She died a violent death at the hands of an abusive person that she once had a relationship with. What I didn’t know at the time, but learned in the days and weeks that followed, was that my sister had been living in a violent and abusive relationship for many years.

He moved her far away from us where she was isolated from friends and family. I learned that she lived under constant threat of physical and verbal abuse. Her children grew up surrounded by violence. They lived in fear and were taught to be silent.

Although most of her friends and family suspected all was not well, none of us knew the extent of the abuse. Some of us had urged her to leave him, and she eventually did, but he followed her and continued to torment her.

My sister thought she could handle it on her own. On the fateful day, after her children left for school, he forced himself into her home. The signs of a violent struggle where evident. He beat her and strangled her to death. He attempted to take his own life, but failed and is now in prison.

Why didn’t any of us see how bad things were? Why didn’t she tell someone? Why wouldn’t she reach out for help?

I often wonder how different things would be if my sister would have reached out to her friends or family, or if she knew where and how she could get help.

I wasn’t aware that there were shelters for women where they could safely go for help and comfort, for themselves and their children. I don’t believe my sister knew either. She didn’t know where or how to get help – help to protect her and her children. She was a smart person and if she knew where to turn for assistance, she would have.

She is safe now and I miss her.

He had a quiet charisma and gave me everything I wanted and made me feel so loved. On occasion, when he got mad at something, he would hit me. He always apologized and seemed so sincere – the hitting was just part of being in a relationship.

When we got married a few years later, everything was fine for a while, but soon the abuse started again, lasting for short periods before coming to a halt. I didn’t realize it then, but I now know it was a very typical cycle of violence. He would get mad at me about something – it was always my fault - he said I provoked him. The abuse would be quick but intense and then it would stop. He would apologize and buy me presents to show how much he loved me. He said it wouldn’t happen again.

The violence towards me escalated after my second son was born, and physical abuse now included verbal abuse, In time, this started to take a toll on me and broke me down emotionally. I started to believe the things he said. His rage continued and I started to take notice that the children were now being physically abused. My children and I were constantly walking on egg shells, not knowing when and how the next form of abuse would happen.

This forced me to find the courage to do something to save ourselves. I knew that I had no other choice but to quickly go somewhere far away. But where would I go? How would I be able to raise my children with only a part-time job? What if he came looking for me? Who would protect me and my boys?

Still, with all these unanswered questions, I decided to leave. I had made up my mind, regardless of the outcome. I took an unknown step forward and left the life of fear and abuse, hoping for a more peaceful one. That day at work, I called a shelter and they had room for me.

I was petrified; I didn’t know what a shelter was or what it looked like. I picked up my kids from daycare and we went directly to the shelter. This was the very first time in my life that I was completely on my own with three young boys. They depended on me for everything. I was terrified as I did not know if I would be able to take care of them and myself. However, I was determined to make it on my own since giving up and returning to the life of abuse would have surely put me in the grave.

That first night at the shelter I finally felt safe – it was the first time in 13 years I actually slept through the entire night. It was a new beginning – a turning point.

I stayed at a shelter for six months and received incredible support and counselling. Not only did they support me and my children in recovering from the trauma, but they connected me to local services that helped me rebuild my life. .

That was 6 years ago! What once was a dream of hope and peace is now our reality. This is an accomplishment that I am very proud of and I would not be where I am today without the shelter and programs that saved my life

When we first started dating, he was very kind and caring, but my parents always told me they didn’t like him. Eventually, I was kicked out of my house and ended up moving in with him. That was when things changed. They went horribly wrong and my life has never been the same since.

My first experience with sex was brutal, bloody and forced. I remember having a friend of mine trying to help me wash the blood off of walls, floors and myself. I crawled into a shell. I cut ties with my family and friends as I didn’t want them to know what was happening in my life. I lived a life of daily beatings, rapes, and humiliations. I was constantly in fear and continually waiting for the next blow.

I remember one afternoon, I simply reached for my car keys and woke up bloody and bruised on the living room floor. Washing the dishes and leaving lint on them from the tea towel resulted in all of the dishes being smashed onto the floor, me being shoved down onto the broken glass and being made to clean up “my mess” while pieces of glass stuck out of my knees, ankles and hands.

