Struggling Average Student
Donation protected
Where do I start? It is hard to start a story like this because there is no real beginning. There was no pause. Just a waterfall. Be warned, my story is sad and truthful. I do not blame any people who I mention in this story. Stick with me. I promise it gets better.
I was born in St. Mary's, Ontario. However, not long after my parent's separated, I moved to London, Ontario, where I was raised and still live.
I lived with my mother until the age of eleven, not long before my twelveth birthday. During my formative years, I was exposed to violence, drugs, and abuse. My mother, a tormented woman, had problems controlling her anger and addictions to alcohol, weed, and smoking. Even as early as age six we would get into explosive arguments, which sometimes escalated into physical battles. It was like two small children living together, only one really was a small child, and the other was a much bigger, much scarier, adult. I was made to feel worthless, unlovable, less of a person, and someone who hurts others. Memories from my childhood have left me with mental struggles, including social anxiety, self-loathing, and generalized anxiety.
I was not alone. My father was doing everything in his power to help me. He was aware of my living situation with my mother but had little power, as she had primary custody. Yet he fought against the law and unrelentingly begged the Children's Aid Society for help. He filled journals with detailed accounts of my suffering. He pointed out my troubling behaviors towards myself and my thought patterns towards myself. He worked all day to earn a living, studied the law all night. He recorded the recounts of my nights with my mum, which I cried and screamed remembering the trauma, and got the CAS to listen. But, because I had no physical wounds, and they did not witness mistreatment, there was nothing they could do. Our only hope was to wait until I was twelve years old, the age where I was able to choose which parent to live with.
As my twelveth birthday approached I grew more and more terrified. I was afraid it wouldn't work, that something bad was going to happen. I was so absolutely distraught and certain that my mum was going to end my life that two months before my birthday, I became paralyzed from the waist down for five days. In the hospital, after my dad and I told the doctors what was going on at home, they concluded that the paralysis was a psychosomatic result of my mental and emotional abuse. I finally had a physical symptom, and I was permitted to live with my father.
However. While I was in the hospital, my father quit his job because they overworked him to the point of utter mental disrepair. He had no savings because of years of child support payments to my mum, so we fell into deep poverty for several months. It got to the point where we were on the verge of eviction and my father lived off of Snickers bars and I was always hungry. With help from my Nana, we pulled through.
Financial troubles didn't go away. My father couldn't work. He refused to apply for disability support. I would some days eat plain rice for a week. I was thin, weak. I learned more about my father from ages twelve to sixteen. He had abused several narcotics as a young man. He was troubled by deep depression, severe trauma, and anxiety. He didn't go outside during the day. He became more reclusive. He was on Oxycontin during my childhood. That's how he stayed up for days. He pulled us further away from family. He isolated us. I watched him slowly spiral down into a dark, dark place. I was his caretaker.
Despite all of this, in high school, I managed some remarkable things. No one knew of my home life because the poverty wasn't visible in my performance. My grades were amazing. I got staff honors and subject awards multiple times. In 2016 I won a provincial art award worth $1000. In grade eleven and twelve I was on honor roll, my average above 90%. I was involved with multiple activities, including my school's Social Justice club, the LGBT+ Pride group, a leader in the Art Club, a performer in school plays, a public speaker and advocate for equality, as well as a member of the production crew for three separate High School Project productions at the Grand Theater. I had a diverse circle of friends who also participated in similar things, and I was known for being compassionate, kind, creative, talented, brilliant, and hardworking.
The worst came. Toward the end of my grade eleven year, my father and I were getting evicted. The apartment was in disrepair and his mind was in shambles. Two weeks before the eviction date, he had a breakdown. He lost his mind. He threw me out of the house, rendering me homeless at sixteen. Two weeks later he was gone. He is still a missing person.
Thanks to the infinite generosity from friends, I was able to find shelter and get back on my feet. I was unsure of how to reach out to family, as my father pulled me away from most of them save my Nana and brother. I was alone. Despite my network of support from friends and my Nana, the lack of family and financial security made me very depressed. A month after my seventeenth birthday, I tried to commit suicide.
After this, I changed. I wanted to pursue life. I developed stronger bonds, closer ties with new people, and allowed myself to slowly reconnect with family. My grades improved. I worked tirelessly. I got a boyfriend who has done nothing but support me. I wanted to make more of my life. I wanted to better myself.
Then, I got something that has made me promise myself to keep living. I received the Beryl Ivey National Scholarship from Western University. A $64,000 scholarship split across my four years of study. I'm beginning my first year in just two weeks. This achievement reminds me that I am worth something, that I can do something, despite my poverty and trauma.
Despite the scholarship, money is tight. $15,000 a year shockingly disappears quickly after tuition and rent (Tuition = $7,293.45. Rent/month = $600. $600 X 12 = $7,200. Where is food money...). I want to grow, I want to save, I want to better life and health for myself and my cat. I want to be secure, for the first time in my life.
So that's my story. I didn't share my story for pity or praise. Just context, and perhaps to give you a reason to help.
I don't expect much. Just help. Even reading this helps. From distant relatives to not so distant to strangers to friends. You are probably one of these people. If not, you are one of my parents. In which case: mum, I'm sorry. I'm not ready to face you. I'm not strong enough yet. I want to rebuild my relationship with you, but I know I'm not ready yet. Dad. I miss you. We are all waiting for you to come home. It's not your fault. All I want is to give you the apology and hug I never got the chance to.
Writing this has been like lifting a weight off my chest. The more people the read this, the more people will know about my story. I story I don't want to bottle up anymore.
If you read this, thank you. If you shared this, thank you. If you donated, thank you thank you thank you. Every little thing helps. Like every drop of water in a waterfall.
