• 2 November 2011 •

People still ask me this question regularly and I’m not sure the answer will ever change –

“Did you enjoy being pregnant”?

Ha, fuck no.

I gained 22kg’s in 9 months. I was moody as fuck. I was fat. I was so scared about giving birth, holy fucking shit.  I was still working and had only just started out in the industry I had always wanted to be in – seemed to be the only one out of the two of us who actually gave a fuck about working. I constantly felt sick.  All I wanted to do was sleep or eat. My breakfast consisted of milk and custard pies. It was crazy, I was crazy – and for me, ugh, I think I’ll pass on pregnancy again thank you!

J. only ever had a couple of jobs here and there while we were together. Funny story, I started to drive his car to work every day because he randomly stopped going into his. I had no idea why and when I asked he told me there was “no work” and “not to stress”. Visiting my parents one night (Mum & step-Dad) and Dad told me he had heard a story, one of J, being in an altercation with his boss at work. Subsequently (and unbeknownst to me), J. had been fired. The car I was driving had his fucking tool box in the boot and I didn’t even fucking know…

This man couldn’t even hold a job because of his violent behaviour.

So, we were fucking broke.  His mother was taking us shopping every other weekend to buy baby things.  If it wasn’t for her and her purse, our daughter would have been born, we would have had nothing and been exceptionally unprepared. We also shared a house mate and unfortunately, all I can say about that is, she was the bane of my existence and no shit, every pregnant women’s worst nightmare.

From about 32 weeks I really started to feel the pinch in my pregnancy. I would rarely come out of my bedroom and was mildly depressed. There were parties being had at my house every other weekend, the house was always a mess and I was the only sucker that ever cleaned it, our house mate leached off J. and I financially, as if we weren’t already fucking struggling.  J. had provided me with next to no emotional support and I felt like I had been going through the whole experience on my own.

Fast forward to the day before I went into labour. I was 36 weeks pregnant, it was Tuesday, 1 November 2011.  J. and I had an argument, oh wow, no fucking way?  An argument? Yes way.

It started because I was moody and hormonal over the housemate continually doing sweet fuck all and us having to do everything for her. As per usual, my opinion wasn’t warranted, and the argument escalated.  I remember not wanting to take his fucking shit that day.  I remember thinking maybe he wouldn’t fire up as much when I went to defend myself because I was pregnant. So, I found a voice and we began to go tow to tow.

I had to be careful when we did this, sometimes I knew how it was going to end and asked myself why I would even bother with him, or the argument, but he would persist with or without a reaction from me. One wrong word would tick him off and towards the end I knew all the signs.  His eyes would go black, like black, his chest would pump up and he would get ready to charge at me from wherever he was.

He threw me onto the bed onto my back, he sat on my legs, leaning over me looking into my eyes with his arms holding my arms behind my head. He wouldn’t let them go and had a really tight grip on them.  I was yelling at him, telling him to get off me.  He eventually stood up.  He smashed the chest of drawers and by smash I mean – took every drawer apart, smashed them into pieces and threw every piece of clothing I owned across the room, telling me to get the fuck out of the house, which by the way, was my mothers.

He grabbed me from the bed and threw me across the room at the wall.  I sat there curled in a ball, crying. Begging him to leave me alone, telling him he was going to bring on labour if he didn’t.  Eventually, he left the bedroom.  I cried so much when he did.  I turned all of the lights off and locked the bedroom door so J. couldn’t come back in.  I remember having to clean up the mess as best I could, but it was more than obvious something had happened there that day.

A fair few hours had passed. As per usual J. had started doing all the right things to “say sorry”.  The house was clean, dinner was cooked, he was waiting on me hand and foot. Usual bullshit. We lay in bed that night, my back was facing his as it always would. He tried it on, like he always did- especially after arguments like we had that day, which, disgusts me and is a story for another day…

I went to the loo later that night and realised something strange was happening.  I asked J. to take me to the hospital.  They did that fucking thing with their fingers where they check how far dilated you are – fuck me, and they told me I was 2cm and to go home.  They said to expect to go into active labour sometime over the next twenty-four hours.

