Today, I had a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend because I was struggling. I found myself crying, wondering where I went wrong. Is this even real? I was having a “pity party for one” and hosting it all by myself. I’ve never liked dragging people into my depressed states—I suppose that’s why I’m so exhausted most of the time. Pretending that everything is okay takes a massive amount of energy.
Sometimes, you just need the tears to flow. When I look back on everything, I realize I’ve never truly cried about the situation. For three years, I was too angry to allow myself to feel. Instead, I buried my emotions deep. My friend reminded me that it’s okay to lose it once in a while—that I don’t have to hold it together all the time. No one is that strong, and that’s okay. She said it’s heartbreaking how some people took advantage of my generosity.
It amazes me how others can see my value when the people who mattered most never did. I guess I’m mourning the life I imagined—grieving the dreams I had for my future and the reality I live in now. And now that I finally have the time to feel, everything is catching up to me.
Being alone in this world feels so heavy. Humans weren’t made to walk this life in isolation. That’s what makes me the saddest—no longer having that person to dream with, to build a future alongside. I long for that connection again. I have so many things I want to accomplish with the rest of my life, and the idea of doing them all by myself is genuinely disheartening.
My friend kept repeating, “You matter.” She urged me to do things that are good for me. But how do you change a lifetime of putting others first? I’ve always placed myself at the bottom of the list. So when people say, “Do what makes you happy,” I’m lost. What is happiness? I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt it. So how do I find something I don’t even recognize?
“You matter” is a powerful statement. I never thought I did. I always believed my purpose was to be there for others, to serve their needs. Somehow, I keep attracting narcissistic people into my life—both in friendships and relationships—and I worry that I’ll fall into the same trap again. Right now, I feel too broken to trust myself with another relationship. Maybe I need to wait until I’ve healed. I know myself—once I’m in a relationship, I focus on it completely and lose sight of my own growth and wellbeing.
I matter to myself, which means I need to be cautious and intentional when I start dating again. I matter to my family. They’re deeply important to me and a source of strength. But even there, I need to make sure I’m not pouring from an empty cup—because that cup belongs to me first.
I’m trying to let the words sink in—I matter. Saying it makes me tear up every time. My ex-husband tried to take my life, twice. It scarred me so deeply that I began to believe I was disposable. So saying “I matter” feels like speaking something sacred but unfamiliar. It’s hard to believe, but I’m beginning to. I matter to people who love me—who would be devastated if something bad ever happened to me.
Now I’m left asking: What’s next? Should I keep hoping for someone to share my life with? Or should I stay single and continue this emotional purge until I feel whole again?
I don’t know the exact answer yet… but I know one thing:
Depression is so strange. One day your body feels like it’s filled with lead, and you sleep for hours you can’t even remember. You wake up groggy, confused, eyes barely able to open, and yet still exhausted. The next day, or maybe even that same night, you’re wired, mind racing, heart pounding, and sleep is nowhere to be found. I was up late last night, my thoughts chewing through the silence, and now it’s early morning and I’m still awake. This is depression. It’s not just sadness, it’s a war within your own body and mind. You try to walk through the day like everything is fine, like you’re holding it together, but really, you feel like a ghost haunting your own life.
You function because you have to. You smile because people expect it. But inside, you’re crumbling.
And then come the people who think they understand. They give you clichés: “You’ll be fine.”“Everyone goes through hard times.”“Just think positive.” But how would they know? They didn’t live through my life. They didn’t sleep in fear as a child or wake up in chaos. They didn’t grow up trying to survive in a world that felt unsafe and unpredictable from the start. People say they’d handle things differently, but I don’t know many who would still be standing—let alone functioning—after what I’ve been through.
Sometimes I wonder how bad it really was, because there are parts of my childhood I’ve completely blocked out. It’s like a fog rolled in, thick and heavy, erasing everything too painful to carry. And now Tammy is gone. She was the only person who could look at me and say, “Remember?” She held the other half of the memory, my living proof that I wasn’t crazy, that those things really happened. Now all I have are the fragments. Shadows.
I’ve asked myself over and over: Why do we always focus on the negative? Is it just easier? Or are there so few good moments that they get drowned out? For me, survival meant focusing on danger. I had to be alert. Hyper-aware. Ready. The good moments didn’t require that kind of attention, so they faded into the background while the trauma burned itself into my brain. I’ve spent years trying to heal, trying to unpack that pain, and yet it still creeps up behind me, especially when I think I’m finally okay.
My last breakdown wasn’t that long ago, just a couple of years. I remember sitting in a psychiatrist’s office, asking, “Why are these breakdowns happening more often now?” All they said was, “You need to deal with the trauma at this stage of your life.” I stared at them, completely lost. What did that even mean? I always thought healing had a finish line. That one day, I’d wake up and the trauma would be gone, processed, buried, handled. But now I know that’s not true. Trauma doesn’t leave. It sleeps. It waits. It wakes up when you’re vulnerable and grabs you by the throat.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised it came back now. I’ve been through so much recently, fighting in court over my divorce, closing the door on a marriage that spanned nearly two decades, moving out of the home I lived in for 18 years. And then trying to process the unthinkable: that my ex-husband tried to kill me. Twice.
Yes, you heard that right. Twice.
The first time felt like something out of a horror movie. I had returned to the farm to pick up my truck and trailer. Everything looked fine, the truck was parked out front like nothing had happened. I got in, started the engine, and let it warm up. It was a standard, and I remember shifting into gear like I had done a thousand times before. The gate opened, and I pulled out, heading toward the city.
Then I got to the train tracks.
I pressed the brakes. Nothing. I pumped them, panicked, hoping it was just air in the lines, but there was nothing. My heart slammed in my chest. I scanned the tracks; left, right; thankfully, no train. But my mind spun with the question: What would I have done if one had been coming? I clenched the wheel, jackknifed the trailer, and forced the rig to stop. Then I turned around and brought it back to the farm.
