threatened to report her to Social Services, after pushing one of my siblings down the stairs during a fit of rage. I wasn’t the only child she hurt.
Years later, I found out that my aunt mentioned her concern to my grandmother about my Mother’s abusive ways towards me.
I waited until the next morning. I told the school principal what had happened. Mother was immediately paged to the office. I was sent to class.
After school my mother was in a rush.
“We have an appointment with a psychiatrist this afternoon to get you assessed. I was called down to the office this morning by the principal. My job was on the line. I denied everything. He told me to get you help. To lie about being abused is very serious.”
This led to an immediate psychiatric assessment with hospitalization.
During the assessment I never spoke of what happened. I didn’t need anything else bad to happen to me. Ten days later I was released. Mother was told I was fine. The assessment provided didn’t suit her, she wanted me medicated. Right away, Mother attempted to find another psychiatrist, one who would listen to her.
After interviewing several doctors she found one. Now she wanted medical possibilities ruled out. She talked to the doctor without me. I sat in the waiting room picking up the negative vibes. Then I would go in to speak with him next.
“Your mother says you see things. Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Your mother says you hear sounds. Is that true?
“Yes.”
“She says sometimes you get upset and cry when you feel something bad is going to happen. You complain about being cold and tasting something awful. These could be signs that something is wrong with your brain.
“Your mother wants you tested for epilepsy. You’ll have to stay in the hospital for awhile. If I find something wrong with you, there is medicine to make it better.”
I really wanted to tell on her, but I didn’t dare. The night before the test, I wasn’t allowed to sleep. In the morning my head was hooked up to electrodes. Then both sides of my jaws were frozen with a needle. Wires were inserted through my jaws to the base of my brain. I cried in pain. I could hear and feel the wires being forced through my head. Days later, the results came back as normal. Other medical tests were performed including a CAT scan of my brain. Again the results were normal.
The following day, I was playing the piano at the hospital. Suddenly, I tasted cold rotting vegetation. This was the taste of death. I saw my grandpa enclosed in a circle. I’d better call my mother and tell her to watch out for Grandpa.
“Hi,”
“Mom”
“Yes?”
“Something bad is going to happen to Grandpa. He’s going to die.”
“Your Grandfather is fine. He’s just come back from holidays. Goodbye.”
Days later, I was released without medication. Again she was told I was fine.
Hours after I was sent home, I started to feel uneasy. The premonition of my grandfather’s death started to gradually unfold throughout the evening. My grandfather was an alcoholic and he was drunk. He was out driving around, after threatening to do himself in. Many phone calls were received and placed in regards to his whereabouts. Family members were out looking for him. I knew he wasn’t going to survive the night. I prayed to God to spare his soul.
In the morning, someone came over to inform mother of his passing. I hadn’t heard the news, but I already knew. Right away mother burst into my bedroom with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.
“Laura, I need you to take this pill,” she insisted.
“Yesterday the doctor at the hospital told you I was Þ ne, before sending me home. He told you I didn’t need to be medicated. Why are you doing this to me?”
“These are my valium pills. You need to take one of these or else,” she threatened.
I held out my hand. Mother handed me a pill and the glass of water. Mother was out of it. I wondered if she had taken one of these pills herself.
“I’ll be back in awhile.” She stated.
I waited for her to leave my room, before throwing the pill in the garbage.
After a while she returned to my room. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“Are you a little sleepy and relaxed?” She inquired.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’m glad you took that pill, because I have bad news for you. Your grandfather is dead. He returned home last night, pulled his car into the garage, shut the door and left his car running. He died of asphyxiation.
A couple of days later, we arrived at the funeral home.
“We’re going to go into a special room to say goodbye to Grandpa.” she instructed.
“I’ve already seen him dead, before he died. I don’t want to see him. Please don’t make me see him. That’s not how I want to remember him.”
She was livid. After finding out where he was, she came back for me. I was physically forced by her into the viewing room with Grandpa’s open casket. I stood there mortified, sickened as I viewed his lifeless body.
“Touch his hand and tell him you love him,” she ordered.
“No, I don’t want to. He doesn’t look like he did when he was alive,” I insisted.
She grabbed my hand and put it on his freezing cold hands, which were clasped above his waist. I almost vomited. Couldn’t she just beat me instead, I silently thought.
“Tell him goodbye,” she barked.
“Goodbye,” I said while sobbing with fear and sadness.
“Kiss him,” she demanded.
“No,” I replied.
“Kiss him,” she repeated, as she grabbed the back of my head, neck and shoulders forcing me down toward him.
Being upset and uneasy, I lost my balance and fell on him. She grabbed my long hair and led me to his forehead. My lips touched his cold tight forehead and the smell of formaldehyde sickened me. I felt like I was going to pass out. Seconds later, she finally let go of me.
Weeks later, she found a psychiatrist who labeled me schizophrenic and medicated me. My mother asked him about having me sterilized. Shortly after that diagnosis, mother brought me to a healing service at the church. She told the man in charge that I was possessed and suffering from a mental illness.
Many weeks later that psychiatrist died. Mother insisted that we attend his funeral together. She wanted me to see his body, but I refused. Thankfully there were many people around. She couldn’t force me to do anything.
Weeks later she found another psychiatrist. He didn’t agree with the previous label, instead I was labeled bi-polar. I was medicated with something different. Shortly after, I became a ward of the government and lived in a group home.
I was medicated against my will on a daily basis. I often felt sick and dizzy.
A strict daily routine was followed. Living quarters were cleaned daily, upon returning for the day. Every second day we would sit around a dining room table and work on our correspondence for an hour. Every night after supper, one person would be chosen to scrub the kitchen floor by hand.
On the last day of every month, we were issued one roll of toilet paper and a bus pass. A five dollar bill was given to purchase personal effects such as pads.
One morning, I was so groggy, I didn’t shower before leaving for the program. After returning, I climbed into the shower. The worker in charge