The Power of Powerlessness

While working at the courts, I spent my days attentively observing the judge. I know that, in relation to all the little things I’ve mentioned I perceived he did toward me, it could be said that I imagined it — that I wanted him to want me. Sometimes I even thought I was imagining it. And truthfully, I’m the last person who would volunteer the idea that a man was interested in me.

But from the way I interpreted his behaviour, it felt like he was overtly signalling that he wanted to have sex with me.

I was hoping he might leave his wife, put a ring on my finger, and sire three little judicial babies of my own. I secretly wished he wanted that too — but I know if he did want something from me, it was just a physical and circumstantial thing for him.

In many ways, I think he was responding to how bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to go I was. But then again, toward the end, I interpreted his behaviour to suggest that he was acting more into it than I was.

We definitely danced a dance — and it wasn’t a matter of if it was going to happen, but when.

As well as lusting after this beautiful judge, I spent time talking to literally everyone at the courts — the court monitors, the associates, the lawyers — everyone. I made a lot of friendly acquaintances. When I was with the other court officers, a lawyer or associate would often walk past and say hi to me, sometimes stopping for a little chat. That made the other court officers talk amongst themselves.

But the best times were when I was with the judge and his associate — who could actually be quite rude, but had a kind heart underneath.

One day, a QC — who would now be a KC — from Adelaide was in the judge’s courtroom for a very high-profile case. Hamish Sinclair QC. He looked so familiar to me, and his name rang a bell too.

Before court started one day, Mr Sinclair QC came up to me and asked if the judge would be in full robes and wig. I know there was a proper term for it, but I’ve forgotten it now. Anyway, I went behind the courtroom and called the judge’s associate, who checked with the judge and said yes, he would be. I let the Mr Sinclair QC know, and all the lawyers in court put on their gowns and wigs.

But when I was waiting for the judge behind the courtroom, he wasn’t wearing his robes or wig. He gave me a cheeky grin, but I didn’t find it all that funny.

When we walked into court together — the judge in regular dress and the lawyers all wigged up — they looked at him, and then the Mr Sinclair QC looked directly at me and gave me a death stare.

But I wasn’t intimidated by him. Not at all.

Mr Sinclair QC happened to be in court for several days, and I’ll never forget his behaviour on one of them. While he was waiting for case, another man was standing before the judge — I think it was a personal claim for damages. He’d lost his industrial oven to a fire. I’m not sure if the fire had been deliberately lit or what exactly had happened, but I perceived that Mr Sinclair QC found it hilarious when the man used the phrase “industrial oven.”

He was sitting near me, and I interpreted it that not only was he laughing at the man in front of the judge - he was snickering. When the man turned around, he went bright red — completely humiliated. I genuinely felt so sorry for him, it must have been awful having someone like this QC laughing at him like that. The judge looked over at Mr Sinclair QC and it appeared that he started laughing too. I looked at the judge, and in that moment, he was not the man I thought he was.

I perceived it that they both humiliated this poor man — a man who was probably paying the cost of his house just to be there — and they appeared to find it hilarious. I found Mr Sinclair QC to be in contempt of court, and I thought to myself: You bastard. You absolute bastard.

I continued leaving post-it notes and Ferrero Rochers on the judge’s and his associate’s benches. I was socialising with everyone, and, in some ways, the court began to feel a little bit about me.

Yes, I did my job — and I took a real interest in oaths and affirmations. But here’s the thing: we were told that in order to legally administer oaths, we had to be sworn in ourselves by the Chief Justice. That never happened. So technically, every oath I administered meant nothing.

I remember one day I was behind the courtroom alone with the judge. It was just the two of us, and he was pressed up completely against me. I thought to myself: If you’re going to do something, do it now. So I turned around and looked at him. He was looking back at me like, do it, do it — but I couldn’t get out of my own head.

I could literally feel his breathe on my neck, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. Instead, I whispered, “Are you ready to go in?” He didn’t say a word — he just nodded.

I felt like that was a real lost opportunity. But in reality, he should have made the move. He was a 60-year-old man, and I could tell he’d broken a few hearts in his time. I didn’t understand why it had to be me.

One Friday, I decided to leave a slightly suggestive post-it note on the judge’s bench, along with a Ferrero Rocher. I wrote:

Dear Your Honour,
Your courtroom can be extremely thought-provoking.
Kind regards,

Me

When we walked into court for the day and I sat down, I watched as the judge took his seat and read the note. He fell back in his chair and I started laughing — he looked down at me and started laughing too. After that, he watched me like a hawk and appeared to make very suggestive comments throughout the proceedings.

During the break, I went over to one of the jury rooms, where one of the older court officers was sitting. I sat down and had a chat with her. The phone rang, and when she picked it up, the person on the other end asked if she’d seen me. She said she had, then added, “She looks fine.”

Then my buddy — an older male court officer — walked in, looking sad. I went over and gave him a hug and asked what was wrong. He just said, “I’m sad today.”

I went back to court and continued my flirt fest with the judge. After court finished for the day, he came right up to me again and just stared into my eyes. Thinking about it now, it’s tiresome. You can have sexual tension with someone, but there has to come a point where something actually happens — or it just gets old.

But this wasn’t getting old for me.

That evening, I walked down to the jury room like I always did, to check the roster for the following week. I couldn’t see my name. I looked up at a few of the court officers and asked why. Then the big boss stepped in and said, “We’ll sort it out on Monday.”

I thought nothing of it and said goodbye to everyone — though they were all looking at me a little strangely. Still, I left. But as I was walking toward the bus stop, I saw the boss and one of the senior court officers walking a little ahead of me. They looked up at me and started laughing. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

I checked my phone, which I’d kept off all day, and saw a message from the temp agency. I called, but the girl who usually handled my file wasn’t there. I told them it was urgent and needed to check my status. They transferred me to the after-hours staff, and that’s when my deepest fear was confirmed.

I’d been let go.

But not fired in any fierce or angry way — the reason given was “budget cuts.”

Instantly, I thought of the judge. I was 100% certain he’d had me fired for leaving that suggestive post-it note on his bench. Could I have been wrong?

On top of that anxiety, I was heartbroken — not just about the judge, but about not seeing the carbon copy of my exposer every day.

But more than anything, I felt like my DNA changed again. This time, it was the humiliation — knowing that all the court officers clearly knew I was being let go, except me.

I used to be able to cry — and I did. I cried and cried. I was so humiliated. Then I became worried that it might end up in the paper — that I’d left a suggestive post-it note on the judge’s bench. I thought of my parents, who had a bit of a public profile in Adelaide — though, to put it in perspective, it wasn’t a big profile. Still, I was terrified.

Honestly, I think my heart broke.

I would have stayed with that judge forever, if they’d let me. I would miss his poetic delivery of legal terminology, his piercing blue eyes. But most of all, I would miss the way he made me feel — wanted and desired. I had never really felt that way before I met him.

I thought I loved him. I really did. Looking back now, it wasn’t the kind of love where he’d hold my hair back while I vomited in the middle of the night. But it was the kind of love that made me want to walk to the ends of the earth just for one night with him.

