseworker would be there to closethe file and transfer me to my next destination. I would spend the next month and a half in a room at the Comfort Inn because no other homes in the program would have me, or so they told me, which was proven to be 100% untrue. But by now it came as no surprise. I realize the adoptive parents mission to make me out to be some sort of lying unstable person was being achieved but sadly I didn't realize until after the fact. I went from the hotel and in a short time I'd moved from 4 different apartments. The interactions I had with the adoptive parents were rocky as were the ones with workers. When things became too much, I called my adoptive family who only acted cold and distant. So my workers then placed me in another room and board situation this time the difference was that it wasn't a family unit, it was a transitional home for patients leaving the psychiatric facilities. If I thought I had it bad, which in some ways, I did, this was my wake up call. I was able to see things from a totally new perspective which in turn made me more accepting and appreciative of the things I had and the people in my life that I now had to work hard at gaining trust back from for which for some reason made me,calm and I was grateful for. The staff, oftentimes, relied on me when they were busy and one needed to talk. I didn't mind the distraction but there were days I wasn't around and would come home to find police, paramedics, or firemen in the kitchen. Those scenes were never easy for me. It gave me a new light into mental illnesses I'd never known before. I'd always believed you get diagnosed based on situations your dealing with followed by some pill to control it. Then one day I got my moment. I received a call from Alice McDonald founder of the Canadian Adoptees Registry. To this day I still cannot put into words what I felt upon Alice's shocking revelation that my mother had been found. Especially since my adoptive parents painted her as a bad person and at times convinced me she'd died. Then my shock escalated upon getting her phone number. I was shaking dialing the number but,quickly calmed and we spoke for 3½ hours. Afterward I called my adoptive dad to brag that he was wrong.
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