When I was younger I dreamed of bigger things, better things, happier times where I would one day be loved and hugged and told that everything was going to be ok. I told myself that all the hurts would one day go away and my life would someday mean something to me, to them and anyone else who cared to listen. I dreamed of houses full of warmth, happiness and contentment, I was sure it would happen one day.
Alone again, my life is at times it seems just an echo of my past. I grew up in a home of discontent, unhappiness lurked like a monster around every corner, and its razor sharp teeth ripped at my flesh on a regular basis. I can still remember like it was just yesterday the night we escaped the man that kept that monster on that leash, only long enough to keep you thinking things might get better and home would finally become the haven we all longed for. My mother bore the brunt of this torment and though I came to eventually forgive my father for the hurts inflicted on us, I cannot forget its terrible affects. I have a memory of fleeing in the night when I was about five years of age. My mother had obviously planned our escape for some time before we left and when she felt the time was right, she bundled my sister and I into the old FC Holden and drove us off into the night toward Mackay. The drive was long and scary as I did not know where we were going and recall the terror of wondering what might happen if he caught us. We eventually arrived at this planned destination and stayed with my mother’s friend in the back of a shop attached to a caravan park. We slept on fold out beds with thin mattresses, and to this day I have had an attraction to these beds for some reason. Maybe I attached a feeling of safety with this type of bed, and once when I acquired one, I took to sleeping on it for a short time instead of my own bed. I never felt completely safe or secure at home and though I was confused at the time I knew we were just trying to get away from a man that was hurting our mother and in vain I hoped one day it would all get better. As things went my father eventually found us, said sorry to mum and promised us the world if she came back. We all traveled back to Townsville and hoped for better times to come. Of course life seemed to go back to our kind of normal for a while and we all seemed very happy, but lurking underneath this shiny veneer was that monster, gnashing its teeth in readiness for its next meal.
The woman I call mother is a beautiful woman, gentle and kind with a strength I would only come to fully realize much later in my life. She endured many bashings from my father over her twenty seven years of marriage to him, some of them I witnessed and some I did not. I was the last child out of five and as early as I can remember I was regularly nervous of this impending doom. I would come home from school and wonder if that night was going to turn into another terrible experience where I would witness my mother tormented with insults until she was bashed and left crying. Anyone who has not experienced this sort of existence will never fully understand how it feels to see your life giver degraded, crying and bleeding in a corner. It tears away at your soul until you are no longer there anymore; begging for a childhood you know will never be yours. I can clearly recall playing games with other children wishing my life would be as safe and happy as theirs appeared to be. I would cry myself to sleep at night and feel the anger rising up inside me, and somehow even though I was young, I was fully aware of what I was missing. Children are so affected by domestic violence and these affects without therapy can manifest in many terrible ways.
The second time mum left dad was when I was about 7 or 8. I think I have blocked out some of this, because all I can recall is that we ended up at a women’s shelter over near Rose Bay where we slept on bunk beds. The kind women who ran the shelter looked after us as best they could. I have vague recollections of this time but do remember one woman who used to walk along the beach and collect broken bottle glass that had been worn down by the waves and sand, transformed into harmless pieces of smooth edged colored curiosities. She collected them from the shore line like they were precious jewels, gifts from the ocean. She found such pleasure in them that to this day I will always look for them whenever I visit the sea. In 1996 I encouraged my mother to join a community centre group for women who had experienced domestic violence, and at the end of this course I came along and presented a poem I had written about that glass as a metaphor for these woman who had been emptied and broken by their men but had risen up again and reemerged as beautiful pieces of glass treasures. I also remember eating fish fingers for the first time at the shelter, but thankfully my continuing fondness for objects associated with this time does not extend to these. Mum seemed more determined to make a go of it this time and I was placed in Central State School and we eventually moved into a place that was thoughtlessly called moral courts. This was like the Ghetto for single mothers and if anyone found out this was your address, the stigma was very hard to wash off. I was teased at school by unmerciful children who needed me to know what a piece of scum they thought I was, and I soon learned it was not wise to tell anyone where I lived. I was just happy to be with my mum and my sister in a place that for once seemed stable and safe. In a strange way it was very exciting to be in this place with a mother who finally appeared independent and at peace. She was trying to do her best to not go back to dad and tried to make a life for us even though we had very few possessions and very little money. Dad would come along and visit us from time to time and after many persuasive talks, mum made the decision to again return to her hell for us. I still feel the guilt every now and then from that time, as it was my sister and I that made mum change her mind to return. My father had a very sweet side, and at times he was the kind of caring father any child would want. I was just as spellbound by this contradiction as my mother was, and the strong desire to gain my fathers approval and love over road any rational thoughts on the true reality of what was really happening. I wanted him to be well, I wanted him to love us and treat my mother right and I wanted to give him that chance. Swings and bikes were offered as a sweetener to my sister and I in this unfortunate deal and the ultimate trade off was my mother’s safety. As a child I never fully understood what I was asking my mother to do, and the sacrifice was gladly given for another bout of short lived happiness. We went back and swings soon magically appeared in the back yard along with a beautiful red bike for me. I rode that bike for hours and I think even though I would not want to admit it, deep down I knew what it was really worth.
