Story #97 - Noémie, Montréal, QC (CANADA) - Human Trafficking, Sexual Abuse and Motherhood, Complex PTSD, Dissociation & Trauma Survivor
The trauma of not being believed is almost as painful and damaging as the violence I endured.
Chapter I
Backstory
My name is Noémie*. I am a survivor of human trafficking and suffer from complex PTSD due to prolonged sexual and physical abuses as a child and young adult. In 2017, my partner and I chose to become parents and welcomed our first child together: a son. I have never spoken of these events publicly before. This is my (postpartum) story.
I did not recall the details of what had happened to me until recently. For most of my life, I was in a state of dissociation. But the arrival of my son changed that.
The way I was abused and trafficked is interconnected. Both sides of my family suffered intergenerational trauma and sexual. Uncles at Christmas parties being inappropriate. Stories of untold rapes. When I would bring these up to my parents, they'd deny it. Told me it was my imagination or that I should be grateful that an adult wanted to play with me. Such upbringing created the perfect storm to be manipulated by dangerous individuals. They saw in my parents' fragility an opportunity to gradually take control of their lives and those of their children.
My whole family attended church regularly when I was young. I must have been two or three when my parents got involved with a group of people led by the priest from the church we attended. He told them they had been selected amongst many other parishioners and were asked to attend special and secret meetings after mass.
I want people to understand that narcissistic perverts don't simply throw you into the boiling water. It's incredibly subtle, like a gradual brainwash that feeds on people's vulnerability. First, he told my parents that their children needed to be purified because evil matters possessed us. They'd be asked to put our heads underwater. If we didn't cooperate or other parents rebelled and left, the priest would use them as examples to build momentum by chastising everyone who wouldn't agree with him.
Eventually, the priest asked my parents to leave us there alone. Other people got involved. They used us for prostitution and to create pornographic material.
And so, from age five to eleven, my two sisters and I were trafficked under the church's blessed eye and by the organized crime.
One of the first memories I have from this period is being locked alone in the dark in a church's basement and screaming for help. I was five.
The abuses happened routinely from then on. We would be taken by the people every Sunday for a couple of hours. On Monday, we'd be back at school, participating in recitals or performing extracurricular activities.
Other children, some local, most of them foreigners, would be present on these Sundays. They made us witness each other's assaults. We were heavily sedated with drugs put in orange and grape juice, or by intramuscular injections. There were luxurious yachts, fancy hotel rooms, but most of the time, we were brought onto film sets. The clients we met with mainly spoke English [1]. That's why the accent on my name is so important to me. It does not sound the same when an American man pronounces it right before raping you.
When I turned eleven, the people asked my parents to keep my siblings and me for a full two weeks. They said, "If you leave the girls with us for that long, you'll never have to do it again."
I believe now that we were simply getting too old for their business and had lost our market value. My parents agreed, and we underwent two weeks of continuous torture. After that, we never heard or saw them again.
Giving away details, whether they are general or specific, can trigger a dissociative state. These fragments are so big, so monstrous: how can they be real?
Denial is comforting both for myself and the person who receives my story. By not believing victims, even within yourself, you don't have to handle the reality that other humans can be that cruel.
I've always had flashbacks of these events but didn't start to make sense of them until I turned 35, soon after my son was born, and I started individual therapy and a support group [2] for survivors of sexual assaults in 2018. Therapy helped me to know that there are people out there who believe me. I also know now that experiences like mine, albeit rare, are documented. There are days I am holding on by a thread and feel I'm on the verge of an abyss. The pain is so acute that I come to think death is the only way out. My son and partner are the persons who bring me back to shore safely.
As cliché as it sounds, they are the reasons that motivate my healing journey.
I met my partner in high school. We vaguely knew each other and had mutual friends. We didn't have any contact for more than a decade, then met again fourteen years later at a friend's house. Relationships are complicated for me, but I knew I wanted to be intentional about meeting him again and becoming his friend. He was doing humanitarian work worldwide as an engineer, while I was most comfortable at home: not an ideal match. Never in a million years had I thought we would become involved romantically. But I loved being around him. So, when he visited Montreal between two projects, and we got to see each other more, we discussed how things could develop. I didn't want him to give up the dream of traveling around the globe to stay with someone like myself. When I shared my concerns, he said, “I'm not giving up on anything. I'm simply fulfilling another dream of mine: being with a person I love and respect, and building a family with her.”
