**No images for this post. It’s too hard to relate how much of a c*** someone is with just a picture… oh, and by the way, please be aware this post contains foul language**
I hadn’t planned to run away. I intended on waiting until I was sixteen, but that came and went. I knew I could legally leave, and did, but my father’s wife made things so bad, that when everything fell through, I couldn’t go back. I was physically and mentally unable. I was seventeen when I finally got up the courage.
I’d quit my jobs, that’s not the story I told though. I was tired. I worked between eighteen and twenty hours a day for well over a year, and my free time was spent being abused and berated by someone I still thought I wanted in my life.
When a **cough** friend said there was work going at the abattoir in Wooroloo, and here’s the kicker, ‘But you have to live in the area to get the job,’ well, that was all I needed for my dad to understand why I’d left home.
He arrived home late one evening and I’d already told his wife about it and got the obligatory, ‘Ask ya father.’
She wanted me gone.
I was having a panic attack as I walked out to where he and my uncle were talking.
‘Dad, I can get a job, but I have to leave home to get it.’
All he said was, ‘I knew this would happen.’
I still see his disappointment to this day. I wanted to tell him why, but I didn’t know if he already knew about his ex and what she was doing to me.
Within the hour I was climbing into a car with that friend, with her promise I could live at her house.
‘Yeah! I asked mum. She’s cool.’
She wasn’t cool. We arrived at around 8.30-pm and her mum kicked me, and a boy who’d had the same promise, out. We had no car. It was pitch black, no buses, and no street lights in the bush. Neither of us knew anyone else in the area, not that we were even offered a phone to use.
I was glad that guy was there. We walked 5-km’s out to the main highway, not one car used that bush road for the 30-minutes it took us to get a trot up to get out of there, and every murder story I’d heard of, often ended with, ‘and the body was found in the bush,’ or, ‘the pines.’
The main highway was also pitch black, but we put our thumbs out and got a lift. Excellent right? The first car to come along was full of teenage boys. They were nice and there was nothing freaky about that ride until we reached the other side of Mundaring, where the gear box fell out of the car.
So now there we six of us on the side of the road. The guys who picked us up thankfully knew people in the hills and the guy I walked out to the highway with, and I, were able to get a lift with the tow truck driver to a friends place in Midland.
They let us stay the night. I suppose I could’ve called and gone back to that house with my father’s wife, but I just couldn’t do it. The next day I went and saw all the appropriate people to get help.
It’s important to know that no counselor, or hostel worker, ever asked me why I needed their help.
For a while I stayed at a community care house for young girls. I felt happy, relieved and could finally be myself.
We were sitting around all having a Milo before bed one night when there was a knock at the door.
There was a chorus of, ‘If that’s my mother, I’m not here,’ and fuck me if it wasn’t my father’s wife at the door.
I’m not sure what happened. I heard her voice and next I knew is I was jumping garden fences all the way to the old drive-in’s (about 5 km). I couldn’t stop running. Eventually I did of course. I sat in the dip of a drain way for hours, my body shook and the tears wouldn’t stop.
I began the walk back to the hostel and got there sometime after mid-night, and even though lock up was at, ‘8.30-pm or your locked out,’ they waited up for me, let me in, made Milo.
They told me my father’s wife had gone to the police, found out where I was, and began pounding the door down. They sent her back to the police station where she was told I was over sixteen and could do as I wanted. She did ask that they give me a message.
‘Tell her her dad wants to speak with her.’
I missed my dad, so went. He said all the right things, ‘Come home, get a job, a car and you’ll have your freedom.’
He was right of course, but I knew he had no idea what his ex wife had done to me. I was so locked away in my own head, I couldn’t speak. So after an hour of talking, by dad, I left the room we’d been in, grabbed a couple of things from my old bedroom and left.
I think I said, ‘I can’t come back,’ but couldn’t tell him why. Who would’ve believed me? A teenager who hated her father’s wife. My heart broke as I left. Everything dad said was rational, loving and caring and I know I hurt him so badly…
My father’s wife knew where I was, and I felt unsafe again, so left the hostel I’d been staying in. I think it was the women at the hostel who put me onto a social worker, whose ex-husband said I could stay there until I found somewhere else. I did, I moved my pillow and myself in, but it felt uncomfortable, I think even for him. So, when I caught up with a friend from school, yes I had one, she told me she was getting married and invited me.
That’s where the police lost track of me, and when my father’s wife lost her hold on my life. Apparently it was dad whose continual, ‘Have you heard from Karen,’ question that led him to insist she tell the police I was missing.
