Family - It's All Relative - Chapter Two

Ok. So I have calmed down a bit since yesterday. I have called this one Chapter 2, because I am writing so much that it seems like a book.

Editor's Note: After writing Part 1 yesterday I realized that I may have made the wrong decision in sharing that information with the general masses. If it was indeed the wrong decision, I will pay for the consequences of losing readers or who knows, some eye rolling or snickering comments of "she should get over it already" etc. This is a journey that I am on and I believe everything leading up to this point in my life makes me who I am today. So if you don't know me, you can have a better idea of who I am, what I am about and join me on my quest to figure out the best way I can live my life in a healthier way. Plus, who doesn't love drama from time to time to escape from their own life, right? Up to this point in my life, I have hid behind my past. Using it as an excuse as why I react to things the way I do. The reasons why I do things. The reason why I am Phat. The reason for the layers and layers and the defensive walls that are constantly protecting me. My friends, if I can be so bold to call you that, I want the walls to break down, the Phat that has protected me to fade so I can be the Sexy Sassy Butterfly I am meant to be. Get ready, Part 2 is just as honest as Part 1 and I suggest if you want to roll your eyes or snicker, you may as well x out now.

Throughout my teens, I was kicked out of the house over and over and over again by my adoptive parents. People often asked "what did you do?" or would accuse "you must have done something awful, why else would they do that?". I would defend myself back then to the end "I was a good girl" and still do to this day. Again, noone has a perfect family. I feel many people put on a show, they must. There is no way that I was the only one living with what I now call abuse. It is amazing. My "show" was in school. In class, I was very social - to the highest degree. I would talk to anyone that would listen (hello, some things never change - blog). I never belonged to one "clique" I considered myself to be friends with everyone. Sure there was one evil girl who made my life hell, who bullied me but other than that repugnant, disgusting and rude being, I got along with everyone as far as I know.

Considering everything that was going on at home, I am impressed at the fact I was able to seem somewhat normal and be as outgoing and friendly as I seemed. That was my mask. Friendly on the outside, upset, stressed, frustrated, scared, lonely and depressed on the inside. Not that I wasn't genuine, but I didn't really allow people to see the truth. Every night I could tell if my father was in a bad mood or not by the way he walked down the hall and the boards squeaked. I would pray and hope that there would be no yelling, screaming, fighting - each and every night. It the walking was more like stomping I just hoped that it wouldn't be me that was going to get the brunt of it. I also use to hide in my closet, hide as low as possible from my window, scared that my brother or his friends would kill me. Shoot me with a gun through my bedroom window. This fear came after he threatened me he and his friends would one day when I wasn't expecting it. So I would not go to sleep until I knew everyone was in the house. Until after my brother came home. Maybe I didn't want to admit it to myself, or maybe I didn't think anyone would believe a little bitch like me.