We moved in together shortly after that. I knew the kind of man he was, so there was relatively no surprise: he couldn't care less about having money but respected my needs for financial stability. We hold the same values regarding human life and the environment, and very early on in our partnership, I told him my story. He held my hands — he still does — and assured me he was not going anywhere.
Early on in our relationship, I shared my desire to have children. He suggested we wait, but I truly wanted to try. For obvious reasons, sexuality is difficult for me, and I don't have much interest in it. But I also truly wanted to have a child. It was in 2016, and although I already had the intuition that something terrible had happened to me, I couldn't access these memories clearly. Intercourse elevated my anxiety and depressive symptoms. I had the sweetest man on earth, but I always ended up crying uncontrollably. My partner and I agreed that I would investigate what was going on before becoming pregnant.
Unfortunately, I met with a therapist who was unqualified in dealing with survivors of sexual abuse. I would tell her what I believed had happened, and she wouldn't have any reaction. One thing I've learned from many professionals and hearing the testimonies of other survivors is that we need constant reassurance and validation. Silence triggers more questions than responses: “Is she on my side? Does she believe me? Does she think I'm lying? What if what happened to me was not that wrong, and I'm overreacting?” Reassurance and validation strip the victim from the shame of believing that what she experienced is her fault. It's an essential part of the healing process. To find myself in front of someone who would quietly nod aggravated my symptoms and led me to quit therapy after only a few sessions.
I made up excuses: “Maybe my anxiety and depression aren’t that bad; it’s probably just work,” and we decided to try for a kid nevertheless. By September of 2016, after only two months of trying to conceive, I became pregnant.
Chapter II
To Be Born
Retrospectively, the pregnancy didn't go well. Physically, I was fine, but mentally, I was incredibly anxious. Luckily, I found a group of wonderful midwives and was able to tell them about the trauma I had experienced in my adult life. Although a home birth was out of the question, their birth center was a happy middle between the crunchiness of my home and the sterile — and often violent — hospital environment. To feel heard and respected by my midwives had a huge effect on my mood and made my pregnancy somewhat bearable.
My son ended up breech. We tried the external cephalic version, but he didn't budge. I was given a choice: either elect for a c-section or go to the hospital and attempt a vaginal birth. For decades, doctors automatically performed c-sections for breech babies. The Society of Obstetricians and Gynecologists of Canada only began to reintroduce the practice for low-risk pregnancies in 2009 in Quebec. The only way for me to have a breech baby vaginally was to go to the Hospital. My midwife agreed to be present at the birth, not as the acting provider, but more like a doula. It was reassuring to know she'd be there to support me.
I quit work two months before giving birth because the stress of the pregnancy was too intense. Sleep was never restorative, and I had Braxton hicks, which exhausted me physically and mentally. I remember asking my team at the hospital for preventive psychiatric help. I met with a psychiatrist and asked her, “If things go sideways after the birth, will you be there to care for me?” She smiled and said, “But of course we'll be there to catch you!” But when I did a few days only after giving birth, they never returned my calls. Our system isn't preventive but reactive. I truly felt like I was let down.
On May 29th, my water broke.
I went to the birth center to make sure things were on their way, and we drove to the hospital. As I expected, they wanted to intervene and control me during labor. I was under constant monitoring and was asked if I wanted the epidural every other hour. Every time I'd refuse, the anesthesiologist would throw a fit. I also had to push in the OR because breech babies have a higher risk of c-sections, and the environment felt incredibly sterile.
The protocol to vaginally deliver breech babies is very strict: you have to dilate 1cm per hour, or else they put you on Pitocin. For a long while, I labored on my own with the help of my midwife. I took a bath, tried to relax despite the many students coming in and out to “study” me. Because it's rare for women to elect for vaginal birth in these cases, I felt like a lab rat. I was utterly aware that the more people in the room, the more likely I might become triggered.
