THE FREEING

There were so many things I wanted to write about for this first piece, to share with you and every time I would write another story, these words would take over what I was trying to write. I promise that not every piece I share within this private container will be of a heavy and sad nature but, this story wants to be told. This story explains how I got to be where I am now and gives insight into the motivation behind the decisions I make within my personal life and my business. This is the story that got me to this moment in my life right now, this moment of feeling resolved, free and liberated. This time in my life that I truly embody what it means to be whole.

Over these past 18 months, and especially over the last 12, I have had much to reflect on. Since my grandmother’s passing in February of last year, I felt I could finally close the door to any connection with my family – it was toxic, to say the least. But what I was not expecting was the flood of events that occurred throughout my life to come rushing back in great detail. I had incorrectly assumed that these painful memories were part of my past and no longer of consequence to my current life but truthfully, I had stuffed them so deep in my subconscious that they no longer existed in my memory. My conscious brain retold these events in a much better light than the facts did. I reasoned and allowed myself to believe that people do mean well; to have faith because I know that people are simply doing their best; that there is hope to mend relationships even when things felt wrong, abusive and mean; because somehow, this could mean that love still existed, that there was some kind of love deep down (we are told to send them love; love thy neighbour when sometimes your neighbour is actually an abussive ass) These beliefs of trying to see the best towards this very situation kept me small, kept me oppressed, and enabled the abuse to keep happening.

The memories that came flooding back, that had never been spoken out loud, rushed their way back into my days at the most inappropriate of times. They snuck in at the times I wanted to be present and in the moment with my children and my husband and I felt like they were robbing me, yet again. I remembered (albeit a little grudgingly) to practice what I preach and to sit with them, to allow them to come through. My girls would often walk in on me and ask why I was crying and if I was ok and I chose to be honest with them and saying, No, I am not. I feel really sad and want to sit with it to find out what is wanting my attention. My husband knows this drill all too well to give me that space, knowing I will talk when I am ready.

These thoughts, these events all had similar undercurrents: they were memories in which I had been neglected and abandoned as a child, shamed and ridiculed for being me. They were passing comments from the males in my family of racism towards my paternal grandmother who was a person of colour and how that made me less than; they were comments from my mother stating how she had nothing to live for and just wanted to die; they were moments of being left at school until the sun was going down, feeling scared, cold, embarrassed and alone. They were the memories of how it felt to attend a new school, 10 in total over my 12 years of schooling. How I had gone to other members in my family: my grandmother, my uncle and my aunty to tell them something wasn’t right and that I didn’t feel safe being around my mum or being at home with her. But I was told that she was a good person deep down, that she had a good heart and that these clashes in personality was something I would have to get over and simply, grow up! The person who I remember receiving the most comfort was from my recently passed grandmother. I remember her saying to me that some women should just never become mothers, that there are some women too selfish to be mothers and that my mother was one of them. Those words echo so loudly as I look at my children, my three daughters' faces and think, how can anyone bring a life into this world and not want them to feel love?

Every week that went by brought a new set of memories I ignored as a way to survive. And so the cycle of crying, of remembering, of sitting with these feelings, continued. And of course, with my grandmother - the person I felt was my closest ally, the only one who I believed truly understood my situation – having passed, it amplified the heaviness and the feelings as I grieved, it amplified the segregation and loneliness I felt throughout my life.

All my studies within mental health taught me about coping mechanisms, and I was the master of them. My years of late have been spent having to unlearn my coping mechanisms so that I can remain present and not disassociate, so that I can heal and not pass on my wounds to my children. My training has shown me how to sit with these feelings, memories and experiences in a safe, slow and gentle way. All the things I chose to study and learn about was from wanting to understand myself more, to find a solution. But what I was not prepared for was the truth of my reality being shown to me and the extent of hate and abuse towards me. It was through my children, yet again that I have been able to see things for what they are and understand the narrative being spun about me until after my grandmother's passing.

You see, she was the one who would sweep in and pick up the pieces when I needed to be taken care of, often going between living with her and living with my mother until I was able to live on my own. And I just could never quite understand why I was always the one left off the invitation lists, the one who when speaking saw family roll their eyes into the back of their heads. It was always the same until I attended a family member’s child’s birthday.

My mother, who had fallen off the face of the earth after my nan’s passing, not responding to texts or calls, not coming to visit my girls or sending them birthday cards or Easter wishes. She had ghosted us, vanished and we had not heard from her once since the day of the funeral. But then, on that sunny afternoon as all the children ran and played, there she was walking across the park with my grandfather and his girlfriend. My grandfather’s hand was patting my mother’s back in a consoling sort of way and she was hunched forward as if too much in pain to be walking through the park, too much in pain to show up. My children, of course, saw her, and began their questions, “There’s Nana.” “I don’t want to talk to her.” “Why is she here, why hasn’t she seen me?” The questions, however innocently they were asked by my girls, became loud screams inside my head. My heart began to race, my breathing was short and heavy. As I pushed my youngest daughter on the swing I reminded myself of the list of exercises I have learned to calm myself and be still, and to not allow anxiety and anger to flood back in. I was an adult, I thought, a responsible, kind and respectful adult here with my kids. And this reasoning soothed me. My breath became longer, deeper, softer, my heart slowed down, and I was here fully present, as the adult me, not allowing my inner child to tear its way through.

