Page 3330 - Week 09 - Thursday, 22 August 2019
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I tell you my story because I have the immense privilege of doing so, the privilege of being a member of this place; the privilege given to me by the people of Murrumbidgee; the privilege given to me by great friends, by a very strong family and by my comrades at the CFMEU who protected me in my lowest moments; a privilege that I wish we would extend to every woman, every man and every child who has become a victim of domestic violence.
I first met the father of my children when I was 16. He was my first boyfriend. He was funny, he was opinionated, and he had a job and a very nice red Holden. I was 16 and, for me, those things mattered. I was an apprentice hairdresser and I fell so hard in love—as hard as you can at 16. He was an escape. I thought I was so grown up. I thought my parents were unfair. I was 16. It did not take long before he was more important to me than my friends and my family. He made me feel guilty if I was not with him. He would come to work and wait for me every single day. At first I thought that was sweet. I now realise that was his way of keeping an eye on me.
We were married on election day in 1996. The Canberra Times did a very nice article about me, including a wonderful photo, of me in my wedding dress with my father. My partner saw it the next day and I got into so much trouble. He told me that we were married now and that I should not be drawing attention to myself. He told me that I was his and nobody else’s.
As I stand here today, I have to remind myself that I am safe, that I am protected, that I am strong and that I can. These are things that some women forget. Too many in this place, and many who have met me in recent times, would say I am hard, I am confrontational, I am bold. But that was not the case. Sure, when I was young, I would always stand up to the bullies at school. I would stand up for all the girls who were treated wrongly or poorly. But then I got a man, a man I married and stayed married to for 15 years, a man who had strong opinions, often very different to mine, a man who increasingly made sure his opinions were the only ones that mattered.
It did not start with him hitting me. It started with him telling me that his ideas were mine. It started with him demanding I come straight home from work and, when I did not, phone calls would start, first to my friends, then to my family, demanding they tell him where I was. It continued with him telling me how to feed my own children, how to bathe them, how to care for them, with him telling me who could visit and when. It ended with me running away. It ended with him finding me and choking me.
It ended with me starting again. I could get out. I could get away. I am lucky. But I am still very ashamed. I feel ashamed of not being strong enough. I feel ashamed of always fighting for others but unable to fight for me or my boys. I feel ashamed of people not understanding. I feel ashamed still of being not able to talk about it for real. Today is the first time that I am sharing my story so that others know they can be strong. I do not want anyone else to ever feel this shame. (Extension of time granted.)
We all need to remove the stereotypes of domestic violence: domestic violence is about more than a man hitting a woman; it is about more than a woman hitting a man. It is about controlling behaviour, it is about financial control, it is about an intimate
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