Ingrid Poulson - Rise

I am at the doctors, not because there is something wrong with me, but because there isnt. I stare at the floor as I tumble out my story because Ive learnt, even at this early stage, that its easier not to look at people when I tell them whats happened. That way I cant see their reaction. I tell her whats happened in a roundabout way, out of order and not logically precise. It is not a police statement this time. It doesnt need to be taken down and checked in numbered paragraphs, neatly cataloguing my side of the events. It takes less than a minute to tell her and that seems wrong, that such a momentous story can be summarised into such a short moment.

The police statement took seven hours and I did it from my mothers bed, the officer hunched over his laptop, seated on a footstool, my sister curled in next to me, refusing to leave my side. I asked the police officer where he wanted me to start and he said, From when you met your husband and I knew then that it would take a long time. But really, the first part didnt take longmeeting Neung in Thailand where I was teaching English, the brief romance, the pregnancy, the wedding, the move back to Australia to live in the little flat next to my fathers house, the birth of Malee, then two years later the birth of Bas. It only really got more complicated towards the end, in the last few months, when things had started to go really wrong.

Id kept a diary when my marriage was beginning to disintegrate and someone fetched it for me so that I could recall some of the dates. Id scrawled simple, heart-breaking messages on the pages, in between work timetables and important dates. Big fight, Told me he will go back to Thailand and take Bas, He says You dont know how much I want to hit youI cant because you are in your family, I will move out with the children when I get a job. The children are mine.

I told the officer about these escalating clashes involving money, spiralling debts and then the final straw: violence. I talked about the mixture of relief and guilt Id felt when I finally kicked him out, only to be beleaguered by phone calls, constant harassment, screams of abuse and then wheedling apologies. I had come to dread the phone, my stomach churning every time it rang. He rang in the morning as I tried to get the children up and dressed and dropped off to day care; he rang while I was at work demanding I bring the children to him, then rang again to cancel. He rang in the evening and in the night. He came to day care in tears with clothes for me and flowers. He rang to tell me he had booked a holiday for us all and, when I refused to go, told me I would never see the children again and that I would have hurt. Really big hurt. I started to refuse his calls. He left a letter threatening to kill me. I told the officer that the letter was still at the police station, retained as evidence for the restraining orders I had taken out. I talked about his violent threats of suicide in front of the children, wrestling the knife from him, escaping with my son and calling the police to retrieve my daughter, the ongoing harassment, more death threats, court, restraining orders, breaches, police again. I told him about the fears I held that he would take them back to Thailand, hiding the passports and ringing support centres for help, only to be informed that they couldnt take action because, as the father, he had every right to take them.

As the officer types all the events, it seems that they are building and flowing towards the logical conclusion, the conclusion that only an idiot couldnt see. But being in the events was like being in the vortex of a hurricane, being swept along, ricocheting between my guilt and his demands and the needs of the children. As I talked, I remembered the children, confused and upset, disappointed and brave. I remembered my normally happy, vibrant little girl, crying quietly in her bed. I just miss Daddy, she said, wiping her eyes, but its okay. Im just a bit sad is all. I remembered the gut-wrenching guilt, the wretchedness of feeling responsible for my husbands distress, the tearing of my conscience, the supervised access visits that he refused to honour unless I was there, more calls, more pleading, more threats, the giddying emotional roller-coaster that suddenly stilled and then climaxed in such a horrifying way.

I tried to explain everything to this officer as he painstakingly typed, his fingers moving slowly over the laptop keyboard as the second evening without my children moved in over the room. I tried to be fair and rational and honest and complete, quashing the pain, banning the pain until the story was out and I was spent.