My First Experiences with Darkness *VIEWER DISCRETION*

*Graphic content warning*

This piece of writing dives into some of my account of violent child abuse. Sensitive readers may want to reconsider reading. I rarely share deeply personal stories of my childhood but feel called to do so. I know there are millions of stories just like mine, who can find relief by giving the burden away, back to the universe which it came. The universe is where it all came from and goes to, and some of us hold the burden to ourselves for far too long. My biggest passion is promoting self-expression in myself and others for a more united and conscious collective dynamic. 

There was a ‘shift’ in me I was told as a young boy. All of the sudden, I had developed a strong characteristic. Maybe it's rare, maybe it's common, who knows. When I was older, I was told around the age of 3 or so I became noticeably rebellious. 

Where did this come from? Observing injustice. Witnessing first-hand something dehumanizing, unfair, abusive. What it was I'm not sure… but I have plenty of memories that lead me to believe I know exactly what I experienced. 

I learned early on that in my scenario, my experience didn't matter. My purpose was to cater to my guardian’s convenience. Egotistical, volatile, vindictive, and violent, the man who was supposed to be my protector quickly turned into my oppressor. I was swiftly removed from any contact from my real dad, as he was perceived as a threat. I was brainwashed to believe he was a bad man. That because he left, he wasn't worthy. In reality it was because he was a threat to the power that my guardian was hellbent on controlling. When I was being mistreated I spoke up about wanting to talk to my father, or go live with my father. I was always coerced into believing he’d never want me to live with him. I saw my real father twice between the age of 2 and adulthood. Once when I was 7, once when I was 12. My aunt and grandma were told to stop sending birthday and Christmas gifts. We moved 20 times all around western Canada by the time I was 16. I learned later in life that my family on my father's side had no clue of my address and phone number. No idea of my whereabouts, purposefully. I was never getting out. 

Not that I could fathom getting out. I knew I wanted to, but I never got far. I tried to run away a few times. I was brainwashed into thinking that the world was far more dangerous than my situation at home… which was a pretty fear-based assumption, but my consciousness was being molded for blind obedience, under any circumstances. 

One of my first memories of being abused was when I was 4 years old. My guardian was a fan of “rough-housing” which any young boy is thrilled by with the portrayal of martial arts in movies and TV. What should be good clean fun showed a darker side in my guardian. Typically when you play-fight with a child, you let them have fun, even let them “win”. That was never the kind of rough-housing I experienced. From what I remember it always ended with me crying or getting hurt. “Accidents” where I got hurt felt commonplace. This particular early memory of violence was no accident. No one was around, at least close enough to witness. The rough housing got very dominant, very rough. I fought against it with all my 4 year old might. Playing turned terrifying. Imagining being Jackie Chan or a power ranger (red of course), was brought to a somber reality check when all of the sudden I got hurt. Movie fights were just supposed to be all flips, high-kicks and gymnastic fun. I ended up on the ground. He leaned over me upside down, gloating. Crying in pain, I decided to communicate how I didn't want to hurt him, how even if I could, I wouldn't. I said, “I could kick you in the head right now.” Showing that even though I was extremely distressed, hurt physically and emotionally, in total dysregulation, I wasn't trying to cause him pain. I wasn't looking for vengeance. Like how play-fighting is supposed to be. Even though he'd taken it too far, I demonstrated that I wasn't like that, I wasn't going to kick him in the head to make me feel better or get back at him. That was the first time I was punched in the face. That strong, 6 foot tall man, a total fearful child inside, rapped his knuckles right into the right side of the face of a 4 year old boy who didn't want to hurt, or be hurt. A boy who he welcomed with open arms a couple years prior and agreed to be the provider and protector of… the teacher and the mentor of. This was not the first time, nor the last but the pattern of the threat exposing him was already taken care of. He was always ten steps ahead of discrediting my account. Time after time I'd been hurt and it was always just “me being dramatic or lying”. 

Violence was hardly the most influential thing I was exposed to. The psychological manipulation was wild. I was raised to believe God put him in charge. I was told if I ran away, bad men would abduct me and rape me with power tools. I was told I couldn't get a lizard because they cause cancer. Many, many other silly petty things that curbed my child-like curiosity and replaced it with fear or shame. I never asked for help. I never called the police, CPS, kids help line, other family members, because to me, this is all I knew. This was my normal. 