I think on some level he knew she didn’t care where I was, how I was, or what I was doing, so, for around eight months I was listed as a missing person. During that time, I’d met my ex-husband and was pregnant. I was living at his parents place in Mundaring when the police showed up one day and recognised me.
I don’t know what he thought he was doing, a good thing I suppose, but he told me, ‘You’ve been a missing person for some months. You have to call you mother today.’
I didn’t, have to that is. It was my choice, but he made it sound as if I had to. So, I hadn’t seen my father’s wife for nearly 8-months, water off a ducks back if you ask me, but I called, and she, ever the show pony drove straight out to the house.
She made all the right oo’s and ah’s, and I’ve missed you so much bullshit. But it was when she was leaving she dropped a bomb. She opened her car door, cupped her hand over her eyes, looked at me and said, ‘Oh, and because of you, your father and I have split up.’
I apologise in advance for my language, but she was the same c**t who’d verbally, physically, and emotionally, assaulted me all my life, and she was telling me she left my dad because of me.
I hope she’s reading this today because I don’t forgive her. I was three months pregnant and cried for a week because that c**t was back in my life, blaming me for all the shit she brought upon herself.
I saw her for a few months after that, sporadically, but the last time I saw her, while still pregnant, she told me my child could not call her grandma. My children don’t know who she is. I tried throughout the years to let her in, but you can only flog a dead horse for so long before you can admit it’s dead. Then, on her mother’s eightieth, I received an invitation that went something like this; you don’t have to come.
I went. Took my eldest son with me. I was kept in the kitchen all night, then there was a lull. I walked out and sat with my son and we watched a, This is Your Life video my father’s ex-wife made with the man she left my dad for, and low and behold, unlike getting cut out of every photo they ever had of me, they showed pictures of my sister with her baby, three years younger than my son, and the caption read, Your first great grandchild.’
She then had the audacity to walk into the kitchen and dictate what went where etc.. and told someone to, ‘just throw that rice out,’ then looked at me and said, ‘You probably think that’s a waste.’
I drove home, put my boy to bed, thankfully he was too young to know what had happened, and I wrote that woman a letter. I detailed everything she had ever done to me, but to say my sisters child was the first great grand child, that was it.
Let me tell you what happened with that.
I wrote the letter, then went to bed. When I got up the next morning it was gone. My ex walked in the house and I asked him about it. He said, ‘I posted it.’
That man did nothing around the house, and that was the day he chose to get off his arse and do something? He always had this bizarre idea that if I left him I’d run to my mother… yeah! Who got the last laugh about that!
Anyway, the letter was sent and I waited for the blow back. It took three days. It came in the guise of a phone call. This is the entire conversation.
“Hello?’ I asked.
‘You better not tell your grandmother any of this… click.”
‘Who was it?’ my ex asked as I put the receiver down.
‘My father’s ex.’
‘What did she say?’
The next time I heard from her was when my youngest sister’s husband was killed in a traffic accident on their wedding night. I rushed to my sisters side, she was at her house. I found myself apologising for things I had no need to apologise for. I hadn’t even had an invite to the wedding, had never met her husband.
I saw that woman twice more, once after I finally left my husband, and once at hospice where her mother was dying. She tried to contact me a couple of times over the past twenty or so years, even tried going through my daughter on Facebook.
I blocked her and she stopped trying to talk to my daughter after she responded to one of her requests, ‘I’m your grandma,’ she’d said and my daughter, ever the words smith replied, ‘Listen lady, I don’t know who you are, but I spoke to my grandma yesterday and you’re not her.’ She tried my sons too, but they just ignored her.
This woman is so fucking special that when she found out I’d gone to Perth to visit my dad, to be there for him while he had life or death surgery, my father’s ex wife had my younger sister call him. He was two days out of the hospital, and she started yelling at him.
‘Why didn’t you let us know she was here?’
Apparently my dad, who never looses his tempter, finally had enough of the bullshit and told her outright I didn’t want to see them, then filled her in on some other things they thought he wouldn’t know.
There was a reason for the phone call, the outburst. My sisters mothers brother died while I was in Perth, and all the lies she had been peddling about me, to extended family members, bore fruit.
I only knew about it because when I woke up, one of my aunts and uncles were visiting.
‘I couldn’t believe… well you know… I heard stories… but here it is in black and white,’ my aunt said and showed the death notice my father’s ex put in the paper.
She’d listed every family member, and their kids, bar me and mine. She still peddles bullshit, tries to make herself look blameless for everything and anything, but that woman has blood, sweat and tears on her hands, most of it mine.
I won’t do it anymore, play the game, and from this point on, my father’s wife will be referred to as my sisters mother. My father doesn’t need her stink attached to his name.
‘Bitter?’ You may ask, but no, the truth has set me free.