Unconsciously or not, I think I knew that whatever the birth outcome, it would be difficult.
My dilation slowed down a little when I got to 8cm, so they forced me to go on Pitocin. After that, the pain became absolutely unbearable, and I felt so helpless that I asked for the epidural.
The epidural allowed me to handle the Pitocin surges much better, and I got to rest a little before getting to 10cm. Then, everyone got ready, and I was given permission to start to push. The baby's heart rate was great, but the NICU team was there just in case. There were also a resident and two externs there to observe. It all went well, and my son came out. But then I heard people gasp and say, “He's white, get ready.” The doctors were taken aback because his heart rate had been perfect the whole time, and they didn't expect to have to resuscitate him. They performed the maneuvers, and when they got him to breathe again, they barely had time to say, “Look, mom! Baby's here. It's a boy!” and then whisked him away.
Noémie writes: “As I reviewed the passage on my son’s birth, I remembered a canvas I painted to represent the moment immediately after his birth.”
My partner hesitated between going with our son or staying with me. Ultimately, he left, and my midwife held my hand while the resident stitched me up. I had torn badly when he came out, and it took a long time to repair my perinea. I just remember the feeling of loneliness in the OR. I was cold, legs up in the stirrups, watching the nurse walk back and forth to take my pressure.
When my partner came back, he was crying. It's the only time I ever saw him like that. He had spent time with our son, but the NICU doctor had given him a run for his money and was pissed at us for deciding to have the baby vaginally. She told him, “Please make sure she knows that I don't approve of her choice.” But even our OB didn't understand what had happened. There was no indication whatsoever during the birth that he would come out in such bad shape. His breathing had suddenly stopped while I delivered him, despite his heart being fine. The NICU doctor wanted to investigate further and kept him there despite his APGAR being more than fine. Whenever we asked why he couldn't be discharged, she never gave us a satisfying medical reason.
There I was, in pain from the tears, separated from my baby, and not able to stand to see him. The nurses at the NICU were also appalling, and I'm weighing my words. They gave him formula without consulting us, even though the hospital claims to be a "baby-friendly" environment. They never asked if I wanted to breastfeed or offered to help.
I felt so lost and helpless.
My midwife eventually came back to the hospital to check on me after a couple of hours. She asked if I had had the chance to feed him and was so confused when I said no. My partner confirmed they had given him formula and wouldn't help us get to him. She took a deep breath and brought us there. She demanded from the nurses a hospital-grade pump and showed me how to use it to feed my baby. The nurse kept me on a strict schedule and made clear that if I couldn't express enough milk every three hours, she'd give him formula with or without my consent.
I was barely surviving there. And they still wouldn't release my son.
Meanwhile, I had told one of the postpartum nurses that I had insane pain when I peed. I'm prone to UTI, and I knew the catheter might have caused one. I asked if I could see a doctor to make sure I had medication just in case, but she said, "No, you can't. You just got discharged. Go to the ER, just like anybody else." After our return home, I drank a lot of water and crossed my fingers, hoping to get better.
When I finally met with the NICU doctor and started to ask questions again, she simply responded, "We assess risk here. We're keeping him where he's safe." Managing the risk. Not caring for humans. Got it.
I knew she was just being a typical asshole doctor who thinks she's above it all, but it triggered so much anxiety and anger. She tried to push the idea that something was deeply wrong with my child, although every other specialist we saw during our stay didn't understand why they were meeting with this "perfectly healthy baby." We had to undergo a brain ultrasound based on the premise that something had gone wrong during the birth. These were investigative tests, not based on the actual symptoms he had.
When I voiced my concerns, she said, "Well... one of his sides is weaker than the other. You're not getting him back." We did more tests and met with a physiotherapist who appeared to be straight out of college. He said, "You know, everyone has a weaker side... your son's perfectly fine." It was the same with the radiologist who asked us twice why he needed to be seen because it made no sense to her either medically.