I want you to know that my father was a very insecure man, and alcohol was his fuel of choice for bolstering his inner fears, but the core of my father was very sweet and special and he loved his children regardless of his out of control demons. For moments of time alcohol secured in him a confidence he lacked in everyday life. It was not always yelling and screaming at home, and at times it was a place of periodic contentment and laughter. Music and singing could be heard coming from the walls of 13 Hand Street and I am sure in these brief moments it sounded like a very happy home. My father had a voice that was beautiful to say the least and to this day I will never forget the sound that could have surely soothed the most tormented soul. Eventually I came to know my father as very few people ever would. I am glad that I took the time to get to know this man and try and understand why he was the way he was. He had stopped drinking in 1992 after getting caught for drink driving and rarely drank alcohol again. Losing his license seemed to change him forever and having to ride a bike to work each day was a cure that was long overdue. I will say that my father certainly had issues with alcohol and the violent temper that resulted, but it needs to be said that he always kept enough responsibility to keep his job and tried as best as he could to provide for his family. During the late eighties I remember with horror having to steer for him when he started to fall asleep at the wheel while driving along a stretch of highway to our home. In 2002 I moved back to Townsville and lived with him for a short time and decided to get to know him and see if I could finally resolve some of the hatred I had carried over the years for him. I found out that he was also a victim of domestic violence, and he on a few occasion recounted horrible stories of what his own father had put him and my grandmother through. Of course this did not fully cure my own hurts but it certainly helped me to understand that though he had perpetrated many horrible acts in my past he was also a victim, but was one that was unfortunately unable to realize this fact and break the cycle of an ongoing pattern.
The last time we all left dad for good was back in 1981 just before Christmas, and I will never forget that terror filled night. For many years after this night I would have regular flashbacks that would seem as real as the night itself, and I experienced these flashbacks until I endured a nervous breakdown in 1998. The horrible experience would every now and then replay over in my mind like a scene in a movie you did not want to watch. My mother was ironing in the small hall between the doorways of the adjoining rooms in our house. At the dining room table I was sitting at my mothers sewing machine watching the horrible drama unfold, wishing I could somehow stop it from happening. My sister was outside I think and as I watched yet another fight take place, something in me knew that this was somehow going to be much worse than I had ever witnessed before. I was 10 now and taking a lot more in and even though I was older I felt helpless against this big scary drunk man full of rage. The yelling continued until he grabbed her and started to beat her viciously around the head and body. At this time I remember that I was crying and with a pen I wrote on my mothers pin cushion the statement “Mum is good”. I wrote over and over on that pin cushion container until I turned and noticed that my father had gone outside after hearing mum say that she was leaving him, and this time she said she was leaving him for good. As he came up the front stairs and into the house I noticed he was placing a knife in his back pocket and suddenly terror filled my mind. No longer was I frozen in my seat, I jumped up just as he was grabbing her arm and dragging her into their room. He said to her that if he could not have her nobody could, and on hearing this I knew he was going to kill her. I only had seconds to lose and tried to help her as much I could. She was struggling to get away from him and he pushed her to the ground and started to kick her around the head. Why was he doing this, why was he hurting my mother like this? She was so desperate and bleeding, trying to protect herself and trying to get away while at the same time trying to protect me from him. I think around this time my sister had joined in with trying to pull him off my mother and was hitting him with a ruler, but it became too much for her to bear and she eventually ran out of the house and fled to the neighbors for help. I then stood back and watched my father try to drag my mother into the room again, and it suddenly came to my realization that he was going to kill her. There was something in his eyes that I had never seen before and I just knew that it might be the last time I ever saw her alive. With all the might I could muster I tried to release my fathers grip on my mothers arm and told him I hated him and asked him to let go of her. When he did not let her go I used my nails to pinch him as hard as I could and looked him in the eyes and screamed at him to again to let go. He looked straight at me and it was one of the scariest moments of my life, he had turned into that monster and I was staring it straight in the face. I looked down and to my horror I realized I was also pinching my mother, and was shocked at the thought that I had hurt her as well. I said to her “I am so sorry mum I did not mean to hurt you are you ok?” For some reason this seemed to somehow touch my father and he suddenly changed and he appeared to snap out of the worst of his rage. Even though he was still angry he let go of mum and said “just be thankful you have a son”. We ran out the back door and down the street to the Mulhollands house, where we hid while mum rang my older sisters and their husbands. They eventually arrived, went and chastised dad and saw to my mother’s wounds and bruises. Shortly after this we stayed with a woman called Frances who lived near where mum worked at Tropic forest Garden Estate as a nanny, and after my father moved out of the family home, we moved in and my mother never took him back again.
