Читать книгу Journey Into Spirituality - Laura Laforce - Страница 4

My life hasn’t been fun, easy or magical. I faced many challenges at a young age. By four, I was the oldest of three children. My brothers were one and two years old and shared a twin-like bond. I was the loner, two’s company, three’s a crowd.

At four years old, I awoke in a panic. My parents were fighting again. Angry shouting and crashing penetrated the morning air. After the noise stopped, I heard nothing else. I knew something was terribly wrong. I quietly opened my parents’ bedroom door, trembling with fear.

I rushed into their bedroom and faced a horrifying bloody disaster. Big bright red splotches of blood smeared the surface of their white frayed bedspread. One of the lamps laid across the top of the bed with a partially intact blood splattered damaged lamp shade. The other lamp was hanging off a tilted nightstand by its cord. Bloody tissues were strewn about the room. Spots of blood speckled the grey tiled floor, but my parents were nowhere to be seen.

In distress I frantically cried out looking for my parents. My father met me in the hallway, drying his hands on a dark towel. “We’re cleaning up” he told me as he headed into the bathroom.

A social worker rang the doorbell after a while. My mother went somewhere with the social worker. She didn’t come home for many days. I stayed home with my father and my brothers. Father told me Mom wasn’t feeling well and went for help. I remember my father reading me my favorite book while she was away.

Shortly after she returned home, we moved. The house we had been living in was on the verge of being condemned. We were poor and lived on welfare.

It was, while living in the next house, I discovered I could go through walls while sleeping. At four years old, I was astral-travelling.

My parents separated shortly after we moved. My mother had a restraining order against my father. He wasn’t allowed to see me any more.

At five, I recognized the difference between life and death. I came across two dead ducks while playing outside. They were lying on top of a black garbage bag. I knew they were dead. I noticed how peaceful they both looked.

Around five I could sense the energy of different people. I knew if they were good or bad without talking to them.

At six, my mother was bathing me with my youngest brother. There was a little over four years between us. Mother was sitting on the lid of the toilet seat supervising us. My brother lost his balance while grabbing a toy and slid under the water. Mother quickly grabbed him in a hurried panic. In anger, she pushed me down, holding my head under the bath water.

With my dark hair and hazel eyes, I resembled my father. Mother resented this. The following statements would often be said before Mother flew off the handle punishing me:

“You look like your father,” she’d tell me.

“You’re a liar just like him,” she’d repeatedly tell me.

“Be glad I raised you, I never wanted a girl,” she would utter.

I usually didn’t understand why I was being disciplined. After she calmed down, she would approach me, claiming she did it because she loved me.

At seven, a strange bearded man came to the door handing mother Christmas presents. I wasn’t much of a reader but as I struggled to see whose gifts they were. I noticed my name on a gift tag. A three letter word was printed under my name. After repeatedly sounding out the letters of the word was Dad. By then he was gone.

“Was that Dad?” I asked.

“Is he coming back? I want to see him.” Mother remained silent. I was upset and started to cry. I missed him and loved him very much.

At the end of grade two, I brought home my final report card. Mother handed me a card, wanting me to read it to her. I sat looking at it, but couldn’t read it. Minutes later she became angry. She grabbed me by the arm and led me to the door.

“I want you to walk to church and tell the priest what you did. If you don’t, there will be no supper tonight.”

I walked over to the church, hoping the priest would be there. I wondered if I would be able to get in. I arrived at the church, the door was unlocked and I went in. The priest came out of an office area.

“Little girl, why are you here?” the priest asked.

“My mother sent me to talk to you,” I answered.

“Why?”

“She gave me a card thing for passing grade two.”

“What do you mean by a card thing?”

“It is a yellow card with letters, numbers and no pictures.”

“But why are you here?”

“She sent me to talk to you, because I didn’t read it to her.”

“Why didn’t you read it to her?”

“Because I can’t. I don’t know how?”

“Tell her you talked to me and that you’ll do better next time.”

After returning home, Mother met me at the door.

