by Kim Hodges
I ponder why I had not simply packed my bags and left home to attend a more academic high school. Partly it was due to not knowing where I would have lived in a bigger town, or if I might qualify for some government allowance. There were other obstacles that made the seemingly possible, impossible. There was no public transport by which I could have left Coolah at that time. My life skills were also limited. I could not cook very well, my mother having controlled the kitchen as her domain. I had never used a washing machine. If I had started to make phone enquiries, the length of the telephone cord would have prevented privacy. There was no internet. I was tall, awkward and socially incompetent. Despite all that, the main reason was the authority my parents held. I simply could not have gone against the word of my own parents. I had been brought up to respect them, to allow them to make all of the decisions until I was eighteen years old. Then I would be on my way in the world.
*
Mitch, a male friend whom I played basketball with was a year older and got his driver’s licence. His parents gave him a second-hand jeep to drive around in. He asked me and other friends to go driving with him and we did. I trusted him, but I always ensured there were at least three of us. Mitch let me and others practice driving his jeep on the edge of Coolah. I loved it and was determined to master it. Mitch asked us if we wanted to go roo and rabbit shooting to get meat to feed their dogs. My parents gave me permission with a curfew in place, no alcohol and their trust was placed in Mitch. I was allowed to drive the jeep on the journey to and fro, over properties whereby permission had been granted. Mitch took over the wheel as we needed to get some pace up and chase down some roos. We would stop, a lad would shine a spotlight in their eyes and as the animals froze, a loaded rifle was pointed and shot. Bang! The guys were joyous in our jeep after the kill. They would use the spotlight to freeze another one, then bang, bang and bang again. I held my hand over my ears as the guns went off. I was offered a shotgun but told them repeatedly, “No thanks; I’m a hopeless aim,” until it was accepted as the norm.
I loved driving the jeep but loathed the shooting and the trip back to Coolah as dead carcasses were piled up in the back and the guys had blood on their shooting clothes. Babysitting, roo shooting or staying home were my choices throughout year eleven. Although I felt safe with others in the jeep, I ensured I had emptied my bladder just before pick up as I had read stories in the newspaper about shooting accidents. Peeing behind a tree was not an option for me just in case a bullet was accidently fired. Mitch left Coolah as I finished year eleven and the trips ended. But the driving practice came in handy. My parents lent me the family car and I passed my driver’s licence on the first attempt. A hill start, parking the car, and a three-point turn did it. I passed my driver’s licence without navigating cars, pedestrian crossings or traffic lights.
*
I started year eleven willing, able and ready to learn. My eagerness to learn leaped out of my body and onto my books on the table in front of me: my ticket out of Coolah. Mr Johnston, the school principal had managed to further strengthen my desire to excel. Half way through first term, twelve students were sent to the library to hear a special guest speaker. Mr Johnston introduced a nicely spoken man in an army uniform.
“Consider a career in the army; it’s not too late to leave school now and enrol,” Mr Johnston encouraged us.
The army man showed nice slides of fitness, training and camaraderie. I watched the happy faces of the army recruits. Where were the pictures of soldiers blowing the enemy up? Or having their limbs and faces blow off? The pictures were glossy, but not the full story. I didn’t believe in war, so why would I join up?
At the end of the talk, Mr Johnston thanked the guest speaker. “I think you all should consider a career in the armed forces—none of you will ever go to university,” he said.
I stared at him in shock, while that sentence sank in. “How dare you,” and “I’ll show you,” I thought, and “You just wait and see,” and “I’ll prove you wrong,” all rattled around in my brain. Now I was more determined than ever to do well.
At the six month mark, seven of the twelve students remained enrolled. A couple of students found the schoolwork too challenging and others had gotten jobs. Those four females and three males all finished. We were very different people; it was survival of the fittest. Sally was attractive and popular with both the males and the females at the school. She exuded self-confidence and poise, and loved fashion. She was slipping through these last two years keeping her popularity high, with a boyfriend constantly by her side, and a cigarette in her hand. With me, she was hot and cold by turns; her unpredictable outbursts either casting me as a best friend or “the worst friend.” I was nervous around her and kept my distance.
Gwen was an easy target for bullies. Her piercing eyes, pimply face and scrawny body invited teasing and taunting. All six of the students gave her both verbal and mental abuse in one form or another. Once, before our practical agriculture class, a student had dug a hole and covered it up with sticks and grass. As we walked to class, we had subtlety directed Gwen toward this trap. It was hilarious, but cruel. Gwen’s parents allowed her two lunch orders a year, on her birthday, and at the end of the school year. Her birthday fell in the school holidays so really, she was entitled to only one. She tried hard in every class, but she struggled to grasp most things. She rarely hung out on the Coolah main street on weekends. We all participated in the bullying, with no protection forthcoming from the teachers. Back then the word bully had not yet made it into school policies.
Natalie was very quietly spoken. She went under the radar. She caught a bus in from her parents’ farm, did her schoolwork and went home. I never saw her on weekends. She had taken Textiles and Design with me earlier and had liked it. We rarely spoke over these two years. I knew that we had little in common.
