Wtf? Would it kill ya to smile?

The only folks I come across, whilst on my bike, who are friendly and polite and genuinally happy towards me, are the older and the younger. I wizz past the old fella with his dog, an older lady doin' her thing, kids, wee kids, mums & kids, an old couple I'd like to be one day, still holding hands, still in love (or maybe they just met?), I smile & wave and chortle 'Hi!!' and they smile and sing back, something nice, something interesting, something funny.

I smile at a lycra dude, aplogising cos I'm kind of living in the moment, speed wind in my face and paying no heed to the lane direction. He growls at me, 'yeah, go ahead and take both lanes...' miserable tosser.

We're out with the kids, obviously much slower on the trail this way. To the couple racing up behind us, I smile and say,  'hi, sorry, are we in your way? 'I'll move over.'
'No, just go faster...' he grumbles.
I fair wanted to challange him to a bike race right there. Yeah...like to see you beat my Felt on that thing.

I don't want to be like them.

Why does the human race constantly have to fill itself up with near-sighted, narrow-minded, racist, bigoted, nasty dregs? Ok, harsh? But come on. Is even polite decency beyond the effort in our flailing society? Impolite cyclists maybe a stretch in comparison to the blear and dispair of our abusive, murderous, often beyond bearable universe, but if you can't even show civility out in the glorious sun, man, we're truly fucked.

Scrag & Dog. A love story.

There's this woman, let's call her...scrag; and this guy, let's call him dog. And they are observed. His wife a status symbol as he spends every elicit moment with another. Her flirtatious swing of wee skirt ought to know better when it swishes in the direction of his gold band, and yet, not. It doesn't register. Or worse...it does.

That moment, the one in which another's trust and love is carefully decided to be pathetic. She probably deserved it anyway right? All those years of non-trust. Leads a person it does.

And so, Scrag & Dog continue in their 'friendship'. While the wife plans holidays over the ironing of his shirts. Where the wife thinks how lucky she is to have found 'the one' in a fish pond of algae.

Trust is word with many colours yet its meaning is quite, gray. One must have it to co-exist. It means blame. It means faith. It means hope. It means despair. It means a shared offering.

Trust; I'm lousy at it. And ultimately, this could be my undoing.

Scrag & Dog, I hope, believe in Karma. Cos they sure don't help the rest of us.

This I'm working on. Along with all else. It's about the pursuit of happiness. It's not an easy journey.

How 'bout you? How do you trust? Or don't you?

Manipulation excerpt

Matt

1

Under the Norfolk Pine, the body lies, only half-concealed by crushed and bloody tussock grass. Running shorts and t-shirt are torn. Body is in foetal position. Blood seeps into sand. Eyes are glazed open and throat is slit. Dick is stuffed neatly, fully. Jammed into an objecting mouth.

