Note on “My Story”: I wrote this as a piece of stream of conciseness and therefore its unedited as I firmly believe that with this type of narrative, brings out the rawness of the experience.

Wounded Boy, Heroic Man 

It has taken almost a lifetime for me to actually sit down and begin to write a brief history of my abuse at the hands of my Father. In fact, on many occasions the toll of writing this has made me physically, emotionally, and mentally ill. Remembering the absolute horror that my father put me through almost daily, and the pressure of keeping all of this a terrifying secret from my siblings and my mother. 

My story begins like any other story of boy meets girl, girl falls in love with boy and the world is a wonderful place to be filled with hope, passion and love…. but only for a time. 

My father always was charismatic individual, a charmer of phenomenal proportions. He could charm a rattle snake if that’s what he wanted. This charm managed to ensnare my young mother and a fast whirlwind courtship began. 

After the whirlwind romance, my Father and Mother married on the 5th March 1965 in Brisbane, Queensland, where she had lived for all of her life. At the time, my Grandparents owned and operated a pineapple farm in Strathpine, Brisbane, Queensland. 

In the early stages of their relationship, my Father and Mother lived in a house on my Grandparents farm for a very nominal rent and my Father was lucky enough to be employed by my Grandfather on his farm. At the time my Mother was and had been for the previous 6 years employed by the University of Queensland as a minute secretary.  

My Father quarrelled consistently with my Grandfather and Uncle whilst working on the Farm and within a few months my Father insisted that they leave the house on the farm and find a flat and start a fresh. 

About six weeks prior to the birth of my sister, my mother and fathers first child, they purchased their first house at Ashgrove in Brisbane, with financial help from my Grandparents. My Father continued working on my Fathers pineapple farm for some months after my sisters’ birth, but eventually left, saying that that he could not agree with my Grandfather and my Uncle. My Grandfather offered my Father a one-third share in the Farm which, if he preferred, he could develop on his own with my Grandfathers help and advice. Evidently my Father turned down this kind offer. It all seemed like a perfectly normal life…. 

The real first act of violence perpetrated against my Mother was a black right eye from a punch which she had received from my Father when they first moved into their Ashgrove home, this was almost six months after they first were married. My Mother did not tell anyone what my Father had done, and lied to my Grandmother, saying that she had hit it on a low door under the house. She thought this was just a small voice to pay to keep the home life “peaceful and normal” 

During the first few years of my Mother and Fathers marriage, my father had extremely violent outbursts at intervals roughly every 6 to 8 weeks at a time. He would, in those days, limit his attacks to blows to the face and stomach and occasionally to the arms. 

From the day of her marriage, my Mother was not permitted to have any friends over to their house and if by any chance anyone did happen to call, my Mother would be bullied, physically abused (punches, beltings etc) so that in the end my Mother was so terrified to even let anyone know there telephone number, as my Father would become violent with jealously, not just to males, but also females. 

During the early years of their marriage, my Mother would always justify my Fathers behaviour by convincing herself that the violent streak in his character had been the result of his very insecure childhood and youth. After each and every attack in these early years he would resume the role of loving husband and father. 

My sister (first born) had her first asthma attack at the age of sixteen months of age and from then on until she was 8 years old. She suffered from many attacks during that time which always required hospitalisation and specialist treatment. My mother returned to work when my sister was sixteen months of age, because of my parents’ absolute dire financial situation. During this time, my father would obtain employment and then all of a sudden would leave employment. As it turned out my father was only employed for a matter of a few months and it happened to be at the exact same time when my mother had been forced by my father to return to work and leave my sick sister at a child-minding centre.  

Sometime after that and with their daughter suffering from very bad attacks of asthma, it was decided that my Mother (my father decided) that she should continue to work to bring in the steady income while he would write for the freelance market (my father previous to their marriage, earned some money for articles and short stories.) The agreement was he would look after my sister while my mother went to work. 

My Father refused to have anything to do with anyone, including my Uncle and his wife and my Grandparents were only invited for a meal on occasions such as birthdays. 

My Father was always extremely jealous and possessive individual, even from the first day of their marriage, he never ceased tormenting my Mother and later on, in front of us children) about my Mothers imaginary “rendezvous” with other men. Something that escalated in the final throws of their relationship. 

When my brother was born in January 1969, my father was away for the birth, picking tomatoes by contract in the Mildura area. He had made the decision by this time that the family should move to Melbourne where he intended to write “full time” and when my brother was 4 weeks of age my mother followed him to Melbourne where they lived on a flat until they were able to move into a new house (also with financial assistance from my Grandparents)  

My mother was sent back to work when my brother was 6 weeks old (I say “sent” because it was against my mother’s will)  

My mother first obtained employment through a specialised employment agency for law staff where my mother gained employment with one of Melbourne’s prestige's law firms. When they finally moved into the new house in Melbourne, my mother would drive twenty miles to and from work each day of the week and then cook meals for the family and clean the house. My father remained at home, with my siblings, his “writing” at a bare minimum as his jealousy and rage continued unabated. 

The car that my parents owns at this stage could best be described as unreliable. It often had one thing or another wrong with it and it usually broke down on the way home from my mothers’ work. Even if my mother was 2 or 3 minutes later than usual from work my father would immediately turn to a raging bull, he would immediately start screaming and emotionally abusing my mother, accusing her of having affairs with her work colleagues. The physical abuse was just as shocking. On one occasion out of several, my father pushed my mother so hard off the driveway (the driveway was still not completed by this age and had quite a large drop) that my mother broke her leg in two places. 

