Read about my life but don’t have any pity… I’m a strong Irishgirl from an all American city ☘
I have always been honest about the life I lived. First it was what I tried so hard to forget about. Then it was something so easy to cry about but it was also hard to talk about. I didn’t want the look of pity from my friends and it was so hard to explain… “But it started on Fletcher Street.” I would start to explain only to be interrupted with tears, belittling words or a horror I just wanted to forget.
As I got older and realized I was never growing up to forget the horror of my childhood… I knew I was best to distance myself to save myself from the family I tried so hard to belong to. A girl can only take so much belittling, mimics and ridicule in one lifetime.
My life story is told in my journals I kept in a nightstand drawer. Adding more journals as the years went by and adding more power of not dying a secret. While at the same time, without realizing it… I was also building the foundation that made me strong enough to do this.
After experiencing traumatizing, horrifying repressed memories in my mid forties, that’s when I finally got mad at the family that has shunned me away my whole damn life. All because I ran to a friends house one Saturday morning due to the fact that no one protected me from my birth mothers boyfriend, my baby sister’s father, my terrorizing, sick, evil and monstrous abuser.
I was in my late forties when I started to reach out to all who took me in when I was younger. I am thankful to each of them who not only remembered the uncaring family who abandoned me but they also remembered me!
As the horrifying reality of my repressed memories continued, I continued to remember my last year living with my ‘family’ which was in 1981 and not 1980 like I assumed for over thirty years.
That’s when I decided to tell the world my story… Not so you feel sad for me.
Not so you have pity for me. Not so you know what I lived through.
I tell it so you know what my abuser was capable of.
I tell it for the lives of girls whose families deserve answers.
I tell it because there are still hundreds of nude photos and film of my child self buried in a cellar wall. A wall that was dug out for my then eleven year old body.
I tell it because when those photos and film are found… I am one hundred percent positive the remains of Judith Chartier will also be found.
As for my ‘family’…. Support, love and protection goes a long way. If they wanted their part in my story to read better then they should have made their part better to read.
I have no apologies for distancing myself to save myself. I have no apologies for growing up strong enough to shatter my silence on my childhood trauma and family secrets. I have no apologies for reporting my abuser and his coincidences to those murdered girls. I have no apologies for pissing off my ‘family’ by being vocal. I have no apologies for being me.
Victims my abuser threatened, warned and feared into me…
The little girl he put in a trash bag and tossed in a field.
The children from when he was in the service.
The family friend he killed and was never a suspect.
Susan Rhonda Labbe 1974
Victims after I ran in 1981…
Janice Filamond: August 1981
Brenda Lacombe: May 1982
Judith Chartier: June 1982.
All are unsolved murders with Judith’s body still missing.
From 1975-1982 my birth mother harbored a monster and allowed hundreds of nude photos and film of her own daughter to remain in the home. She allowed him to sexually and physically torture and abuse me all while defending his actions towards me. She allowed him to dig out that cellar wall and she allowed his secret to carry on while degrading her own daughter’s soul into silence. And I am that daughter who grew up and became the sibling I needed then. I was a trophy in a child predators sick world for six years of my childhood and it was all under a mother’s watch.
It’s a horrifying reality I live everyday. Knowing one day I will get a call from the detective telling me they found all that is buried inside the huge tunnel hole in the cellar wall of my childhood home.
Please keep the families of these murdered girls in your prayers. My childhood was lost in that home and I’m not afraid to admit I am a bit broken, flawed or a bag of damaged goods… But it would be nice to finally have the closure that I also deserve. 💖
Thank You for reading me.
Your host and friend… Catherine ♡
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