I’ve pondered a lot lately. The past two years have shown me that I wasn’t nearly as healed as I thought. Every day I worried I would be forced to do something I didn’t want to do so that I could [fill in the blank. (keep my job, go to a restaurant, shop in person in a store, travel, etc.)] Sure, there were times when the pressure, via government-issued mandates, was lifted, and life returned to our new normal, far from the normal I was living before covid. But internally, the powerlessness I felt as a traumatized child returned. I felt the same anger, frustration, and rage I experienced as a teenager.
All the Mind Files I thought I had resolved returned to the forefront of my thoughts. My mind’s process was referencing my FEAR cabinet every minute of every day and adding additional negatively charged filters to those old conclusions I had created as a child. My protective emotional wall went back up, and my teenage defense strategies went into full play. I had taken an enormous step backward in my recovery.
I never took a covid injectable product (as Jessica Rose calls them), so why am I focusing my attention on all the damaging effects? Why am I reading article after article and watching podcast after podcast describing all the horrific physiological effects if I never accepted a jab?
I went way down the rabbit hole to understand how the hell this could even happen, and it was not a pleasant journey. So, how do I get my sanity back? How do I find peace? How do I let go of everything I’ve learned over the past two years?
I start over, but this time, I will do it differently. This time, I’m not hiding while I heal. This time, I will share my journey in real-time, and maybe those of you whose childhood trauma was also triggered during covid will find your way here, and we can heal together.
BEFORE THE WOUNDS
I was born in small-town Saskatchewan. According to court transcripts, I am the bastard child of a woman forced to put me up for adoption because her unfaithful and abusive husband claimed her affair was far worse than his own. It didn't matter that her adulterous relationship didn't begin until after he had run off to another country with a younger woman. And, it didn't matter that this pregnancy was proof that it wasn't her fault she didn't provide him with children. He had the power to force her to give me up for adoption because, in the mid-1960s, most institutions, if not all, were run by men; women were only beginning to gain rights.
From a very early age, my parents provided an altruistic albeit generic explanation for my siblings and my adoptions. They told us that our birth mothers loved us so much we were given up for adoption because they wanted us to have a better life. I was fortunate that my parents were honest and painted a loving picture because I know other children who were not so lucky. I went to school with a girl who didn't learn about her adoption until high school. I don't know if she felt abandoned by her birth mother, but I do know she felt betrayed by her adoptive parents.
Doctors had no answer as to why my mom could not get pregnant. She ovulated every month and had room to carry a child, but there must have been some damage done internally years before when her appendix burst. My dad was also tested and told his sperm was viable. My parents tried for years to have children, but conceiving was not meant to be. They both wanted children, so they chose to adopt. The first child they adopted was a girl named Leanne. Two years later, they adopted a boy they named Garth. Leanne and Garth were two years apart. Six years later, they adopted me.
Saskatchewan and Manitoba are two of three prairie provinces in Canada. Back in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s, hundreds of small family farms had heavy machinery that allowed them to work their land. Many farmers bought equipment from John Deere, one of the biggest agriculture implement companies. My dad worked as a collector for John Deere. He traveled extensively throughout southern Saskatchewan and Manitoba, visiting hundreds of small family farms and collecting overdue payments. My mom raised us.
We lived in a large four-bedroom, three-level split house in a newer community called St. James in Winnipeg. Many younger families were on our street, so there were plenty of kids to play with.
As I grew, it became evident that something wasn't quite right with my body. When I walked, my legs swung out circularly rather than moving straightforwardly. The opposite shoulder would drop with each step, creating a dramatic wobbling limp. Because of this, I walked on the outside of my feet to maintain balance.
Falling was a common occurrence for me. I remember my dad saying many times as he brushed gravel from my knees, ‘you have had the most skinned knees of any kid I've ever known!’
I could sit on the floor, my bum flat on the ground, my knees pressed together, and my feet stretched outwards at 90 degrees. When my parent's friends were over, someone would always notice how I sat. They would point it out to everyone else in the room. Unable to explain how I could sit that way, my parents decided I was double-jointed.
