“You are gonna get sent to the mental!!” was a retort often heard by children in the school yard in Tyndall.

The Lunatic Asylum was created in 1871 at Lower Fort Garry, 35 km north of Winnipeg. Selkirk is 27 km west of Tyndall.

In 1890 the Home for Incurables was built in Portage la Prairie. It was later named the Manitoba School for Mental Defectives, and then the Manitoba School of Retardates.

In 1884 the original building in Selkirk was built to care for the mentally ill in eastern Manitoba. In 1910 the name was changed to Selkirk Hospital for the Insane.

By 1929 a new brick and Tyndall stone building was built and the name changed to Selkirk Mental Hospital. That is the building that stands today. The original building was demolished in 1978.

But it was this current building that I remember from my childhood. It’s where my Dad came out of the pretty doors and huge steps when Mom picked him up so he could come home for a weekend.

Eight months prior to that my dad had major back surgery. Part of his shin bone was used to fuse discs in his spine. This was 50 years ago. Body in traction bed. Flipped like a rotisserie chicken three times a day. After weeks Dad came home in a body cast. No work. No insurance. And there was no way Dad would allow welfare, or his wife to go to work. We lived on nothing but our garden, wild meat, and the charity of family and friends.

A while before the surgery our next door neighbour was selling their piano. It was beautiful. I could play a bit by ear, or what my great uncle Emil had taught me. Soon I was taking piano lessons at Mrs Mordens. I was on cloud nine.

I honestly don’t remember too much else about that time but I definitely remember the day my weird childhood got a whole lot crazier.

I remember waking up for school. Having my puffed wheat and my brother and I leaving for school. It was only two village blocks but my brother was always ahead of me. Three years older he did not want to be seen walking with his little sister. When we left the house Dad was walking around in the back yard. The cast was off by this time but he was still not fit to do his iron worker job. He was not able to walk steel girders yet.

Because our house was so close to the school, we always went home for lunch. And as usual my brother was home already because I was playing too long. Finally I walked in the door.

On the couch was my Mom and my Dad was on her lap. I started to laugh. My parents never showed affection much. This was pretty silly to a 7 year old.

My Mom yelled, “Go to Mrs Sargents! Call the police!”

Dad yelled, “Tell them she stole all my money!! She hid it somewhere!”

Then I seen the old butcher knife. The one my Mom used for cutting meat. Dad was holding it in his right hand. His arm was around her shoulders.

I ran out the door to Mrs Sargents next door. She was crying yelling into the phone, “He might kill her!! Please come now!”

I wanted to be somewhere safe. I wanted to go back to school so I started walking. My Dad started yelling at me out the back door. Mrs Wenzoski, our across the road neighbour, yelled at me to come to her house.

She too was on the phone trying to get the police to come. 50 years ago police avoided domestic violence like the plague. But the threat of a messy murder must have convinced them to show up.

From Wenzoski’s front window I watched the police officer arrive. Dad stood in the doorway talking with him. The knife was dropped. Then he followed the officer who walked backwards to the police car. He opened the back door for my Dad. My Dad was talking and pointing at the officer. Slowly the officer moved to the hood of the police car. He undid his gun holster and placed it on the hood. My Dad climbed into the backseat and the officer slammed the door shut. He put his holster and gun back on and left. I didn’t see my Dad again for two months.

The only thing that I do remember is having to sell my beloved piano. We needed the money I assumed, but of course I remember my brother teasing me that my piano playing drove Dad insane.

My Dad’s younger brother committed suicide. We never talked about it. My Dad spent three months in a mental institution. We never talked about it.

I attempted suicide. We never talked about it.

I had a breakdown. I talked about it. I suffer from depression. I talk about it.

I still get triggered. I remember the fears. I remember feeling helpless. I remember feeling alone. I can’t just get over it. I have to face it. I have to accept that memories are subjective. The trauma occurred long ago. My mind chooses how I recall moments.

So I can give myself a break. I don’t have to get over it. I have to make peace with it. I have to recognize the power of those memories. I have to remember I am stronger. I am in control of me! I can take action to feel safe. I am never alone. I have me!!

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.