The Voices Within: Reflections of a Different Mind

By Jordan King and Samantha Smith-King

Voices Within was first written as a speech in the hopes that one day I can be a spokes person for those suffering with a mental disorder. The book quickly took foot as I began to describe my childhood and all the emotions, anger, anxiety, turmoil that I have been facing in life and it began to come out on paper that I just could not stop writing about what was inside penned up for all those years. This is a story of love, heartache, disappointments, God, relationships and family. Everything bundled into one.

A real and true life story of struggles, pain and coping with mental illness. With a recurring theme of the affects and aftermath of being verbally and emotionally abused. The book speaks out about the consequences and the impact abuse can have on ones life. With a quest to find true love in this harsh and often cruel world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481716475

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© 2013 Samantha Smith-King & Jordan King. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/18/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1646-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1647-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013902901

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

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DEDICATION

T his book is dedicated to God, for the faith I have found in you and the ever-lasting love you have for me. Thank you for my salvation, and my life you have blessed. Thank you for my testing, and my trials. For you, O Lord, have delivered me and have brought me through. To my husband Jordan, for your constant love, for your caring attitude and your patience you have shown towards me; and for believing in me. To everyone who is struggling with a mental disorder and are trying to find themselves. To my father Kendrick, who has always been there for me through thick and thin.

Poem:

Always near

If you ever feel down and in despair

Remember Jesus is very near

He will pick you up when you feel low

He is the one who knows your sorrows

Do not be afraid to shed a tear

His shoulders are wide and right there

He knows your heart, your thoughts, and your mind

He sees everything you hold inside

Lift up your head and hands in joy

Tell yourself you are a special girl or boy

It is all right if you are miss-understood

Jesus knows you and that is good

Lift up your hands and count it as joy

Knowing you are Jesus’ special little girl or boy

Do not feel sad that you are all alone… Jesus had twelve, then three, then one.

However, in the end he too was all alone

Being alone you find strength in God

Being alone you learn to be the number one

Number one for God, number one for grace, number one for hope

Number one for peace, number one for love and number one in him

So when you are lonely and in despair

Just remember, Jesus is always very near.

Samantha

I wanted to share a song God gave me in 1992 about a day or two after

I lost my second guide dog. I sat down at the piano, and the song just

came out as I sobbed uncontrollably. I cried, and cried, and cried for

weeks, but out of that time came much music. I can’t share the music

because I’m not that good at the net yet, but I can share the words.

If you pass this on, which you can, please attach my name to it, along

With the story of how it was written. If it comforts one person, which it

Has already, then it was worth the pain I went through.

Sharon Hughey

I see, I know, I care.

I notice each bird fall from the air.

I am here when you think no one’s there.

I will bring, I promise, I will bring hope from despair.

So cry, cry, cry my child.

And know, know that I cry too!

And know, know that as your heart is broken.

Know My heart is broken too!

I give and I take away.

Know that I’m the Potter, you’re the clay.

I have many, many things to say.

So come into My presence every day.

And run, run, run my child.

Run straight for my embrace.

And feel, really feel My arms around you.

And look, look right into My face.

I know how bad you feel.

And I know it’s hard to be real.

I know how much you hurt inside.

And I know about your tendency to hide.

So cry, cry, cry My child.

And know, know that I cry too!

And know, know that as your heart is broken.

Know My heart is broken too!

Know My heart is broken too!

Know My heart is broken too!

Copyright 1992

1

Samantha:

H ello to you; who are blue. You who are black, you who are white, who are pink, and to you who are purple. You who are vision impaired, hearing impaired, you who are autistic, in a wheelchair, have no hair. To you who suffer from a physical, emotional, or psychological disorder. You, who have been affected mentally in the past; now in the present or in the future. You, who are young, middle aged or elderly. You, who have never given the thought that you would need to deal with or be faced with the situation of a mental disorder. Either you of yourself, or one of your loved ones.

When you were a child, you often wished you were deaf so you will not need to hear your siblings or your (nagging) parents tell you what to do. Alternatively, you would wish you were blind for the same reasons. Sometimes you wished you were the adult so (you) could make the rules and see just how everyone else accepts it.

From childhood, growing into a teen you never once thought you would acquire a mental illness one day. You never once thought you would hear voices in your head telling you you are not loved, you should kill yourself or you should kill the next person who looks at you the wrong way.

