TRANSCRIPTION

Before I take you into the next phase of my journey in life…….. this week I was overwhelmingly reminded of my purpose for telling you my story.

Six weeks ago, I decided that it would be important to access my childhood records through FOI, Freedom of Information……..  It hasn’t been an easy task as my history incorporates three different government departments, The Attorney-General Justice Office, Police and Territory Families.  Territory families initially came back to me very quickly, having found no records at all.  Which was soooo so so strange, given the enormity of events that had occurred from the age of 12 – 18.  From there I was directed to the National Archives and a lovely lady has been helping me navigate the complex filing storage system.  Afterall we are trying to find records from decades ago……..This is a work in progress, and I am sure there will be about this in a future episode about what was found……..  I am still waiting on the Police records to get back to me, but the Attorney-General Justice Office did locate documents and within a few days, I literally had two separate documents detailing the transcripts from the Judges sentencing of those sexual assaults in February 1986.

To say it was incredibly confronting is an understatement.  To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, and then for my husband, my partner in life Joe to read them as well, was quite overwhelming.  For the first few days, I found myself a little dazed, not really knowing how I was feeling, not really knowing how to talk about it.  Joe also not really knowing what to say, or do – the uncomfortable conversation and the raw reality of how horrific that night had been.  The undeniable trauma and recalling of memories buried so deep in my inner soul that had been almost locked in a time capsule for decades.  It is truly remarkable how the body and mind works to protect us particularly when something is so traumatic, locking it down until we are ready to let it out, connect and heal. 

It was one of those moments, ‘be careful what you ask for’, it may just not be really what you want to hear, see or read’.  But I was ready, my mind and body was ready to connect, heal and finally let go.

It was several days after reading the documents, that the anxiety racing in my heart started to settle.  An outer body sensation and the awful feeling in your body of embarrassment, shame and humiliation slowly bubbling to the surface.  The realisation that it wasn’t just me that was trying to make sense of how I was feeling, it was also now impacting Joe.  Struggling to find the right words to make it okay, when none of what happened was okay.  Not for me, not for my Aunty and not for anyone else that was in that court room and not for Joe.

And then finally the tears came.  Those type of tears that come from somewhere so deep in your belly that just can’t be stopped.  Joe and I cried together, we shared our innermost deep feelings and connected in a safe space that allowed me to let go.  Forgiveness to grieve for a day, entitled to cry and feel sorry for myself for just a moment in time. 

It was a powerful reminder of why I am telling my story, the core being of how we can overcome dysfunctionality and dig deep into our invisible village and recognise those amazing characters who are there when we need them………… and when we really look, there are so many.

That night in February 1986, I could have been thrown over that old railway bridge, or I could have been locked up in that man’s cabin.  No-one would have known for days or maybe weeks that I was missing.

The fact that I am here to tell my story, is a responsibility I feel the need to share what I have come to believe. Why am I okay?  Why did I survive?  Why is my life so incredible? 

I know for most people hearing this part of my story, the horrific events of those sexual assaults will be creating high levels of uncomfortableness, perhaps even anxiety, and I certainly encourage you to speak to someone if you are feeling any of those things.  Only 30% of sexual assaults are reported, and 1 out of 5 women are said to have experienced a sexual assault or abuse.  And for males, these stats are almost identical.  This means either you or someone you know has experienced abuse.  We need to be talking about it and being comfortable with uncomfortable.

What I have come to believe, that trauma creates more trauma, creating layers of dysfunctionality that compounds week after week, month after month and then years after years.  Memories of deep inner trauma becomes consumed and covered up by more trauma, that survival is all you know, like a callous on your foot or hand, sometimes it hurts but the skin grows over and hardens the layers below.  Until that moment,……. you stop…….. and remove the agitation, allowing healing to come into our space and soften.

And so for me, my incredible reminder that I am not being sexually assaulted now.  I have many amazing characters in my invisible village and the one that is with me 24/7 right now,…… my husband,….. nurturing, respectful, understanding and not trying to fix it.  Letting the conversation settle between us both…….  And it is no coincidence that as I am putting this episode together, that the sound of the Kookaburra has suddenly arrived back.  Not just one, but four.  The instant connection that profound healing is taking place, right now in this moment of time.  Peace has come over me again, and I am ready to bring you into the next phase of my story.

After the sad departure of Sheila and Wayne, we were introduced to two new houseparents at Matthew Cottage.  They were English and had with them two little boys, were about 18 months and three years of age.

The dynamic they brought to Matthew Cottage was completely different to what we had previously experienced.  They were strict and given their English Ways meant a lot of change for us.  It actually astounds me that they were employed with allowing their own children to live in a house that was filled with other children at risk.

