Warning: Very Triggering. All True.

They laugh at me. They say, you can only have one.

One. They have bottles and bottles, they can always get more.

So I suck their cocks to get it, to get one.





They like to make it hurt. Fuck her harder. Fuck her raw.

I’m three years old.

My mother screams at me later, for bleeding in my pants. Hits me in the head until my ears ring.




They call me a slut, because I just want to be left alone.

Maybe if I suck them all, they’ll give me just a moment of peace.

They’re sick with glee. They say I’ll do anything, and start thinking of objects – tools, bottles, anything – to shove inside me.




They let me get high. It’s all I have. But then they take that away too. I sweat, puke, lie on the floor in my own mess. Until they come back, maybe two days later, and beat me for it all.




They impregnate me. I grow their skin, their bones, their blood, inside my belly.

As if their cocks inside my vagina, my mouth, my ass, aren’t enough.

But it’s not the child’s fault. Somehow, I want to love the babies. Maybe because they are the only thing keeping me company.

At night, I have something to hold. I whisper to my belly, but I can’t promise anything but pain.

Then, always, this comfort is ripped from me too. A baby is born. Cries, never stops crying, until it is bloody, dead.

I still hear them, of course.




To the person formally known as my mother

You’re shit, sick pig shit, stinking shit, all of it.

You’re not my fucking mother either, you’re just a cunt, just a filthy hole that has no soul. You’re a festering maggot-filled corpse, that’s how I hate you. That’s how I KNOW you. You’re the bottom-feeder in a sea of pus. Do you see where I’m going with this? You’re nothing, you’re worth only revulsion.

I’ve always felt this way but now I know just how true it is. How deep it goes, and how far back it all started. It’s all on you, and you fucked it all up, didn’t you?


I have hate. The kind that demands satisfaction like lungs scream for air. The kind that wants the very marrow from his bones, wants to turn him into pulp and pour him into a slop bucket to grow mold.

I want to see him rot, burn, bruise, bleed. I want to see him scared, I want to see him beg. I want to slice off all his fingers. I want to peel the smirk from his face.

I want to render him into pieces, as he did to me.

I want to do this for my littlest pieces, those kids who still cry when someone looks angry. I want to show them that he’s nothing but wormfood.

Wormfood touched them, Wormfood entered their bodies, Wormfood hurt them, and Wormfood gave them to his friends to do the same. My littlest pieces, my kids, have to live with that every day.

I refuse to give you another piece of myself. Not another moment, Wormfood. I won’t say your name. I won’t fuel your sick satisfaction. You’ve already been eaten, digested, excreted. You’re just food for a lower sort of worm.

Breaking Silence (Trigger Warning for Details of Sexual Abuse)

I was taught from the beginning to shut up and leave my parents alone. My sisters were much older than me and usually preferred to leave me alone as well, but having them around meant I rarely needed a babysitter. So when my great grandma died when I was about 6 and I was deemed too young for the funeral, I prepared for an unusual event: a day at a stranger’s house (stranger to me of course, known by my parents). I was likely given instructions about being good and quiet, so I packed a bag full of toys and books to amuse myself, and when I arrived at the lady’s house I set myself up at her kitchen table and got ready for a day of quiet play. When my mother left, the lady did something astonishing. She got my attention away from my toys and she asked me what I would like to do that day. She had many ideas and activities planned. More amazing than that, she wanted to play alongside me. Which meant that she didn’t just give me crayons and go watch the television — she coloured with me. She talked to me. She engaged in my imaginative games.

I couldn’t believe it. An adult interested in what I had to say? An adult willing to play pretend with me?

That memory has stayed with me all these years. I remember three activities we did with absolute clarity. It was one of the happiest days of my youth.

Being quiet and secretive was such a huge part of my life that I quickly developed my own version of sign language so that I could “talk aloud” while playing, as I liked to, without disclosing what I was playing about. Sometimes my sisters asked me in the car what my toy figurines were doing to each other, but I always made excuses.

In truth, my games involved my figurine characters being sexually abused. At 7 I understood what anal rape was. I was blocking it out at the very time it was happening, but I understood things that I shouldn’t have known anything about. Like how I knew anal penetration was less painful and therefore much preferable to vaginal penetration.

After developing a sign language to talk to my imaginary friends (which were likely alters), I developed a written code. I also spent a great deal of time playing “prison” games. There was never an escape scene, just the capture and then days spent pretending to be imprisoned. I liked to hide in my closet. In fact, even in high school I became obsessed with the movie The Shawshank Redemption and decorated my room to look like a prison cell. My life was about enduring hardship as stoically as possible. Likewise, silence, sign language and codes became themes of my existence all the way into high school.

To this day I tend to be overly private and quiet, afraid to be loud or annoying or have my “secrets” found out. Slowly I am learning to break these hard habits. On Wednesday we plan to have an excitable toddler part out for therapy, and Willow is encouraging me not to reign him in too much even in the foyer. And of course this blog is all about finding our voice. It is something every survivor has to do.

Dissociation in My Life

From what little I remember of my childhood, I can see I was highly, highly dissociative. I think one of the reasons I’m so high-functioning now is that I was aware that I was missing time and in a fog, and gradually figured out how to adjust for that. I was classed as gifted in grade three, but school baffled me. I blacked out sometimes. I often said I had a headache and just put my head on my desk. Lessons that clearly were routine, like spelling tests done in groups of two, always seemed new and strange. I was out of it. I never read the books but scanned them for important information and wrote what was minimally required, with some spark of cleverness that would get me through the grades and keep me in special education for gifted children. I didn’t understand the world around me.

