Actually, I had behaviorial problems back then. I was hitting my sister occaisionally. But I wasn't out to make anyone's life misery as my parents would claim.

All I know is that I wanted to walk like the other kids. It was a birthday wish of mine at one point at that age at the psychiatric institute. I remember telling a staff member. But I should have been more specific. I should have told them I wanted to be like the other kids and not have my legs and feet encased in leather and metal.

And my father acted as though there was something wrong with feeling like that too. Well, he would want to walk too if his siblings were singing songs like "Extra, extra, read all about it, our sister's is retarded, no doubt about it!" My uncle on my father's side was mentally retarded and in a nursing home and we would see him occaisionally. Or the family would see him, while I was left in the car. I never saw the man's face while he was alive and have never seen a photo of him. I didn't know he had CP until after he choked to death. I learned of his death when I left home, when Dad was trying to stop me from leaving.

My siblings should have been more sensitive of the comments they were making. They considered my being threatened with institutionalization a joke. At least one of the more mature ones realizes that I have carried a hideous amount of emotional pain for years. But as for the other two, they may never know why I am so alienated from the family.

I hated my physio and was breaking out in blisters on my feet all the time. I cheered every time my braces were in the shop, because it meant I didn't have to have my legs straightened that day. My parents may say that this doesn't sound like their daughter, but God knows exactly how I felt back then and how I was so terrified of drowning in swimming pools that I once hid in a change room. I nearly drowned in barely enough water to cover my body and face when I rolled over onto my back when I was nine or ten.

I was afraid of falling flat on my face, because that would result in a broken bone more than likely. My bones were and are as fragile as matchsticks. I sometimes tried to make a game out of physio, but let's face it, I hated it because it hurt and I probably hated the surgery even more deep down.

All those trips to Montreal might have seemed harmless to me at the time. But at 33, I am terrified to get into a serious relationship with a man. The only men I have ever known were my father, who yelled at me and doctors, who pushed and pulled at my legs until they snapped and who operated on me. And I spent most of my life at home dreading the time that my father would come home from work, because that's when the yelling would start. And I always treasured the times I would be away from my father and for me, this usually meant when I was alone. Because I was reliant on my father to leave the house for most of my childhood, I had no escape.

I may never recover from this addictive need to isolate myself.
And that's just the beginning. It's not surprising I don't have any close relationships with anyone, except by over the Internet. I've learned that men aren't the safest people to be around and that I have to be alone to avoid being yelled at.

The idea that I may be a good person and people don't have a God-given right to yell at me hasn't registered. In fact, Dad told me what a disappointment I was to him.