ONLY THE NAMES ARE CHANGED

Hiding In a Closet When Overwhelmed

Memoirs 13

As an adult, I know that this was a serious crime against a child, an innocent child by a pedophile in the frocks of a priest. At the time, I didn’t see of feel myself as a victim. I believed, truly believed in the priest and what he was telling me at the time, and I didn’t resist him.

In time that innocence would be shattered and I would begin to pay the price for being sexually molested. The lesson of dissociation wasn’t a new one for me at that point. I had learned very early how to disappear into myself to escape the chaos of life at home with my mother and father.

What was new, was the association of sexual activity with dissociation, with the disappearing into my mind. Dissociation is a problem that has not quite managed to be solved yet in my life.

In spite of my belief that I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, the increasing hostility from my teachers and classmates made me balk at going to school. I began to have stomach aches and headaches that couldn’t be explained. And, I began to hide.

Whether it was at school as I disappeared in silence into a book, keeping myself as small as I could on the sidelines in the classroom or at the edge of the fence in the school yard, the idea of being invisible as a way of staying safe became a habit.

At home, when there was any tension at all, even if that tension was only within me, I would again turn to hiding, usually in closets, sometimes within the empty boxes kept in the closets in case of needing to pack at a moment’s notice to move again.

Another move to another house was made in November, 1956. The move was into a one-and-a-half-storey house that was old but nice. This new place on MacArthur Road was still in the Overbrook area, still within walking distance of the school I was already attending.

With the move, I began to feel an urge to explore the larger world outside of our home. Each time I would go out the door, my brother, D would come with me on these journeys of discovery. It didn’t take long before we could easily make our way around the neighbourhood. Close by to our home was the Ottawa Boys’ Club, which was one of the places we would often find ourselves on a Saturday afternoon.

With Christmas coming and money continuing to be an issue, D and I were encouraged to pick up discarded cigarette packages and take out the silver-foil paper which would then be used at home to make garlands of silver rings for the Christmas tree. As we wandered further afield in search of this silver foil treasure, D and I would also collect some of the packages, especially the packages from Sportsman cigarettes because of the images of fishing flies.

We wanted to collect all the different pictures to complete a collection, our special treasure. But we learned that it was the silver paper from Players and Export cigarette packages that made the best foil rings for the garland and so we left off collecting Sportsman cigarette packages.

Two evenings before Christmas, D and I went with Dad to find a Christmas tree. Dad didn’t have much money so the tree we ended up with was very scraggly and lopsided, a Charlie Brown kind of tree. Dad managed to convince the tree salesman to give us a handful of broken branches to take along with us as part of the sale.

Once we got the tree home, we helped as best we could while Dad drilled holes into the trunk of the tree and then stuck in the extra branches. Then he would secure the branches with thin wire so they wouldn’t fall out.

When the tree was deemed ready, it was left on the back porch. Then my father took me aside and told me that this year I could help set up the Christmas tree once D and B were asleep on Christmas Eve.

“You’ve made us proud of you when you carried the banner during your Confirmation. You aren’t a child anymore, Bobby,” explained my father. “You’ve shown us that you can take care of your brother and sister when Mom needs help. Why, you’re almost a grown up, almost a man!”

Not only was I going to be able to help him set up the tree, I would also be helping wrap the few Christmas presents that would be placed under the tree and then staying up late Christmas Eve and have tourtière with a few of my younger aunts and uncles who were going to stop over for a Christmas Eve treat of this French-Canadian meat pie.

On Christmas Eve, as I helped, I saw the magic of the sad tree turning into a treasure of colour and light. The silver garland that was wrapped around the tree evoked a sense of pride within me. The last part, was the draping of tinsel over the tree which masked all of the remaining imperfections of the tree.

It didn’t matter anymore that beneath the glitter of silver and gold and coloured lights, that the tree was wounded and broken, held together with glue and wire. What appeared before my eyes was something from heaven.

However, once it was time to wrap the presents, the magic fell apart. Before the few presents could be wrapped they had to be checked to see if all the pieces were there, to see that everything worked. The child puzzles for B had to be checked to see if all the pieces were there. All of the presents were used toys and articles that came from Welfare Services.

As my father explained what needed to be done, I could see the pain in his eyes, and the anger behind that pain at not being able to be a better provider. For the first time in my life, I fully understood the fact that we were poor, very poor.

That Christmas of 1956, when I was seven years old, was a turning point in my life. For the first time in my life, my father didn’t seem so powerful, so heroic. I saw this in his eyes and that scared me. It was then that I stopped being a child.

I was expected to take a more adult-like role in our family. With the family growing and the real need for helping with the two younger kids, my role as a helper was voiced clearly. There was no choice. I was to obey as I was the eldest child.

Curiously, the thrusting of this role upon me was met with both pride and satisfaction on my part. Here was something that I could do that would make me worthy of my father’s love and respect. As an adult, I now see and understand better, my behaviour patterns in adult life. Though years and decades had passed, the behaviour patterns learned as a seven-year-old boy continued to be repeated.

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Thanks to the following for following along with the story this far:

Carrie, Benighted, Patrick OConnell, Adrian CDTPPW, JB The Talker, Maddy Mirza, Block Wife, and katoshi