Maybe it was very intriguing to the NICU doctor, and keeping him for research purposes made sense in her head, but it didn't to anyone else. At first, she kept him for 12 hours, which was justified. But then, without any explanation, it became 48 and 72 hours. She always wanted more time. So, we made a plan: if she couldn't provide a relevant medical reason for not releasing him, we'd ask to be discharged and sign a waiver. And that's what we did. We said, "We understand your worry, but as his parents, we are in our legal right to leave with him." She was beyond herself, yet signed his discharge immediately and without making us sign a waiver. This was the answer we needed: had she truly believed he was in danger and needed to be in the NICU, she would have feared liability and made us sign one.
To say I am disappointed with the hospital is an understatement. If the birth team was marvelous and saved my son's life, the postpartum and NICU staff actually worked against us and made me sicker. There is no excuse for that kind of behavior.
Breastfeeding was a challenge, and, once again, our midwives came to the rescue. But my perinea was on fire. My stitches hurt like hell, and the area around my vulva was so painful. I cried so much. My midwives couldn't prescribe antibiotics because there's a war of power between OBs and midwives in Quebec, preventing them from prescription privileges. And because almost no one here has access to a primary care doctor, I ended up finding a random provider on bonjour-santé [3]. He prescribed breastfeeding-friendly antibiotics, but it didn't work. I then met with another one and begged for something stronger. He said he could give me something but that I had to stop breastfeeding. I was crushed. I felt so guilty, but the pain was such that I agreed to quit. Being postpartum is already so hard; you can't win when you find yourself in these situations. You either hurt your child if you stop nursing, or you hurt him because you take antibiotics. Unfortunately for everyone, the medicine didn't work, and I had to go back to the ER when our son was only 10-days old. Our first outing with my husband as a couple was to go back to this hell of a place. The pain eventually receded, but it took another hospital visit to get the inflammation under control.
After the birth and postpartum experiences, I felt incredibly raw.
My partner had taken his 6-weeks paternity leave, so I at least had a lot of help. Caring for my son was rough. Much more difficult than I had anticipated — and I'm the queen of anticipation. I was anxious, tired, and scared of everything. I feared he was going to die because I'd make a mistake.
We have such a romanticized idea of the postpartum period. You think that as soon as you set eyes on your baby, you'll fall deeply in love. We believe that this love will heal everything and make up for all the challenges that lay ahead. It's bullshit. Even if there is joy, between the extreme delights and difficulties, there is a lot of boredom. A lot!
Days blurred into each other, and I became increasingly tired. I had the preconception that maybe — just maybe — giving birth would help me reconcile with my body, but I hated myself more with each second that passed. I would sleep all the time. You think that it's normal to be exhausted because you just had a baby, but we're talking 12 or 13 hours a day of sleep.
As always, my partner stepped in and did everything: the nights, the feeding, burping, cleaning and changing. He eventually went back to work four days a week and would take naps under his desk to make up for the lack of sleep. It got so bad that I would only be able to care for our son half-days, so my in-laws came in to help. I couldn't figure out what was happening. I kept comparing myself to the other parents and moms at the community center, where I would go to get out of the house. Everyone would say, "It's normal. No one is perfect." They were all overly optimistic and hopeful it would pass.
I wasn't.
Chapter III
Missing Pieces
In 2018, I was talking to a friend — who wasn't aware of my story — when it clicked. I was opening up about my breastfeeding issues and how much I struggled with my body. As a survivor of sexual assaults, she mentioned how difficult it was to handle her daughter's birth due to the abuses she underwent as a child. She gently said, "Maybe something about your body doesn't feel quite right because it's a door to past traumas?"
I felt like the dam had been cracked, finally ready to burst.
She told me about a sexologist specializing in sexual assaults, and I made an appointment with her right away. This person is the best thing that happened to me, aside from my partner and my son. I am beyond blessed to have met her. She explained everything, from her methodology to her process. She kept checking in with me to make sure I understood where we were heading. Never in my life had I such an empowering experience with a mental health provider.
She said that surviving abuses in your childhood and youth messes with your ability to recognize if the person in a position of power will take advantage of you. She made sure to provide plenty of feedback that confirmed that what had happened to me was indeed wrong and not a byproduct of my imagination. Together, we built a game plan, and she handed me statistics and resources [4] and provided a cheat sheet about the myths [5] surrounding sexual abuse and human trafficking [6]. She also suggested I change antidepressants, and I went on Zoloft, which was much more effective than Cipralex.
