YOU'RE NOT ALONE

YOU ARE NOT ALONE

Breaking the Silence

These few chapters which I've shared aren’t fairy tales.  They’re here to remind you:  you’re NOT the only ONE.  So step gently into a chapter of my life-story down below 👇↓— in your own free time. 

Each memory, each truth is part of breaking the cycle from the inside out.  And maybe you will compare it to yours, as I had 23 years of hanging on  needlessly, not knowing any better.

 

đŸ’ŹđŸ‘¶"When you speak the truth, I wake up realising that this is NOT healthy living! Monkey see..🐒Monkey 🙊 do!"

✹Listen, here's a start of my personal story....
On the surface: three brilliant kids, a tidy house, and a mum holding it all together. But behind the door:  a cobra, a banana peel waving goodby and the couch running from reality. 

He would always tell me, "Forget it, it's history."  But when the truth gets erased, the cycle keeps spinning. 

So here I am —rewriting it: sharper, funnier, and hopefully with a punch that lands.  And if you think even those few chapters resonate, your encouragement will prompt me to speed up the completion of my life story.

đŸ’ŹđŸ‘¶Â Â "Rewriting the truth is a start to healing ... 'cuz your stories are both funny and sad."

✹ This section is for grown-ups only:
Sneak a peek into my book-in-progress:
"Bananas
 My Chaotic Funny Life"
— raw, unfiltered chapters served with zero polish and extra spice.
⚠ Read at your own risk!

📖 Chapter 1: 🎓 The Graduation Flinch (Queensland Edition)

My daughter wasn’t just a good student. She wasn’t even just a great student.

She was one of the top students in Queensland—the entire state.

The kind of kid who could’ve waltzed into medical school, mastered quantum physics on weekends, cured cancer during her gap year, and still had time to write a bestselling memoir titled Mindfulness for Overachievers.

So there I was, sitting in the stadium—hair professionally styled, lipstick flawless, glowing like I’d swallowed a floodlight—as they called her name.

My clever, accomplished, could-have-been-anything child.

I was ready to burst into proud tears, hum a few bars of Handel’s Messiah, maybe even levitate a little. This was her moment.

And yet, there was no one to share it with.

Certainly not her father—though I had begged, pleaded, and offered emotional bribes disguised as reason.

My daughter walked up to the stage. The crowd erupted in applause.

The presenter leaned forward to hand her the award—this shiny proof of her brilliance—and my daughter


Flinched.

Not a shy little wobble.

No. NO!

She jerked back like the poor man had just offered her a live snake wrapped in legal documents.

The audience fell silent. Then gasps rippled through the room like a slow-motion wave.

And me?

I laughed.

The kind of laugh that makes people three rows over-turn their heads.

The kind that says, either she’s fine or she’s just having a small breakdown.

“Oh bless her,” I said, “that’s my introvert daughter for you".

From my seat in the stands, it was hilarious. A little slice of family comedy: my brilliant, bashful girl.

That night, the phone rang.

“Could I speak to you privately?” said a soft, serious voice.

She introduced herself as Melissa’s mum—Melissa, one of my daughter’s few friends.

I switched instantly into hostess mode, all brightness and charm.

“Oh hello! Wasn’t your daughter magnificent today? That colour—was it purple or pink? Either way, stunning!”

A pause.

“That’s
 not why I’m calling,” she said gently.

“Oh?”

“I wanted to ask
 are you in a domestic-violence situation?”

I laughed again. Properly laughed.

The kind of laugh you give when someone says something so absurd it doesn’t even land as serious.

“Oh goodness, no! Absolutely not. No domestic violence in our home.”

But she didn’t laugh with me. Her voice softened.

“I’ve lived through it myself,” she said quietly.

“I recognised it when your daughter flinched like that on stage.”

And just like that, the laugh caught in my throat.

Back then, I thought domestic violence meant drama—bruises, broken plates, police cars.

I didn’t realise it could be quieter.

That it could seep into a home like gas—odourless, invisible—training a child’s nervous system to flinch even at kindness.

And the cruel irony?

On that monumental day—her day—her father wouldn’t attend. But he also wouldn’t not attend.

He hovered, a storm cloud over the whole event, making even triumphs feel unsafe.

But I didn’t see any of that from my seat in the stadium.

All I saw was Queensland’s academic superstar doing her best impression of a startled deer, and I laughed so hard I nearly needed an oxygen mask.

It took years to realise the joke was on me.

Turns out I had Stockholm syndrome.

You know—the kind where you start rooting for the villain, (because at least they’re consistent).

 

🔙 [Back to Chapters]

👉 Read Chapter 1

📖 Chapter 2:  Chaos, Socks & a Holy Banana🍌

It was just a banana. A peeled, eaten, utterly lifeless banana. Left on the floor like some tragic yellow crime scene, its limp skin splayed out in silent protest of its own demise.

My son—sweet, oblivious, 13 years old—had devoured it moments earlier, tossed the skin aside with the careless flourish of a Renaissance artist discarding his palette, and resumed whatever Very Important Floor Activity thirteen-year-olds get up to. (Possibly lying down. Possibly staring at the ceiling. The activity remains classified.)

Enter: his father.

A man who believed in order, discipline, and the tactical use of household items for theatrical effect.

He spotted the peel as if it were an act of treason. His pupils dilated. His jaw locked. His nostrils flared. Somewhere in the distance, the faint opening notes of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 began to play.

