A Perfect Family

‘I caught one!’ It dropped, or rather it slid, into the ice cream container with the others. Soon I wasn’t sure which one it was. ‘What are they again?’

‘Gambusia.’

‘No, the other name you used.’ They were all swimming in circles now. Seven of them.

'Stephen!' A voice called from the distance.

As his shadow moved away the little fish suddenly sparkled silver. The last of the afternoon brightness now free to bounce of their scales.

‘Mosquito fish,' he said. 'Come on, let’s go.’

We were barefoot. The mud had wrapped around our feet and seeped up through our toes. We were in the drain across from his house, so it wasn’t far to take our catch, and, unfortunately, for his mother to call him home.

‘Can I have some?’ I wished we had caught eight, then it would have been a fair split.

‘Yeah tomorrow. I'll set you up a tank!’

The water splashed as I hurried to catch up to him. 'Really?' He just knew how to do stuff. Fun stuff. Last summer holidays we had built a tree house. Some years in the future, as teenagers, we would take a knife and engrave in that tree SS+MW, surrounded by a heart. Now we were in that prepubescent time, when such a thought would never cross our minds.

I gently placed the container in his parents shed and grabbed my Melvin Star. It was fairly new. A Christmas gift. I had never had a new bike before and I rode it everywhere.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' I said as I jumped on my bike, no helmet or shoes.

The mucky pond water had begun to dry on the bottom of my shorts. They were heavy and stuck to my backside. The autumn nip in the air was making my legs prickle with goose bumps. He walked me to the end of his driveway.

‘See ya.’ I saw him wave as I pedalled away down the road.

I took the longest way. I tried to tell myself it was because there were less hills. The truth was I wasn't in a rush to get home.

***

I was thirteen when my father chased me with a gun. You think that it would happen like in the movies. Things slowing down so every movement, every action, could be seen with clarity. It wasn't. Instead I was running, like on a treadmill, getting nowhere, with the speed getting faster and faster. My legs pounded against the racing mat, but it was just going too fast. When I did fall it was fortunate that I had made it to my grandparents house. They lived across the road from our home.

He was behind me. I could smell him. A musty scent of man sweat, marinated in sour alcohol. I tried to move, but I was paralysed by fear. I imagined him lining up the sight on the gun. My breathing stopped as I anticipated the worse. Somehow I reached the phone. It was the rotary type. Using my index finger I dragged the dial as hard as I could. I still wonder why the emergency number in Australia is 000, surely 111 would be faster?

The police came. I sat hard against my grandparents’ bedroom door. Trying to control my breathing I listened to them pacify my father.

‘Hay Mate, calm down.’

‘Fuck off. They’re fucking cunts, all of ‘em.’

‘Listen Mate, you’ve had a bit to drink. How about you sleep it off? Is there somewhere you could go?’

He said there was. They let him go. They didn’t take his gun.

They left. My father drove around the block and came back.

The next morning I went to school. No one mentioned the sirens in my street. The police. The yelling.

Well no one, but Stephen. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah why?’

‘Just checking.' He frowned.

I was in my forties before I realised it wasn't normal for your father to chase you with a gun. And that was probably the reason why I thought I had a perfect marriage.

***

#Me Too.

***

At first I wasn't sure, but he swept me off my feet. I felt that no one had ever loved me like that before. His backstory filled me with admiration and sadness. The horrible ex who stole his children and his despair that she had been having affairs. How he threw his life into helping others to take away the pain. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and protect him from all the hurt. I knew I could show him happiness, and more importantly, love.

I wasn't the only one he was courting at the time. How could have I known? He told me I was his soul mate. I guess I was, because I hit the jackpot. He chose me. Things went very fast. Suddenly I found myself moving into his house. He established a joint account for the rent from my property and the income from my full time professional position. I never questioned why his income all went into his own separate account. We were a team now. I trusted him.

What are red flags? Now I recognise they were at full mast from the beginning. But I wanted the dream. Something I didn't have as a child. The perfect family. The perfect life. From the outside that was exactly what people thought I had. I had convinced myself that my past world of alcohol and violence were now neatly packed away in my memories. The truth was, it lurked just as strongly in the nicely renovated house of my adulthood as it had in my childhood home. I had a new abuser.

***

He only hit me once. He told me it was my fault. That was true.

'Everything was fine until you stopped doing what I told you to do,' he had said.