Yeah ok, I’m not fucking ready for this…

We went home.  I lay in bed and think about the next twenty-four hours and what I was about to endure.  I still wonder to this day if the altercation between J. and I that day had any way contributed to my early labour.  I was only thirty-six weeks. I didn’t get very much sleep that night.  I remember feeling tiny pains in my stomach thinking, hmm, this is ok, I guess. Took a couple of Panadol at about 2:00am and attempted to pass out.

Things got a little more serious come 10:00am the next morning.  These little pains were coming on a little bit more and they were also starting to hurt.  Anyone who knows me, knows I am such a fucking woos, ha. I remember finally deciding to call mum.  I’d been trying to not really think about what was happening to my body up until this point.  I remember being on a ball, walking around, thinking, nah, ok, fuck I can actually do this, right?

Mum comes, I’m in the shower, she comes to see me through my bedroom and I’m crying. She tells me to get in the car and says she will take me to hospital.  Lach was in the car. He was in the back and I remember him laughing at me because I was making all sorts of weird noises. We arrive at the hospital and fuck me; the nurses do that thing again – “4cm’s” she says.

I probably could have hit that nurse. Being told you are 4cm’s dilated when you are in all sorts of fucked up pain, is not cool. I just wanted this shit over and done with, but I had 6cm to go and I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to cope. I was sobbing and screaming from the pain. J. was loving the laughing gas and food from the Hospital café though. He kicked me out of the shower at one point because he had to use the toilet.  He comes back out saying he needed to go home – the hospital food had given him a stomach ache. I could have killed him. He obviously didn’t leave he just self-medicated some more.

Safe to say, the whole of Kalgoorlie would have heard me screaming at the hospital that day, until I yelled at my midwife and demanded morphine. 

Shit happened real quick (maybe a little too quick) after that needle in the bum.

7:22pm on Wednesday, 2 November 2011, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl.  Her eyes were so big and her limbs were so long. She had no hair and was so quiet and content. Mischa was honestly the most beautiful baby I had ever seen.

Those pains in my stomach were finally non-existent to, thank fuck.

I was so fucking high though. Holy shit. I remember her laying in my arms and me looking at her thinking, wow, what the fuck just happened. I had some serious battle scars too that attracted the attention of a fair few nurses and one doctor, but that situation didn’t phase me one fucking bit.

Happy as a pig in shit, I walked out of the birthing suite pushing my baby girl into our hospital room. I couldn’t stop staring at her. She amazed me. Her cry amazed me. The fact I could distinctly tell who she was just by hearing her cry, amazed me more.

Was I ready to be a mum? Fuck no.  Was I happy about the idea at first? Fuck no. Will I ever regret having her? Fuck no.

My daughter has been a pillar of strength for me and the day she was born I knew within my heart I needed to do everything within my power to guide her and protect her.  She re-lit the fire inside my soul and made me feel like everything was going to be ok.  She made me feel safe for the first time in a long time. I finally wasn’t alone, and I had so many more reasons now to leave the situation I was in.

Much to my surprise, my mum eventually questioned me about the night before the birth.  She said she noticed bruises all up my arms and the room (obviously). She told me she wasn’t “stupid” and knew what was going on. I feel like having Mischa only made my family become more protective over me and us, to the point they started to voice their opinions a lot more.

I knew my life wasn’t meant to stay in Kalgoorlie.  I needed a way out, desperately.  If I was ever going to be on my own with a child, I needed to be able to work, and live in a nice, cheap house, and build networks and for some reason, Kalgoorlie never felt like home to me.

So, I set off on a mission to get our asses to Perth and used J. and his family to my advantage to do so.