My role in the house was instantly disrupted.  As I had previously with Sheila, I was no longer allowed to cook meals or be involved with looking after the babies and toddlers that came into the house.  The value and acceptance that we all had been given was no longer there.  The girls in the house that had previously been allowed to speak language, were not able to, the mash potato and tomato sauce was banned from the dining table, and the youngest I remember on one occasion being forced to eat peas, that she almost immediately vomited up and the aggression that followed.

For me personally, they were trying to instigate a reconciliation with my parents.  There seemed to be little recognition of the reasons that I had come to be in Matthew Cottage.  I vaguely recall a few conversations that these houseparents were having with my parents without my knowledge and then trying to facilitate almost like mediation sessions between us.  I don’t remember the exact conversations, I just remember the feeling of ‘here we go again’.  These people had no understanding that my return back into the family home was returning me back to a religion that I wanted no part of, a return to complete isolation and what I have finally come to know as mental abuse.

It was also during this time, that it was made clear to all of us girls that we were not to contact Sheila and Wayne, which in our minds was just ridiculous.  I am sure that for our new houseparents, the love we all had for Sheila and Wayne was just too competitive.  They couldn’t get the same level of respect from us.

The memories of my time with our new house parents were almost a revert back to chaos.  I remember having lot of tears and fights, particularly with the house dad.  He tried to  impose this power and control over me.  He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t living with my parents and a standout statement from him at one point in time, being ‘if I ever had children, that would be put into care and so the cycle continues’.  This statement has stayed with me always.  And there was no way that if I ever was gifted to have children, that they would never be put into care, I was not my parents.

It was several months of all this change in the house that we were all told that we would be going on a holiday to the Gold Coast.  Somehow they had managed to find the funds to fly us all over for the xmas holidays.  This was going to be our xmas present.  We were all so excited.  The girls had never been on a plane before, let alone the glitz and glammer of the Gold Coast, nor seen or been on a beach.

Our arrival onto the Gold Coast, and again we would have turned a lot of heads with our dynamic.  English adults with english accents, 2 white toddlers, four aboriginal girls and then me, blonde, white skinned girl.  A high rise hotel had been booked, the younger girls all sharing adjoining rooms with our houseparents, and myself and older foster sister, sharing a separate room.  The hotel was just across from the beach, the sound of the ocean could be heard and that salty smell just stunning.  It was a long way from our welfare house at Matthew Cottage in Alice Springs.

Our holiday together though, was absolutely miserable.  I remember being in tears a lot.  My house dad always seemed to make me wrong about something.  The other girls memorised by the TV and happy just to stay inside.  Our houseparents being quite annoyed and angry that they had brought us all the way to the Gold Coast and the girls not interested in the white sand and surf.  Considering that Alice Springs only had one TV Channel, being ABC and all the stations that they had access to was such a novelty.  There was absolutely no insight from the houseparents that the girls were also from the red dust and waterholes, the beach was actually a really scary place.

Xmas day came while we were on the Gold Coast.  No gifts though, as our holiday was our gift.  But we all wanted to speak to Sheila and Wayne.  I had organised flowers to be sent to them, and I arranged for all of us girls to go down to the phone box to talk to them.  Well that didn’t go down well, when our houseparents found out, and I got myself into a whole lot of trouble again.

Our arrival back to Alice Springs from our holiday was a bit of a blur.  The tears, sadness and missing Sheila and Wayne was terrible.  For me it was like going through the trauma of being back at home with my parents all over again.  Our house parents continued rants with why I should be living back at home my parents was incredible dominating.

It wasn’t long after we had returned from our holiday, and it was announced to all of us girls that welfare were going to be finding foster homes for us……… external from Matthew Cottage.  In a way I felt relieved that I was going to be getting away from these house parents, but so sad that all of us girls were going to be separated.

And so it was I was relocated to a white foster family.  The dad worked in the Railways and the mother was a stay at home mum, with a little baby.

The house they lived in was a little old Railway Cottage, located close to town and in the middle of the Alice Springs Railyards.  My room was a side sleep out that had been enclosed.  They had previously fostered other children before me, but I was their first female teenager.

The first few months seemed to be quite amicable, I don’t remember it being awful.  It just wasn’t the same as being in Matthew Cottage with Sheila and Wayne.  I hadn’t seen the other girls since leaving and had no idea what had happened to them.  And as for my parents, I don’t remember seeing or hearing from them since the unsuccessful reconciliation attempts by the new house parents of Matthew Cottage.

