1 month ago
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I would love your honest review of my memoir. I've written several pages and would like to know if I should continue. I appreciate and welcome your remarks. Thank you Deborah
ABOUT
Deborah’s story is more than a memoir—it is a journey of healing, self-acceptance, and transformation. With raw honesty and unflinching vulnerability, Deborah shares her deeply personal truths, not just to tell her story, but to ignite a sense of connection and empowerment in others.
Through her struggles and triumphs, Deborah creates a space where women can find strength in their own vulnerabilities and inspiration in their resilience. Her words serve as a powerful reminder that even in our darkest moments, we hold the power to rise, to heal, and to step into the light—together.
As readers turn the final page, they are left with more than just a story; they carry with them a renewed belief in the transformative power of self-expression. My Life’s Story is a testament to the unbreakable human spirit, a call to embrace our truths, and a movement toward a world where every voice is heard, every struggle is validated, and every journey—no matter how painful—leads to strength and self-discovery.
INTRODUCTION
I never imagined I'd be here—fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to unravel the tangled threads of my past. The weight of untold stories presses against my chest, a constant reminder of the journey that brought me to this moment. As I take a deep breath, the scent of jasmine from a nearby candle fills my senses, grounding me in the present.
Why am I doing this?
Why expose the raw, tender parts of my soul to the world?
The answer came to me one sleepless night, as I stared at the ceiling, replaying the echoes of my past: the whispered threats of an abuser, the deafening silence after an abortion, the hollow sound of a gavel sealing my second divorce. That night, I realized something—the pain I carried wasn't just my own. My story is a lifeline, a beacon of hope for someone out there who feels alone in their struggle.
You see, dear soul, we're not so different, you and I.
We've both felt the sting of betrayal, the suffocating grip of financial hardship, the paralyzing fear of an uncertain future. But here's the truth I've discovered: we are also capable of incredible resilience.
It took me years to recognize that the wounds of my past weren’t just scars to hide but roadmaps leading to something greater. And now, as I sit here, waiting for a specialist to give me a final prognosis on my health, I realize there is no more time to wait.
Three months ago, my body betrayed me in a way I never saw coming. I was at work when I felt a strange sensation—first a tremor in my hands, then a wave of exhaustion so intense it felt like my bones were turning to dust inside me. I tried to push through it, like I always did, but my legs gave out beneath me. I collapsed, gasping for breath, my heart pounding like a war drum inside my chest.
Since then, my days have been measured in medical tests, waiting rooms, and moments of helplessness I can’t put into words. X-rays, ECGs, breathing tests—each one bringing more questions than answers. And now, I’m waiting for a brain MRI.
I spend most of my days lying down or sitting in a chair, trapped inside a body that feels foreign to me. The tremors come in waves, each one stronger than the last, shaking me from the inside out. When they take over, my vocal cords tighten until I can’t speak. My nervous system goes haywire, making it almost impossible to walk.
Doctors suspect long-term effects of COVID-19. I suspect something deeper—something my body has been trying to tell me for years.
For over two decades, people have told me I should write my story. I always had an excuse. Not now. Not yet. But here I am, staring down the reality of my own mortality, and I know—I need to do this.
Am I scared?
You bet your sweet ass I am.
So, to that end, let’s get this started.
CHAPTER 1
If you’ve followed me on Pinterest, you may have seen one of my most impactful videos—one that captures a moment I thought would be my last. But if you haven’t, let me take you there…
It was a beautiful April morning. The sun streamed through the window, warming my skin. A cool breeze whispered against my face as I took my time waking up. But something felt… off. A firm pressure between my eyes—a sensation like something solid and cold pressing into my forehead.
I opened my eyes.
And found myself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"If you ever do that again, I will kill you," a voice growled.
The words hit me like a slap. Before I could react, he grabbed me by my bedclothes and hurled me to the floor. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. A sharp kick landed in my stomach, then another to my back. My body curled instinctively, trying to protect itself. But there was no protection—not from him.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me into the living room. The punches came next—fists colliding with my ribs, my arms, my face. I fought to stay conscious, to hold on. But when he yanked me up by my arms, my legs refused to support me. The world tilted sideways, then everything went dark.
I must have blacked out.
When I came to, he was kneeling beside me, shaking me as if he was trying to wake me up. But there was no concern in his eyes—only frustration, like I was an inconvenience. A sudden sound shattered the silence.
A baby’s cry.
My daughter.
She was awake. She was hungry.
"You need to go feed her," he said flatly. As if I was just a machine—something to be used and discarded.
Pain lanced through my chest as I struggled to sit up. A sharp, searing agony that stole my breath. A few ribs were broken. But there was no time for pain. No time for fear. My baby needed me.