That’s when I saw it. The brake lines had been cut, on both the truck and the trailer. Seventeen years of marriage, and I never thought he was capable of that kind of cruelty. You don’t want to believe the person you loved would plan your death. It’s easier to think it was a mistake. A freak accident. But it wasn’t. It was deliberate.
And I didn’t report it. Not at first. Because how do you walk into a police station and say, “I think my husband tried to kill me.” It sounds insane. Until it happens again.
The second time was even worse.
The house’s water system had been drained, including the hot water tank. I had to rig up a new setup to get water flowing again, since we lived on a farm. I connected the pump, got everything in place, and flipped the power. The water started flowing, but something didn’t feel right. That gut feeling, the one you only get after surviving trauma—was screaming at me. So I kept checking the tank. Up and down the hallway, over and over. Something was wrong.
Then suddenly, water started spraying everywhere. I rushed to shut it off. And that’s when I saw it.
The ground wire to the hot water tank had been cut.
He tried to electrocute me.
I just stood there, dripping, stunned, and terrified. I asked myself, What did I do to deserve this? I couldn’t come up with a single answer. But I knew, I knew without a doubt, that I had been lucky again. Someone or something was watching over me that day, just like at the train tracks. My intuition had saved me. My instinct had kept me alive.
Experiences like these change you. They chip away at your trust in people. You want to believe in the good, you try to, but now you know darkness can hide behind a smile. Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’ve spent your life seeing the best in people, ignoring the red flags, convincing yourself it’s not that bad. But it is. And it was.
Now, I sit here, looking back on everything, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out where the pain ends and where I begin.
They never tell you about stress and the effects of it. For me it was hair loss and depression. I have found that I can not deal well with stress. After the death of Tammy I lost all my hair. I mean all my hair, from my head to my toes. It was a very sad time for me in every way possible. Then after Tammy’s death, I begun having issues at work. Thinking I was doing a good job when I was really doing a shitty one. It really hurt me to find this out. I had no one left that would understand me and let me just lose it, without judgment. I found that I was crying all the time, especially if I had to go to work. It was difficult for me. I suffer from Major Depressive Disorder. The issues had triggered it, and I was off work again.
During this time I spent a lot of my time in my bedroom. It was horrible. My younger sister, who I lived with, would call me downstairs. She tried to get me out of my room. I drove her crazy because I just did not want to be around anyone. The kids would come over to try and cheer me up, it just did not work. I just did not care anymore. I had to wear a wig, fake eyelashes, put on eye brows, it was really depressing. My nieces were amazing. They would do my make up and do my eyebrows. They encouraged me to get out of the house.
I would go shopping, which seemed to make me feel better for awhile but then the feeling went away. Then I had to deal with the financial costs of the shopping. It was just a really bad roller coaster ride. One minute you are high. Next, you are at an extreme low. Nothing seemed to consistently make you feel better. When I hit the lows it was almost unbearable. I would just sit in my room and work in my bible. I would listen to the bible to find the answers to the questions that I had. “Why is this happening, again?”, “Didn’t I suffer enough in my life?”, “What do I need to do to take this feeling away?”.
The bible studies continued for months, I listened to the bible three times. Each time was 75 hrs. I did attend church bible studies, to help me understand what I was going through. I learned that I had to be strong and courageous. I had to carry on no matter the situation. I also had to believe God has a plan. I attended the bible study once a week for three months. At least it got me out of the house. I took my niece to the bible studies to grade five class. She enjoyed it very much. I thought that after the bible study was done I would be all better but I wasn’t.
During one of the studies I had an epiphany, I was enabling my younger sister to be a alcoholic. I thought that I was putting healthy boundaries but that was not true. I was causing a lot of the problems myself. Now that I realized I was doing this to myself, what was the next step. What do I do now? I was not educated for this. I did not know how to make it not affect me as much as it did. How did I let it get this far? It all goes back to my childhood.
Growing up we just accepted the situation as it was. Our mother was a alcoholic, and drug addict. Us children did not have a say in the situation, it all centered around our mother. We made sure that the young ones were looked after, and that we had what we needed. We did not have everything we needed. We often lacked food and clean clothing. Most of all, we lacked emotional support.
Going to bed hungry was easy. Going to bed with a bruised bum was also easy. However, knowing that our pain brought her so much pleasure was the worst of all. I would lay in bed thinking that I was adopted because I was so different than her. I would just want out of there so badly. I wanted out so bad that I reported the abuse to my teacher, who called the authories and took us away. I remember that day so clearly because I was so happy not to be going home. I was running up the stairs, saying I’m not going home. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
Now that I am older, I thought that I had made peace with all my trauma. However, today I am suffering from trauma-induced depression. When I was diagnosed with this I cried and wondered why? I just want my past to go away, not show its ugly head all the time. The psychiatrist could not answer how long it would take to deal with the trauma. It scares me that it will be months as there is so much to go through. If you read the blog you understand why.
They say that it could take one or more sessions of EMDR to deal with only one trauma. How is it going to be having to deal with several traumas’. How will this all work? I just hope that it works well for me and I will be happy again. Not that I know what that feels like… As I have not been happy for a long time, I have forgotten what it feels like.
All the therapist say that you need to break the cycle. I am not sure if anyone of them have had the trauma that the clients have experienced. Then ask them to break the cycle. I realize today it is so much easier to follow the same route as I lived as a child. It is predictable, I know how to handle the dysfunction. I understand why my younger sister lives the life she lives. Now it is how do I keep the cycle broken. I have broken the cycle. I am the 25% that does not have an addiction issue. I suffer so much for breaking the cycle.
Am I coping with the trauma, I am not sure. It kicks me in the ass all the time. My hair is finally coming back after three years. I thought that I would be stable enough to continue working, but it is not the case. This trauma has affected my work, in a indirect way. It caused me to have depression, which causes you not to be able to function clearly. I have to be off work. I am not healthy to practice right now. My mental state is fragile. I just have my past to blame for it.
