My Life, My History

Introduction

1
I was once in a "relationship" with a "man" from about April 1997 until October 1999. I was 16 years old when I met him and he was 18 years old. He was born on August 16, 1978 and he was very proud of his German heritage, which he seemed to think somehow made him superior to other people. He claimed that he had just come back from travelling all through Europe. I met him at a "safe house" in East Vancouver on Walden Street.

1.5
I remember sometimes we went to the arcades on Granville and played video games. Top Skater was one of my favorites. I was really good at it and always scored highly with lots of S tricks and such. This stupid asshat fuck face, Ryan (my ex-boyfriend from years ago who used to enjoy beating the shit out of me because he is a weak and pathetic man child) was not near as good at Top Skater as me, or other video games, or even card games, so I had to just not try or try to lose/not do well so he could take a win and feel good about himself. Of course, he would gloat endlessly like a childish fucking moron whenever he "won". But I guess that was better than when he lost because he would flip the fuck out and throw the cards at me, flip the game board and send everything flying, or just throw a fucking verbal tantrum and storm out of the arcade like a fuckin loser. Of course, he would always accuse me of cheating whenever I won anything.

I do not feel any sense of accomplishment or excitement or joy when I "beat" others at video games, sports, or otherwise because I've never been competitive in that sense. I don't get anything out of competing with other people. I actually feel incredibly uncomfortable "winning" anything, and I always have. I much prefer to see others succeed and smile and feel proud of what they have accomplished. I just feel good when I see other people happy. On the flip side, I get really upset when I notice other people are struggling.

It makes me happy when I see other people do great things and get recognized for what they do and who they are; especially people I have met or that I know, or even people I just admire/look up to, or "follow". What I do enjoy is challenging myself physically, mentally, creatively and otherwise to do better or accomplishment more. I constantly try to improve myself and how I do things and even how I interact and view the world. I also really love trying new ways of doing things, which is often inspired by how I see others "do things".

2
He did not treat me very nicely, but of course, things didn't start out like that in the beginning. He acted nice, but that quickly unraveled. I left him once because the abuse was getting bad and I was scared. A nice social worker helped me make plans and leave. I packed up my stuff while he wasn't around and fled back to my hometown.

3
While I was in my hometown, I was over visiting some friends. I was telling them about what had been happening when their parents told me the phone was for me. I grabbed the phone and said hello. It was my grandma. She told me that the "man" I ran away from had just shown up at her home. My blood ran cold. He had never been to my home before. I'm not sure how he got the address. My last name is Smith. There are many Smiths so he really would have had to do some sleuthing. Inside, I felt afraid, but not for myself... I was afraid for my Grandmother. For my mother. They lived there together. Just the two of them. I Could handle myself and was not afraid to get thrown around and hit by him, but I could not handle him hurting them in any way.

4
This was just before Canada Day, 1997. I remember going to the parade in Victoria, BC, with my friend and drinking beer. I am pretty sure it was Molson Canadian. We really liked the taste of that brand of beer!
I spent Canada Day, 1998, in Vancouver, BC.1

5
I remember going back to Vancouver shortly after Canada Day, 1997. I lived in a women's transition house. I remember feeling out of place there because I felt like the abuse I had gone through wasn't bad enough so I didn't feel like I should be there. No one made me feel like I didn't belong though. They were all very kind and supportive regardless. I think comparing suffering is not healthy. I think some people do this nowadays and it isn't serving our society in a positive way. Or any of our peoples. It is not helpful, nor is it healing.

6
I didn't move back to Vancouver with any intention of getting back together with the "man". One day, I was over visiting a couple, we'll call them "J" and "T". "T" was going to school to be a human rights lawyer. "J" did rave promotions. I really liked them a lot. I remember listening to the Clash and the Cramps and all sorts of cool punk stuff at their place. The Ramones too, comes to mind. Pretty sure the Cure was something we listened to as well. I remember sitting and talking to them and they had a mirror beside their glass sliding door. I saw the "man" in the mirror and ran to hide in their room. They knew to not tell them I was there or that they had seen me at all. I came out once I was sure he was gone.

7
I remember "J" and "T" invited me to go out for dollar beer and pizza just a few blocks up the street from where their ground-floor apartment (pretty sure it was a corner apartment) was on East 6th Ave. I said yes, and away we went. While we were walking across the field, think it was the school field, maybe just the park, not 100% sure right now, we ran into the "man". There was nowhere for me to run or hide so I had no choice but to face him straight on. He came up to me and started telling me how sorry he was and how awful he felt about everything. I kept telling him that I wasn't going to get back together with him because I couldn't trust him anymore and I didn't think he had changed. He wouldn't accept that and just kept talking and talking and pleading with me.

