Trauma bottlenecks in bloodlines until we break the cycle.

MELTING POINT

We marinated in master stock

developed over generations

slowly tenderising

into manageable bites

Even the toughest cut of meat

succumbs under steady heat.

THE TURTLE ALWAYS GETS THERE IN THE END

My twin sister and I are the youngest of seven. Mum’s first marriage gave us two older brothers and three older sisters. We arrived when they were mostly grown.

I was born breech – “bum first”, as Mum used to say.

This reluctance to show my face continued into childhood. I was painfully shy and stuttered, so preferred to let others speak for me. I usually hid behind my twin, occasionally peeking out from behind her back, curious but cautious about this strange, loud world.

I was born eight minutes late, they said. Perhaps I just needed more time.

I believe everything has happened exactly when it’s meant to.

GATEKEEPERS

I asked why it’s called a ribcage

to stop your heart flying away, they said

I want to let it see the world

you need to keep it safe

they said

I wish I could open the side gate and show you

the blood-caked bandages keeping it whole

the shrapnel that shredded muscle and bone

lodged in the brain so the cogs get stuck

sending pain to foreign parts

of this tired faulty machine

They always said to shut the gate

you’re safe inside

they can’t come in

I want them to

I want them to see

the beautiful world inside of me.

BLOOD, SWEAT AND FEARS*

I know what it is to see the world through sadness that’s not your own.

When we were young

Mum would sweat trauma

if you got close enough

it’d get on your clothes

He used to beat me black and blue…

One time he held a gun to my head…

I never got to see my baby before they took him away…

The women in my family tend to sweat

maybe it’s genetic

He raped me most nights…

If it wasn’t for the kids I’d have done it long ago…

Maybe we just don’t get to be happy…

I shower a lot.

MY HIGHLAND HOME

My ancestors are Scottish

on both sides

we have our own tartan

and auburn hair

thickened-cream skin

the whole kilt and caboodle

Dad played the bagpipes

my sisters and I danced

in Highland competitions

in Australian heat

it was never cool

neither was the weather

Everyone knows the Highland Fling

more disciplined than it sounds

my favourite was the Swords

it keeps you on your toes

you leap across star-crossed blades

starting slow and careful

speeding to a jig

if you knock the swords

you’re done

Tiptoeing around hazards, hey?

I won awards for that dance

medallions for a metal dalliance

My twin liked the Sailor’s Hornpipe

in regulation white-and-blue suits

you had to jump like Gene Kelly

for approximately six minutes

and smile while you did it

Our sister liked the Irish Washerwoman

another folk dance of the working class

draped in hearty musical-for-the-masses

a proud tradition

lost in translation

lost on the average Australian

That’s the beauty of heritage

a sense of belonging

when you feel out of place

a home you may have never seen

but felt and traced.

IN THE CLOUDS

I always aimed high. Literally.

Every time my parents turned around I had scurried up one of our red-brick archways, then landed on my feet like a crouching cat when they yelled to get down!

I scaled trees. Sat for ages among the leaves.

Singing songs, staring wistfully into the distance.

Always a ballad. Always a dramatic expression of love.

The roof was another sanctuary from sound. I sat on the crunchy seventies-orange tiles or the hot flat tin, depending on the weather or how high I wanted to be.

Sometimes I read, sometimes I wrote. Sometimes I broke twigs and pondered things.

Who am I? What does it all mean? Where do I fit?

One day, I stretched my mind like an elastic band to look at myself from the outside in. I saw a bubbly girl living in a bubble. The veil was thin.

I snapped my consciousness back into the confines of my brain and scurried back down, on the panicked hunt for one of Mum’s consuming hugs.

UP NORTH

Grandpa’s property ended where the jetty began; where his paw-paw and mango trees were replaced by coconut palms and made the sea smell of the tropics.

My sister and I liked to run through their cascading shadows at sunset as the peachy pink sky waved goodbye. Dad trailed behind in his usually calm way, as we popped like hot corn up ahead.

