Girl on the Edge

  Girl on the Edge by Kim Hodges

  First published by Impact Press 2016

  PO Box 780 Edgecliff

  NSW 2027

  AUSTRALIA

  www.impactpress.com.au

  Copyright © Kim Hodges 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Hodges, Kim

  Title: Girl on the Edge

  Subtitle: An arresting memoir

  ISBN: 978-1-925183-45-0 (print edition)

  ISBN: 978-1-925384-00-0 (Epub edition)

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  Cover design and internal: Melissa Keogh

  Production: Jasmine Standfield

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  CONTENTS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1 Past McMasters turnoff

  2 Our spot on the map

  3 I am a townie

  4 The township of Coolah

  5 Family rituals

  6 The importance of food

  7 My extended family

  8 My parents’ social life

  9 The freedom of running

  10 A window into grazier lives

  11 Dress and shoe shopping

  12 Keeping a family secret

  13 Outsiders come to town

  14 Bachelor and Spinster ball and rodeo

  15 Coming of age

  16 Beauty and prostitution

  17 Developing a social conscience

  18 Poverty, wealth and difference

  19 Ron and his girlie mags

  20 Before the big ordeal

  21 Losing control

  22 The ordeal

  23 Finally a diagnosis

  24 A new identity and life

  25 Visits back home

  26 Career, travel and marriage

  27 Reconciliations and reflections

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  One’s own lens creates one’s own sense of reality.

  This memoir is written from my viewpoint. The viewpoint of family members, people in the community, health professionals and other people who knew me at the time will differ greatly.

  Actual names have been replaced by fictional names to obscure the identity of people—the exceptions being myself, Anthony and Mark. I dedicate this book to Mark, Tasman, Nelson and Thomas for their support over the five years it took me to write this book.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DR SANDY DARAB Lecturer, School of Arts and Social Sciences, Southern Cross University.

  Sandy initially employed me at SCU and there followed a nine year career in academia. Sandy was inspirational and a mentor in teaching students. I nervously sent Sandy a rough draft of my memoir and I asked her to be completely honest. Sandy stated, “Just keep writing - the stories are fantastic. Don’t worry about the grammar and sentence structure you can fix that up later. Get all the stories down.” If Sandy told me my stories were boring or poorly written I would have stopped writing immediately. Sociological minds work well together.

  CARMEL ROBERTSON

  For the past ten years Carmel has taught my three lads piano in our home. During the past three years Carmel has visited me weekly, listened and supported me without judgement throughout my illness.

  DR DUBRAVKA JANKOVIC Psychiatrist, DR SUSAN Clinical Psychologist & Psychotherapist, JENNIFER REES BROWN Psychologist

  These medical professionals went above and beyond to support me during the past three years. Their expertise, integrity, insight and non-judgementalness continually lifted me back onto my feet. Thank you all.

  SONIA VON BORNEMANN, SIMONE HARMEY, STEFANIE HASLETON, ZILLAH HAWLEY, LEONIE HENSCHKE, DR LISA CORALINE MILNE, JILL SMITH, JULIE SMITH and LETICIA WHELAN

  Close friends supported me by reading drafts, commenting, listening and laughing with me. Their unwavering support has enabled me also to complete my memoir. Thank you all.

  JASMINE STANDFIELD Publishing Manager, Impact Press

  I was so fortunate to work with Jasmine as a partnership between publisher and author was created based on trust and respect. Thank you for your expertise.

  LAURA ZEMBEKIS Editor

  Laura’s ability to stay true to my story and voice whilst refining the content of my memoir ready for publication was outstanding. Thank you.

  PROLOGUE

  At eight years of age, while I was playing in the gutter, I experienced what later became my fondest childhood memory. My eyes followed the free-spirited leaves float downstream as I happily anticipated the arrival of our new house to the block of land my parents had bought in Coolah.

  Over the next ten years my home, town, school and family offered me some experiences that were unimaginable to me.

  Near the end of that period, when I was seventeen, I rode my bike over that very same gutter to Mount Hope, walked into the bush, and attempted to end my life. Desperate people do desperate things.

  I survived. Just. One year later I farewelled those floating leaves as I stepped over them with a packed suitcase ready to depart for Sydney. I waved goodbye to my family, relieved that I had left them, Coolah and my teenage years behind for good. I had escaped.

  This is the story of those ten years that I spent growing up in Coolah and the profound effect that this period had on my life. It is a story of human resilience, strength and emotional endurance. I have written this memoir to inspire others, especially young people who may be able to relate to elements of my story.

  chapter one

  PAST MCMASTERS TURNOFF

  I had just ridden twelve kilometres up the gradual ascent to Mount Hope, in low gear, slowly and methodically. I reached McMasters turnoff, pausing to locate the right spot—the bend in the road where the gully was at its steepest. Another five hundred metres and there it was, a sharp turn in the road to the right. On my left there was a straight drop to the gully below. I looked down at the gully and then up to Mount Hope looming in the distance. I shivered and felt pulled towards it. Maybe it noticed and beckoned me.