The “discipline” I was raised with was far from commonplace as it was enjoyed by my guardian. Many different games were played. Picking out the belt that I was going to be whipped with was a favorite. Metal tip belt, triple braided belt, my options were bad, and worse. A deeply concerning form of psychological abuse that forces the victim to voluntarily choose, handle, and provide their abuser the very thing they are to be whipped with. Many kids got “spanked” into the 90s, I wish I got spanked. Heck I'd been to other kids’ houses and been spanked by THEIR parents. I had to hold back my laughter… Not realizing it was because I was used to being whipped. Conditionally. If I was to move, cry, scream, jump, more lashes were added on. This was my main form of “punishment” that was applied anywhere and everywhere. If there was any reason I resisted anything, disobeyed anything, explored any freedom that was deemed “bad”, this is where I ended up. My family knew… some. They knew a chunk. They had an idea. But the entire scenario was designed, framed, and controlled by my guardian and so it was all just chalked up to me being disobedient and rebellious. Some of my abuse was witnessed, most of it was not. 

As expected I fought my way through elementary school and into junior high. I didn't look for fights, but when a conflict arose, I threw down. That's all I’d seen. I had no clue how to fight with my sisters, how to deescalate situations, how to resolve much of anything. From what I knew, saying sorry and changing behavior wasn't going to prevent anything. No matter how sorry I was, or how “good” I tried to be. The beatings continued. 

The times that stick with me forever are the times where I was isolated. My family would go out to do something without my guardian and I, and right after they left he would look at me and I knew it was on. He'd tell me to go pick out what I was going to be whipped with, sometimes humming and hawing over whether he should use a golf club, to really put the terror in my eyes. I stopped telling my family because it only made it worse. If he found out I had gone over his head, I would pay ten fold. 

It was in the late 90s that my experience with this psychopathic discipline would be forever embedded as torture in me. Leaving me with a victim, slave mentality. Completely broken. Trust, truth, and safety were non-existent. I got homeschooled for a bit during this time, so my educational shortcomings were another reason to be punished in whatever way he felt suitable. At 9 years old, I was asked to do a report on coal and given absolutely no guidance or instruction. No check-ins, no help, and an ambiguous deadline… that I missed. More than missed. I'd just gotten my first computer game from a boy across the street… so I played that probably the entire time. I had never been allowed video games so I'd always been bewildered at the excitement and fun when I'd seen them at friends’ houses. It was called Chasm. I was so care-free, enjoying exploring this new world. 3D gaming was basically brand new so this was some pretty amazing stuff. One day the time came and I was surprised to be expected to have this report done. My guardian asked to see my report one day. I'll never know if he knew I'd forgotten. I'll never know if I even knew when I was supposed to have it completed. I opened the document in the computer to a page completely blank except the word COAL at the very top. I hadn't done anything. I'd been left on my own and trusted as a 9 year old to complete a report on coal with no schedule, no direction, no help. Way too much freedom for what was expected of me. With what I remember as a surprise deadline. No reminder. Instead of being made to sit and do this report. The report never got done. I never learned anything about coal. The purpose of my schooling was not to educate me, but to test me. He decided that since I'd only written 4 letters, he'd make it into a game. 10 lashes for each letter. With that logic I was glad I wasn't asked to do a report on gasoline. The rest of my family wasn't there. This was the most impactful and most torturous experience I can remember in my entire life. All guidelines in place. Forced to strip, touch my toes (tighter skin causes more pain), and stay quiet.. or else. I failed. I failed to even be disciplined properly. I jumped. I screamed. I wailed. I couldn't hold it in. It was the most overwhelming pain I'd ever felt in my life. Somewhere around 60… it was over. He was relieved enough of his anger to call it a day… for now. 

It wasn't until I started being “too old” to be whipped with a belt that I realized that violence wasn't an effective way for humans to solve their problems. All of the sudden I became a magical age where I didn't get whipped. Sure I’d still be at risk of getting grabbed by my hair and thrown out of the house in -30° weather if I disagreed or claimed he was wrong, but the structured concept of abuse as punishment dissolved without explanation. It became very apparent in my teenage years that it didn't matter if he was right or wrong, he NEEDED to be right regardless or he'd beat the “right” into you. 

I’ve had things thrown at me on construction sites, been the victim of countless psychological games, witnessed abusive disciplinary acts towards my sisters (though luckily no one got it as bad as me). I framed houses full time at 12 years old for a stint, been forced to run 5km before school every day, worked an entire summer saving money for a dirt bike to have it taken away the day I got it for doing something so petty I can't even remember what I did. I remember many things. Many are blacked out. Many are blurry. One time my sister told me a story of me getting picked up by my neck and choked up against a wall. What I don't remember, my body does. 

