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Mum and Dad got divorced when I was 9. They told us kids on one of the best days we’d ever had. Nan and Pop (who I loved) were visiting, and we went all together as a family to a park and had a picnic. It was so much fun. When we got home, they sat us down at the dining room table and Dad told us, “Your mother and I have decided to separate”.
I BURST out laughing then tried to hide it which made me giggle more. (I used to do this weird uncontrollable laughter at the most inappropriate times thing. I grew out of it when I was in my late 20s). My mother didn’t look at me disapprovingly, so I knew that whatever was happening was bigger than any of us. I didn’t cry about the divorce until I was 19.
For a year or so, Mum planned to move us somewhere else and in the meantime, I was busy with surviving my neighbourhood, playing softball, avoiding abduction, singing at a school thing at Sydney Opera House and spending every second weekend with my brother at his new job at a Dog and Cat Kennel.
He promised to pay me $5 a weekend for “Poo Patrol” for 30+ dogs morning and night which he never did. He humiliated me constantly and I couldn’t get enough. This is also a time, the only time, I can barely think about, let alone talk about. I’ve spoken the words once to a therapist, just to tick that box, otherwise that part of my life is a memory, forever securely wrapped in chains and clear cellophane.
Two years later, we (Mum, me (11), my sister (7) and brother (16)) moved to the country. I was excited about it. I started a new school, I made some friends, got really good grades and participated in sport and musical theatre. Year 7 and 8 at high school was the most stable and happy I’d ever felt.
Without notice, on the second day of Year 9, Mum changed my school to one closer to home. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my friends as it was well before the days of the internet. It was an abrupt halt to those friendships, and I never saw most of them again.
Anyway, my NEW school was in a town that was primarily populated by one family and relatives thereof, and from the moment I stepped inside the school grounds I was bullied to the point of a suicide attempt. I remember sitting in the quadrangle alone while “fellow” students picked up small rocks and egged each other on to throw them at me, one stone every 5 seconds or so for the whole lunch hour. They weren’t big, or even really hurt that much, though I suspect the cortisol and adrenaline had my nervous system occupied with deeper tasks than measuring the pain inflicted by gravel at 40kms an hour. I sat still, like it wasn’t happening except I was postured to protect my eyes and I never said a word. It stopped when the bell rang, and I’d get up and go to class. No one ever did anything to stop it.
Another thing I remember was when a group of girls came up to me, super friendly and asked me if I wanted to come and share some junk food in the English Room. I said yes, but was confused and hopeful, and I followed them there. I sat up on one of the school desks, trepidatious but smiling in a friendly way then BAM a red-hot poker hits my face, BAM another and another. They took turns slapping me, punching me or whacking my face and body with hands and a rolled-up magazine. I did not see this coming and I was too shocked to defend myself. I was at least a foot taller and certainly more athletic than any of them. This was a real breakdown point for me.
When it was over, I went upstairs to a teacher’s room. My English teacher was in there and I told her what happened. She let me stay in the room for the rest of lunch. I called her 20 years later to thank her and she remains one of the most significant saviours in my life. But after that, I gave in and gave up. I thought, if you can’t beat them, join them. So, I started to drink, smoke pot and have sex because they told me too. I was mincemeat in a plastic shopping bag, but as a teenager seeking social interaction, at least I wasn’t alone anymore.
I started a journal and used to write in it every night. It is the only thing that stopped me from really taking the suicide plunge. I left my journal by accident out on the kitchen table one night and true to form, not respecting my privacy, my mother read it. The next day she said, “I read your journal last night”. I was scared of her reaction to my illegal, unsafe and unseemly behaviour but all she said was “I can’t believe after everything I do for you that you have the gall to complain that I ask you to make me a coffee”. I told her it wasn’t the coffee, but that it feels like that is all she ever says to me. This was, predictably, followed by an ear-splitting rant about my inadequacies and her “hard-done-bys”.
I must take a moment here to mention that there were a couple of times my Mum went out of her way to protect me.
As a mother, I came to understand that every second of every day was about protecting and preparing your child. As a sole parent, I understood how hard it must have been with 3 kids to try to cover all the bases, especially with her level of self-awareness and paradigm.
This time, at this school, was the worst period of my life. I was seriously lost, completely depressed and everyone around me, including my family as usual, were gunning to stifle any sign of happiness I could muster. I was rewarded for isolating. And it was at this time I started self-harming, I made one 75% attempt at suicide and I also started secretly acting out in ways I don’t want to discuss.
After losing my virginity to a lovely boy when I was almost 15, I went nuts! It’s textbook promiscuity, and self-medication. I would go out on a Friday and Saturday night and get as drunk as possible and have sex with whoever. I started smoking pot too, a lot of it, I dabbled in Amyl Nitrite and was pretty sure a few joints I smoked were laced with something or another, but I didn’t care.
I’d thankfully changed to another school at this point and if I was having sex, I felt in control. After a few years the rush of conquering another man grew dull, I started to feel shame, disgust. I was called a slut and a druggo, but they also liked me, thought I was funny, and happily let me flit in and out of their cliques. I believe these brief and cyclical connections were some of the first I had to build an identity upon, not having an untraumatized identity to start with.
Read Part 3: My Doctor Abused Me...and I Couldn't Do Anything About It
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