Honestly Speaking! Broken Spirit, Family Secrets!

Chapter 1

I indicated when I started a word press blog that I was going to use it to write about what ever I wanted! No rules or regulations, no influences from others, just a vehicle in which I could write my thoughts, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
I didn’t promise perfect grammar or spelling. I just promised writings that came from me.
I have for many years journal with books and pen, and still do from time to time, but with this particular entry, I think I’m hoping for some insight, perhaps thoughts and suggestions from others. Be them people I know or not.
I honestly have so much that has occurred in my 49 yrs, that there is no way to possibly include it all. If I did, it would end up as a book! Which I have not yet ruled out.
But for the purpose of this entry, a brief history is required to understand.

So here I go. I was adopted by the best parents a child could ask for! I adored my mother and father. I truly did. I centred most of my life around them. I was the youngest of five. I have three brothers and a sister ten years older than me and she is the oldest.
I remember a very happy childhood. My mother stayed home and raised us while my father traveled to the city each day to work and provide well for his family. It was a long drive to and from work each day, but my parents felt it would be better to raise us kids in the country, with a bit of land, that they could also grow food and flower gardens on. And they did. So I was four yrs old when my parents packed the family up and moved us from the city to the country.
It was a large old farm house, in need of some LTC, but it was beautiful.
Gardens were created, flower bed were doted on and my father sacrificed a great deal for us all.
But he did so with love. We had rules and regulations, expectations and chores. We had to respect our elders and speak only when spoken too. Which worked well for me as I was painfully shy as a kid.
My parents were foster parents for 27 years. Which is how I became adopted. They fostered one other baby boy that they also adopted. So they had two adopted children and three biological children. The adoptions were never kept secret, and were rarely discussed. Yet if I ever had a question, my parents would answer as best they could.
Being adopted never really ever entered my mind as a kid. I felt just like their biological daughter. And where my parents are concerned, I always felt they loved me as their own biological daughter. I knew I was loved, I felt it, I never questioned it.

Than I turned about eleven years old. When suddenly the dynamics of the home became different. Most of my siblings had either moved out west to Edmonton, and my sister had moved to the city. I was left at home with the second youngest, my brother Mitchell. Mitchell was four years older than me. He was about fifteen at this point. He was famous for playing jokes on people, he was the family comic. And I loved him very much. But as siblings left and there was only my brother and I there, as my mom went back to work a couple of years before this, I started to crave attention. I have no clue why but I wanted more than anything for my brother Mitchell to include me in his life more. Be present for me. But he did not feel the same. I just chalked it up to the age and didn’t dwell on it often.
But Mitchell started to get into some shady shit! He started smoking weed, growing weed, selling weed. He also got a DWI and never told my parents.
And during this process of growing up, things started to happen. Mitchell would become violent for no apparent reason. He became withdrawn and nasty. There were many occasions where upon my walking home from our school bus route, he would stand just inside the property and throw stones at me, yelling at me I wasn’t to come on the property! I didn’t belong there! Not only was I confused, I was hurt. Physically as the rocks that hit me hurt, but more emotionally. And he would never own up to anything he did, ever! On one occasion of rock throwing I ran away from home. I just couldn’t take it any more. Course I didn’t go far, I was terrified. So I spent most of the afternoon and evening in a tree down the road from where we lived. It wasn’t until I saw my parents drive by after dark looking for me and calling for me that I came down out of that tree. They carried on looking for me down the road, and I began the very slow walk home as it was within eyesight away. My parents found me when they were coming back.
At first they were extremely angry with me. And when I told them why I left, I never felt like they really believed me. They did tell Mitchell, who denied it of course, to knock it off, but that was all.
Mitchell had started smoking at the time and he did not want my parents to know. So he took me outside and told me to take the cigarette he had lite and smoke it. I told him know! But he told me if I didn’t, he would beat the crap out of me! He did this for about a week. Next thing I knew, I too had started to smoke, at eleven years old!
His reason for doing this he told me was so that I wouldn’t squeal on him and get him in trouble because he would tell them that I too was smoking. So he threatened me to smoke and threatened me not to tell. If I told, he’d beat the crap out of me. Which he ad done in the past, so the fear was real. So it was a no win situation for me! I had to shut up, do as he said, or get beat up!
Now that he had turned me into a smoker, there were two windows in my bedroom. Only bedroom with two windows and only bedroom on that side of the house. This was significant as my bedroom became the bedroom where he and I would smoke. The wind hardly ever came in those windows so he made a tiny hole in the screen that allowed us to push the cigarette through the whole to help ensure the smoke didn’t come back into the house and my parents smell it and find out. Going outside to smoke at night was not an option than. So we came up with this strategy. Which looking back, I doubt very much that my parents couldn’t smell it!! House wasn’t that big! But my dad smoked a pipe and cigars so they never really knew if it was us or dad. For the longest time anyway.

So somewhere between eleven and twelve my brother Mitchell decided to take his abuse one step further!

Chapter 2


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s