Chapter Two: EMDR

As I stated earlier, I had used EMDR as a form of therapy. The first time they did it, they wanted to see if it would pull my memory. The second time they used the EMDR, it took me back to about four years old. The third time they used it, we went between 2.5 and 4 years old. My family had bought a very old home, about 175 Years old, with a chimney in the middle of the house and a pot-belly stove that was hooked to it. This stove had a glass centre, and you could watch the wood burning. I can remember my mother getting that stove so hot you could hear it pant like an old dog. As long as I can remember, I could hear my mother yelling at my father. “If there’s one thing I’m going to do before I die, it is to see you in the grave before me “. My mother would often wait until nine o’clock at night before she would start storming through the house, letting us know what the night would be like. My father was smart, although he never went past grade seven. He could work on anything he wanted; he could build anything he wanted to. My mother pointed that out to him multiple times, as she was the one with the education. He was never allowed to feel good about anything he ever did. She would fight with him for days at a time. By the time my dad would lose his fuse, it was way past yelling and screaming; it turned into the use of his hands. When this would start, I would get out of my bed, which was in the corner of the dining room facing the stove, and I would crawl under it. While this was going on, it took nothing to get in trouble, and I often felt a wooden spoon or a branch from a tree. By this time, I was sick a lot, and in the hospital, so I was a year late starting school, which gave my mother more time to practice on me. How do you hit a child and not let it show? By the time I had made it to school, I already had a fear of adults because of what I had dealt with from my mother. I had a fear of making mistakes and giving the wrong answers. I had a fear of not being able to colour right, to hold a pencil right. There was just a lot that a little boy could do wrong, without even trying. Shortly after the Christmas break in Grade One, I ended up in the hospital due to my lungs. I spent a week in an oxygen tent and then a week at home. When I got back to school, I had my first experience with a teacher insulting me. I had developed a stutter that would come and go under pressure. One morning, my Grade One teacher, Mrs. Mildred Tucker, asked me if I was stupid or retarded, then proceeded to drag my desk up to the front of the class so it could face the students. For weeks, I was known as the stupid one in our class. I was kept back that year because I missed too much school due to illness. Grades Two and Three were not bad. I had Christine MacDonald and Muriel Wilson, who were like grandmothers to us all. During all of this time, I had both a weak bladder and kidneys. During the winter months, this caused me a lot of grief due to the temperature change from going out into the cold and then coming back into the warm building. The principal of the elementary school was Annie Leslie. She was the combination of Cruella de Vil, the Mad Hatter and Hitler. She would hit any child, she would throw any child against a wall, she would grab them by the hair and drag them to her office. Each one of those events I had with her. And it all had to do with me having to use the washroom after playing in the cold. She had even told the other teachers not to let me go to the washroom. During my fifth grade, my teacher was Lillian Sutherland. One afternoon during the winter months, I put my hand up five times to go to the washroom. For those who don’t know what it is like to have kidney problems, the burning is unbelievable when you are holding back. She made me wait until I could hold it no more, and I wet myself at my desk in front of my class. That night, when I went home, I asked my father if I could talk to him. I never went to my mother with this problem because she would have hit me. She would have hit me because I got in trouble in school and because I wet myself. My father never said a word other than I’ll deal with it. The next morning, Dad called our family doctor and told him what had happened. He called the school board and asked if they would like to be sued, and the teachers lose their jobs. That stopped my waiting. Grade Six, saw Stella Coulter cut my hand open with a metal-edged yardstick.  During all of these events, I had my mom try to commit suicide twice.  One time she was on the floor, the next time she was lying on her bed. Who do you talk to when your family is crazy? My sister was gone, my oldest brother was gone. It was madness. As a child, who were you supposed to talk to without it flying back to your home?  Thoughts?