Triggers abound, and don't read even a page if you're feeling low. Names changed to keep some anonymity. 

My earliest memory is being touched by my babysitter's husband. It's a fleeting image of a large hand reaching down at my small body. I don't remember the aftermath. My mom tells me I was acting strangely, so she took me on a trip with her to spend some time alone together. It was out of the blue when I told her that my babysitter's husband touched my vagina. She went to the police, but nothing came of it. She says the police didn't believe me, and that they thought I had just made it up – what well-to-do married man touches kids? They had me show them on dolls what happened to me, and I don't remember it, but my mom says they were so rude to me that she was threatened with charges for nearly barging in on their interrogation of me. She says that after this experience, she wrote a play about it that some local actors and actresses took on. She invited the police department to the first show, and they actually showed up. The audience booed them at the end of the play.

This is the image I have of my mother – a strong woman who wanted to bust down interrogation room doors to be with me in a difficult moment, and a woman who avenged me in a creative and powerful way. It's an image I desperately cling to. She wouldn't always be that woman, but I know that in her heart it's who she means to be.

Throughout my childhood, we took in a number of house guests. The first was a woman who my mom had fostered, before she had me. This woman, Joanne, was coming to live with us to escape her abusive boyfriend. She came with three children, one of which was close to me in age. We played together, although I often enticed her into doing stupid things and then miraculously escaped blame. I can't believe some of the things I talked her into. I once convinced her that we should live in the alley behind the house, and it went as far as her taking a huge shit in the alley way. She always stood up for me when we were being questioned, which I don't really understand, because most of what she got in trouble for was orchestrated by me. 

I liked Joanne a lot, and was happy to have her in our home. She became part of the family very quickly, but I'll never forget the time her ex boyfriend showed up. It was a day off school, and she was babysitting me. I left very briefly to take my dog for a walk. I was only 8, but I walked Tucker alone quite frequently. It was a good neighbourhood and he was a great dog. When I got back, though, Joanne was standing in the doorway, sobbing. As I got closer, I realized that the screen door had been smashed in. I ran up to the house, and Joanne bumbled through sobs,

“Do you think your mom will be mad? Do you think she'll kick me out?”

“No, of course not. No, never. It's not your fault.” I consoled. I felt awful – if I had only taken the dog for a walk 10 minutes later, this wouldn't have happened. Tucker would have barked and snarled and scared the man away, I was certain of it. If only I had been there.

Not much later, Joanne's new boyfriend, Jack, moved in. I liked him a lot. He played games with me and my brother, and gave me all kinds of life advice about being confident and believing in myself. I never imagined that one day he'd disappear, and my mom would explain to me that he had started hitting Joanne and that she had kicked him out. I couldn't understand it. Why would a cool guy who was so nice to me ever hit Joanne? I didn't miss him though, and I felt sorry for Joanne for having such bad luck. She moved out not long after that. A few months later, we found a newspaper article that said that Jack had stabbed a man in the eye and he was facing jail time. He apologized to his victim in a quote in the article, and I remember thinking, “Well, at least he apologized.”

Our next house guest was a woman named Rhea. Rhea was a feminist, and a lesbian like my mom. I loved her. We went to feminist poetry readings and she played basketball with me. She taught me that 'cunt' was the worst thing you could ever call a woman, and that one time a man called her a cunt and she told him to go fuck himself. So, she didn't have a very child-appropriate vocabulary, but she was the epitome of a strong woman as far as I was concerned. She was the one that shaved my head when I got lice, and cheered me on when I was hesitant to go to school with my newly shaved head. Like the others, though, she too would disappear. Alcoholism. She left of her own free will, on a binge. My mom didn't let her move back in after that, and we later found out she had cancer and was choosing not to get treatment. Mom said that Rhea believed that nature was telling her it was time to die, and she trusted nature. My brother said she was a lunatic.

After Rhea left we didn't have any more house guests. My mom tried to encourage me to have friends over, and I would tell her that I had seen them all day at school already – why would I need to see them even more? I had already had a habit of playing alone in my room with the lights off, listening to the Cranberries, and things seemed to get a little worse as time went on. I don't think it was necessarily the result of the houseguests, because I remember having a conversation with Jack about suicidal feelings and that was before most of the dramatic departures.

I started to date when I was 10. I was obsessed with the idea of meeting Mr. Perfect and being with one man for the rest of my life. I chose a prime candidate for my first boyfriend, and he was fantastic. We walked our dogs together every night, we listened to the same music, and had a mutual friend we spent most of our time with. Things don't tend to last when you're 10, though; a first kiss and six months and it was over. After that things really started to slip. I started talking about suicide again and I confided in some people about it. They told me that was awful, and I felt a little better after they reassured me that I had plenty to live for. I didn't tell my mom, but she could tell I was down, and she got me a dog named Spinner that I could take to dog shows – at which I did a lot of winning. There wasn't anything to feel suicidal about when I was doing something so fun and exciting.