My mood got better, and so did my sleep, but I still couldn't care for my son the way I wanted to. Something deep down was telling me that I shouldn't be caring for him. Some days, my husband couldn't leave me alone with him, or else I would become hypervigilant, feeling more like a child than a responsible adult. There were days I had to call my him back after only an hour because I was already too drained to handle our son.
My therapist and I worked heavily on that, and as the work went on, I remembered more things about what had happened to me. The kind of flashbacks that were triggered when he cried, for example, drove me absolutely insane, and I couldn't bear being in the same room as him. I later understood that the screams I was hearing weren't his, but those of children, including my sisters, being tortured and raped in front of me. I associated his cries and needs for reassurance with the fact that I couldn't save my siblings from their pain, and therefore save him from certain death. Hearing him reminded me how powerless I was, which was worse than the actual abuses I suffered.
With the help from my therapist, I discovered there were four "entities" inside of me I needed to nurture before being able to function as a mother. They could also explain why I couldn't care for my son. The first one is the "marâtre" [a mother-figure often pictured in children's books as the mean stepmother who tortures children.] She tells me that I'm monstrous and disgusting and that I'll contaminate him. She makes sure I understand that I don't deserve him. The second one is the "child," the one I was never allowed to be. She confronts me with questions like, "How am I supposed to care for a baby? How am I even remotely qualified to keep an infant alive? The me "adult" rationally understands that I can, but the "child" in me is only five and doesn't believe in her abilities to provide for him. The last one is the "teen." She doesn't trust anyone, including my son. This person is the one that breaks my heart the most. She thinks that he'll grow up and become dangerous, so it's best to burn the bridges now.
It hurts so much to say this out loud because I love him so, so much. I never want him to believe that my pain is even remotely his fault. But the lines between executioners, abusers, and normal people are often blurred. In a way, my son and partner are the collateral victims of sexual abuse. I currently cannot be the mother or partner I deeply long to be. And they are the ones paying the price for that.
I still feel the pain of not having been present at the beginning of my son's life.
I missed so much of it. I'm kind of pushing back nowadays against the fact that he's growing up so quickly. He's such a gift. My son helps me live a more grounded and present life. He helps me rediscover the child I was never allowed to be, especially when it comes to playing. Children are amazing teachers. Sometimes, he'll ask me to jump with him on the bed with an exercise ball. I think to myself, "I can't do that! What if someone hears and I endanger both of us!" But of course, I can. He is the vessel through which I can relearn how to marvel at the world without fearing for my life. He is also my principal motivation to revisit my trauma and do the work that needs to be done so he doesn't suffer as I did.
I believe that intergenerational transmissions of traumas are very real, and I refuse to pass that along. Every day, I need to work on that. For example, noises are a big trigger: if he screams or slams his toys onto the floor, my first intuition is to shush him down. To me, loud noises mean danger. But by silencing him, I'm breaking his child spirit, and I don't want to do that. I constantly have to remind myself that my first reactions might not be the most "normal." That there are other ways to live a life than by being scared and anxious someone will torture you.
Chapter IV
Naming the Unnamable
“A name is a gift.
It is the trace that marked your existence,
The order by which you walked the earth.”
In September 2019, I met with a massage therapist who received training in caring for survivors of sexual abuse. Her approach was different because she let the client directs every aspect of the session: the lights can be on or off, you can be naked or fully dressed, ask for hands-only or elbows. She fully respected my limits and created a safe environment. It's when she began massaging me that I had my first real and clear flashback. After four sessions with her, there were so many that I had to stop because I couldn't process them all. Every two days, I would have a long and difficult flashback. The first month after they came flooding was rough. I had to work with my therapist, non-stop.