We never fought. I had years of training as a child in dealing with domestic abuse. I would know how to identify the signs of escalating anger. Then survival mode would hit and you do what ever it takes to keep them happy. I would never argue. I would do whatever he wanted. Often these things made me cry, but if I followed these two rules there was peace.

One day I broke the rules.

I hadn’t spoken to Stephen for eleven years when I picked up the phone.

I was severely depressed, suicidal. I had been in a psychiatric hospital, but my abuser insisted I be sent home under his care. A few days later he went on a holiday, leaving our children and myself alone. I had no one to turn to. I don't know why I called Stephen, but I felt he was the only person I could talk to. He saved my life that night.

I often think about how different things might have been had I not made that call. I wonder if I would still have been alive. One thing for sure, I think Stephen would have been.

It was from this call that I found out my abuser monitored all my phone conversations.

***

People ask 'why didn't you leave?'

At first I believed I could have the dream family. There were good times. Great times. I tried to focus on them. Over time though, I just lost myself. Years of psychological abuse and control. Gaslighting. I didn't even know how to leave.

Then I lost my job. Things got complicated.

My abuser loved to travel. He was overseas visiting his female friend, eventually his third wife, when I received a twelve-month salary payout from my work. I went to the bank, set up a new account, that he had no legal access too, and transferred the year's salary into it. Within twenty-four hours of him returning to Australia, he had accessed my account by answering my secret questions, changed the electronic password, and moved the money into his account. I went to the police and was told he was my husband and he had every right to access my account.

Why didn't I leave? I was unable to work, and the twelve-month payout stopped me from being eligible for social security. I had two children. My abuser had everything he wanted. Full control. I didn't think it could get worse.

But it did.

***

I had happy days, like the day my abuser moved out. This freedom cost me. He bought himself a new house, by unilaterally mortgaging our home. This debt, that I never signed for, I carry to this day. I might have argued it was worth it had it been over, but I made a mistake. I let him see he no longer controlled me. Then messages started:

'I know I can't hurt you anymore, but I can get anyone you care about.'

***

In Australia we laws against domestic violence. They don't work.

***

On the Friday it happened a Domestic Violence Order was in place. The police had been notified of the specific threats, but failed to record the information.

My abuser knew our daughters and I were going to be at a rally, but a late change meant my brother, along with a number of other friends, were with my children at the location instead of me.

The rally was at a busy legal area. The Family Law Court, Local Court and Police Station are all in close vicinity. Scattered between were legal offices, trendy cafés and the obligatory parking station. Passers-by would have noticed the small crowd gathering for the rally. The air would have been vibrating in anticipation. My youngest daughter saw him first. For an hour he sat back and watched. I often wonder if he was waiting for me to arrive. In a later report his doctor described his behaviour as ‘an act of revenge’.

The first speaker began and my abuser pushed his way into the crowd. Deliberately, he walked across the road and poured a small amount of fluid on the ground and lit it. He had everyone’s attention. The police were called. My oldest daughter went to him and he then began throwing liquid over himself and her, flicking a lighter as he did. A friend pulled my daughter away. My abuser was tackled to the ground. One of those holding him down was Stephen.

The first thing I noticed as I was taken into Emergency was the smell of petrol. It grew stronger as I was led into a small consultation room. The petrol had begun to evaporate leaving dry patches on her clothes, but her hair was stringy and wet. My daughter sat, wrapped in a hospital blanket. She was alive.

Some people would question, how could this happen? Not me. My thought was, is this ever going to stop? It was early evening when we arrived home. Friends and family stayed with us. An hour later the phone started ringing. It was my abuser. Not charged, assessed as psychologically stable, he had been sent home. It was not over.

***

I never really heard the voices of my children until the day of the rally. While my oldest daughter washed away the petrol, my youngest talked about how she felt.

‘I turned away. I didn’t care if he burnt alive. I just didn’t want to watch.’

I thought I was protecting them. Instead I had been teaching them to tolerate abusive behaviour. So I changed. I began to tell the truth about what was happening. The irony was, our truth was less believable than my abuser's lies

I wish my abuse had been physical. Bruises, broken bones, scars - indisputable evidence. The complex psychological damage of coercive abuse is less easily measured. Three days after the rally incident, I walked into the Family Court of Australia to finally fight for freedom. I was told I would be protected. Instead, it was a system that empowered my abuser.

They say if you are walking in hell, just keep walking. That's what I did. I didn't look back, but it took five years to find the exit. This journey became the next chapter of my life.