I understand humiliation now.

It might seem insignificant to those who experience sexual or public humiliation on a grander scale — but this was mine. My peers, laughing. At me. That laughter, that knowing, broke something inside me.

I had no plan for what to do next. I didn’t know how I could live without him.

I barely slept over the weekend. First thing Monday morning, I got up early and went to the local florist. I asked if I could make the arrangement myself — a bouquet of all purple roses, with one red rose in the middle. It was for the judge and his associate. The flowers were meant to represent the judge’s individuality.

I wrote cards to them both.To his associate, I enclosed my court pass key and simply said I was sad to say goodbye. To the judge, I wrote: I’m really sorry about the post-it note.

I had them delivered that day. Then I went home and went straight to bed.

That same day, I was offered a new temp job — this time at the Director of the Attorney-General’s Department, in the criminal law policy review unit or something like that. It was a job for the head honchos — and I was on reception.

I started the next week. But I was so depressed about the judge, I think I got into bed and didn’t get out again until that first day.

My phone rang off the hook, but I didn’t answer it — not to anyone but my parents.

It was ironic that I got this next job. It had a lot to do with the judiciary, and from day one I started getting really paranoid about the post-it note I’d left on the judge’s bench.

After about a week, I got home on a Friday night and the judge’s associate called me. He asked where the hell I’d been and said he’d been calling me and calling me. I said to him, point blank, “The judge had me sacked, didn’t he?” He said no — not at all. He said the judge was shocked that I’d been let go. That he’d asked the associate to call me and invite me in to have coffee with him.

I told him I wouldn’t go. I said I couldn’t face the other court officers. And then I told him I had to go.

I didn’t believe him when he said the judge didn’t have me sacked. Back then, it didn’t make me angry. But now, it does. Because he was so full-on with me. I did not make a mistake in thinking he was interested in me.

I didn’t think I would ever get over the humiliation of being let go from the courts like that — and I was right. I didn’t.

In my new job, judges would come in for meetings, and two of them actually said to me, “Weren’t you over there?” I said yes. Then they asked why I left. I didn’t know what to say.

I made friends with all the lawyers and some of the directors. We would go out to lunch and talk about the Bali Nine — but we weren’t equals. Not really.

I don’t think the judge had me let go anymore. I think it was the way I was behaving. I’m a big believer that everyone is equal in life — but sometimes, you have to know your place.

I wasn’t a lawyer. I wasn’t a court reporter or an associate. I was a court officer. I should have stayed in my lane.

It takes a certain level of arrogance to prance around acting like you own the joint — and I’m certain that’s why I was let go.

I quit my new job after a few months because I was a paranoid mess. Even on my last day, I stayed back deleting emails — just work emails, but I was scared someone might misinterpret them. That actually raised alarm bells with one of the managers, who said to a friend of mine that she was worried about why I’d stayed back to delete them.

I got another job at the Australian Bureau of Statistics, but this time, I jumped into bed and didn’t get out for weeks. I never made it to the new job — and I got blacklisted by the temp agency.

I was still humiliated about being let go from the courts. Like I said, I just couldn’t shake it.

But more than anything, I missed the judge.

It’s disturbing, but he resurrected this feeling I’d had since I was just a girl — and my 29-year-old self translated that into sex and love.

It was the tale of the power of power — and the power of powerlessness.

To be continued.....

The Power Of Power

Recently, I wrote a little bit about how, in late 2010, my brother and I drove from Adelaide to Darwin. I stayed in Darwin for a few days, and my dad wanted me to go to the Gold Coast to study law at Bond University — but I ended up in Sydney instead.

At the time, I felt passionately about the abolition of the death penalty and the campaign to save the then three members of the Bali Nine who were on death row in Bali: Scott Rush, Myuran Sukumaran, and Andrew Chan. Scott Rush later had his death sentence commuted to life in prison.

My plan was to volunteer at Amnesty International during the day, work on the campaign, and get a night job in a call centre. When I first arrived in Sydney, I rented a room in a large, boarding house–type place. It wasn’t a boarding house in the way I now understand them — it had a lot of professionals living there who were looking for more permanent housing.

I started my job search straight away. I signed up with a few temp agencies, and I also spent a lot of time trying to convince Amnesty International to do more about the three men on death row. I spoke to Scott’s parents a few times about how I could help, and I wrote letters to Andrew and Myuran — I developed a bit of a pen-pal–type relationship with them.

I wasn’t having much luck getting a night job, and there wasn’t really a role for me at Amnesty International apart from being my own private human rights defender. So I checked to see if there were any seats available at the Centrelink Call Centre in Liverpool, Sydney — unfortunately, there weren’t.

I decided to get a temp job while I worked out what to do next. I signed up with an agency called Randstad. I’d never temped with them before, but I knew they did big government contracts, and I was excited to see where I’d end up.

Not long after signing up, I got a call from Randstad telling me they had a job for me at the Downing Centre District Court as a court officer. They described the role to me — it was totally different to anything I’d ever done before, and I actually thought it was quite serendipitous, given I’d been regretting not going to Bond University on the Gold Coast.

To give you a bit of a picture of myself: I was used to working in call centre and secretarial-type roles. I wore — and still wear — very feminine clothes like skirt suits, colourful tops, and jackets. I don’t wear designer clothes as such, but they’re generally in line with what’s current. I also used to wear a lot of heels, though I haven’t worn them much in the last ten years or so. I think I’ve always made a real effort with what I wear — and that’s because of the whole “unconventional looks” scenario I find myself in.

On my first day at the courts, I wore a suit with heels and made my way down to the Sheriffs’ area. There was a group of maybe six of us all starting together. I remember we were taken into a room and given the rundown of our responsibilities — and it was all so new and exciting. We had to enter the courtroom before the judge and their associate, knock twice, and say “All rise.” We were to act as intermediaries, collecting papers from the bar and taking them to the judge’s associate.

Another part of our role was to bring in witnesses, then read the oath or affirmation to them and swear them in. On the first day, we were told that in order to administer oaths, we ourselves had to be sworn in by the Chief Justice — something they were going to arrange. We also had to empanel juries and look after the jury throughout the trial. It was a very diverse and interesting job.

I looked completely out of place. I had a face full of makeup and was dressed like I was the CEO of Coles Myer. We were introduced to the current court officers — all ex-army types, a couple of very masculine women who were beautiful in their own way, and some older men and women. I was one of the youngest.

We got stuck right into it. We were each paired with a current court officer, and straight away they started their jobs while we shadowed them. I didn’t know for the life of me how I was going to bring myself to take someone’s oath, but the court officer showing me around made it look so easy.

It was fun seeing the skeleton of the Downing Centre — the judges’ chambers, the ante-rooms between the courtrooms, and the large network of elevators. We shadowed court officers for the next few days. I was still wearing skirts, suits, makeup, and heels, and I did look a bit ridiculous — but honestly, I didn’t have anything else.