The first time you start hearing voices, you tell yourself aah, it’s just voices in my head, it’s okay I am just getting old like my parents always said would happen; however, what about the time when you hear the voices and this time you are totally alone… and it sounds like someone is just shouting in your head like a real bad rock song and you cannot make it stop. What do you do then? Do you listen to the voice and step into the road without a thought of the consequences? Do you close your eyes and picture yourself falling from a bridge, or mountain top into the river that is flowing so still and peaceful that you just need to be a part of it? What do you do? Talk to someone about what is happening inside of you, and pray someone has an answer for you and not just insist that you snap out of it. There is nothing wrong with you!"

What do you do with those nagging voices? How do you stop them from shouting in your head? What do you do with the feelings of anger and frustration that you feel? What do you do with the ticking time bomb in your head that you hear everyday? How do you calm the anger that is building up inside of you that no one can see? And then you are afraid to openly display it? Why is this? Is it because you are aware that no one will ever understand what you are saying, or how you are feeling? Whom do you turn to for help? A friend, Family, Doctor? Can you trust that they know exactly what you are saying? Do they and will they understand when you feel depressed, alone, Suicidal or Afraid?

Do our doctors really understand us when we say I am depressed that it means I just want to talk to someone not just pump me with medications to (up my mood)? Have (these doctors) been depressed or suicidal? How can we continue to trust that medication is the only way to go with a depressed individual? How do we know that a diagnoses of Bipolar, that it is only best to be on medication, with several side effects that some doctors think it necessary not to inform you about?

Did you know that there are two different types of Bipolar? Is it all right to you, as either someone with a mental disorder to receive verbal, psychological, or emotional abuse by others in the public or by those you put your trust in as a public figure? Will you accept any form of abuse? Yes? No? And for what degree and length of time?

Abuse to anyone, being someone with a mental disorder, or vision impairment, hearing impairment, physically handicapped, developmentally handicapped, or handicapped in anyway is wrong. If it is wrong to abuse an animal, which is lower than a human in God’s eyes, why is it all right to abuse a human? Be it if that human is a child, teen, middle aged or senior? Are we not just as important and in need of protection as well?

By now you are asking yourself who is this person? Well, my name is Samantha. I am forty-two years old and one day discovered that I would wake up with the thought of being Bipolar. Really! I had no idea what the word meant, nor did I know that it would affect me into my adult years.

I was born on February nineteenth, at Sanfernando General Hospital. I was born with a deformed right ear, that looked like a bat’s ear, or miniature Dumbo’s ear. Along with the gift of a small ear, I had a tiny hole at the corner of my mouth, on the left side of my face, that when I was ever ill I could breathe through that little hole. Last but not least, I was given a gift like my mother of having an extra nipple on my right breast, that when I am nursing my children or pumping my milk I can feed/pump from all three nipples. To top off all these blessings, I was also born with a patch of grey hair in the dead top center of my head; in addition, to end the gifts my mother would never let me live down the fact that I almost took her life while she was trying to give birth to me. You see, I was a breach baby and the nurses had to turn me mid way of me being birthed. Hence, the name calling which I resent to this day baby bat because of my ear, and I also possessed a strange gift of looking at you and telling you everything about you. No, I cannot do it anymore!

I was a different child, and knew that I was different. When everyone spoke his or her traditional Trinidadian singsong language, I spoke proper eloquent English that was plain to understand. I had an attitude problem and would put up for no nonsense from anyone. It did not matter to me if you were a child or adult, friend or foe you were told off if you did me wrong.

No, I did not tell myself I will have a meltdown today, or I will commit suicide tomorrow. I never had a previous thought as a child, hearing voices, that I would be mentally ill as an adult. Now here I am. What am I to do with myself? How can I help myself since the doctors who seem to know everything still know nothing? Here I am living with a monster, hunting me on a daily basis and there seems to be no way out of it but by ending my life. Then, I think of some of the good things that have happened in my life, and wonder if suicide is a fair way to end it all, not giving those who have touched my life with laughter or pleasure any justice or chance.

Amidst all the pain and tears, I have been blessed to be a mother three times with handsome sons; who unfortunately have their own mental issues to deal with, including ADD/ADHD, depression and schizophrenia. One of my sons hates me as his mother because my way of instructing and disciplining him differs greatly from his other parent. God has blessed me, with a marriage to someone who can relate to me, because he has been through his own mental illness and understands the ups and downs of this monster.

