Margaret Spivey - Defying the Gatekeeper: One Girls True Story of Resistance and Rebellion

To Jo, Barry and Liz for making the dream a reality.

To my editor Susan Cutsforth, for her passion and her infectious belief in what can be done.

To The MacKillop Family Services, for making available the documents and resources, so we can have access to our stories. For organising reunions and other activities so we can connect with each other and truly experience a sense of belonging. Through you, we have been able to validate our stories and our pain in a very purposeful and meaningful way and become forefront runners in the process of healing. It is through your support and commitment towards the journey of healing, that we too have been able to start the journey. Thank you.

To Jenny Glare for her commitment to the healing work of the Forgotten Australians and the many times she made herself available regardless of the difficulties. Thank you Jenny.

Margaret Spivey is a social worker who currently works as a counsellor, consultant and trainer in private practice. She lives in the Blue Mountains in NSW with her partner of seventeen years and her three dogs. Margaret enjoys a rich social life today that includes being connected with her community through various committees, spending time with her sons and grandchildren as well as being connected with the local lesbian community.

She has a passion for social justice, womens issues, childrens rights, Forgotten Australians, writing and gardening.

Its all over. The train wreck of my life has finally come to a stop. God knows its a miracle that Im here. I yell out goodbye to my kids and to Mitch my defacto, pull the front door closed behind me and step onto the red brick porch of my rundown rented house out into the icy night. It was never supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be fun. I look towards the familiar shadowy street and contemplate how lamentable my life has become. I rub at the fresh scars across my wrists; reflect on the emergency room, where I had been so many times before with the doctor pulling the thread through like a cook weaving up the arse of a stuffed corn beef roast. I hear his words telling me what a serious problem I have and that the next time I just might succeed. I wipe persistent tears from my face, its not just the pain from my wrists that I feel, God knows they hurt like anything, its just everything seems to hurt now.

July winter winds blow purposefully through the open verandah and I am hungry to stave off its caustic cold. The darkness about matches the bleakness I feel and waves of nausea ebb and flow within me. These days terror has me wrapped in its grip like an ancient Egyptian mummy, only releasing its grip momentarily before wrapping me even tighter.

My body trembles underneath my layers of winter clothing, including denim jacket and jeans. My hands shake terribly and my heart is racing a million to one amidst the guilt and fear that feels like its suffocating me.

Through the grimy front windows of the house, the backdrop of television voices and my sons laughter floats all about me. As I stand, jumping from one frozen foot to another, memories taunt me with their reminders of the life I am now trying to end. The screwing in back seats of cars and hotel toilets, the slime and the filth, being dumped at roadsides and stepping out of hotel rooms at dawn, sick, alone and hungover.

Tears spill once more down icy cheeks. What kind of person am I? What kind of mum?

Strands of auburn hair lash across my face and I gaze towards the hazy whitish glow streaming out from the streetlight in front of the house. How long before my rescuers arrive? I cry and I pray. Will God listen? Is it too late? Can I even be helped? I just cant take it any more. Is it possible to have something better than this crap? Something beyond mere survival? A job? Not feel so scared all the time?

The pub and clubs with their poker machines, hazy smoke and beer stench is still up my nostrils. The clank of pool balls still resounds in my mind; the music of the jukebox, the bands, me doing disco on the floor, plastered and loving it. Peter, my ex-husband complaining, Why cant you just stay at home and take better care of the kids? Mitch my defacto complaining, God I hate it when you let yourself get so drunk. Why cant you just stop?

All I feel is sick and scared. All I want is to be normal. Why am I so haunted? Something really dreadful, really disastrous is about to happen and no one will be able to help me. Thread by thread all the fun has just unravelled.

When I made the call, the call to AA two nights ago, I thought it would get better but it hasnt.

How can we help you? the stranger asked me.

I dont know. I just need help, I pleaded into the phone. I cant stop drinking. I cant stand my life any more. I dont want to die and Im scared Ill go mad. The words vomited out, smothered in their own flood of hot tears.

Someone would ring me and take me to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

Please dont let me down I had wanted to beg. Everything seemingly hung on someone coming. It was the only hope I had left.

Finally, the glow of headlights and relief floods my being. The lights beam towards the chipped brick fence and a red Sega pulls into the curb. My heart is thumping even more. I pull my jacket tightly across my woollen jumper and mindfully make my way to the awaiting car and to the two women I can see sitting in its front seat. One of the women steps out, opens the rear door and calls my name.

I swallow down my fear that feels like a solid object caught in my throat and approach.

Hi Margaret, Im Jeanne, we spoke on the phone, and this is Kim, our driver, the woman says, holding the door open.

Kim turns smiles warmly and says, Hello Margaret dear.

Hi, I whimper in a nervous crackling tone, not at all sure death wouldnt be a better option to the shit I am feeling.

How are you feeling? Jeanne asks. Her voice is soft, motherly.

Really awful, I tell her, desperate for a miracle the water-into-wine kind.

I know this can all seem overwhelming for you at the moment, but it does get better, Kim reassures me.

I buckle myself in ready for a journey I dont know will really make any difference. I am more terrified than I have felt before in my life.

This is for you, Margaret, from Jeanne and I. We hope it will help, Kim says, surprising me with a small package wrapped in gold paper.

Thank you, I reply sniffling back a lone tear. My shaking fingers tear at the paper to expose a black leather bound booklet.

Twenty-Four Hours a Day in gold lettering is embossed across its front.

Compassion has been a long time absent from my life and it feels good to have it visit. More tears come and I grasp the gift, puzzling over their kindness.

We thought it would help you get through, Kim comforts.

Thank you so much, I repeat, wanting to reach across and hug them both.

I open the booklet and find the words:

To dear Margaret, One day at a time, in AA. Love Jeanne and Kim. It was so small a gift yet to me so big in its meaning. Jeanne reaches across the back seat and clasps my trembling fingers. Whatever you do, dont ever forget how you feel right now. Its the remembering that keeps you sober and the forgetting that sends you back. After checking I am alright to go, Kim turns on the ignition and pulls away from the curb. Its a long drive from Punchbowl to Rozelle, where the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting is being held.

We drive away and I grip the doorhandle. A myriad of threatening thoughts invades my mind. My hand cramps, my knuckles turn white and I hold tight, as if letting go would mean death.