When a fire starts to burn, right

closeup photo of fire during night time

J. and I were officially an item. Praise the fucking lord, no one would have to listen to me harp on about the situation anymore, or complain, or cry. I got what I wanted, right? J. was my “boyfriend”.

Our intimate relationship is a hard one for me to publicly talk about and in some ways has contributed to these few blogs taking so long to write.  He is however, a huge contributing factor for me wanting to start a blog and I can say, this experience over the past few months has been extremely beneficial for me.

We had a party to go to one Saturday night.  Parties were fun as fuck, but J. and I drunk, in public, around other people – would often mean the night ending in an argument.  Jealousy was a big issue in our relationship and I would often find myself in all sorts of trouble just looking in the general direction of a guy.

I vaguely remember standing around a bonfire in the backyard of this party.  There was a group of us.  I can’t specifically recall what happened to start bickering between J. and I, but to be completely honest, it would have been something very insignificant given the history of our arguments and how they began.

We were egging each other on.  Saying nasty things to each other.  I knew he was jealous, he knew I was jealous, so we would play at each other’s game.  Until he became so angry, he threw his drink, turned around and burnt his suit jacket on the bonfire – to the point where he had to throw the whole god damn thing in the fire.

The argument between us escalated to the front of the house.  I remember us screaming at each other.  I then remember being on the ground. He had pushed me and then grabbed my hair, he was calling me all sorts of names and then dragged me down the street using the fistful of hair he just grabbed. I know there was more yelling, I know I screamed.  I know people were out the front of the house and could hear that something was going on.

When it settled down a little bit, some of the girls from the party came out to get me and took me inside to the bathroom, looking over me, asking me what the fuck had just happened.  I didn’t give up much at that point and tried to play it off to be nothing as much as I could.

All I could think about were certain things I had said, in the heat of the moment, in retaliation to what he had said to me, and thought maybe, I had really upset him and the way he had just treated me was justified, because of the things I said?

I remember seeing some friends outside of the shops that night, they were friends I used to associate with almost daily – people I still think about often.  They asked me if I was okay and asked me why I was still with J.  I couldn’t answer that. I remember feeling so numb and empty. I had no words for them.  They tried to reiterate the need for me to leave him, but for some reason, I couldn’t understand why they were saying these things to me, or why it was right for me to leave, or why the situation I had landed myself in that night was, in hindsight, so wrong.

I feel like I could sit here and write a series of paragraphs outlining the abuse I suffered at the hands of J., but I am not going to do that. This was only the beginning of what I endured and we would be here all fucking day if I told you all the stories I had.

J. was a violent man. As our relationship became more and more intimate – him moving in with me, our families meeting, our finances entwining (him having access to my bank account), he started to control me more. Control the decisions I made, things I wanted to do, party’s I wanted to attend. Fuck, even the clothes I would wear. Our friends became aware of it.  Our families became aware of it.  I can recall occasions where J. has abused me in front of people, including some of our friends and our family, and eventually, this behaviour became expected (I think anyway) of the two of us.  The people closest to me had no idea what to do or how to help me, but I could tell they were worried and I could tell they desperately wanted me to leave.

Being told I was “stupid for staying” was common, but after every argument he would beg for my forgiveness.  Promise me he would get help and promise me he would never do anything like it to me again.  These promises became more and more empty as time passed.

To the contrary, if I had stepped out of line, defended myself or spoken up to him and the shit he was saying, he would make me feel like I was the one who started the situation, or I was the one who deserved “what I got” because of what I had said, or did.  This behaviour is seriously manipulating and after a while, really fucks with your head.

I can remember all the times I tried to leave the relationship, I would take my things, or ask him to leave my house, sometimes the Police would do that for me – and he would always find a way back.  Whether that be calling me a million times, crying, becoming exceptionally emotional and needy, threatening suicide, whatever it was and whatever he did – it always worked.

