Warning: This blog post contains sensitive information about domestic violence and child abuse. I am not ashamed that I was a victim. I’m proud that I’m a survivor.
Secrets and lies behind closed doors
My father, Wayne Colin Giles, is this to a T. People always thought he was a great guy which he really was but when it came to his family, we weren’t so lucky to know the nice guy. We knew a man who smiled while he beat you bloody. We knew a man who didn’t think twice about taking out a gun and threatening to end our lives. We knew a man who drove a car through our home. We knew a man who fired a gun at my nine year old head because I didn’t have the answers he wanted.
Wayne went on to have over 20 children whom he all abused no matter boy or girl. That abuse included incest with his children and has scarred every child or woman who has been unlucky enough to cross his path. He lurks out there today and while I secretly hope to read an obituary somewhere so I can finally feel 100% safe, I haven’t seen it yet. He is an old man but an old man who was once a very terrible young man.
My children and grandchildren will never know my father and they are well aware what he was like to me. Two of my children have seen him but one was a 2 year old under close supervision and the second was a 14 year old daughter at a music festival she was performing at and which he showed up. He followed her and her friends throughout the festival before and after her show. She is well aware of what he was like to me and she told him just what she thought of him. I was so proud when she told me. She had more courage to say that then I had or do have. If you’ve never been severely abused you may not understand but if you have, you will.
My abuse began before I even left the womb. I never made it to a full nine months without feeling his punches from the outside. He beat my mother for being First Nations and often called her a dirty indian though he had no problem having sex with her or impregnating her. Guess he wasn’t paying attention to her skin color then. Her family was no help at all and at age 17 she was married with a big belly to a man who hated her and the baby she was carrying. No one looked into my mother’s eyes and saw the fear she had.
My mom and father left a small town in Manitoba to go to a small town just outside of Calgary, Alberta. They lived with his dad and step mother. The entire time he was there, my mother was beaten. In fact, the day I was born he had thrown a particularly bad beating on my mother because she was moaning in labor. He was upset because he wanted to sleep. He punched her over and over again in her face blackening both eyes until he was pulled off by his father.
I was born the next day and at that time no one thought to ask my mom why she was beaten to a pulp and covered with bruises. They let her go home with the man who was the cause of the bruises and would be the cause of many more to the woman who gave birth to his child and to the child he hated.
Wayne always blamed me for him being “kicked out on the door step” but I was just a child. A child who peed when I heard his angry voice because I was never sure if today would be the day I would stop breathing. I knew what he was going to do with me behind closed doors daily when he was alone with me. I either performed or I was beaten. Sometimes I was beaten and then forced to perform. No one understands how terrified a child is when they have no one to help them and every person who should help them, doesn’t.
Wayne told me daily that I should die and do the world a favor. My earliest memories of that were around 2 years old. When I was around five I decided it was time to die and not have to deal with the pain I was being forced upon me. By this time he had invited his friends to join in and abuse me while he took film of it or used that handy instant film. His sister caught him once when she was around 11 and was sleeping over when he was bringing in another man to abuse me in my bed. My first attempt was to run into traffic and get hit by a car. I did get hit by a car and still vividly remember watching the underside of the beetle bug car while I was laying under it. The ambulance took me home. Back then the ambulance was a station wagon with your head facing the tail gate. When my father came close to me I could feel my entire body start to shake. Wayne lowered his 6′ 4″ frame to my little ear and whispered, “I wished you were dead.” Then the smile returned to his face as the attendants came back.
This man was the reason I was not able to give birth to my children properly and why I ended up having to have a complete hysterectomy when I was in my early 20’s. The doctors assumed I had just been very promiscuous and never asked any questions.
Wayne’s children all have major issues. Some of us were lucky enough to have survived and at least one was not. The mom said the 12 year old was killed by Wayne when he was beating her but the police said her death was due to the mom hitting a pole while rushing her daughter to the hospital. They never asked why she had to take the girl to the hospital but assumed her death was an accident. Would that happen today? I don’t think so.
Today Wayne lives with a new wife and, while none of his children or grandchildren will see him, the new wife’s family have no idea of his past and allow their small children alone time with this most horrid child predator. The only time Wayne will stop hurting others is when he takes his last breath. I can tell you that when he takes his last breath I will be taking my first without being fearful that he will return to finish the job he started when I was nine.
One thing I have learned is that it’s not that easy to leave someone who is harming you. Sometimes it really is a matter of life and death. No one knows what really goes on behind closed doors or who that person is behind the mask they wear with a smile.
If you need help, reach out. You don’t have to suffer in silence. It doesn’t matter who does or doesn’t believe you. What matters the most is your safety. Please don’t think that it’s best for your children to stay in an abusive situation because it’s not. I no longer speak to my mother for staying in that situation and for saying things didn’t happen which she knows did. She has to live in a fantasy world in order to not go crazy from realizing that she allowed me to be abused because she “loved” him. Hate is not love. Only love is love. Love never hurts or leaves scars.
Thanks for reading my blog and thanks to Lynda on FB for sharing the graphic you see above and giving me inspiration to write this blog. I’m not ashamed that I was abused and no one should be.