I will continue with the posts as I deal with this trauma. I will persist as the 25% of my family. I need to stay strong and be courageous to deal with these issues. I need to show the next generation that it is possible to live a life without having an addiction. It is a difficult job to bear but one well worth it. Just like Joshua in the bible he had to believe and had to strong and courageous.
I never imagined I’d be writing this about the loss of Tammy. Even now, the words feel unreal. She wasn’t just a part of this blog she was its heartbeat. Her unwavering encouragement, her fierce belief in me when I faltered. Those echoes still live in every post, every idea I dared to pursue because she said, “Keep going.”
During the final two years of her life, Tammy did everything she could. She went to her checkups like clockwork, and each mammogram came clean. We breathed sighs of relief. But what we didn’t know, what no scan showed was that the cancer was hiding, silently growing elsewhere in her body. That betrayal by her own biology is hard to accept.
She told me near the end that she was grateful, grateful that those last years were spent with her younger sister, Tanya, surrounded by a whirlwind of laughter and love. Tanya’s eight children adored her. Each one built a bond with Tammy that radiated pure joy. Even amid the storm, she found light in them. It’s hard. It’s cruel. But her love hasn’t left us, it’s woven into the fabric of our lives. Into this blog. Into me.
In the final year of her life, Tammy had fallen off the wagon. She was using drugs constantly and barely eating. Her body grew frail and skeletal, her energy drained, and each movement became painful. Walking was difficult for her, and it seemed like she was in agony all the time.
At the time, she was living in a basement apartment with her boyfriend. He grew increasingly frustrated with her declining health, and their relationship became strained. On Christmas, Tanya and I picked her up, we couldn’t bear to let her stay there any longer. We brought her home and refused to take her back.
In the new year, she had an appointment with the oncologist. When the prognosis came, it hit her like a storm: six months to a year left to live. She was in shock. Despite the diagnosis, she continued using drugs and drinking, perhaps trying to cope with the pain and the gravity of what was happening.
Tammy had one final dream, she wanted all of us sisters to live together during her last months. I didn’t know if I could do it. Tanya and I didn’t get along very well, and the idea of sharing such an intimate space felt daunting. It took me months to find a second job that I could manage while keeping my regular one.
Moving day was bittersweet. My bed was strapped to the back of the truck, and all my belongings were packed tightly into the cab. I was one step away from leaving my ex-husband behind for good. I knew I wasn’t coming back, but the full weight of that realization only struck me in that moment.
He didn’t kiss me goodbye. No “good luck,” no “take care” not even a nod of acknowledgement. Instead, he simply turned his back and walked away. As he reached the front door, he slammed it shut behind him without so much as a glance in my direction.
As I pulled out of the driveway, I caught one final glimpse in the rearview mirror. That house, that life, shrinking in the distance. And then I was gone.
While driving down the highway, my mind wandered toward the hope that maybe this new beginning would bring peace, especially for Tammy in her final days. I imagined a warm and supportive home, full of quiet joys. But reality met me with a harder truth.
When I arrived at the house we rented, Tammy was sitting quietly in a chair, her body frail and weakened. Walking was a true effort for her, she had no sensation in one leg, which she dragged behind her as she carefully navigated with a walker. Each step was a slow, determined shuffle, and every movement seemed to drain her energy.
One day, she asked if I could help her take a bath. I filled the tub with warm water and gently assisted her. Lowering her into the bath was a delicate process; her limbs trembled and her skin felt paper-thin. But in that moment, it wasn’t just about bathing, it was about dignity, care, and holding space for someone whose strength had been tested beyond measure.
Tammy couldn’t manage the stairs anymore, so she remained on the main floor. At first, she slept in a chair in the living room, it became her constant spot, day and night. Eventually, we got her a hospital bed, and it overtook the space. The sight of it sitting right there in the heart of the house made her declining health painfully real. It was a daily reminder that she was dying, and seeing it every time I walked into the room was gut-wrenching.
Tammy didn’t want to go to hospice; she insisted on staying at home where things felt familiar. Tanya and I agreed to honor her wish and care for her ourselves, for as long as we possibly could.
We created a ritual every night. The three of us would smoke a little pot, sink into our chairs, and laugh, really laugh. We’d reminisce about our wild childhoods, hilarious mishaps, and sweet moments that stitched our lives together. Tammy cherished that time; she looked forward to it each evening. It was when she felt most alive, surrounded by stories, laughter, and love.
During the day, I was working, while Tanya was home full-time. She carried the brunt of caregiving, tending to Tammy’s needs with unwavering dedication. Watching her hold it all together with such grace was humbling. Tammy’s passing hit Tanya especially hard; the emotional toll was immense.
The last three months were especially difficult. Home care aides visited four times a day, helping with everything from hygiene to pain management. The rhythm of their footsteps, the medical routines, it changed the entire energy of the house. But through it all, we held space for Tammy’s dignity and comfort.
Tanya and Tammy had good relationship, but it centered around drugs and alcohol. More drugs than alcohol for Tammy. I remember coming home one night to find that they were doing cocaine. I could not believe it, Tammy just stated that I should keep my nose out of their business. So I went to my room and in disbelief I went to sleep. When I asked Tanya about it next day, all was said was; “I hope when I am on my death bed someone will bring me a line of cocaine too.” I was in shock by her statement that I left with my mouth hung open.
Tammy’s condition was worsening she couldn’t move herself in bed. Her legs were paralyzed and she had no strength to pull herself to one side or the other. Tammy made the decision to go to hospice as she was requiring more care than we could provide in the home and decided to go to hospice. The main reason why she went to hospice is because she wanted to see Trevor, our brother. Tanya did not want him at the house that we rented, so Tammy knew she had to leave. Tammy wanted to see him before she past away. Also, she wanted to see her boyfriend. Tanya did not want him at the house either. Tammy was happy to go to the hospice so she could see the people she wanted to see to say her good-byes.
