My father was an evil man. He did things with his bare hands that some people cannot even dream of. He wrung the neck of a small dog that was yapping too much. He beat his pregnant wife until she lost the baby he fathered, but didn't want her to have. And twice he described in detail how he would kill me, what he would do with my body, and how he would dispose of it.
I was a good child. I still am. If another person tells me again that I'm too good, I'll ask them why more people are not good enough. Other people are so selfish they dehumanise humanity. It's not that I don't know what I am talking about. I saw my mother's face beaten like a side of lamb, and watched that father that I was geared to love strangle her with a phone cord. I know what good is. And I have seen its nemesis.
My father took me to the whore's terrace when I was eight years old. I sat in the empty parlour crowded with tapestry chairs and fox furs with beady eyes while the lady upstairs paid him in some kind of foreign currency.
I've seen it all. I saw something else. But it would make you sick.
I'm a good person. People take advantage of that all the time. All the time. At work. Best friends. My husband. People I trust. Cousins. Sisters. Sisters who I stood in front of to take their beating. Those sisters.
I'm not stupid. I have travelled further than most. I have endured heinous things and still held faith in mankind. I have three degrees from one of the world's best universities. And I don't lie.
In one of my undergraduate classes they played a "Getting to Know You" game called three truths and a lie. Sometimes Lady Luck is on your side, and this time I went first and stole the game. You want to hear my responses: I was abducted three times; I shot a gun in self defence; I lived incognito for three years; I was the prime suspect in a murder. Guess which one was the lie.
How about my sisters. They were with me for almost all of that colourful history. I was the eldest. Guess who copped it most? Guess who had to be mother and get them to school and look after them when a fight broke out and protect them from being physically harmed and abused. And guess what they did when they found out my father, with all his hard work and dealings, had amassed a very heavy six figure sum. And most of it was in cash.
My sisters, they are not sisters.
How about my mother. We aren't even going to go there. Some of what happened as a child, and what she did after I was abused by my ex-husband makes me physically sick.
So I have seen inhumanity first hand and close to home. And I have seen it in my dearest friends. But I'm not going to bore you.
Catharsis.
Just lately I had another one. Another inversion of care to such an extreme degree by my dear friend and partner. It came after a difficult year when I worked through one of those gruelling degrees under an aggressive mentor; when we lost a dear friend; when he started taking advantage of me in subtle sideways incisions that became long and deep. But I still trusted him. Trust was what I was working on after a whole marriage of infidelity. I had absolute faith.
I drove 3,000 kilometres. That was after the suicide attempt. You didn't know about that did you? What about all the self harm? Not on your radar?
I drove into the desert. I saw things you read in comic strips for a laugh, but it's the bare truth for some people.
Stop laughing.
I came back and tried to start again. All my friends -- like my family had done before with my ex-husband -- jumped on the star spangled bandwagon. My ex-husband had a very big salary and related cultural credibility. My partner was a great musician.
Who needs to be loyal to a good friend when you can jump on his festival float and wave to the crowd in a sequinned g-string leotard. So said all our friends. Such taste. Such finesse.
Some of them feigned a wave. Most of them just turned away.
I tried to start again. But no-one wants to make friends with someone who has been disfavoured and left in the bull dust. They'll pretend to your face, but that's all.
....
My father had a hideous temper. You would not see it coming. He had huge farmer's hands with sausage fingers. When he hit you, you went airborne.
My father did not swear. He did not drink. He did not do road rage. Even though he was born overseas and spoke with a thick accent, the worst he'd ever say was "You continental flip!".
I swear. I drink a little, but I've never been drunk. I do road rage with a filthy vocabulary when I'm in the car alone. But I don't have a temper like my father's. And I don't do physical violence.
When I've told people about my father, some of them think I must be like him -- that I must be violent and a criminal too. But I'm not. Everyone will tell you I'm as honest as they come. It's true.
But lately, I'm so angry. I'm so tired of being betrayed. I'm so tired of being scapegoated for other peoples' fears and weaknesses. I'm so tired of being a stellar person and being left beaten and bleeding.
When you know people well, you get to know their secrets. And I know a secret or two about the people who've turned foul on me lately. I know enough to cause them, at the very least, deep shame. I know enough to cause them financial hardship. I know enough to have them harangued and harassed by the authorities for some time. And that close friend -- I know something that could ruin his life.
But I don't want to use it. I've been holding it off. I've been patient. I have taken care of that precious thing he left here. I have kept all his belongings safe and in good order.
And the others. I do not speak about them, because if I did, there would be strong words. I do not disabuse people of the warped stories those bandwagon jumpers have woven, or the faux care that my partner purported after he left. I just stay quiet.
Catharsis.
I've been trying to start again. I buy my friends' music, I support their album fundraisers, I review their albums. I send them public posts of support. They do not even acknowledge me at gigs or send me a text to say thank you.
I was their friend. I did not walk out like he did. I gave him space. I didn't even tell him about the suicide attempt or the self-harm because I did not want to upset him.
They all think I'm not strong enough.
They think what I feel is too extreme. That I should get over it, despite the suddenness.
Despite the fact that we were so close for so many years.
Despite the fact that he promised he would not disappear. But did.
Despite the fact that he said he was devoted right until the end. But started sleeping with someone just days afterwards -- before we'd even worked out what happened. And that's when the self-harm started. And soon after was when I made the suicide plan. I knew, even before he told me. We were so close, I could feel it. And I was right -- right to the day.
But today I had enough. Today, again, I offered my hand in friendship. And he walked away.
Like my mother's face, I did not have the cheek to turn.
I'm tired. And I'm sick of all this callousness. This unjustified heartlessness.
And I think about what I know, and what I can do.
Catharsis.