Everything in my body felt disgusting. I had what we call the phobia of committing impulsive acts. I believed that some physiological reactions I had, like feeling aroused when I shouldn't, were the first step towards assaulting him. Some of the abusers I encountered when I was young were female, so a woman's body — my body — could also be a threat. There were days I was so scared to hurt my son that I demanded my partner to take him away from me. From a very young age, I had been taught, indirectly or not by my parents, that being abused wasn't a bad thing and to be grateful when adults paid attention to me. It's a narrative that is difficult to unweave, especially when it's linked to the family fabric. You pull on a thread, and everything falls apart. To this day, I still have contradictory emotions regarding my parents. On the one hand, I know they were manipulated and themselves victims. On the other, it was their job to protect us and they looked the other way. They let us down. And allowed for the monsters to eat us alive.
My mom used to claim that we were a good family. Emotions were dangerous, so we kept everything at the surface. This anecdote is also why I still find myself not trusting my body: people have trafficked and possessed my body, but they never had any control over my emotions and feelings; in a way, dissociating myself from my flesh was a way to save my soul.
The disgust I have against my body runs deep. For example, I'd love to have beautiful family photos hung in my house, but I can't. Pictures equal abuses. It means pornographic material. It's dirty. Exercise is also an issue: why should I care for my body and treat it as a "temple" when it holds so much horror? Why did it survive when so many others didn't?
One of my biggest traumas comes from the fact that I couldn't save all the children who were with me. Most of them came from Eastern Europe and didn't speak French. They were the ones who were tortured the most. No one cared for them. The abusers never used a condom with them as they did with the local kids. They rarely got tested for STDs and were easily disposable. These children didn't have parents waiting for them at home or school teachers who'd sound the alarm if they didn't show up on Monday morning. The people would make us witness their abuses, rapes, and torture, so we wouldn't talk about it because we were so shameful. They were nameless children, but three of them will remain in my mind forever. To honor their memory, I call them Lana, Eli, and Benjamin.
I met Lana when I was five years old. In my child's brain, she was an adult when, in fact, she must not have been older than 16 or 17 years old. She was with her brother, Benjamin, who was about 8. Eli was a little boy who was my son's age. On one particular evening, all four of us and a couple of other kids were brought into a remote location. I know it was cold and there were yellow maple leaves on the ground. We were sedated, as we usually were, and at some point, all I remember is Lana screaming, "Run. Run!!" She had noticed the front door had been left open, and she sacrificed herself for us. And so we ran. It was useless — where were we supposed to go in the middle of nowhere? The people got ahold of us easily and gathered us all, yelling. Within seconds, we heard gunshots. And I knew she was dead.
They brought us to her and made us dig the frozen ground with our hands, threatening to bury us alive if we talked. I've read about that kind of horrors in books about genocides, including the holocaust. These are treatments used in war times that dehumanize everything and make you a shell of yourself. A shell without a body.
I loved Lana even though I didn't know her much. From what I recall, they also killed her brother two weeks later when he refused to touch me in front of the camera. After losing his sister, I think he didn't think he had anything else worth living for. He fought for the little dignity he had left. By refusing to comply, he knew he'd be beaten to death. As for Eli, he also succumbed to the abuses on that day. I can still see his empty eyes as he had already given up. He was a child. A tiny, helpless child. There’s such shame in being alive and not them. In not being able to save them. I don't know what happened to their bodies. But I'll repeat their names — albeit invented — until I die. To make sure they haven't perished in vain. To make sure they are not forgotten.
All children deserve a name.
This is something becoming pregnant taught me.
When I was 17, I became involved with an incredibly violent and controlling man. I stayed with him for two years. The only reason I was able to leave the relationship was that he wanted me to quit nursing school, and it's something I would never have given up. I lived with him for seven months in his condo at the end of our relationship. Towards the end, he said he couldn't pay his mortgage, so he asked me to sleep with his friends for money. He exploited me.
It's during this period that I got pregnant for the first time.
I never use condoms because it's too triggering, and the pill must have failed me. I became incredibly scared he would find out the baby was not his and would beat me up. So I drank a lot of wine and slept with him. Then two weeks later, I told him that I was pregnant.
He wanted me to keep the child and quit school, but as I said, I couldn't do that. So I went on to get an abortion. I only remember the sound of the vacuum. I knew I couldn't become a parent before becoming a nurse myself and have the knowledge to save all the children I didn't know how to save in my past: Lana, Benjamin, Eli, and now this baby. It was non-negotiable.