* * *



Cars speed along The Esplanade, up the straight and towards the car park. From the road more cars bumper-to-bumper. Crime Scene vans nose into SAPOL and AFP vehicles.  One space left in the far corner. Slam the door; squint through trees and spot the shrouded figures on the distant beach. Show my badge to the lone officer standing at the perimeter.
      ‘Morning, Sir.’ Points with his torch to a break in the trees. ‘It’s a fair way up, but you’ll find them through there.’
    Head towards the light. Wind slaps sharp salt spray. I wipe my cheek. Heavy trudging up the narrow path, eyes down, blinking away sand. Follow the mess of footprints. Minutes later, the path breaks and I step out on the beach, my sneakers sink into sand. People stand in clusters; a hum of low conversation filters through wind. Duck into my coat collar: cold makes my ears numb. Bottom of trench flaps at my jeans. Pass a group of reporters held back by yellow crime scene tape. Lot of people here—maybe ten detectives shuffle on the spot to keep warm. Photographer pops in and around the scene. Top office looks on from behind thick woolen trench coats. Crime Scene dots the area with white coveralls. Cavalry is out for this one.
    Deputy Commissioner Irvine from beside me: ‘He was found around 3 this morning.’ ‘What the fuck was he doing out here in the middle of the night?’
Place a gloved hand on the man’s skin. Never seen a dead body before—AFP doesn't generally deal with homicide. My partner, Detective Senior Constable, Mick Chambers: dressed in crumpled white shirt, mustached handlebars at lips, sleeves rolled, oblivious to August air. Skin is tanned hide, stretched and scarred. Gunmetal eyes peer out from hooded lids. He stands hands on hips; round gut hangs like a laden-bellied possum. Surveys the scene.
    ‘Witnesses?’
    ‘Not yet.’ He wastes no words. You know how it is: too many years on the job; man keeps it close after a while. His eyes move over limbs and flesh, resting briefly on severed crusted edges. Bubbled gritty tissue hangs and clings like a lover unwilling to take a hint. It doesn't faze him; seen it all before. He is a man well used to 3 am calls and jaded dead. 
    Irvine points: Media. ‘How the hell did they get hold of it so fast?’ Pulls at his coat primly. ‘With what we have here, the last thing we need is the fucking five o clock news. We’ll have to inform the Prime Minister.' He indicates the cameras. ‘Don’t tell them who the fuck it is.’
    Cold, or body, makes him shiver.
    Chambers: ‘We’ll cover this up, from the air and the road.’
    Irvine rubs and rubs his head.
    Chambers winks at no one in particular; kneels beside the vic. Irvine watches him work, brows pulled together. Vic's bowels have emptied. The stink is like first shift at the treatment plant. Chamber's thick-fingered hands run smoothly over dead-lost skin. He lifts a limb and prods the torso.
    Pace a bit. Careful pacing—crime scene procedure one-oh-one, as it's usually an investigating officer accidentally transferring material into the scene. A small man with hurried step trudges up the beach: pathologist. ‘Jim Hawthorne,’ he says, professionally. Shakes first my hand, then Irvine’s. Chambers slaps him on the back. The man's tweed is poked and pulled into submission and slapped on beside his duffle and scuffs.
    Drop to wet knees. I need to know. ‘What do you think?’
    Takes his time opening his bag: determined click of each lock; removes a thermometer. Leans close to the head; small eyes slightly wide, as though surprised by the hacked and jammed bits of foreskin at his glove. Wind moans round our heads. Yells, practically, to be heard: ‘Probable cause of death: cut throat, body temp: twenty-five, and onset of rigor mortis.’ Talks with his lips inches from the ear of the corpse: ‘I’d say dead, approximately…five hours. Oh, look, here’s something interesting...’ Moves the shirt from the chest. On the abdomen are words written in texta in what looks like Cantonese.
    Chambers, to a nearby officer: ‘Get a translator.’
    Chinese…mafia? Main focus of Australian agencies at this present moment: drugs, prostitution, extortion, money laundering, but mainly heroin trafficking from South-East Asia. Well now, what’d you go and get yourself mixed up in?
    Hawthorne indicates the texta. ‘I can tell you what he ate for dinner and the condition of his lungs, but this one’s yours I’m afraid.’
    Waves, brutally depressing, break at our peripheral. Officers string up yellow restricted area tape. Wind whips the tape from hands and rain slams me. Christ, I'm drowning. Note details; scan the area: body and blooded grass—dick is an abstracted point of interest. 
    Chambers: ‘Right. I’ll do the door knock. I could use a couple of guys.’ It’s not a request. Two of my DC’s, posed on the perimeter, pounce at the flick of summons. Davis: heavily built: ex full forward. Walks feet planted, slabs of forearm swinging. Gum smacks loudly.
    Harris: sniffs; eyes dart; can't settle.
    They talk at once: ‘A lot of people are going to be freaked, sir—’
    ‘—Where do you want us, sir?’