This behaviour went on for several months, it wasn’t uncommon that my mother would be either in a cast, her skin turned black and blue from numerous punches to the face and torso. Broken noses were not uncommon during this period. His violent behaviour was truly starting to show. During this time of their marriage my mother was in a constant state of terror in case she inadvertently she upset my father and he would once again become violent.  

My father became extremely possessive of my brother, and he would not even permit my mother to change his nappies or prepare my brothers bottle because he was able to do it perfectly and after all, my mother had “ deserted the baby to go to work!” My father had made it his catch cry over the many years of abuse - firstly he would order my mother to go to work and then he would brainwash me and my siblings that my other had “dropped” us to go to work and have a grand time, including numerous affairs with the people that my mother worked with. This became the “normal”. In later years, it got worse, with my father ordering my bother to skip school and follow my mother to work, then at lunch time the same thing. He even went so far as to hide tape recorder in my mother’s handbag so that it recoded her at work. He would then get the whole family in the lounge room and play the tapes and comment about how our mother was having “affairs and sex” with male colleagues at work.  

My mother and father and sister and brother stayed in Melbourne for about 3 years. My sister’s very bad asthma had played a part in the decision of moving the family to Cairns and because my father lived Cairns, as this is where he had disembarked as a migrant in 1956.  

Immediately after their arrival my mother was told in no uncertain terms to advertise to get a job - straight after they arrived and were looking for a house at the same time. My mother managed to get a job with a firm of solicitors and it was only a week or so later from my mother’s first day at work he began to accuse her of having an affair with one of the senior solicitors and began to torment my mother continuously both physically and emotionally.  

On one particularly violent occasion my father began kicking my mother hard in bed (this was after my father had sexually abused my mother, in particular violent way) she left the bed and went immediately into my brothers bed, which was in a twin bedroom that was shared by both my brother and sister, my sister being roughly 7 years of age at the time.  

My mother had only been in bed with my brother for only short time, when my father had run into the room (my sister being woken by the noise) and my father started to kick and punch my mother. My mother ended up on the floor after a heavy karate chop to the lower right-hand side of my mother’s head. My mother just managed to crawl back into bed. My sister had unfortunately seen the whole thing transpire and was extremely upset throughout the whole ordeal. As a result, if this attack that occurred in 1971, my mother suffered cracked ribs, a broken finger of her left hand, numerous bruises and what later on became clear, a minor brain injury.  

My mother did not attend any medical facility or doctor as she was too embarrassed to do so and also afraid that if she told a doctor what had actually happened, my father would have use further physical violence. 

My mother and father finally purchased a house (once again with the help from my Grandparents) and our family moved to the new house in December 1971. 

Shortly after moving to their new home in Holloways Beach, my mother started a new position with the Cairns City Council. My sister was in 2nd grade and my brother was around 3 years old, my father converted one of the bedrooms into a study in which to start “writing” for publication again. 

During this period of time, my father continuously tormented my mother with regular beatings and sexual abuse, his hunger for violence and sexual abuse only got bigger as the days, weeks and months passed. 

His control new no bounds. My mother was never permitted tom speak with to any of the neighbours, and when my mother was sent to do the shopping (because shopping was completely beneath him) she was always terrified that she might bump into people from work and when she returned home (she was only allowed a specific amount of time to shop) my father would start interrogating and cross examining her in front of my siblings about every aspect, of the shopping trip, including the people that she interacted with. From the checkout operator to any floor staff that she might have been in contact with. This would occur after every single shopping trip that she undertook.  

Even when my mother was at work, he would force her to drive home at lunchtime, to have lunch with him, and then drive back to work. My mother never had time to eat. More or less my mother was an inmate of a prisoner in her own home, denied all rights as a person.  

During their stay at Holloways Beach, my mother received beatings almost each and every day that it started to become a regular occurrence, but it was always for imaginary reasons or reasons that made no logical sense at all. If a meal was to his liking (even though he had requested that particular meal) the beatings would begin.  

It was New Year’s Eve, 1972. A time for reflection and a time for renewal and that’s what the world was engaged in that night, but not this night, not at this house. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary that made him react, and with him you never knew what was got to trigger him into a violent rage, but this night, was one of the worst.  

He pushed my mother so hard that she fell onto the corner of the couch in the lounge room, her head hitting the edge with such a great force that her head slit open and was knocked unconscious. My siblings crying out of control, my father then directed his rage at them, belting them with his leather belt (a trick that was used constantly in my house) and sent them on their way to their room, screaming with terror.  

My mother received absolutely no hope from my father and woke up lying next to the couch, still delirious form the impact and blood streaming down her head and clothes. My mother managed to get herself cleaned up and bandaged her head to the best of her ability and hoped that it would heal. 

My mother never ventured to a doctor or hospital after each and every injury that was inflicted upon her, that and the fact that the seventies and early eighties were the dark times in Australia for domestic violence with no real programs for domestic violence services and the fact that this was a “family issue” and did not warrant police or Government action . 

She was come up with the most intricate stories to explain the injuries that she had received from my father, especially to my Grandparents. This pattern went on for years and years. 

