Why would one go through all the questions, endless waiting, emotions, interviews, taking the stand in a public courtroom; three times, in order to bear witness against someone who had sexually molested them decades before?©

Long story, short:  because I became aware that the same sexual abuser was; once again, living with a woman with small daughters.

Long story, long:

For as long as I could remember; I knew what he had done to me. I remembered  most of the details. I knew who was aware of what he was doing to me and possibly my sisters.

I came to accept, grudgingly, that no one was going to protect my sisters nor myself. Our safety was our responsibility to the best of our capabilities.

By the time I was 18-years-old, I was Mother to a newborn son and a 2-year-old daughter (by a boyfriend of several years - not the sexual abuser - although that same boyfriend was abusive in every fashion thinkable - different story or is it 'the road less travelled; I chose not to take?)

My parents, on learning that I was, once again, involved with the father of my daughter packed up their house, sold most of their belongings and departed Brantford, Ontario in the Summer of 1970 with my daughter. 

When I called the police for help I was told that: "They did not become involved in 'domestic matters.'" It was of no consequence that I was working full-time, had an apartment furnished for the needs of a child (crib, clothing, food, etc.) and that I was the birth Mother. 

I felt helpless, angry and lost.

Within a week I was contacted, by the police, because my parents' car had been found abandoned in Northern Ontario with questions about their whereabouts. I had no answers, I did not know. (All these decades later I can still taste the bile of fear rise into my throat and tears brimming into my eyes as I recall that time of terror)

During the eleven days of that summer of 1970, I was introduced to marijuana, LSD, domestic violence at the hands of my 'lover', gang rape by my 'lover', my best women-friend's husband and three other men/boys I do not recall who they were. (Many decades later I recalled that one of those men did not hold me as tightly, nor did he avail himself of the invitation presented by my 'lover') and anal-rape at the hands of my 'lover' who forced my face into a pillow during the act.

I left the next morning while he was out of the apartment and refused to speak or have any interaction with him after that time. I stayed with my woman friend and her husband for a couple of months. During that time I was introduced to a male friend of theirs who wished to date me. 

During our first date I told him that I believed I was pregnant - about 2 months and had a daughter who was with my parents; however, I knew not where, although I had some thoughts that they most likely had returned to British Columbia.

In a short period of time I moved in with this man (he had promised that he would send me to be with my daughter as soon as I found out - yes, I prostituted myself for a train ticket). I had managed to find yet another man who was violent - during an argument I told him I was leaving and he choked me until I lost consciousness. When I came to, laying in a heap on the floor to find that he had returned to the sofa to watch television without concern for my well-being. I thought better of pursuing the issue at that time.

Once again, the next morning, I sought refuge at the same woman friend's home. After a week of phone calls (which I refused to take) I was told that my friends could not keep me in their home any longer; so I returned with the understanding that such behaviour would not happen again.

January, 1971; I was bought a train ticket to Vancouver, British Columbia and enough cash to perhaps feed myself and the child I was carrying along with a bus ticket from Vancouver to Victoria.

I arrived after 4 days and 3 nights via coach - 7 months pregnant; late at night to the Victoria bus station with my Mother and a cousin awaiting my arrival.

The next morning when my daughter awoke, she had no idea who I was.

Between that time and the birth of my son (May --, 1971) I made arrangements to find an apartment and move out of my parents' house. 

When I spoke to them of my decision, I was told that they would never allow that to happen. My response: "Try to stop me and I will tell of everything that has happened in this house!"

Nothing further was said, in fact, they did what they were capable of doing to help out with expenses.

My middle sister moved out and lived with me also. She stayed with me until her marriage. Shortly after that I moved to a different apartment and my youngest sister came to live with me; she also stayed until she moved in with the man who is still her husband.

In the time prior to the birth of my daughter I had left home, got a room in a rooming house, quit school to work full-time - realized I was pregnant, made my first attempt at suicide - pills and booze - of which the result was days of vomiting and the lose of my employment. I returned to my parents home, gave birth to my daughter and went to work full-time when she was 3 weeks old.

In 1973 while under the influence of 'street drugs' I attempted to blow my head off with a 30_06 (jammed) the same night I attempted to gas myself and took a razor to my face.

Within a few days I was self-admitted for my first stay in a psychiatric ward, 21 years-old, 33-years-old and shortly after my fortieth birthday. Each time because I was having suicidal ideations. Not until my 40s did I begin to reach a level of healthiness that does not allow suicide as an option to whatever is going on in my life.

November of 1993 I attended Aurora House in Vancouver, British Columbia for a 6 week inpatient program for sexual abuse survivors and substance abusers after a period of 2 and 1/2 years of being 'clean and sober'.

