If it weren’t for Niagara Regional Mental Health, I wouldn’t be alive today to share my story. They’ve been with me through every step of my recovery, providing the support I needed to rebuild my life. There’s a powerful principle I’ve come to believe in: “We keep what we have by giving it away.” By telling my story, I hold onto my recovery and offer hope to others who may be walking a similar path.
My name is Don, and I am an Acadian Mi’kmaq. I was born in Toronto during the winter of 1961, the middle child in my family. My older brother was my father’s favorite, and my younger sister was his little angel. That left me–the middle child–often overlooked and caught in the middle of a family dynamic that was anything but loving.
PTSD: A Life Unchosen
PTSD has been a part of my life since I was three years old. It wasn’t something I chose or could understand at the time. Most of my earliest memories are shaped by trauma. As a boy, I didn’t know words like “physical abuse” or “emotional neglect”–I only knew the pain and fear that marked my days.
When I was 11, my parents decided to move the family back east to the town where they were born. But the change of scenery didn’t bring relief; it only deepened the dysfunction in our home.
A Father Without Love
My father had no love for me. My mother once told me it was because I reminded him too much of himself, and he hated himself. That didn’t make it hurt any less. My dad’s priorities were clear: drinking and running around. When he couldn’t afford his escape, he was stuck at home, and his misery turned into anger–often directed at me.
By this point, my parents had separated 11 times. Sometimes he was gone for months, other times nearly a year. When he returned, the cycle of chaos began again.
A False Refuge
Our home was never a safe place for me. Desperate to find help, my mom turned to the church, hoping it could provide the support and refuge our family so desperately needed. Father Camille Léger, the parish priest, gained my mother’s trust and convinced her that I should join the Altar Boys and the Boy Scouts–both of which he oversaw as the primary leader. Unfortunately, that decision would haunt her until her death just a few years ago.
I don’t even need to spell out why she regretted it–you probably already know. You’ve heard this kind of story too many times before. What I endured wasn’t just an isolated incident; it’s part of a much larger and darker pattern.
Looking back, even my father’s physical violence felt like a walk in the park compared to what this man had in store for me. Father Camille Legér used his position to abuse me sexually, physically, and psychologically for more than 2 years.
Father Camille Léger: A Monster Revealed
If the name Father Camille Léger sounds familiar, it’s because his crimes gained widespread attention. CBC, NBC, Global News, and The National Post all covered his horrifying story.
Father Léger is estimated to have abused over 250 boys during his time as a priest. Some believe the true number could be even higher, with victims spanning the years between 1957 and 1980, when he served at Sainte-Thérèse-d’Avila parish in Cap Pelé.
If you search his name online, the first thing you’ll see is the headline: “He was a Monster.” It’s a title that barely scratches the surface of the devastation he caused.
The Breaking Point
By the time I was 12 years old, the combined weight of abuse from my father and Father Camille Léger was more than I could bear. The physical and sexual abuse felt unrelenting, and I saw no way out. It was too much.
In my desperation, I made the decision to end my life. What I did next was reckless and dangerous, but I won’t get into the details–it wouldn’t serve a purpose here. What matters is that, for reasons beyond my understanding, I wasn’t successful.
But at the time, surviving didn’t feel like a relief. Instead, I thought to myself: “What a loser. I can’t even kill myself.”
A Descent into Addiction
After my failed attempt to escape the pain, I turned to solvents and model glue to numb myself. Eventually, my addiction escalated to street drugs and alcohol. It felt like the only way to drown out the memories and the anguish.
Somewhere amidst the chaos, I found the courage to tell my mom that I didn’t want to be an Altar Boy or a Boy Scout anymore. I couldn’t bring myself to explain why–not at first. But my secret didn’t stay buried for long.
The Truth Revealed
My mom eventually learned the truth about Father Camille Léger through a friend. When she confronted me, I finally opened up and told her everything. She was devastated. I could see her heartbreak turn to fury as she realized the extent of what had been done to me. She wanted justice. She wanted to kill him.
She tried. My mom approached others in town, pleading for their support to bring this man to justice. But no one would stand with her. Time and time again, she heard the same response: “You can’t go against the church.” Even the RCMP refused to help.
With every rejection, her determination crumbled. Within a few months, she gave up the fight. The weight of it all broke her. She suffered a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized for a month.
A Public Humiliation
My secret was out now, and though I’d left the Boy Scouts and Altar Boys, the shame lingered. Not long after, I went to a fishing wharf called “LeBauto.” It was a popular spot where kids my age often went to dive off the pier during the summer heat. I was climbing up the ladder after diving off the wharf with a couple of my friends when I heard it:
“Here comes the little queer now!”
The words cut through the air like a knife. Everyone heard it. A rush of anxiety gripped me as I looked up to see who had said it. There, in the back of a pick-up truck, was a group of older men drinking and laughing.
They were all staring at me, mocking me, and to my horror, so were about a dozen other people standing nearby. But the ultimate betrayal came when I looked back at the truck. Right there, in the middle of the laughter, was my father.
Though he looked slightly uncomfortable, he was laughing along with them.
I wish that was the worst thing he had ever done to me. As I rode home on my bicycle, the shame transformed into anger, and from that day on, I was constantly high and constantly angry at everything and everyone.
The Breaking Point at Home
Not long after the humiliation at the wharf, my dad and I got into a massive fight. His rage boiled over, and he ended up strangling me until I lost consciousness. My older brother intervened just in time, pulling him off me before he could finish what he started.
When I came to, I was terrified. The realization hit me: I couldn’t stay there anymore. I ran out the door, leaving everything behind. At just 14 years old, with only the shirt on my back, I made the decision to never return home.
