On a Mission: Strength, resilience, compassion – policing with attitude

By Libby Bleakley

In the remote community of Peppimenarti, Northern Territory, Libby Bleakley embarked on her first mission for the Australian Federal Police. After serving in the NSW Police Force for nearly two decades, and having endured great personal suffering, she was ready for a new challenge. Far from any town and a day’s drive from the nearest facilities, Libby developed lifelong connections with many of the locals in this beautiful place.

Libby’s passion for community and  policing  took her into the international arena where she was deployed to Sudan as part of the UN Police. There, her love of people of different cultures  helped forge a new spirit on the base where she worked.

The following year she was back on the other side of the world in Timor-Leste, again with the UN Police, as the country was undergoing extraordinary change. In the heart of the jungle, Libby found amazing people and a unique opportunity to help the community build their future. 

On a Mission is a heart-warming memoir, told with Libby’s infectious sense of humour and love for humanity on every page, that will take you along on her adventures around the world and into the communities where she developed life-changing bonds.

All profits from the sale of this book go to the Timor Learning Centre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Libby Bleakley
• Release date: Apr 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9788832565034

Book preview

Preface

I have deliberated for years on whether I should write this book and expose myself to the world. I have felt so private, often so ashamed, so guilty, so sad, so frightened about it all for such a long time and putting myself in a vulnerable place will be the biggest challenge of my life.

If it would be so painful, why write this book?

During my deployments with the Australian Federal Police I started to write a weekly journal and email it to family and friends. The emails were greeted with such enthusiasm and the recipients told me they would delight on settling down with a cup of tea or a glass of wine at night to immerse themselves into my world of community policing. As the years progressed, many people encouraged me to write this book. Through my detailed descriptions, words and honesty, they felt that they were there with me, living out my adventures. Those people who have been close to me for many years and have lived through my pain and tragedies encouraged me to tell my full story from the beginning.

This story really begins around the age of seven, where my life changed beyond recognition and even in the face of adversity and, though I was only a child, I found strength to survive; resilience became my guide.

This book describes who I am and I am finally able to say I am proud of who I have become and I am proud of the footprint I shall leave on this world. Many people have told me over the years that I have made an enormous difference in their lives, or that I have helped them survive or inspired them to do great things. Quietly, this makes my heart sing.

This book is for the child who carries guilt and grief, the person who has lost their sense of self-worth, their dignity and their spirit. This book is for the person that has been damaged and abused, those who have survived trauma, pain and tragedy, those who carry grief and loss, the lonely and the weak, those who want their lives to end and those who fight for their lives daily.

Although life has challenges that may seem unbearable, there is always a beauty and compassion that I found deep within the human spirit. Each person is worthwhile, special, important and loved.

Life is what you make it; no matter what it brings, you have the choice to be a victim or to take control of your own destiny.

I am the happiest I have been in my whole life and I am blessed to have so many people I love and admire around me. If it wasn’t for them, I know I would not have been here today. I would live through this all again just to be where I am and who I am right now.

That is why I have written this book.

All profit from this book shall go to my charity — Sentru Formasaun ba Juventude no Comunidade (Learning Centre for Youth and Community) in Timor-Leste.

My early life

He came for us one by one. Quietly entering our room, he picked me up gently in his arms and carried me into his bedroom. I don’t remember a word being whispered. The room was totally silent and as he paused next to the bed, I could see her lying there. She was so still and beautiful in her emerald-green, floral dress.

His eyes swollen and red, with tremulous voice he said, ‘Kiss Mummy goodbye, she has gone to heaven now.’

I slowly and carefully lent over and kissed my mother’s face, looking intently at her and taking in every last detail. There she lay, my beautiful pregnant mother, dark wavy hair and fair soft skin. She was thirty-nine years old.

My darling broken father then carried me back to our room where I tried to absorb the night’s events. Earlier, I had been sitting at the dinner table with Mum, Dad and my five siblings, eating dinner together.

I had spent that Saturday morning hounding my mother to get the bead tin from the top cupboard and I remember her telling me lovingly that she had a terrible headache and would get it down for me later. I continued to pester her and she finally climbed the step ladder and fetched it. I sat happily on the lounge room floor making Mum a beautiful necklace, because I felt guilty I had annoyed her when she was sick.

I got up from the table and walked up to my mother and handed her the necklace. She smiled gently at me and I knew she was thrilled with her perfect little gift made with so much love. She tried to put it over her head, but it wasn’t big enough and I was so disappointed. Mum quickly said, ‘Don’t worry, I can wear it like a halo.’ I was so happy with her reply as I walked back to my chair. When I sat down, I heard my father yell, ‘Marie’ as he dived out of his chair. I turned to see my darling mother who had suddenly collapsed and died instantly. We were whisked away to our room and started to pray.

