The Day My Life Tipped Upside Down
I'm not sure if I'm brave or reckless to tell this story?!?!
This piece has been screaming at me to be written. I still don’t know if I should publish it, and yet here I am. The story of what happened one October day in 2012 and for years beyond (and before), has been stuck in my throat like a boulder of silence.
After many years and layers of healing, why would I poke at this again? ‘Let bygones be bygones,’ as they say. But how can I write from my authentic self, if I don’t share this defining experience? Also, I think this damned boulder of silence has been blocking my word flow.
I don’t write to stir things up again. I don’t write out of revenge, or seeking pity. I’m past all that. I write because I experienced this and have moved beyond it. Perhaps that is the real story. The beyond. The hope.
I tell this story because it is foundational to my passion for life writing alchemy. It is hard to hold out hope of healing to others, if you don’t have your own experiences of transformation. This is one of mine. The big one I think.
I know this is a lot of pre-story build up. I usually prefer to jump straight in, but my struggle to speak about what happened is part of this sorry saga. The silence. The sweeping under carpets. The whisperings. It is all part of the toxic dynamic.
So, deep breath, here I go…
But first, a Trigger Warning
This story is about sexual abuse. There, I said it. It is about sexual abuse, but it is not written from the perspective of the abused, nor of the abuser. This is a story of wider impacts, collateral damage even. This is my perspective. Others experienced things differently, especially my daughter. But, their stories are not mine to tell.
If you think you might be triggered by this, please get yourself into the right frame of mind first, pour a refreshing drink, and go in gently.
Secondly, I have a confession…
My name, Phoebe Freer, is a pseudonym, a pen name created to protect those I love. But, Phoebe is not a persona. She is my mask of truth. Writing as Phoebe, I am able to tell things more honestly, without worry for the impact on others. Phoebe is my most authentic self. I am not hiding behind her name, but shining my truth through her name. Phoebe means bright and radiant, and it is time to shine my light. Oh, and the name Freer? Well, I’m freer to write my truth, and freer than ever before from hauntings of my past.
The lived story of how events unfolded is thick with nuance, perspectives, layers. In this article I tell it brief. Perhaps that’s enough. Or perhaps (probably) more angles will find their way into future articles. I don’t know yet.
When I began writing about this experience, words did not flow in sentences, but came forth in fuzzy phrases, jagged fragments, shards of memory. Like this:
What a Mess
Knock knock Who's there? This is no joke house a mess kitchen a scatter of science experiment. Police Two uniforms, three plain, crowd door frame, male three, female two, cars too. 3+2 = five?? Past future flashes past fuzzy future. Numb knowing freezes time, life forever shifts. No-one dead? Thank god. Breathe. Phone husband? Come home? Right now? Don’t tell why? ONE intercepts husband, interrogates outside, TWO fires questions into brain fog, THREE calms boys (9/11), FOUR and FIVE search house, scavenge through mess for god knows what. Why didn’t I clean up? Shameful mess, normally hidden behind closed door, now exposed to prying eyes, fondling fingers. ONE drives off with hand-cuffed hub, TWO joins THREE to question boys, FOUR enters office, sacred space, scans digital docs, images, secrecies. Alone, mind reels numb ‘til FIVE inexplicably explains. Brain screams NO, but mouth is mute. Did I know? Why so calm? Calm? Is that how frozen looks? Gone - ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, gone with husband, computer, daughter’s diary, gone with vague promise of return, gone and left me frigid to keep living. Gone and left our home a mess, left me to wrap kids warm in my frozen frame. And all I can think to do is clean, get rid of mess, fix it up before they return, before anyone else sees it.
What a Difference a Day Makes
22 October, 2012. The day I was lifted out of one life and plonked into another. The day that would ripple its ramifications on and on and on; not a gentle pond kind of ripple, but a seismic-waved earthquake reverberating its way to a tsunami kind of ripple.
This was the day I learned that my husband had been sexually abusing our precious daughter. She had confided in a friend who was a mandated reporter, and so the police paid their visit.
It’s funny how the mind works. With all that went down that day, my mind latched on to the trivial matter of the messy house. I guess my mind thought this was something it could control. The bigger mess of the unthinkable that had just transpired was beyond my control, too much for my mind to process yet. And so I cleaned. Cleaned and tried to comfort my children as best I could.
Normally, I prefer to write in a more playful style, with a more subtle approach, but how do you write lightly about a bomb exploding? It seemed fitting that our messy home resembled a bomb zone, because that’s how it felt in our hearts.
What Next?
