She taught me to pretend. She told us at a young age it was our job to make people believe that our household was normal. These were respected people, my parents. Revered in their public lives. Celebrated for their success. But at home, they couldn’t keep it together. So the responsibility for keeping up appearances fell to my sister and me. And I got really good at pretending.

It was my job to hide our family life in the neighbourhood. With friends. At parties. This hiding became my priority. It took over my life. I couldn’t let anyone know that what they saw on the outside was in no way, shape or form what it was like inside.

They say it’s hard to explain, but you know it when you feel it. I knew it because I couldn’t. I had no barometer for normal. Just that it must be the feeling other kids have. I sat in a circle in the classroom with the other kids. I could feel normal off of them. They had an ease. A natural way about them. Those kids were not like me. Those kids were not pretending. Those kids were not hiding. Those kids were not anxious. Those kids had confidence and laughter. Those kids had playdates and sleepovers.

These kids didn’t.

When a fight would break out between my parents we’d disappear. Make ourselves as small as possible. There was so much anger. So much chaos. My younger sister and I would listen through the air vents to them fighting for hours on end. Constantly trying to decipher through their screams if the anger was our fault.

Like any 10-year-old girl at that time, my comfort was my trusted orange skipping rope. It was my constant companion. It got my through the hardest moments. In the Brownies I learned important survival skills. Like rope work and knot tying. During the bad times at home, when I’d hide in my closet in the dark, I’d string up that skipping rope with the knots I learned to the hanging rack. It was soothing to know that if they ever came for me, I wouldn’t let them get me. I had a way out.

As I grew I kept pretending. I trained hard. Got big jobs. Had a cottage. A boat. All the hallmarks of a successful, free person. You can accomplish a lot in eyes of the outside world while feeling like a sack of sh*t on the inside. I wanted everyone to think I was normal. Better than normal. Thriving. So I said yes to everything. Never stood up for myself. Walked on land mines, not eggshells. Kept up appearances like I was trained to. And then I hit the wall.

I couldn’t move. At all. If you knew how exhausting it was to stand up from the couch, you wouldn’t get up either. Constant exhaustion. Do you know how hard it is to wash your hair? It’s just too many steps: get up, turn on the shower, stand and wait for it to get to the right temperature, wash, condition, get out of the shower, half dry, blow dry, flat iron. Too many steps. So I didn’t.