One day, I was in the ante-room between two courtrooms with my court officer trainer. The elevator door opened, and right before my eyes stood the most beautiful man I think I had ever seen. He was a judge who looked about sixty years old, and he could have been an identical twin to the man who exposed himself to me when I was younger. He looked exactly like him — so much so that my initial instinct was to ask if he was related to the man.

You know how sometimes two people seem to be cut from the same cloth? There’s an Adelaide journalist, Rex Jory, who I think is the spitting image of Pat Rafter — well, this judge was a dead ringer for the exposer. But somewhere, somehow, I felt like my DNA had rearranged itself and I was now put on this earth to admire and cater to the every need of the man standing before me.

I think until then, I had never been sexually attracted to someone. Yes, I'd had boyfriends and partners, but I had never felt my body physically react in the presence of a man. Not only was I caught up in the midst of a feverish, passionate lust-fest — on an emotional level, I felt that not only did I love him, but if he didn’t love me back, I would die.

He had piercing blue eyes, and I thought that he blushed when he was introduced to me. I sort of curtseyed as I shook his hand, and I could feel my pupils dilating as I made eye contact with him. He was like a Greek god — the kind I could imagine a whole group of young wood nymphs congregating around in a display of communal desire.

Next to him was his gruff-looking male associate, who had a shaved head and some facial hair. I was introduced to him too, but he was entirely irrelevant to the moment — a moment where, for the first time in my life, I was rendered speechless by the magnificence of the creature before me.

Our meeting was brief, and then the judge had to go and sit in court. My court officer trainer walked him in, and I followed. For the duration of the session, my eyes were fixed on him — and I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but I thought he seemed to be looking at me too.

While we were in training, if our court session finished for the day, we were encouraged to go and sit in another courtroom and watch the proceedings. I went to this judge’s courtroom a few times — and I interpreted it that he started staring at me. And he seemed to be doing it in front of everybody. I perceived some of his remarks about a court case as having a sexual undertone, especially because he would sometimes look directly at me afterward — though I can’t be sure that was his intention.

He talked a lot about how he was sixty years old. He would sometimes begin a session with something like, “I’m sixty, but I still have young friends.” He often spoke poetically, saying things like “At first blush” and “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

I was a smoker at the time, and most of the court officers smoked too. I remember saying to one of them while we were having a cigarette that this particular judge reminded me of Dracula — or Aslan from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I think both characters have a kind of heightened wisdom, which is something you’d expect from a judge. Well, most judges. I think we’ve had the odd dickhead here in Adelaide.

A couple of weeks in, we were given uniforms. I was issued a medium-length navy blue skirt, and we had a few options for the top. We had to wear a white shirt, but then someone gave me this little criss-cross tie thingy, which reminded me of what I used to wear at school at Scotch College. I didn’t have to wear it, but I chose to. It made my uniform look like a cross between a correctional services officer and a Virgin Airlines flight attendant.

In those first few weeks at the courts, I moved from the boarding house to my brother’s best friend’s place. I’d known him since we were children, and he was living in central Sydney with his wife. They said I could stay with them for a while, so I moved all my stuff over. It was nice and close to the courts — I just caught the bus or a taxi to work.

Once we were ready to go it alone on the job, I got assigned to this judge pretty much every day. It was such an adult situation to be in. He appeared to be showing me a lot of attention, and I thought about the types of women I imagined he’d been with before. I didn’t know how to express myself to him without looking like a complete idiot.

The other thing is — because I’m conscious of the fact that I’m not a very good looking woman — I can never tell if a man likes me or not. At first, it could have gone either way. He was married, and his daughters used to come into his courtroom and sit up the back. They would’ve been in their early to mid-twenties. The first day they came in, he appeared to look at them lovingly — and then look at me.

I didn’t know they were his daughters. I felt a little jealous, so I turned to see who he was looking at — and then it seemed like he glanced back at me and started laughing. It was moments like that. Based on what I thought he was doing, I just couldn’t believe it.

The judge used to share little thoughts and stories from his life. Once, in reference to a depressed witness, he remarked that “judges can get depressed too.” But something else he said really struck me. He told the courtroom—who I always thought of as his “audience”—not to underestimate how high his shock threshold was.

That made me want to be near him, for no other reason than the hope that he might not think too much of all the mistakes I’d made in life so far. Things like my hyper-sexualised school days, and my time in Africa.

The moment I really kind of fell for him, though, was when he was talking to an accused man who was being held in custody. He asked the accused if he was being treated well, if he was getting enough food and water, and whether he had access to showers. At the time, I was so impressed by that.

The accused had a newborn baby he’d never physically met. The baby was in the gallery with its mother, and the judge asked if he wanted to kiss the baby on the head. The man said yes. After he kissed the baby’s head, the judge looked around the courtroom and I viewed it that he thought he’d just orchestrated this incredible moment — and at the time, I thought he had.

But now, I think it was just a typical politician’s move. And it involved kissing babies, too.

It was often just me and the judge in the ante-room. I would walk in front of him, knock twice, and say “All rise.” I sometimes experienced his hand on my lower back and interpreted it as guiding me forward, though I don’t know what he intended. It then appeared he spent most of the time we were in court together looking at me — or I sometimes perceived he was looking at other women, and then checking to see if I was watching.

As all of this was happening, I became quite close to his associate. He was a smoker, and we would go out for cigarettes together. They started getting me to do extra things, like go to the registry, and sometimes I hung out in the judge’s chambers with him.

As time went on, I moved house again — this time into a place in Woollahra with another of my brother’s female friends. The place was still central Sydney. My housemate, Lucy, spent most of her time living with her boyfriend, so I pretty much had the apartment to myself. When she was around, I’d tell her about the judge — the way I thought he would touch me, the things I perceived he said, the way it appeared he stared at me — and she just said he sounded from my interpretation he was a dirty old man. She didn’t understand why I liked that.

We talked about it and came to the decision that the only way something would ever happen between me and the judge was if I initiated it. He would be too smart to ever do something like that himself.

But the problem was — I would literally never, ever, ever initiate something like that with a judge.

I didn’t have the confidence.

I used to leave little post-it notes on the associate’s desk and the judge’s bench with quotes like, “Nothing is impossible, the word itself says I’m possible” — Audrey Hepburn. I’d leave a Ferrero Rocher or a bag of M&Ms with the note. I did that all the time. I also gave chocolates to a friend of mine — an older man and a fellow court officer.

I made origami Easter presents for the judge, the associate, and another associate I’d come to know. One day, another court officer saw me carrying the little boxes and asked who they were for. I told her, and I think she told my boss — I wasn’t supposed to do that.

I also got in trouble once because the toilet in one of the ante-rooms was filthy — it had flies all around the base, and it wasn’t just a case of flushing. I called my boss and told her. She told me to call maintenance, which I did, but they just said to flush it and not worry about it. I went back to my boss — and it kept going around in circles. So, on my lunch break, I went out and bought some Harpic and toilet-cleaning supplies. I scrubbed the toilet myself. Another court officer saw me doing it, and dobbed on me. I got in trouble for that too.