“Did you see the priest?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“To tell you I’ll do better next time.” “Are you sorry?”

“Yes.”

“The card I wanted you to read, was a swimming pass for passing grade two.”

I was eight years old when I received my first big premonition. One afternoon I was playing with my best friend Kim, who lived next door.

“Laura, I’m going on holidays next week,” Kim told me.

“Kim, please don’t go on holidays, I’ll never see you again,” I warned her.

“I have to go with my parents. I promise I’ll be back.”

“Try to stay safe,” I begged.

I was playing outside one afternoon. “Laura, come inside, I want to talk to you,” Mother coldly ordered.

“Kim’s dead. She drowned on holidays. They found her floating in the water. Stay away from her house and her family. They’re mourning.”

Right after receiving the news, I found it very hard.

I cried when mother wasn’t around to see. Mother went to her funeral and brought home a memory keepsake of Kim. Seeing this paper with Kim’s picture was extremely upsetting.

It was difficult to sleep at night or to eat and drink. I started to experience anxiety, I worried about drowning. I even wondered if I could accidentally drown by drinking too much water or swallowing it wrong.

I silently suffered from guilt for many years. I never told anyone what I had known for a long time. I prayed to God asking for nothing bad to happen any more.

Around nine years old, I could see neighbors bringing home babies. I was playing outside after school with Eva and Fay.

“Mrs. Strong is going to have a baby boy next summer,” I told them.

“How do you know that?” they asked.

“I can see her carrying a baby wrapped in blue,” I answered.

“She’s not pregnant, Laura,” piped up Fay.

“No but she’s going to be. Just watch,” I replied.

“How do you know the baby’s not a girl?” asked Eva.

“Girls are always wrapped in pink. When I’m not supposed to know, the baby is wrapped in white,” I stated.

“How do you see that?” asked Fay.

“It’s like watching a TV commercial, without the sound.” I said.

“Does this happen while your sleeping?” Fay asked.

“No, this happens when I’m awake.”

Another afternoon we were playing outside and I blurted out:

“Poor little Christopher is going to die.”

“Laura, I’m telling. That’s not a nice thing to say,” Fay scolded.

“But he’s going to get sick and die,” I stated.

Within days he was dead. He died of meningitis.

When I was ten, Mother ran out of food and money. I ate rolled oats, white sugar and water for a week for breakfast, lunch and supper. I brought a margarine container with cold oatmeal to school for lunch. The other children made fun me. This was the same week that newspaper replaced toilet paper at our house.

I was often subjected to bullying at school, because I was different from the others. I would often daydream in class. My buck teeth, clothing and lunches were often made fun of.

I was a different child. I had dyslexia and learning disabilities as a young child. I didn’t read, write, or do math until I was almost ten. I remember telling a friend during a school draw that the next prize was mine. Within seconds my name was called. I received a five dollar prize! I knew more about my classmates’ unspoken life events than I did about what was being taught in class. I found their energies very distracting.

I tried to shut down this special part of me out of fear and anguish. The gift never fully went away; it was always there, just like breathing. I attended mass every Sunday and said my prayers daily.

My mother, Amelia, became a school teacher when I was twelve.

At thirteen, I was visiting Kevin, a friend who was in the hospital. A dying man in the same room started to ask for water.

“Laura, can you go help Al, he needs a sip of water,” Kevin said.

At first I was reluctant and uneasy due to fear. I had never seen anyone in this physical state before. Al resembled a skeleton with skin. After helping him with a couple sips of water, he quietly started talking to me and thanked me before I left.

The following day at school a weird, cold, sickening sensation went through my body. My teacher stopped the class.

“Laura, you’re very pale, Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I responded. I knew Al was dead.

Right after school, I headed to the hospital to verify what I already knew.

“Al’s dead; he died this afternoon,” Kevin informed me, as I walked into his room.

At fourteen years old, I attended the same school Mother taught at. After running into debt, she took on a second job, returning home after midnight on a regular basis. A normal day consisted of going to school, doing homework, watching my siblings, cleaning, and cooking. On the weekends I worked at McDonalds. I often corrected Mother’s classroom assignments, which she was behind on.

