CHANGING DAZE.....(part 2).

McArthur Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down.
I don't think that I can take it
Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again.....

Nothing would be the same again. I consciously made a decision that my past life was my past life.  I had to convince the Federal court that I was a 'decent' person who had made a mistake and for this reason I rejected both Louise's offer of  work and another offer of working at the only remaining boy's parlour in Sydney.

Matty who had given up his customs job a few months previously, made one phone call to his previous employers and they immediately re-hired him.  That was part of his charisma.  Not just on me but on everybody he met.  I, on the other hand was left to endlessly search for jobs in the 'classifieds' which left me feeling unwanted and unskilled.

My secretarial certificate was a joke as I wasn't a girl.  My past experience in retail and kitchen work were over 3 years old and nobody wanted to look at me.  In the end I took a job with a furniture restorer!

Initially he told me that I was not only unqualified, but also to old to qualify for the apprenticeship position that was offered.  In the end, my ability to classify furniture styles and name tools (my father had been a carpenter), and his inability to find anyone else, got me the job.

it was hard work and poor pay.  I spent my days applying paint thinner to old furniture and sanding them down.  The fumes were suffocating, as was working in a tin shed. I was earning a mere $140 a week ( less than I had been earning per day at Brett's) and working my fingers to the bone (literally).  The only high lights were the occassional visit to clients where we would spend the day in million dollar houses while we sat and delicately polished antiques for hour after hour after hour.

I was so poor that I couldn't even afford the bus fares to get to work (or forgo buying my now diminished supply of marijuana) and had to ride a bicycle through the narrow and busy streets of inner city Sydney.

My only break came when we visited a clients house during my second week of work.  He turned out to be a regular client of Brett's and when he got me aside and asked my why I was no longer there he then offered to visit me once a week at home.  His weekly visits and extra $50 made the difference between maintaining  both my drug habit and our beautiful rented house.

Six short weeks later it ended abruptly.  On Saturday morning after I had finished the house cleaning Matty and I sat down to enjoy our now rationed marijuana supply ( we were down to one stick a day).  Having used up our 'morning half' Matty insisted I mull up the remaining stick.  We got into an argument because I knew that if we smoked the rest of the stick we would have nothing left for the evening.....

Matty wouldn't take no for an answer, and I stupidly (even now I can't accept the fact that I was in the right), not only refused but picked up the drugs and went and hid them in my bedroom.  Matty's response was to drag me back from the room and smash my head on the coffee table.  In defence I put my hands out to stop my head from hitting the table.  I don't really remember feeling anything but the next thing I knew was that both me and the table were on the floor and I had blood shooting out from my right wrist.

My hand had hit the ceramic bong and as we crashed to the floor it smashed cutting my 'mound of venus' and wrist deeply. Blood was spurting everywhere.  I didn't feel any pain, only shock.  Matty was telling my it was my fault and even refused to call an ambulance, which after I had wrapped a towel around my hand to try and stem the bleeding I did.

Then I tried to ring my parents.  Matty just lunged at me, hitting me in the face as I desperately pleaded for him to stop and somehow managed to hold onto the phone and let my parents know I needed help.

The ambulance arrived and rushed me to the nearest hospital.  Here I told them that I had been cleaning out the garden shed and tripped over while carrying a box of bottles.  Whether or not they believed me I don't know but that was the story I kept to.  After finally getting to see the doctor where I was poked and prodded ('does it hurt' they asked. 'Only when you stick your fingers in'. I replied) They announced that I had severed two tendons and would transfer me to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital where a surgeon was available to re-attach my severed tendons.

I remember my father arriving at the hospital just before they anaesthetised me and sent me to surgery.  I stuck to my story of falling onto a box of bottles but I'm sure he didn't believe me.  All I know was that again, after a childhood of anger, violence and humiliation, my father had again stood by me.

Matty didn't visit me until the next day.  Even then he came with my drug dealer and his wife who brought me chocolate, flowers and two joints.  Contrary to popular belief that marijuana is a pain reliever, I actually found that it increased my pain levels and only smoked the first joint before succumbing to waves of excruciating pain and spending the rest of the night begging the nurses for pain relief.

It was during this visit that my drug dealer suggested that he would be willing to finance the opening of a new boys parlour if I was willing to run it for him.  With little option of working in a job for months (at least until my damaged hand had healed) and at Matty's enthusiastic urging I agreed......

To move away from the story of my life I want to let my readers know that the next (I don't know how many chapters) are dedicated to the victims of domestic violence.  We all associate domestic violence with the traditional images of men abusing their wives or girlfriends.  However in my experience, and I'm sure I am not alone, domestic violence frequently occurs in gay relationships.

How do you justify letting some one (especially someone who apparently loves you) abuse you both physically and mentally? How do you find yourself believing that not only are you the victim, but the cause of the abuse?  How do you change from being a confident, happy go lucky, ready to take on the world individual to a scared, humiliated and terrified of everything and everyone personality and allow yourself to be trapped in a nightmare world of abuse and torture?

Hopefully the following chapters will give you an insight into not only how it happened to me, but how it happens to millions of people. Love (or the incorrect interpretation of love), dependence (in my case on drugs and the fear of living in poverty) and emotional blackmail are just some of the reasons why victims put up with the violence and are too terrified to take the initial step to get out

I dedicate the next chapters to all of us who have been in this position and urge anyone who is currently suffering in an abusive situation to take the plunge and walk away.   I was to scared and dependant to for nearly 6 years....but almost 30 years on I am still here.  The physical scars are still visible and a daily reminder of my torment, but the emotional scars haunt me to this very day.  What happened to me changed my personality, changed my beliefs in human nature and set me on a course of life-long dependency on both drugs and the need to be appreciated and recognized.

You will be surprised, perhaps even scornful, to know that even today I still think of Matty as my one true love....this was the power he managed to have on me.