Mum had told us that the reason for the last fight was because dad was not happy that she had wanted to take the job and was jealous of a man that had worked with my mother. My father’s jealousy would be the main theme for his alcohol fueled rages and his insecurity and paranoia of imagined infidelities of my mother would eventually ruin and destroy our family. He would insist on only giving her minimal money for our needs, and would accompany her everywhere she went just in case she strayed or went off with the imaginary men he was sure she was entertaining. I remember finding a big blue accounts book when I was younger after they had split, and in it was written every cent that was spent in a day, including 1 cent lollies that she bought for me. All this just in case she somehow was putting aside a few coins of the meager allowance that he gave her. The amount he gave after what he spent on the horses or at the pub left little chance of this.
My mother was a beautiful woman when she was younger and because my father had plainer looks, he was convinced that he was going to lose her and that other men were pursuing her behind his back. All my mothers’ attempts to convince him otherwise failed and her penchant for helping the underdog and her sympathetic love for those less fortunate, had this time with my father come with unfortunate consequences. I am to this day very close with my mother and before my father died of bladder cancer in 2006, I also became very close to him as well. I chose to look after him when he got sick and moved in with him until he was no longer able to be cared for at home. This was for me a very bitter sweet time in my life as I had only in the recent years before become close to him, and had as I thought forgiven him for past hurts. Cancer was to bring forth many more strong emotions and feelings as well as the painful horrible death that finally took him from me. I came to love him so much that I almost wished that I had not built that bridge of forgiveness and closeness as the pain of losing him was much worse than if I had colder feeling for him. A bridge that I felt was somehow burnt with the dramatic circumstances surrounding my fathers final days in hospital and his confusion on morphine. In his last days it was as if I was standing on one side and he was on the other fading away without recourse for our connecting path. I never ever did feel that I completely built that bridge back to him again before his death even though I reconnected in some way and was with him right up till his final breath. Unfortunately a series of tragic drama's during his illness and after his death caused our family to break apart and sadly I am no longer in contact with all of my siblings.
My mother is happy and living up in Townsville and regularly comes to visit me whenever she can. She has regular contact with my eldest sister who lives in Townsville as well, the only sibling out of five that i speak to. After dad died all my attempts over the years at trying to keep our family together finally failed, and with my father I buried my last dream of my family ever fully being together ever again. The stress of five children trying to deal with the emotional scars inflicted by my father became too much for everyone. We all dealt with it in our own way and his death it seems brought a lot of their unresolved issues to the forefront. All of us seemed to be looking for the consolation that would never come, and for most of them it never will. We had all suffered abuse in our past childhoods and the man who caused this pain was finally going away and would never come back. Never come back to say sorry, never come back to love us and show us the approval some of us wanted and never would come back to somehow make it right again. My mother was always willing to forgive and had in the years before his death again decided to talk to him, and was a regular visitor to his home in his final weeks alive. I am one of the survivors of this tragic situation, but often I consciously hear myself trying to drive out the fear and insecurity that fills my mind from time to time. Whenever I can, I read anything on the subject of self help and curing this malaise of the mind brought on by the trauma of a childhood inflicted with domestic abuse. I hope to one day have a life where I can feel completely safe and secure, loved by someone special and confident in knowledge that it will continue without the fear that it may soon fall apart. This is the life I strive for and dream of and I will not stop until I reach this goal and finally feel truly content.
Copyright © Robyn Whittaker. 2009.
How beautiful you must have seemed then, bottled vulnerability a prized and sought after possession.