Jordan:

What is childhood? Is it a collection of memories that one will never forget? Is it being that little person who trusts unconditionally, and looks up to the parent and or guardian around them to look after the best interest of the child in their care?

The memories in my life, were composed of plenty of positives, as well as a helping of negatives. This book is our story. I do not remember a whole lot about my childhood, but what I do remember has been penned down for you the reader to enjoy. Not all that you will read in this book is pleasant. Some of what you will read later in my adult years no person should ever be forced to endure. I can tell you the reader that my early childhood was positive. I grew up with three siblings, three siblings for the first number of years who grew up knowing very little of their brother in the middle, me.

2

Samantha:

A t the age of six, I knew I was different. I spoke different, acted different, had a hot mouth, (swore a lot), hot temper, and bad attitude. As a six-year-old child, I already had acquired my views of the world, and that view was the world is a big awful, nasty place I do not want to live in. As a child, you think you would be loved or shown affection, hugs, kisses, a warm touch, a few words I love you but no, that never happened. Do these things from my past childhood constitute for me being Bipolar? Yes, no, maybe, is it truly hereditary? Why is it that as a child no one wants to talk about the obvious elephant in the room? Why is it that no one wants to talk about the deaf grandparent? Or talk about the cousin who everyone sees constantly walking the community in her birthday suit? No one wants to address the grandparent who suffers from depression, and let others know that, that person is not the only one who has that problem. Why is it as a child who is cared for by those who are entrusted to your care think that it is quite all right to abuse you? Back in the seventies, you do not know the word abuse. You do not know it exists, nor do you know that you can obtain help for it; Nevertheless, who would really help you? You live in the Caribbean where everyone beats the life out of you even if you are not related to him or her in anyway.

Knowing I was different, meant students would beat the life out of me daily at school, and my siblings would need to fight for me. Not because I had, a big mouth, meant that I was aggressive. Quite the opposite actually! I was a very passive child, with a very low self-esteem and looking for (love) from anyone who would provide it. I would trust anyone and everyone that came along my path, but at the same time, dealing with voices in my head letting me know under no given terms that those people loved me or accepted me. I was nothing to them. I was their little puppet and had to be controlled as one. I was no (angel) of a child growing up. I had my outbursts of lude behaviour, or what I would consider to be lude behaviour at the time. I would find myself going skinny dipping in the public pool in the middle of the night with my friends, and then arriving home at four or five am in the morning at the tender age of nine.

To me, I was fearless and I felt like I could not come down from whatever cloud I was currently riding on at the time. I felt like wonder woman with her truth rope and no one could fool me. At the age of ten, I knew I was slipping off that tightrope I had setup for myself to walk on. I could feel one foot wobbling beneath me when my mother kidnapped me from my Godparents while at school, and as a result I lost my chance to return to Canada to be with my dad again. At this moment, I remembered how to hate. I remembered not to trust anyone in life. At this moment, the ticking time bomb began to tick in my head, and had me feeling like I had no control over my mind. At this moment, a flood of emotions, and remembrances of earlier childhood came flooding back to me and made me angry, hateful, depressed, and resentful against my mother and against all women. At the age of ten, and hearing voices in your head telling you to kill your mother you do not think is serious. Kill her now for all the pain she has caused you as a child dumping you at the side of the road in the middle of the night at your grandfather’s house. Kill her and her mother they do not deserve to live. Was I sane at that time in my life? I do not know. I had thoughts in my head that were very strong, and I could not talk to anyone about it.

Do I sound to you right now like an angry, hurtful ten year old for the injustices done to her as a young child? Hell yes! I am and I have every reason to be. The question is, what mother who in their right mind dumps their children in the bushes in the middle of the night hoping that someone would hear their cries and help them? Can anyone be deserving of forgiveness by their children for such an act when they do not get at least an explanation for the act that was committed? Does this situation in my childhood constitute as grounds for me being Bipolar now? I do not know. If that is not the trigger, then what is? Is it the fact that you are abused by the hands that have been chosen to care for you until your knight in shining armor arrives to rescue you? Is it the fall you received at the age of five and a half that split your skull in two that you could have died from, but God kept you alive for another day seeing there was no adult supervision? Oh yeah, I would like to apologize to my brother Fredrick for wrongfully accusing you for my fall. The son of our neighbor pushed me from the veranda causing me to fall onto the plant pot. With my aunt, not being home and I bleeding like Jesus on the cross, caused my brother to act quick. Our friend quickly went home after the deed, that is why I only remembered Fredrick being there. He did the best he could to stop the bleeding. I cried a little, and then stopped; he went off to find my aunt and came back home empty handed. He washed me up, clothes and all, gave me dinner and we went to bed.