Not too long after, I left him and went on with my life.
I'd gone on the pill a month before and lent a lot of baby's stuff to my boss, who's pregnant. I guess something in me was ready to break open.
Remembering this abortion confirmed why giving birth to my son in such a medicalized environment was so triggering. It also explains why, at the beginning of my son's life, I was so jealous and angry at him. I often felt like he was taking somebody's place. At first, I thought it was my place, as my partner would only care for him, but it wasn't it: he was simply replacing the space in my body and mind that was already occupied by my first child.
To make peace with it, I gave my first baby a name. I will never know if it was a boy or a girl, so I decided to call them Lou. It's a way to stop the guilt in its track and make him (or her) alive even today. I also gave my baby a birth date to remember to be gentle with myself on that day and give myself flowers, just like I do on particularly difficult days. I picked July 28th. It's going to be summer, and flowers will be in full bloom. A perfect day for a bouquet.
Chapter V
Survival In Not a Permanent State
When life becomes too much, I think about my son, my husband, and the people in my life who believe (in) me and would be devastated if I came to disappear. They help to dissipate the fear that "the people" will find me — or those I love — and kill them. For the longest time, I felt like I didn't have an identity. It's not the case anymore: my professional identity is strong and I have an amazing support system. Although not everyone knows the full story, they understand that I'm working through things and are here to help. I am forever in-debt to my in-laws. I also have friends with whom I can laugh and be silly and not think about my past. I learned to set clear boundaries with work when I quit being a nurse a couple of years ago because it was too taxing on my health. I now work no more than 10 hours a week, even though I know the needs are much, much greater. My neighbors are lovely, and their presence creates a sense of safety and belonging that I never thought I'd have when I decided to stay in Montreal.
During the two weeks I was held captive at 11, the people held us locked in the basement of a church in Montreal. I remember thinking, "If only I can escape, I'll be free in Montreal." For some reason, I've always associated the city with freedom and safety. I'm sure that it's the opposite for other survivors, but it's my reality. My love for Montreal is boundless. I will never leave her. I'm terrified of saying that I still live here, but I also want the world to know that I existed within her streets not only as a victim but also as a woman who has an identity. I am not a nameless child you can abuse and torture. I have a family. I am loved. And I want to thrive.
Every day, I add tools to my toolbox to get healthier. I practice mindful meditation and address all four entities inside my brain, the marâtre, the child, the adolescent, and myself, to reassure them and validate their feelings. I always thought you had to meditate one or two hours at a time for it to be truly effective, but it's not the case at all. Meditation isn't relaxation; it's a mental gymnastic that makes my brain stronger to survive the assaults of my flashbacks. It helped me gain perspective and develop skills I use not to negate what happened to me but to survive their reality. For trauma survivors, it's a powerful tool.
I also attend support groups that are infinitely helpful to process my traumas while respecting my boundaries. It's okay if some don't want to believe me — although most people there understand only too well what I'm going through. Many people outside this universe are not prepared to receive that kind of information, and it's okay. Unloading horrendous stories like mine is challenging both for myself, who has to relive every single moment, but also for the person who listens or reads my story. It's a lot to digest. Ultimately, I think most humans can't fathom that other individuals can be as evil as the people I encountered. I repeatedly faced certain death but survived. I don't wish that upon anyone.
I myself was in a state of dissociation for so long. It was a blessing in disguise in many ways since it allowed me to make a life for myself, go to school, meet my partner, and fall in love with him. And when I felt supported and cared for enough, my subconscious knew it was time to let go. My partner knows everything and still loves me in spite of it. His support is unheard of. Sexually speaking, it's always been difficult, but he respects me nevertheless. I never feel pressured. I asked my therapist the other day if she thought I could have a healthy sex life one day. She said, "Maybe." This is the work of a lifetime. Dissociation from my body allowed me to get pregnant and go through birth, but now that I remember most of my story, I'm not sure I can go through that again. Maybe now is the time to care for myself, even if that means he might be my only child.