I was a very sensitive, shy, insecure teenager, but responsible and dependable. Mother was a very moody, controlling, angry, violent person.

One evening she happened to be home, which was rare. After supper I was helping her with the dishes. She started questioning me about school. Suddenly she became irate, while I was answering her, she kicked me. For the first time in my life, I retaliated. I kicked her back. She punched me. I punched her back. Next, she tripped me and pinned me to the floor, her hands wrapped tightly around my neck with both thumbs in my Adam’s apple. She was choking me to the point that I couldn’t breathe. I could no longer struggle. Everything in my vision went black. I silently prayed to God asking him to take me to heaven. I was on the verge of passing out when she finally let go.

“Get up! Get up now!” she demanded.

I gradually sat up, which was not fast enough for her. I was weak after what she had done to me. She picked me up by my hair and threw me into the concrete hallway wall.

After being abused for many years, I’d had enough of the fat lips which bled, pulled hair, welts, punches, and kicks. The situation worsened as time went on. The week before, the family physician threatened to report her to Social Services, after pushing one of my siblings down the stairs during a fit of rage. I wasn’t the only child she hurt.

Years later, I found out that my aunt mentioned her concern to my grandmother about my Mother’s abusive ways towards me.

I waited until the next morning. I told the school principal what had happened. Mother was immediately paged to the office. I was sent to class.

After school my mother was in a rush.

“We have an appointment with a psychiatrist this afternoon to get you assessed. I was called down to the office this morning by the principal. My job was on the line. I denied everything. He told me to get you help. To lie about being abused is very serious.”

This led to an immediate psychiatric assessment with hospitalization.

During the assessment I never spoke of what happened. I didn’t need anything else bad to happen to me. Ten days later I was released. Mother was told I was fine. The assessment provided didn’t suit her, she wanted me medicated. Right away, Mother attempted to find another psychiatrist, one who would listen to her.

After interviewing several doctors she found one. Now she wanted medical possibilities ruled out. She talked to the doctor without me. I sat in the waiting room picking up the negative vibes. Then I would go in to speak with him next.

“Your mother says you see things. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother says you hear sounds. Is that true?

“Yes.”

“She says sometimes you get upset and cry when you feel something bad is going to happen. You complain about being cold and tasting something awful. These could be signs that something is wrong with your brain.

“Your mother wants you tested for epilepsy. You’ll have to stay in the hospital for awhile. If I find something wrong with you, there is medicine to make it better.”

I really wanted to tell on her, but I didn’t dare. The night before the test, I wasn’t allowed to sleep. In the morning my head was hooked up to electrodes. Then both sides of my jaws were frozen with a needle. Wires were inserted through my jaws to the base of my brain. I cried in pain. I could hear and feel the wires being forced through my head. Days later, the results came back as normal. Other medical tests were performed including a CAT scan of my brain. Again the results were normal.

The following day, I was playing the piano at the hospital. Suddenly, I tasted cold rotting vegetation. This was the taste of death. I saw my grandpa enclosed in a circle. I’d better call my mother and tell her to watch out for Grandpa.

“Hi,”

“Mom”

“Yes?”

“Something bad is going to happen to Grandpa. He’s going to die.”

“Your Grandfather is fine. He’s just come back from holidays. Goodbye.”

Days later, I was released without medication. Again she was told I was fine.

Hours after I was sent home, I started to feel uneasy. The premonition of my grandfather’s death started to gradually unfold throughout the evening. My grandfather was an alcoholic and he was drunk. He was out driving around, after threatening to do himself in. Many phone calls were received and placed in regards to his whereabouts. Family members were out looking for him. I knew he wasn’t going to survive the night. I prayed to God to spare his soul.

In the morning, someone came over to inform mother of his passing. I hadn’t heard the news, but I already knew. Right away mother burst into my bedroom with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

“Laura, I need you to take this pill,” she insisted.

“Yesterday the doctor at the hospital told you I was Þ ne, before sending me home. He told you I didn’t need to be medicated. Why are you doing this to me?”

