​​Out of Place Growing Up

As I grew older, it became impossible to ignore how out of place I felt. By the time I was twelve, it was clear I didn’t belong—not to my family, not to my surroundings and definitely not to my brothers, Richard and Randy, who reminded me every day that I wasn’t wanted. Their taunts weren’t subtle; they made sure I knew I was different.
The differences between us weren’t just in our personalities but etched into our very genes. My family, who had adopted me, 

bore no resemblance to me. They had darker complexions, while I was a natural blonde with pale skin. I didn’t just look different—I thought differently, too. And the way I thought didn’t fit into the box they wanted me to conform to. I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t.
Puberty didn’t help matters. I matured early and fast, developing a 34D chest and curvy hips big ass that drew attention I never wanted or understood. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was already 5'10", towering over my brothers, who still looked like scrawny ten-year-olds. That physical maturity made me feel even more like an outsider, like I was growing up too fast in a house that didn’t know how to handle me. I had a pesence when I entered a room- today I know that as my companionwho is alays with me God
Everywhere I went, people noticed me. Men approached me, asking if I’d model for them, but I always assumed they had ulterior motives. My brothers’ relentless teasing had ingrained in me a belief that I was ugly, weird, and worthless. From as early as I can remember, they called me names—fat pig, thunder thighs, ugly, cow, useless—and it only got worse as I grew older. By ten, their insults had evolved into cruel slurs like "slut," "whore," and "trash."
Even when others paid attention to me, I couldn’t believe it was for anything positive. My dad’s work colleagues would hit on me, not realizing I was just thirteen—Ken Scotts teenage daughter. Once they found out, they would retreat in embarrassment, but the damage was done, i could see my parents seeing me even more as an outsider

I got no guidance at home. My mother never once told me I was beautiful. In fact, she seemed to resent the attention I got when we went out. Instead of explaining what I was going through, as i was maturing she turned that resentment into disdain. Sometimes it felt like  she hated me for something I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

I wish I’d known then what I know now—that I was stunning, unique, and captivating. But back then, I believed the lies.
My brothers didn’t just hurt me with words; they made me their prey. In their eyes, I was the stray garbage my parents had taken in, something unworthy of respect or protection. Their friends joined in, picking up where my brothers left off, and I lived in constant fear.

My parents turned a blind eye to the cruelty, after all it was their biological children which only deepened my isolation. 

Friends were scarce, even though I could connect with people easily. I had a natural curiosity, but I’d get bored quickly or say something that rubbed them the wrong way. That left me alone more often than not, retreating into my own thoughts and imagination to escape the chaos around me.

Despite all of this, there was one sanctuary: At the time I didn't know how to describe it but it was a presence around me constantly soothing me and providing me strength and then there was water.
My dad had a big boat while we lived on Vancouver Island. It was about fifty feet long, complete with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. On weekends, we’d set off for adventures, cruising among the Gulf Islands or even crossing into the San Juan Islands in the United States. My dads friend owned half one of the Gulf Islands, so we often anchored there, spending quiet weekends away from the world.
I loved the water. The moment the boat stopped, I’d leap in, even if the water was icy cold. Swimming became my escape, a moment where nothing else mattered. I felt as though my whale existence was in safe hands when I was in the Sea

But even there, the dark shadow of my brothers loomed. When my parents left for parties, leaving my brothers in charge, they’d torment me. Their favorite trick was to tell me our parents had died and weren’t coming back. “You’re going back into foster care,” they’d say, watching me crumble in fear. They played this cruel game for years, and every time, I fell for it.
One night, when I was at home alone with Randy, I snapped. We were at home, and he was harassing me as usual. Something inside me broke, and I grabbed a hammer, unleashing years of pent-up rage. I smashed windows, sinks, toilets—anything I could destroy. My brother ran, terrified, but I never managed to catch them.
When my parents came home, they said nothing. No punishment, no questions, no acknowledgment of what had happened. They did, however, take me to a doctor for psychological testing. The results came back: I was intellectually far beyond my years. And yet, there was no follow-up, no therapy, no intervention. My parents simply let it go.
Years later, my dad told me that by the time I was eight, he’d decided I wasn’t worth disciplining. “You were going to do whatever you wanted anyway,” he said.
My brothers’ cruelty didn’t stop with me. They tormented my friends to the point that parents in the neighborhood forbade their daughters from coming to our house. It seemed everyone knew what was happening, but no one spoke up. People back then preferred to look the other way, pretending nothing was wrong.
Even now, as I look back, I marvel at the silence—the way an entire community could watch a storm brew behind closed doors and choose to act like the sun was still shining.