During the years 1971/72 my Grandparents made a promise to my father that, upon the sale of his farm for development that my father and mother would receive the sum of fifty thousand dollars, with which my Grandfather expressed the wish that they would invest the money in some kid of business (or real-estate etc.) and so be financially secure. 

Prior to this promise my father had wanted to return to Italy (with the whole family) to live. However, upon hearing my Grandfathers proposition, he changed his mind and in spite that my parents had sold their house in Holloways Beach to finance the move to Italy, he returned with the family to settle in Cairns once again. 

However, inflation was soaring in the real estate sector in the 70s in Cairns, and the house that they purchased was six thousand dollars more than the one that they had previously sold. Once again, my Grandparents came to the rescue and provided the balance required for my parents to purchase the new house.  

My two siblings returned to school and my mother managed to get her job back at the Cairns City Council. 

My Grandfathers property sale fell through at the last minute, but he was lawyers confident that it would sell for development. As time passed and no money was received by my parents for the sale of the property, my father began to physically abuse my mother on an even more of a regular basis than the past.  

On my mother’s birthday, my mother called my Grandmother from work (they did not have a phone on then, and in any event, my father would not let my mother use the phone unless he was in hearing distance) My Grandmother told my mother that she had sent her a birthday parcel ethic had included $60. When my mother had arrived home that evening, she found the parcel had arrived, but my mother could not find the $60, so my mother had asked my father if there had any money enclosed with the parcel. My father immediately went into overdrive, saying that my mother was accusing hm of being a thief in front of my siblings, my mother of course said no, and she knew that my Grandmother wasn’t lying. My Father seized the first thing that he could get a hold of and cracked my mother’s right hand so badly that the lower joint of my mother’s middle finger was completely crushed, and the knuckle pushed through to the underside, poking out of the skin. He continued with the abuse, belting my mother with his leather belt, all the time manically screaming about how he was not a thief. 

Since then, my mother had to re-learn how to hold a pencil/pen to take shorthand and also to type accordingly. There was no medical treatment or rehabilitation, indeed my mother was back at work a few days later. 

It was while they lived in Bayview Heights that the attacks had become extreme. My father would  become extremely angry and almost possessed about the fact that the promised sum that my Grandfather had offered had not materialised and he would constantly rant and rave about my Grandfather, my uncle and work himself up into a kind of frenzy that could be best described as almost animalistic. He would then turn on my mother physically, bashing her again and again, almost with no end on sight. 

During that awful time my mother received, cared ribs on several occasions, another broken finger, several black eyes a two broken collar bones, a chipped shoulder and numerous other injuries that are too many to list. Not to mention the emotionally abuse that occurred on a daily basis. It was by all definitions, a living hell. 

My parents stayed in Bayview Heights for almost 6 years, my father always expecting the money to arrive from my Grandfather. My Grandfather told my parents that the property was expected to be sold by June, 1974 and my mother always wanted another child the she could bring up on her own, it was then in December 1974, that I arrived ( my mother had told me before she passed, that I was meant to be a kind of a “circuit breaker” for the family)  

At this time, the expected sale had fallen through once again. If it was possible, it made my father even more bitter and twisted from then on, knowing that the money would never come through. 

The cruelty and viciousness were almost unimaginable. It seemed that from that moment on, my father had truly and completely lost a grip on any kind of reality. 

My parents left Cairns in 1979, four years after my birth and the beginning of my own memories and journey with my Father. 

My Grandfather had died suddenly in July 1977. He died suddenly and as a result of the shock my mother received and my father’s incessant bitterness, towards my mother, grandmother and my uncle, my mother developed neuro-dermatitis, which covered her whole body and her first of many epileptic seizures in August of that year. 

It’s funny how you remember the first things that you did in your life, the first time you ride a bike with the thrill of having the wind in your hair and the first taste of freedom. For me it was the very first time that I was beaten. I was four at the time, I want to explore the world around me, particularly our back yard at the time. I had wandered off to explore our backyard, I was curious about the insects and animals that inhabited our little backyard, I remember that I was called for dinner, but I was so transfixed with this baby frog, I didn’t hear the call of my father. I finally listened and ran with all my might back to the house. I remember that it was hot and humid and I was sweating, by this stage I was sweating and from what I remember, I has a big smile on my face, that was quickly erased when I saw my father at the top of the stairs, eyes fixed on me, eyes that I would come to dread later in my life.  

HE started yelling at the top of his voice, so loud, I started to cry and that seems to only spur him on. He grabbed my arm so tightly that it left a bruise. He took me inside to the lounge room where my brother and sister were and started ranting on about how no one in this family would disrespect him, with that he took off his belt and started to beat the underside of my legs, massive welts and blood started appearing on my legs, after what seemed like an eternity he dragged me kicking and screaming to the bathroom where he filled the bath with water and a huge amount of salt. “let this be a lesson to you” he said and threw me into the bath water, where the salt did its job of aggravating my already tender and sore legs. That was my first memory. 

I digress, my parents arrived in Melbourne in 1979 with the whole family in tow. We lived in a flat until my parents could afford to buy a house (well when my mother could afford it, as my father was still not working, but always saying that he would have something published soon) My father’s violence towards my mother and sister and myself continued unabated (my brother was considered the golden child, someone that he could shape in his own image, so he was off limits so to speak) almost for day one. 