Bill was short and smiley. He studied the horse racing every day in his lunch break and between classes. He bought the Daily Telegraph on his way to school and carried the form guide on top of his books to every class—an opportunity for a punt never slipped by him. Bill possessed the extraordinary gift of a photographic memory. But he didn’t use it to study, instead he put it to use on the horse racing. Every day he placed small bets at the TAB in the Top Pub. His mother had sought permission from the publican for her son to place bets on her behalf. Bill’s contribution of additional income into their home was essential. His father had passed away a long time ago.
Scott was vocal, gawky, and uncoordinated in sport. He was quite feminine, compared to most of the other lads. His mother had run off with a man who was passing through, leaving her husband and her four sons behind. Scott was the eldest of those boys, so his father placed more responsibility on his shoulders. He looked after his siblings and assisted with the domestic duties. Scott did so, there being no other choice. His feminine side bloomed. What or who Scott was, I didn’t know. He had no idea either, confusion playing across his face. His mother leaving was a taboo subject, and my mother had warned us never to mention to him.
Willy was a friendly young man who was also very sporty, with a likeable, casual nature. He caught a bus into Coolah from his family’s farm forty minutes away. Willy knew that he was going to work on his father’s property after school. He simply relaxed through the final two years of school. We all tolerated our differences, except for poor Leslie.
*
Most subjects were allocated five periods a week, but due to our small enrolment, one period per subject became self-directed study. All seven pupils had to do Basic English (2UA) that was aimed at struggling students, because Two Unit General English was not offered at the school. Agriculture was compulsory as there was no other subject to choose against it. Agriculture was of little interest to me because I was leaving Coolah and the country, not marrying a farmer, and going to Sydney where my new life awaited me. Luckily, Two Unit Mathematics was offered, which I chose. Our geography teacher informed us shortly before the trial examinations that
we had run out of time and would not be covering the entire curriculum—and it wasn’t her subject area. She was apologising, in a roundabout way, but the students were unconcerned. Our self-directed study periods were rarely productive either.
chapter twenty-one
LOSING CONTROL
I began to feel different at the end of term one of year eleven. Gradually, my body sped up, and everything around me had become slower. Except for time, which seemed to stand still. I was sixteen years old. My capacity to learn began to evaporate and by second term there was mayhem in my body and my mind. My ability to concentrate in class was non-existent. Something had seeped into every cell of my body. My pulse had doubled and my hands shook if I held them out straight in front of me. I had a racing mind and sitting still in class was unachievable. I became disruptive and teachers began to quickly dismiss me from classes. I overheard comments such as, “She’s off the rails,” and “She’s lost it,” but never spoken vindictively. No-one directly asked me about how I felt or what was happening to me.
*
A forty-minute lesson felt like forty hours. With five or six lessons in a day, it felt as if I was being required to sit still for two hundred hours. I couldn’t do it. Sitting still in my chair without fidgeting from side to side and rocking back and forward, or shifting my body into strange positions, was impossible. With the pen between my fingers, I doodled, drawing shapes and pictures on a spare piece of paper, rather than writing neatly in my books. My mind took off in all directions. My legs wanted to run—not to be still under my desk. My body had decided that forty hours was too long. I was told to sit still, focus, think and behave for forty hours. Something was wrong with me, but I could not make any sense of it, let alone articulate it. My heartbeat was like a broken clock—the tick-tocks were out synch. My body was keeping its own beat, one of chaos and disorder, without rhythm or sequence. I was unsettled and unnerved. Gradually, my heartbeat sped up, until my chest struggled to accommodate the rapid beats.
The teachers who saw my restlessness assigned it to bad behaviour and an attitude problem. They sent me to be disciplined by Mr Richards, the deputy principal. His office was near the administration office. To get past my mother without being noticed was frightening. If she had seen me a reprimand would have awaited me once I was home. It was best if, during these disciplinary visits, my mother was out of the school office. I could check if she was there by darting my head around the corner. If her seat was vacant, I would leap into the principal’s office. If her head was just momentarily turned away from the enquiry counter, I would sidle into the office. Sometimes I had to wait for a better opportunity to enter unnoticed. This carried its own risks, such as a passing teacher asking, “What are you doing here?” I was able to perfect my timing because many occasions to practice them presented themselves. Once in, I would close the door and keep my voice low. Mr Richards knew that my behaviour at school had changed, but he was never able to get to the bottom of it. We conversed once more about the necessity for me to do well at school in order to have choices. I could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong so I just agreed with his suggestions to concentrate more in class and to toe the line with teachers. We also agreed that something had gotten into me, that I was not my usual self. Still, I needed to knuckle down and make the most of year eleven. I always felt grounded after I left his office.