This was the start of 1988. And I was now in year 11, at the Sadadeen Secondary College, as it was called back then.  Year 11 and 12 were split from all the other High Schools around Alice Springs for some reason, but it meant that there was a wider group of friends.  And like most teenagers that age, the segregation between different school yard groups had started to occur………. from those that are actually wanting to do well, to those that are just muddling their way through.

Well I was one of those that was muddling her way through.  I had finally had a maths teacher who helped me make sense of formulas, but English still remained my favourite and were my best marks.  And we were also starting to map out our careers and planning what we wanted to do post highschool.  I decided that I was going to be a midwife and that way I could go out to all the remote communities.  The core subjects of Biology and Science were really difficult for me and getting a grade beyond a C was not going to happen.

The friendship groups that we had before Sadadeen were shifting.  My closest friend Sophia had left school, however I had started to form a close friendship with Nicki, another character in my invisible village.  She had a very similar background to me.  The eldest child of a large family, very religious parents, became rebellious and was sent to live with her Aunty in Alice Springs, away from a very small town in country NSW.

My boyfriend that I had during Year 9 and 10, had moved on with someone else and I remember at the time being devastated.  School that had always been my safe place was starting to break down.

I can’t remember exactly the moments that triggered my next suicide attempt, but I do remember that I specifically went to the Dr’s to ask for pain killers, pretending that my period were really heavy and painful.  I later took a whole bottle and then I remember waking up in the Emergency Department of Alice Springs Hospital, vomiting.  There were all these heart monitors on me and nurses and Dr’s.  It wasn’t long before I was taken up to the ICU ward for monitoring.  I don’t know long I was in there for, but there seemed to be a flurry of Psychologists,  and other medical staff attending to me.

After I had been released from hospital, and back with my foster parents, who basically informed me that I should be lucky that I was still allowed to live with them.  Apparently if it had been anyone else that would have let me go.  Not sure where I would have gone, but nevertheless they kept me.

My parents who I distinctly remember having had next to no communication with me, turned up at our house within several days of being out of hospital.  The foster parents somehow must have arranged it as they quickly disappeared.

Into the house my parents walk, sit down at the little dining table that was in the kitchen, my father trying to touch my hand and me trying to make sense of why they had even bothered.  So angry with them that it took a serious suicide attempt for them to come and see me.  For several Sundays after this event, my father would come and sit with me, and for just a moment in time there seemed to be a small reconciliation of mending a very broken relationship.

Again my mind is a mishmash of memories that are all blurred together.  The first six of so months of year 11 were filled with drama, dysfunctionality and chaos.  I still had my job at Blue Cottage, which I continued to ride out to even after big nights of staying out with my friends.  We were now drinking alcohol and taking drugs.  Fortunately it was only pot, but it was pretty regular by now.  Staying out all night, going to different houses, going to nightclubs, drinking in parks, walking the streets, going to speedways in the boot of cars.  All risky behaviour at that very young age.

Into the second semester of year 11, the foster parents I had been living with moved to another house that was completely on the other side of town.  This meant that it was now, way too far for me to ride my bike, and I had to resign.  Now I was totally removed from everything that had been my safety net.

The visits from my father had stopped and something must have been triggered.  Not sure what, but I do recall several letters from my mother, not sure of the content, but I do remember the feeling.  Again their biblical justifications of terminating communication.  Something that has been the yo-yo of the entire relationship with my parents, even up until a few years ago……being dragged in, and then spat out again!! 

As I had done for most years, I would send them a copy of my school report card along with a school photo.  This time though, the envelope that had my report card in it, had not been opened and scrawled across the front in my mother’s handwriting, the words ‘ return to sender’, not known at this address.  It is insanely indescribable that any attempt of any reconciliation was always abruptly terminated by my parents.

It was around this time that my Uncle, my mother’s brother and his wife came to visit me.  I am sure visiting me would have been extremely uncomfortable for them.  But they were kind, although they too were Jehovah’s Witnesses.  I remember my Uncle, describing my father as one of the most humblest men that he had ever known, and me completely dumbfounded by such a ridiculous statement.  For me, this had never been my experience, far from it.  Not really sure of the intention of their visit, but I do recall being incredibly grateful that they as Jehovah Witnesses had taken the time to visit me.  My parents had literally had not wanted anything to do with me.  Even on one occasion, walking down the street with my friend Sophia, my mother walking towards us, and upon seeing me, crossed the road on to the other side so as to not have to talk to me.  Sophia recalled this moment with tears in her eyes when we caught up a few months ago.  So sad when you think about how stupid it all was and continues to be.