He grabbed the nearest newspaper and rolled it up with military precision—snap, snap, snap—each flick louder and faster, until it sounded like a snare drumroll announcing a public execution in the town square.

This wasn’t just a banana peel.

This was a direct assault on the moral fabric of civilisation itself. Possibly also an insult to his ancestors.

And then—chaos ensued.

My son bolted. Legs flailing. Socks skidding. His instincts screaming, “RUN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, RUN!”

His father gave chase.

It was no longer a house. It was an arena. A live-action Looney Tunes short scored entirely by Liszt’s manic piano runs. Furniture became obstacles and the hallway a racetrack.

Every moment unfolded in glorious slow motion:

My son vaulted over the leather armchair like an Olympic hurdler heading from the living room towards the staircase to his freedom. His father in turn chased the boy, newspaper raised like a samurai sword about to avenge his family’s honour.

As Liszt’s frenzied arpeggios escalated, the scene reached its crescendo:

A sock flew off my son’s foot mid-sprint, spinning through the air like a tiny fabric boomerang, landing squarely in his father’s path—but he didn’t watch to see as he was leaping two stairs at a time.

My husband slipped briefly on it, arms windmilling like a cartoon character on ice, regained balance with gymnast-like precision, and headed towards the stairway shouting,

“IN THIS HOUSE, WE DO NOT LEAVE FRUIT ON THE FLOOR!”

My son, having now reached the bottom of the stairs, yelled back:

“IT’S TECHNICALLY A BERRY!”

This did not help.

The banana peel lay exactly where it had been dropped. Forgotten. Unmoved. Victorious.

Looking back, it’s ridiculous.

But at the time? It was just life.

Even a single banana could spark chaos in that household. Small things escalated instantly, order dissolved in seconds, and somehow this all felt completely normal.

And somewhere, deep in my memory, Liszt is still playing.

 

🔙 [Back to Chapters]

👉 Read Chapter 2

📖 Chapter 3: đŸ›‹ïž The Sofa Witness (Peak Cartoon Opera Edition)

My son was around 15œ.

Which is basically adult enough to know the capital of Luxembourg (it’s Luxembourg City, obviously) but somehow not adult enough to flinch when your mother is being strangled and kicked down the stairs.

Scene: Our Living Room

He’s on the leather sofa like a Roman emperor in cargo shorts, one leg draped lazily over the side. The TV glows in front of him, volume low, murmuring late-night infomercials about steak knives that can cut through shoes and miracle creams that promise to reverse aging, poverty, and possibly death. His eyes flick between the screen
 and the real-life violence happening approximately four feet away.

Just to the side: me—mid-strangulation, being shoved and kicked down the short staircase into the living room. Gasping. Generally having a terrible time. Pleading silently with my son to help.

And between us, in the thick of it, the third person—not a ghost, not a metaphor—a real human being, using real hands, real feet, and real rage.

And my son?  He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even lower the TV volume.

I was crying. Not just in pain—but yelling “I love you! I love you!” over and over as that was our safe word between me and the third person, to jolt him back into reality
 like it was some kind of emotional spell to break the violence. (It worked. Sort of. He left the house.)

And there I was—bruised and sobbing, still powered by adrenaline and misplaced optimism. Forgetting my own pain (despite repeatedly being told to forget past history), I rushed to my son for comfort.

Surely, this was the moment he’d leap up, hold me, say, “Mother, I have failed you. Forgive me, for I knew not the depth of my apathy.”

Instead?  He blinked.  Sighed.

And in that moment, I swear the leather sofa reclined an extra two inches on its own (even though it wasn’t a recliner), like it was actively conspiring to help him sink deeper into the cushions of indifference.

In my mind’s eye, a single spotlight appeared from nowhere, illuminating his relaxed figure like a tragic antihero in a Shakespearean play—if Shakespeare had written about infomercials.

I could even hear the leather creaking, almost whispering to him:

“What’s all the fuss, darling? She’s fine. The steak knives are on sale. Stay here.”

Then, with all the urgency of a weather reporter announcing a 10% chance of rain, he said:

“Mum, this is normal. What do you want me to do about it?”

Ah yes. Of course.  Silly me, thinking domestic assault was worth pausing the TV for. The sofa seemed to nod in agreement.

It’s not absurd anymore. It’s heartbreaking.

Because in a house where chaos is the baseline, empathy can vanish in an instant. “I love you” becomes a panic button, and your own child learns to treat assault like background noise.

And somewhere, deep in my memory, the sofa is still reclining
 Liszt is still playing.

Years later, I realise the sofa didn’t just cradle him—it quietly trained him to survive by turning away.

👉 Read Chapter 3

🔮You can’t break the cycle if you don’t face the wound.

Children See Children Do

🍂✹đŸ“č Sharing briefly my story @ the Newkind Conference (Melbourne, Australia). 

 

đŸ’ŹđŸ‘¶Â "Just remember once you learn something...plant the ripple...đŸ’§ă€°ïžă€°ïž and pass it on. And btw — this site doesn't want your money. 
🔔 Stop the cycle before it stops you. See the Myths — Unlearn what harms. Read my upbeat Story: you’re not alone. Explore Resources — Tools you can use today. đŸŽ„ Or watch a Film or visit the Pop-Ups and/or scroll at your own pace.