I am in the beginning stages of looking for funding, script writers and contacts with the intent of having a movie made of my life story
More to come……..
I am in the beginning stages of looking for funding, script writers and contacts with the intent of having a movie made of my life story
More to come……..
They had me pegged, my family and the HOUSTON CLAN before even getting to know me to justify what they intended to do so they didn’t have to look at themselves.
I have talked about them. But, now I will talk about me.
I never found a home and never found comfort in an identity that was not molded by perpetrators, the ones that did me harm and the ones that turned their backs on the “lost and forgotten child”. I have flipped through my life like the pages in a book, trying to make sense of it. To uncover the secrets that have gone buried in shame and hidden even from myself for so long. Asking myself over and over what does this all mean.
I know how my story ends but the question for me has been “how did it happen; how did I get here?” For so long I got immersed in the jumble of words like “Louise, what is the matter with you. don’t play victim, get on with it, leave the past behind you, you are too sensitive.”
What kind of story is mine – a lost and forgotten child, the one that everyone told me I was – lazy, stupid, a problem. Am I just a pathetic character who is just a victim to my own stupidity? Or is there something else going on here. I have flipped back and forth through time looking for the clues to why my journey took me down a certain path and shattered me into little pieces. A path of loneliness, loss, poverty and victimization. Oh, I know my pictures of me tell you a different story. But what you don’t see is the pain just beneath the surface. The part of me that hides and only shows it’s face when I can give you what you want to see, or the face I need you to see. The perfect picture, the one that I got so good at looking “right”. I hid the broken and sick me. You don’t want to see the pain that left me with scars from abuse, molestation, poverty and isolation. I fear now it’s too late for me, my life is over. There is no time left to repair the damage done.
No one asked me, “Louise what do you want to be when you grow-up”, no one directed me to become the best I could be. I never got my balance and only focused on my flaws which of course had me spinning in circles. The fire that barely flickered over the years is now dimming. I am who I am, for better or worse. It’s too late to wonder about the person I will become. I have told the world about who I am, but it doesn’t matter any more because everyone had already made up their minds. Their agenda was to discredit me, shut me up and close me down. GASLIGHTING was what it was. Protecting the agenda of those who needed to keep their squeaky-clean reputations, of being the do-gooders, the stellar members of society, the perpetrators/abusers behind the masks. They don’t want you speaking their dirty little secrets. You see the people who have hurt me know I saw through them, I know who they are. I have had too much experience with the likes of them to not see behind their masks and it scared them.
I became someone I didn’t know either to keep others happy and safe and when I couldn’t pretend I hid. Now and then I said, “Enough is Enough”, hence this blog because there is just so much a person can take. I would rock the boat from time to time and then slither back into silence which just fed into their ignorance of who I am, it gave them fuel to say, “look I told you so, she is an evil one”. They them scrambled to make sure no one believed me. Of course they had a platform, a voice to be heard and I did not. They won. I can’t. I’m done.
I have read so many peoples blogs over the last couple of years and know there are so many people like me. People who got used and abused and had no voice. The internet came along and gave us one. But oh there are so many mean ones out there too who would like to shut us down. Don’t show us who we are, don’t let the world see how mean we can be. We will take you, abuse you and shut you up and knock you down. Be quiet Louise, and all the Louise’s out there.
But, we wont. We write our blogs for us. We need a voice, we need to have our words heard and the rest of you can shut up or don’t read.
It’s too late for me. But I say to all the VICTIMS of the mean and abusive people keep talking.
This was part of my childhood. I understand this experience, these pictures show us.
This was when I started to experience trauma of a different sort, notched up a few levels – the streets.
Definition of Domestic Violence. DOMESTIC VIOLENCE is defined as any use of physical or sexual force, actual or threatened, in an intimate relationship. It may include a single act of violence, or a number of acts forming a pattern of abuse through the use of assaultive and controlling behaviour.
The face of “domestic violence” About 10 years old. I look so happy and innocent.
Definition: The age of majority in Canada is the age at which a person is considered by law to be an adult. A person younger than the age of majority is considered a minor child.
In the modern world the age of majority ranges from age 14-21, most at the higher end. Regardless I was self-determining at age 13; with the clear blessing of my family.
This picture is of me when I was 17 years old. I had been on my own and on the streets for 4 years. I new something about life back then. More than any child should ever know. This is while the HOUSTON slept snug in their beds in upper Victoria Canada. In fact all my family where living very well indeed. Of course, except me. Don’t you dare hold me responsible for that. I have been all my life blamed. I want that to stop now.
Since I do not trust the legal system and I know that my family and extended family would like to take everything I have for themselves should something happen to me I want to say in front of the entire world I leave absolutely everything I have, belongings and money, to Mrs. J. Lazaro, Burnaby BC.