Rebelling against my guardian is the main reason I gained awareness to give me the experience to break these generational traumas. Only through questioning authority showed me where power was being abused. At about 10 I caught a glimpse of the men who would turn out to be my heroes. I saw Rage Against the Machine’s video for “Guerilla Radio” on the music channel. I saw their power, their rage used for good. Fighting oppression. Fighting for freedom. Spitting in the face of fascism. I saw Tom, Zach and the boys standing for something real. This resistance energy that they had stuck with me. I finally had someone to look up to. Although my “Battle for Los Angeles” CD would be broken along with all of my other ‘secular music’ in my early teens, you could take everything away from me but that dream, that idea, would never die. 

This experience provided me with struggles with many aspects of fear: setting boundaries, trust, people pleasing, self-abandonment, resolving conflict, and authority. It also provided me with a keen eye for seeing manipulative tactics for authoritative control. I'm happy to say I haven't thrown a punch since junior high. I found my solace in expressing my truth. This truth that has been suppressed for many years. My voice was angry at first. Punk, thrash, groove metal, death metal was incredibly attractive for putting my lyrics and feelings into something that was LIVING. This embodied sound of angst, oppression, and resistance. It took years trying to make peace with it and I was left with this emptiness. This hole where my pain was. This disconnection. This ravaged plane of social and familial experiences. I moved into more genre switching between blues-rock, grunge, and reggae, that kept my edge but brought this new frequency that I developed and resonated with, Love. My focus has never been, and couldn't have been Love because of how disconnected I was from it. I developed this predilection for concepts like Agapeism: brotherly Love of humankind. I wrote tracks like, “Free Love”, “Set the Love Free”, and “Gypsy Child” that started shaping this newfound Love-based approach. 

I didn’t write this for comments, likes, or attention. I always hated attention, and still do, but will always be in Love with the beautiful mediums of self-expression in the arts. I didn't write this for sympathy or to illuminate what I've been through for any personal gain. I craved sympathy my whole childhood and it's too late for that. Now sympathy feels condescending and patronizing because I don't see this dark past as a bad thing anymore. Although I wouldn't wish it on anyone, and my story is rainbows and sunshine compared to many people who have had it much worse, in grateful for what I went through. It fast tracked me through pain, sorrow, grief, pushed me past boundaries I didn't know existed. Underneath righteous, rational logic there were hard truths that shone through the manipulation, brainwashing, and indoctrination. I got the chance to be oppressed so that I could help others who have been oppressed. So in the end, I'm truly grateful for the trauma I've experienced. It's the way it is, so it's perfect for me. Perfectly imperfect. 

So I'm softer now… a bit… but I have a well-developed intolerance for manipulation. In fact where others get away with manipulative tactics, even ones they aren't aware of, I can see them occur in real time. So anyone that comes at me with psychological warfare, will be stripped of their power. I'm a nice guy all the way up until the bullshit starts to stink, then I'll call it the fuck out for what it is, because abuse starts small, unnoticeable. You have to absolutely stomp it as soon as you notice it. 

It took all of my experiences to boil my observations, lived experience, and research into ideologies and into what's now, “Love Over Fear: A Foundation for Autonomy”, a tool for people to build their own foolproof system of identifying things in the world around them with no bullshit or unnecessary dogma included. If my hardships, unseen efforts, research, and inner work helps just one person, my work is successful enough. Even more important to me, I have a 3 month old son. As sweet as they come. It's my responsibility to protect him from the fear-based thoughts, beliefs, and actions that he will observe in the world. It's my responsibility to identify and rectify hidden challenges at home that can impact him negatively; shadow-stalking myself, my partner, and anyone who comes into contact with him and illuminating the unconscious emanations that we activate and share with others. I'll always be fiercely protective of him and his quality of life. I'll always do my best to be quick to see my mistakes, my blind spots, tell him how sorry I am when something affects him, to do my best to repair any mistakes I make to protect his trust and set a good example. I want to tear down the pedestal he will innately put me on, and remind him that I'm just like him, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm just trying my best. When he asks for an answer to a question I will tell him what I think I know, that there's always more to know, and I have infinite experience being wrong. That it's ok to be wrong. That it's a good thing because that's how we learn. His experience is so precious to me and I'll be a major player in building the foundation of life that he finds familiar. No matter what he does, what he questions… No matter what he thinks of me at any given time, I will Love and protect him unconditionally.

Peace and Love,

J. Wesley