Five years ago, I would have put all this down to things like ADHD and autism spectrum disorder. But now I realize that there’s a reason I always feel like I’m waking up more and more, like I’m becoming more aware of the world around me and things are falling into place year by year. I was suffering from multiplicity and dissociation since early childhood.

My earliest childhood memories — which have been suggested by relatives to have occurred when I was just 1, but who knows — are of watching myself from a distance. Seeing myself on a chair, as if I’m behind myself. Seeing myself trying to navigate the bars and equipment of a hospital bed, again from an outside perspective. It’s strange.

I had odd nightmares of things beyond my comprehension at 6: people crucified to the sides of office buildings. Shadow people speaking to me, following me. My family being murdered. My school writing journals are a disaster — a 7/8 year old’s story of a shadow man coming into my bedroom at night. Drawings of him with blood dripping off him. Constant mentions of injuries and even concussions.

I have clear memories of trying to run away many times, or begging my older sister to kill me. But I don’t remember why I was so upset. I was usually clueless and cheery, except for when I’d hide somewhere and punch myself in the head a few times, on a regular basis. My teachers remarked how well I was taking my parents’ divorce, how unconcerned I was at 9 when my mother moved away with another man.

After grade 5 and sex ed, I always assumed (without much reason except for self-exploration) that I never had a hymen. But the idea of vaginal penetration sounded too painful and terrifying to think about much.

Around puberty I became more and more self-aware, probably to keep myself out of trouble. I was hyper-vigilant. At 15, I suddenly became an outright mess. Whereas before I could win school debates and even take the starring role in the school musical, or audition for an improv comedy team, I very suddenly couldn’t look people in the eye or speak in class. I started to hide. Everything became about hiding and keeping quiet, low-profile, and not making mistakes. I wouldn’t take off my winter coat in class, to the point of getting fish scales all over it during a lab dissection. Teachers were generally kind to me but suggested that my coat made them nervous.

I hated myself for being so mentally foggy and tried to discipline myself in insane ways. I got rid of my bed and slept on a hardwood floor. I got very little sleep at night, getting up to study, and took (often unintended) naps during the day.

I had anorexia. I had wild philosophical ideas about life and the universe. I wouldn’t wear shorts or anything that showed any skin. I wouldn’t even drink for days. I started cutting myself. I wanted to die. I had a complete disinterest in boys, and barely convinced myself I was interested in girls either. There is so much more I could write. Times I got triggered up and didn’t know why.

I should mention that very few people paid any attention to any of this, and certainly not my parents.

So I thought I had just been born sick. Weird. Different. I had “perverted” thoughts. It didn’t matter that my biological father admitted to some limited child molestation, and was accused of much more. No hints I could remember mattered. Surely nothing had happened to me.

The denial stops here.

There were reasons, causes, and affects.

I remember now. And I am still remembering.

I’m not sick. I’m dissociative, but I’m regaining my life. And none of this was my fault.

It’s all HIS fault.

I’m not hiding anymore.

To My Perpetrators

Your smirk

may weigh on my brain forever,

but I own you.

Even the universe roots

for me. I watch

you like I watch for worms

that I choose

not to step on. But I could, I could.

You walk

as if you’re free, while I turn

your world beneath your feet.

You’ve gone

into hiding, but it means


I know. I remember,

and now I have all the power.

Anything is Possible



I dream of wolf.

Last year, around this time, I told my wife that we would see a wolf on a hill in Algonquin. This is a rare sight. But then, right as we crested a hill, we saw a wolf at the side of the road, eating deer-kill.

We got out of the car. We shined powerful flashlights at it, and the wolf stayed put for us. In the forest, we saw the shining eyes of the wolf pack. We stayed until the lead wolf slipped back into the forest.

The next night, they were there again. Even the parkies didn’t know and were surprised at our tale.

Both times, when I got a little scared standing in the dark with the wolves watching, I looked up at the sky and say a meteor flash through the night. It all sounds unbelieveable, and yet it happened.

That trip was the real start of my recovery and healing. Now, a year later, I can see how far I’ve come.





Then one day I had a dream that a screech owl visited me near a place we often drive by, looking for deer. I had never seen an owl before and they had become special to me. A week or two later, screech owl visited me near that place. Again we got out of the car and shined our flashlights at it and took pictures, while it patiently waited and stared at us for about 15 minutes. It was unbelieveable. Yet it happened.


owl 1 owl 2


Recently I’ve been dreaming of Great Horned Owl. I always dream of wolf, and remember that dreams are more powerful than we imagine.

DID: Survivor Story

In us we have it all, we’re wild

country and deep root cellars.

Our fingers sift

flowers and light, we knit

sunbeams cast like scarves

for air, we ride

summer’s long shadows until the day

bleeds out and kisses

our newborn cheeks — hello, goodbye.

Raucous life lives here

in us, we have it all,

joined hands and stray strands

of hair streaming

long behind us all, telling

time another kind of tale, one

where we lift

up and know what we always were:

us the lovers,

us the heroes,

us all in us.



Suddenly I was air. Skinned, sublimated

like mist lifting from a frozen stream, I watched

you rape a river.

My consciousness hung

on a hairsbreadth chain, barely anchored

to time and life. Blood roared

as it pushed in and fell

back, becoming the sound of absence, cricket-song

superimposed on deep space’s silence. The stars twisted

and staying put took effort. I made myself

willing to watch you thrash and spasm

in my river, while I mouthed

a lullaby like a hook. Hush.


Then something snapped, then something exited, and it pulled

me as violently as the Earth pulls lightning

towards its own heart. I was on my back, eyes open,

spread over stones.

Submission – to what, I don’t know –

condensed in me, flipping

like a fish soon out of water. I lifted

up a shaking hand, pressed

it to my chest, and claimed

myself, again, as my own.