The White Ribbon Foundation.

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The wonderful hand cream.
The wonderful hand cream.
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I have always admired the work of the White Ribbon Foundation, a collective of fine individuals who speak out against violence toward women. I was privileged at my recent book launch to have Mr Don Smith, an ambassador of the White Ribbon Foundation, speak. He spoke with passion, and there was silence as we came to terms with the horrifying statistics he proffered. Each number spoke of a precious woman or girl. Suzanne Grae have been a formal foundation partner with White Ribbon since 2008, and are sponsors of the Breaking the Silence in Schools program. It has been running throughout NSW, implementing programs aimed at developing respectful relationships and education. I was humbled when Suzanne Grae offered to dress me for my launch. The ladies at my local store were beautiful, and I chose ¾ length trousers, perfect for my short stature! I also selected a black top and navy jacket, with polka dots. I noted that they sold hand cream at the counter, and bought a tube for $9.95. All profits go to the White Ribbon Foundation and it is the best hand cream I have ever used! Catherine Baker from Suzanne Grae’s head office came to my launch, and I was filled with gratitude when she bought a book, and asked me to sign it. The support of White Ribbon made me feel validated, heard and that I was saying something important through my book. I shall be forever grateful to both White Ribbon and Suzanne Grae for their kindness.

My Book Launch.

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As a little girl, I had big dreams. I had a mighty future ahead of me. My family was fractured, and I hoped that if I was responsible enough, loving, kind and silent enough, we would get through the darkness, together. It was not to be. I could never have envisioned what was to come. The drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, sexual and physical abuse. The threat to send me away for finding my voice and relaying what was happening. The day they actually went through with their threat… This book wrote itself throughout those years. Scribbled on pieces of paper were each wound, with dates and times. Stuffed under my mattress. If I lived, I would tell. For the sake of condensing my story, I couldn’t relay all that went on, and there was a lot! What was more pressing was to relay that a young girl was hurt, desperately. At thirteen, she tried to take her life for the first time, such was her despair. She was treated as rubbish, and ignored by those who could have helped her. Rubbing two cold stones together, she produced a spark. From that spark, grew a flame. She wouldn’t listen to these people, abusing her, stripping the marrow from her bones. What the hell did they know about faith, about love, about her? Nothing. They knew nothing of themselves either. She decided to create a rich internal world, where the good guys win, and girls like her actually get to grow up. The past two decades have been a tumultuous ride toward healing. Nightmares and scores of operations. Pain and hope. The one thing that she never did was listen to the echoes of her abusers, the stinging words, which rattled about in her mind. What the hell did they ever know about her? That frightened girl, who used to lock herself in the linen cupboard whilst waiting for the police to arrive, who dreamed of leaving and being adopted into a stable family. That girl is me. I got to grow up! I have a wonderful husband, who has been through the inferno with me, often charging in ahead to take the brunt of the blows. I have a miracle daughter. I am blessed. I pray that this is never allowed to happen to another kid. Last year, I discovered that two other girls, one nineteen, and one sixteen, were abused in this clinic. One suicided. This is why I am speaking out. I got to grow up, and so many that I shared this story with, didn’t. I speak for them. Thankyou from the depths of my soul, Jo and Barry. I sent a proposal off, moved house and a year or so passed. One night, I was awoken with a deep need to check the spam box in my email. I was scrolling down, when I saw an email from JoJo Publishers. They wanted to talk with me! If I hadn’t checked my spam, I would never have known… Thankyou to Anne Van Alkemade, an amazing editor and now dear friend. Thankyou to beautiful Meldi and Ariel bookshop for all of your work and incredible kindness. Thankyou to Don Smith from the White Ribbon Foundation for speaking tonight, and Brian Bell for your wondrous poem. Thankyou to Suzanne Grae for supporting the White Ribbon Foundation, and dressing me for the launch. Thankyou to all my beautiful family here tonight. I love you all deeply. Thankyou to Tommy and Lizzie, for always believing in me. I am a blessed woman. I got to grow up.

Book Launch.

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My book launch is in a week’s time. I am feeling a little disassociated (as I do when I am overwhelmed, and my soul feels the urge to take flight). I am excited, and scared. Long car trips are carefully planned over a week, so that I can prepare a body already in inordinate amounts of pain. I will be sitting all day, before the launch that evening. Painkillers and Tens Machines, heat packs and stretches. The first concerns of my mind. Getting through the day in comfort. I know that hearing two fine men speak, an ambassador from the White Ribbon Foundation, and my friend Brian Bell, will render me teary. In a good way. The cleansing kind of emotion, where your chest is wracked with primeval rhythm. Seeing friends who have been with me throughout the years will leave me humbled. I am so grateful. I am terrified. I am relieved. I know this is the beginning of a wondrous journey. I am ready.

My Guinea Pig gave birth.