I had just turned 18.  I remember feeling a sense of independence about me at this point in my life.  I had just got my license, tripped down to Perth and hit up some wicked music festivals.  J. and I had a wedding to attend in the February/March of 2011.  I remember looking back on the photos of that day thinking, dang girl, you need to lay off the chocolate, or whatever the fuck it was having you stack on the k-g’s.

Turns out, 6 weeks later, I would find out I was up the fucking duff and eating chocolate and gaining a significant amount of weight was only just the beginning of this next little journey.

“Fuck. I’m fucking pregnant. What the actual fuck”… was said on repeat for about 3 hours after I found out.  Guys, I had just turned 18 for fuck sake.

Anyway, getting to this point of our relationship is where the writing becomes easier.  Easier in the sense that I still remember everything from the day I found out I was pregnant to the day I left, so, so vividly.

So… that is how I will now continue.

I, Moan.


After J. and I were introduced, we began to converse more.  Ordinarily, our conversations were had via text message and he was very vague towards me in person. We would interact with each other most nights I would stay at his house, but then around people he would shy away and make me feel like he didn’t even know who I was.

We would pass out at night in the same bed, yet I would wake up in the morning confused, next to no one.  I could never catch him during the day, as this was the time he wanted to spend the least with me.  No shit though, he would come and go from “the Mansion”, and then message me or call me from down the street when he left, telling me to meet him at his car, or that he would come back past in half an hour to pick me up.  Behaviours like this didn’t make me feel good at the time, but in saying that, I thought he was the “bees knees” and there had to be a reason he did everything the way he did.

At least that’s what he would tell me.

I was of the firm belief all the friends we shared were mutual friends, irrespective of the difference in age between us.  For the next six months, things carried on as they were. We partied, I slept at his house, we would text back and forth and I’m sure by this point everyone knew him and I were somewhat, a thing.  I certainly felt that way and he also started to make me feel that way.

It was Australia Day 2008 or 2009.  I cant recall exactly, I just know it was Australia Day and I was underage.

Everyone had decided to hit the pub, wait what? Hit the pub? I can’t go to the pub. Fuck, I hated it when everyone wanted to go to the pub.  But, with a few friends in tow and a fair few shots of vodka up our sleeves, off we went. Little did I know I would actually be allowed in, but it was my lucky fucking day.  The “Rock Inn”, Boulder, it was. One of our friend’s, mum’s, aunt’s, dad’s, sister’s, dog-sitter owned the pub, so ID check was waived, I’m in and subsequently given free reign. Pub’s really aren’t much fun, are they?

Anyway, along comes J. When we were drinking I always found that he was a little more, open about us – I guess.  I remember getting to the pub before he did and when he arrived he came over to me and asked me for something. I can’t recall what exactly, but know it was something like money, or cigarettes, or a few drinks from the bar.  I remember not having a lot of anything on me and was feeling pretty stoked the day had only cost me about $35 bucks, considering I leached financially off my parents…

So, I said, no.

I was shocked by his reaction. He became angry towards me and we ended up having an argument.  In all honesty, we had had a few unrelated disagreements prior to this particular day, but, our “relationship” had never been taken out in public to the extent it was at this time.

I remember leaving the pub. I received a call from one of my friends, checking in, asking me where I was.  I explained that I had to leave after what had happened.  I asked her who she was with and she told me she was walking home with J.

J. had company. J. was also really intoxicated. Ok, weird. With someone?

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I remember not thinking much of it initially, until I saw him strolling in the front yard.  J. had his arms around this “lady” – she definitely looked more his age than I did.  He was flirting with her, he was introducing her to everyone, he was walking her around the house making her feel welcome for fuck sake showing her where everything was – I am completely and utterly non-existent to him at this point.

A few hours later, (again) in a situation not knowing how to comprehend what the fuck is going on around me – he decides to fucking leave with her?!! Are you actually fucking kidding me, is this happening? Right, that’s it, I’m out – lets go.  I needed to go home and be in my own space. I felt my heart ripping from my chest and my head was so confused by his actions.