The people stole that from me too. It pisses me off beyond words, but this is my reality, and I'm going to fight for what I have. As sad as it sounds, I don't believe healing will come from our justice system. It’s too broken for that. I have to find peace elsewhere. Somewhere that doesn’t belong to anyone but myself and my family.
Before COVID hit, I had finally found some balance in my treatment and energy level. Because my partner is considered an essential worker, we are lucky to be allowed to keep sending our son to daycare. I don't know how I would cope otherwise. It makes me feel guilty because I know so many others would need it too, but it's necessary for my survival. I did have to care more for him some days when the province shut down. I surprised myself despite the layer of distress the pandemic added to everything: there is a real danger out there. But I showed up and got to spend more time with him and gained confidence in my abilities to care for him. I'll take that.
One day, I'll tell him my story. Even though he's still a child, I know he feels things. He'll soon realize that his mom is different than the other mom’s kids he plays with. But our differences should not be a secret or surrounded by shame. I'm already explaining to him why I'm so tired sometimes or why I need to see so many people who help me get better. I don't go into details, but we go through the general ideas together. We are learning to name emotions and make sense of the things that overwhelm us. I'm working with a child psychologist to help me navigate all this. When he turns 10 and understands more, I'll tell him that I had a difficult and intense childhood and that it might affect him indirectly. I want him to know that he can ask questions — any question — and that it’s not his fault.
I’d like to give him the tools to be safe out there and an ally to those who might not get his chance in life. More than anything, I don't want to rob him of his innocence. He's a boy, and, sadly, it's reassuring to know that the likelihood of being assaulted is lower. Hopefully, by the time he's grown, I'll have acquired extra tools to name more elements of my stories and untie the knots that remain tangled.
My therapist told me the other day that I didn't have to move forward so quickly and try to improve at all costs. There are benefits in slowing down the healing process. You get to take the time to enjoy life and not just move through it. The person I am today is not who I want to be. But I also don't want to forget to live and be with my family. I think I deserve a shot at truly living. For myself, my son, and my partner, but also the marâtre, the child I never was, and the angry teen inside my head; for the children without names who died, and those who walk this earth like a shell of themselves.
I might not have been able to save them, but I can still save myself.
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*Names in the article have been modified to protect the person’s identity and assure her safety. The events and details are reported as is.
Notes:
[1] You can find a list of resources for sexual abuse and human trafficking survivors below.
[2] "Girls and young women from Quebec are frequently trafficked out of province, where they are less likely to speak the language of the majority." Source: CBC News
[3] Bonjour-Santé is a health directory in Quebec that gives you access to medical health professionals if you do not have a primary care physician. 21% of Quebec's population does not have access to one.
[4] The noted statistics below have been taken from various studies across Canada. While the numbers can never be 100% accurate, a few key generalizations can be made:
sexual assault is far more common than most would suspect
relatively few incidents of sexual assault are reported to the police
young and otherwise vulnerable women are most likely to be sexually abused
most sexual assaults are committed by someone close to the victim, not a stranger
Sources: Trêve pour elle [FR], Service Conseil QC [EN/FR], Statistic Canada [FR/EN]
[5] Myths vs. Facts about common misperceptions regarding sexual assault and child sexual abuse in Canada.
[6] Human trafficking often involves victims and witnesses in vulnerable situations who are fearful or distrustful of authorities or facing threats from the traffickers. This means that the true scope of human trafficking in Canada is underestimated. By its very nature, trafficking in persons is difficult to measure. Statistics Canada, through the Uniform Crime Reporting Survey, collects information on incidents of human trafficking violations which come to the attention of Canadian police. These are Criminal Code offenses and an offense under the Immigration and Refugee Protection Act, which targets cross-border trafficking.
Since 2009:
Number of police-reported incidents of human trafficking: 1,708
Percentage of incidents involving international trafficking: 32%
Percentage of police-reported incidents in major cities: 90%
Almost all human trafficking victims are women and girls.
Source: Statistics Canada, "Police Reported Human Trafficking in Canada, 2009-2018."
For resources in the US regarding human trafficking and sexual assaults, please refer to the RAINN Organization (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network) and the NSVRC (National Sexual Violence Resource Center).