In Tammy’s final days, one of the hospice nurses pulled me aside and gently told me the truth: Tammy was dying. She urged me to gather the family so they could say their goodbyes. I informed everyone, and together we went in to be by her side.
Tanya couldn’t accept it. She kept asking Tammy pointed questions, trying to prove she was still mentally present. But Tammy struggled to respond, the answers weren’t coming. We tried to encourage Tanya to stop, but she couldn’t. Denial had its grip on both of them. Tammy herself was adamant that she wasn’t dying, even as her body clearly showed otherwise. Her abdomen had turned a deep purple, her legs were growing cold, and she was visibly fading.
The nurses did their best to help Tammy understand. They came into the room and gently explained that her time was near, but she refused to accept it. So I did what felt impossibly hard. As a nurse myself, I knew I had to be the one to tell her. I sat beside her and explained, as compassionately as I could, that she was dying. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.
Tammy still resisted the truth. She told us she wanted to hold on until the New Year. But her body had other plans, it was simply too weak to carry her that far.
After that moment of clarity, everything happened quickly. Within just a few days, Tammy passed. Her family was gathered around her, and her nephew Conner, a pastor, stood near, quietly praying. When she took her last breath, I was told a single tear traced down her cheek, as if to say she wasn’t quite ready to go.
I don’t think anyone ever truly is. Maybe death isn’t something we prepare for, it’s something we eventually accept. And in that moment of surrender, I believe someone is waiting on the other side. Someone who gently reaches out, takes your hand, and guides you home.
Hi all, I did not realize that Tammy had made the blog private, so I apologize for that. In the last couple of years there has been a lot of changes that I can write and tell you all about. I never had a ending for the story but now I do. It isn’t a happy ending but an ending all the same. I will continue the story from the end of the last post and carry on to the end of the blog. I hope you all find some sense of hope, love, and achievement. My hope for anyone reading this blog is to have a appreciation for life no matter what the circumstances are that you come from. We all make our choices but we can alway choose a different path. As always thanks for reading. Tyra
Mom and I did have a relationship, but it formed over her pill use. She would give me pills to get high. I was 18 and that was the first time I tried to commit suicide. I used her pills.She found me slumped down, in front of my bedroom. I didn’t make it to my room before the pills took over. I was taken to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. They asked me were I got the pills, I told them from the street, and they said ok and sent me home. They didn’t even ask me if I tried to commit suicide, I was so upset, because this just confirmed for me that my life was worthless! Why, did I attempt suicide, I ask myself that too. I think the first time It was because I realized, with a heart-wrenching pain, my mother never did or would love me. The fact that the Dr.s that saved my life dealt with me with such callous indifference, hurt me to the core. It just firmly set in my mind that my mother had very good reason not to love me. I was not valuable nor was I lovable.
You see me and I see you see me, but what you see is not me…I weep. Tammy 2019
The second time, we were at the same place, in Edmonton, just off of skid row. This time when they pumped my stomach the Dr. just said you can’t keep doing this. I thought to my self your right, one of these times I have to get it right, so I don’t bother you anymore. There was no social worker or therapist evaluation, they never asked me if I was suicidal, this time they didn’t even ask me any questions. I asked one though. I said”what is all this black stuff on my mouth.” Short answer “charcoal!” I was silently yelling for help and no one was listening, as is the case with so many children and young adults in extreme emotional and mental anguish.
It never ceases to amaze me how a person can be so busy that take a few minutes to let someone know they are valuable to the world, isn’t even an afterthought, it is not even a thought at all.After that I convinced my friend, the man I was staying with, to let my mom and her man move into a trailer he owned on his property. He agreed as long as I would stay at the house with him. I wanted to stay with my mom but I knew if I wanted to get her out of that house I would have to agree with the man to stay at the house with him. I asked me mom if she would like to move out there with her man to the country, she readily agreed and they moved into a fully furnished trailer. It wasn’t the best situation since the man was jealous of the love I had my mom. Because I spent so much time with her, doing pills, I learned that if I did as many as her I would OD, so I only did half as much…
Things went well, for a few months before, that summer, my mom’s new man ran a very big and expensive piece of farm equipment into the barbed wire fence and damaged the machine and pulled up a lot of the fence. The man was so mad, he wanted them both out! Mom was willing to kick the man out if she could stay, but he said no both of them had to go. Mom was so mad, she didn’t have to pay anything for rent or utilities, all that was necessary was to sacrifice her daughter to the man who owned the property. I tried so hard to convince my friend, and of course I am using that term loosely, to please let my mom stay. He said she can stay long enough to find a new place then she is out. I already made up my mind that I would be going with her when she left.I am glad the man my mom was intimate with was kicked out, he was abusive to me and my mom, and he looked at me in a predatory way, and I had no interest in being raped by yet another one of my mom’s men.
So we moved to Westlock, Alberta. Mom wasted no time in getting a new man, she took another woman’s man from her, and boy was that woman mad! I really don’t blame her, I mean honestly I wouldn’t want to be the woman who took another woman’s man, even if he was a person that hand a wandering eye.There was one more time when I OD’ed on mom’s pills that was more of a accident though. I say accidental, but honestly I knew the risks of mixing her pills with alcohol. If I looked deeper, I would see it really was just another cry for help, that went unheeded. I was drinking Vodka with mom, and doing pills with her. I took my drink outside so I could sit on the steps. A combination of the pills, alcohol, and hot sun, was just to much and I blacked out and fell down the concrete steps. They pumped my stomach again. I told them it was an accident, and they sent me home without questioning me…. again.
Sharing these painful memories, I have to stop and think what is it that makes one person, a child, less important than another. Was it just a busy day, each time, that I was unlucky enough to not warrant closer scrutiny? Was it that I just appeared to be disposable humanity? Or did I cause people pause, to reflect inward and they didn’t like what I represented in them. Or was it true, I was unlovable…some one targeted to be a victim, to be the one to carry others ugliness. To be used and abused, then ignored, while I carried their pain as well as my own so they could live in a reality of their own making, while making my reality a living hell on earth.
