Not Your Ordinary Housewife

25





Returning to Melbourne was like sleeping with an old lover: everything was familiar. I had missed the ambience, the architecture . . . and the trams. I had never lived in a Melbourne without Dory, and felt her absence keenly. Even though the Templestowe house had a kitsch air of ‘nouveau riche-ness’, it suited our needs, with a creche and a primary school within walking distance.

Amazingly, Paul found employment at an advertising company. Designing loyalty-program flyers for car yards, it was a world away from his creative endeavours at Housewife Headquarters. Meanwhile, with my days to myself, I began painting and papermaking again. I craved adult company and listened religiously to the ABC’s Radio National with its array of arts and science programs. I was also reading prolifically, discovering new fiction such as the gems of Erica Jong and Lily Brett.

Part of me was sad to leave Canberra. I knew I would miss the vibrant office atmosphere and the few friends I’d made. As I settled into my full-time maternal role, I reflected that, despite our unmitigated financial losses, the excitement that had characterised our life had been undeniably alluring. It would be difficult, especially for Paul, to return to a mundane nine-to-five job.

It wasn’t easy to forgive Paul for losing the house and business, and I blamed myself for not having stood up to his powers of persuasion; he, of course, blamed the tax. I had been weak, forever acquiescing to his demands, but it was his manic greed that had been our undoing. Now we were suffering as a result.


Ultimately disillusioned, I began to investigate the possibility of leaving Paul. I was so tired of his roller-coaster lifestyle, lurching from one catastrophe to another. I gathered information from the Family Court about custody and divorce settlements. I wanted to move back to Balwyn and rang the original architect, who assured me a second-storey extension was feasible. The trustees, however, in their infinite wisdom, would not allow the proceeds from the sale of the Warrandyte house to be used for renovations. Stymied, I weakened once more in my resolve to separate.

Paul reconnected with his only two friends. Together with Ewan, he explored artistic projects involving neon; mostly, however, they simply smoked dope. Paul also met regularly for luncheon dates with Lloyd—when their busy schedules allowed. Inevitably, after talking to Lloyd, he would pressure me to dissolve my life interest in Dory’s estate. Frustrated that the trust deed prevented even me from directly accessing the funds, he sought ways in which to challenge her will.

‘Listen, Lloyd reckons it wouldn’t be too hard to overturn the trust.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to.’

‘But look at how they’ve f*cked you over,’ he said, pointing out how they didn’t let me renovate the Balwyn house. He also claimed they weren’t investing the funds effectively. I knew he was trying to wrest control of it from them to further his own ends.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘it was Dory’s wish, and I don’t want to counter that.’

Then he became abusive. ‘You’re a f*cking idiot. You’d just have to go to court.’

‘Leave me alone. You just want to get your hands on the money. Isn’t it enough that we’ve just lost the Canberra house and business?’

Paul hated the powerlessness he felt at not being able to control the situation. Even though he was enjoying the benefits the trust provided, it was ironically a perpetual reminder of his own financial failures. It became a source of constant antagonism between us, and I dreaded each time Paul saw Lloyd. I knew, however, that Lloyd was only currying favour with Paul, probably with sexual intent.

Back in Melbourne, I reconnected with my old MLC friends. To those who didn’t know of our illustrious bust, I glossed over my Canberra years; to those who did, all were tactful enough not to pry and I was grateful for their unconditional acceptance of me. And I started attending meetings at an organisation called Vanish, where there were lively discussions about adoption issues.

Even though I was trying to imbue a sense of normalcy and routine into our lives for the sake of the children, our marriage was becoming untenable. We were celibate, although I would occasionally relent after Paul begged for a hand job.

The humiliation he must have felt in general would have been enormous, yet somehow I knew he wouldn’t leave voluntarily. To his surprise, Brian had put Paul’s name on his life insurance policy, to be split four ways with his other sons and wife. Although he was touched by this gesture, Paul nevertheless frittered the money away.

His drinking worsened, but he refused to seek counselling. He took to having red wine enemas and masturbating in the garage. I would often find the evidence as I helped the children into the car. I developed the vital practice of scouting ahead to sanitise things, although on occasion a porn magazine would become visible as I reversed. There were also large red stains on the concrete where he had spilt the enema bladder while drunk.