At the sound of her voice, I turned to look behind me and heard my mother’s voice calling out, “I have the girls’ presents, I have their cards.” There was no hello, no how have you been the last six months, how are you feeling? Nothing. She just went straight into the excuses and the victimhood I knew so well. Still pushing my youngest on the swing my two older girls began gripping my leg tightly. I knew it was important for the girls to see me acknowledge the pain they had felt at her disappearance. I knew it was important for them to trust I would not simply sweep it aside. I took the calm I had just mustered within myself and replied as steadily and politely as I could, “Hello, the girls and I have not heard from you or seen you in months, how are you? It is quite a shock to see you here. You can not just fall off the face of the earth, you have responsibilities as a grandparent and as a mother.” As I said this, she quickly cut me off, began talking over me and pretending to cry. And in front of my children, she began telling me how much of a bitch I was, how cold and unkind I was toward her in this situation. The adult me knew this argument wasn’t going anywhere and in that moment, I knew how this would end if I continued, if I gave in, and gave her the reaction she was inciting from me. The adult me told the girls to run off and to get something from the sweets table. The adult me then faced my mother and told her firmly that this conversation was over. She walked away as I remained pushing my youngest daughter on the swing.

I allowed myself to take a breath before glancing over at everyone else at the party. I saw my mother talking to the other family members, watched as they patted her back or her shoulder, offered her a drink… consoling her. And in that moment I remember thinking, I just don’t want to be a part of this circus, this immaturity, these games… they were exhausting and I had had enough of having the same story play out every time.

I thought that being with my family the handful of times a year we would gather for birthday parties would be good for the girls. It was one of the reasons we moved back to Australia in the first place, so that they would have a family. But this show and inconsistent behaviour toward me was not something that I could have imagined, nor wanted when we decided to move back here.

These thoughts were broken up when I caught sight of my oldest daughter. I saw her face go white and she looked like she was about to burst into tears. I quickly walked over to her, wrapped my arms around her. She said she wanted to go home and didn’t want to talk about it here but felt really weird and strange. She said all this quickly, exasperated all while muttering heaving apologies in between sentences. I gathered the girls, took a handful of lollies and left knowing that I would never let this happen again, knowing in the back of my mind that I would not see my mother after what had happened that day.

On the car ride home my daughters and I chatted about the scene between me and my mother. I asked my daughter to share what really upset her and what the meaning of all her apologies was. My beautiful daughter, who was almost 9 years old at the time, said to me “I wasn’t saying sorry to you, I was saying sorry for you!” I could feel my heart swell.

A few hours passed and we chatted again with their father. My eldest told us that she had heard Nana talking rudely and meanly about me to some of the other family members. How I was this and that (words she said she would not say out loud) and how I had stopped her from seeing the kids. Upon hearing this, I wanted so much to punch something but knew I had to stay calm… Thank fuck I did, because as the conversation went on, my two oldest girls told me that they never really liked staying with my mother – each time they did (a handful of times in their whole existence), she would say mean things about me; she would tell them not to trust me; she would tell them not to believe the things I say and that I am not a good person. Their faces were sad and sallow as they recounted these things to me. They were truly heartbroken to tell me. A little afraid at the answer, I proceeded to ask them what they would say when she told them such things. It was then I learned that when they would defend me and say that I was the best mum, she would proceed to say something mean about them, try and pin them on each other.

At that moment, my heart broke. I couldn’t believe it! In my hope for them to have some form of family around them, I was instead putting them in the line of fire, enabling the abuse that I had witnessed, experienced, and endured my whole life. At this point even my husband added to the conversation, revealing that years ago she had done the same to him: told him that I was a liar and that I shouldn’t be trusted. He had known me for years before we got together, we were housemates in London and never took what she said seriously (thank god).

This incident was truly (and finally) eye opening. In that moment, I realised why eyes would always roll when I entered a room; why when I tried to speak about anything and everything, it would be fobbed off, talked over and had rudeness smeared all over it; why nobody celebrated me or anything I had ever done in life. In truth, my family knew nothing of me except as the fictional character my mother had spent 38 years creating of me as the bad guy and she the helpless victim.

It was from this moment that I was resolved and realising the truth of my life and reality.

Since this experience and since this knowledge surfaced, my life has completely changed. The autoimmune disease, Hashimoto's, that I was living and suffering with for ten years was gone, I am off all medication and am able to eat the foods I love again without any pain or digestive issues. And I have found new ways to walk through the pain of grieving my previous years lost to a narcissist, those years lost to gaslighting and manipulation. My relationship with my girls has changed in unimaginable ways: they are now all at home with me full time, homeschooling, crafting, baking, healing together whilst juggling work, renovations and the impending move to France - this beautiful, intrinsically designed life that is filled only with love and truth. My nervous system has changed and the way I see myself has changed. My relationship with my husband has changed. It is as though I can see with greater colour and complexity the beauty of life. I feel liberated through this knowledge. I feel reborn and able to fill the moments in my life with all the things I wanted and desired as a child.

The moments and memories I am now making are all forged from that place of healing, these moments are forged in time and the love that flows now is love I didn’t know before. It was as though having my family in my life was a plug in the tap of unconditional love because it was something I never got from them. Having realised all along there was not something wrong with me but rather there was someone wronging me. I am liberated in that I do not give a fuck what someone has said about me or their comments on who I am. Instead, I am gifted with the experience of writing it. Writing the truth, the journey and the undoing of toxic relationships. I am invited to rewrite the book of Brooke, in my words and to lift the Veil and show what was here all along.

Here is to the new chapter my girls, my husband and I forge together free of that which has happened and created from that which is from the heart.

Amoureuse,

Brooke x