Iris Shackleton made me do this. I adore her boldness, humility, courage, wit, clarity of thought. I admire her strength and perseverance, in the hardest of times and worst of adversity…
my story is lame in comparison, but trauma scars run deep, no matter their appearance I guess…
I was born to an odd couple, two war orphans, one deeply traumatised herself, the other untouched by the realities around him, which remained his mindset throughout his life, to this day.
I grew up with an older brother, who hated me from the day I was born. His words, not mine. It was all nice and good for him in his first three years, alone with his mum, when my dad studied 1000kms away, and hardly ever showed up. They had money which my dad sent, and the tranquility of their mum and bub bubble. And then dad finished his studies, returned home, and the trouble began, and few months later I showed up. So clearly, in my brother’s mind, I am at the root of all his worries. Which is also his mindset to this day. There was abuse happening, physical and mental, but that’s to tell for another day.
My mum and dad never spoke much together, I don’t think they ever resolved anything between them. They just had their assumptions how things should be running, and secretly begrudged the other for not functioning accordingly to their secret ideal…
My dad knew who his parents were, he just never met them. He was born ’40, they died shortly after, way up north. His family is a huge bunch of traditional egg merchants, rural post office holders, country pub owners… My mum, also born ’40, grew up in foster homes down south, from which she ran away, last one when she was 14, to start her own life, by herself. She managed to get into an apprenticeship and with 19 started a career in the “big town” of Munich where she worked at the State Justice Dept. Which is where the two met. And got married shortly after, cos that’s what you did these days. My dad, still completely unfazed by anything that the recent war might have inflicted on a child and woman like my mum, soon forbid her to work. He had just started to work for the government, after an apprenticeship at the merchant navy, and they sent him south, where he met my mum. And where he thought he’s a self-important officer now, so it wouldn’t look good on him if his wifey worked. So he did not sign her work contract renewal. Which was a legal thing to do for husbands in the ’70s. He effectively locked her up at home, with two kids she was never really keen on having (she told us so, many, many, many, many, many times).
She never forgave him. She also never forgave him for, after displaying all that catholicism of having to marry and fit in etc., cheating on her with some other office woman, who kept ringing my mum at home (her prison), abusing her on the phone. I was only little, I knew none of this, all of this just played out in the background of my growing up in a constantly depressed, kinda poisoned environment. On the contrary, my dad managed to make my mum look bad, like he was always happy and she was always sad… I was fooled by him, he was my hero and I was sceptical of her…something I regretted profusely much later in life when I realised what the real story was… but during a home visit from OZ I apologised to her, shook her hand and hugged her and said I didn’t know… she didn’t say anything, remained her stoic self… but I think she understood…
I ran away as soon as I could, which was only late, at 17, on a Sunday morning. He said he would bring me back with the police if I ran away, so I stuck around. Until that Sunday. My friend who already had a car was waiting downstairs, to pick me up with my little bag of stuff I secretly packed, pretending to go to the once-a-year helping the local church with putting flyers in mailboxes. I dumped all the flyers in the next bin, and took off.
I was free. For the first time in my life, I was free. I was allowed to be happy, to laugh, and to speak my mind. No one would ever again tell me to shut up, that I’m too ugly to go out, or that I’m all but a total nuisance to everyone.
I will never, ever, forget this moment. Never.
To this day I am puzzled by teenagers choosing to stay with their parents, way until their twenties, even beyond. I often wonder what they might miss out on.
I had no money. We grew up with three foster boys my mum had taken on. One of them (G) is the brother I feel the closest to, he’s kind and humble and vulnerable. All qualities that were otherwise non existent in my family, rather frowned upon. G had already worked and lent me the money for the bond to rent an apartment. The apartment was tiny, full of cat piss carpets and the owner was happy anyone rented it. I paid G back in full two years later.
The 34sqm top floor unit (9th level no lift) became my first private haven. Over the next six years I became a person there. I made my own decisions. I finished school, worked nights and weekends to eat and pay the rent. Cleaning, petrol station, building sites. And whenever I could I would just stay home, rarely go out, because why the fuck would I leave my peaceful heaven when I didn’t have to?? Which remained my mindset, throughout my life, to this day…