His violent jealous rages which would end in my mother being left on the floor, like a toy that had outlived its usefulness. Sometimes my mother would be able to drag herself to the bedroom, where my sister would come in and tell her she loved me and if she could help. All this raised a massive strain on my mother and also us children, terrified everyday of our lives. 

The injuries would keep on piling up on my mother and now he was starting to turn his attention to us children, with the exception of my brother, who started to exhibit similar traits as my father. My brother started to “help” my father in his actions, encouraging and sparing on my father each time he dished out “punishment” to either my mother, my sister or myself. It was becoming clear that he had started the process of being “brainwashed” by my father.  

Believe it or not, my father’s violent behaviour had increased, the injuries to my mother included the usual black eyes, bruising, bikes nose and so forth. I remember being beaten almost on a daily basis, for no real apparent reason. I was so terrified that I always second guessed myself in every action that I did. My mind would race with any scenario that I could possibly imagine and the consequences of those scenarios, but in the end, there was no logic to his abuse. It simply was too erratic to comprehend.  

My mother return to work (as this was an expectation and an order) and whenever my mother obtained employment, he would insist that that my mother was having affairs and it became a regular occurrence that he would gather the family in the lounge room and recant the tails of how my mother had been having these affairs with all of these different men at work. 

At the point, everything was timed to his “internal” clock. We ran by a timetable constantly and if any of us was a few minutes late to anything, there would be harsh penalties, ranging from a beating with his leather belt, then not broomsticks and anything else that he fancied, tormentor’s choice.  

My father had always had issues with his adoptive country, he felt that the Government was fascist and racist and was personally out to get him. This was brewing underneath for several years, rearing its ugly head time and time again. It was an obsession that kept on playing out until finally…. 

My father had made the decision to leave Australia on a permanent basis and return to his country of birth Italy for a better “future” for the whole family. Of course, this decision was made by himself alone. He was ruler of his own little kingdom.  

My parents sold the house the house in Melbourne, along with all our furnishings, car etc and we headed off to Italy to begin our new lives. 

When we arrived in Italy it became very apparent that my father was the “black sheep” of the family and a disappointment. I still remember that my relatives were so welcoming, and the feeling of the house was one of warmth. Each day I spent with my Uncle, my father’s brother at his farm in the foothills. He showed me how to farm and prepare the soil for the coming season. He spoke in broken English (many years before our departure, my father would teach us Italian in the lounge room and if we got any word wrong, his belt would come off and the beating would begin) as my Italian wasn’t up to scratch, but we managed. It was probably the most loved that I had felt since I was born. 

One evening after a family dinner, I heard a massive argument between my father and my uncle. Frightened I went and hid with my mother and my aunty. My Aunty did her best to translate what was happening, and as it turned out, my uncle was scolding my father for all of the brutality that occurred in our family and said that it was time to leave his house.  

In the end, we only stayed in Italy for three weeks. My father was angry after the argument with my Uncle and directed all of his anger and rage towards my mother and myself in particular, as he saw my relationship with his Uncle as disrespectful towards him.  

My mother and I were beaten quite brutally a few days before our departure from Italy. We both were sporting black eyes as we travelled to the airport from our Hotel room. It was the longest flight that I have ever taken, a journey where my whole body hurt and my soul. It was the first time I truly wanted it to all end. 

We arrived in Sydney and immediately took another flight to Cairns. Once again, the decision was completely his, no discussion.  

Once again, my mother was sent off to work, and managed to find employment in the private sector. My mother was getting paid $180 dollars a week and the rental was $180. My mother was directed by my father to ask for a loan from her employers’ wife, something that my mother was uneasy with, but what tiger option did she have?  

After about six months and continued physical and emotional abuse, including as it turned out, sexual abuse on many occasions, my father announced that we were leaving Cairns for Adelaide, the next day. My mother didn’t have time to give notice, which in itself troubled her immensely and could not pay back the loan to her boss’s wife, which troubled her even more.  

We drove from Cairns to Adelaide. A long trip marred by the usual violence and anger. The many hotel rooms weren’t a haven, but a hell on earth. There wasn’t a night that I can remember without my father managing to be violent.  

On one very balmy night while travelling down the east coast of Australia, my father decided to stay the night at a local Motel. He was already in an absolutely foul mood, already his anger had spilled out whilst driving and he turned once again violent, pinching my mother as he drove serval times in arm, face and legs. 

When we finally settled in for the night in our room (a two bedroom, as this was all we could afford) he continued to direct his rage, but now it was my turn to feel the full brunt of his anger. With his leather belt off, he began whipping me over the arms, legs and my torso and when he concluded, he took me off to the bathroom. I was at this stage screaming my lungs out and to prevent me from screaming any further, he grabbed a cake of soap from the sink, shoved it into my mouth and told me to start bitting it. He kept on physically closing my jaw around the bar, making sure that I chewed every mouthful, until I just gave in and started chewing myself. That night, I ate an entire bar of soap. My stomach couldn’t take it and I started to retch, but he stood over me to make sure that I didn’t vomit, and kept on telling me that if I did, he would give me the beating of my life.  

Adelaide as it turned out to be would be a time of the most ferocious, callous and violent time that we would endure. This was the time that my abuse in particular would become the most extreme, depraved and violent of my entire short life. 

