When She Was Bad

By Arabella Joseph

In 1999, at the age of twenty-two, Arabella Joseph suddenly found herself in a psychiatric hospital. She remembered being driven there from the police station by her mother. She also remembered the police telling her the things she had done over the last month. That she had made hoax phone calls pleading for help, speaking with the voice of a child. But for Arabella the past month was filled with deep dark holes in her memory.

In hospital the truth is confronted, that an incident with a male colleague had precipitated a dramatic reminder of her past - a reminder of herself as an eleven-year-old girl who was sexually abused by her uncle. A girl who thought that she must be bad because bad things kept happening to her. Who tried to be good by studying hard and getting good grades, who tried to look good and so shunned food. Who struggled with relationships with family and friends and men. And whose fledging career in law was now threatened by criminal charges. Forced to fight to reclaim her future, Arabella found the way to let free the eleven-year-old girl trapped inside.

When She Was Bad is a heart-wrenching journey of discovery as Arabella Joseph revisits her childhood with unflinching candour. Told under a pseudonym to protect those involved, this beautifully written memoir of triumph and hope will move readers from the first page to the last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pier 9
• Release date: Jun 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781742660493

Book preview

epilogue

chapter 1

She stood on the platform. Her eyes were locked onto the crushed Coke can that nestled between the fat metal tracks. She watched the red can begin to twitch as the tracks quivered, signalling the approach of the 5.44 am city-bound train.

It was early and the platform was empty. The only movement was the can and her breath, visible in the cold air.

Hatred and loathing surged in her chest like a black tidal wave. The memories that she usually worked overtime to quell, she now allowed to rise. She was not born bad, she had started to rot when she was eleven. Now she was twenty-two and she was fermented to the core.

He had killed her rabbit as she cowered against the garage door. She had refused to stop crying. This made Him mad. ‘Stop crying!’ He had yelled. ‘They will ask why. Stop!’

Memories flooded back of how she had held her little white bunny close to her chest as she pressed her teeth against her lip. It quivered, receptive to her fear. She petted the soft fur behind its ears to comfort it and herself. She was okay. It was over now, at least until the next time. But she could not stop crying. The hurt was too great. She whimpered again as she moved, causing pain to ricochet through her body.

He had heard her cry. His eyes had flared open as He lurched towards her. She cowered lower against the bricks. He snatched the white bunny that was cradled against her baby pink T-shirt. In a moment He had the rabbit by its hind legs and was bashing it against the bluestone in a frenzy. The thud was putrid as she heard the bunny’s fragile bones shatter against the wall. The bunny, powerless in His thick hand, now lay twitching on the bricks. Dark blood trickled from its tiny mouth as she picked it up and cradled it against her. She felt its life leave its little body.

She had left His house and walked along the pavement towards her street. The tears were overwhelming. The pain that seared through her chest ridiculed the pain between her legs that had been so intolerable before. She could not take her dead bunny home. They would definitely ask questions then. Although it hurt to desert her pet, she had stopped at the corner house where the overgrown ivy spilled over the fence from the front garden. Slowly she parted the green carpet that mocked her with its life. She set the bunny on the dirt. To the girl its wide, still eyes reflected her fear. She stared at her bunny one last time as sorrow and guilt streamed into her before she allowed the ivy to cover its body like a shroud.

‘I’m sorry,’ she had whispered at the ivy curtain before turning and walking away.

At home, when questioned about the tears that would not abate, she said that her bunny had run away.

On the station now, the thud of the bunny against the bluestone echoed again in her head. The twitching of the can on the tracks was reminiscent of the dying bunny. She should have stopped crying, she tormented herself. ‘Bunny killer. Bunny killer,’ she chanted to herself, over and over again.

The can was vibrating faster now, being tossed into the air repeatedly as the train approached. In the far distance she could discern the headlights of the 5.44 am.