No, my aunt knew nothing, until four am in the morning when she woke me up to comb my hair for school. Oh, my good golly God, you could hear my aunt’s scream throughout the whole community that hour of the morning, swearing to God her brother will kill her for his Child. I did not understand what the big deal was. I was hurt the day before, and you were not home to care for me, my brother did that, now you are scared? Why? Our neighbour six houses down, who heard the commotion, came to see what was going on and I was taken immediately to Sanfernando General Hospital. All the while, my aunt was swearing, crying and talking trash of how her brother would kill her if anything happened to me; after all, at the time I was his last child. When we arrived at emergency, they took me into the room, blood all over me and my aunt, she cannot say what happened to me. I was strapped down to a table, and all I could recall is screaming bloody murder. What the hell! Did they not know about drugs at that time to numb the pain? Were the doctors that barbaric that I could feel when they pulled out every shattered bone out of my tiny skull? It felt like hours in there. I did not know when it was over, and I was placed upstairs in the ward for children. I must have been given pain killers then because I remember the nurses saying, a little longer with those skull pieces in there, and she would not have lived. (Jesus did love little children.)

I do not know when I came out of the hospital, but I was back to my usual self-swearing at anyone who would double cross me. From that incident, my aunt stated that I needed to start combing my hair myself. I guess the guilt of my almost dying had gotten to her.

When not in school, I would be at my aunt’s house caring for her children. I was not even six years old yet and already I am responsible for other people’s children, who will never remember you. Being kept alive from that trauma, I often wondered why God would allow this to occur to a child like me! Is that the reason I often struggled in school? Was always picked on? Was always slow? Stuttered? Always did what the boys did and had no interest in girl’s activities? Is that the reason why I was so inattentive in class? Took so long to learn how to read, and often still struggle at times? Being Bipolar is not a monster inside of me that I can cure or heal. It is a monster that I battle with on a daily basis and pretend that it is not around, and I go out and be quite all right with no anxiety or pain of being very afraid for no reason.

3

Jordan:

A t the age of four, a portly old gentleman arrived at my parents dwelling one day, and presented to my parents the benefits of sending me away out of province to attend a school specifically designed for those with a vision impairment. Who was this man, and how did he find us? We lived in a tiny isolated community hundreds of miles from any major highway. Up until nineteen-eighty, the only way in or out was by a small watercraft, or a float plane. My parents being lead to believe this was the best choice for me made the decision to pack themselves as well as myself off on a jet to Halifax Nova Scotia. Was this the best choice for me? To be honest I am unable to answer that, at four years old I barely remember this event in my young life. Do I resent my family for packing me off to a blind school at the tender age of four in the year nineteen-eighty? No, they made the best choice with the information they were given. It was a traumatic time in my early childhood being left behind in a strange school, longing for my parents to just show up and whisk me back to my brothers. How did my three other siblings react to this interruption in the family structure? All of a sudden they were faced with the prospect of being inexplicably separated from one sibling, and were now required to adjust to family life without their brother for ten months out of the year. Thus this would be the state of affairs from nineteen-eighty until nineteen-eighty eight. Six flights a year, three heading west and three returning east, with the majority of my time spent in a boarding school for the vision impaired.

Today, many questions have been raised, and it has become a political debate as to whether there is any benefit to segregating students with a visual disability away in schools specifically designed for them, rather than educating them through the mainstream public school system the same way all other sighted students are educated. Today, most children who are visually disabled are mainstreamed along with the general school age population in the standard public school system. One of the big fall outs of segregating vision impaired students into their own school system, which would be the practice of the governing bodies until the late eighties, would be the lack of social skills after graduating from the institution. Where were the practical life skills a person needed to interact with a sighted public on a daily basis? Yes, We will send you to a specialized school, teach you how to travel from one location to another, teach you how to read and write braille, or even how to take care of yourself, and maintain a household. All the skills one would need when one is an adult and living on one’s own; however, where were the social skills? These things were just not taught or experienced by the majority of vision impaired confined to these institutions for most of the school year, and often for years after. My experiences extended over an eight year period of time; however, even though I was sent to a school of this nature it only became a place to rest my weary head at night. I could not understand as a child, and still have no answer for it as an adult as to why my family would choose to send me to a school of this nature, and while there I am still attending a public school full of sighted children? Do I regret this? Absolutely not, it taught me the social skills I would have never learned otherwise. This is a puzzle that is unsolvable, and the only conclusion I am able to gain is that my family bent to the pressure put on them by the people in authority who thought they knew what was best for my education.