The most serious thing I got in trouble for was probably what happened with a Crown Prosecutor I got along really well with. One afternoon after court, he had too many suitcases to take back to his office — which was just next door to the courts — so I carried them for him. I then hung out in the office with him for a bit. He told me how good life was now that he was on his second marriage, and we had a look at all the photography on the walls, which had been taken by one of the lawyers.

Things became difficult for me when another court officer came up to me and asked, point blank, if there was something going on between me and the judge. I said no, but she said people had started to talk.

Then, one day in the bathroom, a lawyer came up to me and asked if the judge had taken me away on circuit with him. I said no. He invited me to go on circuit — or at least, that’s how I understood his words at the time, though I may have misread them.

It wasn’t one thing in particular that he was doing — but when he did do something, he appeared to do it in front of everyone. One day, after court had finished, I went to grab the door for him, and I interpreted that he came right up to me — face to face — and just stared at me or that’s how I experienced it in the moment. In front of all the lawyers. It felt like he was trying to say something. But again, I just didn’t know what to do.

I remember him and his associate walking toward court one day. The judge asked his associate, “How old do you think she is?” His associate said he didn’t know. The judge looked at me and said, “I think she’s about 22.”

That day in court happened to be a rape case — a 60 year-old man and a 22 year old woman.

What are the fucking odds of that?

It was disturbing. The judge said things like, “What would a 22-year-old woman want with a 60 year-old man?” — and I thought he looked right at me while saying it, but I could have just been imagining it.

After court finished that day, his associate ran off. I opened the door for the judge. He started walking away, and I called out, “Your Honour.”

He turned and looked at me and gave me his full attention.

And I just said, “Never mind.”

I was 29 when I was working at the courts. But honestly, I was behaving like a 12 year old.

In life, I can honestly say that only a handful of men have actually been attracted to me. As I said before, I was involved with men throughout most of my twenties, but I don’t think any of them ever sat down and thought to themselves, I want to be with that woman.

I also have no clue when someone is attracted to me. I generally assume they’re not, rather than believe they are. I sometimes felt there might have been an attraction with the Judge, but I could never be sure.

I was finding my time at the courts electrifying. I was on such a high, being with the judge every day. I could have listened to him for hours. In my opinion he was extremely arrogant — but he was wise, and there was a gentleness to him.

My desire for this judge was the powerful force I have ever experienced. And to this day, I haven’t experienced it since.

It was a celebration of all the good feelings life has to offer — but it’s also a very disturbing tale. It’s a tale about the power of power.

This is how I experienced it at the time — what I noticed, what I felt, and what I interpreted. I can’t speak for anyone else’s intentions; I can only share my own perceptions.

To be continued.....

Free From Chaos

I don’t see this as one of my cosmic coincidences, but Brian Wilson—the co-creator of the Beach Boys, whom I was talking about just over a month ago in one of my posts—died on 11 June 2025. Brian lived with schizoaffective disorder, a form of schizophrenia. The reason I had been talking about him was because I’d been listening to one of his songs, and it reminded me of the softer side of schizophrenia. At the time, I was afraid that a man with the same diagnosis wished me harm. Thankfully, he didn’t—but hearing of Brian’s death still makes me sad.

Since his passing, I’ve learned that Brian wasn’t actually in the grip of mental illness during the peak of his time with the Beach Boys. He co-wrote hits like Help Me, Rhonda, Good Vibrations, and Wouldn’t It Be Nice before his schizoaffective disorder fully emerged. While he remained involved with the Beach Boys afterward, his illness went on to shape much of his life.

That changes everything for me.

I had believed his story was one of creative genius harnessing madness. But now I see it differently—it just made me realise how impossible that really is. He’s rightly hailed as a genius for the music he created with the Beach Boys. But I can’t help wondering how much more he could have done if he hadn’t been struck by the schizoaffective stick. If Brian Wilson couldn’t make it work with that illness—even with his brilliance—then who can? People like him are often feared, stigmatised, and left behind at the end of the unemployment line — if they even make it that far.

And yet, there’s one thing Brian did conquer: love.

He was married twice. In his first marriage to Marilyn Rovell, he had two daughters—Carnie and Wendy Wilson—who later became two thirds of the pop trio Wilson Phillips, alongside their childhood friend Chynna Phillips, daughter of John and Michelle Phillips of The Mamas & the Papas.

In his second marriage, to Melinda Kae Ledbetter, which lasted 28 years, he adopted five children—each with a name starting with D: Daria Rose, Delanie Rae, Dylan, Dash, and Dakota Rose. I’ve actually noticed others who name all their kids with the same letter or pattern, even things like “Br.” I always wonder why people do that.

I’ve heard people say that someone with schizoaffective disorder—or schizophrenia itself—can’t be loved. That they can’t maintain a relationship. That it’s too hard. That the person loving them will sometimes be afraid, unsure how to manage symptoms, or burdened by the humiliations that can come with public breakdowns. That there’s an imbalance of power. That no mother wants her child to grow up and marry a schizophrenic person.

But Brian did it. Twice.

So may you rest in peace now, darling Brian Wilson. May the fog that clouded your mind finally lift. May you spend eternity free from chaos, surrounded only by pure, unconditional love.

Something that’s been standing in the way of a better life for me is sleep. It’s been good for the past week — touch wood — but it got so bad at one point that I wasn’t able to finish the course I was doing at the WEA, Big Questions and Great Thinkers. I was really disappointed, but I’ve decided I’ll enrol in it again next year.

TAFE and uni start in just over a month, so I’m doing everything I can to stick to a proper sleep schedule, trying to align my sleep and wake times with the rhythm of everyday life. But even if things go off track again, I’ve made up my mind: I’m still going to go to class.

When I saw a sleep specialist, I asked her if it was possible to involuntarily fall asleep while out or at uni. She said no — and also reassured me that you can’t just drop dead from being overtired. So, I’m going to suck it up.

That said, “sucking it up” when it comes to sleep is no small thing. I think I practically have a master’s degree in surviving on very little sleep — but let’s be real, functioning after a sleepless night can feel like absolute torture. 

I’m currently waiting to hear back from the Red Cross about whether I can still volunteer with them, even though I have a criminal conviction for texting while driving. They sent me an email saying that a disclosable court outcome doesn’t automatically disqualify someone from volunteering or working at the Red Cross — but still, it’s an awful feeling, sitting with that uncertainty, wondering if I’ll be deemed eligible despite my mistake.

Sometimes I feel like standing in front of a camera and making an infomercial for the world: “A criminal conviction — no matter how small — is significant. It will follow you, shape you, and affect you for the rest of your natural born life.”

The museum was opened up after dark tonight, so I went along with Rebecca and my tutor-slash-daughter Maureen to check it out. We arrived at five o’clock and found the evening centred around a special Vikings exhibition. At the entrance, they’d set up tables selling leather goods and even had a small band playing. You can see the photos below.

The Vikings exhibition itself was pretty cool. They had lots of little LEGO scenes set up, including one of a Viking ship like the one you can see below.

