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Phobia Child Abuse

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My sister and I were raised in Nova Scotia by my mother and my stepfather. My stepfather was a ruthless man who did not mince words and who punished me often and inappropriately. One of his many and most familiar phrases was, "You’re an ungrateful little bastard. You don’t deserve my good name."

My mom became a victim of her circumstances. She endured the same type of treatment as I did. While she did witness what transpired between my stepfather and me, she became a silent, helpless bystander, because she knew her interference would have made her life more difficult than it already was. When I was 11-years-old, we moved to Toronto, Ontario. Shortly after the move, I ran away for the first time because of my stepfather’s physical abuse. In the next two years, it was always the same; I ran away, and the police delivered me back to my stepfather. At the age 13, a school health nurse intervened when my stepfather attempted to grab me in her presence. I was removed and placed under the care of the Children’s Aid Society. From there, I ended up in a few foster homes, a mental institution due suicide
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The details will be in my book; here I will only say that there were significant problems after her second disclosure of abuse. The entire situation and the unfolding details were mind-boggling. At the time, we lived in a small town with no resources for parents in my predicament. Feeling overwhelmed and confused, I made a trip to the library, hoping to find a book that may be helpful. I was disappointed only to find two books. One for abuse survivors and the other was for those who counsel abuse survivors. Luckily, in the back of one of the book were a few addresses for organizations. For the next two months, I was caught up in a daily writing and phone call expedition of me trying to locate information. I accumulated over 350 information
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