Although I never witnessed him in the garage, in among the garden tools and storage boxes, I was deeply troubled by this behaviour. Whenever I broached the subject of us separating he would plead with me, saying that things would improve.

I missed the luxury of having my own bedroom as my nights were constantly interrupted by his fitful sleep and loud snoring. The quantity of alcohol in his body necessitated frequent nocturnal toilet breaks. Sometimes he was so drunk he would walk into the wardrobe and begin to urinate there, before I could spring out of bed and guide him to the ensuite. The floor around the lavatory would inevitably be flooded with urine as he missed the bowl completely. At other times he just peed into the basin, presumably thinking it was the toilet.

Often, he would stagger downstairs to the powder-room toilet, slipping as he went, sometimes bruising himself badly. One morning I awoke to a large faecal mass, tinged red by the wine, on the carpeted step.

Apart from his sleepwalking, he also began sleeptalking. Although usually totally incoherent, I could sometimes decipher references to people and projects at work. He began grinding his teeth so fiercely that the enamel was wearing away. A trip to the dentist resulted in an expensive contraption designed to lock his jaw, but he refused to wear it. I became severely sleep deprived and could barely rouse myself in the mornings. Shoshanna, although only ten, proved a wonderful help, often getting the two toddlers up.

I worried endlessly about Paul’s drinking and chain-smoking. On one occasion, he carelessly flicked a cigarette to the side of the house and the fence caught fire. If not for the quick-thinking actions of our neighbour, it could have been catastrophic.

Remarkably, he managed to hold down his advertising job while simultaneously teaching himself web design. Unfortunately, however, there were few jobs in this new field at that time.

But then the internet arrived. Always an early adopter of cutting-edge technologies, Paul acquired a high-speed connection and two email addresses when these were unheard of. By now expert in web design, he found a webmaster job at a fast-paced IT company, Sausage Software. As the business expanded I, too, began part-time work there.

Paul won numerous industry awards and boasted that he was the first in Australia to put ‘web designer’ on his tax return. Indeed, our accountant confirmed that there was as yet no ATO job code for this.

Later, he co-authored a textbook (entitled Designing Web Animation) that was distributed through New Riders, an imprint of publishing giant Macmillan. He was justifiably proud, although he maintained his passion was fiction writing. His New York editor waxed lyrical about his talent and raised the possibility of Paul writing a series of books. Unfortunately Paul misplaced this email and, by the time he responded, she’d commissioned somebody else.

After Sausage Software floated on the Australian Stock Exchange, there was a constant stream of press at the office, and we even got our photos in BRW magazine. Although lapping up the hype surrounding the dot.com bubble, Paul felt estranged from what he labelled the misogynistic culture that permeated the workplace.

In June 1996, Dr Rowland was tragically shot dead at his property outside Canberra. This dramatic event gained national headlines and was described as a gay hate crime. The ACT Chief Minister paid tribute to Peter Rowland in the Legislative Assembly and described his death as a great loss to AIDS activism. The brutality of the shooting affected Paul deeply, and he began using cocktails of prescription painkillers to knock himself out. Not surprisingly, his work was terminated; I decided to resign at the same time.

After duplication of X-rated videos was banned in the Northern Territory, Gerry relocated to Queensland’s Gold Coast to concentrate on publishing. Flesh was now in its 70th issue and he had acquired a stable of magazines. Paul was the obvious choice to edit his ‘jewel in the crown’, Australian Hustler. He stayed up north for five months, pressuring me to join him in Surfers Paradise permanently. But it was a relief for me to be alone with my children, without the constant stress he precipitated, and they too seemed calmer and more settled.


The fact was that Gerry couldn’t commit to offering Paul a contract, and I couldn’t commit to moving without one. I convinced him of the folly of the family relocating under these circumstances, but he became bitter at my refusal to move. So he returned to Melbourne in mid ’97; he then suffered long periods of unemployment and depression.

Unexpectedly, Saskia called to say that Omoe had died in Montreal. Omoe had been Paul’s surrogate mother when he was growing up, so this was devastating news. She had been the one constant in his troubled existence and the only person of whom he never spoke ill.