    ‘I want you on the door knock. Canvas the area. Find out what the neighbours know. You stay calm the public will stay calm. Check in with me later.’
    They trail Chambers with nervous gawks and shuffles.
Two Technical Service Officers, with Forensic Investigator splashed across their back, work the crime scene.
‘Anything?’ I've grit my teeth so many times my molars feel married.
TSO picks up a crime scene kit; points gloved hand at body and ground. ‘This, is the primary crime scene. Looks as though he was killed here. No drag marks, the body appears to be in the same position as at the time of death. We’re still processing, so we’ll let you know if anything comes up.’ She's already moving away—results to find, tests to run.
    ‘Good.’ Scratch at the hair on my face. ‘I’ll wait for the report.’
    One of those rare quiets amidst the chaos. I reflect: in all of Australia’s history, despite theories behind the disappearance of Harold Holt, there’s never been a murder of a member of parliament.
    But, now, we have the former Prime Minster of Australia, current Minister for Foreign Affairs. Turning grey.
    My head is reeling. Straight murder, I can take. Place some understanding upon it. But what’s with his goddamn penis? Revenge? A message? As far as wacky goes this one takes the fuckin’ sponge cake.
    Punch in the station’s number. Can’t see jack shit. Roadblocks are being set up. Helicopter buzzes. I run back to the body. ‘Cover him up.’ Pathologist lays down a body bag. Watch the chopper dip low; stinging sand rises from beating rotors. Bag flaps, threatening to lift; we hold it down. Pilot’s mirrored sunglasses glint. A man beside him yells into a headset. A flash of camera, another pass and they're gone. 
    Irvine: ‘This is turning into a fucking circus.’
    ‘Out now, sir. Nothing we can do.’ I pull on gloves and show him the message.
    'I have to call the Prime Minster. Matt, you need to work fast here.’ When he leaves, he does so with relief.
Crime Scene Officers set up numbered yellow markers. Beach is pitted with footprints. Reporters talk into phones; yell at us from behind tape that reminds them of their place. Passing uniforms ignore them. Pathologist and assistants lift the body onto a gurney. Wheels squeak up the ramp into the van. Pathologist slams the doors shut: two thuds, while hierarchies make for back up the beach, heads in bureaucratic conversation. What’s this mean, for them, for Australia, for me?    
    Call the station and speak to the incident room coordinator. Ocean, the sand, and the length of beach: it all looks so fuckin’ blah. ‘Jen, I need you to set up the brief. Hope your family understands; you’re about to go abandonment.’ I cut the call before she can respond.
    DS Brown, from behind me: ‘We all are.’ I watch her laden approach. She's my right-hand man: early thirties, obsessive. A no-fuss-moisturiser-only-sensible-shoed-kinda woman. Pours hot coffee from a flask.
    ‘You must be psychic.’
    Hands me sandwiches.
    ‘Thanks.’
    Shrugs. Part of her job. ‘Boss...’ Hunches down on her legs. Opens the ever-present notebook. I follow her outstretched finger to a row of houses.  ‘His address is 201, The Esplanade. Looks like he’s not too far from home, sir.’
    Talk through sandwich, ‘I’m telling the wife. You’re with me.’
    ‘You need to hear this, boss.’ She waves over a man. Uniform escorts him to us.
    ‘This is Bob.’
    Pumps my hand; rallies at Brown: ‘Bloody dog. It’s the tablets, you see? Make him friggin’ bark, see? He was barkin’ from the laundry. It’s where I have to keep him, see? Since the op’. Wasn’t ‘appy. The Missus thought it funny. Should've kicked her fat arse out of bed to walk the stupid mutt. Who walks their fuckin' dog at 3 in the morning?’
    I pinch my nose and read Brown's notes.  Pages flip in the wind. ‘And you say you, “tripped over the body”?’
    ‘S’right. Fell on me arse. Bloody area’s gone to the pack. Was promised paradise, we was. Won the money on the 'orses, we did—‘appiest day of me fuckin' life. Fuckin' Australia, 'ere we come.’  Leans his ten-day stubble into Brown's personal space. ‘Keep the whining bitch ‘appy, you’d think? Not bloody likely.’
    ‘Did you notice anyone around?’
    ‘Who'd fuckin' be out at that time of the morning?’
    Brown: ‘You were.’
    ‘Yeah, but I’m a friggin' mug. Saw no one. Called you lot the minute I realised. Damn near stopped me ‘art.'
    ‘Did you call anyone else, Bob? Like, say, the media?’
    Bob finds the ground suddenly captivating.
    ‘You’ll have to go to the station and give a statement. We may need to talk to you again.’
    The man chuckles; runs a hand over his grayness. I leave him to Brown.
    Walk the scene until I reach the spot. Psychologically this is fucked up. Not sure why I'm surprised. Violence lives in every corner shop. Kids are spoon-fed death and sex at their Playstations. We're breeding fucking dysfunction from the womb. But here, today, a line's been crossed. You take out Government you fuck with normality. Uneasy? Fuck uneasy, I'm goddamn fucking panicking. Put my hand upon the sand. The House of Representatives is now in recess.