At 11 I started to have a lot of sexual urges. I gave my first blowjob when I turned 12, and occasionally contemplated sex. I wasn't pressured into it, and while did probably think it made me “cool”, I primarily did it because I got off. I had great orgasms that made me feel fucking fantastic. I know that children having orgasms is a pretty taboo subject, but there you have it.  

My mom and her partner announced their break up when I was 12. I wasn't even really all that upset, but I couldn't even begin to fathom how it would change my life, so that's probably why. I figured I'd still see her partner who was a mother to me – like joint custody – and apart from possibly moving to a new house, nothing else would really change. It was an assumption based on how the divorce with my dad had turned out – but it didn't end up being an accurate prediction. I didn't see her (ex)partner more than once until my twenties when we reunited. I should clarify – my dad and my mom divorced when I was just a baby. My dad had joint custody, and we had a very good relationship. He doesn't come up in this story much because we only saw him on weekends and his house was sort of like a big party where we just did fun things and ate a lot of salt and vinegar chips. For me it was like going to camp, though it wasn't so simple for my brother who had issues with our dad's wife. Dad didn't do any parenting, really, but he gave me a break on the weekends when things got worse.

So, anyway, as it turned out, my mom had a new partner waiting in the wings, and they planned to move in together pretty much immediately. Except, we were moving to a new city. In a weird way, I was kind of excited by this. I liked the idea of a fresh start – though I don't really understand why, because I had it pretty fucking good at my current school and with my friends. I think I was feeling a little sad about having lost my first love and failing my mission to meet one man and be together forever ... but really, I would have gotten over that.

When we moved to the new city, things took a sinister turn quite quickly. I didn't make new friends. A girl at my new school told everyone in advance that I was terrible – I had known her through some church group I had participated in for a few months (I went through a Christian phase).  I never really understood why she didn't like me - the other kids at the church group liked me well enough.  But anyway, I didn't really have much of a chance when I arrived at my new school. I got myself through the day and then spent most of my time at home alone with Tucker in my basement bedroom – which was built especially for me. They soundproofed the ceiling for my drum-playing. Very thoughtful gesture, but I lost my motivation to play without a big brother to jam with (he moved out) or a drum teacher to learn from. 

After a few weeks in the new city, my mom announced that my show dog (Spinner) had to live outside because he wasn't properly housebroken and they didn't want the carpets getting ruined. Now – we lived in fucking Canada, and this was a single-coated African breed. They aren't meant to live outside in a Canadian climate.  I knew right away it was wrong, and I told her it was a breach of contract anyway – the breeder had stipulated that Spinner had to live inside. Her solution? We had to get rid of him. I wasn't showing him anymore anyway, since she had told me I had to start paying for the dog shows myself … and what 12 year old has the kind of money to pay for dog shows? Not me. I tearfully called the breeder myself to break the bad news. He was very upset with me, and despite being a mentor of sorts – he never spoke to me again. Several years later I ran into him at a dog show I had gotten a ride to and he pretended not to know me. I felt so much guilt and shame about failing Spinner that for a long time I was embarrassed to be involved at all in the various dog communities I so badly wanted to be a part of.  Tucker and I just kept to ourselves. 

I lost my dog, I lost my drums, I lost my friends, and then my mom and her new partner, Sylvia, started fighting. Not just any fighting, I'm talking screaming and name-calling and throwing things and slamming doors. I had new rules – I had to pretend to like her and I had to smile at the dinner table. It didn't matter if I did those things, though, they still fought. Sylvia would chase me through the house screaming at me to like her, and I'd have to lock myself in the bathroom with Tucker to get away. Sometimes I'd sneak out when she walked away for a minute, and disappear into the neighbourhood for an hour or so. Well, anyway, that's when I started cutting. They were small cuts at first – I used sewing needles at first and just stabbed in a line. Then I'd smack my wrists together to make it bleed, and rub the blood in my journal. Later on, I'd use a webcam to take pictures of the cuts and organize them neatly on my computer. I never showed anyone, but I desperately wanted to. How do you work that into a conversation? Hey, would you like to see my self-inflicted wounds?

I remember one night my moms were having a particularly bad fight, and this time they were fighting in my step brother's room.  Patrick was only 7, and I could hear him screaming and crying from the basement.  I went up to rescue him, and slipped past my screaming mom and new stepmom, and tried to take Patrick downstairs with me, but he wouldn't move.  That's when Sylvia turned and screamed at me,
"Don't you dare touch my son!"
In my head I screamed back some witty reply in his defense, but in real life I just went back downstairs and cried. 