By the time that we reached Adelaide, my father had managed to get himself onto sickness benefits. To this day I’m not sure how exactly he managed to get sickness benefits, but shortly after our arrival he managed to convince a psychiatrist, that he was deserving of an invalid pension (my father’s ability to manipulate and control people was unsurpassed) which left him to focus all his energies to control and maintaining dominance of his family. He never wrote another word for publication again. 

To add more fuel to the fire, my parents were in dire financial strife. They had many large payments to make to numerous creditors, that they were in fact they already were insolvent. making life even harder for all of us. 

Once again it was up to my mother to find gainful employment to support the family. 

As I said earlier, my father’s jealously and violent behaviour was reaching its peak. Form the start of my mother’s working life in Adelaide, my father introduced a tape recorder in her bag each morning to record all of her conversations at work and the ritual after each working day was completed was a sermon from my father about how my mother was having affairs with male employees. This would happen after dinner, which my mother would cook and clean. None of the conversations made nay send of course, yet he continued to “interpret” what was going on and then after the session he would seek “justice” and beat my mother in front of us.  

The beatings paved the way for more viscous acts of violence, on several occasions, he would get out his hunting knife and hold it to my mother’s throat, and then as time went on his .22 rifle would make its appearance, loaded and ready for use.  

My mother became so depressed during the first part of our stay in Adelaide that she had her first attempt at suicide taking numerous amounts of her epileptic medication. She was eventually taken to Flinders Hospital, but my father waited quite a considerable time before calling emergency services. I still remember clearly his message to us as we sat in the lounge room, making sure that I cried softly as to not attract too much attention from my father. In a clear state of anger, he bellowed at us saying that my mother was weak willed, didn’t love us at all and that this should be a lesson to her and to us, saying that if he wanted to, he could have not called the emergency services and just let my mother die.  

After my mother’s first failed suicide attempt, she was transferred to the Glenside Psychiatric Hospital, where she stayed for several weeks. This would become a semi-regular occurrence, with my father eventually forcing both my mother and I to be “voluntary” patients at one time or another as a “punishment” for various reasons. Mine mostly for defending my mother in times of crisis, which really amounted to each and every day.  

I was extremely close to my mother; I was her touchstone in a world filled with violence and mine hers. Throughout these years we would conspire together and wed both would take care of our wounds together. Each of us, in our own way, trying to survive the onslaught that was home. 

But the one thing that I did not and could not discuss with her in any way was my sexual abuse add the torture that went with it and on its own. The repercussions would be devastating as I knew if this vile secret somehow got out, my mother and indeed my sisters’ lives would come to an abrupt end. 

I knew that things were changing psychological with my father, he’d started to become fascinated with me showering, and would regular watch me have a shower and help me “dry off”. If I knew then what I did now, maybe the years ahead wouldn’t have been as bad as they were. 

It’s strange to say it, but my first time being raped, was the worst, bit each subsequent time I was raped, I learned to turn off certain things in the mind, it still destroyed me, but not what it was like when I first was raped. 

It was a shockingly cold and wet day in Adelaide, I was always cold down to my bones. The usual morning routine was playing out in my house, with my father taking control of everyone and everything. School was my only solace and safe space, even though I was always teased at school, I could manage it. 

Thursdays were PE days and the uniform for PE was white shorts, white t-shirt and white runners. In all honesty and it seems extremely trivial given the circumstances that was about to unfold, I could not for the life on me understand why we were wearing white! So, there I was with my classmates about to embark on our PE class (VFL then, now AFL) when my teacher let me know that my father had arrived to come and collect me as there was an emergency with my mother. 

I found my father sitting at reception, chatting to the administration officers and been his best charismatic self and charming the staff, especially the female staff. He smiled at me when I entered, a smile that I had never seen before, a disturbing smile. My father took my bag and said that my mother was in hospital and we needed to go. I became almost limp, images of my mother with bones broken and blood dripping down her face entered my head. I started to cry and instead of punishing me, he hugged me and said that it would be alright. I knew then something was amiss, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. 

We jumped in a cab (this was certainly very strange, as we never caught cabs as they were too expensive, we always caught public transport) and I thought that we were heading to the hospital. Every kilometre that we drove, I became more and more anxious about what was going on, but my father just sat there, looking out the window with a smirk on his face.  

To my amazement and disbelief, we didn’t arrive at the hospital but at our home. I was too afraid to ask any questions, so I just went along with it and went inside the house with my father. I thought that maybe we were there to oil up some clothes or some other items, but as it turned out that wasn’t the case at all.  

My father instructed me to take my clothes off and have a shower. I did what I was told and didn’t question him, I always knew better than that, as I had always experienced the repercussions. 

While I was undressing, he left the bathroom. So many things ran wildly through my mind, what was happening? What if anything was my showering had anything to do with my mother being in Hospital? Why was he smirking so much and treating me so differently to what I had ever known? I was just so tired thinking about the many different things that could happen. But I wasn’t prepared for what to was follow… 

My father returned to the bathroom, and in one hand he was holding something, but my focus was on his face, those terrifying eyes that didn’t match his smirking face.  

I was naked and my back was hard against the cold hard bathroom wall. By this stage I was shacking uncontrollably and was feeling the cold. He sat on the toilet seat (we had a combination toilet and shower) and finally In noticed what was in his left hand, it was his hunting knife, still in its sheath, but to me it may as well been a machete, as it look so much bigger to and 8 year old.  

He voice was almost monotone when he started speaking to me. And the words hit me like a steam train. “You know, you are just a little toy to me, you and your mother and sister” “I can do and say whatever I want, whenever I want”.  

