There's no pretty picture to paint, no words to describe the actions of self indulgent & entitled perpetrators of sexual violence. 

There is however value in sharing how to achieve freedom from fear, how to rise up & recover from sexual assault.  

The individual times I have been singled out & seen as physical object is more than you can count on your hands.

Asserting physical power over someone else or acting without consent is not strength or power, it is a deep weakness & level of mental depravity that goes against our nature as innately intelligent, compassionate & community based beings. 

https://player.whooshkaa.com/episode?id=96303

I encourage us all to Speak Up & Listen. No matter our gender, age, race, orientation or place in the world, we all deserve the right to safely disclose abuse of any kind.

I hope to lead by example & show victims, perpetrators & support roles that the silence, shame & secrecy will end.

The following contains information that may be distressing, if so please seek help:

If you need someone to talk to, call Kids helpline 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

This is written without shame. It is raw and honest. The intention is to heal, educate and show deep gratitude.

My eyes are bloodshot and my face tear soaked, little hands tremble, stomach flip flopping back and forth, back and forth, knotting and twisting, acidic bile on the back of my tongue and an electric chill stabbing down my back. 

I am 4 years old and need some one to scoop me up, listen to me and most of all believe me.  

I want to open the flood gates, I can’t keep this bad stuff a secret any more. 

I can’t take one more “Shhhh… It's. Our. Secret.” 

I feel like I am rotting inside out, can’t they see it?

Chameleon child; hides away quietly, fits in softly, walks on eggshells, tenderly lives on the outskirts of life.

Living in such fear of outbursts and physical hurt, you hide, you play nice, become highly compliant while internalising all the injuries from words and weapons.

I would often be a deer in headlights, transfixed on the shards of crockery flying as they shattered away from the concrete as they made impact. 

The breaking plates ritual was part of my childhood memory of what surely must have been 1990’s therapy for a traumatised parent. 

I have spoken about this only once in my adult life, incredibly this same wonderful human I told, also remembers being a 90's child. We both remember staring in unbelievable awe as our parent smashed crockery until the plates ran out or our parent succumbed to exhaustion. 

The following contains information some people may find distressing, if so please seek help:

If you need someone to talk to, call Kids help line 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

Reflecting on moments where we wish we could speak to the people we no longer have in our lives. 

The pang of pain when your friends are out having a cup of tea with their mother or she’s popping around to visit them and you know that will never be your reality. 

Here is what I would say to those who are beautiful yet broken...

"Hi mum, how are you? I mean, how are you really? 

I used to wonder why you couldn’t bring yourself to ask me how I am, I’m not angry that you couldn’t.

The following contains graphic information, if it distresses you please seek help:

Kids helpline 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

This Information would not be part of my history had the systems put in place to protect children had done so successfully. That was not the case in the 1990’s for me and this is a snap shot into the lasting effects of a child who is failed by the system.

Hopelessness is real, it is okay to not be okay. It is okay to need help.

Please reach out. Call Kids helpline 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

The world is spinning at a sickening rate, my organs are angry with me, every cell saturated, intoxicated. My brain throbs heavily, wounded by the negative thoughts that rip like razor edged shrapnel. Excruciating thoughts rush out uncontrollably from the ragged holes left behind. My painstakingly cultivated mindset, gentle as vintage lace, ripping to shreds by unjustified anger and tiring bigotry, alcohol laughs watching intently, twisting the knife. Bitter bile on my tongue is equally as acidic as these thoughts. Words written from narcissists' bloodline run incessantly across my mind like hateful song lyrics. The deadly familiarity of hopelessness fills me, creating dark clouds and a blinding blur. Peace was my offering, twice denied. 

We wake in a tangle of sheets, warm and happy I mentally dedicate today to simple pleasures.

It is a beautiful Saturday, the early morning sky splashed with fluffy white clouds illuminated by the warm sunshine. I breathe in deeply, enjoying feeling my body and mind in a relaxed state, no conflict to face, no back to back appointments, no pressure and no finely timed plans. 

Just me and her. 

The following contains graphic information, if it distresses you please seek help:

Kids help line 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The ice clutched in my little fingers melts too quickly, just as it soon as it begins to help sooth the burning, it cruelly liquifies and slides carelessly to the aged mattress, making a crude tainted puddle.

It’s school holidays in 1996, a bright sunny day in the middle of nowhere, known to us as the shack. My sibling and I are carefree, singing our favourite song ‘Ironic’ by Alanis Morissette and taking turns swinging back and forth as high as we could on the big swing near the dark farm shed.

I wake up with startling fear, my eyes watering, palms too warm, body damp with a sheen of sweat and throat burning from the drowning, coughing, suffering sensation experienced in my sleep. My traumatic reoccurring dream stirring me from peaceful rest again, I sigh deeply, saddened and frustrated. It's still dark outside adding to the dread which fills me as I think about falling back to sleep and risking the return of the torturous flash backs. 

My eyes are heavy with tiredness yet my heart is pounding, so loud I can hear it in my ears. I haven't noticed how hard I'm breathing, lungs gasping to return to normal, my central nervous system still in overdrive, in a state of confusion caught in between fight or flight in a place where reality mets deep scarred memories. 

The following contains information that may be distressing, if so please seek help:

If you need someone to talk to, call Kids helpline 1800 55 1800 or Lifeline 13 11 14.

This is written without shame. It is raw and honest. The intention is to heal, educate and show deep gratitude.

The beginning.

It all began on a harmless blind date, a blind date which she said yes to at the very last minute. They were meant to meet completely different people and lead very different lives. 

In a twist of fate the lives of her and her unborn children were written.

My life was conceived as a violent act of cruelty at the hands of an outwardly wholesome man and an inwardly perverse, aggressive and abusive husband. The pain and torture of my mother cannot even be imagined, the isolation, degradation and suffering for basic human needs of love, shelter and nourishment ripped away, on occasion falsely given back only if his perverse needs were met.