What is in my pages that others can not bring themselves to read… perhaps I should fear myself too? Tammy 2019
True to form, mom made a decision to leave the bad memories behind. We were again packing up our belongings, and heading to Slave Lake, Alberta. instead of getting help for us, she tried to run away from ourselves. Sadly, every time we turned around there we were.
During my life I had struggled with depression but nothing could prepare me for what I was about to go through. I do not think I was aware how much the effects of the trauma that occurred during my younger years had on me. I thought that I had dealt with all the issues. I did not realize that abuse has far reaching impacts that can be so deep, they do not surface until later in life. Perhaps it was my minds way of protecting itself against pain I was not ready to deal with.
A pivotal moment for me was when my boss had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had only a few months to live. This woman was my friend, confidant, and my boss. She was so much more to me than just my supervisor. The diagnoses was even more devastating as it was the first summer that she decided to take a vacation. Before the vacation she had a medical and found out the diagnosis. I made a phone call to see how she was doing and asked if the information was true and she said “yes”. She did not tell me that it was terminal but I knew deep down that it was bad. The tone in her voice was low and could hear the cry that wanted to come out but she was being strong. I asked if she was scared and she said “Yes”. That is when I knew she was not coming back to work, I was crying inside “please don’t take her, she has been my strength during this difficult time”. We carried on a short conversation after and said our good bye. Little did I know that it was going to be the last time that I would hear her voice.
The symptoms of depression were all around me. I was constantly tired, just wanting to sleep. This just was not me, I was the go getter, always striving for more. I was fighting with my husband and we never fought before. I did not want to eat, just wanted to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. Then one day I had pain in my bones. I honestly thought that I had bone cancer that had progressed so far that it was affecting my bones. I finally made the decision to see a doctor, they ran a bunch of tests, when the tests came back everything was normal. All the doctor could say was “most of the time when this happens it is related to mood, how is your mood”. That was the breaking point for me. I was healthy physically but broken mentally. I started crying “why does this always happen to me?”. He just sat there and listened to me and asked if I was on medication for depression I stated “yes”. He gave me more time off work and told me to see my family doctor for adjustment in my medication.
My first meeting with my family doctor I had taken my husband with me so he could understand what I was going through. This did not work as he was not the one going through the experience and had not experienced depression like this before. The doctor tried to educate him on what was happening inside my brain but the understanding was not there. He just wanted to know where did his wife go, and when will she be back.
I ended up being off work for several months due to the illness, then I had to be diagnosed by a psychiatrist. This was a ordeal for me as it was a psychiatrist that prescribed the medication that eventually killed our mother. I was wondering if this was going to happen tome. During the interview we discussed what the issues were and what was happening at home. Then the diagnosis was made. I have major depressive disorder, anxiety, and care giver burn out. This is not what I wanted to hear I wanted to hear that I would be ok and there was nothing wrong with me. This time I knew I needed to do something about the condition I was in. I was not just going to snap out of it this time.
During the time that they were trying to get my symptoms under control, I contemplated suicide. I just did not want to hurt anymore. I was suffering. I cried all the time, did not want to do anything, even things I enjoyed. I did not want to have sex, I would sleep all day and all night. I remember this one day I had to go the town for groceries, a simple task. When I walked out of the store I just did not want to go home, I sat in my truck and cried as I did not understand why I did not want to go home. I just wanted to run away from it, but where would I go? I finally decided that it was time to leave the parking lot and start the drive home. During the drive home I was like, would anyone really miss me? what could I do to make the pain stop? Oh ya, I could just drive in front of one of the big trucks and then it would be all done. I did not want to die, I just wanted to find a way to end the pain.
The worst moment during my depression came after having a bath. I had a curling iron on the counter and I just sat in the bathroom wondering what it would feel like to die by electrocution. I said to myself I could just hop back into the tub and drop the curling iron in the tub. That was the plan, I was going to electrocute myself. Then this overwhelming sense of peace came over me and that is when I really got scared. I knew at that moment that I needed to talk to someone to help me get out of this mind set and I called my sister. I was on the phone crying telling her what I had planned and why. I just wanted to end it but I did not. My sister on the phone was trying to console me, and was having a hard time. I just did not know where this feeling of peace came from and why did it scare me so badly. She continued to talk to me about it and finally I was fine.
The next day I was at the doctors and telling them to help me, as this is what I was thinking and I had a plan. All the doctor could say was “Oh my God”. That is not what a person suffering from depression wants to hear, they just want the pain to go away. She came back to the room and adjusted my medication once more and stated that if I should feel like this again to call. I took my prescription and went home. It took time for the medication to start to work for me, it just seemed like forever. I kept questioning if I was ever going to be better. I realized I was going to have to give my self time, time I wasn’t sure I had.
During this time the disability company decided to make me attend a exercise program. At first I did not see the reason for doing the exercises, it just seemed like a waste of time. During the work outs I was waiting for this euphoric feeling that some people talked so much about. All I felt was pain, and tiredness. I had to fight through the work outs to get them accomplished at first, then I got stronger and stronger. I was getting physically stronger but mentally I was still fragile. I finally got to the point where I did not mind going, realizing that I was not going to feel the same as other people.
Allowing my self to feel my pain and nurture myself through it was excruciatingly difficult. It took me 18 months to get out of this depressed state. I had to go through several programs to get to the point where I could work once again. I attended a psychotherapy, exercise program, plus I would journal everyday. When people say just snap out of it, this upsets me, as they do not realize the pain that I was going through. It was a constant internal struggle, just me and my pain.
I had left off with divine intervention. That segment played on my mind for days on how to put it into words to make it understandable for everyone. Having a visit from a spirit is kind of unbelievable but knowing things prior to them happening is even more unbelievable.