I started high school the next year. I fell in with the wrong crowd quite quickly. Well, I guess I really only fell in with the wrong student. I had a couple acquaintances, no real friends, and one guy who I spent some time with. He had a terrible reputation for being a creep, but I was convinced he was misunderstood. Well, he wasn't. We fell out after he attempted to light my hair on fire on the bus and then wouldn't let me off the bus until I showed him my tits. He also started to insist on being paid to keep my secret about being bi-curious, but I didn't have any money. On a half-day of school, on our way home, he became more insistent about payment. He stole my backpack and got off of a bus stop about a mile from my house. I went after him, and we argued on a mutual friend's front lawn and then argued more inside the house. I regret setting a single foot in that house, but fuck – hindsight, 20/20, you know the drill. He raped me in that house – in the basement where I was dragged. I tried to kick him in the balls to escape, but he caught my knee before it made contact and pulled some ninja move that resulted in me falling backwards and then being straddled. I don't need to say any more. I walked home and cried on Tucker's shoulder, who sat very patiently while I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. 

The police claimed to take my rape seriously, but advised me not to go to court. They said that they were sure he'd done it, and that he had basically confessed to it, but that he had a much better lawyer and that court would be traumatizing enough not to be worth it. They said I'd probably just lose the case anyway. They also let me know that the friend I first confided in refused to testify because he didn't want to get all caught up in my drama. Shit, his parents didn't even want him to talk to me anymore because they said I was a bad influence. Anyway, my mom agreed with not going to court. Although she had fought so hard for me as a toddler, she just couldn't be bothered this time. She had no faith in the system, she says. So, I transferred schools. This was actually one of the greatest things that happened to me in my new city – because I immediately made a number of very good friends.

Unfortunately, having friends didn't do much for the trouble at home. The fighting my mom and her new partner were doing was out of control. I contemplated moving in with my dad, back in my old city. The only reason I didn't was because he wouldn't let me bring Tucker, and because he would give me an early curfew and probably make me go to church. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been at his house, though. If given the chance to do it over, I might go live with him instead. It's a tough call, though, because I don't think he'd have been any more understanding of my depression and Tucker was my motivation for not just fucking killing myself.

Anyway, I started to drink occasionally, and when I got my hands on a webcam – whew – let the camwhoring begin. I no longer believed in the fairytale of meeting one man and spending the rest of my life with him; it was impractical. I started showing my pussy to men in their thirties on a near-daily basis. I was 14 at this point, and though at the time that was the age of consent in Canada, the child porn aspect was still very much illegal. So was being blackmailed into more pictures by one man in particular, who threatened to spread my pussy pictures around the internet if I didn't send him more. I kept him quiet with a steady diet of pictures until he lost interest. I didn't want to tell my mom because she'd take my webcam away, and these were the only people paying any attention to me. Sex aside, I had also started drinking. I was still cutting, too, and doing it so regularly that sometimes in the last class of the day I'd be staring at the clock just waiting for it to get to 3:15 so I could run home and cut myself. I needed the relief. Looking back on it, why didn't I just cut at school? But whatever.

Things took a particularly vile turn when I was 15. My rapist transferred into my school. I went straight to the principal, but – oh, only “alleged” rapist. Right, I didn't go to court. No, they can't just transfer boys out because some girl claims he raped her. Even if the police ordered the school transfer? Nah, you're going to have to transfer again, sweetie. I stood up for myself for the first time in a long time and I told them it was his turn to have to leave. I was met with blank stares. First they said they'd move his locker further from mine, but ended up moving it closer. Then they said he wouldn't be allowed in the lunch room while I was in there, but he came in anyway, and sweetie, we can't just stop him from eating his lunch with the others. When he started approaching me with my friends to ask us the time – us out of everyone else – they thought it was hysterical that I considered it intimidating. Taking the same bus as me – even though that's where it all began? Sweetie, if you're really so uncomfortable, you'll have to walk. Where were my parents during this? Who the fuck knows. Not picking me up from school, though. I pressured them into a couple of meetings with the principal, during which the principal told them nothing could be done and they didn't fight it much. Although my mom's partner, Sylvia, did tell my principal that he was really fucking naïve, and that was probably the only time I liked her during my youth. I started working out heavily, maybe under some notion that if I ever had to confront him again I'd be well muscled and maybe even more intimidating? I don't know.  

