I’ve read a few blogs over the years, but I never thought I’d be writing one. A few weeks ago, over a glass of wine and a long night of storytelling – telling my story to my friend Krista – I decided I needed to share an important message with the world. Krista suggested writing down my feelings might help me, and I decided if it would also help someone else it was worth putting myself out there. Short and sweet, my message is this: domestic violence can happen to anyone. When I think back, I’m not sure I knew that I was experiencing domestic violence, but in reality there were a lot of warning signs leading up to it.

I married my high school sweetheart, Ben, at 18 and we both went on to post-secondary – me, a dental hygienist, him, an Optometrist (a gruelling seven year program).

We had a lot of pressures, and the way Ben reacted to problems was a big part of the problem. When I think back, the first sign of it was a week before our wedding. Ben just kind of lost it on me. He got really, really mad, yelling and saying I was a spoiled brat. He said my Dad was using our wedding to show off and that I was too stupid to see it. I was young and unsure of myself. Part of me wondered if he might be right.

Six months after the wedding we moved away to another city where we both went to school. Things were pretty good – we had a social life and a good sex life. Ben’s schooling was stressful though and every once in a while the stress would get to him and he would explode and lose it on me. It was always me; when he was stressed I couldn’t say or do anything right. He always told me I was the problem. But then he would apologize. He would cry. He would vow never to treat me that way again. We’d be fine again, for a while.

The next big blow up came during one of our first summers together. We wanted to go on holidays but neither of us could afford the time away. He came home late; I had worked a double and was too tired to make supper. He lost it, asking how I could be so ungrateful when he worked so hard. This time he grabbed my arm, pushed me towards the stove and threw things at me. He stormed out of the house and I didn’t see him for three days. I was afraid and ashamed, and started to wonder if he was right about me being selfish. What if he never came back? Of course he did, and we both held each other and cried. He promised it wouldn’t happen again; I promised I would try harder to be more considerate. He told me he was under a lot of stress and that things had to be easy at home for him right now.

Nine months later our baby girl was born. Even though it was a joyful time, it was also really hard. Ben was still in school at the time, and we struggled as new parents. When my mom came to help out, Ben spent a lot of time away from the house. Things still weren’t okay between Ben and my family from the wedding, and I tried to keep contact with them to a minimum in order to keep the peace. Our baby boy Robert was born the next year. I worked while Ben finished school. The student loans were starting to pile up – along with stress about finances. But we both knew with the kind of salary Ben would make after graduation, we’d be okay – eventually.

Things got a bit better for a while. When Ben finally graduated, he was offered a job in Calgary. Ben worked long hours and I didn’t have any friends at the time. I was lonely. It wasn’t until Krista moved here from Saskatoon that I had anyone I could talk to. Krista and I had been best friends since high school. Having her close by helped me feel better about myself.

Not long after we moved, I noticed Ben starting pulling away from me – staying out longer and longer; playing hockey into the night. Finances were still tight as he was starting a new career. We still had student loan debt and our house expenses were high. We were both working and the kids were in a day home. We needed a holiday. Summer was coming and, once again, it didn’t look like we would get much of a break. Finally on one of the few really hot nights, I blew up at Ben. He was always away, leaving me to look after the kids alone. Everyone else was going on holidays – even camping would be better than nothing. We needed a smaller house to cut down on expenses. Pretty soon the argument moved on to my family and the name calling started; how spoiled I was…how stupid I was….how ungrateful and unloving. This time I yelled at him, and he shoved me so hard I fell on the ground. He was still yelling at me, when Chelsea woke up and started screaming. Ben left, slamming the front door behind him. My heart was broken.

The next few weeks were so hard. I blamed myself for everything. With the help of Krista, I decided it was time to get help; I couldn’t do it alone anymore, and I didn’t want to pretend anymore that things were fine. Most of all, I didn’t want my kids growing up like this.

I phoned a service and they walked me through some options. We all went to counselling together, even the kids. Thankfully, I have discovered that there is life after domestic violence. It’s not perfect, but we are still together – I love my husband. When we fight now, we fight fair. Ben is even working on letting go with my family. He still sees a counsellor to help him deal with anger issues.