When I was maybe 13, I had a friend called Jennifer, who I could finally relate to and she actually came over. Maybe because she too came from an abusive home; her stepbrothers and stepfather were sexually molesting her regularly. Her mom never seemed to be home, and every time Jennifer got caught smoking or doing something wrong, her stepbrothers and stepfather would rape her. This bothered me so much and I would plead with her to tell her mother, since she was her ‘real’ mom. I was sure that she would believe her then, while I knew mine wouldn’t. 

For myself, I could never find the voice to say anything. I felt deep down that I deserved that abuse because I didn’t truly belong.From the time I was born no one wanted me and as much as I thought this logically there was always a voice of feeling in the back of my head telling me no I was love I was welcomed and that brought me strong. I figured, this was the best I was going to get out of life, so I was going to have to suck it up.

My parents fostered that impression, constantly reminding me of my inferior position in their family. I needed to be grateful for every gift, every gesture. If they went out and bought me a dress, they would remind me that they had bought me a dress, and that I needed to be grateful.

Jennifer and I hung out after school and talked about it a lot, and both tried to think of ways we could get away, but we were too young. 

She was my height and size, with a slim build. Her hair was long and red and as pretty as she was, only she didn’t know it. She was shy and withdrawn; I think that why we connected.

Once, she came to stay overnight. My parents had gone away for the weekend, partying with Mom’s three sisters and their husbands, and as usual, Randy was supposed to babysit, but instead, the boys decided to have a house party. 

The house was ram packed with drunk teenagers; the music was blaring. Our house was perfect for a party; apart from our four bedrooms, we had three bathrooms, two floors, and a rumpus room with a bar, pool table, TV and sitting area. Weed and alcohol flowed, of course, and maybe some acid. LSD was a big thing back then. 

It was my first introduction to alcohol. Looking back, I realize that my brothers probably fed me the drinks to make sure I would not tell on them for having a party. 

Jennifer and I hid in my in bedroom, drinking the alcohol we were provided by my brothers and his friends. Everyone was two to four years older, so not our crowd, and anyway, I was seen as the bratty sister. 

We thought we were cool and could handle drinking like pros, guzzling more and more, mixing up a "shit mix", which was a concoction of vodka, rum, and whatever else we got our hands on. 

My brothers and their friends started busting through my door, laughing and asking if we needed more alcohol. The boys were never nice to me; they brutalized me daily about being adopted, so it was odd that were acting so friendly. I knew them well by then; I had a gut feeling there was an ulterior motive, so I slowly started pulling back. 

Jennifer wasn’t pulling back; she was getting lost in the drinking and seemed to be enjoying it. It was clear that she was trying to hide from her own problems at home. This was also her first introduction to alcohol.

As the night progressed, my brothers and their friends entered my room so much that the door ended remaining open. Jennifer was getting to the point where she was passing out on my bed, so I decided to go downstairs and check on my little dog Brandy. As drunk as I was, I was able to make my way downstairs, through the crowds of people, into my dad’s gun room where they had the dog locked up

I was only gone about twenty minutes when I climbed the stairs back to my bedroom only to find Jennifer was not there. The hallway to the bathroom had a line up. “Where’s Jennifer?” I asked everyone. After I spent a good fifteen minutes looking for her, one of the girls suggested, “Maybe she’s in the bathroom.”

Sounded reasonable. I went to my room and waited, but I felt deep inside me that something was wrong. The alcohol induced high I was on began to evaporate. After what seemed like hours, I began to wonder if maybe she was getting sick, so I decided to go to the bathroom.  

