I’m tired of keeping violence a secret

I know more about male violence than I know about my own menstrual cycle. This has always been the case. I have a deeper understanding of rape legislation than cervical screening tests. I know which one I googled more. I know it’s more socially acceptable for men to throw punches at the bar during a football game than for me to use the word “demobilization”. Google may help find Viagra within a 500-yard radius, but finding a doctor who will take seriously my concerns about painful sex and periods will take at least a few years before I can endure them.

I think about the fact that women can’t use the word “toxic masculinity” to describe toxic masculinity, because we’re told the solution isn’t to shame men. Then I think about how many women are shamed into silence at the hands of a partner who perpetrates sexual and domestic violence against them. I think about how the media shames us for our bodies and how governments try to control them. I wonder why this doesn’t attract the same criticism as our choice of expression: because our bodily functions are taboo, because our pain makes men uncomfortable, so can we please just do it there quietly? We must be seen and not heard; So much so that men who like women, are attracted to our interests, want our company, or align with our feminism are more taboo than men who are violent towards us.

My father texted me the morning after the rally: He had seen the video of my speech on Instagram.

Great rally speech. PM material.

One of the people I wanted to hear my message loudest was my father. His feedback and reaction were important. What did it take to be a big, masculine, stereotypically “Australian” man? What went down? He listened, but did he understand? I didn’t need to agree that domestic violence was a problem; I needed to think about how to respond to the call to action.

The person I looked up to the most when I was little was my father. He’s a guy people gravitate towards, a guy who works harder than anyone I know. A man who has failed to become a husband for years. He is a man who is constantly trying to be a better father, becoming increasingly progressive and aware of how his past behavior has affected his relationships. My father appears. He had some tough conversations with me and allowed me to publish the following story. When I discussed this with him during the process of writing this book, it was the first time he had been told what was going on. I think allowing me to write about this is in itself the ultimate act of moving forward. He knows how much it means to me to share this with people. My parents make me believe every day that we can all learn, grow, and talk to each other about hard things.

When I was 18, I returned home from university in Brisbane during the semester break to Orange in central west New South Wales. My mother asked if I could come and meet the psychologist who had seen both my brother and sister. I thought this was a nice idea.

At the time, it was two years after my parents’ separation and a Violence Arrest Warrant was in effect. This ensured that my father did not come within a certain distance of my mother. AVO was functional for almost the entire period since their split. Their separation during my final year of school was an incredibly stressful and traumatic time; especially for my brother and sister, who are only 10 and 12 years old.

Throughout this period, I had become accustomed to receiving urgent phone calls from both my mother and father at different times; one feared for his safety, the other had serious mental health concerns. My father needed help, but my mother needed protection. I was trying to provide both of them, and at the same time, I wanted to be away from them. I failed in all these attempts. I haven’t told many people in my life about what happened during this time, mostly because I don’t think it “qualifies” me as a sufficient enough victim to value my story enough. I know this is intellectually absurd, but not emotionally. The other part is that I still talk to everyone in my family and remembering this feels like a violation of their trust and our relationships. I want to make this clear: I love my mom and dad, and this is a complicated dynamic to bear. This is the truth from my personal perspective, and I do not claim that it coincides with the reality of those close to me.

While I was sitting in the psychologist’s office with my mother, my mother told me that she brought me here to chat with her. At first I thought it might be therapeutic, but I was against it. I gave him a “good” look and nodded as we walked into the room together. The psychologist and my mother were sitting right across from me. After a few minutes of general conversation, my siblings’ psychologist offered me a glass of water and started the conversation; That was the real reason I was there.

“Hannah, you’ll be staying in Orange until Wednesday, right?”

“Yes. I have two birthday parties and a few people to catch up with,” I told him.

“So are Max and Kate traveling to Queensland to stay with your father?”

“Yes, on Saturday. Is that right, mom?”

“We want to talk to you about this.”

My mother looked at her shoes.

“Ok my love.”

“We’re worried your father might try to hurt your brother and sister.”

The psychologist paused, looked me in the eye, and took a breath before continuing.