I started sobbing uncontrollably and peed in the shower. It was then that he stood up and put his hand around my mouth and told me to shut up. He grabbed me and took me straight form the shower stall to his bedroom. I was kicking and screaming all the way. I didn’t know exactly what was next, but I sure did know that I was not enjoying the experience so far.  

He threw me onto the bed, the blankets smelt musty, as they had just been put on the beds for winter. I still couldn’t calm down, I kept on trying to leave the bed, I so wanted to leave and run, run as fast as I could away from this madman. He placed his knee on my chest, so that I wouldn’t move, couldn’t wriggle and I started to lose my breath. In my ear, he whispered “Now I’m going to give you all the love you need”.  

With that, he topped kneeling on me and replaced his knees with one arm to sop my squirming. He started to fondle my penis and kept on saying to me “You’re enjoying this, I can see” I started to scream at the top of my voice, tears streaming down my face, my stomach started feeling like I was going to throw up.  

He got angry that I was screaming so much, so with that, he pulled one of his grey woollen socks off and stuffed it into my mouth. I almost immediately started to gag, and I try my best not too, trying to get breath, any kind of breath and failing miserably. I wanted so much for this to be over. 

Time didn’t have any significance to me, I could have been there for hours as far as I was concerned. He stopped playing with my genitals, and said softly in my ear, “My turn”.  

I struggled as much as I could, but his hold was vice like, he grabbed my hand and pulled it towards his crotch, all the while telling me that he loved me. I couldn’t hold back my arm any longer and he made me grab his penis. He was still holding my hand, making up and down movements. He started to moan and made me go faster. My whole body and mind were screaming at this stage, he started to become hot and sweaty and I could smell his aftershave and sweat, and his beard was scratching at my face. “More, more” he started yelling at me. It was then that a vomited all over the bed spread. He was now yelling at me again and I heard the words “that’s it” as he turned me over on my stomach. 

The pain was more than I could handle. To this day I’m not sure when I passed out and how long for, but I found myself in my bed, with blood coming out of my anus and the smell of vomit and sweat in my nostrils. Everything hurt, my whole body ached, and my mind was just mush. 

In the dim light (my curtains had been drawn) I could make out his face again, looking at me with a combination of loathing and anger. “Get up and take a shower now, you disgusting awful boy” was his words to me. I had nothing left, but my mind was screaming. I managed to drag myself to the shower. I was constantly sobbing and there looming over me was my father. He had the knife out of its sheath and he said in the most evil voice I could have imagined “You tell no one, and if you do, it will be your mother and you who will end up in a pool of blood”. I don’t know how I managed to finish the shower, but I did and climbed back into my bed. The last thing that I remember was being checked on by my mother. My father had told my mother such a web of lies that I was quite sick at school and my father had to collect me, hence the plastic bowl beside my bed. My father instructed her not to touch me as I was that bad. 

As the weeks turned into months, this behaviour started to become almost normalised. It always occurred when the house was empty, making sure that either I would be at school or after soccer practice. 

The abuse was never the same and his temperament was different on each occasion. But the eyes always told me everything that I needed to know. It was like he was turning like Dr Jeckle to Mr Hyde in in a matter of seconds.  

Punctuated during all of this, was the continued attacks physically and mentally. My mother endured severe sexual abuse by my father, and I didn’t know the full extent of the sexual abuse until a few weeks before my mother suffered a severe stroke. The sexual abuse included objects being used on her, including broom handles and various other household objects that she didn’t disclose to me out of fear me being triggered. 

In terms of physical abuse, my mother received during this time, several broken noses, a fractured jaw, cracked shin bones, numerous blows to the head, a broken leg and my mother was constantly littered with bruises from the constant beatings. 

At this stage, my home had become almost like an interment camp. There were locks on all the windows, this wasn’t to keep people, out, but more to keep the occupants in. My mother never had a key to the front door and neither of any of my siblings, with the exception of my brother. It was designed that way; we were prisoners in our own nightmare. 

In the later part of 1983, my mother visited my Grandmother in Brisbane with the express purpose to try and obtain money for the family. This was a regular occurrence, as my father was almost hell bent on getting money out of my grandmother. 

My mother had only been away for a few days in Brisbane, when my father took my brother and I aside in the loungeroom one night and said to us that my mother was seeing other men while she was there and needed to be stopped.  

He decided that the best option was to send my brother and I to Brisbane and collect my mother and bring her back to Adelaide, to be punished. So, the next day, my brother embarked on a flight to Brisbane after being taken out of school for the express purpose. 

We arrived in Brisbane and took a cab to my grandmother’s house. I still never had met my grandmother and even though our purpose was to bring back my mother, I really just wanted to feel a little “normal” even if it was just for a little while. 

But that wasn’t the plan, my brother and I had our “orders” to return as soon as possible with my mother, suing any means possible. My mother put dug her heals in and wouldn’t leave not one day earlier than she was meant to leave, this action made my brother incredibly angry to say the least and proceeded to berate my mother in front of my grandmother. Knowing that he was outnumbered, my brother decided to go “missing” causing my mother to have additional stress. When she couldn’t find him, she notified the police and listed him as a missing person. This didn’t last long, as my brother was hiding in the backyard all along. 