8
I eventually relented and said I would give him another chance. I never should have given him another chance. He had not changed one bit. Things got bad very quickly within a couple of weeks. Even just later that day and the next day, it became all about how much I had hurt him. How I had abandoned him. How hurtful it was to come home and find out that I had packed all my stuff and just left. No note or anything. It became all my fault. Things just spiraled and escalated after that. He told me if I ever left him again, he would go to Victoria and kill my grandmother and my mother. I believed him. I was afraid, not for myself, I could take the punishment and abuse, but I could never have lived with myself if something happened to them. He knew where they lived so it would have been easy enough for him to go there and kill them. So I stayed with him. I took his abuse because I didn't want them to die. I didn't run away from the "man" because I wanted my grandmother and mother to live. People wonder why people stay in abusive relationships. It's because of threats like this. And you know they will make good on those threats because when they threaten you with things, tell you what they'll do if they catch you doing something they have deemed is "forbidden", even simple things like walking to the store to get a coffee, they impose punishments on those rule violations and they make sure to follow through. So you try to do your best and do as you are told. I could handle my own punishments, but I would never have been able to handle knowing that my grandmother or mother died at his hands because I ran away - selfishly trying to save myself instead of thinking about them.

9
I had to earn all of the money because he would not work. Everything he got sent to do was "too difficult" and "not possible". Everytime we would go to the social assistance office, if we had to wait to get our cheques, he would get very impatient and usually ended up fighting with the social worker and always left angry when he didn't get what he wanted. Which was just the cheque with no questions asked. The workers just wanted us to do something. I was young enough so they were happy as long as I was going to school. Which I did. In broken stints. The Gathering Place on Helmcken St, Purpose in New Westminister, and distance education (can't remember the location right now - will have to look it up).

10
He was already 18 and had his Grade 12, so they wanted him to provide proof he was looking for work or to enter a job program. He refused. He always had an excuse as to why he couldn't do those things. He was once an electrician's apprentice, but he stopped. I'm not really sure why. His mom and stepdad couldn't understand either. He could have made really good money and apparently, he was good at it.
Every so often, we would visit his parents place in Richmond. They lived in a blue duplex on Blundell Rd and had a cat named Nikki Sixx, after the Motley Crue dude. His mom and step-dad were both super nice. Their granddaughter, "E", lived with them as well as her mom wasn't exactly super committed to looking after her. She was a super sweet kid. Hope she ended up doing okay in life. She definitely experienced her own trauma from some stuff going on with her mom early on in her life and her mom's death while she was still a kid.

11
Sometimes, we would go to Labour Unlimited to get work. I think the doors opened at 0500. Often, he would be unable to sleep all night and so would be "too tired" to sit at Labour Unlimited the next day. I often used to stay up all night as well, usually reading Jack Whyte novels, but I still went out and worked to make money to get him food and cigarettes in whatever way possibly, even if that was just taking bottles back to the store and collecting cigarette butts from ashtrays and from the ground. I remember one day, he actually went to Labour Unlimited while I stayed home! Yes, that was a once in a lifetime experience; however, I didn't hear the end of it for fucking days! He came back in the later afternoon, just drenched in sweat and crying about how hard he had been forced to work. He had to go and work in a factory making doors and the big sheets of wood were 100lbs and how was he supposed to lift them. He proceeded to curl up next to me on the floor sucking his fucking thumb and continuing to whimper like a fucking baby. I stroked him on the head like a child and he asked if I would make him something to eat. I obliged and made him some sort of canned food on the hot plate in the kitchen.

<aside>
I worked at a factory called Epic Industries making doors in Kamloops in 2020. As a nearly 40 year old female, I was still capable of handling the large 100lbs sheets of wood and maneuvering them onto the machines and entering in the programs to cut the appropriate doors as ordered by the customers. I had to rely on my leg strength to lift and flip the sheets, unlike the men I worked with who did it easily using only their upper body strength. Regardless, I was able to manage and handle myself fine. In fact, I even ended up operating two CNC machines after a month or so. Each program took about 20 minutes, so I was lifting a 100lbs sheet of wood every 10 minutes, in addition to lifting a stack of cupboard doors and window frames back to my station to finish up sanding and routing the edges.

