I spent most of my young life in remote areas of Australia—working on cattle stations and living in Aboriginal communities.
At the time, I was married to a policeman. In that relationship, I witnessed a lot of violence—not just at home, but also in the community. I saw sexual violence and violence between Aboriginal people, as well as from police towards them. I was only 18, and it was a real eye-opener.
I’d come from a suburban background, and suddenly I was in this other world. There was no internet back then. I’m 63 now, so it was a long time ago. I married young, and I didn’t know anything about domestic or sexual violence. I was sheltered as a child.
When you’re young and isolated like that, you don’t know how to get out. There wasn’t support like there is now—though even now, there’s still not enough. Back then, there really was nothing. So, we didn’t talk about it. It got swept under the carpet.
Even now, I find people still don’t want to normalise talking about domestic or sexual violence. It’s hush-hush. But it needs to be spoken about, openly and safely. Back then, there was a lot of judgment. And where do you go when you’re being violated by the one policeman in town, and the only car is his?
I stayed longer than I should have, because I thought that’s what you did—put up, shut up, get on with life. I eventually got out when we moved to a less remote area where I could finally escape.
The cupcake on my map represents my mental health journey. The past five years have been tough — insomnia, PTSD, agoraphobia. I’ve been through suicidal thoughts and survived listeria, which almost killed me. It’s ironic — I survived everything. These days I find calm watching David Attenborough documentaries. The bugs and insects soothe me.
My psychologist has been my lifeline. She’s the one person who truly keeps me going. I don’t take antidepressants; they make me worse. Therapy helped me rebuild myself. It’s been a long journey, but I’m stable now. I don’t go far from home, but I’m happier.
The cog wheels on my knees show my chronic osteoarthritis. I need surgery, but I’ve got other priorities. I’ve quit smoking, lost weight, and applied for the disability pension. I’ll have the operation when the time is right.
The cactus symbolises my recovery. I needed something to focus on, so I started growing them. They’re prickly, tough, and beautiful — just like me. I’ve got about two hundred now. They helped me quit cigarettes and gave me purpose. People tell me to sell them, but they’re not for profit — they’re therapy. One bit me the other day. I should use tongs.
The one and a half strawberries represent my one and a half breasts. I had to have one removed, and later my teeth because of antibiotics. It’s part of my story — it happens.
The snakes and lizards on my map are like my tattoos — creatures that prefer to be left alone. That’s me.
I scratched away the paper around the groin to show that I have no sex drive. My libido is gone, and I don’t care. I’m stable and content. Maybe one day it will return, maybe not.
I’m gay. I’ve been attracted to women for over thirty years. I don’t hate men — I have every reason to, but I don’t. A real man, to me, is someone like David Attenborough — gentle and intelligent. Then there are the “boofheads” who only think with their genitals. I can’t do romance or intimacy anymore, but I do miss simple closeness — sitting on the couch, a kiss, a cuddle. Maybe that will come back one day. For now, I’m happy watching Attenborough and enjoying my peace.
Growing up, we were told nothing about sex or our rights. Not a word about consent or bodies. I learned everything the hard way. My mother didn’t even tell me about periods — my friend’s mum did.
People often prejudge me. I’m tall, heavily tattooed, and I stand out. That’s part of what’s affected my mental health. I don’t start trouble, but I finish it. That’s where the turtle comes in. The turtle is slow and steady, keeps to itself — but if you push it, it bites. That’s me. I keep to myself. I don’t go to pubs or clubs. I avoid trouble, but if someone has a go at me, I’ll let it rip.
Sexual violence against women is getting worse. Some men think they’re entitled to anything they want. The justice system protects them. A woman fights back, and she’s punished more harshly than he is. Older women are even more vulnerable — especially in care. Men who assault women in nursing homes often get a slap on the wrist. That’s not justice.
There are two sets of rules — one for men, one for women. Society excuses male behaviour and shames women for the same things. I watch the news, and I see it again and again. Men need to learn that women are not theirs to take.
Reflections on the workshop
The workshop wasn’t what I expected. At first, I had a panic attack and went outside. I told myself, focus, focus, focus, then went back in. I saw a photo of a destroyed house and thought, that’s me. That’s when I decided to make it work for me.
The workshop made me reflect. It helped me focus. It reminded me that older women need to stand up for themselves, because we’re vulnerable but strong. I wasn’t like the rest of the ladies, but I realised that’s okay. My life was trashed, but I got through it. People say I’m cynical. I say I’m a realist.
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