Writing the hard stuff

I've been busy writing other people's stories and fitting the beginnings of my own memoir in between. I intend to include the stories of some of my female ancestors who I realise now have passed down their qualities of strength and resilience to me.  As hard and traumatic as my life journey has been in many ways and even when I've been in the depths of despair,  I have always been able to bounce back.  Although long dead now,  I really feel these women are still walking with me. 

Byron Bay

       ​      We piled into the carriage at Central Station; three 16 year old girls heading North, our luggage bulging with frivolity.  There was me the little hippy girl from Darwin, they called ‘Herbal’ and two Ms, Maggie of the long limbs and lily white skin who would be constantly in fear of the sun on our sunny holiday and Melanie, a Slavic beauty with long blond curls and an aloof demeanour.  I had just broken up with my surfer boyfriend grown bored with the endless hours, sunbaking on the beach, watching him have fun riding the waves.  It hadn’t occurred to me that I too could be out there surfing too.   I was keen to get away and, while surfing was not on my radar, I anticipated lots of adventure in Byron Bay.  I had no inkling then just how much adventure would arise from this short trip.
        At the last minute another two more Ms crashed through the doors of the train, a tower of luggage tottering behind them.  Mirren and Margo had been grounded and only released at the last minute.  They had known each other since Kindergarten and were inseparable.  A favourite game of theirs was pretending to be exotic royalty, high class call girls or celebrities, speaking in French, Italian or posh English accents.  They were fun to be around as there were often comedic situations at some poor boy’s expense. 
          As the red rattler chugged out of the station, we settled into our seats.  The vinyl seats were scrawled with black texta and covered with slashes, leaking stuffing.  We didn’t care. We were free. So thrilled to be away from the confines of our home lives and parental interference, the 4 Ms and I.  We pulsed with excitement.  
We staggered back and forth through the carriages in a conga line scanning for potential entertainment.  It was a motley assortment of mums and kids, oldies and a few middle aged singles. Two pimply boys with a guitar were the only passengers of interest.  Resignedly, we nestled into our seats to go over our plans for the week.  That fizzled out pretty quickly as we didn’t really have any plans or ideas.  We did have great expectations though but were entirely unclear what these were.
            As darkness fell, there was the drift of guitar chords from a few seats down and murmurings of ‘Bobby McGee.’  We sang loudly in fake Texan drawls, falling over each other laughing hysterically, amused by our hilarity.  Eventually we took notice of the dark looks from the other passengers and began to quieten down and fell asleep.   I woke at dawn and watched the sunrise through the dirty windows. 
The train rattled to a stop and we bumbled sleepily into the sultry morning air.   I took a deep inhalation, feeling the slick of humidity and hot sun on my skin.  ‘Yes!’ I thought.  Here we are.’  We looked at each other and laughed. ‘Risk and adventure here we come.’   The unknown is a fine thing when it is unknown and in that innocent moment I could not know what the years ahead would be.
             The days rushed by in a haze.  Hitching in and out of town, hours baking in the sun, trips in panel vans with local boys to hidden beaches. On the third day I was sitting at the table in the hostel when he walked in.  I can still see myself. Skin brown and dry with salt, my hair a matted mess.  I was wearing a little embroidered white camisole and purple shorts with red roses.  I loved those shorts and had cut them down from a long pair of pants I’d bought at the hippy shop in Darwin.  I can still see him.  Light skinned with a sprinkling of freckles, a strong face framed by a halo of ginger hair.  He wore a cheesecloth striped shirt and an orange sarong wrapped around his hips.  He had a bright cotton bag slung over his shoulder   He scanned the room briefly, our eyes met and there was an immediate connection.   I thought his NZ accent was endearing and his free, hippy image was seductive. 
         I was only 16 years old and could not have imagined what lay ahead and the chain of turning points that this chance meeting would bring in only a few short years; a baby, an accident and permanent injury resulting in blindness, many moves across two states,  misplaced loyalty, betrayal, marriage and divorce. 
      In Adelaide for a time I found myself and my small child living unwittingly in a brothel with two heroin addicts and their illegal Armenian boyfriends.  Back in Sydney there were dark months and years that followed where I struggled to make sense of everything and I sought escape in drugs and alcohol and unhealthy sexual encounters. Fortuitously I also found yoga which became a lifelong  support and friend.
        Still only a child at twenty two years old I had already been through so much.  My family too dysfunctional to offer nurturing support or kindness. No wonder I was unravelling.  Even now Bobby McGee still pops into my head always with the Texan drawl and echoes of laughter.