There was a lot of silver jewellery and armbands, but what really caught my attention were the 3D printed pieces. You can see them below: the first is a 3D-printed lidded vessel, and the second is a 3D printed rock crystal jar. I loved seeing these pieces included in the exhibition. 3D printing in the context of artwork and museum displays is still in its infancy, but as you can see, the results are spectacular. I can only imagine what we’ll see in the future.

I was made to feel like a criminal again tonight.

We were walking around the ground floor of the museum, where all the stuffed animals are, and wandered over to the lift and pressed the up button. The reason we did this is that, usually when we've visited the museum at night, the entire building is open and you can wander around as you please.

But this time, a security guard came up to us and said, “That section’s not open tonight, guys.” We just said, “No worries,” and started to move on — but then he got on his radio and said, “Three women trying to get the lift to the upper levels.”

And just like that, I felt dirty again. Watched. Branded. Like I was back in some unspoken class of people that don’t get the benefit of the doubt.

Am I destined to be a second-rate citizen forever?

Rebecca copped it more than I did. When we went to the café to grab something to drink, she ducked out the front for a cigarette. She was smoking on museum grounds, and a young woman from the café came out and moved her along. Then, when Rebecca came to the door of the café to come back in, I went to open it for her — but the same woman stopped me and said, “We keep this door closed for security reasons. She’ll have to go around the front.”

So Rebecca walked all the way around.

Being a smoker really does put you at the bottom of the barrel. I used to smoke too. I wasn’t a rough smoker, but a smoker all the same. I can’t believe I used to do that. I’ll never go back to it.

We only stayed at the museum for about an hour — there wasn’t much else to do after that. Rebecca and I caught an Uber back to her place, and honestly, the driver was terrifying. He kept giving me daggers through the rearview mirror. I genuinely thought we weren’t going to make it home. But we did. And now I’m back here, safe and warm, writing this.

The best part of my night at the museum? A handcrafted stegosaurus I bought from the museum shop. It’s such a beautiful piece — it looks handmade, not homemade. It actually cost me fifty dollars, but I wanted it so badly. The book I haven’t been writing — the one set in Cambodia — is about stegosauruses. You can see it below.

Reflecting on the night, it was good to see Maureen. She was very upset, though — she’s Iranian, and today Israel launched airstrikes on Iranian territory. Iran has responded, but I couldn’t help thinking: Israel must be one of the most audacious countries in the world.

The U.S. has been inching toward re-engagement with Iran, possibly even reviving elements of the nuclear deal — and Israel clearly doesn’t want that. So they make a move that now puts them in a position where the U.S. might feel compelled to defend them. And, not coincidentally, it also diverts global attention away from Gaza.

Seeing Rebecca was okay. I think we’ve outgrown each other. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, and she’s been in the Adelaide Clinic recently. When I found out, I promised myself I’d always be there for her and look after her. And I will — I meant that. But if I’m honest, I could take or leave her company now.

I know that sounds harsh, but she’s become so negative and self-centred. Tonight she was wearing a $3000 headpiece — real hair. She bought it because her hair has thinned significantly due to the medication she takes for schizoaffective disorder.

$3000 is a lot of money for something like that — but honestly, if it makes you feel better, if it gives you a sense of confidence you might otherwise lack, then I think it’s a good investment. I’d probably spend close to $3000 a year just colouring my hair and making sure I’m not completely grey. It’s the same idea in the end: trying to feel a little more like ourselves.

Smooth Criminal

Yesterday was a year since my father died. I can't believe it. It seems like so long ago, and yet it also feels like just yesterday. I was at the pharmacy yesterday, picking up some medication, and there was an elderly couple ahead of me in the queue. The woman was beautiful, and I think she had dementia. She kept saying things, and her husband kept correcting her.

The pharmacist asked her a question, and she gave a very confused answer, to which her husband stepped in and clarified things. She turned around to me and apologised for taking so long, and I just said, "Absolutely no worries at all," and she turned back around. Her husband then moved away from her for a moment, and she came and spoke to me. I couldn't really understand what she was saying, but she was quite flustered and still apologetic that they were holding up the queue.

I just gently grabbed her arm, looked her in the eye, and said, "It's really okay, you don't need to worry." I'm not a crier at all, but I did feel like crying in that moment. She reminded me of Dad before he got really bad, still sort of with it, but at the same time, completely gone.

It is so cruel—dementia, Alzheimer's, and all those "forget-me-not" type diseases. They say it's not so bad for the person with it; it just hurts for those around them. But I think it can't be a nice feeling to know that you are losing your mind. We never went through that with Dad because he was too proud to have ever said anything about it—which makes me very sad, to know that he went through that alone.

The last time I wrote, I was already down in the dumps because of what happened with my volunteer organisation, and then on top of that, my police check showed a spent conviction. Well, there have been some developments in relation to those things, and I am feeling a little bit better.

It was a long weekend just gone, and I sent them the email telling them that I was going to take legal action against them last Friday. That gave me three days to really contemplate what I had said and how ridiculous it was to suggest taking legal action against the them. Yes, I believe a person should always stick up for themselves, but I just thought, there has to be another way.

So first thing on Tuesday morning, which was yesterday, I sent them an email saying I had reconsidered my position and I wasn't going to take any legal action against them. I told them I had hoped to volunteer with them for a long period of time, and a "terminated" / "non-compliant" status against my name might make things difficult for me. They then wrote back saying that they had removed that status and that it had come about because I hadn't lodged a police check not because of anything else. So that was sorted.

I then took a big gulp and thought there was no time like the present to tell them that I had a spent conviction for texting whilst driving, which had come up on my police check. I told them that I was convicted in 2013 and that it should have been spent, so I had appealed it with CrimCheck. They wrote back, and they were actually quite good about it. But it was and still is so messy. If it's not one thing, it's the other.

So then, this morning, I got a notice from CrimCheck saying they were right to include my spent conviction because the legislation doesn’t apply when the applicant will be working with vulnerable people. So I contacted the organisation and told them the results of the appeal. Those results also got sent to them.

At the moment, it stands that they will assess my conviction and see if I am fit to volunteer with them. They said that disclosable court outcomes don’t automatically prevent someone from volunteering or working with them, and that it is only in rare cases the person is unable to proceed. So I'm hopeful.

The thought of not being able to make those calls again was very upsetting. As I’ve said before on here, I love it so much. I think I find out tomorrow if I am able to continue, but one thing I do know I will continue with and that is being a convicted criminal. I was so excited when ten years had passed, because I thought it wouldn’t come up anymore, I could stop explaining myself, and I would, in essence, be a free woman.

How wrong I was.

As Michael Jackson, who was actually a criminal himself, would say: I am a Smooth Criminal.

Last Friday, while all the emails and police checks were going down, I had a look on Facebook Marketplace and found some vintage phones which I thought would be perfect for my art project I’m putting together for SALA 2026.

Essentially, I’m going to buy as many vintage phones as possible and gild some, paint some in all different outrageous colours, include braille and Teledexes, and create some works of art. 