I have a Will however I also know how much money the HOUSTON CLAN have and how they like to take things for themselves. Therefore, I tell you all they, the HOUSTON CLAN, and my brother Tony Fowler are not to get anything at all.
Writing is hard for me, always has been difficult. I learnt when I was about 40 years old I am dyslexic. I grew up just thinking I was stupid.
I see how well so many people express themselves and I feel frustrated that I can’t write well also. If we were talking I would communicate well. In fact verbal communication is something I can do well.
I can’t tell you how many times I have felt worried, embarrassed and shamed at my inability to express myself the way I would like to in writing. I have turned down jobs and worked hard at not putting myself in a difficult situation where I was expected to read something.
It is now my firm belief that trauma is what caused the learning disability. How stressed and upset I am really shows in my writing. The worse my state of trauma the worse my writing becomes.
After my mother killed herself I think I just froze. It has taken me a lifetime to unravel what has happened to me.
I was abused and molested and left to care for myself at age 13. And by those same people who were supposed to love and protect me turned on me and bad mouthed me, humiliated me and drove me into further isolation.
In 2007 I made contact once again with my mother, expecting that she would reject me once again. This time she did not. However, we slowly and carefully reunited and re-built a good relationship. It was obvious to me that my mother’s step-children did not want this to take place and started to do things to undermine our growing re-connection. At no point did they attempt to support this reunion, except for my mother’s husband (their father) Dr. Bob. Although he was not in any way responsible for our reunion the HOUSTON CLAN swore in court that it was Dr. Bob had facilitated our reunion. That is a complete lie.
After decades of hard work on myself I reentered my mothers life and after a very long absence from seeing one another at all, because I felt I was strong enough and mature enough to make the decision to not allow any confrontation and upset to happen ever again. I knew that likely she would talk about what had happened to her vis-a-vis my father and brothers behavior toward her but was sure she would not want to hear me. I settled on never bringing anything up and never did. If we talked about the past it was on her instigation.
When her step-children launched a fight to get my mother’s money from her, and using me as their tool and scapegoat I was shocked. Most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about. They made up the most extraordinary stories. It devastated me. But my job, as far as I was concerned, was to take care of my mother. The case called HOUSTON versus HOUSTON was between my mother and her step-children and although I was used and abused to get the money I was unable to defend myself. I listened to what they had to say and read document after document of lies and was unable to do anything about it. So when my mother died I just imploded. I literally collapsed. All the pain of those few years just took me out.
All I have wanted over the last 3 years is die. I have thought about it every single day. I have no idea why or how this happened and it has only been since I launched this site and my google+ page that I have slowly started to learn. It is thanks to the internet and all my fellow blogger that I have learnt what narcissists/sociopaths can do to a life. What these people have done to my life. I often wonder what my life would have been like had I not been the victim of such terrible abuse by my family and extended family.
I am very tired now and although I feel I am, at long last, seeing all the pieces fit together I find no comfort. People say just leave the past behind. Oh, I so wish I could. I know nothing will change. It is what it is. Where do I put all this information. I am 50+ it feels too late for me to build a happy life, I don’t think it is possible.
I wish I could find a way of forgiving the HOUSTON CLAN for their ignorance, selfishness and greed but I just don’t know that I can. The repercussions to their greed did such extraordinary damage that can never be taken back. I know that “karma” will take care of them. They have grown children so when they are fragile and old (not too far away) perhaps they will need to worry about the lessons they have taught them.
I have been blogging now for a couple of years, off and on. I started attempting to put my thoughts to words. The written word has always been very difficult for me being dyslexic. I would do better with the spoken word. I felt that putting it down would help me understand what has happened to me. I also, felt it was a way of defending myself and setting the record straight with self awareness as a bonus.
The one person and issue that is outstanding is that of my mother. It is very difficult for me to understand her role and how I was impacted by her. I have always thought my mother was basically a decent person who had been damaged by her marriage to my father, a narcissist/psychopath, with one as a son also. That certainly has made sense to me. But I have never been able to get my head around the fact that she left my father (or they divorced) and there didn’t seem to be a place for me in her life. She went on with it and had a few boyfriends, then met her husband Dr. Bob Houston, in Victoria Canada. Dr. Bob had 4 children who were just adults when they married and her life revolved around all of them. She had no understanding of me or what I was going through. I always felt she was the kind of person who was just unable to see what was happening for someone else, but boy did she squeal when she was hurt. I decided at some point I would stay away from her life. She was doing okay without me. At no point did she attempt to contact me, ever. I believe now with what I do know is she stayed away from me, and tried to keep me away, so she didn’t have to see the face of a daughter damaged on her watch.
I tried on a couple of occasions to reconnect with her but she didn’t seem to want to, so I stayed away. But then in 2005 I wrote to her and we then slowly reconnected and I reentered her life in 2007.
