Member-only story
It’s time to speak
I still remember the physical pain I felt as a young girl when I left my mum even for a moment. It started as a big lump in the middle of my chest, it rose to my throat and my head became light as the hot tears would roll down my face.
I cannot put my finger on exactly why life was like that. I had a carefree childhood, two parents, a nice home, everything a kid could want. My mum told me it was because I had a shy, gentle nature and maybe that’s exactly what it was.
Still, it wasn’t something that I could seem to shake, and in regional Australia in the early 1980s you didn’t check your kid into the closest psychologist to do a deep dive into such behaviours. So I chose to be ashamed of my gentle nature. After all, I was a big school girl then. A big sister, too grown up for this carry on.
Perhaps this is why I so willingly handed over my canteen money every day to one of the ‘cool girls’ at school. I can’t remember exactly what I won through the exchange, perhaps it was a break from the bullying, perhaps it was feeling like I was part of something in those moments of interaction with the popular kid before the money was exchanged and she was sucking on the cool ice cup that should have been mine.
Most critical to this story is that I didn’t tell.