You know what happened next?  He called me in the early hours of the morning, obviously after he was done with her, asking to come and “pick me up”. Do you think I said ok? Well fucking der, because back then I was dumb, foolish, insecure and immature.

This Australia Day was the day J’s relationship with Naomi, “I Moan spelt backwards” began and lasted for the most part of the next 6 months.  “I Moan” was married and used to take J. back to her family home and fuck him while her husband was away at work. Charming right? J. would utilise me in between – sometimes keeping his relationship with her a secret, sometimes not.  It would all depend what mood he was in that day, or weekend.

This, was how our relationship began. Insecurity and doubt. It was during this time I refused to let him go and allowed him to continue doing this to me over and over again. It was towards the end of his now, affair, I like to call it, he was provided with an ultimatum…

Her, (other women – turns out, she wasn’t the only one) – or me, openly me.

He finally chose me.



I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby.

grayscale photography of five people walking on road

I hated school.  Like legit, hated school.  I remember most of my high-schooling life to consist of daytime television and… napping!  My friends would often visit and make a point of the fact they hadn’t seen me for most of the week, but that never seemed to phase me.  It turned out to be genetic… that’s what I tell myself anyway (thanks, Lach!).

I wasn’t overly popular at school either.  I had a handful of friends during the years of 8 to 10.  3 of which I will forever hold very close to my heart. During our early high school days, we rarely spent a weekend away from each other.  In year 10, things changed, as all things do as you transition your life through high school. This for me though, meant deciding to move away from the network of people I had built relationships with for the preceding three years, as I was determined to change schools.

During this time Adam had decided to move to Kalgoorlie, him and Mum ran a pub, Mum left for a little “holiday” turn 6-month permanent stay in Lancilin, effectively leaving 16-and-a-half-year-old me to my own devices with my 21-and-a-half-year-old brother. At the time, this didn’t particularly phase me – it just encouraged me to wag school more… Until I finally took the plunge and dropped out mid-way through Year 11.  I did have a job though, I was a sales assistant at Supre every Thursday night and Saturday.  Like, der. Why wouldn’t you leave school?

General disclaimer: everything I speak about in my blog relates to past experiences only. Don’t take this shit and run with it like you know what I get up to in my day-to-day, because well, you don’t.

I am also fiercely sarcastic.

Of continued interest to me at the ages of 15 to 17 were three things; alcohol, drugs and boys.  I met my first boyfriend when I was 13. He was 15 and a bit of a Grubb.  For the avoidance of doubt, yes, I was exposed to sex at a young age. Cool, so what? I have particular morals and ground rules when it comes to teaching my daughter things in life, let me tell you…

I will never forget the day he dumped me.  I was casually strolling down Campbell street with him beside me riding on his “bmx” bike.  He looked at me after genuinely engaging in conversation with me for about 15 minutes prior and said,

“yeah, so – I won’t be doing this anymore, like… you and I”

and rode off, before I could even comprehend what the fuck was going on. So, we still on for tonight mate, or?

Oh well, we live and we learn.  Or do we?

A fair few months later, I met my first big-time boyfriend.  You know, the one your Mum meets for the first time and is like, allowed to sleepover?  Maybe that was just my household. Anyway, he was cool, he was 16ish at the time and I was 14-15ish (my recollection on exact time is shocking).

He had a car, he was in a band, his family even took me to London for a wedding and I ended up jet-setting all over Europe enjoying the likes of Amsterdam and Ibiza – just your average day in the life of a 16-year-old I guess.

To say the least, this trip Buckled me. This relationship taught me a lot though and he was honestly, my first love.

But, he happened to introduce me to ecstasy and that very quickly become my second.  With the introduction to that world became a world I never knew I was going to get caught up in.