As the weeks and years progressed she had rotted further. If you are good then good things will happen, she had been told. She knew she must be really bad to have caused that. She was bad. Believing she was bad and at fault was a relief. It made sense. Now there were myriad explanations for why He hurt her, and there was hope. She thought she could control or stop the hurt by being completely good. She would minutely examine her actions to isolate the offending behaviour and eradicate it from her routine. She tried to appease, to be neat, to be clean and to be good. This brought no pardon—it continued.

Now, as she gazed at the steel tracks, the memories spilled into each other as they fought to reach the surface of her consciousness. Like a tumultuous sea they heaved and crashed without respite. The memory of the garlic and alcohol stench filled her nostrils. She could feel His huge hands as they clawed and grasped at her clothes and skin. Like an interminable reel of slides she saw Him hurting her, then hurting Penny, then hurting her. She closed her eyes, the Coke can disappeared from sight, but her mind’s reel rolled on.

‘No one will believe you,’ He would mock as He watched her pick up her discarded clothes and cover her body. ‘People believe adults, not kids.’ ‘You made me do this.’ ‘If you tell, I will shoot your mother. I have a gun. I will shoot all your family and you will have to live with me.’ She recognised the contradictions and suspected these were lies, but the doubt was omnipresent and powerful enough to keep her silent. She had no doubt that He would kill. If He could hurt her like that, He was capable of any evil. She remained mute as the fear and shame intensified.

The first time it had happened was still scorched into her brain like a brand. She had gone there to play with her cousin, Penny. Penny was His daughter and they played together often. That day she was staying over. She was excited. They played dolls and climbed onto the roof. They made milkshakes in the mix-master and played dress-ups.

That night in bed, it happened.

Penny didn’t warn her.

She vomited and vomited that night until exhaustion consumed her. Too shocked to cry, she sat on her bed rocking as she waited for the safety of morning. What had she done to cause it, she wondered. Had she been rude? Had she been bad? What had happened? Was it just a dream? But she knew. it was not as she bundled her blood-stained nightie into her overnight bag.

The next morning He whistled as He made them a treat— pancakes for breakfast. She did not look at Him.

She had gone home and washed. The rivulets of water and soap insulted her grazed skin but she scrubbed and scrubbed, ignoring the pain. She wrung out her nightie and watched the blood run red, then pink. The more she washed the dirtier she was. Wrinkled by the water she lay on her bed hugging her doll—but solace would not come.

As that memory subsided, her mind filled with another. They had been at the market with Penny and her aunt. She had been made to sit on His knee as they drank coffee. There were not enough seats. Penny was sitting on her aunt’s knee, and she had stared straight ahead into Penny’s eyes as she felt His fingers slip beneath her skirt and up inside her. She made no sound and did not move. He continued to sip His coffee. The only sign was the fat warm tears of shame that coursed down her cheeks.

Penny had held her hand as they continued around the market stalls.

The stillness on the platform was corrupted by the pull of air that pre-empted the train. The jump of the can was joined by billowing rubbish as the wind increased. The mini orchestra of noise distracted her momentarily. She forced herself back to the present.

As she grew older she had learned not to be present. Not in any physical sense, because physically she had no choice, but to clench her fists and endure it. Instead, she learned to leave her head. When she felt Him start—when He grabbed her while she was outside playing or when He prised her legs open, she would allow herself to float away. As He injected her with iniquity she would imagine that she was elsewhere. Her favourite place was a green field that flowed on forever. The field was covered with white bunnies and yellow flowers. She stayed there as her body betrayed her.

It was unfathomable to her that He alone was bad. She knew that she too must be a very bad girl. At school she had tried to be everyone’s friend. She made them laugh but denied herself the pleasure. Bad girls don’t deserve happiness. The wall between her and her friends was only apparent to her. They liked her—she was funny and pleasant to be with. She kept her dirtiness from them—she knew they would hate her if they knew.