“These are my valium pills. You need to take one of these or else,” she threatened.

I held out my hand. Mother handed me a pill and the glass of water. Mother was out of it. I wondered if she had taken one of these pills herself.

“I’ll be back in awhile.” She stated.

I waited for her to leave my room, before throwing the pill in the garbage.

After a while she returned to my room. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine,” I answered.

“Are you a little sleepy and relaxed?” She inquired.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I’m glad you took that pill, because I have bad news for you. Your grandfather is dead. He returned home last night, pulled his car into the garage, shut the door and left his car running. He died of asphyxiation.

A couple of days later, we arrived at the funeral home.

“We’re going to go into a special room to say goodbye to Grandpa.” she instructed.

“I’ve already seen him dead, before he died. I don’t want to see him. Please don’t make me see him. That’s not how I want to remember him.”

She was livid. After finding out where he was, she came back for me. I was physically forced by her into the viewing room with Grandpa’s open casket. I stood there mortified, sickened as I viewed his lifeless body.

“Touch his hand and tell him you love him,” she ordered.

“No, I don’t want to. He doesn’t look like he did when he was alive,” I insisted.

She grabbed my hand and put it on his freezing cold hands, which were clasped above his waist. I almost vomited. Couldn’t she just beat me instead, I silently thought.

“Tell him goodbye,” she barked.

“Goodbye,” I said while sobbing with fear and sadness.

“Kiss him,” she demanded.

“No,” I replied.

“Kiss him,” she repeated, as she grabbed the back of my head, neck and shoulders forcing me down toward him.

Being upset and uneasy, I lost my balance and fell on him. She grabbed my long hair and led me to his forehead. My lips touched his cold tight forehead and the smell of formaldehyde sickened me. I felt like I was going to pass out. Seconds later, she finally let go of me.

Weeks later, she found a psychiatrist who labeled me schizophrenic and medicated me. My mother asked him about having me sterilized. Shortly after that diagnosis, mother brought me to a healing service at the church. She told the man in charge that I was possessed and suffering from a mental illness.

Many weeks later that psychiatrist died. Mother insisted that we attend his funeral together. She wanted me to see his body, but I refused. Thankfully there were many people around. She couldn’t force me to do anything.

Weeks later she found another psychiatrist. He didn’t agree with the previous label, instead I was labeled bi-polar. I was medicated with something different. Shortly after, I became a ward of the government and lived in a group home.

I was medicated against my will on a daily basis. I often felt sick and dizzy.

A strict daily routine was followed. Living quarters were cleaned daily, upon returning for the day. Every second day we would sit around a dining room table and work on our correspondence for an hour. Every night after supper, one person would be chosen to scrub the kitchen floor by hand.

On the last day of every month, we were issued one roll of toilet paper and a bus pass. A five dollar bill was given to purchase personal effects such as pads.

One morning, I was so groggy, I didn’t shower before leaving for the program. After returning, I climbed into the shower. The worker in charge immediately turned off the hot water supply. I realized what was happening but I continued to shower. I was approached by the worker on the way to the kitchen table.

“You won’t be eating with the others tonight. You’re dirty. You’ll eat in the mudroom, on the floor with the dog.”

“I just took a cold shower,” I replied.

“You didn’t have a shower this morning. You’re only allowed to shower in the morning.”

“I was tired and feeling sick,” I said.

The worker handed me my supper and led me to the mudroom. At first this was upsetting. The dog and I ate supper together. This ended up being the best supper I had had in years!

Several nights later, I had a severe drug reaction. I was rushed into the emergency room and immediately given a drug to counter the reaction.

I attended a daily program for troubled teens, which lacked proper schooling. English and math courses were made available through correspondence only. The greater part of my day was usually spent in a so-called therapeutic group. The group discussions were generally silly, fruitless, unintelligent and based on sexual topics. The leading therapist would come into the room and take a seat.

“What would you like to discuss today?” Peter the therapist asked the group.