I remember he used to sell it.  I can’t recall how he used to come into such large quantities of it, I mean Jesus, I never knew what it was before I met him.  We would take it together and get caught up in all the great wonders of the world. Because he sold it though, we eventually met people who did it – and when you meet people who do it, you are bound to make friends, right?  With new friends comes new influential factors, new decisions, some smart, some dumb. I can’t quite recall exactly how I was feeling the moment I decided to end this relationship, but I will say, it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

I know now though…

It ended (subconsciously) when I met a guy I didn’t know I would end up spending the next 7 years with.  A tall, dark skinned, dark haired, slimly built man.  He had big beady eyes and would wear cool clothes and had a really nice smile.

I’ll never forget the day his “hotted-up” Holden Commodore (Clubsport) rumbled in the driveway of “The Mansion” aka, the most run-down house on the corner block of Brookman & Lionell Street, Boulder.  The place where we partied all night and all over again the next day.  Mostly, on a budget of passion pop and cheap tobacco.  He walked in with such swagger.  He seemed so cool, and care free, and like, popular.  He was 8 years older than me and to this day, I’m still not quite sure I will ever be able to describe the initial attraction, or more, inquisitive feeling I felt that day.  I wanted his attention and his attention is what I would get.

He was around at the time I went through my break up and he seemed to care about how I was feeling about that.  He also knew my Mum wasn’t in town (and Dad was non-existent) so he became quite the support person for me.  He was also “into” the same things I was “into” at that time, which is another reason why I think we got along so well.  We drank alcohol daily – man, I could drink when I was younger, smoke pot, drink some more and just party.  To say the least, the group of friends I had when I was 16 to 19 loved to party, but of course they did when they are all aged 21 to 25, right?

No shit, I really, really liked this guy.  Think about it – “troubled” teenage girl meets, semi-troubled but acclaims to have his “shit in a pile” 24-year-old, male, who wants to take “troubled” teenage girl under his wing and “guide her” and “protect her”.

Fuck, if I had the chance to stand in front of 16-year-old me, just to try and knock some sense into her – I would knock her over the fucking head ten times over.

Remember that song?

We pulled into Kalgoorlie on our way home from Esperance one weekend. It was sometime towards the end of 2005.  We were on Hannan Street just outside of Amcal – I was hanging to get away from my brothers at that point.

“Well, this is it – this is Kalgoorlie” Dad said as he looked at us with a smug look on his face, as if we were meant to be excited about the whole ordeal.  I remember getting out of the car looking around, seeing nobody.  It was a ghost town, but Dad assured us it was only because it was a public holiday.  If only that was the case and I didn’t end up growing up to resent Kalgoorlie as much as I resent him, ha.  Sorry to all my Kalgoorlie friends, it’s nothing personal.

Over the next 6 weeks we packed up, said our goodbyes and made our way to the 6430 zip code. I was pissed off. We left Adam behind, Mitchell was confused but was young, so I felt like he was going to be okay and Lachy, well Lachy was just Lachy – still annoying the absolute shit out of everyone & couldn’t have given two fucks about what was going on. Maybe that was just an age thing…

The first few months in Kal were okay. I was thrown into the last semester of year 7 and started that off mixing with the “wrong crowd”. I was quickly saved by the “right crowd” and given the run down on the dos and donts of North Kalgoorlie Primary School – one of them being to not associate myself with who I was at the time and to get new shoes ASAP. Who knew Etnies were the “in thing” back then & I rolled in with a ten dollar pair from Kmart – not cool. To be fair, I was lucky enough to share in some of the most amazing friendships during this period of my life & I’ll be forever thankful for having met those people.

Mum went away at some point for something. Dad was in control, which meant a blazae approach to our homework and takeaway for dinner, fo sure! We went to Hungry Jacks and dined in that night for the first time, ever.  I remember sitting across from Dad. Mitchell was to my left and Lachy had pissed off to the playground.  Dad was on his phone… Like, constantly on his phone. Kinda like everyone is now only this was 2006 and he was using a 3315. I asked him who he was texting and he told me it was Mum.  That’s weird, I thought – Mum is on a plane on her way to Perth, but okay…

We didn’t speak as often as we used to about stuff.  We had drifted apart the past few years, so I didn’t really feel comfortable questioning him anymore at that point.