I suppose this just goes to show that I am more of a "real man" (though I am a literal woman) than he could ever was or could ever fucking hope to be. Real men don't sit around while the women work and just take all the proceeds for themselves and give the women the leftover scraps. Real men aren't afraid to do actual real work. Real men don't come home after one day of "hard work" and cry and suck their thumbs like a fucking baby on the floor and cry to their girlfriend about how fucking hard it was to go to work for one whole day and how could workplaces expect anyone to do that kind of work. Real men don't fucking smack their women around, throw all sorts of physical objects at them, and punch them the fuck out! Pathetic fucking loser. This woman was able to handle the factory work at 40 years of age and didn't go home crying like a fucking baby... I just jumped on my bike and rode the 10km back home. what the fuck's wrong with you and others of your fucking ilk? Wonder who you have doing all the work for you these days? Fucking pussy ass bitch.

12
Anyhow, in regards to Labour Unlimited:
I didn't often get much for work there. I figure because I didn't have a lot of experience, I was young, and I was a girl, and I didn't have any skills in any trades. I just had a pair of steel toe boots. The only "labour experience" I had was moving furniture and pianos for a piano/antique store on Terminal Avenue one day and I working clean up on a construction site once for a couple of days. I got recruited to work moving furniture while squeegeeing at Main and Terminal. I got recruited to do construction clean-up while I was panhandling up Main St. I think I was around Main and East 12th Ave, maybe East 16th Ave. Dude seemed sincere and I didn't get any bad vibes, so I accepted his offer of work. I actually enjoyed myself doing the construction clean-up. It was a nice change from asking for spare change, which I fucking hated doing. I only ever panhandled when the weather was crappy because you don't make money squeegeeing unless it's nice out. If it's raining, you're not going to make any money... and it typically rains quite frequently in Vancouver.

13
As far as work with Labour Unlimited, I do remember going to work in a tile factory and doing year-end inventory once. Just counted tiles all day long. Would probably not have been very fun to do all day everyday, but I enjoyed it because I got to interact and socialize with other people. That was super nice for me. I wasn't allowed to socialize and interact with people much when I was with the "man". He didn't allow me to. If other people talked to me, he would intervene. I was not allowed anywhere without him unless he approved. He accused me of cheating all the time. He used to "check me out" and examine me when I was away from wherever we were staying - whether it was for school or whatever. He would inspect my clothes, my underwear, smell me. Sometimes he would say I "smelled like sex", but I never slept with anyone else or even kissed or hugged another person the entire time I was with him. Then, the yelling would start and things would escalate from there.

14
I used to squeegee at the corner of Main and Terminal in East Vancouver.2 There is a Skytrain station there. There's also a big bus station. There used to be a Starbucks and 2 gas stations there. One Petro Canada and I think the other one I think was a Chevron station. I used to go in there to exchange all the change I had made for bills. I think they actually appreciated that I came in with change as they often needed it for customers. The store clerks were always really nice to me. I hope, in part, it is because I was always kind and respectful to them. The "man" I was with, was not always nice and respectful. I often felt very embarrassed and ashamed when he would cause a scene in stores, or out on the street.

15
The "man" would sit in the grass while I squeegeed car and truck windows all day long. I would usually start at 0600 or 0700 and work until 1800 - 2000, 7 days a week. I had to be sure to have enough money for him to buy food when he woke up and made his way to Main St Skytrain station. He liked to buy McDonalds meals. They were usually around $5-$7, so I tried hard to make sure I had that made as soon as possible. If I didn't have that much when he got there, he would get really angry and accuse me of doing something else instead of working. He would sometimes accuse me of spending money without him, but I so rarely did. Sometimes, I would buy myself a coffee or a muffin, if I was having a good morning and had more than enough money to cover his breakfast. I always had to be careful though, because if he caught me away from the corner buying something from the store without his permission, I would be berated verbally and humiliated in public. Then I would be further berated physically, and often sexually, later on.

16
I never used to have issues surrounding food, but I still struggle with remnants of an eating disorder today. I developed it while I was with him. He used to make comments about my weight all the time. It didn't bother me at first, but eventually, he dug and dug and things cut so deep that I still wear scars, but no one sees them. They are, mostly, invisible. I always had to put him first, so with food, he got to eat, but I was not always allowed to buy food and eat with him. Usually, I would have to wait for him to finish and he would "allow" me the "privilege" of eating his leftovers. He would oink at me while I ate and called me a pig, no matter how I ate or what I ate. I tried to eat tiny bites very slowly, but it didn't matter what I did. I was always a fat pig to him, and he never missed a chance to let me know it. Eventually, it got to the point where I started to starve myself, with his encouragement. Because I had to wait until I had permission to eat, I would go for long periods without food.

