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name. I yelled at him for leaving me too early, for abandoning me twice, but even as the words flew out of my mouth in a verbal storm, I didn’t emotionally connect. I was still so far removed from the deep part of my heart.
    My internal walls had been firmly reinforced by abuse and disappointment. The emotional disconnect was my obvious defense strategy, the only way I could continue living a normal (whatever that means) life. Abuse? Disconnect. Emotionally absent mom? Disconnect. Dad dies? Disconnect. It wasn’t long before those defenses worked against me. Being a pro at disconnecting did, however, give me one advantage.

    My ability to disconnect from reality helped fuel my love for the arts, especially acting. I always thought I was going to be an actress. When I was around nine, I made appearances on Romper Room and Big Top Talent , a Canadian television children’s talent show where I recited a monologue from Anne of Green Gables and told the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. I was a ham who loved not just the camera but pretending I was someone else.
    I’m sure I gravitated toward playing characters because it allowed me to step away from what was happening to me. Acting also gave me a sense of control. I could use my voice to make people laugh or cry. I could be as loud and dramatic as I wanted. I also loved to sing. All through middle school and high school, I took every drama and choir class that was offered. I was in the school choir every year and had major roles in almost every school play. I was quite literally a drama queen. I also spent seven years taking dance lessons. I couldn’t get enough of the arts.
    When I was ten, I performed in the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, a celebration of the theatrical arts that runs from April to November every year. More than half a million tourists from all over the world visit our little town during that time to see wonderful performances of plays by Shakespeare and other greats. I was cast for two roles in The Government Inspector and played a peasant girl and a rich girl.
    I loved the hustle backstage before the performance—sitting in the hair and makeup chair, wearing frilly costumes, being doted on by the older actresses. But being onstage thrilled me even more. It gave me a sense of freedom. My heart wasn’t burdened by feelings of abandonment, fear, or rejection or by those wretched dirty feelings I still didn’t understand. I was free to act, to be dramatic and perform from a place in my spirit that captured innocence. I was unfettered as a kite.
    Throughout elementary and junior high school, I filled up my bedroom with awards and trophies from singing and acting competitions. I even got accepted into an acting agency in Toronto, but it required me going to auditions on the weekend. My mom and Bruce refused to make the hour-and-a-half drive, so I couldn’t go. I was devastated. It was the one chance I’d had to hone something I was actually really good at. My dreams were crushed.
    As much as I loved acting and drawing from different identities and personas when I was younger, I still couldn’t escape how others were violating my body. You can’t fake an accent to cover shame. It was hard to reconcile the sexual abuse that had been happening to me since I was a little girl. Even though I’ve since been through intensive counseling and healing, even today certain memories and feelings don’t just go away. There are still moments when I can see the little girl in me crouching low in the shadows, afraid, unheard, confused, ashamed.
    When I sought counseling many years after the abuse, I learned from my therapist that young victims of trauma carry those wounds, most of them covered up and even deeply buried, into adulthood. As a little girl, I did what I had to do to adapt in my abusive environment. Because I did so, however, the five-year-old me never had the opportunity to address the injustices. I couldn’t voice how abandoned I felt. Or how hurt. Or