TRUE STORY: Alcohol and Spousal Abuse often destroys families and relationships for
IN HONOUR OF THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE LONDON ABUSED WOMEN'S CENTRE
Originally posted on Saturday, October 6, 2007
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alcohol and Spousal Abuse often destroys families and relationships for generations
DURING THE WINTER OF 1964-65 when I was in grade five, I walked in the side door of our home after school and couldn't believe what I saw.
Without exaggeration, everything inside the home was totally destroyed: Windows were smashed out, contents of the fridge were hanging like goo from the ceiling, every dinner plate in the kitchen was smashed on the floor, all the upholstered furniture had been ripped apart with a butcher knife, all the walls had been ripped open with a crowbar -- even our goldfish bowl had been tossed against the wall.
I had no idea where our cocker spaniel, Ginger, was. Maybe outside in the back yard, shivering with fear. (A year or so later, the poor dog had to be "put down" due to constant wet bowel movements, resulting from the ongoing trauma in the home. My older brother and I were devastated. To this very day, it bothers me when I think about it.)
Everything was smashed, as was my dad
Simply stated, everything in the home that could be broken -- chairs, dining room table, TV, console stereo, mirrors, end tables, beds, dressers etc. -- were in pieces, strewn about the home. Almost like a tornado had whipped through the house.
Sadly, only weeks earlier, my parents had spent thousands of dollars redecorating the home, buying new furniture and dinner ware.
Lying on the couch (the only stick of furniture not smashed to pieces), obviously tired from strenuous exertion, was my wild-eyed father, a disturbed man with a violent temper and a severe alcohol problem. Even the local police were afraid of him, knowing that history had taught them that it took four or five of them to take him down.
I have no recollection what I did after spotting him that wintry day laying on the couch. Most likely I left and waited outside for my working mother and brother to arrive home.
'Isn't your sex life very good?'
For years, he had abused my mother, blackening her eyes on several occasions and generally taking offence at everything real or imagined. When the police were called, they weren't very helpful, even asking my mother questions such as, "What did you do to provoke him? Isn't your sex life very good?"
The ol' "blame the victim" routine, favoured by fools and other ignorant people.
This was back in the days when shelters for women were unheard of and an agency such as the London Abused Women's Centre was non-existent.
I do remember the police putting my mother, my brother and I up in a local hotel for a few days -- the same hotel where my father often drank and regularly got into vicious fist-fights (he'd fight at the drop of a hat, even if you looked at him the wrong way). I can still rember the smell of draft beer wafting up from the tavern into our hotel room, as well as the noise from the beverage room. At really great spot to be hiding from a drunken abuser.
If memory serves, in those days the spouse had to lay the charges. The one time my mother did have my father charged with assault, it went to trial and my father somehow got off. After the trial, a police officer advised my mother and my grandfather (who offered emotional support to my Mom during the trial) to "get out of town, because Don will be on the warpath now."
My father worked shift-work as a stationery engineer, looking after heating and cooling plants in factories, so his drinking could start at anytime of the day or night -- usually with a buddy or two.
Often, we'd go to the local movie house -- even when we had to go to school in the morning -- only sneaking back home after 11 p.m., when we'd be sure that he was passed out in bed. To this day, I'm amazed I don't have stomach ulcers.
Other times, we slept in the back of my mother's station wagon (summer and winter), hotels and motels or stayed with friends and relatives, to avoid the insane wrath of my father.
Several times we even slept in an office at my mother's place of employment, secretly clearing out before the other employees arrived for work.
I'll be home for Christmas
One Christmas, I remember seeing his drunken, enraged face appear in the window of the back door. I have no idea what our "crime" was. Perhaps he was enraged that we were sober and he was drunk.
Instantly, we all knew that we were in for some serious trouble.
Without even putting on coats we scattered out the front door (all of us heading in different directions, meeting up later by accident, downtown). As we fled, we heard a crash behind us as the Christmas turkey (straight from the oven) was fired through the front window and landed in a snowbank, still steaming.
I have no recollection where we spent that Christmas night. Probably in a downtown hotel, an expense that my working mother could ill afford.
The Devil 'moves' to Winnipeg
When my father destroyed the interior of our home and all its furnishings, he decided that he was moving to Winnipeg. He didn't even lift a finger to board up the windows -- we had to do that as we couldn't afford to replace the glass and it was wintertime.
At hearing the news that he was leaving, my mother, my brother and I were overjoyed. We all thought, "Great, the asshole is finally leaving." We even covertly watched him board the train at the station, to make sure he actually left town.
A few days later he called from Winnipeg and said he was coming back home.