The closest I came to letting someone in on the truth I remember was one time in Grade 11, my favourite class was geography. The teacher basically showed us all the places she travelled through her life and I was mesmerized. All of these beautiful places, these incredible experiences. The world is a glorious place. She showed us personal pictures of her adventures and knew then I wanted a part of that. One night, when I was laying on the floor doing my homework, the phone rang. Interestingly enough, there were times that I was not even allowed to answer the phone in my house. This one night, I made the mistake of answering. I lived in a bungalow, where my father was in the basement and the call happened to be for him. I called downstairs to tell him and he had picked up the phone down there. Moments later, as I am laying in front of the TV I hear him come upstairs and ask my mother where I was. He came to me, so angry that I had picked up the phone. He started telling me to go to my room. I defended myself and said all I did was answer the phone. I was watching a show on TV and doing my homework and just wanted to stay there. He kept yelling and pointing to my room, stood over top of me and cornered me at the couch. There was nowhere else for me to turn or go. I put my hand up on his stomach because I was still on the floor and I felt that he was going to stomp on me if I didn't protect myself. As soon as the palm of my hand touched his stomach, he yelled "don't hit me" and punched me in the face. Yes. You heard me correctly. Punched me like a boxer. The thing was, I wasn't in a ring in some gym training for a fight, I was at home and I was his 16 year old daughter. I jumped up, standing on the couch now, adrenaline pumping and started to tell him he was disgusting, a F***king Asshole and how dare he hit his 16 year old daughter. He wanted to kick me out, I called a family friend to help me and he sided with my father and said he didn't want to get involved. I really don't know how to explain how alone I felt at that moment. It was clear. I went to bed eventually, woke up and went to school. I was late for my Geography class. I knocked on the door and I didn't want to go in. It brings tears to my eyes right now reliving that moment. The teacher came out and I handed her my assignment, the one I had been working on the night before. Our eyes met and I felt that she could literally see into my soul. Right through the pain in my eyes. Maybe that was wishful thinking. I gave her a lame excuse as to why I couldn't attend class, hoping she would pick up on "I need you to help me, I am in so much pain" but alas, she didn't. I still believe to this day she knew something. I could see it and feel it by the look on her face. It was almost pity, but not. Perhaps compassion. What was she suppose to do though, really. I found comfort in that moment, that she picked up on it and maybe that is what helped me start to open up to close friends and give hints as to what was really going on.

That night was not the first, nor the last of what went on as I shared some snapshots in Part 1. The summer I turned 18, I spent a lot of time with Andrea, full of Hope. One of the many times my parents kicked me out, was two weeks after my birthday. I was out of the house for two weeks and stayed with Andrea while her parents were away on one of their many many many vacations. I was sad because being kicked out repeatedly is difficult but if you have 24 hours a day with your best girlfriend, it isn't all bad, well we were kind of bad - floating cd's - but wholesomely good. I eventually went back home and started School. Months went by, fights still happened and I had found refuge at a friend down the road's place. Everytime the yelling would start, I would try to leave. I would walk 20 minutes to get there. I wasn't allowed to get my driver's license and I wasn't allowed to have a key to the house. That made things frustrating as well. I would walk to his house and cry to him and his parents. Again, noone really seemed to understand why or what was happening.

January 2, 1995 was the last time I was kicked out. It was just after I got home from the first day back at school after Christmas break. I asked my mother if she had washed my overalls or just put them in the dryer with Bounce. One thing about me if you don't know already, is that I hate being lied to. So I asked her while her and my father were sitting in their chairs in the "family" room. She started getting angry, which infuriated my father even more. They told me to pack my things and get out. I went to my room, called my friend down the street (two minutes before he cut the phone line off for my phone). I had told his mother I needed a ride to work - which was true, my shift started at the grocery store at 4:30pm. His mother came to get me and a few minutes after we left a police car drove by, on the way to my house. The reason for this was because my father had called the police on me. Again, that was not the first, nor the last time. I got to work, went upstairs to the cash office and cried with my manager. I knew it was the last time. I had nothing but my uniform on me. I got a ride from my co-worker Rico to my friend Monica's house. I told her parents and they thought it would be ok and work out. My friend Shauna came to pick me up from there and we went back to my house to pick up some stuff. Clothes. As much as I could fit in her car. When we arrived, the lights were out. There was a note on the front door that read:

Fiona, Do NOT enter this house. If you need someplace tonight call Calvin. You are no longer welcome here. Dad

I found an unlocked door to the kitchen in the back of the house and Shauna and I got in. I went to my room and I can't even remember how fast we worked. The hardest part was saying goodbye to my dog, Gemma. That was so hard. I cried, hugged her, grabbed the note from the door and left. I still have that note. The note to me represented one day, far from then, perhaps now, that I would hang it in my office one day and look at how far I have come. Prove how wrong they were about me. That I wasn't a failure, stupid or however else they treated me meant. I stayed at Shauna's for two weeks until I figured out where I was going to live.

To be continued.....

Blog Soon,

PFF