The Beginning

It was a relatively short dirt road. The last house on the left with a white picket fence, across the road was an abandoned house and a tall pine tree. 

But, little did I know it was just the start of what will probably be the longest road to normalcy, of my entire life.

I remember playing outside a lot as there wasn’t much of a backyard. I remember collecting junk from the house across the road to make a treehouse in the giant pine tree. 

I can’t recall how old I was when things happened, what order they happened in but they absolutely happened. 

Maybe I’ve suppressed the smaller details to unfortunately keep room for the big scary ones. 

I remember having this overwhelming sense of urgency to run as fast as I possibly could across the road from my house deep into the vacant paddock whenever something went wrong. 

I’m not sure what exactly changed Mum’s relationship, it all unfolded so quickly before me. Maybe it was the change in the family dynamic, moving house back to our home town and all the little things in between? Maybe there are things I still don’t know and probably will never know.

I remember feeling such an intensity at home and it seemed to increase rapidly. 

Why was he so angry so quickly? I asked myself this every time I became witness to domestic violence. 

In my home, or at the pub where I spent a lot of my weekends growing up as a child. In the bar I remember those who knew me would sit me up on a bar stool whilst being a little or very much intoxicated, would read me the health warnings on the back of cigarette packets telling me I shouldn’t smoke and be a good girl. 

And those who knew what my life was like back then and what was happening around me, the phrase ‘good girl’ probably seemed impossible. 

I remember leaving the pub one night, the four of us, myself, my step brother Mum and him. I don’t know what happened but sitting in the back seat, I seen my Mum hurting. The passenger seat vibrating back and fourth like a small punching bag. 

I closed my eyes and cried, screaming for it to stop, trying to escape the back seat. I looked toward the pub where I seen a window full of faces staring but no one coming to help.

A family friend ran and collected us from the car. He hurried us down the street away far enough so we couldn’t hear anything. I don’t know how long we stood behind the News Agency waiting for it to stop. I don’t know I went that night or were I slept. If I stayed home, in my own bed, how did Mum manage to convince me it was safe?

After being in this environment for years, I became pretty switched on to the different vibes in the family. I knew who was angry or upset as soon as I walked in the door from school, I knew if there had been an argument. Did they realise? Probably not. But I knew. I always knew. 

I think I saved myself in a way by distracting my mind, I almost acted like it wasn’t happening and became good at ignoring bad vibes. I would go to a friends house, visit my Aunty or just go to my room and watch a movie. I don’t remember asking questions, because I knew the answer. If I did ask, I wasn’t ever going to get a honest answer. Why? Embarrassment? Shame? 

Mum picked me up after being at Dad’s for the weekend. She said “you’re taking a few days off school” and we headed towards Melbourne. Sooner than I knew it we were on our way to visit Gran in Phillip Island. It wasn’t until years later, was I told that in that moment Mum was running from him and didn’t want to go home - it always made me wonder, how bad was it when I wasn’t around? Times like this I was left to my own imagination and it was exhausting not knowing. 

As I get older I remember things more clearly as we all do - there were countless nights at home on weeknights or weekends, Mum and I were home alone. Mum received threats or they would fight over the phone. He would threaten the most awful things and say he’s on his way home. It sent Mum into a panic and she told me I had to pack enough clothes for a few days. I didn’t know how long we were going for or where we were going but we fled the house out of fear. It was during this time in my life that I really wanted to go to school. I liked school. 

Maybe because my home life wasn’t any better at the time. 

I remember pulling over on the side of the road, in a place we had a downward view of the house. We kept watch to see if he followed through on his threats - was he coming home to hurt Mum or was it all a game? 

Sometimes he did. Sometimes it was a game. 

I was lucky enough to have family around me who I could talk to when these things happened. I needed to know I had someone there if I needed them and I needed people to know how life was for me. Maybe I searched for sympathy from others because it helped me feel less alone? 

But then sympathy is different to empathy, and now we all need empathy to really feel heard. Sympathy is far to easy to give and honestly, it’s so easy to fake.