* * *

We walk to The Esplanade; palms are sweaty. Rigging wire balustrade frames the steps. From the deck, the view is blue sunshine. Polished boards look recently glossed. 'Flowery' hangs in the air: pots hold dramatic plants—the other half lives.I knock. Brown takes her position to the left of me. We reflect in the glass: The shaven-headed, scruffy-faced tall guy dwarfs the tougher-than-she-looks coppa. Brown’s image warps in the glass as she puts her face to the window. ‘Nice house.’ Cups her hand so she can see inside. I tug at my cuffs and smooth down my plain black t-shirt. Times like these, I wish I was the kinda guy to wear a tie. Rap the door again. Murmur of television filters through to where we stand. Hours ago, this lady would have kissed her husband on the cheek and waved him to work. But, in true ‘life sucks' nature here I am about to shatter. It frightens me. It's enough to frighten anyone, the fuckin’ fragility of it all. Footsteps. Key unlocks. Big eyes and heavy fringe make her look like the child beside her. She doesn’t look strong enough for this. Brown picks up the girl and carries her in. I take her to the sofa and tell her quietly that her husband's been murdered. She doesn’t get it.
    ‘Mrs Riley, can I call someone?'
    Shakes her head.
    ‘We need you to make the identification.’ I'm careful with her. She, of course, cries and I let her. I phone for a support officer. Clock behind the sofa tick-tocks the seconds. There's no way to do this kindly. ‘Does your husband have any enemies?’
    Her hands don’t stay still. ‘After what happened, he was devastated. He loved his country. He loved his job. Watching him take to that podium…watching the tears in his eyes…it broke my heart. It broke the heart of a nation.'
    She’s a true politicians wife.
    Touch her arm. ‘I watched his speech. He was a true gentleman. You can be proud.’
    ‘He truly had the Australian people’s best interests at heart. He did so much for this country. To oust him the way she did, well…’
    Power shifted after what many are calling a ‘bloodless Parliament house coup’. Andrew Riley had decided not to contest the leadership ballot. Ms Jennifer Kennedy now leads a divided nation. Riley’s spectacular downfall made him the first prime minister to be dumped from office before completing a first term. Now he’s dead. What this killing will do is anybody’s guess.
     ‘Has there been anything? Threats? Anything unusual? Has he behaved differently, changed his movements?’
    Looks at me like I’m soft. ‘What? Aside from changing his entire existence? What kind of question was that?’
    ‘A stupid one. I’m sorry.’
    More tears. ‘There's no one who'd want to hurt him. Everyone really felt for him with what had happened.’
    I’m not stupid enough to make it obvious, but I need to look around. My gut tells me the guy was clean, but he was clearly caught up in something far over his depth. But what? Can’t believe it has anything to do with recent events. Still, has to be ruled otherwise. I’m betting he was involved with something that smells just like wrong.
    Mobile. Quan: ‘Ok, so in becoming foreign minister he was responsible for helping to form the foreign policy. He specialised in Foreign Policy Analysis (FPA). Now, from government to government, a foreign minister’s power varies, leaving him with significant influence in forming policy, except when a government is dominated by a strong prime minister, then, he’s limited to a marginal or subsidiary role…’
    ‘Well, with this shit that’s gone down, the government is anything but strong, however, Prime Minster Kennedy is the almighty power. So basically what this means is Riley was given a token position.’
    ‘A peace offering if you will. He was a figurehead at best. Ousted, but provided with a satisfactorily powerful enough role to appease.’
    ‘His latest movements?’
    ‘Ok, he’s been to Europe and Africa, participating in high-level African Union and World Economic Forum meetings.  He’s been to Ethiopia, to meet with the prime minister there, he’s been discussing Australia’s economic interests in Africa, i.e. the 20 billion in Australian investment, in Africa’s resources sector, the common interests to work side-by-side in multilateral and regional goals to meet global challenges like climate change and United Nations reform. He’s been discussing bilateral and regional security, i.e. the situation in Sudan and terrorism. Oh, and he opened the Australian embassy in Addis Abba.’
    ‘Breathe out, Quan. Next?’
    ‘He was scheduled to go to Turkey to meet with the foreign minister to discuss Australia’s agenda for bilateral, and other, cooperations with Turkey; closer security defense and the G20 and WTO Doha Round negotiations, including disarmament and non-proliferation.’
    So where the fuck does China come into all this?
    ‘What’d the texta say?’
    ‘The writing on his abdomen was Cantonese, like you thought. It loosely translates to, “What happens in Fight Club, stays in Fight Club.”’
    I swear I can’t speak for 2 minutes. ‘Like the movie?
    ‘You got it, boss.’
    This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.
    I Hang up and scan the room. Bits and pieces on shelves, plants in corners, brown cardi discarded across a chair, chocolate on a table. Stuffy. Smells like lemon. Framed photo: they look happy. He sure as hell don’ look like any Tyler Durden. ‘Welcome to Fight Club’. This is Melbourne for fuck’s sake.
    I leave the  wife still crying on the sofa. Walk down the hall. Tidy house. Pull on gloves and find an office. With half an ear out, I search the desk, opening drawers, lifting files. Diary. Read it. One name pops up more than once: Tony Cameron, Finance Minister. I’d met Cameron a couple of times on protective detail. What a pompous prick. Diary marks his name, with a red circle, once a month. That’s all.
    Come on. I refuse to believe these two overweight, over-aged polly’s were meeting in some kind of underground Hollywood copy-cat. Flick through pages. Almost every third day in the last three weeks, spent with Cameron. Now, while I have my doubts, they sure were up to something.
    Switch on the computer. Password protected. Mental note: send in Quan. I shove at drawers’. One won’t close. Put a hand in and feel around; piece of cardboard's jammed. Pull at it, hoping not to tear it. Delicate job, fingers are clumsy. Just get it between my thumb and middle finger and ease it out. Business card. Three words: Rebecca Cameron Design. On the back is scrawled: 9 pm. Don’t be late. Okay...so I'm a little fuzzy and blink several times. Rebecca Cameron?  The wife? So he was literally beating the shit out of his opposition, in some kinda underground dogfight, and then fucking the wife on Thursdays. Damn, I shoulda been a writer.
Doorbell. Put the card in an evidence bag; tuck it under my arm. On the step, behind frameless glasses stands a white-haired woman: Support Officer. 'Helen Beckett.' Nana type. Chosen especially. She helps the wife get a bag packed. Brown follows them outside with the child in her arms. Chaos: van pulls up; two men jump out. Car races up the drive and parks in the garden. Slick brunette hurries a cameraman up the path. Bulbs flash. Riley's wife, in dark glasses, leans at Helen for support. Her hand touches my arm. Can just see her eyes. She puts her hands in the pockets of her long jacket and lets Helen lead her down the stairs and into a car. We all ignore the reporters. The high-drama moment fizzles out like it has no heart. Brown moves from the top step to stand beside me. ‘So what’s this all about then, boss?’

