My Autobiographical Sketch/Narrative

 This is supposed to have some highlights and reason out why I am looking to get this PLAR done. The example ended with why the person would be an asset in their chosen field for their degree. 

Plot twist. 

Mine is different. 

I am looking for credits for work done in this field with the hopes of spring-boarding into what I have always wanted to do - be a doctor. 

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I was born on April 13, 1976, in a new and unfinished development in a small Francophone community south of Winnipeg, MB.I am the third of three girls, all so different, it can be difficult to remember we come from the same bloodline. I was born at the tail end of what would make me Generation X, the grunge-loving child of the baby boomers, and the start of Generation Y, the children brought up with computers and electronics.

My childhood home was on a dead-end street, populated by mostly young families just starting out. Every day, shortly after the sun broke over the horizon, the street would slowly fill with children and the air peppered with laughter, yelling and some tears. It was easy to find everyone, the pile of bikes outside someone’s house, or near the fort in the woods. My best friends on the street were Anna and Mandie.

Christmas was always a huge celebration, with us up at the crack of dawn, followed by sleepy parents that refused to let us open presents until after breakfast. In second or third grade, I received a microscope and package of prepared slides. When my mom cut herself later while preparing the meal, I came screaming down the stairs with an empty slide, wanting to study her blood. My parents always joked about how fascinated I was with all things related to nature and science, absorbing books and sitting rapt while watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and Lorne Green’s New Wilderness. I told my Mom I wanted to grow up and be a doctor.

We moved from that house when I went into grade four, and my new neighbourhood, with huge yards, and affluent homes, was not as friendly. On my first day at school, two boys threaten to beat me up at the end of the day. I miss my old friends and neighbours. Still, eventually you find a way, and I tumbled back into books. Subjects that used to be easy, grew more challenging and I retreated into myself. When my grade five teacher had everyone stand in front of the class and recite the multiplication tables to gain a star sticker beside their names, mine languished behind. Even if I knew them, standing up in front of everyone cleared the numbers from my mind, and I stuttered and stopped, embarrassed.

When I was 12 years old, I was over at my best friend Anna’s house. We were playing hide and seek with her Uncle Tony, when he chased me and tackled me onto a bed. At first, I laughed and waited for him to get off me so we could continue the game, but he didn’t. I felt scared, and ashamed when I finally yelled for Anna. When she came around the corner, she screamed his name and he leapt up. She begged me not to tell anyone, as he would get in trouble.

A few weeks later, the shame and guilt was overwhelming and I finally told my Mom. She called Anna’s mom. Anna’s mom decided I was a slut and I had seduced her brother.

Anna was banned from hanging out or seeing me.  

When I was 15, I was babysitting for a couple. I used to think they were the coolest couple I had ever met – he would pick me up on his Harley Davidson motorcycle and she loaned me a fringed leather vest to wear to a rock concert. Their children Russ (6 months) and Greg (two years) were absolute angels and I loved babysitting them. It was late, well past two when I woke up after dozing on the couch. I am not sure what woke me up, the kids were sleeping peacefully and the parents were not home yet, but something had brought me out of a dead sleep.

A few minutes past when I heard the key in the lock, I opened the door and Dianne, the wife rushed past me, her face swollen and bloody. I started to ask if she had been in a fight, the question died on my lips as Mark, the husband rushed past me toward her. For what felt like an hour, he proceeded to beat her violently in front of me. When he finally stopped, the walls were covered in blood and she needed medical care, so he called some of his friends from the motorcycle club. She crawled to me, broken and bleeding and begged me to take her children with me.

I was only 15 and I had no idea what to do.

The friends took her to the hospital and Mark told me to get into the car so he could drive me home. I thought I was going to die as he slowed for a moment, then drove past my street. I had no phone, and no one knew where I was. It was about 4 am.

He drove me to an all-night donut place. We sat at a table and he started to explain what happened. For over an hour, he told me about how he was not a bad guy but could not go back to prison. I just kept saying what I thought he wanted to hear, I did not want to make him mad and I just wanted to go home. Finally, he drove me home.

When I got into my silent house, I felt lost. I went into my parents’ room and woke my mom. I told her that Mark had beaten Dianne in front of me tonight. My mom, half asleep and not really listening, told me it would be okay. The next day, I called the hospital and found out Dianne had a fractured skull among her injuries.

We never really talked about it again, but in science class when the teacher talked about how tissue swells and bruises in response to trauma, I left the room, nauseous.