It was time to leave and it was at this point that I crawled into my mother’s bed and was desperately trying to convince her for us to stay and not return to Adelaide. She spoke softly to me that night and said that she didn’t want my father to be left alone with my sister any longer, as she was concerned with her safety. We both cried and held each other without speaking for what seemed like hours. We both knew that we had to go back as there was lives at stake, my mothers and I included. 

In our garage in Adelaide there was a partitioned off section at the back, this would later be known as my fathers “fun space” as he described it. This is where most my abuse and torture would occur. It was a small room, extremely cold in winter and incredibly hot in summer. There wasn’t much to it, a chair, a shelf and a few other objects that you would find in nay garage. But to me it was a place of nightmares, of the stench of blood, vomit and of old sweat.  

The day that I was introduced this horrid place, my father had taken me out to the backyard with his .22 rifle. Proceeded to put a target on the nearby tree, loaded the rifle and shot the target on the tree in quick succession. Looking at me each time he fired, with those incredibly evil eyes. As each shot rang out, I jumped more and more. My eyes began filling with tears as the realisation of what was going on stared to dawn on me. With the rifle empty he grabbed my arm and said in almost a whisper, “If you ever, ever tell anyone of our “fun time” I will kill you and your mother with a shot to the head”. Before I had time to process the information, he grabbed me by the arm to took me straight to the “fun place”. 

I don’t know if it was the fact that he just shot his rifle or the combination of that and being in his “fun place” but he was in a state of massive arousal, breathing deeply and his face a combination of a wry smile and of intent. 

At this point I had already been sexually abused several times and had come to realise that there wasn’t any point in screaming, crying or even speaking unless I was spoken to. All in all, it was juts better for everyone that I just acted lie a rag doll, with no emotion. It was my safety mechanism, if I did just that, it would be over quicker, and I had the opportunity to curl myself into a ball and gently cry myself so sleep in my bed afterwards. 

But this was different, it was more like torture when I looked back at it. It was sexual in nature, but this was some kind of vile punishment that he seemed to get pleasure out of.  

It was summer and it was hot, so hot. He pushed me onto the chair. It was an old dining room chair without arms. With no words, he grabbed a roll of gaffer tape and tied my hands behind my back. My breathing becoming quicker and quicker and I had to keep on reminding myself not to cry, not too show any emotion at all, as I knew that it would just waken the beast more. After tying my arms back, he tied my feet together and kept on asking me if it was too tight! I just couldn’t comprehend his behaviour, it was different when he raped me, dare I call it softer, but it was weird.  

After I was bound, he put a bucket near my feet and a glass of cold water out of reach on the bench. I was bracing myself for more, but there wasn’t. He squatted in front of me, and said “I’m going to let you cook for a while” and he placed a gag around my mouth and said before he closed the door, “This is for what you did in Brisbane” and left. 

What you have to realise is that torture in movies is nothing like in real life. There is no last minute heroics, no managing to break free of your bonds, nothing. I tried screaming for awhile, but nothing came out of my mouth. Despite having a gag on, my mouth was so dry. I was sweating so much that it began to pool on the floor and I kept on seeing that glass of water, it look so refreshing. I needed water so desperately. 

I really don’t know how long I was int there, but it must have been later in the afternoon when my father opened the door. He had added a lock to the outside, so no one could enter or leave. He cut the gaffa tape with his hunting knife and finally undid my gag. My mouth was so dry, that I couldn’t speak, something that seemed to amuse him.  

I was so tired and exhausted, that I didn’t even speak to him. I couldn’t walk properly and had to reply on him to move me to my bedroom. His face smirking all time, like he succeeded in breaking me. I was broken, so broken and right then and there, I just wanted to die. This would be a recurring theme for me throughout the rest of the time with my father. 

It wasn’t long after that, that I first attempted suicide. I was 9 years old, and I had once again been sexually abused by my father. There was no plan in mind, but I just wanted to rest and get away from this vicious horrible nightmare. I found an old razor blade and not knowing what I was doing, slit my left wrist in the garage. I felt an immediate sense of relief, just cutting myself.  

But as it turns out, I failed. I didn’t go far enough and my arm was bleeding so much, that I ran to the house clutching my arm and to try and stem the bleeding. My father took one good look at me, while I had tears streaming down my face and said to me “do you think that its going to be that easy to escape” and took his belt off and began to whip me with it. My arm still bleeding, I tried so hard to fend off the blows. Eventually the beating stopped and switched over to being a “caring” father, wrapping my arm in a bandage and trying to say soothing words to me. After wrapping my arm in a bandage, the usual threats were made to myself and my mother. Just another day in the nightmare that was my life. 

This is the point where my sister had all but given up on the family and secretly planned her escape. With a few things she managed to get into a garbage bag, she left for school and never returned. This was the catalyst for the beginning and the end of the family. 

My father was furious about the departure of my sister and it only left my mother and I. That night, he would unleash a fury so powerful that I didn’t think that my mother and I would survive. He raged so much using everything at his disposal, his leather belt, phone books, fists and used my brother as a weapon against my mother and I. My mother suffered a broken nose once again, this time with my brother being the culprit as I tried to defend my mother from his onslaught, I received a punch in the eye and I went flying backwards hitting my head and splitting it open on the edge of the kitchen table. 