Her schoolwork was painstaking as she yearned to compensate for the badness that she epitomised. She wrote draft after draft, longing for perfection and completeness. She hungered for approval. She had to be the best student, best musician, best debater.

Even when they had found out after four years and made Him stop, she remained incarcerated. She never returned to His house, but no one spoke of it. The silence spoke to her. Her family thought she was bad too. She had allowed that to happen—over and over. She had been afraid, but that did not absolve her of responsibility.

She continued to work hard. She never stopped. She started university, having achieved excellence at high school— but that signified nothing. She was squalid, so success was hollow. She kept busy to occupy her mind and harness the hate. But at night in bed when she was forced to be inert the venom would return. The nightmares that woke her drenched in sweat and screaming silently were an insidious reminder that He had not left her.

She had tried to be good. When He made her tidy their paints or clear His mess she would obey. But obedience or goodness would never avert the inevitable. Sure enough His hands would eventually prise open her thighs or mouth and fill her with His poison. Sometimes she had to stand by watching helplessly as He hurt Penny. She even felt glad when it was Penny and not her that was the prey— that was how bad she was. She wished hurt on others to save herself. One time, He ordered her to hurt Penny and Penny to hurt her. The badness intensified. They were a trio of bad.

He told her she was pathetic and hopeless. She would amount to nothing. No one would like her, only Him. He loved her, He said. She hated love. When she was twenty her friend had told her that he loved her. She recoiled, lest the badness be contagious. No one could be close. The walls had to remain strong and immutable.

To Him she was a chattel. She was an object to be grabbed and held and forced and controlled. Come here. Get out. Undress. Do that. Don’t move. Don’t cry. She was not somebody. ‘Somebody’ died as His hand covered her mouth to defeat her cries.

Now, on the platform, she could no longer suppress the persistent memories. They ceased to be discernible as they bubbled and frothed. Now there was just black and hate and blackness and hatred. It filled every crevice of her body. Her head swelled as the badness and malignancy threatened to erupt through her skin. The shame and humiliation bawled in her ears. The flawless blue sky that denoted another beautiful day mocked her relentlessly. He was part of her.

The train roared and the whistle seared the air as it streamed towards the platform. She willed herself to step forward.

She had to escape. The world had to be rid of her badness. Bad must die. But her feet would not move. The train hissed past. He was right. She was hopeless. She couldn’t do anything properly—not even die.

As the air rushed past, causing her hair and clothes to billow, she allowed the wind to force her to the ground. There she sobbed.

The Coke can stopped moving. Further crushed, it nestled once again between the steel tracks.

chapter 2

‘Dinner,’ said the lady as she set a congealed mass on the table in front of her. It smelled better than it looked. She viewed it with vague interest. She should be hungry as she had not eaten all day. But her stomach rebuffed it.

She counted the beans on the plate to distract her whirling thoughts. Five, six, seven … Again—five, six, seven. Goading the beans with her fork, she captured one and put it in her mouth. Her mouth was parched and the bean tasteless. It was awful so she spat it into her napkin. The nurse looked through the glass, perturbed. Five, six … Counting beans annoyed her so she examined the room.

She knew she was in a hospital. She remembered being driven here from the police station by her mother. Her mother had said little, but the silence masked the questions she knew would come. Her eyes scanned the room. There were four rooms that abutted one main room. Hers was Room 6. Her mother had brought in clothes and her favourite doll, the one she had named unoriginally ‘Little Dolly’. The ragged doll, which looked older than she did at twenty-two years, seemed out of place as it lay on the foreign bed. A glass nursing station adjoined the room where she sat now.

The lady appeared again, clucking her tongue at the unexplored mountain of food before departing with the laden plate.

She examined the room. Dated magazines and today’s newspapers concealed the top of the low wooden table. Two people lolled on a couch. She watched them. The man looked fatigued. He had spoken to her when she arrived, but she hadn’t the will for pleasantries. The eyes of the other patient, a woman, bored into the