This is a topic close to my heart, as who would not know what will happen in the future. The only problem with knowing what will happen you usually do not know the time or the date that it will occur. You just have to trust that it will happen at the right time and the right place. I recall my old boyfriend telling me “you always know, I don’t know how you know, but you always know”. I did not understand what he was saying to me. I did not know that he always felt that way about me, and I did not know that I knew things without knowing.
The first time that I knew some thing, was when I predicted my mothers death. The premonition came to me after I was asked “how is your mother?”, it just came to me and I stated that “she would be dead in six months”. I had not seen my mother for a year and half, the next time I saw her she was dead. I struggled with knowing that information and did not believe it until the day came that I was told that she had actually died. I honestly thought that I had caused her death by predicting it seven months earlier. I am not sure why I knew that information prior to her death or why God told me. I blamed myself for years, an unrelenting painful guilt.
The next time that I knew something, was when I told my ex-boyfriend “I am sorry can’t come back to you” and “I have to leave the city”. The words just came out of my mouth without even thinking. He was so angry with me and hung up the phone. Then he called me back saying he was sorry. I carried on the conversation stating “I am being called to my home, and do not know why, but I have to go.” He was ok after the explanation and we went our separate ways in life and not to talk again for a year.
That is how my premonition’s come out for me, I blurt them out without even thinking. It is like someone else is speaking for me when they happen. I just get transfixed on a spot when someone is talking and they are triggered. The odd thing is that I do not know when they will occur, I just have a “knowing.” Some people maybe thinking it would be great to know things prior to them happening. However, as you can see, with the premonition of my mothers death, for me, this was not a gift. We all would love to know the numbers to a lottery, or happy events, or to keep us safe, but those are not the premonitions I would receive.
Dreaming is also another way that I would derive guidance from my Spiritual Guardian. There were several times that a deceased individual would come in my dreams and warn me about certain situations. One incident, I had a dream about my deceased manager, whom I love dearly, and she was guiding me to pay closer attention while at work. I did not know why she was coming to warn me. It came down to me paying closer attention to detail and to documenting. I received a message in a bottle, and I was to be grateful!
I paid closer attention at work and boy was I glad. The next few months were going to be utter hell. A individual in a position of authority set out on a campaign to maliciously destroy my career. If she could have she would have destroyed me. This all started because I questioned her about a questionable practice. It made me question why I was a nurse. I was obligated to attend meetings and investigations several times. I had to defend myself and my practice, just to keep working in a field that I had dedicated my life too.
While this was happening to me my sister was completing a year and a half of chemotherapy for stage 4 breast cancer. She was going to begin her radiation treatments and I needed to be there for her during this time. My only support was my dying sister. I could not talk to my colleagues. I was separated from my husband and living alone. To financially make it I had to continue to work under this individual.
After defending and proving my competency for a year, the association cleared me of all charges and insinuations. Receiving that vindication was the best Christmas present that I could have ever received.
May contain content that is triggering for some, self first.
Tyra:
Looking back through the years it is difficult for my sister and I to remember a Christmas that wasn’t plagued with addiction and abuse. This is true for the Christmas that we will talk about today.
People always say that Christmas is for the children and not really for the adults in life, I think that is because the children bring the magic back into the adults life for just one time of year. Children have the excitement of santa coming to see them and all want to stay up late waiting for him to show up. children wonder if they will get what they had hoped for the most for the whole year. This was true for us also.
In the beginning of the season was wonderful. we would put up the tree and decorate it as a family and sit and enjoy the lights like any ordinary family. There were a few gifts that were under the tree from friends and family but not too much as we were children of a welfare mom. Then the santa anonymous came to our home and brought our food hamper for the holiday season. We knew at least we would eat good during this time and there were a few presents that we received also.
Have a blessed and Happy Christmas and Holiday.
The Christmas excitement was in us this year, not sure what made this year better that in the years but us kids were just in the Christmas spirit. Maybe it was because our little brother was of the age to have the excitement and carried over to us older kids. we would play with each other and behave wondering what santa would bring to us this year.
Christmas morning came early for us as our mother could not wait till we woke up, but to her surprise we were already awake waiting for the call to open presents. I do not recall all the presents that we received that year as there were so many of them, but remember the tree being full of presents, more presents than I had seen before. The one gift of mine that I do remember was the sleighs we received to play outside. Tammy remembers the nurses watch she received that year also. We were always playing outside whether it was to build snow forts or ramps for our sleighs to jump. those memories bring a smile to my face.
I wanted a strawberry shortcake doll so badly. I felt hurt and confused as why mom would give Tammy one. Tyra 2019
We would build the ramps so high that we would fly in the air and land on our tummys and take our breath away. We would get up laughing and walk up the hill again and try it all over again. Looking back I am surprised that we did not get broken arms and legs from the crazy down hill slide me made. it took the whole community of children to build and went that one was made we would make another more extravagant one for the older children to play on. Wow what a time it was, to be a child and just play without no danger in mind.
Then came the alcohol in the scenario and that is when this Christmas took a turn for the worst. Our mother just could not seem to enjoy any of the seasons or celebrations without alcohol, there needed to be alcohol for it to be a celebration. For us children we just wanted a quiet family season with no worries about fights and other distractions. to my dismay it did not happen.
It was the week after the greatest Christmas that we could remember, to turn to the worst Christmas we ever had. I think my sister and I would give all the gifts back if we could not have gone through the loss of our innocence this same Christmas.
Our mother and her boyfriend of the time, went to a party and of course they were drinking. The story went that our mother did not want to come back home so her so called boyfriend decided to leave her there and came back home alone. I do not recall much more about this night, so Tammy will share more about it, in her piece.
We had such a beautiful tree that year.
Tammy:
I do not recall any Christmases were it was memorable before or after this one. Typically mom would either skip Christmas or we would get a gift basket from charity. I really didn’t mind charity, as when you are hungry, if food is offered you take it. This Christmas was different, her man was a working man and made good money. We had a beautiful decorated tree, and nuts and candy. We even had stockings. I was so happy. I thought maybe we were going to be like regular people. I had a couple of friends and one did not come from a dysfunctional home, that friendship did not last though. The blame for that rest squarely on my mothers shoulders.