Shortly afterwards, we received further tragic news: Saskia herself was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. Presumably exacerbated by her lifelong habit of chain-smoking Dutch cigars, her prognosis was poor. Paul visited her in Amsterdam; he forgave her all her faults and returned with a long letter, a mea culpa of sorts, in which she apologised unreservedly for her role in his dysfunctional upbringing and the beatings he suffered at Vlad’s hands.

Paul reacted to both these events by cross-dressing and enemising with gusto. He refused to seek detox treatment for his alcohol abuse but, eventually, I convinced him to see a psychiatrist.

‘Well, Dr Roth doesn’t think I’m mentally ill,’ Paul informed me with assurance after several visits, as if vindicated. ‘He says I might have some mild personality disorder, but I’m certainly not schizophrenic. I’m far too grounded in reality.’

I was surprised by this diagnosis; I felt Paul probably did have some non-specific psychiatric illness. ‘Just make sure you’re completely honest with the doctor. Tell him everything—the cross-dressing, the enemising . . . and your compulsive inability to discard anything. That’s not normal.’

Paul ignored me. ‘And he reckons I’m definitely not a psychopath,’ he hissed angrily, alluding to my labelling him as such.

‘Yeah, well, that’s the thing about psychopaths,’ I said, calmly. ‘They’re very good at hiding it.’

‘Anyway, he wants to meet you for a session.’

‘Me? I’ve never had any psychological problems or addictions.’

‘No, it’s so he can get a handle on things. He reckons I’m the most complex case he’s ever had,’ said Paul arrogantly, wearing the doctor’s comments as a badge of honour. ‘He needs to see you to shed light on me.’

So I visited Dr Roth twice and poured out what I knew while he sat scrawling notes. Indeed, there was much Paul had omitted. In the end, the doctor confessed that Paul’s unspecified disorder might be untreatable; nonetheless, he continued to prescribe anti-depressants.



One evening, we were watching a deeply disturbing doco about Marc Dutroux, the Belgian psychopath who had kidnapped, tortured and sexually abused six young girls in a dungeon. Suddenly Paul left the room. I ran out after him and found him sitting on the stairs, his head in his hands. Seeing tears streaming down his cheeks, I consoled him.

‘You know, pet, I think I was abused as a child. I can’t remember any specific incident, but I’ve got this feeling . . . a déjà vu.’

‘Oh, my God, that’s horrendous.’ I tenderly put my arm around his shoulders.

Paul continued, saying he couldn’t explain it, but was sure it had happened—when Saskia dumped him in Canada for a year.

‘So can you remember anything?’ I was hoping for a speck of recollection; a scintilla of . . . something.

‘No, nothing. But I know I returned with a paralysed anal sphincter.’ I thought there could be other explanations for that but Paul was emphatic, saying he knew who did this.

‘Uncle Klaas,’ Paul announced. ‘He certainly had the opportunity.’

I remembered the pleasant afternoon tea we attended in Montreal with Paul’s uncle and his family in 1983. Sitting in their living room, surrounded by Dutch lace curtains and Delft pottery, Paul had showed no antipathy towards Klaas, a rotund man with a ruddy complexion who looked like a peasant in a Breugel painting.

‘But when we visited him in Canada, you never said a thing . . . or when he died.’ I knew he wasn’t Paul’s favourite uncle, but presumably seeing him would have triggered something.

Paul strenuously disagreed, saying he’d buried this extremely deeply. ‘It’s that repressed memory syndrome.’ Paul’s sobs became more persistent. ‘It was so traumatic I’ve blocked out all conscious memories.’

When I mentioned I’d read about this phenomenon, but that many psychiatrists had discredited it, he instantly became furious. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

‘I’m just not sure . . .’ This was so out of left field and he’d never mentioned anything about it, ever. ‘You need counselling. I can sympathise with you, but you need professional help.’

Paul sank deeper into depression. I was reeling from his revelations, although still not totally convinced that these alleged events had actually occurred. I thought it exceedingly odd that he had remembered nothing up to now, but he became irate if challenged. Nor was he averse to using the ‘I’ve been molested’ line to excuse irascible behaviour, thus trumping my legitimate criticisms.