Samantha:

My pain and anxiety began in nineteen eighty-three, at the age of thirteen, when I was gang raped by these two brothers in my mother’s community. These two would beat their mother senseless, and as a result she died in hospital. They pretended their mother was ill and needed my help, so I went to their house expecting to help their mother, (who by the way was never there.) There I learned never to trust men because they are all liars, haters, abusers and life takers. I learned that day that all men desire is to have power over you and strip you of the little dignity you have inside, no matter how old you may be. I felt used, dirty, rejected, violated, like a used dishcloth. What made it worse was, a couple of days later my mother and grandmother looked at me and said, You will marry him if you get pregnant. What hypocrites I thought, you do not ask me what occurred, you assumed what you heard from the community gossip pages that something happened, but you wrongfully accused me, (you hypocrites.)

My cousin on Saturday came to get me at home, stating my grandmother wanted me. In passing the house with the brothers who did their dirty manly deeds upon me, my cousin Clive suggested I make some remark to the bullies of our time and so I did. Please do not ask me what I had said, because I do not know. It warranted my cousin leaving me and running off to tell my grandmother what dirty thing I said to these two brothers; fortunately, for me she did not deal with me there and then but waited until Sunday after church to bring up the topic of me having sexual relations with these two goons, and uttering filthy words to them the day before. What nerve! She then instructs Clive to bring her the fan belt. For those who do not know, a fan belt is connected to the alternator, starter, fan, water pump and engine block of a car. What? I went livid on her. You hypocrite, Clive told me to say whatever I said to those two bums yesterday. They raped me and no one even bothered to ask me if I am okay, or how am I doing and you want to come now after church, because you are so holy and you want to beat me with a fan belt? Who do you really think you are? My father? My mother? You are a hypocrite. You do not get the opportunity to hit me, you are not my father. In all my years he has never raised his voice or hands towards me, and you want to do what? You try, and we will see if I do not kill you here today. She began to call my mother who had already started to walk away, and I am telling her, do not call her, she cannot help you out this time.

At this point, the time bomb in my head was ticking so fast and hard that I did not know when I reached our home. I was angry as hell and again my mother was nowhere to help me or defend me. What was I supposed to do? Let an old woman beat me senseless when in my eyes I did nothing wrong? Be afraid of her? No way!

How can you be expected to trust an adult who should be there for you when they clearly are not? At this time, anger was my best friend. The voices were more frequent, and I would tell others it is good for them to commit suicide. No one will miss you more than me. Then for the first time they called me by my name, no one would miss you Samantha. Do you not see you are invisible to them? It is your fault for the rape but they do not care about that, just kill yourself on your way to school tomorrow, they will not even miss you, you will see.

School, I was surprised to pass my exams to go to another school; whereas, my sister before me never had the chance the four times she wrote the exams. The teachers were mean, they loved to beat (hit) you with wooden sticks, rulers, switches just to make a point every time you would get something wrong. I had to stand up for my big sister one day and stopped the beating of her in front of the whole school, who could see what was happening. You are not her mother or father, you do not have the right to touch her and the next time you do I will kill you. The principal sent a note home expecting to see my mother at school the next day. I did not care. Abuse of a child does not happen without cause or justification, abuse of a child just does not happen.

You may be wondering how many siblings I have, well that in of itself is complicated. My dad had his first son named Mark with one woman. Then he marries my mother and has more children. Leonard, Cari, Fredrick, Olivia (who is clearly not his child but no one wants to speak the truth), and me, Samantha. Then he remarries another woman and has another child Antoinette. I often wonder why I need to be a part of the child party! Clearly, my life has been full of pain and struggles. Can you go back into your childhood as far back as you can, and I remember certain situations, as if it was happening to you in the present? My mother was shocked to learn that I could remember when I was two years old peaking through the floor looking at her teaching class downstairs of our home. Yes, she was in tears when I told her that story.

