history

[the_siobhan]

Since kest was asking about the story behind my daughter, I figured some of you might be interested. It's kind of a long one, so I decided to make it a seperate entry.

[EDIT]
This has morphed from being a story about her into being a story about me. So be it.

Um. Warning. Some of this might be a little queasy-making if people are squicked by violence.



My daughter Angela (not her name any more) was born at 9:20 AM on November 24 1981 at the East General Hospital in Toronto. I left the hospital four days later. I have not seen her since.

I found out I was pregnant when I was already pretty far along, it turns out that I am one of those rare women who has amost completely asymptomatic pregnancies. I went to my doctor when I had missed a period for a couple of weeks -- not a normal thing at the time because I was on the pill -- and I recall the conversation in her office as going something like this;

her: "You're about four months pregnant."

me: "No, I'm not."

her: "Yes you are."

me: "No, I'm not."

her: "Look, I'll do the tests again if you want."

One ultrasound later it was revealed that I was in fact five months pregnant. So abortion wasn't even an option.

Putting my child up for adoption was something I decided to do immediately. I was 18 years old, on-again-off-again homeless, a high school drop-out with a grade 10 education, a mindless factory job, and a violent abusive partner.

Yeah, the partner.

He was five years older than me, already an ex-con and with a history of some really vile abuse and neglect in the various group homes he had grown up in. In retrospect it's easy to say I should have known better, but hell, I was 18 -- and violence was pretty much a normal part of the landscape back then. By the time it got really bad it I was pretty solidly stuck. No friends. My family was suffering from their own turmoil, and I knew if I went back there he'd be able to find me. The fucker used to threaten my sister if I ever left -- she was eleven at the time.

I got punched for trying to go to work on mornings when he wanted me to stay home (because I must be having an affair), beaten for bringing home small paycheques as a result of not going to work, hit for refusing to give him the rent money so he could buy drugs, slapped for contradicting him, kicked for giving a strange man the time, had my head hammered into a wall because I didn't "show any emotion" when he screamed at me -- I think you get the picture.

I have a really hard head now.

Shortly before I found out I was pregnant he had beaten one of our cats so badly I had to have it put down. Then he beat me up because I wouldn't tell him it "wasn't his fault." After we found out I was pregnant, he started punching and kicking me in the stomach as well.

There was no fucking way I was letting him anywhere near my fucking kid.

You know how I'm always mentioning that my friends call me stubborn? I won that one. Purely by wearing him down.

I quit my job, my excuse being that it was because of all the chemicals I was being exposed to there. I was only eating about three days out of every week anyway because he tended to spend any cash he could get his hands on buying drugs, but once the job was gone the rent stopped getting paid as well. A couple of months later we got evicted. I moved back into my mother's house (another asylum but somewhat safer for me than the one I was in) and he moved into a hostel. Then I called Children's Aid.

He didn't want the adoption, didn't want to "give away" "his kid". I kept my mouth shut, took all my lumps and silently continued filling out paperwork and going to the appointments with the caseworker. I finally had to take him with me to an appointment where he was required to sign some documents and he tried to refuse.

me: "So what do I have to do now?"

counseller: "Well, you'll have to go to court to say that he's not the father."

He utterly lost it.

We were in that office for hours. He carried on like a lunatic the entire time. I said nothing. He demanded we leave. I handed him the paperwork. He tore it up. I had the counseller print off more. I signed it. Repeat. He stormed out. I sat and waited. He stormed back in. Repeat again. And again, and again, and again.

The poor counsellor looked exhausted by the time he finally signed it and we left. (The adoption records describes the father as "angry".) I got the living shit kicked out of me for that one.

Come to think of it, when I was a kid I used to get out of eating my vegetables in much the same way.

She was born very small because of my lack of food early in the pregnancy, but otherwise mostly healthy. That heart murmur, but that was gone in a couple of weeks. I held her for a few minutes as soon as she was born, handed her over to the nurse and never touched her again.

I had a hard time recovering from the birth -- years later I figured out that I was suffering from post-partum depression but nobody recognized it as such at the time. I also ended up back in the hospital over Christmas with a nasty infection caused by being raped when my stiches weren't entirely healed. He showed up drunk at the hospital one night and tried it again, but I was able to fight him off this time. Thoroughly trashing the hospital room in the process. I don't remember what I told the nurses but they must have bought it. Or else they didn't want to know, because nobody asked any questions.

Once I was half-way recovered, I enrolled in a high school and took on a part-time job. He wanted me to give up one or the other because he never saw me. We fought. Or rather, he fought and I listened impassively.

Finally one night when he was doing one of his rants-that-would-shortly-lead-up-to-violence, I told him I didn't want to be with him any more.

He broke my nose.

The rest of the night was, um, "eventful". I finally got home by virtue of leaping through a bus door covered in blood and screaming, "CLOSE THE FUCKING DOORS AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" at the startled driver. Said driver wisely complied.

I saw him a few times after that. He presented himself to me as "reformed" one day, telling me he was now in a rehab hostel and going on at great length about how he was doing this "for me" because he loved me.

"So if you love me so much, how come you didn't go into rehab back when you were beating me stupid every day?" I asked him.

He got kicked out of that hostel for showing up drunk. A couple of weeks later he chased me through a shopping mall with a straight-razor. The next time he phoned me, I told him I didn't want to see him. Because I was tired of being threatened, yelled at, punched.

him: "Are you seeing somebody else?"

me: *blink* What? What has that got to do with anything?

him: "I just want an answer. Are you seeing somebody?"

me: "That's none of your business."

him: "I just want an answer. Yes or no."

me: "Well, you're not getting one. I told you, it's none of your business."

him: "Fine. I think I can figure out the answer on my own".

He hung up. He called me back a couple of times after that but I refused to talk to him or see him and he eventually stopped trying.

About six months later, I ran into him in a bar. I heard my name and turned around, and I was half-way down the block at a dead bolt before I had even consciously registered the fact that it was him.

Well I went back to that damn bar, and I managed to have a good time while completely -- well, ok mostly ignoring the fact that he followed me around the entire night until he finally got pissed off and left.

That baby taught me what if felt like to have a spine.

I was deciding I liked it.

I saw him once or twice on the street a couple of times after that. The last one was well over 13 years ago. I have no idea whether he is alive or dead. I still scan the faces whenever I find myself in his old neighbourhoods, and a certain rolling gait on a man will make my breathing stop for a minute.



So um. Yeah.

I think that wanted to be told. It was kind of a giant emotional barf, so apologies if it's a bit disjointed - I just wrote down all the little segments that bubble up in my head when I think about that time.

So you can probably see why I'm angsting a bit over that "Tell me about my father" conversation.

Comments

[the-siobhan.livejournal.com]

Hopefully, my persistence in being even-keeled and refusing to play those games will pay off.

Ouch. That's a rough situation to be in.

She's still very young -- and the world is often still very black and white to somebody that age.

Good luck. I hope things eventually work out for both of you.