He had always been grossly melodramatic; believing now that he’d been sexually abused when he was young suited his victim mentality. Dory had been right: he always sought sympathy, but it was possible that there was some truth to his claims. It might explain his dysfunctional personality and anal predilections. He combatively reported back to me that Dr Roth had given his repressed-memory theory tacit acceptance although, judging by the literature Paul brought home, I suspected the doctor had merely said it was possible.



Unbeknown to Paul I contacted Gerry, saying that Paul was desperately unhappy and that, if he could offer him a contract, I would move the family north. Surprisingly, Gerry agreed, although it would be a webmaster, not editing, job. Although I had previously vowed never to leave Melbourne, I was now resigned to relocating. I couldn’t bear to see him so desperately unhappy and hoped that his dream job in this tropical paradise would give him the happiness he craved.

Immediately, he rented an apartment up north, leaving me to organise the move. At my instructions, the trustees auctioned the Templestowe property, while I packed up our belongings. We intended to move before Shoshanna started high school and the younger ones primary school.

Despite Gerry’s inherent respect for Paul’s talent, he terminated the contract within months even though Paul had already started work there. Paul was coming to work hungover and failed to meet printing deadlines. How stupid of me to think that Paul was stable and capable of holding down a regular job. I was thankful he had been sacked before we’d uprooted ourselves yet again, and was cross with myself for thinking my sacrifice would make Paul happy.

Fortunately I found a wonderful home in Warrandyte, which the trustees purchased. The new house was unbelievably serene, in a bush setting with views across the Yarra Valley. I had come full circle and was back in surroundings I relished.

Soon after we moved, Vlad phoned to say Saskia had died after her battle with cancer, like Brian still in her fifties. Deciding not to go to the funeral in Amsterdam, Paul wrote her a most moving eulogy, tinged with bitterness. ‘Some folks are lucky and get a barrel of laughs and a happy ending; you got more tragedy than you needed. Some of it rubbed off.’ Although not unexpected, the news hit Paul hard. I suggested bi-weekly visits to Dr Roth, to avert a crisis. Mostly, Paul seemed angry with her—presumably a manifestation of his grief.




Meanwhile, I found employment at a regional library service. I’d always loved books and my job meshed favourably with school hours. With all three children at school, I was able to return to painting. I now had two functioning studios in which to spread my creative endeavours. I continued work on my retro greeting cards, even finding time to indulge my passions for papermaking, patchwork and knitting.

But Paul was again on a downward spiral, presumably as a direct result of Saskia’s death. He was often abusive and argumentative. Sleeping with him was nigh on impossible, and we remained celibate. He began to live in one of my studios, where he became reclusive as he totally withdrew.

I encouraged him to seek out other partners: if I was denying him sex, it would be a relief if he sought it elsewhere. Eventually, he found several couples who were into threesomes. My one condition was that he didn’t bring anyone into our home—a promise he broke. On returning from a holiday with the children, I knew instantly that people had been in the house. He confirmed that he’d had a couple and a single woman in my bed. I was furious at this betrayal of trust.

In desperation, I gave him an ultimatum: detox, or move out. As with his many previous attempts, he relapsed within days. Discussions of us separating were met with suicide threats, and I weakened yet again. Most disturbingly, however, he burdened the children with details of how he would do it—by driving his car into a freeway pylon.

I was also worried that he might inadvertently overdose on painkillers or his anti-depression medication. Often he would disappear for lengthy periods; Shoshanna and I would bang on his door, begging him to give us some sign of life. We made it a rule that we would never let more than a few hours elapse before checking on him.

With his enema bladder permanently affixed to the wall, a mountain of red-wine casks began to pile up in his room. There was also the associated debris: tissues stained with faeces, wine and urine stains on the floor, rotting food, overflowing ashtrays and filthy clothes. The stench was unimaginable. The floor was littered with porn, including photos of me that were congealed with a mixture of cum and baby oil. Amid all the squalor was a VCR on which he repeatedly played his favourite video: Horny Housewife Movie 2.