I started Kindergarten in Winnipeg shortly before my fifth birthday, just months before my dad was transferred back to Regina. I must have made an impression on my kindergarten teacher because she made a point of stopping by our house to say goodbye.
Our move was close to Christmas, and all of us kids were concerned that Santa wouldn't find us in Regina. Mom and dad reassured us that Santa would know where we were, and while Christmas would be a little different this year, it would still be fun!
Winter driving in the Canadian Prairies can be treacherous with extreme cold, high winds, and lots of blowing snow, but thankfully on the day we moved, the weather cooperated. We all piled into the back of our beige-colored GMC Station Wagon with blankets, pillows, books, and toys. My parents were in the front seat.
My mom loved to sing and had an excellent ear for music. I remember my mom leading us in song as we drove down the highway. My dad often traveled by himself, so I can't imagine how distracting it was for him to listen to us all belting out Yellow Submarine, Sugar, Sugar, and Puff, The Magic Dragon. By the time we sang ten verses of 99 Bottles of Beer on The Wall, he'd had enough!
As we drove down the highway, I would often peek out of the orange-colored curtains covering the long back windows in our station wagon. There were so many new things to see! I was a happy little girl with a curious mind.
There is a stretch of road between Winnipeg and Regina that takes you through a valley. I remember seeing foothills on either side of the highway and asking if we were driving in the mountains. My dad answered, 'no pumpkin, these aren't mountains; they're just little hills.' After eight hours on the road, we finally arrived in Regina at my Grandparent's house.
My Grandma was a war bride. During World War I, she worked as a maid for a wealthy family in London. My Grandfather was a Sargent in the Canadian army. I can't recall precisely how they met, but I remember my Grandma telling me that whenever my Grandfather found himself in London, they got together and eventually fell in love. They settled in a two-story house in downtown Regina in 1919 after receiving permission from the Canadian army to marry.
Their house had a large veranda lined with windows that opened. From there, you walked through a wooden door into a narrow hallway. On the left side, behind the door, a staircase took you up to three bedrooms and the main bathroom. On the right side, another wooden door took you into the living area. There were fold-out couches, a chair, and several small tables. In the far corner sat a large wooden radio. It was a heavy piece of furniture. Green-colored glass displayed the range of broadcast frequencies you could tune in to, and the speakers sat behind ornate designs in the wood. A large black oval knob provided the means to move up and down the frequency range. Radios like this were how people knew what was happening in the 1940s. My Grandma talked of many nights sitting beside that radio, listening for news during World War II.
This room led out into a larger space. On the left sat two large china cabinets and a dark-stained oak dining room table. Another chair, a TV, and an electric fireplace were on the right. My Grandma ran a rooming house during the war years, providing meals for her tenants, so a large kitchen and a private bedroom had been added to the main house.
There was a beautifully decorated Christmas tree beside the fireplace, and stockings hung from the mantle. When it was time to put out cookies and milk for Santa, we were reassured that he knew exactly where to find us and not to worry! Sure enough, when we woke in the morning, we found he not only filled our stockings at our Grandparent's house, but he also left a present for each of us kids at our new house! My present was a little red electric car! I drove that little red car around the basement until I became too big to sit in it.
A few days after Christmas, our furniture arrived from Winnipeg, and we settled into our new house. It sat on a busy street in a newer neighborhood, close to the outskirts of the city. The school was only a block away, and there were plenty of kids in our neighborhood.
For the first few years, my dad continued working for John Deere. In the summer, when he was visiting farms close to the city, he would sometimes take one of us with him. One day when I was with him, he stopped at a small farm in the Qu'Appelle Valley. I loved animals, and this farm had a lot! Dogs, cats, horses, cows, chickens, pigs, and even a donkey! The farmer's wife could see I was taken with all the animals and offered to watch me while my dad visited other farmers in the area. I was ecstatic and thoroughly enjoyed my time there.
I was five years old, and life was pretty good.
THE DIAGNOSIS
Nobody wants to remember their trauma. In that regard, society is no different from the victims themselves. We all want to live in a world that is safe, manageable, and predictable, and victims remind us that this is not always the case.