But to sit still during lessons while my pulse doubled was impossible. I went from being the best student in the class, to the worst. Unnoticed. No-one asked me any questions. I felt isolated from the people and the normal activities of my life. The teachers were ill-equipped to handle anything outside the square. I was outside the square. I noticed how the teachers’ lives were run by the bell, their routines, programs and leaving as soon as they could. Over the next three months, I was banned from four out of my six classes, for months. I had to work alone in the library, or sit on a chair outside the classroom. The library chairs felt no different to the classroom chairs; my restlessness never altered. I could not read an entire page in a book. I sat in the library, pretending to study, with my agitated body and restless mind. There were so many indicators, but noone noticed. Things were not right inside me, but I could not touch it, see it or talk about it. I was already strong-willed and determined, but also shy and withdrawn, so it had never been easy for others to make sense of me.
Mr Richards tried his hardest. I was at my best, often rational, when I had to go to his office. “Your mother is concerned about you and she told me she took you to see Dr Desmond,” he said. I felt sick about him probably also knowing that the visit was about my periods. “So the doctor has checked you and there nothing medically wrong. It now comes down to your behaviour,” he said. I respected him, so I just nodded, to avoid talking about my periods. I did try really hard. But the more I slowed things down and tried to gain control, the more it seemed that my body sped up and my mind got faster, becoming more out of control. My teachers and my mother continually told me that my problems were my own doing. I had placed myself in this predicament and brought it on myself. Only I could turn it around. These words vibrated in my head. I felt that I had no control, as well as being tired and worn out. At home, I had also lost my self-control. My irritability increased until just a sideways glance from one of my brothers could provoke a big reaction. I was so tense, bewildered by the changes in my body and mind, and my behaviour reflected it. I was out of control.
*
One night I lay in bed, taking deep breaths, resting for a minute, and then turning my wristwatch to view it. I placed two fingers from my left hand over the vein in my right wrist gently feeling for my pulse. I got it then I stayed still and didn’t move my fingers. I took deep breaths to relax, but the beats were fast, they were always fast. I checked my pulse as its rapidity pounded my chest. I tried to breathe slowly and relax, counting 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106. Time’s up as the second hand hit the twelve. I felt disappointed again. A year ago my pulse was normal. Now it was over one hundred beats a minute. I gave myself another chance; I tried to relax even more. Again, I lay calmly, slowing my breath, giving my body a second chance. I counted for a second time. My relaxed state surely would have lowered the final count: 98, 99, 101, 101, 102. When the second hand hit the twelve, I felt let down. It was lower, but still over one hundred beats, as it was before. Two years earlier my pulse had hovered around fifty beats per minute. I knew that, as I had often checked my pulse with Mr Cunnings after a training session. Mr Cunnings had informed me at the time that a pulse of around fifty meant I was very, very fit and had a healthy heart.
I lay there trying to work out what had changed since then. Two years earlier, running training had dominated my life and I was very fit. Although I had given up running, I still played sports three times a week. I swam at the local pool. I played in a very active way, for two hours, after school if there was no organised sport on. I rode my bike to and from school and I walked everywhere else. There was little else to do in Coolah. I won the cross-country and athletics events, locally, in the district and the region. At school, I was much fitter than the girls who had discovered hanging out with boys and had lost interest in sports. Despite all of this, my pulse had actually doubled. Why was this? I was the same on the outside, but I felt very different on the inside.
Occasionally, I would yell out to my mother to come into my room, “My pulse is over one hundred beats per minute.”
“You’re just getting older I suppose,” or “It’s because you gave up running,” she always replied. That was my only conversation about my pulse doubling. I never told any of my friends and it didn’t even cross my mind to mention it to Mr Cunnings.
*
The second significant change that had occurred in my body was that my periods had ceased. Gone. Vanished. I had only just begun to get used to them. I told my mother and she immediately asked me whom I had slept with. I told her I hadn’t slept with anyone and that I disliked the boys of Coolah. The next day we showere
d, dressed neatly and saw Dr Desmond. In the surgery I waited, a pale pink shadow on my face reddening by the minute.
“What can I do for you today Carol?” Dr Desmond asked my mother before we had both sat down.
“Kim’s periods have stopped,” she said.
“Have you been sexually active, Kim?” Dr Desmond turned and asked me.
“No,” I replied.
“Are you telling the truth?” his voice said as his eyes held mine.
“Yes, I am,” I said, holding his eyes for long enough so he believed me.
Dr Desmond turned to my mother, “Kim needs to go on the contraceptive pill. It will regulate her periods.” He wrote out a prescription and gave it to my mother, “Ensure that she takes it, Carol.”
“I will. Thank you Dr Desmond,” she replied dutifully.
My mother parked outside the chemist while I waited in the car. A three-month supply of contraceptive pills travelled home with us. She came into my bedroom and handed me the packet. “You have to take one pill, every day, at the same time,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
It felt ridiculous and unnatural. This was the last thing on earth I was going to do. I studied these little pink pills, the days and the arrows on the packaging. I had already decided there was no way I was taking a pill every day for contraception, when I was not sexually active. I tucked these three packets away in the back of a drawer, only retrieving them to flush them down the toilet later. Not one of the little pink tablets entered my mouth.