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Star was looking lonesome so we got her a friend. The pet shop assured us Sparkles was a girl. It turned out to not be the case. I was cleaning out their pen some time ago, and Sparkles ran off, never to be seen again. Star’s tummy started expanding. I have been bringing her inside of a night in an insulated box, and the other evening, in the small hours, she softly whimpered. I got up and stroked her. She looked into my eyes with a knowingness, two mothers together, sharing a moment. This morning, I peered into her box and there were babies. New life. There are always new beginnings. Just when we thought the world or our place in it had ended, we discover that we have only just begun.

PTSD.

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As a toddler, I had night terrors, the peculiar feeling of being cognizant of forces at play which can be felt in sleep. Terrorized to the point of screaming. They faded as I grew. Now, I suffer PTSD, as a result of having lived a dark dream. To confront the places of terror, and rewrite my own endings, was my weapon of choice. Many years ago, I revisited places of trauma. Instead of being left bloodied, broken and half-dead, my husband could recite a poem, I could leave flowers, and I could walk away. Not a speck of blood upon me. It rewrote the script, and I felt stronger. Over many years, I began to heal. It is a process, a series of steps. Walking to the letterbox whilst an unfamiliar car with a driver was parked outside was a moment of triumph. Listening to a song which once hooked me into the past was cause for rejoicing. Climbing a staircase, picking up my phone… Learning to be a functioning human.

 

The past few weeks have been tough. I have retreated somewhat, which fills me with pain, though not surprise. I have had a book published which details my dark dream. The media have interviewed me for hours on end, dredging up every painful moment, then leaving me to deal with the fallout. I was on a train with my daughter, travelling into the city for a day out. As we approached the station in the suburb where one of my villain’s lives, I could suddenly see his face. I could smell him. I recalled his deep guttural voice and the hollow eyes which contained no depth. He was there in that carriage. The other day, it was the anniversary of my fall. The day that changed everything. The reason I have had to pay a few home deposits to surgeons, the reason my kidneys are damaged and I self-catheterize. The reason I had to have a caesarean and was in unbelievable pain in pregnancy. The reason my daughter has to adapt to having a mother who needs to lie down mid-way through the day and can’t do all the physical activities other mums do with their kids. The reason I cry in the shower each morning from pain, so my daughter can’t hear.

 

A friend met me at my gym and we worked out together. We screwed up at our noses as a smelly, muscle man lifted weights, then had lunch together. I was so grateful she was there with me, my friend. I took my daughter to her singing lesson, and delighted in hearing her practice her scales. I chatted to the teacher’s grandmother, and revelled in discussing the frivolous subject of candles. I had dinner at the shopping centre with my child and husband and did the groceries. Songs from the past came over the speaker, and I was furious. Why tonight? Why are they playing songs he collected and strung together in a cloying, threatening mix-tape? I got home and burst into tears. The distraction of the day was over. I was here with my soul and my body’s cellular memories. Grateful and sorrowful at the same time. How could I not be thankful? Somebody wanted to kill me and yet I am still here. I have married, and had a spectacular child. I have a multitude of friends who love me deeply and I them. I laugh often and much and am resilient. Nothing much shakes me, certainly not the little hiccups in life. Thankyou! Thankyou! Thankyou!

 

Sorrow… Hmm, I have that too. As a mother, I grieve for that child, put in an impossible situation and left to fend for herself. She did the best she could. She screams within my heart that somebody hurt her, and it’s not fair. No, it’s not fair my darling. I will spend the rest of my life loving you, and protecting you as best I can. Memories get stirred up, songs are played. Something on the news reminds me of yesterday. I try to take each moment as it comes. Right now, my husband and daughter are playing with our baby guinea pigs, and I am in the office, listening to the sweet trill of my budgerigar, Cuddles, who has decided to join me. This moment is all that matters right now.

The Myriad Ways.

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Writing my book was one of the hardest things I have undertaken in life. I am a dreamer, a poet. My friends call me a fairy, and it is true. I have a tenuous footing on the earth, and feel more connected to the stars. I love kid’s movies and art. Having the pull in my soul to write a book fused in stark reality, stripped of fairy-tale nuances has been hard. A big message within the pages is to never let anyone measure your worth. Whether they be the flatterers or the persecutors, they have an angle and it is skewed. I have tried to allow my worth and merit to bubble up from a well deep inside my soul. Yet, upon reflection, there are myriad ways I, and many others, sabotage that clear spring filled with self-belief and self-worth. The fears that come up at night. The coffee I drink when I am already jittery. The choice to drink that extra glass of wine that leaves me feeling retched the next day. Not putting aside time to meditate, to exercise or even breathe deeply into my lungs. Picking up junk and ingesting it when my body needs nourishment in the form of a decent meal I actually sit down to eat. So many unconscious acts which pollute that spring. I am tired of sabotaging my energy, my clarity and health. I don’t wish to go through life habitually. I shall do what I can to make the best choices for my body. Despite everything, despite the wounds rained down on this body, I still believe in it and the soul it houses. I have to start proving it.

Stopping.