As the last child for your mother, you would think that you would be the apple of her eye or be her navel string, but no, I was not. That arrow fell onto my older sister whom my mother would die for at all costs. Does differences and disputes in families be an underlying factor for mental disorder? I do not know the answer to this question. All I know is that my mother and I could never see eye to eye on any situation, and she would often never come to my aid. Her favorite sayings when it came to me were she should know better. I should know better, about what exactly? At age ten when girls are thinking about dolls, castles and pretty things I was wondering what the hell was wrong with me and waking up in a pool of blood, (not knowing it was my first menstrual cycle.)

My mother told my sister to help me clean up and when we were done, all she could say to me was, now you could let the boys touch you. What! Really? I was scared out of my wits, and that is the only explanation I could receive? From that moment at age ten I promised never to have a girl child, they are too much work and to confusing to raise.

4

Jordan:

B ack in my early childhood my vision was still sufficient to read large print with the aid of a magnifying glass, and print became my main means of reading and writing. This would be the decision of the teachers to proceed to educate me with this method. In hindsight I probably should of been taught to read and write braille as a young child and not at the age of fifteen when my vision had deteriorated to the level where continuing with large print was no longer an option.

While my brothers were returning home to our family at the end of every school day, I was leaving a public school classroom in another province and returning to a residence solely appointed for the vision impaired. It would often be weeks or months between leaving for school and seeing my family again. These trips home were brief, often only lasting a week or two, except for a two month stint during the summer months. As the years came and went, those four walls took on a sinister name all their own, (cell block fucked.) Not all the experiences away from home were negative. There was a school trip in the mid eighties that saw me as well as nineteen other students leave on a school trip to Disney World for one whole week. If anything does stand out about the whole boarding school experience, that trip is one of them. It was a week I will never forget. Although the memories are growing faint with time, I do remember visiting Wet ’N Wild and the Epcot Center, at this time it was a newly open attraction. We participated in go cart racing, visited the most popular Disney characters, including Tigger and Mickey Mouse. To this day Tigger may still probably remember the skinny little nine year old vision impaired boy who punched his nose, with the result it was as flat as a pancake. That skinny little boy was of course me. If we were not souvenir shopping, we were lounging at the hotel pool.

We had flown in from Canada, the land of the great white north, where cold, ice and snow rule supreme. Well, it was not quite that bad. Even in Canada in the month of May we can at least get away with wearing a spring jacket and occasionally allow the sun a glimpse of our bare white legs. Florida, well that was a different matter, even in the first week of May the temperatures were already well into the high thirties.

I was only nine years old the first time I boarded a jumbo jet at the Toronto International Airport. It roared across the sky to disgorge its human passengers, along with me and my classmates in the Florida heat that May of nineteen eighty-five. I was not scared of planes; however, this monster was a novelty. Three isles of seats. A group of three next to the window, an isle, another group of two or three seats, another isle, and finally another group of three seats way over there next to the other window. Here I am, sitting in this monster of a jet, with four huge turbofan engines roaring as we hurtled down the runway. To me a nine year old boy, this was not a plane, this was a monstrosity that would never manage to claw its way into the wild blue yonder. The engines were delivering maximum thrust and the centrifugal forces were pushing me back in my seat as I thought to myself, come on baby, rotate. It did and we lifted into the sky. At this point I was no stranger to flying, boarding a plane was very routine for this nine year old boy; after all, stepping on and off planes was a six time a year experience since nineteen-eighty. Those planes; however, were relegated to small aircraft. Small two engine jet aircraft or twin turboprop piston pounding tubes of aluminum rattling away across the sky, and yes, even one tiny single engine Cessna during a whiled winter storm while returning home from school one Christmas. My parents had traveled to the school to meet me that year.