It wasn’t long after my Uncle and Aunty’s visit, that Nicki my new friend at school was going back home to her parents in NSW.  I had become so far behind in my assignments, and without a job and no money to do the things I wanted to do, I decided to leave school.  Life in the foster home had also done it’s time.  I don’t recall anything significant happening, but it just hadn’t been anything like we had experienced at Matthew Cottage.

So with that, I applied for a job at Woolworth and was successful.  It started out as casual to begin with, and then once I officially had left school I became full time.  Packing shelves, and progressively being trained in the cash registers.  Not like the scanning of the groceries today, it was the old fashioned push button register with the pricing stamp on the item.  And like a true Kathy style, always wanting to be the quickest, it wasn’t long before I was promoted to the express check out line.  The smoke counter!!  So funny when I think about that – promoted to the cigarette counter, it didn’t mean more pay!  Just meant I was fast.

My sixteenth birthday was fast approaching and I knew that this meant that although being a Ward of the State until I was eighteen, I could now have a say where I lived.  I remember looking at a few share house options, but for some reason these scared me.  So I settled in to taking a room at the backpackers, Malanka Lodge.  It’s no longer in Alice Springs, but it was pretty big backpackers, almost in the middle of town.  It was a room in a dormitory style wing, shared bathrooms with other people that were also staying there.  My room window faced the main road into town, which was handy, as being close to the centre of town, my friends would jump through the window into my room without having to walk all the way around the backpackers.

So with my wage of$150 a week, I would pay $100 for my board, and the remainder of my budget would be for cigarettes, packs of noodles, alcohol and pot.

My new independent life was definitely a period of time of extreme risky behaviour.  Most weekends would be spent drinking, smoking pot, driving around town with very little care of who was driving or what they had been taking, promiscuous behaviour of having multiple one night stands.  Just muddling my way through that overwhelming desire to be loved but never finding it. 

My friend Sophia had come back into town, and while I remember it was so good to have her back in my life, our two worlds were moving in different directions.  She had a boyfriend and her night outs had been restricted by her Aunty.

That xmas which is only a few weeks after my birthday, that particular year was exceptionally lonely.  Everyone had their own families and my world was just me.  My little wage of $150 only got me so far, and it felt like even welfare had abandoned me.  All the welfare officers that I had known during my time in Matthew Cottage were all gone, I hadn’t received any visits from anyone while I was in foster care.  I am not even sure if Welfare knew that I was living in a backpackers hostel. Not that I really cared, not having to live at Matthew Cottage, that foster home or with my parents, the hostel seemed to be the most logical solution.

And then what next happened.

I was hanging out in the park with a few of my friends when I was introduced to one of the guys who I almost immediately became infatuated with.  He was from Perth, very good looking, a footy player and a boxer.  He had come over from Perth to live with his grandmother.  We became really good friends within a short period of time.  He wasn’t like the other guys, he was kind, listened and we would spend hours just talking.

Until that day at the end of January 1989, he told me that he had to go back to Perth, and he asked me to go with him.  OMG I was so excited.  And remembered thinking, how can I afford that, and he said don’t worry we will work out a way.  I will call you when I get back to Perth.

And I waited, and waited until he finally called.  Now remember, we didn’t have mobile phones back then, so I was reliant on him calling the public phone at Malanka Lodge.  That day when he finally called and said come on over, I was beyond excited.  I was escaping Alice Springs and all that it represented!

So with that, and the help of Sophia we planned my escape.  Being a Ward of the State, I wasn’t meant to leave the Northern Territory until I was 18, but I didn’t care.  Afterall welfare hadn’t even been close to checking in on me, let alone providing any emotional, physical or financial support.

With the help of Sophia, we packed all my belongings, stored them in a box at her Aunty’s place in a cupboard, resigned from my job, gave notice to Malanka Lodge and caught a taxi to the Alice Springs airport.

My next adventure and phase of life was about to begin.

In closing out this Episode, I am almost sure, like it has for me, taken you on a roller coaster of emotions.  Taking you through what was happening for me right now, as I recorded this, was almost as important as taking you through the ‘what next’ events of the past.  Keeping it real, raw and authentic means that for all of us, past experiences will bubble backup from time to time.  Understanding what’s happening and all those triggers that take us back to that place, the recognition to allow healing to flow, a moment or moments to be connected with that feeling,

For me personally, this episode reinvigorated me to be connected back to my purpose of sharing my story.  Proving that dysfunctionality does not have to be permanent.  The strength that we can gather from our invisible village comes to us in so many different ways, like soothing hands reaching out to lift us back up. Enabling us to get to the next phase of whatever path our lives are on.

Thank you for listening to this Episode, Raised by an Invisible Village.

I invite and welcome you into the next episode of my story.  

Creating a safe and connected space for you and I ☺