During that time I became truly aware that I was not responsible for the actions of the adults in my life. Nor was I to blame that my body responded to some of the stimuli I had undergone during my father's attacks on me (legally, my step-father; however, the only father I ever knew and I still refer to him as Dad and did at his trial when I told him: "I love you, Dad. You are the only father I have ever known. It is my hope that you will use this time to get help for your behaviour" (words to that effect).

I had the opportunity to scream out what I had never said before which left my throat sore and parched for days after, a long drawn out "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I thank all the therapists who were such a help to me throughout my healing over the decades and all the persons I came to know in different group sessions. "All my relations."

Might all who listen to this be aware that even when you are not actively healing, that you are healing when you listen, share and empathize with your sister and brother Survivors.

At this time in my life, there are still regrets; yet far more deservedly wonderful gifts in my life, relationships with my eldest children that are closer with wonderfully healing, listening, honouring and nurturing love, a relationship with a man who has been a wonderful gift to me in the last two years+, attendance in a Graphic Design course, after 2 years of correspondence studying in Fine Arts to realize that I am an artist of some talent (when I had thought previously that the testing done must have been out of whack as I could not recall ever drawing an object or representing my feelings in a two dimensional fashion ever in my life - some of my works are online and linked to this site.)

I have come to have male and female friendships of a depth I had not believed possible without sexual congress.

I came to a time where I realized that all the material possession of my previous marriage trapped me into a situation of always having to have room-mates in order to have enough space for all the furniture. I gave notice, packed everything to be picked up by the auctioneer, packed my clothing, a few sentimental items, photographs and books and moved into a rooming-house.

During that time I did a major amount of volunteer work, walked endlessly during times of insomnia and went to twice a week counselling, once a week with a group of other women like myself and the other session a one on one with my therapist. I continued this for the two years prior to the correspondence art courses.

I submitted my art portfolio to the university's Graphic Design program. 14 of my pieces, an interview against 200+ other applicants all of whom were younger than my own children.

Several months later I received a letter of acceptance for one of twenty-four seats in the first year and during the second year cut received a seat for one of the twenty seats. 

When I voiced my concerns that "I don't think I can manage a second year." I recall being reassured that I would be able to handle a second year. I did not complete the second year and continue to learn as I study via the school of 'hard knocks'.

I am currently the grandmother of 2 young gentlemen - 27-years-old and 17-year-old as of February 21, 2017 as well as a grand-daughter who must be almost 10-years-old that I am not supposed to be aware of her birth.

I digress. When did I decide to take my information to the police?

While I was living in the rooming-house, I realized that I had made my existence untraceable (non-published phone number) no lease or public utilities in my name. More than that, when I was attempting to complete some government business phone calls and was becoming angry out of proportion with what was going on at that moment.

I took a few minutes to search within myself as to what was I truly angry about. When I had my answer, I phoned and made an appointment to speak with the R.C.M.P.

During the interview I was only able to cry and stutter as I had for so many years beforehand.

I was asked to take my time and write out what I could along with a timeline. Three weeks later I returned with 17 pages of legal-size with point form notes.

I was thanked and told they would 'get back to me'.

I waited for two years while the Crown Counsel (D/A) made a decision on whether there were grounds for laying charges and enough of a case to proceed to trail. During October 1995, my father was brought to the preliminary hearing on two counts of having sex with a female under the age of 14 who was not his wife.

I testified at the preliminary hearing - returned to my hometown and took refuge in a friend's apartment as the child within waited for the retribution that was surely to come for having 'told'.

April of 1996, my mother and two sisters testified; as did I over a period of three days. I speak of this time in more depth What Gives a Person the Will to Live?

At the time of this writing, August 30, 2000 - the convicted child molester is on conditional parole and has chosen to stay at Sumas Halfway House (in ill health, heart and glaucoma). He has waffled tremendously about whether he "touched any of his daughters inappropriately" to "on advice of legal counsel" to "could have done great harm to his daughters psychologically".

With lingering effects, decades later, I could not abide the thought of him, possibly, grooming another set of children for his possible use as a paedophile.

The most important thing, to me, that I have learned is that "The shame is his, let him keep it. None of the shame was ever mine!" Also, that 8-year-old girl, just a skinny little thing did not have a chance against a grown man of almost 200 pounds. (if you disbelieve me, take an afternoon to observe children in a school-yard, look for a slender child of about Grade 3 and think.... could that child stop any adult from doing them harm?)

I know that I am not alone. Wherever I might go in this lifetime, there is a Higher Power who keeps me safe, no matter what awful things I might have attempted to do to myself in the past. Worse things were done to my body by others who did not honour that I am a separate being who wasn't capable of consenting to any of the acts committed on my body and psyche.

That same Higher Power has a mission for me, to tell my story, simply to tell my story and to keep telling it until there are no more children ever abused.

THIS is one Survivor of sexual abuse by adults who will never buy "I was abused." as an excuse/reason/rational for using children to get your sexual thrills.

NO MORE Children. Ever. In no country. Stop!

If you suspect

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