Introduction: Winds of Change

Sunday, January 4^th 1976, 5:54a.m.

     Ever since that cold winter morning, my birth appeared to be more of a curse than a blessing. Literally, from the day I was born, I was the victim of everyone else’s emotional baggage. My childhood world had been invaded and conquered before I even had a chance to step into it. I acquired the role of a pawn in a maddening game of ruthless chess. By the tender age of thirteen, I had already encountered enough pain to fill volumes of books. I had been lied to and deceived, used and abused, hurt both mentally and physically. Those times would be engraved in the tombstone of my mind for many years to come.

     My birth seemed to trigger everyone’s time bomb. Enraged over something to do with my father, my mother filed false information on my birth certificate. Some years passed before I discovered that dirty secret when overhearing a family friend speaking to my father. “Now, why did she go do that? She knows that’s your baby, Rivers.”
      I learned that my mother had identified my father as her ex-husband and my middle name was misspelled. Having far too much wisdom and maturity for a girl who wasn‘t even ten yet, I understood everything and brushed the incident aside, unaware that it wouldn’t be until I reached the age of eighteen before my birth certificate would be changed in court.

     My name, Candace, means light, and true to my name I became a happy child desperate to win the affection and approval of my parents but all to no avail. Ours was a household of constant bickering and violence. The police were our most frequent visitors.

     For a brief period, I was enrolled in piano classes and able to use my practice as an excuse to lock myself in the parlor and drown myself in music for hours on end. But gradually my light faded and eventually extinguished. My mother became distant and angry. No longer would she take the time to brush my long dark hair. She jerked the comb through until I screamed in pain. When she’d wash my hair, she’d shove my head into the kitchen sink and pour an ice cold pot of water over my head, ignoring my tears. I often wondered why she disliked me. One day, she told me she was taking me to the store and, instead, she dropped me off at a hair salon. I was horrified as my hair was cut and perm’d. My parents argued that evening as all my siblings gasped at my pageboy haircut. Within days, my hair began to fall out in clumps.

     Unfortunately, my shame was not contained within the four walls of our home. I dreaded waking up in the morning to attend a predominately all-white Catholic school. I was called all manner of names from “ugly” and “fat,” and I wasn’t even overweight, to the dreaded “nigger”. My self-esteem butchered beyond belief,  I knew that the other students were aware of what was going on in my family. The gossip spread like wildfire.

     I tried to commit suicide, my first attempt while I was only in the third grade. I blamed myself for everything. It was just the way things seemed to be and my parents always seemed to point the finger at me. My baby brother and my half-sisters were not treated as poorly as I . I figured that I should just do everyone else a favor by killing myself. Fortunately, a nun at school discovered my efforts and threatened to tell my father. Nothing ever came of it. My father never mentioned it nor did anyone else. Afterwards, time passed as did my once joyful spirit. My family fell apart. Without a logical explanation for the deepening dysfunction within my family, I dove deeper into depression. My bedroom became my world. My comforts were my art, my writing and my books. My suicidal urges continued and, just when it seemed life couldn’t get any worse, my parents divorced. Suddenly, my baby brother and I, along with my father, were thrown out of the house. It was the day after Christmas.

     Why is it important to me that I tell my story? What makes my story different from all the other stories of abuse? My story is not one comprised of dazzling heroic deeds with tragic downfalls and glorious victories, rather my story is woven into the fabric of a never-ending war, a war I had to wage, not only against my abusers, but also within myself in order to become the woman I am today.

     Throughout my life I have been deprived of numerous things. Denied the innocence of childhood, forced to grow up too soon and thrust into a world of cruelty and despair, I had no comprehension of the meaning of love. Early in my adult life, I became involved in many abusive and loveless relationships.

     I had to learn the hard way for those whom I expected to be able to trust betrayed me, leaving me all alone and afraid. I had to be my own hero. I tell my story because God blessed me to survive abuse and neglect. God has given me the opportunity to share my story. Without His help, I would be nowhere. Today, I stand before God proud of who I am and of what I have accomplished through His mercy. Because of my experiences, I have the strength, courage, wisdom and knowledge necessary to face the future without fear.

     In sharing my story, I truly hope that many readers will learn something that will make a difference in their lives. To those of you who may be struggling, know that while times may be tough you must never give up the battle. However endless and dark the road may seem, you must continue to fight, to live and to be strong.

Candace Nadine Breen