On the day school was due to shutdown for the holidays, my family and I left with all the other students, who were scheduled to leave for their respective flights to be with their families for the upcoming Christmas season. Here we were sitting in the Halifax terminal, waiting for our flight to be called. This night it would be a small twin propeller plane that was to fly us from Halifax Nova Scotia to Stephenville Newfoundland. This was in the era before the political upheaval that saw all airlines and flights make the transition into Deer Lake. As a nine year old child I was in no mood to sit around in an airport waiting for a flight that was repeatedly delayed due to stormy weather. Finally the flight boarded well after midnight for the two hour flight over the open ocean in the middle of winter, in a raging snowstorm. The flight landed in the wee hours of the morning, only for us to discover that we were stranded yet again in another airport due to the same storm system having a detrimental affect on the operations of the snow clearing equipment. By now I was cranky, it was four in the morning, I had been up all night, and I was still hours from home, and I just wanted to see my brothers. I had no idea when we would get through. An angel of mercy was watching over us that night. It was only a short while after that we were back in the air once again, this time in a single engine four seater being tossed around like a cork in an ocean. We were at the mercy of the raging winter storm that we were flying through, with nothing below but open baron countryside. There were no settlements for hundreds of miles, and no prospects of rescue in the depths of winter if this little single engine glider were to suddenly dropout of the sky. Just as dawn was breaking, that small plane touched down just outside the outskirts of town rolling to a safe landing. That is a landing I will never forget. There was no control tower, there was no airport, just the wits of the pilot, and a strip of snow covered highway to set down the tin can we were sailing through the sky in. Yes, were my thoughts we are here and thank you little tin can for bringing me back home for another Christmas with my brothers.

That trip was far from the only harrowing trip made during the winter months between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. I recall a flight leaving from Newfoundland with its destination in Halifax, that flew on, and on, and on, far beyond its allotted flight time. This particular flight as it turned out spent over an hour circling above the Halifax airport unable to land due to a jammed landing gear. Eventually this flight did land safely much to the relief of everyone on board. What was the issue with the landing gear, and why it would not lower, we were never told. Could that flight have ended tragically, the answer to that is yes, there was only two outcomes from the beginning, either they were able to successfully lower the gear, or we flew around up there until the fuel was gone, and we took the runway on the belly of the plane. Now as an adult I know that such a landing would have resulted in a high probability of injury or death for all on board; however, harrowing flights were not my only experience while traveling back and forth between my home in Newfoundland and the school residence in Halifax.

If one has ever taken the opportunity to drive down some of the rural highways in Newfoundland on a pleasant day, the driver could explain to you, that the drive is no harrowing experience. Now imagine for a minute taking that same drive in the mid nineteen eighties, in the middle of winter during a snowstorm with a large portion of the highway unpaved. Yes, that was another one of my childhood experiences. I thank God now, as an adult, thinking back on the dangerous road conditions we were forced to endure behind the wheel of the car. The person sitting behind the wheel braving the elements and roads in such deplorable winter conditions were often required to come to a complete stop due to complete white outs, that could last anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes. Every road trip that was required brought me and the driver as well as any other passengers through safe and sound. My hat goes off to those brave souls who risked their life and limbs knowing a breakdown or an accident could mean being stranded for hours if not days before rescue arrived. There is no doubt in my mind that angels were watching over me and my family on some of these flights and drives across the island in the worst or shall I say the best that nature could throw.

The year of nineteen eighty-eight was the year I finally stopped going to Halifax and went to school full time with my brothers in our small community school; however, it was not the last time I saw the inside four walls of the school building we all called cell block fucked.

Samantha:

As a young girl, blossoming into womanhood, it was my responsibility to learn to keep house, and learn to cook. Do I look like a chef to anyone? I am not a butler, so housekeeping was not in my book of things to do. I did learn eventually against my will of course, how to keep house and cook, but it was under heavy protest daily. We were required to take turns between my sister and I to make breakfast or be responsible for the meals for the day. Today was my sister’s turn, and I had asked her kindly to make me a different kind of tea from the one she had to drink. (She had some body issues and my mother made her drink that tea.) I did not want red tea that looked like I was drinking Jesus’s blood. I wanted what we called (fever grass or lemon grass by Chinese standards.) She was not impressed and made a fuss, so I simply stated my opinion, that in no uncertain terms I was going to drink your tea of blood. Here I cut the fever grass already just make this for me instead; otherwise, if you give me this blood to drink I will throw it in your face. (That was in fair warning on my part.) As my sister completed making breakfast and I finished my chores of feeding the chickens and sweeping up under and around the house, I was famished, happy to be getting a hot meal to fuel my long and dreary day. My sister, I love her so much did make the tea but not the one I wanted. After putting it to my mouth and smelling that blood masquerading under the cover of milk, I immediately through it in her face, while my mother yelled at me for my outburst. I simply stated my opinion to her that, if I wanted to drink blood I would have cut myself and drank it. I asked her to make me fever grass tea and she did not, she was warned what would happen if she did not make my tea. Now I did what I said I was going to do. My mother was livid. Her precious child was branded by hot tea first thing in the morning and she wants to beat the living daylights out of me for my actions. I still wonder what kept her hand from striking me.