When the worst of it was over my mother and I crept into bed together, sobbing and thinking to ourselves that this was it, the end was coming. My father had already pointed his loaded .22 rifle at us and his finger was already on the trigger, ready to shoot us in bed. But something had changed his mind, Im not quite sure what, but it did. Maybe it was the realisation that if he did, he wouldn’t have any further control over anyone, or maybe, just maybe, he was scared of the consequences. 

About 2 months after my sister had left home, an opportunity arose that could possibly get my mother and myself out of this nightmare. My father once again was wanting money. We had been bankrupt for several years and creditors were constantly after us. He again planned to send my mother up to Brisbane to try and get more money out of my grandmother.  

A few nights before her departure, my father and brother went to soccer practice and locked both my mother and I in the house. Whilst they were away, I sat next to my mother and started chatting about her departure. I started to talk to my mother in hypotheticals, what if we could both escape and live in Brisbane with my grandmother, how good what that be. For the first time in a long time, I saw my mother smile, it was like she was dreaming. She said she really wanted to, but she couldn’t think how it could. 

I really had enough, my body and brain were broken and I wanted out. I couldn’t last another week, let alone months being abused. So, my little brain finally had an idea. I said to my mother that it was possible for the both of us to escape. My other already had a ticket, so I would just need one for myself. But where were we going to get the money for another ticket? I said to her that my grandmother had money, couldn’t she buy the ticket? My mothers face lit up! But then as quickly returned to despair. How would we get her to pay for it? My mother had a secret stash of 20 cent pieces tucked away for emergencies. I said that if she could give me the number, I would go across the road and call my grandmother from the phone booth and ask her to buy the ticket and maybe we could collect it from the airport. 

My mother was scared and she pointed out that the house was all locked up anyway, so there was no point in trying. But I wouldn’t have a bar of it. I had worked out quite previously that the window lock in my bedroom wasn’t working properly and I could get out that way. My mother still wasn’t convinced, but I got the 20 cents needed and slipped through the window. I knew that I needed to act quickly. My mother had given me a scrap of paper on which she had wortten her flight details on it. She told me that after speaking with my grandmother that I should get rid of the paper, so that my father wouldn’t find it. My father would always go through the garbage to check to see whether or not my mother was hiding something. 

I managed to call my grandmother and get through to her. I told her what we wanted to do, and she promised me that she would purchase the ticket and have it waiting for us at the airport under my mothers name. With the call complete, I threw away the scrap of paper and returned home. My mother and I discussed how all of this would work. 

It was extremely important that my father didn’t expect anything. A few days later, my mother packed her suitcase, and my father went through it lie a fine tooth comb, making sure that my mother only carried what she needed for the trip and nothing else, but of course he never checked my school bag. I got up early that morning a prepared my school bag with a few extra clothes at the bottom. I was feeling scared and almost wanted to say to my mother that this want going to work, but then that feeling changed, I started to get excited at the possibility that we could finally be free. 

I managed to get through the morning without anyone suspecting anything. I went about my busy getting ready for school and not mentioning anything to my brother. My mother was also ready. The plan was that she was going to meet me at my school and we would head straight to the airport. My mother said that I needed to let my teacher know prior to her picking me up.  

As soon as I was in class, I let my teacher know what was going to happen. She took me to another room and gave me a massive hug and said she would do anything within her power to make this happen. She gave me a couple of books and took me down to reception, where I would wait for my mother. 

At 10am on the dot my mother arrived at my school. She was in quite a state with her whole body covered in eczema and was quite fidgety. She had a very quick conversation with my teacher and then we proceeded back to the taxi and started to make our way to the airport.  

But my mother wanted to make one last stop, to that of my sister. We made what I though was going to be a quick detour to my sisters place, but when we arrived she wasn’t home. My mother wanted to stay longer and say goodbye to my sister, as she didn’t know when she would see her next, but time wasn’t on our side and I kept begging my mother to leave, as we were going to miss our flight. Eventually, my mother gave up and was close to tears. But we were already late and our taxi driver took the matter into his own hands as we started speeding towards to the airport running red lights. It was like we were in some formula one grand prix! 

We arrived at the airport and ran as fast as we could to the counter only to find out that the doors to the aircraft had already shut its doors and refused to reopen them. We had missed our flight. 

We were booked on the next available flight to Brisbane, via Melbourne and Sydney, but had to wait another 2 hours. Enough time for my father and brother to find out what was going on. We waited in a corner of the airport where we thought that if they did come looking for us, we would be safe. This was not to be. Both my brother and father turned up at the airport. I spotted them at the entrance to the airport. I told my mother that we should head for the police office at the airport. 

We started to head off to the police office, but while we were on the way there, they spotted us. I told Mum to go straight to the office and I would try to distract them away from her. She was adamant that I stay with her, but time wasn’t on our side. My brother saw me first, and I ran as fast as I could to the nearest toilets, and went to the nearest stall. Luckily for me there was a few people in the men’s toilet at the time. I stood on the toilet, hoping that he wouldn’t check the stalls and as luck would have it, he only quickly looked in the toilets and promptly left. 

I stayed there panting and scared for a few more minutes, before I decided that it was safe to exit. I almost tripped over trying to run to the police office and when I finally arrived my mother was sitting with a police officer who had given my mother a cup of tea. The officer explained to me that they had taken care of everything and that they would escort us to our plane and that they had managed to escort my brother and father out of the airport. 

For the first time in my life, I could feel the weight on my shoulders begin to dissipate. We truly were going to leave the nightmare.