Hand her the card. 'A woman. What else?'

* * *

Cont...

Do you see what I see?

Self perception posits that folks develop attitudes by observing their behaviour and concluding what attitudes must have caused said behaviour. Folks decide on their own attitudes and feelings from watching themselves behave in particular situations. Self perception can be poison. Self Concept is a multi-dimensional construct that refers to one's perception of 'self' in relation to characteristics, eg. academics and nonacademics, sexuality and racial identity, et al. Self esteem being the evaluative element. Basically, if you think, therefore you am...

So, my point? I was watching an exhilarating new telly show with my beloved recently, in my pjs, in my bed hair & in my comfort. The lead actress is beautiful. To me. Her lips full, her clear green eyes intriguing, despite, or because of her lack of make up. I immediately felt inferior. I said to my beloved, "She's beautiful..." His response was, "Are you kidding me? You're way better looking than she is."

& you want to know something? He meant it. Researchers debate when self-concept development begins but agree on the importance of a person's life. & you guessed it, a parent's gender stereotypes and expectations impact children's understandings of themselves by approx age 3. No wonder we're fucked, right? I'm not so sure on that one, I speculate that around 7 or 8, development begins to depend upon abilities, interpretations & feedback from all those surrounding, & on into adult hood.

Our environment influences. A person's self-concept is influenced by behaviours & cognitive & emotional outcomes via academic achievements, happiness, anxiety, social integration and life satisfaction.

The message is simple: if we pamper those insecurities until they're bloated, abject superiors with the right of way in our lateralised cognitive processes, we're dog food.

Hearing his words, of course, after I melted some & felt love & mush, I reflected on the inevitable insecurities, the plague of inferiority, the relentless self-scrutiny we ladies dress ourselves in daily. How do so many strong, successful, attractive, but most of all intelligent, females continue to second guess when confronted with the picture of another whom we consider beautiful.

Am I so small in my thinking that I would consider my devoted partner would pat me on the head, kiss my cheek and see-you-round me with the bat of another beautiful eye? Sure, I've been mislead, I've been lied to, I've been broken, but that was then. Get over it.

Distance your negative self and bring forth your positive self.

how fat is too fat? and should we be 'ok' with it?

I've been thinking alot about Triglycerides. Or rather, the elements that make up our fat. The contributions. The mind-set. The risk factors. Triglycerides are the mechanism for storing unused calories. Their high concentration in blood correlates with the consumption of starchy and other high carbohydrate foods. In other words, yup, 'you are what you eat'.