Within weeks, in what was an unbelievable turnaround, he secured a high-paid job as a web designer at a large corporation. Miraculously, he managed to dress in a suit and tie and get to work on time.

Although Paul’s work life was going well, his relationship with the children began to unravel. They could no longer have friends over, after several incidents during which he made drunken appearances; I also forbade him to drive them anywhere, because of his permanently high blood-alcohol content. He argued constantly with Shoshanna, invoking the vilest of phrases—‘Die young, bitch!’ and ‘F*ck off, slut’—all delivered with grotesque malice. At my insistence, he moved to a rooming house in St Kilda.

He implored me to take him back, crying like a baby, and I relented. But finally Shoshanna issued me an ultimatum: ‘Either Dad goes or I go.’ There was no contest—my allegiance was to my cherished child.

I had postponed this moment far too long. I would feel a sense of grief at the death of our relationship, but the relief would be overwhelming. The time was well overdue for Paul to leave, and I asked him to move out in early 2001.

Without argument, he left to sleep on Ewan’s couch. Days later, he leased an expensive apartment some distance away. I agreed to let the children visit, provided all porn was safely stowed away. The first time they visited, Ben found a magazine under the couch. I was angry at Paul’s total disregard for the children’s welfare. There was no way I could let them stay over.

Paul soon began a relationship with Deirdre, a woman he met through a dating service. Within months, they began living together and he moved still further away. He was, it seemed, determined to avoid all paternal responsibilities. My solicitor advised that, since he showed little interest in seeing the children, custody orders were unnecessary; any visits would be best made on an ad hoc basis.

We had done a rough property settlement, but needed to formalise our agreement. Thanks to Dory’s foresight the trust assets were excluded from the matrimonial pool, so we divvied up our meagre investments. Despite me being the sole carer of the children, Paul received half our assets in compensation for the fact that I would own outright all copyright in the material we’d created.

On the day Paul was to sign the consent orders, it occurred to me that he may try to take possession of the title ‘The Horny Housewife’. Hastily, my lawyer drafted a deed of release, in which he forfeited any rights to the name. His reaction in her chambers was verbally violent; it was the intended title of a book he was planning to write. Eventually, he agreed to sign. Furious at his treachery, I was hurt that he would want to write my story, but thankful that I now had the option to use the title someday.

Retrenched from his IT job and unable to find work, Paul began selling pet products at market stalls. Shoshanna refused to see him, but the younger two occasionally stayed over. With Deirdre ensuring that all porn was locked away, I relaxed and let them visit.

Soon afterwards, Deirdre was offered a transfer to Brisbane and Paul, struggling to make money in Melbourne, decided that the Queensland markets might offer a more profitable opportunity.

I rang him repeatedly, arguing as I tried to dissuade him from making this move. I reminded him that I didn’t have any other family. ‘What if I get sick? Who’ll look after the kids then?’ I wanted him to maintain contact with the younger children in particular. ‘You’ll break their little hearts,’ I said. ‘Don’t desert them, the way Saskia did you.’

But he simply changed the subject, telling me how he was working on a new range of canine shampoo to be called ‘Doggie Style’. He’d hired an industrial chemist to research a hypo-allergenic formula and also develop a range of flea powder and pet aromatherapy products.

Ben and Ya’el begged him not to leave Melbourne, but their pleas fell on deaf ears and Paul and Deirdre made the move. The two children subsequently made holiday visits to Brisbane, but they returned each time with worrisome tales of Paul’s inappropriate behaviour. Not infrequently, they reported finding adult material and sex aids lying around. On one occasion, Paul showed Ya’el our X-mas card, telling her of my involvement in porn. While I had always intended to tell the children, they were far too young to understand—and, besides, he was equally culpable. I was appalled that the consideration he should have felt for his children was eclipsed by the spite he felt for me.

Predictably, the Brisbane markets were not as profitable as Paul had hoped and he faced financial ruin almost immediately. He had little money to take the children out when they visited him, and they spent much of their holiday indoors. According to them, he was financially dependent on Deirdre, who was a paralegal.

I ruefully realised he was merely replicating our former arrangement, and I wondered whether he was cross-dressing and enemising while living with her.