17
There were quite a few occasions that I passed out or came close to it. I passed out once on the SkyTrain. I got on at Edmunds station in Burnaby. I remember passing out on the Skytrain, the "man" was with me, from what I remember. I think the SkyTrain police carried me off the train. I know I kept telling them I was ok and they didn't need to worry. I remember being able to talk and I could hear what they were saying to me, but I couldn't move or open my eyes at all. It was a hot day. I remember telling them that I hadn't drank any water so was probably just very dehydrated. I'm not sure how long I was out for. I just remember being really frustrated that I couldn't move or open my eyes.

18
I remember he always used to compare me with his sister, who was a stripper. She worked at the Drake for awhile. He always bragged about how beautiful she was and how she had won Miss Nude BC once or twice. I think she was working at the Cecil when she won the contest... or maybe that was just where the contest was held. I'm not really sure.

19
I could never compare with his sister. She was a tall, skinny girl with big boobs. I was just an average girl with average boobs. Nothing fancy or special about my body. It's just a body, I thought, or it was just a body until he wormed into my brain and planted bad seeds that sometimes, to this very day, still bloom, no matter how hard I try to kill them off. And sometimes, I wonder if they will ever truly die.

20
Eventually, I started losing weight because I was always walking and just kept eating less and less with his "help". I remember sometimes I would go all day without eating, and I would work 10-12 hours or more just walking up and down lines of traffic, washing car windows all day long. I would feel how hungry I was, and I would tell him, Geez, I haven't eaten anything all day. Then he would tell me how proud he was of me and how well I was doing. I remember when my ribs and spine started to show and he would trace the bony outline and tell me how good I looked and how well I was doing. He encouraged me to starve myself. When my stomach started to cave inwards, he would touch it and tell me how good it was and what a great job I was doing. Pretty soon, he told me, I would be able to fit into his sister's old clothes. Most of her stuff was between a size 3 and size 5. He wasn't wrong. It wasn't long until I was that size. I started off as a size 7/8. That was too fat. Even for the day, that was too fat. We were living in the times of Kate Moss and "heroin chic" was very "in vogue". The skinnier you were, the more desirable you were. I didn't buy into it until after spending time with this "man". I tried to just be normal and eat normal, but it was impossible.

21
I moved to Vancouver hoping to be an artist and writer. I wanted to get into the video game industry. I figured, I could play piano, write, draw, and knew about computers, so was hopeful. I thought I would start out as a graphic artist. Things didn't turn out the way I had hoped. I tried my best, but things happened that I just couldn't have foreseen.

22
I kept a portfolio of artwork. I remember when I was initially looking for work, I went to a bunch of graphic design studios and told them I was looking for work and asked if they had any openings or advice. Most everyone was super kind and helpful with advice, though no one had any job openings. I remember trying to get all sorts of jobs when I first moved there. I even tried applying for a job at McDonalds, but even they didn't want to hire me. Maybe it was my dreadlocks? My age? The fact I had no work experience yet? Not sure. I'll probably never know. And it doesn't really matter anymore anyways.

23
My portfolio of artwork was something that was really important to me. Same with all of my poetry and journals. They were things I always kept close. Not worth anything to anyone else, but worth something to me. The "man" I was with always mocked my poetry and drawings. He told me how awful they were and would always tell me how he had friends that could "really draw" or "really write". Nothing I did was ever good enough in his eyes. I kept drawing and writing anyways because, well, it just feels right to me. I think it's just in my blood.

24
One day, I came home from school, and he had thrown my whole portfolio of artwork in the garbage. I was so upset. So angry. I couldn't understand why. I think we had gotten evicted from the apartment we were staying in or something so he had to pack up what was "important". I'm sure he just threw it in the trash because he knew it would hurt me. I remember trying to find it, but it was just gone. Forever lost and I'll never know what happened to it. One of the drawings I had done in my portfolio had been published in a street magazine. It was a drawing I had done while I was staying in a rooming house on Barclay St. I was over visiting the guy who was the stunt double for the Highlander series. He was super nice. He used to collect tree roots and would dry them out. He had them on display in his room all over. They were super cool! I remember I was over visiting him one day and I drew one of the roots and added a person lying in the root, all attached to it. That drawing was published and got trashed by the "man". I tried to recreate the drawing years later. I drew it in silver and gold ink. Wasn't quite the same, wasn't like my original, but I drew it from memory as opposed to drawing from the life in front of me.