After the death of her husband and a court case with his children, over my mother’s money, she came to Vancouver to live with me. I cared for her until the day she died. She had said to me about 6 months before she died that she wanted to die and would starve herself to death, she did. I was by her side the whole time. With the knowledge that her doctor and her lawyer were fully aware of her decision. We respected her right to self determination. She set the date and stuck to it. I fed her homemade vegetable soup, and she enjoyed it, but the next morning she had stopped eating and never ate again. She shriveled up to nothing and took 14 days to die.
She shared with me in those last few months her guilt over me and how she felt responsible for what her step-children did to me and how they degraded and humiliated me. This is the first I had ever heard her even suggest she was partly responsible. She had always felt she played no role whatsoever. This certainly was one of the reasons I stayed away. I was angry with her for having watched the abuse of my father and brother on me and swore up and down she did not know. She did know and did nothing.
The question I have for myself is, who was she. Was she a damaged woman like myself, was she too a narcissist? She watched her child be abused by my father my brother my cousin and the HOUSTON CLAN and she did nothing. It is all very well to cry and admit culpability when you are 92 years old……
I show this picture of me from time to time. I actually don’t have many childhood pictures. Nevertheless this is a good one for me to remember. To remember that day after being assaulted by my father. I wet my pants and was crying, but my father insisted on taking my picture and yelled at me to “smile”. I then went back to boarding school after he dropped me off from vacation. I walked into school with wet stinky pants. Little did I know then that it wouldn’t be very long before I was living on the other side of the world. To then leave the family house to live on the streets of Toronto. I was 13 years old. I was alone, scared and very very vulnerable. I grew up very fast. When you are young and strong, when you have to, when people want you because now you are a beautiful child/woman. When you are smart beyond your years (but terrible in school, now know I was dyslexic) When you have your fathers charm and fast wit you get by. But as the years role by and you and dying inside life starts to take on a different perspective. You know something is wrong with you. You know somehow that you are not supposed to feel this bad inside, like a rotting carcass of a woman. But when you try to seek out help, what I realize now, was a medical system that was clueless and ended up making me worse. It’s like being operating on the wrong foot, So it gets further reinforced in your brain that you are defective, crazy and irredeemable. I kinda new I wasn’t but with the help of those who were supposed to love me I got banished into a life of confusion and further despair.
LEARNING TO MOVE ON THE BEST YOU CAN
In some ways I turned into my father. attractive, charming, well-spoken with very little formal education but smart (and street smart) but there was a difference. I could not be like him – I had empathy, compassion and sensitivity – god damn these feelings they just messed me up more. Feeling was not what I wanted……more and more feelings. Why did I have to feel. Feeling in this world is an impediment.
So what do you do. You learn to have your feelings, but you have to learn to control them. I know from experience you can’t control them if you do not understand them in the first place. Only on understanding can you control them if you will, but more importantly live with them. It helps to accept they will not go away. These bad feelings live inside you and have for a long time. Give your bad feelings a healthy outlet – creativity of some sort is a good idea. I have this page and my blog. Accept the fact that this pain is part of you and has molded you for good or bad (you must take some responsibility for that) Sometimes having this pain inside me helps me and makes me a better person. I am a very grateful person because of what I had to go through. I have learnt forgiveness. If you don’t you will suffer even
As hard as I try to leave this past behind, it haunts me. The memories never go away. I had become reasonably at peace with my past until the attack I experienced by the HOUSTON CLAN in the case of HOUSTON versus HOUSTON. I think about the cruelty of the HOUSTON CLAN and how my mother killed herself because of what they did to her, her husband (my mother’s husband) and me. My mother and step-father are gone, and I am left to live with this pain.
“There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”
“The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty — it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There’s a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God.”
Vancouver Canada is the 3rd richest cities in the world but this is not an uncommon sight in this rich city I live. Children, women, men and families laying their hungry body’s anywhere they can.
I know most people think these people are there because they are drug addicts. I wasn’t. The prevailing belief is they must be lazy. How stupid is that. For the luxury of laziness one would choose to be living on the streets? That is ignorant.I was standing next to a man (appeared rich) in the supermarket and we saw what appeared to be a street person, he said, “what is the matter with them, why don’t they just pull themselves up by their boots straps, I work for a living”. I told him I felt sorry for him. He did’t understand. I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about. He did not understand. That’s sad to me.
Do we love these people? Do we offer them a kind word? Do we offer them a smile? No is the simple word.
Recently a young Japanese student was murdered in Vancouver and her body left in a very densely populated area of the city and the 1st thing in peoples mind was – it must be one of “those” people, the street people. Of course this murder was terrible, no one can argue with that. But this is how it goes.