On Friday, while I was sending and receiving emails on my phone, Mum was driving me all around Adelaide, from Oaklands Park to Salisbury Heights, to pick up phones.

Below, you can see four of the '80s push-button ones I love, and then below that, a more modern push-button phone.

While I was looking on Facebook Marketplace, a listing came up for cowrie shells, and I instantly knew I had to have them. I love cowrie shells—first of all because they were used as currency all around the world, especially in Africa, Asia, and the Indian Ocean region.

But the primary reason I love cowrie shells is because everything in this world is phallic. Pens, guns, knives, cigarettes, baseball bats… and then CDs, clocks, tennis balls, buttons and the list goes on. We live in a phallic world.

The opposite of phallic is yonic, and I remember I once read that cowrie shells were considered yonic and I loved that about them. In particular, because they were used as currency.

We stopped and picked up the cowrie shells, and you can see them below.

While Mum and I were driving across town picking up the goods, a car for the Henley Flower Bar stopped ahead of us at the lights. I took a photo of it because, if you look closely, it has a notice on the back windshield that says: “Caution: Flowers Onboard.” I loved that.

I used to ask Mum to give me a lift or drive me places first thing in the morning if I hadn’t slept the night before. Even if I felt alright, I’ve always been very conscious of the fact that you can involuntarily fall asleep at the wheel.

My sleep has been going well lately, touch wood, but I was so used to Mum driving me around a bit that I asked her if she’d mind taking me to pick up all the stuff from Facebook Marketplace. She was so lovely, saying yes, and we had a good old laugh in the car.

But I still sent her a bunch of flowers when we got home to say thank you. You can see them below.

As well as phones, I’ve become interested in calculators that light up the numbers in that blue-green fluorescent glow. I’d love to put something together with a whole lot of them and then light it up. So today, along with two dial phones and a Teledex, I picked up a vintage calculator with the features I mentioned above.

The guy I bought it from was a little bit scary. I don’t mean to judge, but he came across as a drug dealer. The calculator was $20, and he was actually really nice—he even asked me if I wanted to go inside and test if it worked. I politely declined.

It works.

You can see a photo of it below, along with the other goods I picked up today.

I haven’t got anywhere in the house to work on all this cool vintage stuff I’ve bought. I literally don’t have a table or any space at all. So, I’m going to get a studio.

It was always my plan to get studio space, initially to write, but it’ll be so good to make things in there too. There are studios at The Mill on Angas Street, so I’m going to apply there. I’ll just wait until November when uni finishes up, and I’ll only have my TAFE course, which goes through until December.

Until then, this house is going to get cluttered with phones, calculators and I want VHS tapes, old cameras, all sorts of things. I’m going to gild them, paint them, and pair them with letters.

I want to share a bit of a letter I wrote to my brother a little while ago. It was in letter format, but I sent it as a message. I had just sent him a copy of a letter I wrote to the editor of The Advertiser about some pro-Palestinian protesters who were being labelled as a security threat. I closed that letter by saying that we were turning a blind eye to genocide.

I asked my brother what he thought of it. He didn’t respond. So I sent him another message, asking again what he thought. Still, no response.

Later, when we were talking, I asked him in person. He said he didn’t want to talk about it with me. And honestly, I found that to be the ultimate slap in the face. Because what he was really saying was: You don’t know what you're talking about, and I'm not going to lower myself to the level of an idiot like you to explain anything.

I pushed him a bit, and he broke. He said the Palestinians in Gaza deserve what’s happening to them because they voted for Hamas. He said if he were in charge, he’d do much worse than block aid to Gaza. He was absolutely ruthless. He made Benjamin Netanyahu, Itamar Ben-Gvir, and Bezalel Smotrich look merciful. He wasn’t just cold, he was genocidal. Then he asked me what I thought about October 7.

I told him Hamas acted in resistance. And I really, really regret saying that because I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. What I meant was: the situation is a pressure cooker. With decades of oppression and apartheid against the Palestinian people, something like October 7 was tragically bound to happen.

But let me be clear: Hamas is a bloodthirsty terrorist organisation with no regard for human life, and I completely condemn everything they did on that day. Unfortunately, my brother took that moment to fuel his tirade against Palestinians even further.

So I said we should agree to disagree, before it turned into a big fight. He agreed. The next day, I sent him this message:

Hi Brother,

I was thinking about what you said last night, that all Palestinians in Gaza voted for Hamas and therefore deserve what is happening to them now. I’m happy to agree to disagree as we did last night, but I have some thoughts I want to share with you.

I know you’ll probably say you don’t want to talk about it with me, which honestly feels incredibly patronising and condescending. It’s as if you’re suggesting I don’t know what I’m talking about or that it’s not worth your time to engage. But I do know what I’m talking about. I have two roles within a human rights organisation and I have been following the situation closely, from both sides.

I’ve always respected your opinion as one of authority and reason on almost everything, until now. On this particular issue, you are wrong.

The notion that Palestinians in Gaza deserve to be killed because they voted in Hamas is not only factually flawed but also rooted in a dangerous disregard for human rights.

First, it's critical to recognise that over half of Gaza's population was under 18 during the last elections in 2006. These children and teenagers did not vote for Hamas. To suggest they deserve collective punishment for decisions made before they even reached adulthood is both morally bankrupt and in direct violation of international law.

The Fourth Geneva Convention explicitly forbids collective punishment. Article 33 states that "No protected person may be punished for an offence he or she has not personally committed." This is not a matter of political debate. It is international law. To justify the bombing of civilians based on political representation would require us to apply the same logic everywhere. Should every American be bombed for voting in leaders who authorised wars in Iraq and Afghanistan? Should every Australian be held accountable for its involvement in military operations in the Middle East? Of course not. We recognise the difference between government decisions and civilian populations.

Moreover, many who did vote for Hamas did so out of desperation, not out of a thirst for violence, but for basic governance, survival, and resistance against blockade and occupation. When people are stripped of rights, besieged, and left with no options, political choices are often survival choices. To equate that with deserving death is a grave injustice.

Finally, human rights are not conditional. The right to life, safety, and dignity does not evaporate because of political affiliation. It is a dangerous road when we start to believe that the political choices of a few justify the slaughter of entire communities. This is not justice; it is a justification for genocide.

To support collective punishment is to abandon the principles of human rights entirely. We should be better than that.

From Me.

He then sent me a simple message saying, “That is not what I said, and I am not going to talk to you about this.”

He did say that. He said that all Palestinians deserve what is happening to them now, that they voted in Hamas, and then he went on a rant about how he would do so much worse than the Israeli government.

The point is, he’s just some colonial dickhead. But he gets ahead in life. While I’m apologising to a community service organisation for threatening to sue them, while my police check returns a spent criminal conviction, and while I rent his house with my mother, he’s sitting there as the CEO of some scientific company, in his beautiful house in central London, with his two just as beautiful children.

The downside is his wife is dull but she is also successful in life. She’s a partner at some big international company.