Bessel Van Der Kolk MD in The Body Keeps The Score
Being the new kid in school isn't easy for anyone. My gait, limp and obvious deformity created a rather significant obstacle for me. Initially, other kids were curious about why I walked that way, and wondered why I fell for no apparent reason. The mocking and ridicule slowly began to chip away at my self-worth. Eventually, curiosity and empathy became judgment and superiority.
I could not tell you how many times I came home from school crying. Nearly every day, someone made fun of how I walked or that I fell for what appeared to be no reason. My mom would hug me and tell me that sticks and stones could break my bones, but words could never hurt me. I knew in my heart that was not the truth because the words did hurt. My dad told me I had to develop a thick skin and not give anyone the satisfaction of showing that their words bothered me.
When I was seven, my dad retired from John Deere and purchased a neighborhood hardware store. My brother and sister were several years older than I was, so they became my afterschool babysitters; my mom went to work in the store.
Back in those days, the post office was more than a stamp, letter, and parcel dispensary. Workers had to be vetted and bonded by the federal government. They were issued a Commissioner of Oaths certificate, which allowed them to carry out many legal services offered at the Post Office. There was already a Post Office Clerk employed when my dad purchased the business, but this lady did not want to work full-time any longer. My mom became the alternate Post Office Mistress.
Not too long after, I came home from school one day to a huge surprise! A couple of kids brought a puppy into our store, asking if anyone wanted to buy her. My mom peered into the box, and her heart melted. Inside was a blonde-colored Terrier mix, just a couple of months old. My mom knew I was struggling and that this little dog would bring me joy, so she bought her for me. I named her Candy. Candy became my best friend and my protector.
My Grandparents had a summer cottage in a small lakeside community 45 miles northwest of Regina. The cabin sat at the bottom of a hill on a heavily treed double lot several blocks south of the lake. A long driveway bordered by rows and rows of Saskatoon Berry bushes ran from the front of the property through to the back. At the front of the yard, nestled into the trees, sat a flower garden encased by a rounded cement border. At the tree line, a large wooden frame with three shelves housed many colorful birdhouses of varying designs. The shelves lined the entire length of the yard, about 225 feet. Visitors and residents would venture into the yard to see these birdhouses and speak with their builder – my Grandfather.
Six-paned windows that opened lined the cottage's front room. The summer curtains were flowery light cotton, while the fall curtains were a dark red heavy fabric. In the back corner of the living room, an oil-burning furnace kept us warm on late August evenings. Its tank sat outside the wall between the trees and the cottage. A table and chair sat beside the oil stove on the east wall, a long sofa along the north wall in the living room, and a dining table with red chairs at the front of the room. A doorway opened into a large kitchen. The fridge was on the north wall, the stove on the east wall, and burgundy-colored counters and white cupboards filled up the rest of the space. The running water was limited to cold, so water had to be heated on the stove for sponge baths and hair washes. A door opened to a large, railed deck on the south wall of the kitchen. Beneath the deck was ample storage for rakes, mowers, and a BBQ.
The cottage had three bedrooms divided by three-quarter walls made from tongue and groove cedar slats. The front bedroom had bunk beds and a small table. The middle and back rooms had a double bed, a dresser with drawers, and a mirror. In the living room was a sofa that folded down into a bed. There was plenty of room for all of us to stay.
A small concrete paddling pool sat beside the vegetable garden next to the outhouse in the backyard's far corner. The fenced backyard had a massive vehicle gate that swung open from the middle. Every morning, my Grandfather would open the gate and affix each site to the posts driven into the ground on either side. Leaving the gate open not only allowed people walking in the back alley who wanted to see the birdhouses' access to the yard but also let them know they were invited.
Just behind the cottage was a smaller cabin called Rooster's Nest. It had a double bed, two folding single beds, and a small wooden table with two chairs. Windows that opened were on either side of the door. My parents would sleep in here on the rare occasion they stayed overnight.
My brother, sister, and I usually spent time at the beach every summer with my Grandparents. My brother and I stayed in the bunk room, and my sister used the middle room. My Grandparents stayed in the back bedroom.