“Sex,” the group would always answer.

The program offered a designated smoking room/lunch room. Every lunch hour or break was spent in this smoke filled room. Being a non-smoker and severely allergic to smoke didn’t help. One time I bit into my sandwich to discover someone had filled it with cigarette ashes.

A handful of teenagers were struggling with mental illness. They were treated badly and abused by the bullies on a daily basis, behind the backs of the staff. A couple of us were misplaced. Most of the kids were young offenders.

I would often be bullied into handing over my clothes or any personal possession they desired. Some of these teenagers resented me. They considered me a goody two shoes for two reasons; I was a virgin and had never smoked drugs. I wasn’t one of them.

One day after returning from the program, I was invited for the first time to join two of the four girls that I lived with in the group home. Being lonely, I accepted the invitation. Within minutes, I joined Lois and Jennifer in their room. They quickly shut the door and secured it with a dresser.

“You need to prove you’re worth having as a friend through our initiation. We thought about bursting your cherry today, but we’ll spare you that,” Lois said.

“Laura, you’re to sit in this chair and let us do your hair. You won’t be able to look until were done,” Jennifer ordered.

Lois and Jennifer were giggling excessively as they did my hair. I sat quietly hoping they wouldn’t hurt me. About half an hour later they finished.

“Laura, we’re going to let you take a look at your new hairdo, but you’re not to tell on us if you don’t like it,” Lois said.

Jennifer handed me a mirror. I took a quick glance at my shocking new appearance. Of all things I had a Mohawk to contend with. Thank God hair grows!

“How do you like it?” asked Jennifer. “Cool!” I responded.

The following week, a visit was scheduled with Mother. I didn’t look forward to seeing her, especially not this time. I stepped into the office where teens visited their parents, always accompanied by a staff member. Mother’s jaw dropped the moment she saw me. Right away she demanded that the ridiculous cut be removed and my head be shaved.

“Why did you do this?” Mother asked. “Because,” I answered.

The following day I was taken to a salon and where the remaining hair was shaved off. The huge earrings I had would compliment this newest style.

Shortly after turning sixteen, while attending the program, two of my roommates jumped me and attempted to choke me. They were pulled off by staff and hauled off to a lock-up facility by police.

A few months before my eighteenth birthday, I’d had enough. Earlier in the day I was sent on an outing with my roommate. We were supposed to be shopping for grocery items to make a special supper for the group. She met up with her pimp and introduced me. I didn’t want anything to do with these people.

The following morning, I packed an extra change of clothes in my big purse. I walked out the door and never returned. I hitchhiked to the west coast. I stayed with a couple of different families and looked for work.

One afternoon, I called a help wanted ad. There was a position for a babysitter/restaurant kitchen helper. The man who answered the phone arranged for an immediate interview. Within hours, I arrived at a brand new empty restaurant. The man opened the door to let me in and locked it behind me. I pulled out his application form and he interviewed me.

“Would you like to see the kitchen?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

As soon as I entered the kitchen he physically forced and restrained me against the counter. He terrified me, while ripping open my high neck blouse. I could hear the material give and a button hit the floor.

“I thought you said you’re healthy!” he said in an angry voice.

“There are zits on your chest.”

He went on to assault me. I detached from my body. I wasn’t able to fight him. After he left the room I tried to pull myself together. This bastard had ejaculated on my leg. I was sickened and on the verge of vomiting. I cleaned my leg with my knee high socks and stuffed them in my pocket. I wanted to go to the police, but I couldn’t. I was a missing person under the age of eighteen.

A couple of days later I found a job. I was to start the following Monday. The people I was staying with went to Social Services, looking for extra funds and clothing to help me out. As soon as my name was entered into their computer, I came up as a missing person.

Soon after, two police cars showed up at the home where I was staying. I was apprehended, handcuffed and put in the back of a police cruiser. I sat silently as the cruiser left the curb. I felt angry and humiliated, being treated like a damn criminal. I’d never been in cuffs before. I looked down at my lap and the handcuffs, which now embraced my wrists like big ugly bracelets. Being double-jointed, I managed to slide my thumb through a cuff, followed by the rest of my hand.