Why is it that arseholes get on in life? I have tried so hard to do the right thing. I’ve failed a lot, but I get up again and I keep trying.

I honestly don’t know why I bother.

A Little Bit Dodgy

Back in 2010, which was fifteen whole years ago, I went to a little town on the Sunshine Coast called Buderim for a week long glass art course. We mainly did a lot of kiln work, as well as cold working the glass. The course was held at the very eccentric teacher's glass studio, which was at her house, and she offered the option to stay with her at an extra cost.

I thought that was a nice idea, so I stayed with her. And when I say she was eccentric, I wasn't joking. She was a full on, completely out there, literally out of this world glass artist, and that’s what I absolutely loved about her. At night she told me about all these parties she'd been to with politicians and celebrities. She even told me about how she went to an event with spaghetti bolognese strategically placed in her hair. Below you can see a photo of us together in her studio.

From memory, there were around four of us doing the course, and there was one lady I got along with particularly well. I can't remember her name, but she would have been around the same age as I am now — early to mid-forties. One day she asked me if I wanted to go along with her to her friend’s house that night, and I said I'd love to. She came and picked me up from where I was staying and we went a fair way out of town. Even though I can’t remember her name, I did find a photo of us together, which you can see below. I’ve also included three photos showing how I transformed five little panels of glass with teardrop decals into a single piece with 3D depth. You can’t really see the full detail of the final product—but I thought it was pretty cool.

 

When we arrived at her friend’s property, I was completely taken aback. It was this very large mansion set on a property full of beautiful trees, and when we got inside it looked out onto what looked like a rainforest. There was a large pool and artwork everywhere. When I was introduced to her friend, I was very drawn to her. I felt like she might have been a lesbian — I'm not a lesbian and I wasn't attracted to her in that way, but she was the sort of person I felt like I wanted to be around.

A few other people joined us — all women — and it seemed like they all knew each other. I loved this house. Everything was white. There were these big, comfortable white lounge suites laid out in a square, and the group of us eventually made our way over to the lounges and sat around. There was food laid out, and I didn’t feel like there was anything suspicious going on. It was just like a get together of women.

It turned out that it was a little bit dodgy. This group of lovely ladies were part of a movement which, from memory, I think was called The Magician’s Way. They talked a little bit about it and gave me the book, which was apparently written by an Australian man. The thing they didn’t realise was that I am literally unconvertible. I've been into the Scientology org and I asked them, “You won’t be able to convert me, but can I do a course just to learn about you?” They agreed, and I was never converted — and I wasn’t converted to The Magician’s Way either.

But at that moment in time, I think I found myself in one of their meetings, and I was interested. They asked us to go around the circle and each tell the group about ourselves. I think this was for my benefit, because they all knew each other. I can’t remember what they all said now, which is a shame, because they were all great. But when it got to me, I didn’t know what to say.

Back then I was 29 years old and working in the Centrelink Call Centre. I’d taken leave to go to Queensland to do the glass course, and prior to that I had spent my time working at Centrelink, taking advantage of their working holiday program. What that means is, due to the portable nature of the role, anyone working within the Centrelink Call Network can travel to any one of the other 24 call centres around Australia and work from there. So I spent time in Port Augusta, Bendigo, Coffs Harbour, and Illawarra, which is in the town of Wollongong.

Even though I had a full-time government job, I was still moving around like I was when I was temping. I was so unsettled — and the one thing I learned from all of that is: "Wherever you go, there you will be."

Whilst I can’t remember what the women were saying, I do remember they were very open and honest about who they were and what led them there. I can’t really even remember what I said, but I do remember I opened with this:

“I feel like my whole life I’ve been trying to thread a piece of cotton through the eye of a needle, and I just haven’t been able to get it through yet.”

I looked over at the potential lesbian host and she gave me a very caring smile. I can’t remember what happened after that. I think things got a little weird and they tried to get me to join their group — but as I said, I’m unconvertible.

The point of me telling you this story is: I am still in the same situation now. I’ve stopped bouncing around from jobs and places, but I still haven’t been able to get that cotton through the eye of the needle. And after the events of the last few days, I doubt I ever will.

I had such a nice time in Buderim. I made some things out of glass and I met some awesome people. I didn’t stay in touch with anyone, not even the eccentric artist who I came to know, but sometimes that’s nice too — just to briefly cross paths with someone and let the beauty of that brief interaction speak for itself.

Three years later, in 2013, I was driving down Magill Road and there was a police car in the lane next to me. As I looked over, I made eye contact with the female driver and I just smiled. I can’t remember if she smiled back. I then turned right onto Hackney Road. Then I saw the dreaded red and blue lights behind me, alerting me to the fact that I had to pull over.

So I did, and the female police officer I had just smiled at came over to the car. She looked about 18 years old, and she was on a real power trip, which instantly set a hostile mood. She told me I had been texting while driving. I told her that I had not been texting while driving, and I handed her my phone. She said she didn’t need to see it, but that I had been texting, and she asked for my driver’s licence.

I really disputed this. I hadn’t been texting while I was driving. I knew the fine was high, and I just didn’t do that — but I hesitantly handed over my licence. This girl really was a piece of work. She went back into the police car where her fellow police officer was, and she must have been in there for ten minutes. Then she came out with a fine, which was around the $500 mark.

I was absolutely livid. I didn’t express that so much to her — although she knew I wasn’t happy. I honestly hadn’t done it, and I saw this as a real injustice. I didn’t know why she had said that. Anyway, I took the fine, and when I got home I read the back of it, which said you could appeal it or you could go straight to court and contest it.

I was so angry that I thought I could go into court and tell the magistrate what had happened, and they would cancel the fine. At the time, I was working in the Super SA call centre and earning a normal wage. I could afford the fine — but it was the principle. This police officer had just given me a fine out of nowhere.

The next day I sent the form back saying I wanted to contest the fine. I completely bypassed the appeals process. My boss — who I was very close with — warned me against doing that, but I was really fired up. The injustice of it all.

I started researching police quotas for how many people they’re required to fine for texting while driving, and I got quite caught up in it for a while. Then I let it go and forgot about it. When my court date arrived, I was prepared to go — but at the last moment, I realised I simply couldn’t face the judge. It wasn’t that I feared him sentencing me or doing anything legal. What terrified me was the thought of him looking into my soul and, for the second time in my life, having a judge declare my existence meaningless and stunt the course of my life, again.

So, I called the Courts Administration Authority. I told them I had a fine for texting while driving and I had contested it. I said I was due in court the next day, but asked if I could just pay the original fine instead of going to court. They said that was fine, they would take care of it and send the fine out.

I waited for the fine. When it eventually came, it had one special little word next to the now $25 fee: CONVICTED.

I’m not sure what I thought of this at the time. Even though it was a conviction for texting while driving, I can’t remember if I knew the implications it would have for the rest of my life. I talked to my mother about it, and she spoke to a girlfriend of hers who’s a lawyer, who said it could easily be taken off — but it’s just one of those things I never got around to.