I don't remember too much about my Grandfather other than he was mean and had dementia. As I mentioned, he had fought in World War I and II. Like many other veterans, my Grandfather suffered severe mental and emotional consequences. He was physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive. My dad and my Grandma often made excuses for his abusive behavior. One story we were told was that during the war, my Grandfather had fallen down a staircase and somehow drank some engine oil. They also described him as shell-shocked.
My Grandfather wasn't as tall as my dad, but he was bald like my dad. He wore round eyeglasses and always had suspenders holding up his pants and socks. He liked to give us kids whisker rubs, but none of us liked it. His whiskers were tough and scratched our faces until they were red. He had large hands, and his grip was firm.
The summer after I got Candy, we went out to the beach for our usual summer vacation. My Grandma placed a blanket at the end of my bed for Candy to lay on. One morning during our stay, I discovered Candy sleeping on the porch outside. I was horrified! During breakfast, I asked why she wasn't allowed to stay in the house. I stated that it was mean to make her stay outside and that she must have been scared. My Grandfather flew into a rage. He grabbed hold of my arm and began spanking me so hard, and for so long, I peed my pants. I was crying hysterically, screaming for him to stop hurting me. I could see the wide-eyed faces of my brother and sister as they sat utterly motionless, watching the beating. Finally, he let go of my arm, and my Grandma took me into the bedroom to get cleaned up. "There, there, child," she said. "I'll get you cleaned up and into dry clothes." My seven-year-old brain could not understand what I had done wrong. I was in complete shock. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I was still crying. I was even more scared for Candy now. I kept asking my Grandmother, "What did I do wrong?" She never answered the question because there was no answer. I have no memory after that beating, and I do not recall ever taking Candy out to the beach again.
When I was nine years old, my dad took me to see his chiropractor hoping that he would know what was wrong with my structure and fix it with an adjustment. The second I walked into the room, he recognized my problem was far beyond his ability, and he was quick to say so. He took x-rays which quickly revealed my femurs (leg bones) were not sitting in a hip socket; they were floating alongside my pelvis. I lacked what is called an acetabular shelf on both sides. The constant falling down was taking a toll on my body, and I was starting to experience pain.
The chiropractor urged my dad to contact our family physician as soon as possible to get a referral to see an orthopedic specialist. I can still recall that first appointment as if it were yesterday. This doctor had the radiology department take different x-rays. When it was my turn to see the doctor, the receptionist directed us into his office. It was a massive office by today's standards. Inside was a large oak desk with a black leather chair behind it. Behind the desk, x-ray viewing screens hung on the wall. My dad and I sat in front of the oak desk and waited for the doctor.
This doctor was well-known in the medical community for being extremely blunt. He didn't try to sugarcoat things or paint an overly optimistic picture of the situation; he matter-of-factly stated everything. Several years after this appointment, I learned to appreciate and respect this man's honesty and bluntness.
When the door opened, I heard my dad take a deep breath. I did not understand this appointment's serious nature at nine years of age, but I felt it. My dad was tense, and that made me uneasy. Dr. Froggat sat down in his chair, clasped his hands together, looked us both in the eyes, and said, ‘this girl has a serious problem, and I don't know of anyone in Saskatchewan or in all of Canada that can help her.’
He explained that my hip bone would deteriorate and that I would likely be in a wheelchair from the age of fourteen for the rest of my life. My dad openly gasped at this news, and that made me afraid. I started to cry.
Pointing at the x-rays, Dr. F explained that I did not have any hip sockets and that the acetabular shelf was extremely shallow. Using a model, he explained what a ball and socket joint should look like, then again pointed to the x-ray. He strongly urged us to wait as long as possible in attempting any surgical intervention as no one to his knowledge could perform the type of surgery I required. He acknowledged that, eventually, the pain would become unbearable but said some medications could help until surgery was possible.
My dad was stunned. I could feel the desperation and fear in his voice as he asked questions; my anxiety increased, and I cried harder. I did not know what surgery meant or what it was, but I knew that I did not want to be in a wheelchair for life.