I was knocked unconscious once by having a motorbike helmet slammed so hard into my head that my feet left the ground. I know what it feels like to be choked until your vision gets spotty and you realize that you are possibly seconds away from dying. I know what it feels like to be kicked so hard that you lose a kidney. I know what it feels like to be punched in the face so hard that your lip slices right through your teeth. I know the humiliation of having to spit out blood and pieces of broken teeth. I know how to dress to hide cuts and bruises. I know how to fake a smile. These are all things that no person should ever have to know. What I didn’t know, was how to make it stop.

Logically, people will hear this and think “Just leave”. And, to be truthful, if I step out of myself and look in, that is exactly what I might say as well. However, many don’t understand — couldn’t possibly comprehend what happens to a person in a situation such as this. We suffer not only fear and pain, but shame. We have moments of self blame. There are times that we are certain this is something we deserve. I mean, who just leaves lint inside a glass? And so many have cut ties with the people who care about them, that the mere thought of having them know this is going on is almost more terrifying than the situation itself. I wouldn’t ever involve the police, and when their involvement was inevitable, I simply lied. Fear of repercussions was beyond fear of survival.

The breaking point for me was something that still makes me feel ill to recall. I had just suffered a very violent beating, which had left me unconscious. When I woke up, I thought that I had been blinded. Pitch black. Everywhere. I remember the taste of blood in my mouth, and the feel of the cold floor under me. I remember wondering if I had died. Once I was strong enough to get my bearings, I realized that I had been thrown into the bathroom. The light switch was outside in the hallway. I fumbled around in the dark and finally found the door knob. I pulled to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. What I didn’t realize, was that he had tied off the door handle of the bathroom to the door handle of the room across the hall. I was truly locked in, in the dark. I banged on the door and screamed until I had no voice left. I drank from the sink. I slept in the bathtub. He had, apparently, left the house and I was alone.

This happened on a Tuesday night. When I was finally let out, it was Friday night.

He fell asleep on the couch, and I remember crawling down the hall in my robe, trying to be as quiet as I could. I remember seeing the front door and knowing it was my salvation. I got out. I found a payphone. I called my mom, collect.

I’d like to say that I never looked back, but I did, and still do to this very day. I am reminded daily of my experiences by the scars on my body, the tooth that is no longer there, the kidney that I will never get back, and the fears that I carry with me daily. I cannot deal with the smell of beer, it makes my stomach turn. I cannot dry a dish. I cannot use a washroom where the light switch is in the hall. I keep a flashlight under each bathroom sink, and when I happened to be showering once when the power went out, I had a complete breakdown. I no longer trust easily and I rarely crawl out of my shell.

But I survived. And I am a very strong woman now.

I have three beautiful children and all of them know what happened to me years ago. I was determined to make them aware of how quickly things can go wrong. I was determined that they always knew that if something was happening to them, they could come to me always. And, I let them know that there are places that they can call, at any time, day or night.

My daughter moved in with her boyfriend … a couple of weeks in, he hit her and smashed her phone to keep her from calling me. She ran, in her robe, and found a payphone. She called me. Collect.

I am so proud to be involved with a company like Royal LePage, that has taken such a prominent stand against abuse. I am so proud to work with people who are so willing to help, even though they may not fully understand the amazing impact that they are having.

I know that, years ago, had I known about the shelters out there, I would’ve escaped sooner. The door at the end of the hall would’ve been a lot closer.

My stepfather beat my mother for 3 years and emotionally abused my brother.  He used to lock my brother in a closet, turn off all the lights and leave the house.  Sometimes he’d leave him outside in a thunder-storm.

The last time he beat my mother, he had a knife. The police were called every time he would explode in violence.  When they’d arrive, he would cry and say how much he loved us and the police would let him go. That was almost 40 years ago. Back then, they were just called family arguments.

We finally escaped in a midnight move, never to return.

He followed my school bus for weeks and weeks after trying to follow me to our new home. I used to have to walk to a neighbour’s house and call the police. He was charged and I had to go to court on my 13^th birthday to testify against him. On my 13th birthday.  And after reliving everything on the stand, he got off on all the charges.

He remarried and had children and I am sure they suffered the same as we did.

There were no shelters back then.  I think about that often.  If there had been a safe place for us to go, I believe we would have gotten away from him sooner.

He would always start over something little like the dishes not being done or most often, him not being able to find something.  Then the name calling would start.  He would call us pigs, sluts, stupid bitches and  names that should never be repeated.  Then he would throw and break stuff.  Finally Mom would speak up and defend all of us and then he would direct his anger at her physically.  My sisters and I would hide upstairs.  By this time, they would run into my room and we would huddle on my bed.  They would cry and I would get angrier and angrier.