Are you wondering how long did I live with my mother since the kidnapping? Well, it was five long blistering years. I think there were some good times, but honestly, I cannot recall what they were, if I do, I will tell you. Oh, yes! There was one good thing, I was baptized at age twelve and I was very happy, but very serious about knowing the Lord as my Saviour. Despite knowing the Lord, I was an angry child, angry teenager, my world was small. It felt like it was closing in around me, and I had no escape channel in view. I was a girl just baptized, and I loved to whistle. I loved the way my mouth would form and make beautiful musical sounds come out of it. I loved music, and would find myself whistling a tune here and there to pass the time. On the other hand, I would dance my cares away because I also loved to dance. Not the vulgar kind of dance you see at carnival, but the dance that had grace and poise. Dance that had meaning, and sent a message, dance with beauty.

One Saturday my mother heard me whistling a tune, and told me to stop whistling. Do you know what happen to the hens when they start to crow as if they are the rooster, crowing each hour on the hour of the day? My snotty answer was, for you, you would kill her! That is right said my mother, and walked off. My response to her behaviour was, are you telling me you would cut off my head because I am a hen and not a cock, and I am whistling and only cocks should whistle? No answer was forthcoming from my mother, so I kissed my teeth and continued to whistle.

The next day we went to church, had a good day blessing the Lord and who do I see appear at our door! the Pastor of our church. A neat old man, very devoted, very stout, but he was very stern in his ways. Boy! what is it with old people? Do they not remember what it was like when they were a child? Always following the rules! A child aught to be seen and not heard! Blah, blah, blah! Here comes Pastor, he came to see me of course. Your mother tells me, you do not listen to her, is that true? Yes, but not all the time. She said you have been whistling, and will not stop, is that true? Yes. Then why do you not do what your mother instructs you to do child? The Bible states you must obey your parents. The Bible also said Pastor, that the parents should not anger the child. My mother told you to come and talk to me about whistling? You have wasted your time, in coming here to talk to me, you could have done that at church. Did you know she said that because the hens crow as a rooster she is killed because of it? Does that mean that because I am a girl and not a boy, she would kill me for whistling? Please Pastor, do not waste your time to come and talk to me about whistling, because I will not stop. Not even for her, so she will have to kill me herself.

5

Jordan:

N ot all experiences at cell block F were negative. During my time in Halifax and especially during the first three to four years attending the school for the vision impaired, there will always be some memories that will forever be pleasant recollections to hold onto. From the years I attended, nineteen-eighty to nineteen eighty-three, the school was situated on one square city block with a playground, lilac trees, and a flower garden or two. In one corner of the grounds grew a wild rose bush with soft, pink roses. While most of the other children who called this boarding school life for ten months out of the year were spending their time on the slides, jungle gym, and the marry-go-round, I was either down at the rose bush, or sitting on a branch up in one of the several lilac trees receiving my fill of the blossoms that grew in profusion during the months of May and June.

I was hardly the typical boy child. Like any boy child of my age group I loved playing with hot wheels and matchbox cars. This is an enjoyment that has extended into adulthood, although the focus is no longer on playing with the little cars, and has now evolved into collecting the little vehicles as a collector. Although I found pleasure in this fascinating past time as a child, I was just as content to join the girls and engage with them in a round of hopscotch, jump rope, or play dress up with their Barbie’s. I was a lover of anything pink, and wanted very little to do with most typical boy toys and games. I also detested the color blac, and I thought gray was a color absolutely design to be warn by corpses.

The building itself was a stately old structure that was built in the eighteen hundreds, and would stand on the same location for well over one hundred years before being condemned to be torn down, due to the structure becoming a fire hazard. It was a sad day for me as well as many others the day the last class was held in that stately old building before making the transition into the new facility in the fall of nineteen eighty-three. For the next several months groups of students would gather along the fence of the old property to watch the building slowly being dismantled. First by workers who methodically removed all the old antique hand crafted woodwork to sell at auction. Then several weeks later students continued to gather at the fence