  I sat there feeling horrible, contemplating whether to start pedalling and charge full speed down the hill and possibly die. The hillside featured scattered trees and stumps, protruding rocks, and random debris.

  I was relieved I had escaped my mother’s harsh tongue, which knew no bounds; but questions still haunted me. Why did I not fit in? Why did I hate myself? What was wrong with me? My predicament was inescapable. I was trapped. A big part of me had wanted to die that day, to end the pain that I was feeling.

  I had passed this spot frequently when I was out running or on family car trips. Each time I noticed this steepest part of the gully and the bend in the road. I had ridden to that spot again today feeling that no-one cared about me; not my parents, brothers, school friends, teachers or community. Noone understood me. No-one. I was so tired of feeling alone. I thought of the many times I had ridden to this spot and then turned my bike around to roll downwards. I often dared myself to take my hands off the handlebars for just a few seconds at a time. Then I would grab the handlebars out of sheer panic at the prospect of falling off and leaving skin all over the road.

  Still regaining my breath from the ride up, I leaned on my bike and looked down into the gully. I imagined turning my front wheel sharply left and jumping onto my seat. I imagi
ned the momentum carrying me. Initially I would’ve been able to turn quickly, right and left, avoiding the rocks, trees and stumps. I would’ve enjoyed the challenge of manoeuvring the bike quickly from side to side, like a training session, another personal challenge. Then, each turn down the gully would’ve become faster, more erratic and out of control. My ability to ensure that I lived would diminish. I would crash and die.

  Then I would mentally backtrack, seeking answers to the situation that brought me here, but I could never pinpoint exactly what was wrong. I just knew that everything wasn’t right. I didn’t feel that I was being myself. I wasn’t fitting into this body of mine. I had cried so many times, but I felt that no-one had heard my cries. I felt trapped, but was not sure by what, I was just sure that I wanted to escape. Again, I felt that if I could just turn the bike to the left, throw my leg over the seat, and crash down the gully it would fix everything. It would all be over in a few minutes, which is what I wanted.

  While I was leaning on my bike and imagining this scenario, I would have a moment of doubt. What would happen if I took this step and no-one found me? I might become a missing person. My parents would never know what had happened to me. How would my brothers make sense of it? Even worse, I might be injured. How would I signal for help? I might lie there for hours, days, or weeks before help arrived, if it arrived. On the other hand, if help did arrive, an ambulance would have been called. The ambulance driver would leave the vehicle lights flashing on low, to alert passing cars. No siren required. Local drivers who were passing would zoom down the hill to share the news. The telecom exchange would facilitate the news—spreading it like wildfire. The ambulance blokes would carry a stretcher down, locate me, check me out and carry me back up—perhaps with broken legs, or a broken neck or back. It would take forever to carry me up. The entire town would know by the time we had reached the top.

  By that time, I imagined that many townsfolk would have gathered to see the accident for themselves. I would look up from the stretcher to see many familiar faces. I would think about those people wanting to be “first at the scene.” They would use that status to claim their power in retelling the story to other townies. The retelling would feature the facts, “She was carried up on a stretcher with a broken leg.” But the authority and certainty conferred by having been first at the scene would carry over to claiming to know the cause of it. “She has gone off the rails,” and “After all her parents did for her,” and “She has always been different.” These comments would flow like poison through the town, becoming the focal point of hours of gossip and speculation. They would fill in a momentary void between sips of tea and coffee; in awkward exchanges in the main street of Coolah; and the pauses in conversations over the fences that separated neighbours.

  My heart jumped in, as I went through the scenario, telling me that my family really did care and love me. But I noticed a shadow moving towards me, creeping over my front bike wheel and darkening my hands as I gripped both handlebars, taking me back to my sombre tone.

  I imagined the gossip after I was finally out of hospital. Not one of those people standing next to the parked ambulance would have bothered to visit me, or to ask after me. No-one would have asked me directly about the incident. There would have been merely looks, raised eyebrows, grins or a nod of the head to reveal to me that they knew. Maybe one of the onlookers might have visited my mother at home to see how things were going, but my mother would have talked about anything other than her daughter’s accident. If she went up the main street of town and ran into people who asked her, “How is your daughter going?” My mother would have answered, “Fine, thank you,” giving nothing away. Her tone would have commanded no further discussion and that would have been that. My mother knew how it worked. Over the years she had mastered the art of gossip and denial, which this town thrived on. In this case she would not have divulged a single thing: her role would have been damage control.

  My head and my heart were locked in battle. I felt my heavy heart and the blood pumping through my body in order to keep up with my head. Was it me after all? Was I the one with the problem in choosing to isolate myself? I had reassured myself that I had been sent to the local doctor many times. My mother’s appropriate actions in seeking medical advice must mean that she cared for me. I was not crazy. So what could be wrong with me?

