SARAH’S STORY

“Can you keep a secret, I don’t suppose you can!
You mustn't laugh, you mustn't cry
But do the best you can!”

Who amongst you hasn't heard this rhyme or even said it to a young child? Well, some secrets are meant to be kept – after all, nothing gives greater joy than seeing the surprise on the face of a loved one when a secret gift or treat is revealed. But there are some secrets that should not be kept no matter what. I want to tell you my secret; the one I kept for fourteen years. It won’t make you laugh and I hope that it doesn't’t make you cry but it is a secret that I did my very best to keep!

I am a well-educated 46 year old woman. My few friends would describe me as reliable, considerate, and always willing to help in any way. My employer would describe me as efficient, punctual and attentive to detail. My children would describe me as loving and caring. But to me, I am none of these things. I have little, if any, self-esteem; I suffer from panic attacks, bulimia and insomnia and I constantly live in a state of hyper-vigilance.

Why, you may ask? Because for fourteen years I replayed my childhood submissiveness in my relationship. I am a survivor of domestic violence – please note, I say survivor not victim as I do not and have never felt like a victim.

I married at an early age (20) and had my first child at 22. My first marriage was doomed from the start – we had different interests and goals and when our child was six weeks old, my first husband packed his bags and disappeared.

After that, I devoted myself to my son but, by the time he was 9 I felt like I needed something more in my life than temporary relationships and that’s when I met the man that I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. All the warning signs were there from the start; the continual telephoning (sometimes 4 to 6 times a day); the possessiveness and irrational jealousy; the “surveillance” when we were apart; the alienation from longtime friends and the difficulties with my relationship with my son and family. But I was in my early thirties and I wanted the “happy ever after”; I wanted to belong, to feel needed, to grow old with someone, to have someone to look after me so I ignored all the omens and, after a brief courtship, moved in with this man.

At first it was flattering to have someone take control after years of making all the decisions – to tell you how to wear your hair, what clothes, even to pick out your underwear. To have someone who cared about where you were when not with him, who would telephone constantly to “see how your day had been”, to make all the decisions about meals etc., to make excuses to your family and friends if you didn't’t have time to talk to them on the phone. Little did I know then just how suffocating this would all become? I can still remember the first time he hit me.

The physical violence was less frequent in the beginning but the constant emotional torment, the belittling, the denigrating insults, the being locked out of the house on cold, frosty nights to sleep outside and the constant reinforcement of “I would be nothing without him” was more than enough. So many times I tried to leave, only to be dragged back by my own sense of being “good” and because I felt that if I had done this differently or not said that, then it would all stop. This was not always alcohol fuelled either; maybe in the beginning but after a while it was just commonplace…..

By the time our second daughter was born some four years later, there was nothing left of the person I once was. I played the game in an effort to give my girls a financially stable up-bringing, a constant father figure in their lives and, what I truly believed at the time, a “happy” home where mum was there for them, baking and helping with homework etc whilst dad was the breadwinner. It is only now that I can see the toll this has taken on my girls – that our youngest daughter’s migraines, bed wetting and anxiety attacks were all brought on by what she was witnessing; that our eldest daughter’s peer issues at school were because she never felt safe trusting anyone (including teachers) because they might hurt her and couldn't make friends because she felt she had to hide what was happening at home.

I learnt to lie to the few friends I had left, to family, to doctors, to check-out girls and total inquisitive strangers. I learnt to hide the phone bill in case he questioned who I had been ringing and why, I learnt to hide the grocery dockets if I had over-spent (even if it was because of price rises), and I became very adept at applying make-up to cover bruises. I learnt how to exist without living.

When our little one started school, he became insistent that I return part-time to the work-force as there were things he wanted (a boat, a caravan, a new Ute) that we needed the second income for. Fortunately, I obtained a job relatively quickly that paid well and let me work school hours. Unfortunately, it was just around the corner from his workplace and I was the only female on a staff of 50. He took to calling in on his morning tea and lunch breaks, he began to threaten the male staff with what would happen if they spoke to me and he accused me of only having the job because I was sleeping with the owner and his son. He had no problem spending the wages but, after being asked by my employer to refrain from visiting during working hours because of the tension, he had no problem with deciding that all his accusations were true and the beatings got more severe and more visible. Up until this time, he had always been careful to never leave marks where they could not be hidden or disguised or explained away as clumsiness but now it was like he had to make his mark on me to show the world just what a horrible person I was and how deserving of punishment.

My employer tried several times to assist by offering to talk to him, by offering to listen to me, by offering to ring the police but my “Stepford wife” persona could not allow him to be punished for my deficiencies….my employer took notice of “those” ads and decided another black eye and a threat to kill in his car park were enough to involve the police. The children and I were removed from our family home in March 2006 and the police obtained an Intervention Order on our behalf.

On my first birthday after this happened, a very dear and special friend asked what was the one thing that I wanted if I could have anything in the world. My reply then was as it is today when I am approaching my second birthday without him – a day where I had total control over what I did and where I went, a day of total freedom, a day where I could spend 24 hours looking ahead and not 18 hours looking over my shoulder. Maybe by the time my third birthday comes, I will have this wish.

Recovering from domestic violence is like trying to scale that far, far away mountain. First you have to take the steps to get to the base, the steps of acknowledging that what is happening isn't your fault, that you don’t deserve this and that there is help for you if only you will confide in someone. Then you begin the climb, some days you lose your footing and end up back at the bottom and other days you reach a ledge and just know that you have to sit there because you’ve come too far to go back down and the trail ahead is too steep to continue. You have to accept that the hands reaching out to help can be trusted – that they are not going to follow through with a punch from the other hand.

We have all “grown” so much in recent times and can now accept that our “happy ever after” might not be the stuff of fairy tales but it is within our power to make a dream a reality and that we now have this wonderful opportunity to share in a brighter, stronger more positive future, something I never thought was possible.

Yes, there have been days where I’ve stumbled on that mountain trail and other days when loose “rocks” have threatened to send me falling to the bottom; there have been days when things have scared me to the point of wishing I could just hide in a cave but the people who have stood behind me pushing, the people who have held my hand, the people who have believed in me – all these people have given me the hand and foot holds to keep on climbing.