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My daughter and I woke Monday morning with excruciating headaches. Our stomachs lurched and we were both hoarse. We looked at each other, and said “day at home” in unison. We have been housebound for three days now. We have slept, played games, had lunch together at the dining table, and mummy has snuck off to do mummy jobs. I now have a clean fridge, laundry, home, and a life that seems in order. It makes last week’s disorder a distant memory. It was school holidays, and this mummy was trying to juggle media, writing, promoting my book, organizing my health appointments and entertaining my six year old with a myriad of activities. I hadn’t had time to cook dinner for a fortnight, couldn’t find a spare hour in our schedule to supermarket shop, and my email box was full to overflowing. I was exhausted, and scared I had forgotten something, Scared of letting anyone down. What she and I both needed was to stop. This virus had been building, first as fatigue which I chose to ignore. Our bodies are wise machines. They break down when they have reached their limit. I had forgotten the power of saying “no, I am sorry, but I can’t.” As much as I adore the people in my life, I can’t possibly see them all in the space of seven days. I have tried. I started to feel sheepish when faced with the reality of needing to attend to the basics of running a household. I have discovered that it is imperative to have more space in my day and on my calendar. I need to be a role model for my child, and teach her it’s okay to have dreamy, breezy, easy days, with no commitments. To cuddle on the sofa and watch a movie. To turn the phone off and disengage. I hope that the clarity this week has afforded me remains, and I can relish the simple joys, and have a bit more spontaneity available. Space for impromptu visits and calls, for travel and surprises. I don’t want to see a calendar groaning under the weight of the commitments pencilled in. I vow to pencil in pockets of time where we are home, and doing nothing but relishing each other’s company. The three of us. It makes the social activities enjoyable (which is what they are meant to be). I have to go sip some lemon water and play Uno with my daughter now. I shall see you soon, my friends. xxx

The surgeon.

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I walked reluctantly to the neurosurgeon’s rooms. “I don’t want to be here!” my mind screamed. I had seen him four years prior, after slipping over in my town. I had heard a snap in my back, and sure enough, I had broken my spine in several places through the thoracic region. He sent me for an MRI, and I had it, but never went back to him. I couldn’t face it at the time. I had a small child, practically a baby. I was nervous about seeing him again. Would he be angry with me? I was immediately put at ease. He put me through an examination, and found there is quite a significant deficit in the nerves through my right side,from my foot to my hand. I cried when he said he was in awe of me and how I kept going. He knows the pain is severe, and he knows nothing he does will make it better. “How did you survive that fall? Nobody could survive that!” he exclaimed. He wants me to bring a copy of my book to give his daughter. I told him that his praise meant a lot. More tests have been ordered, and I am going back in July. A day I was dreading-which had dredged up the crime responsible for this appointment-had been transmuted into a day of clarity, pride and redemption.

What would you say to a bloke you suspect of having bipolar?

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My husband wanted me to write about our experience with bipolar, as we know several couples at the start of their journey. He wants what we have been through to help others. I commend him on this, and also on the huge changes I have seen in him. He said he didn’t understand that he had textbook symptoms. There needs to be a checklist. He says to other men, if these things are happening in your life, get help! What sort of things need to be on your checklist? Feeling different from everyone. Not being able to communicate with people, especially in long-term relationships. Feeling unbeatable and unstoppable, then feeling worthless and useless. Drinking heavily and/or experimenting with drugs. Seeing loved ones pull away from you. Going around in circles. Going really well for a while, then plummeting back to earth. The main thing for my hubby is relationships. He went from a naturally gregarious character to a fellow who couldn’t talk with people. He wouldn’t know what to say, and would get extremely restless at social events, and wander off by himself. Talk to your doctor, and loved ones. You can receive help and it is more than possible to not just survive, but flourish. The Black Dog Institute

Today leads to yesterday.

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Today has already been remarkable. A Bowen therapist invited me to her place for a treatment. She has a property on top of a mountain, with a view guaranteed to stun. I haven’t felt so relaxed in a long while. We chatted and laughed, and she remarked that a red-breasted finch was on the windowsill as I lay on the treatment table. I was humbled by her gift this morning, as I am to see a neurosurgeon this afternoon.

Try as I might, I can’t escape the fact that this isn’t any old appointment. I wouldn’t be going to this surgeon  if it weren’t for a series of events, a long time ago. I patted the scars dry after my shower this morning. I told my friend, the Bowen lady, all about what had occurred for me to be on her treatment table. I survived, yet the legacy lives on. A day off work for my husband. $220 to see the medicine man. I feel like I am back on a ride. A teacup ride. It promises to be a harmless kiddie adventure, though when the operator sees me, he spins and spins and spins that teacup. I am still spinning. A man broke me many years ago. Today is a part of the journey toward having a future. Surgery may be required. That’s okay. I surrender my anger, my indignation, and accept the unfairness. I feel calm. A Bowen practitioner worked on me this morning. A finch landed on the windowsill and peered into the cabin. I met her goats and saw a vista. I am at peace. I am ready for my appointment.