“Guess what?” I said, while proudly swinging the empty cuff in the rear view mirror, like a lasso.

“I’d get that cuff back on pretty damn quick, if I were you. If I have to stop this car and pull over, you’ll be sorry. Those cuffs can be tightened to the point it hurts,” he said.

I quickly slipped the cuff back on. I didn’t want that to happen.

“When we get to the county jail, you’re not to run off on us, because I’ll shoot.”

“You must be the bastard of the year,” I said.

“I’d shut your mouth, if I were you. I wouldn’t hesitate to pull over and spank you.”

We finally arrived at the county jail. I was led into an office by the two male officers. A female officer working behind a tall counter was filling out paper work. My purse was handed to her by one of the arresting officers.

“I need you to take off your socks and shoes,” she ordered.

“I’m keeping them until you leave.”

The prison guard arrived at the office to escort me to my cell. Electronically operated barred doors opened and shut, as he led me through the facility to my destination.

My first night in the slammer was quite shocking. My cell was equipped with a metal bed which hung from the back wall by heavy chains; it was covered with a thin mattress. An ugly stainless steel toilet with an attached sink was off the front left hand side. There was one itchy wool blanket and a cold cement floor.

I could hear a drunken male, hollering profanities from a nearby cell. I felt uneasy and scared. The bars provided a sick sense of security. I sang in order to muffle out the terrible sounds.

The first night I woke abruptly from my sleep. Two officers were valiantly trying to calm me down.

“You’re okay. You were having a nightmare. You were screaming and looked as if you were defending yourself. We tried talking to you from the bars, but you weren’t responding. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

“No.”

“Would you like a glass of juice?”

“No, thanks.”

The following morning a pleasant young officer came to my cell.

“Hi Laura, I’m Constable Ben.” he stated. “I understand you’ll be spending the day with us. May I please have your blanket? Nobody here is allowed blankets during the day here. What can I grab you for breakfast, a donut or a cinnamon bun?”

“Whatever, it doesn’t really matter. I’m not hungry anyways.” I replied.

“There is going to be a court hearing for you some time this morning. You’d be better off with something in your stomach,” he said.

“I’ll have the cinnamon bun,” I answered.

Ben came back with breakfast on a tray. He opened the cell door and placed it on top of the mattress. He hung around for a few minutes talking with me.

“Laura, I’m going home at lunch. My wife has lots of magazines. Can I bring you a couple? What kind do you like to read?”

“Anything but sports.”

Shortly after breakfast, two different guards showed up at my cell, one female and one male.

“We’re here to take you to your court hearing. You’ll have to wear handcuffs, until we bring you back to your cell. That barrette in your hair needs to be removed, so that you don’t hurt yourself with it. You’re on suicide watch and we’re not taking any chances. Your mother informed us that you’re suicidal.”

“God help me,” I prayed in silence, as I walked cuffed between them down the long cold dingy hallway.

A prosecutor in the court room read an order for a psychiatric assessment from my previous psychiatrist. The judge granted the order. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I was to be flown back to Edmonton, escorted by two officers.

I was escorted out of the court room by the same guards.

“This isn’t right or fair,” I stated out loud. “If only they knew the truth.”

Minutes after being locked back my holding cell, Ben was there.

“Laura, what would you like for lunch? I have some TV dinners. Which would you prefer the chicken or the beef?”

“Chicken would be nice.”

Ben brought me lunch and sat with me while I ate.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“The lunch is good.”

“You seem down, since returning from court,” he mentioned.

“It doesn’t matter, nobody ever listens,” I replied holding back tears.

“If you need to talk to someone, I’m here,” he offered.

“Thanks for the offer.”

The following morning two new male officers were at my cell.

“Laura, we’re here to bring you to the airport. I’m going to handcuff you before you leave your cell. I have your purse with me. Do you like the way I’m carrying it?” the taller cop’s joked.

