It’s exactly 4:00 am on Saturday morning, and I’ve been up all night making origami aliens. I’m planning to place them next to the name cards at my birthday dinner on Friday night. I know it might sound a little childish, but the aliens are surprisingly detailed — and really, they’re just a bit of fun.
I’ve been thinking about this blog today. So far, I’ve shared some thoughts, but it’s also taken on the feel of a diary — a way of recording what I’ve been doing that day or the day before. I want to keep doing that, because as I think I’ve mentioned, I want a record of my life, even if it’s just an anonymous piece of nonsensical writing drifting out into the void.
But I also want to capture some memories — and here is one that’s not so good.
When I was child, I was hypersexual. I know why that was, but this is not that kind of blog. I did want to share what I used to get up to in the schoolyard. At lunchtime, I would often climb up onto a bench attached to a classroom, lift my dress, and then pull down my pants.
My audience was mainly boys, and they would watch and cheer. I did this often. One day, one of the boys — the younger brother of a friend of mine — pulled me into a classroom and pushed me onto a desk. He pulled my pants down, and while I can’t remember exactly what happened, I think he picked up a smock and started whipping me with it.
I remember crying and laughing at the same time.
That incident didn’t stop me from climbing back onto the bench and pulling my knickers down. It only came to a halt when one of the teachers physically got me down. I never actually got into trouble at school.
But months later, after it had all ended, I remember being in the kitchen at our family farm when my mother said to me, “We know what you were doing at school, and you are a dirty, dirty girl. You have embarrassed us.”
I will never forget how that made me feel. It wasn’t just shame — it was something deeper. Something colder. Looking back, I find it disturbing that we all went on living what appeared to be a normal life, while she knew the whole time. And I hate that.
To this day, I hate it when people wait to tell you they know something about you. It almost invalidates the time in between.
The repercussions of my actions at school carried over into our home life. I remember my brother had a friend stay over one night, and at some point, he came into my room and said "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." I didn’t partake in that game.
But worse than those things was what happened a few years later, when I was in Year Four. A girl in Year Seven was running for SRC and knew my dad had an office. She came up to me and said I had to get her campaign posters photocopied at my dad’s work — or she’d tell everyone how I used to stand up on the bench and flash people.
I got the job done.
But that moment has stayed with me all my life. The price we pay to keep our past — or our identity — secret. I still do it today.
And I don’t feel free.
I didn’t write about that memory this morning for any particular reason. I just wanted to get it out of my system. It’s such a complicated part of my childhood, tangled in two damaging threads: the first being that my mum knew about it, and the second being the blackmail.
Throughout my life, I’ve had a few unpleasant sexual experiences, and I think that’s partly because of the person I used to be. I was friendly. I was trusting. And I drank a lot — not problem drinking, but in my twenties I would often have a big night out, and sometimes I got into trouble.
I don’t want to talk about all of that right now — maybe I will one day — but this thing with pulling my pants down and showing all the boys… it was serious. It might sound ridiculous or juvenile, but it shaped things. Sometimes I think it’s a wonder I didn’t end up a prostitute or wildly promiscuous — but it’s been the opposite.
I was involved with a few men in my twenties and early thirties, but not many. I’ve been celibate for the past eleven years, and I don’t see that changing. That’s been a choice, but it’s also wrapped up in body image — I put on a lot of weight after some health issues, and only in the past few years have I started to lose it.
I’ve never felt comfortable or free with a man because of how I felt in my body. But I think that would be different now — if I were with someone.
But I know I won’t be. That’s not bitterness, just realism. It’s a bit off-topic from the childhood memory, but I’m not a beautiful or arrogant woman. I have flaws and imperfections that most men would probably find off-putting. But honestly — I don’t think there’s a man alive who would be a match for me.
And beyond that, I’m not going to waste my precious time on a man who would likely ditch me the minute I turn fifty anyway.
I wanted to mention my mother in this story. I know she said something a parent probably shouldn’t say to a confused six-year-old child, but I’ve thought about it over the years. And honestly, I don’t believe there’s a rule book for parenting. She probably didn’t know what to say — and what came out was that.
I’ve never confronted her about it, mostly because I don’t want to bring up what actually happened. But I know she would regret it now. I do believe that.
So here I am, sharing this deep, dark secret — something I’ve carried for so long. And it’s something I genuinely feel shame over. Not vague, poetic shame. Real shame. The kind that lingers in your stomach and never really goes away.
I’ve never told anyone about it in full, not because it was the worst thing in the world, but because I’m so embarrassed and ashamed that I did it — and because, honestly, who would even care?
You pay a psychologist $200 an hour to listen to your crap, and they flip through the mental textbook in their head and tell you how to manage the way it makes you feel.
I’ve managed alright. But I know this is one of the reasons I’ve never felt comfortable with a man.
In closing, I want to share something positive about my life.
There are things in my life that have been transient — schools, jobs, some friends, and a handful of men. But for the past nine years, I’ve had one true constant. His name is Maiki, and he is not only one of my best friends, but someone I truly consider a brother.
Maiki is a 40-year-old Tanzanian man I met while staying in Tanzania in 2007–2008. He was the best friend of my late ex-boyfriend, Kijanda, and we got to know each other through him. When I returned to Australia, I lost touch with both of them — until years later, when Kijanda was tragically killed and Maiki reached out to let me know.
We’ve stayed in contact ever since. In fact, we’ve spoken every single day for the past nine years.
He’s married to a horrible woman — and the primary reason I say that is because she once beat their dog with a huge rock. I think there’s a special place in hell for anyone who treats animals like that. She doesn’t like my friendship with Maiki, but she really has nothing to worry about — there’s never been anything romantic between us.
Years ago, we did sort of talk about the idea of getting together, just before I went to visit him in Tanzania. But when I got there, we both looked at each other and laughed — like, “Nah.” And that was that. It goes to show that women and men really can be friends. I have a deep love for him as a person, and it has nothing to do with romance.
He’s currently separating from his wife, and he’s in love with their housekeeper — who’s much younger than him — and I think they’re going to end up together. He wants me to meet someone too, so we can go on holiday together someday, but I’ve told him that’s not going to happen.
I’ve paid for a lot of things for Maiki. He’s never asked me for money, and I don’t really have a lot to give, but because I never had children, I decided I wanted to help him get ahead — especially in a world where it’s so hard to get ahead financially.
I paid for his Master’s degree, and now I’m paying for his PhD. I know that probably sounds like a lot, and I suppose it is, but it’s nothing like the cost of education in Australia. Yes, it’s in the thousands, but nowhere near what a student would pay here.
Maiki didn’t want to accept the money, but I insisted. I’ve also paid a small lump sum to help cover his living expenses until the end of next year. It had to be minimal — it’s all I could afford — but it’s enough to keep things going.
He’s extremely grateful, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t do it to be thanked. I just wanted to help him out. And I think I’ve done that.
Maiki makes me laugh. We talk nonsense every day. But on a very real level, he reminds me of Tanzania — of the poverty, of the resilience — and he makes me feel grateful for the life I live here, and for everything I have.
