Why Me?

By Paul Charbonneau

Paul Charbonneau, an aries and a trooper.A survivor.
Born in 1966 and raised in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.
Has lived a tough life, sexual and child abuse, lived in numerous foster
care at a young age. Has lived through poverty, hunger, homelessness,
prostitution and unfortunately an hiv-aids survivor, and been
diagnosed with this disease since 1988. As took myself
5 years to finish this book. Had to go through federal prison,
related to my disease, marriage and love. Finally today
this book is made and is something I had to do to share
my story with all to help with this dreadful disease and to share
an important time in my life with my special readers. I also wrote
this book to help people with hiv-aids and families and friends.
I wrote this book with my heart for all to read.
Peace...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450065856

Paul Charbonneau

Paul Charbonneau, an aries and a trooper.A survivor. Born in 1966 and raised in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Has lived a tough life, sexual and child abuse, lived in numerous foster care at a young age. Has lived through poverty, hunger, homelessness, prostitution and unfortunately an hiv-aids survivor, and been diagnosed with this disease since 1988. As took myself 5 years to finish this book. Had to go through federal prison, related to my disease, marriage and love. Finally today this book is made and is something I had to do to share my story with all to help with this dreadful disease and to share an important time in my life with my special readers. I also wrote this book to help people with hiv-aids and families and friends. I wrote this book with my heart for all to read. Peace...

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Copyright © 2010 by Paul Charbonneau.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2010904717

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4500-6584-9

   Softcover   978-1-4500-6583-2

   Ebook   978-1-4500-6585-6

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CONTENTS

Intro

My Book

Views And Comments

The Truth… Or Not… You Be My Judge

DEDICATION TO

I would like to dedicate this book to all who has this terrible disease of HIV/AIDS and all the family members who know or have this in their lives. My heart goes to all family and friends and people living with this dreadful, annoying disease. I would like also to dedicate this book to the AIDS committee of Ottawa, who is always there for the people living with the disease, for their soft and loving care of us all. They will never turn their back, and they treat us with dignity and respect and love. I love them and will be giving them a percentage of the sales to help them continue this beautiful work for us. Last but not least, I would like to thank my beautiful wife, Helene, who has pushed me in the butt even though it was really hard for me physically and emotionally to write this book and to finish it. I love her, and I thank her for being there for me through the rough times and the beautiful times. Also I would like to dedicate this book to the people who have already passed on and their close ones. I feel for you, and for this I dedicate this book to you. Peace.

INTRO

This book was five years in the making with obstacles and controversy and politics and the law and me.

It is about the justice system, the law, and the hidden agenda of not knowing what to do with HIV/AIDS people.

This story is about me, the first male in the city of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, to be charged and convicted with consensual sex but not disclosing my HIV status. I was not guilty of the crime but still got convicted to five years of jail for it. I will explain all in this book, from the beginning of how I became HIV positive, to how I got convicted, and what happens before jail and inside of jail and after jail. It took me a long time to write this book to educate all on the precautions and advice to get to make sure no one else who is not guilty does a lot of jail time for nothing. This is my story and my words, and it is up to you to have your idea if am guilty or not. The story only explains my side of it, and I know you will find it very interesting and sad and pleasurable all at the same time. At the end of this book you will read what I found out only after my conviction, what might be the truth and would have changed everything. I will bring you through child abuse of all sorts, to foster care system, being raped as a child and young adult, to marriage and so on. I hope you are ready to go on a roller coaster ride that you will never ever forget. Enjoy.

Author and writer: Paul Charbonneau

MY BOOK

I here sentence you to five years in a federal prison, the judge reads to me with his stare, minus eighteen months that you have already served for your crime. My lawyer turns to me and says, Good choice, Paul, you will be out sooner than you think. If only he could read in my mind what I really thought of him. Thirty minutes ago I pleaded not guilty, and that’s the way it was for eighteen months now, and I let this lawyer influence my judgment just to take a better deal to save myself from doing life in prison. Now to the whole world I am guilty, but to myself and a few others, we know the truth that I am not guilty.

As the guards grab my arms and take me out of the courtroom, I look back just to see the lady crown attorney high five with the female cop that arrested me. From that moment on I told myself that one day the truth will come out, but for now I have to do this time, and then I will prepare for my day in life, meaning truth! It was going to be six to twelve hours drive to my new home for the next few years, and I had a lot of time to think about what went wrong and what happened exactly to get me to this point. As I stare at the metal cold floor of this closed police bus, I start to wander off and remember the day when I was very young. I closed my eyes and was in a relaxed and very tired state, and my mind wandered off.

It was the early seventies and the music was cool and meant something; there were flowers everywhere and also a lot of flower children and free people. I think the whole world hated the war in those days, so they drowned in some type of drug or another. But life was so bright and shiny, a lot of people were smiling all the time, money was good, and things were at a reasonable price, not like today. I remember a lot the words like give peace a chance. Well, my father liked John Lennon a lot in those days, so at home it was, like, every day I would hear the Beatles and many more of the same type of music of this era, and I might agree that the music meant something and the words of the songs in those days were real. It was for the music and love, not like today where it’s just for the fast buck.