  My heart and my head collided again. My head would mess with me then, telling me that something needed to happen, even if it didn’t. It took over, confusing me, playing tricks on me. My head could rationalise any action whatsoever and justify anything. At that moment, my head was telling me to end the pain I was feeling, but to get it right and be sure to kill myself. My heart fought back, producing a strong wave of feeling that washed over my body. It told me that I was fine, well fed, with a loving family, and that yes, I did have a future. My more rational mind began to support my aching heart. I could see more clearly. The possibility of my family or myself being humiliated made me cringe. I realised that I did have a choice. I chose to turn my handlebars right and cruise down the giant hill, past familiar properties, the bush, the outskirts of town and then home to my family. I arrived in time for dinner, served at six o’clock each night on the dot. I walked in at 6.15 P.M.

  “Kim, where have you been?” my mother asked.

  “I just went for a long ride up to Mount Hope.” I neither showed any emotion nor shared my feelings. There was no point.

  “Next time, be home by 6 P.M.,” she stated.

  I had dinner, a shower and one hour of television before bed at 8.30 P.M., for reading, and lights out by 9 P.M. The school night routine was set in stone: no diversions and no arguments.

  I was seventeen years old.

  There were many times that had I ridden up Mount Hope to McMaster’s turnoff and pondered which way to turn the handlebars. I rode up wanting to die, but I always rode back wanting to live.

  Three months later came the night I think of as the “big ordeal.”

  chapter two

  OUR SPOT ON THE MAP

  When I was eight and a half years old, my father had accepted a promotion with Telecom. As a consequence, in March 1974 he had relocated his family eight hours inland, away from his wife’s mother, siblings, and friends on the coast, to a township of 900 people surrounded by rich farming land in central-west New South Wales. My mother had apparently wept as she packed up, but she knew it was “for the best.” My three brothers and I lived our entire childhood and teenage years in this home.

  For the first six months our family had rented a house on Binnia Street, Coolah’s main street. “Get in the car!” my parents had excitedly commanded us four kids one afternoon. Intrigued, we had complied readily. We had driven a few streets towards the Bottom Pub and then we had turned left into Oban Street. My father parked outside two vacant land lots. As we got out of the car he proudly announced that this was our block of land and that our home would soon be erected on it. They had also bought the adjoining block, which would become known in our family as “the spare block.” This was the first I knew that they had bought not one, but two blocks of land. The cost had been forty dollars for two blocks. My parents knew they had stumbled across a bargain.

  I was contending with year three at a new school. After a long dry summer, being excited about looking at blocks of land was difficult. I needed to touch and feel the land to make it real. I could not imagine our home being there. My parents walked to the middle of our block and physically pointed to show us the proposed location of our new home. I sensed my parents’ excitement. They glowed. Still unable to truly share in their happiness, I nodded my head and offered a “great.” The blocks of land beckoned to me to go and play on them.

  “Can we play tag?” my brother had asked, tipping our younger brother and then scampering away. It was on. If no reprimand was forthcoming, permission was considered to be granted. We ran over to the spare block to discover dirt mounds, corners and hiding spots. We explored the terrain, the short and l
ong grasses. My three brothers and I played chasings and tag for over an hour. Then we had returned to our block to imagine an invisible home, inventing walls and rooms, guessing bedrooms and anticipating locations for other rooms. A feeling had come over me that the blocks now belonged to us. As if we were performing in a school pantomime, I asked my brothers to make a circle and touch hands. I announced that this land belonged to our family and only our family. “No-one can ever take it away from us,” I stated. Everyone agreed. I made that pledge and declaration of ownership. Our block and the spare block now belonged to us kids.

  My parents dutifully nurtured our block for a few months until the arrival of our home, their faces shining while they pulled out weeds, cleared the grass and gathered sticks. We had to get in and help for about twenty minutes before we were allowed to go and play on the spare block.

  “Can we go over to the spare block and play?” one of us would ask.

  “Five more minutes,” my mother would reply.

  We took little cars and Tonka trucks over to the spare block and made an entire township in a game that went on for weeks. Another favourite was the game hide and seek, which was about trickery—to lie perfectly flat without moving a muscle and become invisible amongst the dirt mounds and long grass. The unkempt block enhanced our play. We built up dirt mounds into jumps and willed our bikes to leap into the air higher than the previous bike had.

  *

  Six months later, our family prepared for the imminent arrival of our house. My parents had bought a prefabricated, transportable house and I was ecstatic as the date approached. On the day our house left the depot and was en route, our entire family arrived early at our block. My mother and father were both busily bent down, removing any last weeds. I soaked up the euphoric state emanating from both of my parents, on the same day, at the same time. This was a rarity. The previous night’s rainfall allowed for the kids to play in the gutter. Floating twigs and leaves in the running water distracted us from waiting. I followed the path of a slow floating leaf in a trickle of water. I envied the leaf’s freedom as it floated, uninhibited. This, waiting for the house with my happy parents and watching the free-floating leaves in the water was my favourite childhood memory.