A very personal look at my totally violent and dysfunctional early childhood

A numerologist once told me that I was a powerful woman spiritually with strong psychic abilities. The old woman said my life had been predestined to experience and accomplish many incredible things. I remember so clearly her words resonating deep into my soul when she took my hands in hers and whispered so intensely to me:
“You possess all the Master Numbers in Numerology because of your birthday 11, 22, & 77. You are a very special child of God. Remember, with success comes sacrifice. There will be much heartbreak and tragedies. You will and MUST persevere, live bravely with an open, honest heart. Understand that Faith is the absence of doubt. Ultimately Love is infinite”.
November 22 was a bright yet cold and colourful day in the late fall of 1977. My Mother Debbie was all alone in the hospital when she gave birth. She named me Jennifer-Lynn Marie O’Brien. She would often joke that we were so broke then that she would give us Government juice (sugar water) in our bottles so that the powdered baby formula would last until the last day in the month when her Mother’s Allowance cheque came in. Mother’s allowance was a polite way to say Welfare and now Social Assistance is currently the politically correct term at the time of this writing. She resourcefully put me in a dresser drawer to sleep instead of one those way too expensive and silly bassinets. Putting babies in dresser drawers seems like a perfect metaphor for how my childhood would eventually evolve.
After I made my Grand Entrance into the World Mom told me she liked the name Jennifer because that was her favorite character on her favorite Soap Opera. I guess a lot of Mothers in the seventies liked that name because growing up there was at least 3-4 of us Jens in every class in every school I ever attended.

My Mother was only 19 when she gave birth to me. I was her third child. She had my sisters Veronica and Colleen when she was barely more than a child herself at the tender ages of 13 and 14. Apparently, I was the product of a marital rape. At least that was the story she would often tell anyone who would listen on a drunk night -which was a constant state of existence in my childhood. I didn’t even know I had two older sisters until I was 8 or 9 years old. My Mom abandoned them to live with their Father and his parents before I was born.
My earliest memory is of me in a high chair with the white tray around me. I couldn’t have been any older than the age of one. My Mom and Dad -at least I thought he was my Dad at the time (more on that later) were all sitting at the dinner table one evening. As usual, a viscous argument broke out. I remember all I wanted was my bubba-which is what we called my baby bottle. I tried so hard to communicate and oddly all the yelling didn’t seem to scare me. I remember thinking:
“I wish I could talk”. I can still see that old orange shaggy rug and the picturesque mountain landscape wallpaper in our living room that was so popular in the Seventies.
We lived in a small 2 bedroom low rise apartment on the 5th floor at Morningside and Kingston Road in a rough area of Scarborough until I was about five or six. My Dad George (Jacob) was a Dutch immigrant from Holland and a long distance big rig truck driver. They met in the local bar and she was instantly charmed by his voracious sense of humour and his generous heart.
I thought life was pretty good when I was little. In retrospect, it was probably because I didn’t know any better. When that case of beer got carried into the house, I would feel such anxiety because there would inevitably be turbulence and violence later in the evening . I have seen my Mom get kicked, punched and even strangled only for her to get back up and crack my Dad over the head with 2X4 piece of wood sending him straight to the hospital for stitches. I have been in the car with my baby brother when she tried to run Dad over because he wouldn’t give her money to go to the bar.
One memory in particular that sticks out from when I was about 8 or so is my Mom on the phone one night when Dad walks in after a long two week run in the big rig. When he asks her who she’s talking to she replies:
“My Uncle Robbie”
It took Dad a few seconds to realize that Uncle Robbie lived in Oaklahoma and long distance was very expensive in the eighties. So of course Dad got that look in his eyes, pure eye popping rage and Mom never one to back down simply stuck up her middle finger and snarled:
“Fuuuuuuck Youuuuu”!
That was it. Dad snapped. He lunged towards her and grabbed that phone cord and wrapped it around her neck until she fell backwards on her chair. She was kicking and scratching at Dad, the dogs were barking and I was screaming. I remember trying to slap Dad on his backside to try to intervene and then it all stopped as suddenly as it started. Mom got up huffing and puffing and said a few choice words and then cracked open a beer.
I also remember almost the exact same scenario except with my Mom on top of my Dad with her foot pressing hard to his throat. Beside them stood stack of empty 24 beer cases to the ceiling until it all came crashing down on Dad’s head. Mom thought it was hilarious. I remember crying and asking God why my Mom is so mean. He told me: Molson Canadian. Oh how I hated those wretched brown bottles.
Both my parents were very heavy drinkers and things would often get volatile in a very short period of time. After a particularly ugly fight my mother would pack us kids up and we would take off in the old camper (which was actually an old Dodge ambulance that was converted into a camper) and we would wake up in Wasaga Beach. Mom would buy us breakfast in one of the diners and I remember her appetite was always enormous after a night of heavy drinking and fighting. To this day the stench of booze seeping through someone’s pores still reminds me of my youth.
My Mother was not a very emotional person. The only time she would cry or tell us she loved us was usually when she was drunk. However, she did show her love in other ways, a surprise gift, early hockey and figure skating mornings. She spent many late nights selling flowers in taverns to earn those recreational privileges for us self entitled brats. Well, my younger brother Josh was too young to be self entitled now that I think about it.
My childhood babysitter Mummy Jenny once told me about the way she met my Mother. She was walking down the hallway outside the apartment and seen little baby fingers sticking out of the mail slot in the door and babbling to whomever would listen. Mummy Jenny stopped in front of the door and kneeled down to say hello. When she peered inside she could see my young Mom passed out on the couch. There was a man on the love seat sleeping and two more men were passed out on the floor. Beer bottles were scattered everywhere and the apartment was filthy with garbage all over the floor , overflowing ashtrays and baby toys and clothes scattered everywhere.