With every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged myself upstairs to her room. She lay there, so small, so perfect, completely unaware of the horror unfolding beneath our roof. As I held her close and nursed her, tears burned down my face.
How the hell did I get here?
That question haunted me then. It haunts me now.
To understand the answer, we will have to go back…back to where it all began…
I was born and raised in Scarborough, Ontario, the third of five children. My father was a strict man, running the house with an iron hand, while my mother stayed home to care for us. He worked two jobs to keep food on the table, and we knew better than to cross him. If anything went wrong during the day, we’d all wait in dread for the moment he’d walk through the front door.
I was the middle child—the one who always seemed to take the brunt of the punishments. It didn’t matter what happened; somehow, it was always my fault.
My friends had freedom. They stayed out late, snuck into concerts, lived with a kind of reckless joy I envied. But not me. I had a curfew—the moment the streetlights came on, I had to be home. And if I wasn’t? The door would be locked. I learned that lesson the hard way, sitting on the front step for hours, waiting for someone to let me in.
But my childhood wasn’t just strict rules and locked doors.
It was secrets.
Dark, suffocating secrets.
On the surface, my uncle was just another family member—charming to the adults, quiet in the background. But behind closed doors, he was a monster.
He whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "You be a good girl, and I won’t tell."
His hands—where they had no right to be.
The fear—so thick I could taste it.
And the worst part? No one knew.
For years, I carried that burden alone, shoving it so far down I almost convinced myself it hadn’t happened. Almost.
But secrets don’t stay buried forever.
And neither does pain.
This is just the beginning.
Are you ready to turn the page? Because there’s so much more to tell.
Several months later my sister and I encountered another molestation when our parents decided to visit friends of the family for an afternoon in Ajax, Ont. This day turned out to be a complete blur… the family we visited, the mother had a son from a previous marriage, he was about 8 to 10 years older than us. The parents decided they were going to go to a farmer's market and left the older son in charge. Little did my sister and I know that to this very day, we have blocked out most of what happened that day and cannot recall much of what happened to us.
It all started when I had to go to the bathroom…I remember sitting on the toilet and found this kid peeking in the bathroom window and minutes later he entered the bathroom door. I remember him pushing me to the floor, him over me with a couple of his other friends watching on. I can’t say what actually happened but it must have been a horrible experience because I can not remember to this day, what happened. When it came time to leave, my sister and I couldn’t get in the car fast enough, looking at each other like “What the heck just happened?”
So now, you are getting a clear picture of what I dealt with in my younger years.
So now let’s go forward to my teen years when I was 14…
Leaving public school and advancing to the local high school, I found myself infatuated with a guy a year ahead of me, I was in grade 9, he in grade 10. He had dark brown curly hair, and when he walked he had this cutest little waddle when he walked, not to mention his great ass. Come to find out he lived at the bottom of my street, how I never noticed him before is beyond me, that’s when things started to get hot and heavy. We went from walking home together every day, having fries and playing Euker in the cafeteria at lunch, to secretly meeting in the park at the end of our street to a full-fledged romantic relationship. I will admit that he may have been one of the reasons why I did not meet my curfew most nights…but I didn’t care.
As our dating progressed, we would spend most of our time in the basement of his parent's house listening to music, shooting the shit with friends and just enjoying our youth. It was in this basement, where I lost my virginity. He was so connected and considerate, always asking me what I’d like to do or listen to… but on this one particular day, our emotions got out of control, which led to my very first intimate encounter between male and female.
I’ll never forget the feeling that came over me that day, he was so gentle and soft, asking me if I was okay with where this may go. I remember his scent, his gentle touch, and most of all his young muscular body and the look in his eyes. What came next was a moment that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. This was the moment that I lost my virginity and the first time for both of us. His hands trembled and my heart was beating so fast, but we both knew this was the moment we would cherish forever. He slowly put his hand on my stomach, working his way down to the button of my low-rise jeans…I felt the button pop, the zipper sliding down to open and with a quick movement of his hand, he then slid his trembling hand into my pants and then slowly down to my vagina. Instantly, my body reacted, sending my erotic emotions of Euphoria to sore beyond any other feeling I have ever felt before. He asked me if I was okay and being in such a heightened Euphoric state there was no turning back for me. He was so gentle with his touch and asked me if I was okay with him getting undressed. I slipped off my top and jeans and what took place that day is forever embedded in my memory.
I may have been only 15 years old but I knew from the depth of my heart that I had fallen deeply in love with him that day… I had found my soul mate.
Little did we know what was to come next…
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