As my mother went to work—she was a homemaker, cleaning houses and having tea with her employees on a daily basis—my father dressed me up and my younger brother also. We used to live behind a park with a nice little river or stream. The green grass was always so nice and smelled good, and there were swings and other enjoyable things for kids. It was a summer day, the sun was shining, and everything was so beautiful and smelled pure and great. My father was laying in the grass having a smoke and a beer and reading, while me and my young brother were running all over the park and playing and laughing. We were so happy.

My dad got up and said, Let’s go over there to the stream and soak our feet in the water and throw some pebbles rocks in it. We did that all the time and had fun doing it. I guess it was our thing between us three. Us sitting at the water’s edge laughing and singing and talking, splashing our feet and getting each other wet—until it happened! I felt a push, and my eyes opened wide in shock. I am sinking here, going deeper and deeper into the water. I got to the bottom of this mass water, standing up on my little two feet looking up, and it’s so dark down here. Extreme bubbles started coming from my nose and at times from my mouth. I look all around to make sure no fish is eating me or a water monster isn’t out to get me—it’s so dark! The rays of the sunshine lit a little spot and showed me the wall of the river. I try to climb it, step by step getting a little higher, but it’s so slippery that I fall back down to the bottom. I try this attempt a few times but to no success. I am really crying now, but you cannot tell because of course I am in the water, but I am at a point of panicking. I must have tried climbing that wall a million times now with all I got but to no success.

It was beginning to be a little too much for this little boy that hardly weighed much, and I gave up. My body was slowly starting to melt, let’s say. I was falling backward on my little back, and the water was starting to enter my lungs. This was going to be it, this is my short little life on this planet. Then out of nowhere, I felt whooshed up, like pushed with extreme force to my feet. My little arms were being held by someone and was pulling me up this river, just like Superman when his arms are out and he starts to fly. That was the feeling. The funny thing is that no one was there—this was happening by itself. Now I am laying on the grass next to the river, breathing hard in and out, spitting out water all alone. Don’t ask me how but I got on my feet and I was crying a lot. I looked around and in the distance walking away was my dad and my little brother hand in hand.

What I didn’t understand was how did this happen, and why was my family walking away at a far distance. I know to this day that whatever pushed me up from the river was not human—impossible! I have no proof or explanation as to exactly what it was, but to this day I think about this day in the park and in the river. There can be a lot of explanations about this. I was young after all, with a wild imagination and so on, but I know that this happened and that’s why I remember this day like it was yesterday. It states in the children’s aid society report that at that time there were a lot of family problems at my home, and my dad was going through a severe depression, and my mother had some issues also. I personally think from her side it was to abuse us because I remember a few incidents with coat hangers. Was my dad that depressed that he would actually try to do something this horrific to one of his kids? Yes, I am talking about perhaps a possible homicide attempt. I don’t think I will ever know that, but he does, and whatever reason he had for not saving me that day, it will come back to haunt him if it hasn’t already.

It’s getting a little chilly now and late, and the prisoners’ bus is arriving at the prison. It’s a prison where all federal inmates go to find out which mother jail they will belong to. It’s called Millhaven institution—it’s like an evaluation prison. We all come here, then we get placed in the prison where we will finish our sentence time in. The room they gave me was no bigger than a step-in closet, and there was two of us in there and a small toilet. Other than that it was impossible to move—that’s how cramped it was in that prison room. I don’t know if it was nerves or anxiety, but I was starting to have a lot of chest pains, and the suckers hurt too—it was like I was getting a heart attack. This went on for a few days, and my three meals a day was actually only one. I was not hungry, and I could not eat much—that was the nervous system and the fear of prison kicking in.

What I did not know is the guards were actually keeping a close eye on me. The reason I say that is because in the institution in my city of Ottawa, in the correctional center where I was kept for eighteen months because I pleaded not guilty, things were not so easy for me. When I first arrived at that prison in Ottawa after being charged, while in the process of doing the courts and keeping to my word that I was not guilty, the media jumped all over my story from all corners of this globe and especially here locally. The guards said that no way we are putting Paul in general population—they will kill him alive—so they put me in protective custody. I was with rapists and murderers and simply weak people that are afraid of jail or whose crime was not for the liking.

That went well for a few months, but of course, every time I went to court the media was there and would put all kinds of stuff about me in the newspapers, which are given out in the jails for all inmates to read. I think that law should be stopped ASAP to protect us. Well, all fifty inmates wanted my head for breakfast, so I ran to the guards and told them they want to kill me, don’t leave me in here. The officers called the warden, and the warden told me, OK, we will put you in the hole for few days to cool things down, but we don’t know what to do with you after that. I said, Sure, I will take the hole, just get me out of this dilemma please. So to the hole I went, where it is very cold and it’s a bed of metal and a toilet and sink—that’s it.

After about a week, the guards told me that tomorrow you are going back to your cell. That’s like throwing a steak to hungry lions, and I was really scared and paranoid now. I told them that I was now officially on a hunger strike. They took all my clothes away and gave me a heavy gown and nothing else. Now I was really cold: no socks, my arms uncovered, and the light on twenty-four hours a day. Out of the eighteen months I did at this center, three quarters of it was done in the hole, and on a regular basis with a psychiatrist to help me through all this. It was long and cold and very scary, but I did it.