Not long after we arrived home we sat in the lounge room. Nothing unusual. He sat next to me and after about 10 minutes he got up to go to the bathroom. I looked down and next to me was his phone. I freaked, but had this overwhelming feeling in my stomach that Mum wasn’t the reason he had hardly spoken two words to us kids that afternoon.

I learnt to trust in the instinctive feelings you get in your gut that day, as it turned out the endless serenades of “Train: Drops of Jupiter”, cards, letters, presents & flowers were all just a facade to keep Mum completely unaware of the fact he was cheating on her, again.

Only this time, with the woman he left our family for.

After this everything happened so fast. Dad was gone & Mum was a mess. He had moved in with this new woman and completely forgotten about us. Our family had gone from this solid, loving environment to a hostile, argumentative one.  Mum and Dad hated each other and I couldn’t understand why Dad was trying to hurt Mum more than he already had and hurt me too, and Mitchell, and Lachy. What was so good about this other woman? How was she better than my Mum and our family?  Why the fuck did he bring us to Kalgoorlie, only to abandon us 8 months later?

I was 13 when I cut all ties with my Dad – for the first time. I pretended I didn’t care. I got my back up and took a defensive approach.  I was looking after Mum & wiping away her tears.  I was getting my brothers to school and making sure everything was in check on the days my Mum couldn’t.  I was telling my Mum everything was going to be okay because that’s all I ever wanted to believe, but things for me only got worse.

To this day I still ask myself: if my relationship with my Dad was different, would I have ended up going down the same path? Would I have met and trusted the same people? If he didn’t leave me vulnerable and confused and exposed to so many different things at such a young age, would my life be different?

I’m not sure.

The Journey Begins…


I always wondered what the people were like who started these types of things.  How they came up with anything relevant to say or where their stories came from. After pondering on the same thought for quite some time, whilst thinking about all the stories I had that were relative to the things I was reading, I began to think…

“oh, fuck” – maybe I could actually be “one of those people”.

I never gave writing much thought. Until I realised I was getting so lost in my own thoughts, I needed to look for an outlet.  It’s weird, introverted people can see me as really extroverted and overwhelming at times. I am the type of person to strike up a conversation with anyone at any time and often give people a little bit more than they bargain for. No doubt leaving them with a story to tell their loved ones on their arrival home (ha ha).

I’m an open book really… Pun intended?

I have also always wanted to share my experiences with people.  Experiences I feel other people, especially woman, can relate to. There is always going to be that looming thought in the back of my mind though, that no one will ever cross this page… but, I’m ignoring that looming thought – for now.

I’m 26 years old and am a mother to a beautiful little girl. Mischa is her name. She’s 6 (yes I was 19 when I had her) and if you had of asked me merely 6 months ago what it was like to be a mother, I’d probably be frank and say, “yeah, not my gig”. But, you’ve caught me on a good day and lately her company has meant more to me than anyone else’s and I think that is pretty special. Definitely not going down the “mummy blogger” road (yet) though, so, if parenting and children and all things alike aren’t really your thing – rest assured they aren’t mine either, so keep reading.

The stories I want to share are about my life. Parental breakdowns. Intimate relationships. Addiction. Love. Heartbreak. Grief.

My ultimate goal? To openly talk about things that have happened in my life and connect with others who have experienced similar things. To raise awareness and to share knowledge, because i’m a firm believer of “knowledge is power”.

My family is quite hard to get your head around, but to put things into context, here it goes. I am the only girl and have 5 brothers. Adam is my eldest brother and we share the same Mum. Nathan is my older brother and we share the same Dad. Mitchell and Lachy are two of my younger brothers and we share the same Mum and Dad.  Connor is my littlest brother and we share the same Dad. God, thank fuck that’s done.