I didn’t appreciate his comments. I chose not to respond to him. I already felt degraded, by this mocking approach. I knew this day would eventually end, but the bitter memory would be mine to keep.

I walked in handcuffs between the two officers through the crowded Vancouver airport. Strangers at the airport noticed and stared with curiosity as we walked by them through the building. This event topped my list for one of my most embarrassing and humiliating experiences.

They took me down to the airport’s prison cells and placed me in a holding cell. Two female cops from home eventually showed up at my cell.

“Laura, I’m Nancy and this is my partner Megan. We’re bringing you back home for an assessment.”

Again, I was handcuffed and ordered to walk between them. We approached the boarding area and the flight staff requested our tickets.

“Here are our tickets and one prisoner,” Nancy declared.

“Laura, I’m taking off your handcuffs for the flight. When we get on the plane, you’re to sit between us.”

After the plane took off, breakfast was served. Nancy and Megan were decent and respectful to me.

“What do think of everything that’s happening to you?” asked Megan.

“It’s not right or fair,” I answered.

“What would you like to see?” asked Nancy.

“I deserve a fair assessment, which won’t happen if I fall into the slimy hands of my previous shrink. I should be brought to the mental hospital, seeing how I’m being labeled as mentally unstable, instead of him. Hopefully someone will see,” I replied.

I was never handcuffed again. After we landed the ladies drove me out to the mental hospital.

Once I arrived at the facility, I was interviewed by two different psychiatrists. The second doctor spent more time discussing in depth, details of my life.

“Laura, I don’t see any reason for you to be here. You’re not crazy and you’re not mentally ill. These visions you have are a gift. You’ve had a very rough life. I can see you’re hurting, but you refuse to cry. If I call Social Services and placed you in a foster home tonight, would you promise to stay with them until your eighteenth birthday?”

“That would depend on how I was treated. If they treat me fine, I’d stay. If I’m mistreated, I’ll leave.”

“In seven weeks you’ll be eighteen. Why don’t you stay here? As soon as you’re of age, we’ll help you find an apartment of your own. I’ll make it worth your while. Free run of the facility, swimming, and unescorted shopping trips to town, baking and different functions. What about waitressing in our coffee shop? This would be better for you than taking a chance on a foster home. Your mother will cause major problems for everyone, if you walked away from a placement.”

I looked him in the eyes.

“Are you really promising to let me go on my eighteenth birthday?” I asked.

“Yes, you’re free to go,” he said. “I don’t want to see anybody mistreat you. You’ve been through a lot.”

Two weeks after arriving, there was a patient council meeting and election going on. I decided to join them. Within the hour I was both nominated and elected president of the patient’s council. I attended a ribbon cutting event during my stay. A building on the property was being named after an influential lady.

The following weekend, a staff member took me to her cottage for the weekend. I had a lovely time with June and her husband Larry. I enjoyed playing with their dog.

The following weekends, I went home with other people. I started enjoying myself with their families.

One evening my doctor was working late. I was talking to him when he offered to take me for dessert at the staff cafeteria. I was excited, he was preoccupied, and we forgot to tell the staff, where we were going. We drove in his beater to the other building.

“I’m surprised you don’t drive a new car,” I mentioned.

“I’m new to Canada. I’ve just brought my family over and money is tight,” he responded.

We were finishing our dessert when an alarm was set off. At the same time his pager started to beep. He excused himself from the table and made a quick phone call.

He returned to the table a minute later.

“I should have told them we were going for dessert before we left. They were doing the final head count of the evening before locking the unit door. They assumed you took off. I just let them know that you’re with me. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

One afternoon I had a premonition of a female patient dying. I mentioned this to the staff right away. Twenty four hours later this lady died. I was returning from lunch when I spotted a gurney with a body in a body bag. I could see it being pushed down the hallway. A couple of staff members sat with me and we grieved the female patient’s death together.

I was given an IQ test, achieving just two points below genius! The doctor said it was probable that, had my childhood been more stable, my test would have resulted in a much higher score.