Yes, my husband would go to prison. Yes, my daughter would get help. Yes, the marriage would be over. Yes, the boys would be sent back to school after years of homeschooling, and I would find work again. Yes, there would be court cases and broken bail conditions. My husband would battle us for as much as he could get of our house and possessions. He would quickly remarry. Yes, many friends would disconnect from us. I would walk away from the church. Yes, there would be anger and guilt and shame and blame (including plenty self-blame) and there would be long talks into the deep night. But I knew none of this yet.
I also knew nothing yet of the healing that would flow, nor the wonder and miracles that would come, seemingly out of nowhere, in the years to come.
On that day, all I knew was that life would never be the same. Life as we knew it was over.
Feeling their Pain
If you are a parent, you have probably guessed that the hardest part of this ordeal was witnessing the impact on my four children, who each faced this trial in different ways.
My daughter had assumed I knew what was going on. (Which explained the souring of our relationship). How could I have not known? I chided myself, but apparently this is common. Secrecy and deception are par for the course. My daughter had asked me (several times) to put a lock on her door. I naively told her to ask her father, that he was the practical one (he was a tradie, after all). I never twigged. Why would I? I did ask why she needed a lock, but she wouldn’t say. I assumed she wanted to keep her little brothers out. (Note: My daughter is doing well now, and our relationship is sweet.)
My younger boys (9 and 11) lost their father that day, but also their connection with grandparents and extended family. They were too young yet to fully grasp what had happened. (Though, I can only imagine the questions the police asked.) For years, my youngest thought his father had been wrongly accused, because he overheard our neighbour say as much. I didn’t know this. I felt helpless to deal with his anger and sadness.
My eldest son had already left home for university, and yet I wonder now if he was the most deeply affected. He had known his father longer, had more history with him, more of a relationship to be shattered. He also attended the hearing when his father was finally convicted, and was shocked by the details he heard. It wasn’t until recently that he reminded me that the day of his dad’s conviction was his 21st birthday. Details like that had become fuzzy in my mind. Suppressed perhaps.
My eldest son became my rock, the only adult I could talk openly with about what we were going through. I felt guilty about leaning on him so hard, at such a young age, though he’s told me since that he needed those long talks as much as I did.
We were careful who we shared with outside of family, for fear of things being gossiped all over town, where my daughter was well known at school and in sporting clubs. She did not need people looking at her differently. So we held our tongues, and kept our masks in place.
Re-interpreting the Past
The revelations of that October day rewrote many things I believed about our lives. My sense of self shifted wildly. The previous years reeled through my mind like a movie, many incidents re-interpreted in light of the new information.
Here is a poem I wrote about this:
Reel Surreal
anesthetised mind reels like a movie key symbol now unlocked replays new and dirty reels out of control rewinds fast forward frames freeze at potent points love story soured surreal daughter’s rebellion out of line with girl once known family adventure turned horror film
And here is a final poem about some of the life changes I faced.
Alien Lands
Lost in suddenly single parent land, tossed on seas of stormy fear. Support ropes cut, with children gasping, drowning, reaching for me to rescue our sinking ship, to save their wrenching hearts. Unmoored in broke and broken land, adrift on welfare, lashed by tidal waves of plummeting esteem. Saying no, when the heart screamed yes. Comfort splurging, when the mind said no. Lost in school land, drifting through routine motions, lunch prep, bells, rules, tests, homework too, with unacknowledged aching hearts, all homeschool freedoms gone. Adrift in a workplace, now so changed. Mask held tight, to stay afloat. Dodging barbs of misbehaviour, soaking in sadness of students' pain, mirror to our own bewildered hearts. Lost in boy world, testosterone fueled motorbikes, cars, guns. Agasp at anger, unleashed hurt. Confused by tenderness pushed away. Frozen by fear, for them, for me. Lost, but hoping to be found, to find our breakthrough. Life sent much to buoy us on. Sport success and school awards, friends, jobs, mentors - guiding onward to calmer seas to newfound lands.
Finally
2012 was the year the Mayan calendar stopped, which brought a plethora of doomsday predictions. We are still here, so the world didn’t end, but many believe that 2012 did herald the end of one era and the beginning of another. That certainly was true in my life.
Until next time…
In a future post (Magic Snuck Up On Me), I share my healing journey and some crazy miracles that unfolded along the way. Spoiler alert: When things crash down around you, hang on tight. It may feel like the end of the world, but something new may be just round the corner.
Much love…
PS: I’d love you to share in the comments if any of this resonates with you. Or ask questions if you wish. (I know I’ve left a lot unsaid.)
You are a freer bright light.
Thank you Phoebe. Your honesty in your writing is so powerful. It hurts to read so I cannot imagine how much it must have hurt to live through... The title of this post drew me in because I thought "oh, someone else whose life tipped upside down." Because in some strange way, at some, I think we all have a day where what we always believed is no longer true. PS I love your mask of truth, it reminds me of a super-hero suit. Still you, but braver, more you..