The one thing I wish is that I hadn’t waited so long .There are things you can do and people who can help you early on before it gets so bad it starts to ruin your marriage or affect your kids… don’t wait as long as I did to seek it out.

I thought I had finally found my perfect match, and I’d never been happier. My new partner, Stephen, was everything I’d ever wanted: affectionate, generous, funny, smart, and very good looking. But after a few months of dating, I started finding Stephen’s attention stifling. Whenever I went out, he would text me a lot. At first he just left little love messages, but pretty soon the messages became more like accusations: Where was I? Who was I with? Then one night, I saw an old friend at the bar and spent about a half an hour talking and laughing with him. When we got in the car to go home, Stephen was furious that I had spent so much time with that old friend. All the way home, Stephen interrogated me relentlessly about the conversation I had at the bar. When we parked in the garage, Stephen grabbed me by the hair and said he wouldn’t let me out of the car, until I showed him how much I loved him. He forced me into performing oral sex. Feeling violated, afraid and humiliated, I slept alone on the couch that night. The next day, Stephen said he was sorry and that it would never happen again, but the jealousy and abuse continued. Eventually, I connected with an agency that provides counseling support and they helped me figure out what a healthy relationship looked like. I ended my relationship with Stephen and I’m looking for a new relationship that is much healthier.

It always happened at night, during the 2:00 am bed check. The first time it happened, I was sleeping. I thought I was having a sexual dream, but when I woke up, Wayne, the care attendant, was standing over me and sexually touching me with his hands. I was so scared that I froze. I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. Finally, Wayne stopped and left the room. I was horribly embarrassed and didn’t want to tell anyone. Every night that Wayne worked, it happened at the same time, and in the same way. I wanted it to stop – it made me feel dirty and disgusting – but who could I tell? Besides, it had been going on so long that it was probably too late now, I should have told someone sooner. What if they thought I liked it – that I wanted it? Then one day, someone from an agency in town came to talk to us care home residents about domestic violence and sexual abuse. Wayne was there too but I couldn’t even look at him. Later that day, I phoned the number the agency had left and asked for help. The phone counselor told me it was a normal reaction to sexual assault to freeze and not do anything. And she told me it was even normal that I felt confused because even though I was extremely uncomfortable with what Wayne was doing to me, my body responded sexually to his touch. She helped me report the abuse to the management of the care home. They believed me and supported me. Wayne no longer works here. With the agency’s help, the care home has put policies in place to prevent other people like me from being abused.

Even though my two sons and their families all lived in town, I didn’t see them much, mostly just on special occasions. I was pretty lonely. Having a routine helped me feel better and less isolated. Every Monday I would play bridge. Tuesdays were stretch and strength exercises. And Wednesdays, rain or shine, I would always go for groceries. My walker would double as a grocery cart. I’d just buy a few things, like milk, bread and fresh produce, because a service delivered bigger items like dry goods and staples. The weekly trip to the market was really just an excuse to get out of the house. I’d seen him there before and I liked his kind face and a gentle manner. When he offered to walk me home and help with the groceries, I didn’t see any harm in it. The walk home was pleasant enough, he walked slowly so I could keep up, and he was easy to talk to. He held my walker while I got out the key to the door. He offered to help unload the groceries and put them away. I even offered him a cup of tea. When I turned to fill the kettle he grabbed me from behind, dragged me to the bedroom and sexually assaulted me. I fought back as well as I could – and I had the bruises to show for it. The bruises were nothing compared to how embarrassed and humiliated I felt. How could I have been so stupid? A stupid, lonely old woman – that’s what I was. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. I should have known better. It wasn’t until two months later when my granddaughter was telling me about an essay she was writing for school on sexual assault that I finally broke down and told her what happened. My granddaughter helped me contact an agency that offered counseling and support. They said it wasn’t too late to report to police, and helped me get special medical attention. They also started to help me understand that I wasn’t to blame for what happened.

