School came easily for me. I saw how others suffered to grasp maths and science rules, but I just seemed to understand them. This was a curse and a gift, in that I was often bored, which led to too much time to act out.
I tried marijuana for the first time when I was in year seven. I was twelve but looked fourteen. Dope was a great release for a while. As long as I was awake, I was stoned. This went on for about six months but my grades were still great, my sports achievements were many and, most importantly, I never missed a shift at the shop. To this day I am grateful to my parents for instilling in me an almost obsessive work ethic.
The attention of men was like an addiction for me. I had little positive attention from my family, but I could always rely on an endless stream of attention from male school friends or customers from the shop. This was almost exclusively reserved to come-ons or physical compliments, which made me feel noticed and relevant. Over time my interest in men seemed to dissipate as did my addiction to validation. I began to really fit in, I attempted to mimic the other girls in my peer group—the way they talked, walked and dressed. I desperately tried to lose my accent and stopped responding to my parents in their language. My efforts paid off and my friendships developed to the point that I felt liked and accepted, not necessarily for my uniqueness, but for being kind, good natured and fun to be around no matter what my appearance. My friends gave me the time, acceptance and attention I was craving.
Childhood Ends at Eleven
It was blistering hot and humid and I could not sleep in my sweat-soaked bed, so I sat on the window sill trying to conjure up a breeze by sheer wishful thinking. From my bedroom, I could see that the car’s interior light was on in our carport. I thought one of the doors had been left open by one of my brothers. Keen for a reprieve from the confines of my bedroom, I made my way downstairs, past my parents watching TV, to check the car. I checked all of the car’s doors and they were all closed yet the light was still on. I realised that the central switch must have been in the on position. As I climbed in to switch it off, a man jumped up behind me, groped me with one hand, and claimed to be holding a knife in his other hand. Although I couldn’t see a knife I wasn’t about to question him. I could smell alcohol on his breath. He told me to take my nightie off. I didn’t have any pants on but I didn’t want to argue. I had never been naked in front of anyone before, and I really wasn’t ready to be, but I knew that if I was to survive this I had to do as I was told.
We were now face to face. I knew this man, or so I thought. He was the elder brother of a friend from youth group, his sister was in my class. I had served him in our shop almost daily. I took my nightie off, slowly. He started trying to kiss me with his tongue, and my body stiffened in repulsion. I was petrified.
He began wrestling with his belt buckle while one hand remained on my breasts. He couldn’t undress one handed as well as manoeuvre me into a position where he could have sex with me, so he got into the car with me. I was naked, vulnerable, and every survival instinct was itching within me. I inched my way to the other door, knowing it was futile as only minutes ago I had taken pride in locking it. I knew what was expected of me but didn’t want to do it.
Like a dream, my father came up behind the man and hit him with a baseball bat. I had been saved! But I was sorry it was my father who had saved me. I thought, Oh shit, now I have to thank him. Isn’t that horrible? I was nearly raped and all I could think of was that I might have to touch my father. I wasn’t grateful. He told me to get out of the car. I told myself to act grateful and put my arms around him. I gave him the most sincere hug I could muster. Obviously it wasn’t sincere enough, as he went absolutely cold. I knew then that he had seen what he had wanted to see – and that my mother would take his side.
Despite this, I was taken to a hospital room and surrounded by four or more people all wearing white. I felt exposed, humiliated, confused and cold like I had never experienced before. They were asking me questions like: What did his penis look like? And how big were his fingers, did he insert them? I gave them no answers. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I just couldn’t speak, and maybe I didn’t know the answers.
I closed my eyes on the examination table and woke up in a dark police station confronted by two fat men. There were no niceties in this room, and particularly no sense of compassion. These men expected an explanation as to why I was out in the car that evening. It took all my strength, my pride and courage to speak, let alone relive my night. While I told the police my story, they sat opposite me with folded arms, arched eyebrows and pursed lips.