Growing up with brother’s was hard. Unemotional at times. Too playful at other times. The age gap between Adam and I and Mitchell and I was 5 years, Lachy and I 7, so I often found our relationships to be quite absent. My mum and I had a good relationship, but thinking about it now there isn’t anything overly interesting about that relationship as a child that sticks out at me as something I need to talk about here.

My Dad however. Well, my Dad is a different story.

26 years ago life was pretty simple for me.  I remember the sweet things of my childhood. Like, my Dad dropping me to school in his run-down skyline, swinging past the convenience store on the way, having him lecture me about the need for me to want to be more than a “trolley boy” at a supermarket when I grow up. The constant outings over the weekend to countless football games.  The Saturday morning “paper and super-shake” run’s, followed by netball games where he would be at the sideline giving everyone a piece of his mind, coaching me over time during quarter-time breaks. Enjoying this weird little connection that we shared. A bond. It was like we both knew we were similar to each other, wired the same and growing up Dad was the one I looked up to and wanted to be like. His opinion was the most important and was the one that genuinely mattered. Like fuck I was going to be a trolley boy when I grew up.

We had a good life in Perth I thought. This is where we lived for the most part of my childhood.  Yeah, okay so what we moved 13 times in 11 years we just didn’t like staying in the one spot for too long.  In terms of friends and family and having everything we needed at the tip of our fingers – we had that.

I was 11 when we were told we were going to be moving to Kalgoorlie. For those of you who don’t know – Kalgoorlie is the red dirt capital of Western Australia. A small, run down, gold-mining community. Any normal person who goes there to work generally works a mining type job, gets in and gets out. But, no. Not my dad. He decided to uproot our whole family for a manager’s position at an old people’s home. You can imagine how that made me feel only just coming into my teenage years about to start high school.  Going from the catholic church of Ursula Frayne to the streets of Kalgoorlie is quite the fucking contrast let me tell you.

I started resenting him a lot after this. I sulked and sulked and ended up putting it down to the fact I was pre-teen, pre-menstrual, and just hated life. When in actual fact, as I grew older and thought more intensely about the situation it became apparent to me that I did in fact, grow hatred towards my father – and it was for a lot more than just, moving me to Kalgoorlie.

He walked out on my mum about 8 months after we moved. This is a family that had been together for nearly 15 years. A family that had just turned their whole life upside down and needed each other.  A family that literally had no one else but each other, and he walked the fuck out.

I’m acting like I’m surprised he walked out, when in actual fact – I’m not. I knew this was imminent about 3 years before it happened, but didn’t really understand the concept or understand what I knew about the situation for that matter.

I’ll take you back those few years. I was 9 maybe 10. I remember coming home from school and the mood being really off. A really close family friend who happened to live next door at the time, came to take me for a walk. I thought nothing of it really, we used to do this on the regular. Then, as we walked back up the hill towards our home I saw my Mum, sobbing, ducking her head into the back of a taxi and just, leaving. She didn’t even say goodbye. I knew at this point, something between the two of them was not right.

I lay in Mum and Dad’s bed that night, as this was often where I slept before they would move me into my own bed. Mum was gone. I was so confused.  Dad had mentioned nothing about it and was continuing about his business as if we were just supposed to accept Mum was gone, yet we had no idea when she was coming back.  I was sad. I was even more confused. Is it me? Why the fuck has Mum walked out when Mum has been the one that has held this family together?

Oblivious to my Dad, was me – laying in his bed going to sleep. On the front veranda he sat with three of his close friends at the time. I listened closely and when I heard the words, “and before I knew it boys, one thing led to another and I was back at her place” come out of his mouth, my heart sank. Wait, what? I only see this happening on the “Bold and the Beautiful” when I’m secretly watching it at my aunt’s house – I have no comprehension of this actually happening in real life.  Yet, here I am, listening to my Dad talk to his friends about the time he cheated on my Mum.