Saturday, January 9, 2016

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Secrets, Lies, and Abuse: thoughts from late 2015



I am posting this text from late 2015 now, in light of what Halifax - in the form of Katherine Salsman, Hope Swinimer, and Christine and Derek Graham - did to me and Brindi for over five years, topped by their blatant lies about adoption last week. They have essentially stolen my dog and neglected her health for five years. She looks ragged and worn and yet they told media she's been living in the Graham's home all this time - and allowed to play with other dogs! Clearly untrue, especially since they swore to the court in 2012 that she was kept away from dogs and locked up in the kennel!

For what it's worth this is how I felt a lot of the time, as I struggled to keep going so I could keep Brindi alive:

_______________________________________________________

Victims of abuse .... often hide their abuse from others.
Abusers often count on this as well. It's an age-old mechanism: the more they intimidate their victims, the less likelihood their misdeeds will be discovered.

I just realized I may be doing this unconsciously to some degree. And I suspect it may be a mistake. Why hide it? Maybe because I don't think of myself as a victim of abuse. It's not like there's support groups out there for victims of municipalities - and admittedly, this goes pretty far beyond bureaucratic bullying.

But maybe also that despite evidence surrounding me, I don't like to think of myself as a victim. Who really does?



I even seem to have buried my awareness of ovarian cancer - a pretty neat trick, considering that I am still very much experiencing the effects of major surgery for the malignant (thankfully stage 1) tumor.  I have no idea when it started growing, but it had reached sizeable proportions (9x10x14 cm) by the time they removed it. I can't say I was so happy or willing to lose other parts of my body along with it. I never had the opportunity to make good use of my uterus and cervix, but I was kind of fond of them nevertheless. I mean, they were a big part of me. Made me what I am. Or was. The pre-surgery scans came back negative; post-surgery lab tests confirmed they were free of blame. No cancerous growths, doing a fine job of secreting their various hormones.

Tests showed that one of my ovaries was perfectly fine too; the other sadly unable to fight back against the blob forming around it,

And then there's the foot-long scar that starts above my belly button, circles around it, and plunges straight down again, well below what would be my bikini line, if I ever wore a bikini, the bottom end thickening and red. Sort of like a long flattened earthworm.

Maybe it's part of PTSD to kind of extinguish yourself - to shrink into the smallest thing you can. Like when my boyfriend was mugged and I saw him drop to the pavement and curl up into a fetal position as he was still being pummelled.

So I forget - or avoid.

And so even when I already knew the city's lawyer had likely told a big fat lie to my cousin, as her response to his offer to adopt Brindi just made no sense,

It was shocking all over again when she refused to disclose anything about it - it pretty much established the lie

I live in constant fear and loathing.

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