I was only about 20 months old and was sitting in a heavily soiled diaper. Mummy Jenny said the stench coming from that apartment was worse than death. She knew she had to do something and couldn’t just leave me there but in the Seventies people tended to mind their own business when it came to children’s welfare. She decided to try to wake my Mom up and offer a helping hand. After banging on the door for several minutes she decided to leave to go to the Seven Eleven and purchase some chocolate milk for me. She came back and literally fed me the chocolate milk through the mail slot with a straw. I guess lactose intolerance wasn’t an issue back then. Mummy Jenny went back to her apartment and made me a peanut butter and jam sandwich and gave it to me piece by piece-to this day peanut butter and jam is still my favorite sandwich.
At some point my Mother woke up and pushed her long blonde hair out of her eyes and while wiping the sleep away she noticed the interaction at the front door and demanded to know who this busy body was at her door feeding her kid. According to Mummy Jenny this was the beginning of our pseudo Mother and Daughter relationship. Now Mom could party all she wanted and ship me off down the hall to the Brits where I would be safe and clean. I loved Mummy Jenny and her husband Bert and I still am close to them and their kids to this day.
One night when I was about 5 and Josh was about 1, my Mother was driving us home after a Boxing Day celebration at her Parents our Grandparents home. She was so intoxicated that we had to pull over in a motel parking lot so she could sleep it off. It was one of the most terrifying nights of my life. I cried the whole night from being cold and scared. Thank God Josh slept right through it.
By the time Mom woke up the sun was coming up and we just about ran out of fuel. I remember telling my mother that leaving us in the car was a horrible thing to do to. I was a very outspoken child. I also had very little fear. One time that same year I decided that I needed to hitchhike with my black friend Wellesley to show my Grandmother that if someone was black they couldn’t wash the black off. She used to say: “Jeez Jennifer-Lynn Marie, get in that bath, look how black you are!” I thought it was my job to educate her about all the different shades of people in the world.
One day Dad got transferred up north for work. Therefore, our whole family was uprooted to a City called Barrie , Ontario. Life as my brother Josh and I knew it was officially over.
We quickly moved into a cute townhouse with a mini front and back yard. I remember fondly walking and riding my bike through the back lanes with Josh toddling behind me and summer nights spent at the Drive In theatre’s under the starry sky.
My Dad was always on the road and I think making very good money at the time. When we lived in that town house we never wanted for anything. Our clothes were always clean and there was plenty of food. I don’t have many negative memories from that time in my life except a perverted 15 year old boy Babysitter named Eric who fondled and poked at my vagina when he would babysit us when I was 6 or 7. I tolerated it a few times because I really didn’t know how to communicate that to my non commutative Mother. Eventually, I just told her matter of fact:
“I don’t want that guy Eric babysitting anymore.”
“What? Why?” Mom looked confused.
“Because every time you guys leave he comes into my bedroom and touches my Vagina” I shrugged
“What??!!....Ok..go to bed your Father will deal with this when he gets back…Fuck!” she nervously lights a cigarette and I go back to bed
I am so relieved that Eric the perv wouldn’t be babysitting anymore. Shortly after I tell my Mom about Eric there are cops at my door threatening to take my Dad to jail for assault on a minor. Miraculously he gets off with a stern warning to not contact Eric or his family.
“Oh that won’t be a problem Officer.” Says my Dad
Another not so great memory I have is of my Dad giving me one hell of a beating over the hall light being left on after I went to bed when I was 6. My Mother went to Bingo and left the hall light on for me. My Dad came up to use the washroom and demanded to know why I was wasting electricity. I told him my Mom left it on but he truly thought I was lying. So my poor backside paid the price with his belt.
The next day, needless to say Dad took me out shopping and bought me a new gold Mickey Mouse necklace at the Consumers Catalogue store. My Mother always set him straight and was a big advocate of getting Dad to fork over the money for many lavish luxuries such as a Microwave and a Fur coat just to name a few.
Sometimes I feel we would’ve been much better off if we just stayed in the City of Barrie. Once my Mom and Dad purchased the little Hobby Farm it was like everything went to Hell within a few short years. Their Alcoholism, their marriage, the farm and even the house itself basically deteriorated within 5 years. Oh but the memories are so bitter sweet. From the ages of 7 – 12 a lot of things occurred in my young life.
I was an absolute Tom Boy who loved to ride dirt bikes and horses and play with the boys next door. We would have so much fun playing capture the flag or building tree forts. Often I would get so wrapped up in whatever adventure and would forget to come home for hours and hours. When I did finally make it home no one seemed to notice or care. If I missed dinner I was on my own. Structure was a foreign concept in our home. Eventually, the necessities of life would also become foreign concepts. As the alcohol abuse worsened so did the state of our home and lives. It was a free for all for my brother Josh and I. When Dad was on the road and Mom was passed out drunk and there was no heat because the oil furnace bill didn’t get paid, you learn pretty fast how to be resourceful. Josh and I would turn on the oven and open the door to stay warm. If the hydro got cut off we would just chop wood and fire up the wood stove. If the water pipes froze we would just boil snow for a sponge bath. If Mom took off for a few days when Dad was on the road we knew how to make oatmeal and how to ask our neighbors to borrow the basic staples.
We knew what it was like to go to bed hungry. Sometimes I cried myself to sleep because I didn’t want to face what few friends I had at school because 3 days in a row my parents forgot to pack my lunch again. To be laughed at for smelling like a barn because I only had one coat and pair of boots and if I didn’t clean those stalls and feed those sweet horses no one would. Somehow though, I felt detached to that life. Like I was living in it but it was not really mine not really what I was meant for.
And then came the knock from Children’s Aid…….