It is not enough that they are homeless, hungry, frightened and alone. But they are judged to be BAD. If you think that a street person is the BAD person do you therefore think that the person who is not on the streets is the GOOD? You would be wrong, of course.
So you live with hunger and fear every single minute of the day, but also with the misguided judgments of others.
I know – I have been there.
Time doesn’t heal. If we do the work understanding may come. Forgiveness may come. And if you are really fortunate some peace will come. I am working on it. How can you get on with it?, something I have heard so often, because it is part of you. It is what has shaped you. It has become you. It changes you. I know I am not the person I was meant to be. I was a quiet gentle and thoughtful little girl but circumstances dictated that was going to get me dead.
To live with pain we must find a place inside our heads where we go. I call mine “My Secret Garden”. Flowers and trees and babbling brooks. There was one I used to go to not unlike this picture where there was a rock, just made for my butt, where I would sit under the falling water. Moments of peace. Maybe that is what it’s about. Moments!
Heh! little girl what are you doing here, can I help – no one asked, no one came, no one cared. Ripe for the predator.
But I learnt, I learnt well. Dumb in school but very very street smart was what I became. Got put down and criticized for it too by family. A family who took no accountability and went on to live affluent and privileged lives.
I have huge sleeping problems now because I learnt that closing my eyes just further endangered me.
I made some rules for myself. No drugs, no friends, no trusting – it would just get me in further trouble. So we can’t blame drugs because they were not an issue. I became strong and tough and vocal. I used the only thing I had, my body and my wit.
Now I am tired.
I know this world. I was a little blond girl, all on my own. I learnt the world of predators; amonst other things. I went from boarding school in South Africa to the streets of Toronto, Canada in about 1 1/2 years. Emotions do not serve you well under these circumstances so I kept them to myself.
When I left home at age 13, innocent to the world, I had no idea that things could indeed be worse than living in an abusive home.
I met a woman who said she could help me. Yes, help me, that is right, oh yeah! She took me to an exclusive men’s club and I sold my body to two “well-known” men who paid me a lot of money. I was naive, frightened and hungry. That night I learnt how to survive. I grew up very very fast.
Predators are not always men. Predators don’t always look like the bad guy. Predators come with promises of better days. I know these people I can spot them a mile away. But when I see the face of a predator I also see the face of family.
In some ways my mind is spinning. All my life I thought what happened to me was “all my fault”. Every decision and choice was made on a lie.
I started this blog 1 1/2 years ago, sometimes disappearing for a long time and rarely posting. Those of you who have been my followers have probably thought, I was not reading your posts, nothing could be further from the truth. I just thought it was better for me to hide. I have rarely posted a comment or a like because I felt ashamed of myself. But, I have read my fellow bloggers and how brave they are for speaking their hearts about the abuse they had endured. I have been learning.
I felt everyone was thinking I was making things up vis-à-vis the HOUSTON v. HOUSTON case. I new I wasn’t but it sounds ludicrous to me. I also just didn’t understand myself why the HOUSTON CLAN (my mother’s step children) had attacked me the way they did. I didn’t understand why they saw me the way they did. They didn’t know me. In the over 34+ years of our parents marriage we had barely and rarely spoken.
As the case of HOUSTON v. HOUSTON unfolded, in real time, I was in shock. They are saying they have to destroy my mother and me, why? I didn’t get it then and I really don’t get it now, on some level.
I have evolved to conclude, in part anyway, that I reentered my mother’s life in 2005 and without my knowledge I battered the beehive. Her step-children, the HOUSTON CLAN, had already established an agenda for my mother’s money. My stepping onto the scene scared them and they immediately went on the attack.
What I evolved to understand from 2005 until my mother killed herself in 2013 was that during my absence from her life for off and on 20 years she had fabricated a defense for herself because she could not cope with her closing her eyes and not protecting me; along with her deserting me. She admitted this right at the end, just before she died.
I have felt all my life that she deserted me, I was molested and abuse,d left home to protect myself and landing in a dangerous and cruel world must therefore be my fault.
Reading so many other peoples posts on abuse, trauma, and the people who do these things has awakened me to a shocking realization – NO IT WAS NOT ALL MY FAULT.
It makes it sound simple. Of course it’s not – it’s not my fault. Oh!, what do I do with that? You mean to say now I am so f….stupid that I have taken all that on…….everyone went on with their lives and I was paralyzed………oh……..how did that happen?
I understand now. Is it better to now be awake? The truth is always better.
“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom.
But the personality formed in the environment of coercive control is not well adapted to adult life. The survivor is left with fundamental problems in basic trust, autonomy, and initiative. She approaches the task of early adulthood――establishing independence and intimacy――burdened by major impairments in self-care, in cognition and in memory, in identity, and in the capacity to form stable relationships.
She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she reencounters the trauma.”
― Judith Lewis Herman,