Time to get out of here
That really set the wheels in motion for my mother to finally leave my father and move to London in the summer of 1965, where we stayed with my mother's sister, her husband and their daughter for a month or two until we got our own apartment in south London.
My mother had landed a job in London and slowly things began looking up.
Not long afterward, my father showed up in London to create more problems, but the police in London weren't as accommodating as those in his and our smaller hometown.
In 1973-74, my father enjoyed a year and a half of sobriety while working as a stationery engineer in Paris, Ontario, at the Penman's plant. When off the sauce, my dad was charismatic, creative, very active, an avid reader and extremely likeable. Then he fell off the wagon (again) and wrapped his white Buick around a tree, returning from a table shuffleboard tournament in a small-town tavern.
In 1980, he moved in with me, in a farmhouse just outside of Lambeth. After a month or so, I was desperate to get rid of him (he was drinking 24 beers-plus a day) and he finally got the message when his money ran out and he sobered up.
He walked the 16 miles or so into downtown London and a few nights later, in a drunken stupour and looking for a place to sleep in the basement of the old CN station (where he once worked), he fell down a flight of terazzo stairs, landed on his tail bone and was paralyzed from the neck down.
After a few years of recovery, he was able to walk with a cane; then in 1987, he developed lung cancer from decades of smoking.
During this period, my mother helped him in every way possible --arranging home care, banking, house-cleaning and doctors, you name it.
My father finally died in University Hospital on Monday, March 7, 1988.
To this day, my older brother has never really reconciled with my mother, for personal reasons he's chosen not to discuss. There's been several other strained and broken relationships from the insanity, as well.
What I am sure of, however, if there had been a better support system in place in those days -- police support, Women's Community House and an agency such as the London Abused Women's Centre -- I'm sure that my mother would have found the strength and wherewithal to leave my father earlier in the abusive relationship.
25 years of helping abused women and their families
If memory serves, the London Abused Women's Centre was founded 25 years ago by former NDP MP Marion Boyd at the old courthouse in London in 1982 -- 25 or 30 years too late to help my mother, my brother and I, but in time to help thousands and thousands of other families suffering from the bizarre nonsense that I experienced as a youth.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Be thankful if you're in a warm and safe environment, with a roof over your head and food in the fridge.
As one who's been to the Dark Side of the Moon many years ago, life's comforts are not something to take for granted.
www.altlondon.org - A TRUE STORY: Alcohol and Spousal Abuse often destroys families and relationships for generations
IN HONOUR OF THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE LONDON ABUSED WOMEN'S CENTRE
Originally posted on Saturday, October 6, 2007
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alcohol and Spousal Abuse often destroys families and relationships for generations
DURING THE WINTER OF 1964-65 when I was in grade five, I walked in the side door of our home after school and couldn't believe what I saw.
Without exaggeration, everything inside the home was totally destroyed: Windows were smashed out, contents of the fridge were hanging like goo from the ceiling, every dinner plate in the kitchen was smashed on the floor, all the upholstered furniture had been ripped apart with a butcher knife, all the walls had been ripped open with a crowbar -- even our goldfish bowl had been tossed against the wall.
I had no idea where our cocker spaniel, Ginger, was. Maybe outside in the back yard, shivering with fear. (A year or so later, the poor dog had to be "put down" due to constant wet bowel movements, resulting from the ongoing trauma in the home. My older brother and I were devastated. To this very day, it bothers me when I think about it.)
Everything was smashed, as was my dad
Simply stated, everything in the home that could be broken -- chairs, dining room table, TV, console stereo, mirrors, end tables, beds, dressers etc. -- were in pieces, strewn about the home. Almost like a tornado had whipped through the house.
Sadly, only weeks earlier, my parents had spent thousands of dollars redecorating the home, buying new furniture and dinner ware.
Lying on the couch (the only stick of furniture not smashed to pieces), obviously tired from strenuous exertion, was my wild-eyed father, a disturbed man with a violent temper and a severe alcohol problem. Even the local police were afraid of him, knowing that history had taught them that it took four or five of them to take him down.
I have no recollection what I did after spotting him that wintry day laying on the couch. Most likely I left and waited outside for my working mother and brother to arrive home.
'Isn't your sex life very good?'
For years, he had abused my mother, blackening her eyes on several occasions and generally taking offence at everything real or imagined. When the police were called, they weren't very helpful, even asking my mother questions such as, "What did you do to provoke him? Isn't your sex life very good?"
The ol' "blame the victim" routine, favoured by fools and other ignorant people.
This was back in the days when shelters for women were unheard of and an agency such as the London Abused Women's Centre was non-existent.