Thank you. For everything.
I was born in St. Mary's, Ontario. However, not long after my parent's separated, I moved to London, Ontario, where I was raised and still live.
I lived with my mother until the age of eleven, not long before my twelveth birthday. During my formative years, I was exposed to violence, drugs, and abuse. My mother, a tormented woman, had problems controlling her anger and addictions to alcohol, weed, and smoking. Even as early as age six we would get into explosive arguments, which sometimes escalated into physical battles. It was like two small children living together, only one really was a small child, and the other was a much bigger, much scarier, adult. I was made to feel worthless, unlovable, less of a person, and someone who hurts others. Memories from my childhood have left me with mental struggles, including social anxiety, self-loathing, and generalized anxiety.
I was not alone. My father was doing everything in his power to help me. He was aware of my living situation with my mother but had little power, as she had primary custody. Yet he fought against the law and unrelentingly begged the Children's Aid Society for help. He filled journals with detailed accounts of my suffering. He pointed out my troubling behaviors towards myself and my thought patterns towards myself. He worked all day to earn a living, studied the law all night. He recorded the recounts of my nights with my mum, which I cried and screamed remembering the trauma, and got the CAS to listen. But, because I had no physical wounds, and they did not witness mistreatment, there was nothing they could do. Our only hope was to wait until I was twelve years old, the age where I was able to choose which parent to live with.
As my twelveth birthday approached I grew more and more terrified. I was afraid it wouldn't work, that something bad was going to happen. I was so absolutely distraught and certain that my mum was going to end my life that two months before my birthday, I became paralyzed from the waist down for five days. In the hospital, after my dad and I told the doctors what was going on at home, they concluded that the paralysis was a psychosomatic result of my mental and emotional abuse. I finally had a physical symptom, and I was permitted to live with my father.
However. While I was in the hospital, my father quit his job because they overworked him to the point of utter mental disrepair. He had no savings because of years of child support payments to my mum, so we fell into deep poverty for several months. It got to the point where we were on the verge of eviction and my father lived off of Snickers bars and I was always hungry. With help from my Nana, we pulled through.
Financial troubles didn't go away. My father couldn't work. He refused to apply for disability support. I would some days eat plain rice for a week. I was thin, weak. I learned more about my father from ages twelve to sixteen. He had abused several narcotics as a young man. He was troubled by deep depression, severe trauma, and anxiety. He didn't go outside during the day. He became more reclusive. He was on Oxycontin during my childhood. That's how he stayed up for days. He pulled us further away from family. He isolated us. I watched him slowly spiral down into a dark, dark place. I was his caretaker.
Despite all of this, in high school, I managed some remarkable things. No one knew of my home life because the poverty wasn't visible in my performance. My grades were amazing. I got staff honors and subject awards multiple times. In 2016 I won a provincial art award worth $1000. In grade eleven and twelve I was on honor roll, my average above 90%. I was involved with multiple activities, including my school's Social Justice club, the LGBT+ Pride group, a leader in the Art Club, a performer in school plays, a public speaker and advocate for equality, as well as a member of the production crew for three separate High School Project productions at the Grand Theater. I had a diverse circle of friends who also participated in similar things, and I was known for being compassionate, kind, creative, talented, brilliant, and hardworking.
The worst came. Toward the end of my grade eleven year, my father and I were getting evicted. The apartment was in disrepair and his mind was in shambles. Two weeks before the eviction date, he had a breakdown. He lost his mind. He threw me out of the house, rendering me homeless at sixteen. Two weeks later he was gone. He is still a missing person.
Thanks to the infinite generosity from friends, I was able to find shelter and get back on my feet. I was unsure of how to reach out to family, as my father pulled me away from most of them save my Nana and brother. I was alone. Despite my network of support from friends and my Nana, the lack of family and financial security made me very depressed. A month after my seventeenth birthday, I tried to commit suicide.
After this, I changed. I wanted to pursue life. I developed stronger bonds, closer ties with new people, and allowed myself to slowly reconnect with family. My grades improved. I worked tirelessly. I got a boyfriend who has done nothing but support me. I wanted to make more of my life. I wanted to better myself.
Then, I got something that has made me promise myself to keep living. I received the Beryl Ivey National Scholarship from Western University. A $64,000 scholarship split across my four years of study. I'm beginning my first year in just two weeks. This achievement reminds me that I am worth something, that I can do something, despite my poverty and trauma.
Despite the scholarship, money is tight. $15,000 a year shockingly disappears quickly after tuition and rent (Tuition = $7,293.45. Rent/month = $600. $600 X 12 = $7,200. Where is food money...). I want to grow, I want to save, I want to better life and health for myself and my cat. I want to be secure, for the first time in my life.
So that's my story. I didn't share my story for pity or praise. Just context, and perhaps to give you a reason to help.
I don't expect much. Just help. Even reading this helps. From distant relatives to not so distant to strangers to friends. You are probably one of these people. If not, you are one of my parents. In which case: mum, I'm sorry. I'm not ready to face you. I'm not strong enough yet. I want to rebuild my relationship with you, but I know I'm not ready yet. Dad. I miss you. We are all waiting for you to come home. It's not your fault. All I want is to give you the apology and hug I never got the chance to.
Writing this has been like lifting a weight off my chest. The more people the read this, the more people will know about my story. I story I don't want to bottle up anymore.
If you read this, thank you. If you shared this, thank you. If you donated, thank you thank you thank you. Every little thing helps. Like every drop of water in a waterfall.
Thank you. For everything.
Organizer
Rayne Cauchi
Organizer
London, ON
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