It's not that one bucket of chips. It's not that one block of chocolate (well, actually it might be that), it's that bucket and that block and that huge 750 calorie dinner and that bowl of ice-cream after and that packet of m&ms and...yeah, you get my point.

We live, many of us, in denial. We eat crap. We don't excersise, drink too much and smoke. Um, death wish much? Triglycerides facinate me. As does much of the inner workings surrounding the machine that is our body. We 'think' we're ok, cos we can actually go on living like this for a long time before any effects begin to become permanant. We skip breakfast, make up for it at lunch or dinner or extra snacks along the way. The lifestyle we lead has a direct impact on our longevity, our mental health, our relationships, our looks and our brain power.

Western culture today has it so wrong. We are so educated, in comparison to our ancestors. so what's our excuse? Personally, I think we've all become a bunch of lazy arses. Western society has sheltered us. We live in a protected environment, we drive to work due to geographical expansion therefore necessating harmful emissions. We practically live online. When was the last time you went outside and played a game of anything with your family or took a walk in the park with a lover? Most of us are so bloody busy who has time for good food and excersise?

It's actually very easy to look after our selves (Within reason: token qualifier). Eat in moderation. Excersise regulary. Give up the ciggys. Drink less. Voila. Healthy enough. But I watch so many do all this arse-about. Ignoring the signs. Ignoring the messages. Teaching their kids 'it's ok to love your self the way you are. It's natural.' Well, let me tell you, there's nothing natural about obesity. Atherosclerosis is a condition where an artery wall thickens as a result of the accumulation of fatty materials like cholesterol and can lead to heart disease and stroke. Natural enough for ya?
Get off your bottoms. Go for a walk. Put down the triple choc layer cake. The pyschology behind this is simple. Life is better when you're active.

Are you being abused?

The signs

The things I want to know from you, are the following. Are you happy? Are you a woman who is controlled? Do you ever think, maybe this is not all there is to my life?

If this is you, you’re not alone. Domestic Violence, (DV) also known as Family Violence is something many women suffer. And it’s a terrible way to live. Someone close to you; your husband, your carer, or even a family member may be hurting you. DV is also not always physical. You could be suffering from emotional or verbal abuse, and believe it or not, even financial abuse. You and your children may be trapped and have no idea how to get out. This is unacceptable and you need to leave.

Don’t panic. It’s not as scary as it sounds. And life is so great on the other side.

What is it?

Emotional Abuse (verbal) is a technique used by a partner to control and dominate. He will tell you you’re worthless, nobody else could ever want you; you’re fat, ugly, stupid. Often teamed with the physical threat, this can prove crippling to women who after a time begin to believe.

You may over time become isolated socially as his hold over you becomes stronger, until you find yourself putting off friends, family and acquaintances to keep him happy. Social Abuse may be hard for you to talk about and you keep what is going at home to yourself, lying to those around you.

You may find you are controlled in less obvious ways, such as; you’ve become financially dependent upon your husband. Financial Abuse is when your partner has control over the money, possibly only dealing out exactly what you need week-to-week in order to feed the family and fill the car with petrol.

Physical Abuse is when he hurts you. Punching, kicking, strangling, pinching, slapping and pushing you around. It’s all the same. Not good enough. I know you’re scared. But it’s time to find you.

What you can do

It can be overwhelming, leaving. The first step is to talk to someone. Talking leads to action, eventually. This can be a terrifying prospect to you right now, I get it. But you have to start. From there, you could be on your way to a real life. One that doesn’t involve pain and heartache and trauma for you and your kids.

If you need to be careful, when looking at websites, like my own, and the ones containing help lines, then please take the care you need to. Go out of the house, when he’s at work. Go to an internet cafe. Look it up there. But do it. Take the first step, and confide in someone. Even if it’s me. And dare to dream that there could be something else out there for you. Someone better.

I’m not about to tell you that it’s going to be easy. It’s not. But it’s a finite period. Whatever you go through afterwards will pass. You must keep yourself safe in that time. If you need a shelter. Use it! These provisions are there for your own safety and wherever you are is better than being with him. Use the police, use the courts and get your self trained in self-defence.

You have a right to be safe. You have a right to be happy. You have a right to your own interests. I know it takes energy to start a new life. But I also know how much energy it’s taking for you to live the one you’ve got right now.

Please stay safe. I repeat; learn how to fight.

  Where to get help.