It’s hard to run with a bucket of bait. The handle snaps at your legs like the gums of baby turtles. Inside, the squid guts squished and squelched.

It always took forever to get those slimy guys on the hook – and when done, you’d smell like one. Maybe the lingering stench was payback for sacrificing their bodies for sport.

We each cast a line and waited, that delicious moment of potential bubbling underneath. We unravelled our kid-friendly reels a little more; staring intently at the sea as the line slackened.

Suddenly, a ripple. A gurgle. A tug. A puffed-out blowfish emerged through the surface like a freshly born baby.

It looked scared. I threw it back.

THE VISIT: PART I

We were young when Mum started telling us about our eldest brother.

He was delivered stillborn at full term when she was 17.

It was 1963, and the staff of the country hospital said it was “God’s will” before they took him away.

Mum never got to see or hold him.

As he never took a breath, the baby didn’t require a name, they said.

Mum often cried in the quiet, wondering how she could have prevented the loss. Wondering why nobody else seemed to acknowledge he’d existed.

Two years later, she moved into a new house with a healthy baby girl while her husband worked away. Mum spent most nights comforting my eldest sister in the dreaded silence.

Soon, she began to have the same vivid dream. Over and over.

Three small angels flew up through the kitchen table, then circled her for several minutes before disappearing the way they came.

After the fourth night, she told Grandad. He said it sounded like her son and guardian angels coming to reassure her she was safe. 

After a week, she started talking to them like people. On the last night, their visit lasted only seconds. Comforted, she never saw them again.

In 1999, after 36 years, Mum was able to legally name her eldest son.

SCHOOLED

When I was little, I liked to read encyclopedias and atlases.

When I was eight, I learnt how to spell ‘Czechoslovakia’. I couldn’t wait to share.

Kids groaned. The teacher said no-one likes a know-it-all.

I didn’t understand.

Knowledge brings joy?

Sticks and stones may break my bones

but when will names not hurt me?

Wise up, kid

You took a daisy to a gunfight

You’re too sensitive

Fear smells like blood

You’ve got to toughen up.

HOW TO BELONG

Teenage life

it’s too much

this heaving heaviness

that shrouds my body

clouds my mind

squeezing awe through pores

like Vegemite worms

It’s not mine

it’s yours

the fractured souls

who think you need fissures

to fit in

who chip at foundations

and call it preparation.

YOUNG LOVE*

At 20, I got what I’d always dreamed of: romantic love.

Turned out, it was neither.

I soon thought it was normal for a partner to:

call you fat

and ugly

say his friends thought the same

punish you with silent treatment

ignore you for a week

lie to your face

yell in your face

turn up at your workplace

interrogate acquaintances

get friends to ‘test’ your fidelity

read your emails

twist your words

track your car

punch a hole in the wall

threaten self-harm

say you’d never find someone else

(who else would put up with you?)

follow you to another country

never say sorry

I began to believe all romance was a masked dance, perfected in closed rehearsals. A place where you learned to leap weightlessly on eggshells; spin your mind like a pirouette; swallow your voice like water.

Eventually, I found the nerve to leave. It took hours to get him to let me go.

Five missed calls from my sister. I drove home.

Relief.

It was better to be alone and not lonely than lonely and not alone.

THERAPY IN THE AFTERNOON

“You walked into this room like you’re apologising for taking up space in the world.”

My therapist observed me until I sat down.

“I know,” I replied.

I’d seen her for a few months to try and unravel the sadness – and more recently, anger – to get back to Me. You see, I never had it before. I was always quietly bright. Somewhere along the way I’d become a sponge full of water that wasn’t mine.

We scoured through my life like archaeologists, gently brushing dirt off the bones of my past.

“You have remarkable insight, Louise. I see you have so much potential that’s desperate to come out but it’s like you have chains padlocked around you. Does that sound about right?”

I told her I knew one day I’d bust free of everything that’s holding me back. But I couldn’t just sit around and wait. I had to keep searching for a key. Any key.

She said the key was Me.