I guess you could say I was a pretty successful real estate agent. I won my company’s annual sales award three-times. I was single, I liked to dress well, and I knew that a lot of people looked up to me. But I also carried around a secret that was eating away at me. When I was young, I was sexually abused by my mother’s live-in boyfriend. He moved in with us when I was six. He treated me like a little princess, took me special places and bought me things. When I started reading about child sexual abuse, I found out that’s what’s called “grooming the victim.” By the time I was eight, he was sexually abusing me a lot. When I turned eleven, he told me our “special times” were going to stop because I was old enough to have my own boyfriend. Now, I realize that he stopped because I was entering puberty. Despite a few nightmares now and then, I thought I was doing ok with the memories of the abuse and effects of the trauma. It wasn’t until my best friend gave birth to a baby girl that I started to feel anything – and then it was like a floodgate of emotions were released. I couldn’t sleep or eat, and started missing work. I finally called a service in Calgary that offered support and counseling. They told me it wasn’t too late to report to police if I wanted to. They also said that, when I’m ready, they’ll even help me tell my Mom what happened all those years ago.

My sister had set me up with a new guy, and I was really excited about him. We’d already had two dates, and I thought he was great. We talked and laughed a lot and, that night, we danced together a couple of times. I was totally surprised when, way before last call, he just stood up and said he was leaving. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t want to go home, so I started ordering drinks. Then I met a guy friend I had known for about six months. I told him what happened. He started telling me horror stories from his own love life. We talked and laughed, and I was starting to feel better. When the bar closed, he offered me a ride home. I was too drunk to drive, but he only had about two drinks, so I was glad he offered. I remember him taking the ring road, which he said was the fastest way to my house, but then it seemed like we were travelling farther and farther away from the city. Suddenly, he pulled off the highway onto a side road where it was very dark. He told me he wouldn’t take me home until I had sex with him. I wanted him to just let me go, but he kept saying the same thing. He was really calm, but he just kept saying he wouldn’t take me anywhere until I did what he wanted. Finally, I gave in and had sex with him. He took me home and I felt so ashamed that I didn’t tell anyone what happened. Finally, I told my sister. She helped me reach out for help. I decided to report what happened to the police, I got medical help, and counseling. They helped me understand that I didn’t consent to what happened to me, and that it was sexual assault. I’m learning not to feel ashamed about what happened to me.

My friend Sarah and I were the first ones at the party. Everyone else got a head start on drinking the huge keg of beer that was there. Sarah and I were underage and neither of our parents knew what we were doing or where we were. Both of our parents thought we were spending the night at another girlfriend’s house. By midnight, I was sick twice and was so drunk I could barely walk. I remember that Sarah helped me into a room with a bunch of coats, and I passed out. When I woke up the next morning, I was naked from the waist down with a condom stuck to the inside of my leg. I knew I had been raped. I ran to the bathroom and threw up a bunch of times, crying. I felt dirty and ashamed, and Sarah and I were both too afraid to tell anyone what had happened. About a week later, I was talking to a friend at school who told me about an agency I could call that would help. The agency believed me and supported me. They helped me get treatment for STIs and talked to me about what I could do if I was pregnant. They also found me a counselor who helped me see that the whole thing wasn’t my fault. I’m still working on getting over it, but I feel better that I got help.

Being the first one in my family to get more than a high school education, I was always seen as the “perfect daughter.” My parents were concerned about how I would do in a big city after living in a small town my whole life, so they arranged for me to stay with a cousin and his family in Calgary while I went to school. One week into the fall term, I woke up in the middle of the night to find a family friend in my bedroom, choking me and sexually assaulting me. I was afraid he would hurt me if I called for help, so I lay still until he finally stopped and left. He threatened to kill me if I told anyone what happened. In the morning, my cousin’s wife noticed the bruise on my neck. I started crying, and I told her what happened, it all just came out. My family took me to a health centre where I could get medical care. They counseled me and gave me information about reporting to the police. After regular sessions with my counselor, a reduced course load, and the support of my family, I was able to keep going to school and get on with my life in a healthy way.