He would then tell us to get the hell out of the house.  Sometimes he would start with Mom and then he would call me.  Since he is my stepdad and my mom had me out-of-wedlock, he would call me the bastard child.  Mom would fight for the girls to be allowed to leave too and once we were all in the car, he would start to throw rocks at the windows.  Mom could barely see through the tears and we would take off down the long driveway of our isolated country home.

Those Sundays we would end up at my mom’s parents.  It was like a broken record, three tear-stained kids all under 10 and my beaten up mom pulling into the drive time after time.  I am not sure how my grandparents dealt with it.  My grandfather would be angry and my grandma looked sad and they would talk about how we could come live there but a couple of hours later we would get a call from him and we would head back home.

Eventually, he started following us into town and a couple of times he made a scene on my grandparent’s front lawn.  Once he even started tearing apart our car.  My grandpa would yell at him and then my stepdad would hit him and Mom would beg them to stop and promise to come home.

I have no memory of abuse when they first married.  I was 3 at the time and they had known each other only two weeks when he proposed.  My grandma tells me my mom was in a daze for the month of wedding planning.  They got married on my grandparent’s front lawn and the three of us moved West.  My one sister was born pretty much nine months later and then the youngest was born two years after that.

I remember really hard times financially.  My mom waitressed and my stepdad did a variety of jobs.   I always thought they worked hard and appreciated that but there were days when we didn’t have food to eat and days when I had to miss school as there was nothing to send for my lunch.

Once they went away for a weekend and I was so happy for them as we never took vacations.  I was alone with my sisters and woke the next morning to find my mom in bed and her face was unrecognizable.  It was one of the worst beatings I had seen her get.  Instead of even concentrating on my mom though, I panicked about where he was and how angry he was.  She told me she left him at the motel when he passed out while beating her.  She said the motel room was covered in blood and she thought he was going to kill her so she snuck out while he slept and drove home.

All day long we panicked about what would happen when he made it home.  Hours later after hitchhiking home, he looked sad and said he didn’t remember a thing but woke up in a mess.  He apologized profusely and made up with my mom once again.

She begged him over the years to go to counselling with her but he said he didn’t believe in that.  She asked him to talk to his doctor but he said he didn’t trust doctors.  We would have a couple good weeks and then it would start again – always over something so small.

It’s amazing how angry you can be.  He made me so angry and I would dream of leaving.  I begged my mom often to move out but she didn’t want to burden anyone and said she had no money.  One of the times she actually called the police on him, they tried to talk her into moving into the closest women’s shelter.  It was 40 minutes away though and that would mean we would have to change schools and she thought it would be better to not disrupt our lives.  Selfishly, I was grateful for that as I had never told a soul about what he did and I liked that at school no one knew how messed up our family was.

As I got into my teens, his anger would be more directed at me.  Instead of just calling me names, he started to get more physical.  At first Mom would save me but eventually she got tired of breaking up our fights she said and told me to let him get angry and not fight back.  She said it would pass faster that way.  She was right, he would calm down sooner but I just couldn’t take it and not fight back.

Not long after I’d left, I got a call from the local high school guidance counsellor.  He said my youngest sister was on crutches and I should come home to help my sisters.  I came home and we pressed charges.  We spent the next 2 years in court.  They brought up drug charges, threatening to kill with a firearm (which he often did to us), etc. 

During the court proceedings, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer.  I watched her suffer with the disease and treatments in court only as she wouldn’t speak to us.  At the end of the many times in court, he was given a restraining order and his guns were being held for a small period of time. 

My sisters eventually had the restraining order removed when he won them over.  I was the only one who stayed away.

I am better now but I was very angry for a long time as I had held onto the dream that someday he would leave her and that she and I would have a relationship again.  I even imagined us playing cards and chatting with her in our old age.  She died of breast cancer before I could ever see that happen. I feel cheated that I never got my mom back.

I always wonder how different my childhood would have been if the shelter was in our town, if my mom could have met with someone who knew how to help us, if the police could have acted on their own, and if the friends and family who did see the signs weren’t so embarrassed and knew how to help.

I am so grateful that there are more services, shelters, awareness and help today for families going through the same thing.  

It is my hope that children should never fear living in their own home.