<aside>

I will never forgive this person, nor the person(s) from the rooming house I lived in. I will never forget the things that were said, the abuse I "took" and the way that I was treated; I can't forget, no matter how hard I try. Living under a constant haze of alcohol and drugs only provides temporary solace, "keeping busy" is a temporary solace, exercise is a temporary solace; everything I try is just a temporary solace. It doesn't matter what I do, it all comes flooding back once the high wears off, once I don't have enough to do, once I am no longer "busy" enough, when I am hit with a reminder in some format.

I said it once and I will say it again: my words here and elsewhere are not a form of seeking pity, or attention; they are not a "cry for help", they are not a request to put fucking trigger warnings on content to "protect" "people like me". I am writing to try to shine a light on reality. I am writing to shine a light on places and situations and people that many people have no idea even exist. I am writing to try and shed light on what happens "underground", which is really just in plain view, for the most part. I am writing hoping that one day, I might effect some tiny change, some tiny shift in the way "we" think about certain peoples and situations and "circumstances".

Many people will not understand, some people are not willing to try to understand, some people literally don't care, some people are happy to stay blissfully ignorant. Maybe what I write reaches one person. Maybe that person tells a group of their friends and maybe one person out of that group starts learning and trying to understand. Maybe 100-200 years from now, things start to change and "improve" and "evolve". I use my rage and pain and anger as fuel. It fuels my passion to write and create and share my experiences and what I have learned, and with what I continue to learn and experience. Anger is a gift and no one can take that away from me. Anger provides fuel to my will to survive and no one can ever take that away from me, no matter how hard they try! I hope that someone will find my messages one day when they really need them.🔥❤🌺
https://www.instagram.com/p/CpGwdUovrXl/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

My heart still burns with rage and anger at the things that were taken away from me that I will never be able to get back. I don't wish death upon them, I don't wish violence or injury upon them, but I cannot forgive or forget. I have memories and experiences and even physical wounds that are so deeply a part of me that they will never "disappear". Some wounds do not heal. Some wounds continue to ooze and bleed over the years and some people take great enjoyment at poking sticks into those wounds, just to watch people writhe in pain and bleed.

To forgive does not provide any sense of "freedom" for me. In my humble opinion, to forgive those who abuse and torture others for their own enjoyment and do not have any remorse or desire for "reform" is a form of Stockholm Syndrome. People who have been POWs, I am sure, can attest to this and will understand the message that I am trying to relay.

Some people do not seem to have any sense of true kindness, no sense of moral fibre, no sense of humanity, no sense of concern beyond their own tiny little bubble of existence. Some people seem to have only the desire to control. I know that many people can and do change, but they have to want to change. Not every person wants to change. Not every person is able to look at themselves in the mirror and examine themselves fully, examine all the parts that are "undesirable" and "ugly" and "scary".

Not every person is capable of meeting their shadow and accepting that there are dark parts of themselves... knowing that there is darkness that runs through all human beings. This darkness exists and it is capable of doing great harm and of plunging the world into a nightmarish descent of "evil". I think it's essential to know these dark aspects, and "accept" that they are a part of reality, a part of human nature, because without knowing and accepting that these "things" exist, your shadow can and will overtake you; the darkness can and will fall across the world before many even realize that it's happening. Perhaps we have to experience this abysmal cycle over and over again as a reminder of what it means to be human... and perhaps we don't have to plunge into total darkness and chaos each time to remember. This is our shared legacy.🌹🌺🌸


---

Molson Canadian beer factory - used to walk by it twice a day, every day in the Spring/Summer/Fall of 1998. I would walk from Jericho Beach to Main and Terminal Skytrain station with "the man" and his dog. We'll call the dog "B" for now.

---

I know I am jumping around, and some things are not clear. I will have to piece this together better as I remember more clearly. I know I'll remember more- I always do eventually, for better or for worse. Some people think that having a good memory is a blessing, but it can also be a curse. You want to not remember so much, so many vivid details, but you can't help it. It's just there and it won't leave your brain. It's like a fucking ghost that is haunting you and taunting you. You can't fight it, because it's not "real", but it's still there. Laughing at you, terrorizing you. You can try to fight it, but you can't fight ghosts. I just try to ignore them or associate them with something else.

Footnotes
1  https://flic.kr/p/2oiqKFJ
2  https://flic.kr/p/2o1CmqP