“When violent and persistent stalking behaviors are present, the risk of harming or killing children to take revenge on your mother increases. There are several factors that can greatly reduce the likelihood of this occurring, and one of them is the presence of a guardian. You are much older than them and there is much less chance of them harming you. From what I understand, he sees you as an adult, but not like them. We believe it would be better if you go with them as a precaution. Under these circumstances, you would be their protector.

I looked at my mother. My eyes were begging and betraying. I was eighteen years old. I felt overwhelmed by what was being put on me, and I was upset that I was losing all the plans I had made and missing out on time alone at home. I knew I was being selfish. “Mom, this isn’t going to happen. I have events to go to.”

“But imagine if that happened and you were left behind.”

I think about this moment in my life a lot.

I believe my father would never do such a thing, but all I knew for sure at the time was that he was more mentally disturbed than he had ever been in his life. My father was experiencing serious suicidal thoughts. He’ll be the first to admit it. I love my father and I trust my father. We have a relationship that has grown and developed over the last few years. He is interested in everything I do and supports me even when he disagrees.

It wasn’t until three or four years later that I began to understand the psychological impact of this conversation on me. What I pushed aside as an overly concerned parent and a mental health professional asking me to change my plans is now present in my psyche on a much deeper level. Seven years later, I have the emotional capacity to understand that I was indeed tasked with responding to a double murder: the ultimate act of domestic violence. Whether there is actually any risk is beside the point. What does facing such emotional tensions for a young woman just reaching adulthood teach her about relationships, violence, and her role in these dynamics?

During interviews and events, many strangers ask me how I became “this person.” So who is “this person”? Even thinking about this question makes me feel like an egotistical mole. How do I answer this? As an insecure twenty-five-year-old who pretends to be a confident woman, I’m never sure what the truth is and what “what I have to say” is. Should I be honest, or does this not help women and the “movement”? Should I say I’m insecure and would hate to hear what my psychologist heard? Otherwise you’ll smile and tell them to get over that imposter syndrome, my queen!! Did you understand this!!”?

I know innately that I have accumulated most of my skills and qualities through my own passion and effort and through the people I love from whom I have learned different things. But I often worry that so much of who I am comes from the dark, harsh parts, the parts that shouldn’t exist. I often associate my best qualities with the pain and trauma I have experienced. How can I take this into account? Who would I be without these spikes and edges? Why did an eighteen year old have to put up with all this? Why can’t I still let any of it go? If I let this go, will I lose the career I’ve built expressing all of this for an audience of people who identify with this issue?

When I spoke without preparation (at the Sydney rally to end gender-based violence), I think there was a heavy weight in my stomach, everything I was carrying was coming to the surface. I wanted to scream for those who couldn’t anymore. I wanted them to understand that those who make a difference should not walk next to us, because they were actually chosen to walk three steps ahead and lead us to a future free of these attitudes and behaviors. I wanted the decision makers in the media to know that they need to be two steps ahead, report to us, and keep us informed. Instead, we rescue them from the victim blaming of centuries ago.

I worry that sharing such thoughts is wrong in many ways, and I fear the reaction if my loved ones read what I write. After all, I hate when people think I’m confident in what I say and do. It’s ridiculous that people think I don’t feel fear or concern about the statements I make and the experiences I share. I’m scared and tired. I know most of us are. I would never want to force someone to share something and ignore their discomfort, but I want to shed light on the impact you can have when you break through those layers of anxiety and challenge the alienation we risk when speaking out. Courage comes from vulnerability. Courageous actions breed more courage.

I’m tired of the patriarchy’s violence against women, but I’m also tired of women believing that this is our secret and our problem to be solved. I’m sick of women insisting on “not that bad” relationships because our default belief system is that a single woman is somehow sadder than a woman whose partner is unhappy. I grew up around these conversations. I grew up leading these conversations with my younger brother and sister. When I started dating I realized I wasn’t having these conversations with myself. How could I maintain a healthy relationship when what I feared most was being exactly like my parents?

This is an edited excerpt Taboo (Affirm Press) By Hannah Ferguson.