However, I have a bad habit of going on tangents. That year we had turkey with all the trimmings. It was delicious! We were sent to bed, and as expected we had a hard time getting to sleep. My sister and I stayed up late, softly talking and giggling. We were determined to stay up and see Santa. However, like most children we fell asleep. To wake up really early to sneak up stairs and see what Santa brought. If I would have known our Santa was a devil in disguise, I would have never asked for a thing. However, being a child I was so exited, all the brightly wrapped packages, and two sleds for riding down hill fast,
We made ramps so we would fly in those sleds, air born for a few seconds, then ouch! Hehe was worth it. Tammy 2019
Our mom, her man and the younger ones came down stairs, and the young ones were so excited. They were so giddy, prancing around like little elves. I was happy for them. I do remember looking at our mom, and she looked happy. Her eyes were shining, and she had a smile on her face. I think she really loved that man, but the price was so costly. I still can not put my mind into a set we’re I would ever be ok hurting a child, or letting some one else hurt them.When it came to loving me she was heartless.
We unwrapped our presents, and I was confused. Why was I getting items Tyra wanted. I was really confused and upset too because I could see Tyra really liked the stuff I was getting. She did get a watch too, but she liked mine better. Honestly, I liked hers better, but to trade would have infuriated our mom. So we made do and enjoyed the day. We went sliding on those last very red sleds all day! Pink cheeked and happy we tumbled into the house wet from the snow, but warm from the exertion.
Things soon went back to normal, our normal. Mom would stay in her room all the time and her man had free reign of the house, and us kids. He was such a vile, repulsive man. I had no good will for him, but at the same time I was scared what he could do to me, or even worse my siblings. I hated it when mom would abandon us and let him get away with his odious behaviours.
Sadly, my Christmas was ruined, in fact I did not celebrate Christmas ever again. There was just no reprieve from abuse, especially from him!! I was torn between running away and leaving my siblings behind, or staying to be destroyed bit by bit for a mans twisted desire to possess and ruin. He just would not relent, not even during a holiday meant to honour family and goodness’s. He hurt me again when mom was not there. He said she was not there, but maybe she was just on the other side of the wall passed out on drugs and booze. I Was going to my place in my mind, I could run away in my mind, and then what he did would not matter. I told myself this, even though it mattered, it mattered a lot.
This Flight Tonight”… “blackness blackness dragging me down”. Nazareth
Our mother and her man went to a party, Tyra thinks it was a New Years party. I am sure she is correct in her memory, as dates are hard for me, I tend to tell time by the seasons and the weather. I heard the door close, upstairs, and rushed up to meet our mom. However, the only one standing there was that monster, disguised as a man. I stoped dead in my track, dread filled my body and made it tingle with fear. This was going to be another night of horror and pain. My soul retreated even deeper into my secret place, my mind screamed silently, run away, run away. I was paralyzed, crippled by my mothers teaching me I had no choice, no value, no reprieve. I was not allowed to have boundaries, therefore I had none. Our mother created the perfect victim, me. Just even writing that statement down, makes me profoundly sad, the lessons she drilled into my very being were to haunt me well into adulthood. Even to this day, I fight my demons, sometimes I win sometimes I don’t, but I never surrender.
I went back down to the basement, we’re I slept with my sister in a big bed. I always felt safest when I was with her. However, in our house there was no safety in numbers, and no were to hide. Mom’s man was on a mission, hell bent to get what he wanted, and it was me he wanted. Sometimes I wonder what goes through a grown mans mind when he is sexually abusing a child. Then I think, I really do not want to know, because if I did my mind might shatter irreparably forever, because their mind must be even more frightening and dark than mine.
Calling me, demanding my presence, every time he said my name, my feet would move towards him, while the rest of my body wanted to disappear, never to be found again. I went though, for fear that my sister would be targeted if I didn’t. I remember looking at the Christmas tree, and remembering how magical it looked. Now it reminded me of a gaudy, and grotesque bar I seen on tv once. The smell of his alcohol stink didn’t help matters. He demanded I drink with him, I had drank before, sips of my moms tia Maria, or sneaking a beer or two. However, this was different, he wanted me to drink so I would be more compliant while he went about his dastardly deeds.
I remember eating chestnuts, now if I eat those, they turn to fouled goods in my mouth, as they remind me of the night Christmas became a nightmare. I would go downstairs and I hid behind the furnace, hoping that he would get tired of this cat and mouse torture. However, he wouldn’t give up, and when he targeted my sister, I knew my time had run out. I could not sacrifice my sister, for one night of reprieve. I took a deep breath, and stepped forward, and accepted another night of hell and anguish. I was ten years old, Tyra was seven, and I felt like I had already lived to many lifetimes, for the short amount of years we had been on this earth.
Stripped of boundaries, self and dignity. Robbed of choices and self determination. Feeling like I was going to shatter into a million pain filled fragments. He took my body, my childhood, my innocence. I knew to much, yet not enough. I could regal you with the horrors of suffering, pain and abuse, but for the life of me, I could not tell you how to save yourself. I could teach you how to survive, but not how to live. A flash of brilliant white pain, the penetration, the invasion, the sickening feeling of being smothered. I am hurt… I am going away now…
Tyra and Tammy wish you all a very merry Christmas!
This covers in more detail events that were shared in our memoir. If you would like to join us on our healing journey, please, feel free to star, “two sisters perspective, or the beginning of our memoir “ The Beginning” It is Christmas, and I am happy and I want you all to be happy too. I want you to create memories that will last forever, as I will be doing the same. “So have yourself a Merry little Christmas.” Enjoy, be blessed, eat lots of Turkey.