Back at the federal institution, where my chest pains were getting heavier and I was waiting to get placed, I kind of got either a small heart attack or a bad anxiety attack that I passed out and fell to the floor. A guard walking by me lifted me up and brought me to my room—my little bunk cell, that is. The next morning three guards open my cell and say, Paul, pack all your stuff and come with us please. I thought to myself, what is happening now? I ask them that, then they replied again, Paul, get your stuff quickly and come with us. So I did very fast put everything in a big bag and follow them. I was walking through the medical hospital hallway now and I was thinking, why am I here? They told me to put my stuff on the floor and enter this office and wait for the doctor. An older fellow about twenty minutes later walks in and introduces himself to me. He was a psychiatrist for that prison and told me that they were warned from the other institution to keep an eye on me because I was very unpredictable and they would consider me highly suicidal. He also asked me why I passed out on the prison floor yesterday, and I told him it was because of chest pains and that was really the truth. OK, I was not eating much, but I was fine. He told me that for the rest of my stay there, I was to be kept in the medical ward just to make sure. It was not an option either, I was told. I agreed, and I was glad that I did.

I had my own room which was comfortably sized, three meals a day were brought to me, and it was quiet and I was on my own with no stress from other inmates. I was not on suicide watch, the doctor said, but just on watch for my health also. I told him thanks and on my way to this room I went. I was told I would be here between two weeks to a month until they decide which prison to send me to, to finish my sentence. I said no problem and take your time. There was a little tiny window in my room, I did a lot of reading because there was no TV, a little dresser, a stand, a little table, and a light. It was a little boring, but I was now at least in a relaxed state and my chest pains were a little milder but were still there.

A few days passed—read, sleep, eat, same routine as days go by. I did like to sit at this little window and stare at nothing. I did stare at my life a lot, remembering things of my childhood like how I think I got to this point in my life, that I would have to say started at around six or seven years old when I was eating at our kitchen table at home in my childhood. Me, my little brother, my dad, and my mom, we ate a lot of always the same leftovers and macaroni—you know, what poor people eat, but we ate at least. Dinner time was never really quiet. Me and my brother would always do something or another to annoy our parents like any six-year-old would. The only thing is, at that time, the bond between me and brother was unbreakable—we were like two twins, two peas in a pod, Hansel and Gretel. You could not separate us even if you tried.

My little brother was the emotional child in the family. He was the crier. OK, at times I was sure he was trying simply to win an Oscar award, but he was a very emotional little boy. Me on the other hand was the cute, little, frail, shy but kind of quiet child, with a tiny bit of hyper in me. After every meal, my dad went to his room to have his beer and smoke his cigarettes and read his famous male magazines. My mother would do dishes and clean up, and was mostly always in the kitchen doing something or another. Me and my brother were always either playing in the bedroom or living room with our toys. I have an older brother, but I think he was up north in Quebec in some juvenile institution at that time. We never saw him at all. I don’t even remember him at no time in my childhood ages, but later on he pops back in the picture.

Me and my brother had a favorite toy that we always played with from my Christmas past: it was a car garage little track and garage station, and a pump gas, and little cars, and it had like two or three stories, and we had hours of fun on this little game together. That one night, I think we overplayed and we were getting really tired, and he broke it for some reason out of tiredness and vengeance. I threw the game all over the living room, on the walls, everywhere! He started crying very loud and my mother came in the living room, grabbed my arm very tightly, and pulled me across the cold hard floor to our bedroom. She wrestled and kicked me and pulled me to my closet where I saw her grab a hanger and started to hit my ass harder and harder, and I was crying for her to stop as my big tears flowed, but she kept swinging that hanger at me harder and faster till my butt bled. I was yelling, Mommy, it hurts, stop please, Mommy, stop! Then she locked the closet door and left me there for a while.

It was really dark in there with just a keyhole that at some times would let some light in, but not often. I always peeked my little eye through that hole to wait to see when she would come get me out. Most of the time was my father would come get me hours later and sit me on the couch in the living room to watch TV with him and my brother. This would be a night I would remember forever. The next day, my father was at work, my mom in the kitchen, and me and my brother were playing in the living room. It must have been close to supper time I would say. The doorbell rang and there was a loud knock at our door. My mom answers and tells me and Pete to go to our room. We were just kids, we had no clue who it was or what was going on, and we played and laughed our heads off for about an hour or two.

A strange lady opens our room door and says, Paul, come to the living room please, and told my little brother to stay in our room. The lady started to talk to me about life, and things that sounded fun, and a lot of activities that sounded cool in the future for me. She was trying to butter me up somehow with promises but I had no idea why. She tells me to get dressed and come with her to the car, and I ask her why in my little voice, and that’s when she let it all hang out. I was going into foster care. I was going to live with other kids and with other kind of parents and so on! Of course, I started a fit, and I became very loud and mad. It took her and my mom to put me in the lady’s car, and then they locked it. I did not know how to unlock it and I tried like every way, but no success. They both went back into