I received a letter from Dianne a few weeks later, apologizing and explaining that Mark was not a bad guy.

By grade eleven, I was no longer sure what I wanted to do anymore. I was working part time at a frozen yogurt place and was heavily involved in theatre. I continued to write, but my stories took a much darker turn, both due to my experiences and because I had discovered Stephen King.

A week after my 17^th birthday around the end of April, I told my Dad that I wanted to join the Military Reserves. I knew he had joined as a teenager and would be very enthusiastic, and I was right. I thought I would join as a medic, and then figure out a way into medical school from there. Unfortunately, medical company was not recruiting at the time – instead I ended up in Communications.

I left for Basic Training at the end of that school year. I was not physically fit, and I was the youngest female at camp. For the first two weeks, I was absolutely miserable, but I stuck it out and made it through. I did my best to ignore the rampant sexual harassment that I lived at work, staying close to the “good guys” while distancing myself from the ones I saw as a threat.

When I was eighteen, I once again found myself excited about science, within my grade twelve biology. Researching and writing a detailed report on the then-obscure Ebola virus, I started to consider again a future in medicine. My mom left my dad that year.

A few weeks before my exams, I went out clubbing with some friends. After the club, we were planning to walk as a group to an all-night coffee shop for food. My friend Janelle and I needed to grab some stuff from her apartment first. She hoped the cook she had a crush on was working that night.

As we crossed the street, two cars that were drag racing came upon us. I felt the heat of the revving engine as it passes within centimetres of the back of my bare legs. Janelle was not as lucky. Her heart stopped as I held her. We did CPR and managed to bring her pulse back, but her injuries were too extensive.

The following year, I was sexually assaulted by my boyfriend and later my instructor on a military course. I left the military when I asked for time off and they replied that I was a whore and an administrative burden.  

I lost three years to recovering from PTSD.

I finished high school with the bare minimum of credits, just wanting to get out. When it came time to choose a career, I tried to find one that would not require math, not realizing that I was applying for a hypercompetitive communications program. I got in and graduated in 1999. I worked at CBC Radio and other temporary jobs until I landed at Standard Aero Ltd, working in tradeshows. 

In 2001, I married my boyfriend, not realizing that the relationship was so toxic and abusive. In 2002, I discovered with joy that I was pregnant, and I knew it would be a girl and I knew I would name her Darby. I told my boss at Standard Aero that I could not lift the boxes to load up the giveaways for tradeshows because I was pregnant. Standard Aero laid me off two weeks later.

When Darby was three, I knew I had to go back to work. I told my husband that aybe I should look at medicine now – it had always been a dream of mine. He refused to support it, and I was so broken down, I could not argue it anymore.

But I could not be dependant on my spouse either. I read articles about how the military was changing and sexual assault being dealt with – so I went back in as a Public Affairs Officer. I worked hard and created innovative solutions and programs that I was passionate about. I created an embedded student journalist program and a military history school program. I raised a service puppy on the base to show that the Canadian Armed Forces (CAF) was supportive of Service Dogs. I received commendations for my work on the floods in 2011. I also continued to deal with sexual harassment and misconduct, including being assaulted in a military gym locker room.

When Operation HONOUR, the program to stop sexual misconduct in the CAF began, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. While out in Edmonton, I built an entire one day training program, teaching how to support those victimized and how to stop the roots of gender violence. In 2017, I packed up my daughter, two dogs, a cat and our luggage and moved us to Ottawa, leaving my spouse in Edmonton. 

In 2018, I competed as part of Team Canada at the Invictus Games in Australia. 2018 was a very difficult year, my daughter was self-harming and dealing with the aftermath of living with an abusive Dad. My mother and stepfather passed away unexpectedly, and I dealt again with sexual harassment at work, culminating in filing a grievance and human rights complaint, and a re-emergence of PTSD.

So, now I sit, at a crossroads and facing a medical release from the military, but also financial support and a settlement to finally chase my dreams of going into medicine. All my life, I have been the person that has run towards the fire or accident, wanting to help and heal, and now I can gain the skills needed to be a physician. My dream is to be a trauma-informed care provider, being on the front lines of people suffering and offering physical help, but also that crucial mental support, and start them on the road back to wellness. I continue to write (I just submitted my first novel for a contest), and work in victim advocacy. Achieving these credits via PLAR will get me closer to completing the step of a four-year undergrad degree, allowing me to apply at several Canadian medical schools.