The week before my eighteenth birthday, Nancy a nurse at the institution, grasped the dynamics of my situation when I received a call from my mother. Nancy realized that the call upset me and, as I retreated to my room in tears, she followed me inside.

“Laura, I’m really sorry about what happened to you. We’ve got the wrong person in here. What I heard on the phone tonight was sick, controlling, abusive, and completely uncalled for.”

“I’m okay, it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ve been watching you for awhile. Every time you receive a phone call from her, your whole demeanor changes. You appear distressed and uneasy. Tonight I listened in on your phone call. I needed to know what was happening. This is going to be documented and a meeting will be held tomorrow. I’m putting in an immediate request for an apartment or accommodations of your choice.”

A couple of choices were presented to me the following day. The apartment they were offering wasn’t the best choice. This apartment would be shared with a roommate. I would have to enroll in a program teaching young people how to survive on their own. I already knew how to cook, clean, shop, and work.

My biggest concern was my education. I was going to be an adult in a couple of days and I didn’t even have a grade eight education.

Another choice was Inga, an older lady offering room and board. I felt her place would be in my best interests. It would only be she and I living in the household. I registered at a local high school as a mature student. It bothered me that I was older than the other students. I took correspondence courses and worked as a babysitter while attending high school.

Inga was spiritual herself. One evening she insisted that I attend a supper with a group of people she knew. Many of these people casually spoke with me. I knew they were observing me, but I didn’t know why.

The next day when speaking to Inga, I could hardly believe what she was saying.

“Laura, you’re special. Those people we had supper with last night are mystics. I asked them what they sensed about you. They say you have superior gifts and abilities. You need time to heal and release the negativity first, which has been inflicted your whole life. One day you will be somebody many will look up to and respect. You’re going to help many people.”

I stayed with Inga for a year. The following year, I rented an apartment with a friend. One night, I was out on the balcony enjoying the evening sky. I became aware of a looming tornado. I had never seen a tornado before. I went inside and told my roommate.

“Taylor, there’s going to be a tornado!” I exclaimed.

“We don’t have tornado’s here. What makes you say that?”

“The sky is different and I sense it.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Taylor said.

“Me too.”

Sixteen hours later a devastating tornado hit the Edmonton area, killing several people.

After being on my own for awhile, I started talking with mother. I forgave her and decided to work on our relationship. I desired the mother-daughter relationship I thought other girls had. Eventually she talked me into moving back home. We were going to catch up on missed time. I ended up regretting this decision.

Grade twelve was an interesting year for me. During the year, English became my favorite subject. One day, after school, I went to talk to my favorite English teacher about the details of an assignment.

“Laura,” she said. “I can see you writing a book one day.”

“I don’t think so Mrs. Birch. Don’t get me wrong. I like English, but I read and hand in assignments for marks. To write a book would be a huge undertaking, which I’m not prepared to do.”

In grade twelve, I auditioned with my friends to become an extra in a documentary. We all made the audition. Outfits from the 1940’s were issued to us on the first morning of the filming. We only had fifteen minutes to get dressed, before we were on. The front of the blouse I was to wear wouldn’t stay buttoned shut. Within seconds of complaining, the seamstress quickly sewed it shut while I was wearing it. The filming was interesting and exciting. I learned how movies were made. The following day was to be the final day of the filming.

It was hard to fall asleep that night with all the excitement. While lying awake, I saw a vision of an empty stretcher beside me. I wondered why?

Over the past couple days my hips had become extremely tender. They snapped and crackled weirdly every time I moved. I assumed these were some sort of growing pains.

A friend’s mother threw us a party after the filming was over. We spent the evening enjoying ourselves. I was sitting on the floor, when one of my friends asked me to dance. I sprang up to join him and my hip locked. I couldn’t move from the waist down on one side. The pain was tremendous. My body went into shock.

An ambulance was called. I was taken to the hospital. A deformed muscle had dislocated ceasing the front of my hip joint, straining and tearing the other muscles and ligaments in my pelvis.

The condition worsened as time went on. The week before graduating, both hips froze. I was bedridden and missed my graduation.