For the first time in my life I was getting my way!! I was going to be with my sisters! I was so happy. My current foster family was sad too see me go, but they had no idea what was going on with my foster sister. My sister Tyra had already been in this foster home for a while, so it was not as uncomfortable as going some were new and alone. We only had a foster mother who was probably in her sixties, so I felt hey this wont be so bad… I was wrong, when would I ever learn.
she always gave us cereal for breakfast, but the milk always tasted sour to me!! I would ask my sisters if the milk tasted sour to them? They would say yes, and it just made it worse for me, I couldn’t eat that cereal with sour milk! I would just leave it and tell our foster mother I wasn’t hungry. I would then proceed to eat some of my lunch on the way to school. We laugh about this sour milk now, I have a real phobia about milk, and if it gets to close to the date of expiry I wont drink it, even if it is not bad. I just don’t want to take the chance. This is Pavlov classical conditioning. I mention this as we will be going deeper into our psyche and mental illness, behaviours and more later on. Our mother on the other hand was using operant conditioning.
I was exhibiting behaviors of severe mental illness, but I was so hard to reach, I guess no one took the effort to try and reach me, so my metal illness just ran rampant. It was so bad, I was having nightmares, and would get up and literally walk off the end of my bed, waking my self up and jumping up off the floor, into my bed in a panic. The first time this happened my foster mother came to see what the loud bang was, I told her I fell out of bed, I did not tell her I walked off the end of my bed. Hiding my oddities, was becoming second nature to me, I had to protect what little self I had left. I did not trust Adults, actually the only people I trusted were my siblings.
I don’t know, but I do know what I want to be… happy.. that is all, just happy.. Tammy
Our Foster mother had a little adopted daughter about the same age as our littlest sister. Our foster mother loved her little adopted daughter. However, her adopted daughter was so jealous of our little sister. I recall one time our foster mother encouraged her adopted daughter to beat up my little sister. I felt so helpless, and angry! However, I did not want to jeopardize staying with my sisters so I kept my silence and would only intervene if my little sister got really hurt. That was what I believed, thankfully this first little spat did not amount to much. Our foster mother praised her little girl and that was that… We are in a mad house! Shameful just dam shameful to do this to children, especially children who have suffered so much in their short lives!
Some children in foster care are very seriously disturbed and evidence symptoms of psychosis.These children are not just immature. they behave in a way that is different from normal children of any age.”(Vera I.Fahlberg, M.D.)
Signs and symptoms Requiring Full Psychiatric Evaluation in children:
Extreme withdrawal from interaction; behaving as though others are not present. Inappropriate affect ie;laughing, crying, or rage for no apparent reason. Fantasies that are so marked they interfere with day to day functioning. Total lack of interest in interacting with peers; no normal peer interactions. Extreme lack of responsiveness to other people. Lack of appropriate fears/or abnormal fears that interfere with day to day functioning. Auditory or visual Hallucinations. (I have both) Failure to develop speech or disappearance of speech after it has developed.(Tyra had a speech impediment, she stuttered very badly. it was non medical, it was because of the abuse and extreme stress.) Non communicative speech. (My sister Tyra and I had our own language,we understood each other fine. We had no interest In Communicating with any one else except us four} Persistent abnormal rhythm to speech. Sing Song or chanting over and over. Abnormalities in reactions to stimulation; may be hypersensitive or hyposensitive to auditory stimuli, tactile stimuli, and the like. I was Hypersensitive, and Hyper vigilant. Self mutilation: self explanatory. Developmental delays combined with areas of normal or above normal functioning.(Sometimes we were immature in the extreme and in other areas scarily mature). Marked insistence on sameness, such as routines or object placement. Both my sister and I have varying degrees of Obsessive compulsive disorder.any changes in plans or routine is very upsetting for us also, and the emotional response is extreme.
Our home was no were, there is never never land and no were land, that is were we lived. Tammy, Tyra, Tanya, Trevor.
There was on activity that I did with my sisters that I absolutely loved doing. That was dancing, I had a mini pop record that I would play over and over while my sisters and I danced to it. I would swing them around, hoist them up in the air, throw them in the air and catch them. Looking back I must have been unbelievably strong, because they were not all that light, although to me they were light. I know our foster mother’s daughter wanted to play too, and I would oblige, but I had no bond with her what so ever. I didn’t feel one way or the other about her. The only time I felt anything was when I thought about her fighting my youngest sister, and then my anger was directed at our foster mother, I never blamed the child.
This incident happened when our foster mother and a group of her friends male and female, thought it would be funny to see two little girls fight. It was atrocious behaviour for adults to not only instigate a fight, but to cheer it on. It was like a dog fight, except with two little girls, instead of dogs. Our foster mothers little girl was viscous. It wasn’t a play fight at all, it was hair pulling, biting, kicking and punching. I understood on some level that our foster mothers little girl resented my sister. Probably just her being there was enough for resentment. Maybe it was my disinterest in her’ and my affection that I showed my little sister. I really do not know the why, I just know that I felt helpless and a bone crunching shame that I did not have the courage to try and stop it. All the adults were laughing and clapping while I watched my little sister trying to defend herself against a viscous attack. Our mother, had conditioned us so thouraly, that it was Impossible for us to set healthy boundaries and enforce them…
Some might say well they were the same age and size. It wasn’t that bad…please, have you ever seen a dog fight, it is viscous, ugly and brutal. My little sister was conditioned by our mother to be a victim. We all had a victim mentality, we were not like other children, we were emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and even due to malnourishment physically crippled. Please tell me this was fair, or right. For us that find any form of abuse intolerable, this event is shocking, horrific and way beyond wrong.
For the most part I was a ghost to my foster mother, I could not meet peoples eyes, there was no sparkle or joy in my eyes. I was afraid to look at people, I was so afraid I would see myself reflected back at me. I didn’t want my ugliness, my brokenness mirrored back at me through other people’s expressions. I was quiet, the only time I really expressed my self was with my siblings. They were my world, my safe world, the only ones that could see, sense, feel my pain, and the joy that they brought to my dark reality. It was easier for people to see through me, than to see me. A broken child that was suffering silently.
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