I tried everything I could to make a good impression on my mother-in-law. My husband was lucky because he went to work every day. But I had to spend most of my time in the house. My mother-in-law would often insult me and call me names, like fat, lazy and ugly. Sometimes she’d pull my hair or pinch me so hard it left bruises. Since I was new to Canada, I thought it would be nice to live with my husbands’ parents. The familiarity of their household was a welcome rest from the strange new Canadian language, customs and very cold weather. But now I felt hopeless and isolated. I couldn’t work or speak English. My world felt very small. When I tried to explain to my husband what was happening, he refused to listen, telling me I should be happy to have married into such a good family. Then my mother-in-law’s favorite necklace went missing and she accused me of stealing it. I burst into tears and pleaded for mercy when she threatened to call police and have me sent back to China. Desperate and afraid, I confided in a friend I met at church. My friend connected me to an agency that was able to help me understand my rights as a new immigrant. They arranged for me and my husband to see a marriage counselor – one that understood our culture. There is still conflict in our family, but I now feel like I have somewhere to turn for help if it ever again becomes unmanageable.

As an adult with a disability, I loved everything about being able to live independently. I had a job I loved, and a great apartment, in a beautiful neighbourhood. There was only one problem. I was not very happy with my roommate. Bill was paid to help me shower, get dressed, and do other types of personal care. But he was pretty bossy. He liked to tell me what to wear, what to eat, when to go to bed, when to get up, and he rarely kept his opinions to himself. Along with everything else, Bill liked to go to bed early, but I was a night owl. The tension between us started to build. He started to refuse to help me get into the bath if it was after 9:00 pm at night. One night, after an argument, I demanded that he give me a bath even though it was already 9:30 pm. Bill looked furious but he didn’t say a word as he lifted me into the tub, handed me the soap and a cloth and left. After I was finished, I called to Bill to help me out of the tub and into bed. Bill didn’t respond. I kept calling, but nothing. So I spent the night in the cold hard tub. The next morning when Bill finally came to help me out of the tub, he told me maybe next time I should think twice about asking for help so late at night. I was too scared to say anything to Bill but later that day I told my bus driver what happened. The bus driver gave me the number of an agency that would help me find a new supportive living roommate. The agency helped me report the abuse to the authorities, and they even made sure that Bill was not allowed to work as a supportive roommate with anyone else.

Throughout my 12-year marriage, I found my wife Marilyn to be kind of unpredictable. But this last year was especially bad. More and more, Marilyn was spending a lot of time away from home and when she finally did come home she was usually drunk. I tried a couple of times to talk to her about it, but each time her reactions became more erratic. She slammed doors, broke dishes and even punched a hole in the wall. Her behaviour was especially hard on our three kids. As much as I tried to shelter them from her outbursts, they saw – and heard – everything. Usually they would end up running to their rooms to hide. Early one morning, Marilyn was particularly tired and hung over. She picked up Pepper, our little family dog, and threw him against the wall. Pepper let out a yelp and lay on the floor, bleeding from the nose. The kids and I were shocked. We ran to help Pepper, and comfort each other, while Marilyn stomped out the door. Even though I felt ashamed and embarrassed, I knew I needed to reach out for help. I found an agency to give me support and help me protect and care for the kids while Marilyn got the help she needed. The kids and I hope that once Marilyn has completed her treatment, our family will be able to reunite.

I never had any children of my own, but I always held a special place in my heart for my adult nephew John. John had gone through some tough times, and since his immediate family lived in Ontario, I invited him to live with me to help get him back on his feet. I always thought he was a good kid who just needed a little help. Not long after he moved in, John went to an alcohol treatment program and stayed clean and sober for six months. He got a job, and things were looking up for John. Then one night, he fell off the wagon. He came back to my apartment drunk, angry, and asking for money. When I refused, he started yelling and screaming at me, saying really hurtful and demeaning things, and knocking over my furniture. I felt scared, confused and sad for John. I knew I needed help to deal with the situation, so I reached out. I felt badly having to tell John to leave, but now I live alone and feel safe here. I’m still trying to help John, but I’m also protecting myself.