Life in the Woods
I fled to the woods, finding refuge far from the highways and roads where I couldn’t be seen. My mother came looking for me, but not to convince me to return. Instead, she told my friends to warn me: “Don’t come home. Your father will kill you.”
I found shelter in a cabin that my friends and I had built high up in a tree. It was sturdy and even had a small fireplace. Originally, it was our hideout–a place to escape from the world. Now, it became my home.
Safety in Solitude
When I tell people that I was living in the woods by myself at 14, they’re usually shocked. But the truth is, for the first time in my life, I felt safe. Away from my father’s wrath, away from the abuse and the shame, I could finally breathe.
For all the challenges of surviving alone, I was better off there than I’d ever been at home.
Living Without a Net
The police eventually became aware that I was living either on the streets or in the woods. But none of my friends ever gave away my location. Even some parents knew I was out there, but no one except my two closest buddies knew exactly where I was–and they weren’t about to tell anyone.
For the first time in my life, I was free of supervision, free to live however I wanted. But that freedom came at a cost. I had escaped one danger, only to step into another. My life became a no-holds-barred existence, filled with risks and rebellion.
A Life Spiraling Out of Control
By now, I’m sure you’re beginning to piece together the picture, so I won’t go into all the war stories. The short version is this: 17 jails, 13 drug rehabilitation centers, 4 mental institutions and 1 straitjacket.
I even found myself homeless at one point, sleeping wherever circumstances dictated. My life became a trail of failed relationships, and my first marriage quickly deteriorated under the weight of my unresolved trauma and chaos.
Finding Sobriety
I eventually got clean and sober, celebrating my 30th birthday in the last drug rehabilitation center I ever attended. Staying sober was a hard-fought battle. Even with the tools I learned in recovery, life remained incredibly difficult. I knew something was still wrong with me, but I couldn’t figure out what.
Desperate for answers, I tried everything: AA, NA, CA–you name it. I walked every recovery road I could find. Though I managed to stay clean and sober, I often felt like I was barely hanging on.
After two years of sobriety, my first wife reached her breaking point. She couldn’t take it anymore, and our marriage ended. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong or why I couldn’t seem to fix myself.
Turning Back to the Church
Searching for hope and connection, I turned back to the church. It was there that I met Charlene, who would later become my wife. I became involved in ministry again, serving as a worship leader and leading Sunday worship music. People loved my music and the songs I wrote early on.
But like so many churches, it wasn’t long before the darker side of religion revealed itself. The finger-pointing, the ultra-religious attitudes, and even betrayal reared their heads. (See Case #2.) This time, it was driven by political ambition and nepotism.
These were people I considered my friends, yet they told me I would burn in hell for eternity.
A Troubling Pattern
Charlene and I tried other churches in the Welland area, hoping for something different. But to our dismay, the pattern repeated itself. Time and time again, we encountered judgment instead of compassion, politics instead of genuine care.
By now, as you’ve likely read in cases #1, #2, and #3, you can see the recurring theme. I couldn’t help but ask: Isn’t the church supposed to help people? Then I realized that all of the trauma I had experienced up to that point, had been at the hands of a so-called Christians. Coincidence? Highly doubtful.
The Path to Healing
Flashbacks haunted me daily, and for two years, I lived under the weight of isolation and persistent suicidal thoughts. It was unbearable, but I had made a promise to my wife that I would seek help. That promise became the turning point.
I reached out to Niagara Regional Mental Health, and they recommended a program called Hope Recovered, a group designed to help people understand PTSD and how to manage its symptoms and triggers. That group became a lifeline for me.
Facing the Past
Following my time with Hope Recovered, I began working with a therapist who specialized in PTSD recovery. For over a year, I committed to weekly 90-minute sessions, where we delved into what felt like the entirety of my life. We carefully and respectfully processed the traumas I had carried for so long, starting with my younger years and how truly helpless I had been.
It was incredibly difficult to confront the reality of my experiences. The hardest part was recognizing that all these traumas had come at the hands of people who claimed to be “God-fearing” and professed their love for Jesus Christ. Accepting that people I had once considered family were not even close to true friends was one of the most painful realizations of my recovery.
Yet, with each session, I began to uncover more of who I was meant to be. I slowly started to reclaim my life.
Rebuilding a Life Worth Living
I returned to work and rediscovered my love for writing music. Creativity became a part of my healing process, and today, I’m working on my first album–a project that brings me immense joy.
I’m not saying life is perfect. It’s far from easy. I still have the occasional flashback. But I’ve learned to recognize the triggers and manage them. I’m finally beginning to believe in myself.
With the help of Niagara Regional Mental Health, I’ve achieved more than I ever thought possible:
- I’ve maintained my business, now in its 23rd year, and support over 1,000 businesses in the Niagara region with my evolving technology platform.
- I’ve transformed my struggles into a way to help others who are navigating addiction, trauma, and mental health challenges.
- My childhood friends, Louis, Eric and James, and I are having an incredible time putting together my album.
- My wife and I are strengthening our marriage through counseling, working together to build a deeper and more loving connection.
It Won't Erase the Past
One thing I’ve learned about PTSD recovery is that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. When the news broke a decade ago about Father Camille Léger and his 250+ victims, it triggered a whole new wave of PTSD for me. It was messy and deeply painful.
But today is a different story.
I am Joseph Donald Cormier. I am a proud Acadian and Mi’kmaq, a descendant of the spirit of Nombretu, of the Mi’kmaq tribe, and I am not ashamed.
I haven’t always had the luxury of choosing my battles, but I’ve survived every one. Even if I don’t win the race, I am determined to finish it.
Thank you for reading my testimony,
– Don