I pushed my way past all the guys in the hall who were still seeming to be waiting in line for the bathroom and knocked. No answer. The door could be opened with a bobby pin, so I went to my parents’ bedroom that was at the opposite end of the hall from my room, where they had their own bathroom, and got one. 

I had to push my way through the crowd and back to the door. As I was fumbling to open the door, the guys were telling me to relax and go back to my room, that Jennifer would be fine. I ignored them. Something was going on and I knew it. 

I was able to unlock the door. When I opened it, I was shocked to see Jennifer lying naked on the floor. I knew someone had done this to her and I was terrified. I ran out of the bathroom downstairs, asking anyone to help me.

No one would help.I found my brothers and they  just looked at me. “Don’t be so dramatic,” they warned, as though my reacting to a little girl being gang raped was over the top. 

I realized I had to help her myself. I tried to go back upstairs, but it was tough, as I had to fight my way through. The line of guys was at least a dozen. When I finally made my way back to the bathroom, the door was locked again. I began banging on it repeatedly, shouting and yelling. 

It took a good five minutes before it opened and out came three guys, zipping up their pants, looking guilty and sly. When I finally got back into the bathroom, Jennifer had been placed in the bathtub, still naked.

I finally realized what was happening, and understood the reason there was no girls in line for the bathroom. Of the three bathrooms in the house, this one had been allocated to raping Jennifer. 

I was in full panic mode; I couldn’t move her and I didn’t know what to do to protect her. I knew she was prey to my brothers and his friends, as usual, and so was I. 

I had to get us both safe and it wasn’t easy because everyone was drunk or high and ready to take advantage. I eventually got her out of the bathtub and with all the strength in me, I dragged her by her feet out of the bathroom, through the crowd of people to my bedroom that was about twenty feet down the hallway.

I couldn’t get her on my bed, so I put a sheet over her on the carpeted floor and I sat beside her. I had no idea what to do; Jennifer wouldn’t wake up. My older brother Randy came to the door and said I need to go downstairs and help him with something. I was hesitant because I had been living with my brothers molesting me for years, so I had little faith in anything he had to say. I was crying. 

I didn’t know what to do, and yet a sliver of my mind said, Maybe he will help us.

As soon as we went downstairs and entered the rumpus room, I lost him in the crowd. I spent about ten minutes waiting and hoping I would get help … and then I realized Randy had no intention of helping. I pushed my way through the crowd and back upstairs. 

I was hysterical. I could see she would be very sore the next day, i could see bruisin starting all over her. The guys in the hall were laughing at me as they watched from my doorway. I slammed the door and put a broom to lock it against the wall.

I had to nurse Jennifer throughout the night. The next day when she woke up and was very sick; she could barely move. She was in pain, especially between her legs. I could now easily see the bruising. 

My mom and dad had come home. When my father came to my room, I eagerly told him what happened, in hopes he would get as angry as I was and hold the people, including his sons, accountable. When he saw Jennifer, it was obvious he was jolted by her condition. 

Instead of doing the right thing, my dad called Jennifer’s parents asking if she could stay longer. I figured out later he did this so there would be time for the rape to be hidden. I knew my dad was worried; he was an RCMP officer, he knew this could become a very serious issue for his sons and since I was a witness, I would not lie if someone asked. 

The problem was Jennifer was adamant that she wanted to go home. When she finally did, my dad and brothers just acted like it never happened. If I said anything, they’d criticize me, saying that I talk too much: “You’re just rocking the boat!” 

When I asked my dad, “What are you going to do?” his response was, "Stop being so sensitive, she’s fine.” My brothers acted like it was no big deal. I never spoke about it after that.

Jennifer went home and I never saw her again. A month or two later, I heard she told her mom about the abuse at the hands of her stepfather and brothers—and was kicked out of the house. Her mom didn’t believe her. 

Our schools were not close in a different district. I tried to call, but never got her. What she suffered obviously tore her down and destroyed her - changed he direction of her life.  Later I found out she was on the street and became a prostitute.

The injustice of the situation scared my soul. I think that was the breaking point of realizing how unsafe my homelife was becoming