A couple of months later, and I found myself in the ER with a stomach quarter-full of pills. Yeah, I stopped after 8 pills because Tucker started to bark at me and I felt guilty as hell. Smart dog! When I told my mom, she was furious. What the fuck were you thinking? God damn. Alright, let's go to the hospital. Ugh. During the car ride she told me that the psych ward was an awful place and that I should pretend this was an accident. Just pretend you were stressed about school and had a terrible headache, and the bottle slipped and a bunch of pills just slid down your throat. What a horrible mistake! God! The intake nurse at the hospital told me I was a very stupid girl. I told my rehearsed lies to the doctors and the social workers, and voila! I was out. “We should probably get you some therapy, though,” my mom said. Then she started blubbering about how she was a terrible mother, and I consoled her, even though my first thought was, “Hell yeah you're a terrible mother.”

Cue Sandra, the shittiest therapist in the world. Sandra repeatedly told me that my moms' fighting was completely normal. Most kids' parents fight like cats and dogs. Even in the kid's room? About them? Screaming? Yeah! Even that! Totally normal. Even if the only way I can get them to stop is to get drunk and pretend to swallow a bottle of pills? Well, why would you do that? What if it's making me bitter and cynical about relationships? Are you kidding? You're only 16! You shouldn't be dating anyway. Oh. I see. As for the rape talk, she would just tell me how strong I am and how terrible rape is. Blah blah blah. Rape is bad. You're a survivor! Yay! So strong!

The cuts start to get bigger and bleed more. I switched to scissors for some wonky assortment of cuts on my wrist, and a bread knife to saw some wounds up my arms. I also made a few 'x' spots on my legs. Some people noticed, but once I reassured them that I was fine, it was no big deal. In fact, I remember turning in an English assignment that was a poem about how I wanted to cut a wound so deep I'd bleed to death. “Great work!” A+. Would read again. Thanks. Sometimes I wonder if she even read it. Nobody's that terrible, are they?  

Accounting class, and Chuck leans over to me and asks me if I know, well, the guy who raped me. I turn white. What? Why would you think that? Why are you asking me this in accounting class? I spent the next 40 minutes trying not to start crying. At lunch, I see he's approached one of my friends to explain that I transferred here after allegedly being raped – but that he thinks I made it up. I went to the bathroom and cried Niagara Falls.  When I got home, I took Tucker on an extra long walk to treat myself to an escape from my hellish home. 

In my final year of high school, my parents moved to another city and left me to live in a student house with university students. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, sure, I started drinking a lot more, but I stopped cutting and I learned how to numb myself to emotion. I also learned how to keep myself from forming attachments or caring about people. Those sound like bad things but when you're facing your rapist every day, it comes in handy to be able to turn off feelings. It was better than the constant crushing anxiety of the House of Anger, by a long shot. I fucked men who were respectful and age-appropriate, started writing about politics and feminism, and danced to Dick Hyman's “The Cat”. It reminds me a little of Rhea, minus the cancer and severe alcoholism. I'm sure it sounds like it was still a terrible situation, but I became the woman I am today in that little student rental. I finally got to experience being in control, and I learned through trial and error how to take care of myself. 

Unfortunately, though, the fuck ups didn't end there. Notable mentions from this point on included witnessing Sylvia hit my mom, trying to kill myself after serving as a mentor to a girl who had been brutally gang-raped, losing all self-restraint and telling Sylvia and my mother that I fucking hate them and wouldn't miss them if I never saw them again, and spending a month cheating on my incredible boyfriend with a recovering drug addict because he “just gets me”, but then having to check myself into the psych ward to stop myself from another suicide attempt (from the guilt of it).

My mother recently admitted that she knew from the time I was a small child that I was probably struggling with mental illness, but that she didn't know what to do, so she did nothing. It was a refreshingly honest thing for her to tell me, and now I can finally really fucking hate her so that I'll some day forgive her.  

I'm still a fucking disaster, but I'm gradually getting better. I drink less, I rarely cut, and I know that my pussy or tits or ass aren't what make me who I am. I fuck men because I want to have sex, not because I'm sad and lonely. I'm an intelligent, strong woman, and I'm surprisingly wise for being such a trainwreck. Some day if I choose to have children I'll make an incredible mother, because I know how important it is to just notice. To just fucking notice. I know how important it is to make sure that your child gets to partake in their passions, even if sometimes it requires a little effort on your part (like helping your child housebreak their dog). I know how important it is to know when your relationship is getting in the way of your parenting; I know that no matter how much I love someone,  if they're stopping me from parenting it's a fucking dealbreaker. I know that if a dog is doing a better parenting job than I am, it's time to re-evaluate. I know that I have to not only love my child but to make sure they know I love them – every single day. If, when the time comes to consider start having a family, I'm even remotely skeptical of my ability to do all of that for the rest of my life ... I won't dare become a parent.

And on that note, I want to thank Tucker for making sure I stayed alive, and for inspiring me to write this. He was a parent when my real parents weren't. Rest in peace, dad.