In my mind, I had it as something I was definitely going to do, but by the time I realised that this actually comes up on police checks, it was too late. And instead of having a visa waiver for the US — and probably other countries — I have to actually go to their embassies interstate and explain the conviction.

People pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to avoid getting a conviction, and I so flippantly allowed myself to get one. I was a little annoyed at the guy from the Courts Administration Authority for advising me that I could just pay the fine, but it’s not his fault. Ultimately, it’s my own.

I called them the day before I was due in court, and I need to take full responsibility for the fact that I fucked up. I simply could not face the judge. I also need to take responsibility for the fact that, whilst I didn’t text while I was driving, I may have checked the time or something on the phone on autopilot and not even realised I did it. I feel like police officers don’t create phantom scenarios to get their fine quota up.

I was told, at least, that the conviction becomes spent after ten years and no longer appears on a police check. It’s not the end of the world that it was on a police check. But it’s just that awkwardness of having to explain it, as I have done a few times — for employment, particularly in government and volunteer roles.

It became a spent conviction in 2023.

So I spent ten years as a convicted criminal and I know this sounds stupid but once it became spent I felt like I got a little bit of my dignity back. I was volunteering at this one place and I told the CEO about the conviction and she told me that she's seen a lot of DUI's on police checks. That made me feel a little bit better but it still makes you feel a little bit dirty.

I applied to do make phone calls to isolated elderly people last year. I got a whole stack of emails about it, but I didn’t pursue it at the time because I had other priorities. Then, when I was in Cambodia, I got a call from the organisation asking if I was still interested. I told them I was, but that I was overseas, and asked if they could call me back when I returned to Australia.

They called me around February of this year, and I told them I was available to volunteer. I received a lot of emails from the them, including login details for my account — but they didn’t work. I emailed someone for help, but no one got back to me, so I kind of just left it for a bit - with every intention of following it up.

Then they called again and asked if I was ready to start. I said I could start if they wanted me to, but I felt like I had missed some steps in the onboarding process. They told me everything was fine and sent me a training video. So, in April, I started.

I hadn’t filled in any forms, even though I had sent multiple emails asking what was required of me. One of the women told me it was fine to get started. Then, about a month later, a woman from Human Resources emailed me and asked if I had completed my onboarding pack. I told her that I had already started volunteering and had been asking for assistance, but never received any guidance. She told me I hadn’t completed a police check and asked me who I had spoken to.

She sent me a link to complete the police check and told me I could keep volunteering. But then my team told me we had to wait until the check came through. I knew my conviction was spent, so I told the woman in HR that it would come back clear and shouldn’t take too long. I even sent her a copy of a recent police check I’d had done that came back completely clear.

It wasn’t a big deal. The woman in my team told me she had put me on leave while we waited. But then, on Friday, the HR woman emailed me again and asked me to log into my account to fill in some forms. I logged in — and on the right hand side of the screen, it said “Terminated.”

I was absolutely heartbroken and devastated. I went back to the woman in HR and asked her what it meant. She didn’t answer me. I think I asked her five times. Eventually, she replied and said I was an active volunteer and not to worry about it. But then she said I had previously been terminated due to non-compliance but then reinstated.

I cannot explain how I felt. “Dirty” isn’t the right word. It was a sense of shame I haven’t felt since I was lifting my dress to the boys at primary school. But then, on the other hand, I didn’t accept it. I had honestly asked a million times about the forms I needed to fill in, and no one helped me.

So I thought long and hard about this. Even if I’m not terminated now, if I have a “terminated – non-compliant” on my record, that will affect any future opportunities within the organisation. And the truth is, after making my calls, which I absolutely love, I wanted to devote my life to the organisation.

I thought about what my brother or my dad would do. And I decided: I would get a lawyer.

I’m not the sort of person who would usually stand up for myself in a situation like this but I simply will not accept a “Terminated – Non-Compliant” from this particular organisation. Yes, I was clumsy. And I take full responsibility for anything I missed or misunderstood. But I did not deliberately mislead them about my police check.

So I sent the woman from HR the following email:

Dear HR,

Thank you for your response.

In the interest of fairness and transparency, I want to formally notify you that I will be initiating legal action in relation to this matter.

I believe that the handling of my volunteer onboarding process, particularly the failure to clarify which forms were required from me despite my repeated enquiries, amounts to misleading conduct and a failure of duty of care. I asked numerous times if any further forms were required from me and only after beginning volunteer duties was I told otherwise and subsequently listed as “terminated.”

This has caused me significant emotional distress, and I believe it has also resulted in reputational harm, particularly due to the nature of that terminology being recorded against my name.

I have expressed from the beginning that I am passionate about your organisation and its humanitarian mission. My decision to take this matter further is not made lightly, but I believe it is important that volunteers are treated with dignity, clear communication, and proper procedural fairness. What has occurred here is not acceptable, and I am taking steps to have this legally addressed.

Kind regards,

Me

This is the sort of email someone might send and then totally regret. I know it sounds cold, and maybe it’s a little harsh but I have to stick up for myself. 

I love volunteering with this organisation. I love it. But to think that I had previously been terminated from that, even if it was reversed was gut wrenching. It’s soul destroying. So yes, I put my bitch cap on but I don’t regret it.

They didn’t reply by COB on Friday, and with the long weekend, I have one more day to wait before they might respond. I feel like they’ll get defensive and to be honest, I’ve said my bit. I feel like I might just let it go.

I’ve been deeply upset by having  “terminated” and “non-compliant,”listed against my name but I think the damage to my reputation is already done. It feels irreversible. So I’ll have to walk away from something I genuinely love.

What happened after that made the situation a whole lot worse. Yesterday morning, which was a Saturday, I got an email from CrimCheck, the organisation handling my police check. It said there were “disclosable court outcomes” on the check. It hadn’t been sent to the organisation yet, and they gave me the chance to appeal it.

But I had a look at a copy of the check  and there it was. Disclosable court outcome. Texting while driving. $25 fine.

I don’t cry. I can’t cry, for some reason. But tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt physically sick.

This now looks like I had avoided doing the police check. It compromises my integrity because I said my police check was clear. It suggests I could be potentially fraudulent, having sent them a clear one, when this one actually has a conviction on it.

I can’t explain the way I felt then… and the way I feel now. I feel defeated. I feel like not only have I taken a huge bite out of humble pie, I feel like the one time I try to stand up for myself, I end up looking like a dishonest, lying fool.

I think people who are flawed like me are expected to live like this, with things going wrong all the time, not being able to thread the cotton through the fucking needle.

I don’t know why I care anymore, about going to uni for the 100th time, losing weight, wanting to go to Israel, creating artwork. What does it all matter?

I just can’t get it right. I feel like I don’t belong here. I just want to hug someone so badly, but there is no one to hug. I literally have nobody. I have nothing. And I am nothing.

I really think this police check thing has pushed me to rock bottom. And literally all I want to do is contribute to an organisation I feel passionately about. But a few administrative professionals, who are custodians of process within the organisation, have put a black mark against my name. Which, let’s face it… maybe I deserve.