I do remember the police putting my mother, my brother and I up in a local hotel for a few days -- the same hotel where my father often drank and regularly got into vicious fist-fights (he'd fight at the drop of a hat, even if you looked at him the wrong way). I can still rember the smell of draft beer wafting up from the tavern into our hotel room, as well as the noise from the beverage room. At really great spot to be hiding from a drunken abuser.
If memory serves, in those days the spouse had to lay the charges. The one time my mother did have my father charged with assault, it went to trial and my father somehow got off. After the trial, a police officer advised my mother and my grandfather (who offered emotional support to my Mom during the trial) to "get out of town, because Don will be on the warpath now."
My father worked shift-work as a stationery engineer, looking after heating and cooling plants in factories, so his drinking could start at anytime of the day or night -- usually with a buddy or two.
Often, we'd go to the local movie house -- even when we had to go to school in the morning -- only sneaking back home after 11 p.m., when we'd be sure that he was passed out in bed. To this day, I'm amazed I don't have stomach ulcers.
Other times, we slept in the back of my mother's station wagon (summer and winter), hotels and motels or stayed with friends and relatives, to avoid the insane wrath of my father.
Several times we even slept in an office at my mother's place of employment, secretly clearing out before the other employees arrived for work.
I'll be home for Christmas
One Christmas, I remember seeing his drunken, enraged face appear in the window of the back door. I have no idea what our "crime" was. Perhaps he was enraged that we were sober and he was drunk.
Instantly, we all knew that we were in for some serious trouble.
Without even putting on coats we scattered out the front door (all of us heading in different directions, meeting up later by accident, downtown). As we fled, we heard a crash behind us as the Christmas turkey (straight from the oven) was fired through the front window and landed in a snowbank, still steaming.
I have no recollection where we spent that Christmas night. Probably in a downtown hotel, an expense that my working mother could ill afford.
The Devil 'moves' to Winnipeg
When my father destroyed the interior of our home and all its furnishings, he decided that he was moving to Winnipeg. He didn't even lift a finger to board up the windows -- we had to do that as we couldn't afford to replace the glass and it was wintertime.
At hearing the news that he was leaving, my mother, my brother and I were overjoyed. We all thought, "Great, the asshole is finally leaving." We even covertly watched him board the train at the station, to make sure he actually left town.
A few days later he called from Winnipeg and said he was coming back home.
Time to get out of here
That really set the wheels in motion for my mother to finally leave my father and move to London in the summer of 1965, where we stayed with my mother's sister, her husband and their daughter for a month or two until we got our own apartment in south London.
My mother had landed a job in London and slowly things began looking up.
Not long afterward, my father showed up in London to create more problems, but the police in London weren't as accommodating as those in his and our smaller hometown.
In 1973-74, my father enjoyed a year and a half of sobriety while working as a stationery engineer in Paris, Ontario, at the Penman's plant. When off the sauce, my dad was charismatic, creative, very active, an avid reader and extremely likeable. Then he fell off the wagon (again) and wrapped his white Buick around a tree, returning from a table shuffleboard tournament in a small-town tavern.
In 1980, he moved in with me, in a farmhouse just outside of Lambeth. After a month or so, I was desperate to get rid of him (he was drinking 24 beers-plus a day) and he finally got the message when his money ran out and he sobered up.
He walked the 16 miles or so into downtown London and a few nights later, in a drunken stupour and looking for a place to sleep in the basement of the old CN station (where he once worked), he fell down a flight of terazzo stairs, landed on his tail bone and was paralyzed from the neck down.
After a few years of recovery, he was able to walk with a cane; then in 1987, he developed lung cancer from decades of smoking.
During this period, my mother helped him in every way possible --arranging home care, banking, house-cleaning and doctors, you name it.
My father finally died in University Hospital on Monday, March 7, 1988.
To this day, my older brother has never really reconciled with my mother, for personal reasons he's chosen not to discuss. There's been several other strained and broken relationships from the insanity, as well.
What I am sure of, however, if there had been a better support system in place in those days -- police support, Women's Community House and an agency such as the London Abused Women's Centre -- I'm sure that my mother would have found the strength and wherewithal to leave my father earlier in the abusive relationship.
25 years of helping abused women and their families
If memory serves, the London Abused Women's Centre was founded 25 years ago by former NDP MP Marion Boyd at the old courthouse in London in 1982 -- 25 or 30 years too late to help my mother, my brother and I, but in time to help thousands and thousands of other families suffering from the bizarre nonsense that I experienced as a youth.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Be thankful if you're in a warm and safe environment, with a roof over your head and food in the fridge.
As one who's been to the Dark Side of the Moon many years ago, life's comforts are not something to take for granted.
www.altlondon.org - A TRUE STORY: Alcohol and Spousal Abuse often destroys families and relationships for generations
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