That Saturday night changed all our lives. It would be another twenty-five years before my guilt subsided. Dad was left with five girls and one boy. The eldest was thirteen and the twins had just turned four.

When Mum died, I had the horrible thought, Oh no, I gave her a headache and that is why she died and left us. The pain of carrying that secret and horrendous guilt stayed with me for twenty-five years until I disclosed it to my siblings.

Dad was the bravest, strongest man I knew. He managed his pharmacy business six days a week and cared for us as a single man for seven years until he re-married. He worked so hard but always stayed loving and true to his little brood. Out of necessity we all learned to manage in our own ways. I nurtured my brother and the twins, while my two older sisters assisted Dad in raising all of us.

Our childhood was far from normal but Dad made every effort to make our lives happy, packing his six kids into his sky-blue Ford Falcon and taking us out for Sunday picnics after church and on annual holidays up the coast. These were our happiest times together.

By the time I was fourteen years old, our father had remarried, bringing a beautiful, humble and brave stepmother into our household of teenagers.

Family dynamics changed as we grew older and more independent. I loved my second mum dearly and to this day I cherish our relationship, but most importantly she also made our young dad happy again.

Like many young people I had an adventurous and rebellious spirit, exploring aspects of life that were considered ‘out of bounds’. I do not have very many fond memories of my school years, as we couldn’t do the things other kids did. We had to look after our family and home; we had to grow up quickly, even as we missed our mother terribly. My confidence and sense of self-worth was extremely low. Guilt was a constant: I constantly worried about my family and feared I could see them fall sick and die.

I became quite rebellious in my teenage years and had absolutely no interest in school — it was not important to me. I was highly creative and artistic with days in class filled by my daydreams and plans for my future. I wanted to be married and have lots of kids of my own. This isn’t a surprise since I had already been a mother from the age of seven. I dreamed of building an old-style cottage and having a vegetable garden and a picket fence surrounding a beautiful array of coloured flowers. I was forever restless as I fixated on an imagined future.

Falling in love

I fell in love for the first time when I was sixteen. He was a sweet boy from the suburbs and we loved each other dearly. We were together until I was twenty-two when I broke up with him. He was heartbroken, and I don’t know why I left him. I was looking for something but I had no idea what it was.

Soon after completing high school, I became an early childhood worker; caring and nurturing for little ones just as I did at home. I spent the next eight years working in childcare centres. Feeling totally at home in a nurturing role, I enjoyed caring for children — protecting them and making them happy while they were in my care.

Never having experienced violence in my own family, I was not fully equipped for problems in my adult relationships. At twenty-three I met a Spanish guy who I found interesting, new and charming. I took seven months’ leave from my job and we went backpacking around Europe together. Sadly, he gave me a taste of the violent, dark side of life that I had always been protected from. I had not known anything other than respect, honesty, love and gentleness in my family.

The first time he hit me was when I was driving my car. I ended up driving myself to casualty with black eyes and a fractured cheek bone. I was protective of my family and so ashamed that I lied to them saying I had been in a car accident. I didn’t want the distress and trouble to affect them; my childhood guilt still haunted me. He beat me again after he had left me in a motel in Spain all night. Not long after that I left.

Marriage

A couple of years later, I met a fun-loving mechanic who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. At twenty-seven, I married him. It was only a few months into the marriage when I realised he was an alcoholic, and our marriage deteriorated dramatically. The first time he hit me was because his dinner was too hot and he burned his mouth. He threw the plate across the lounge-room and hit me so hard across the face that I fell to the ground. As I lay crying on the mat, I wondered how my life had got to this point. Before I even had a chance to stand up, he kicked me again. Before the first twelve months of my marriage had passed, I had left him. I stayed in the house while I tried to sell it, and he moved on. But it wasn’t over.

One Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after we separated, he came into the house unexpectedly — I was shocked to see him. He didn’t say a word but he was carrying a necktie in one hand and holding a rifle in the other. The blood drained from my face as I froze in absolute fear. I asked what he was doing and he quickly pushed my hands behind my back and wrapped the necktie around my wrists. I was shaking and could barely speak, I could not move. I was so afraid of him. He stripped me naked and spent the next several hours assaulting me.

I begged him to let me go, saying that I would never tell anyone what had happened. He barely spoke a word as I lay on the bed that was once ours. I had pulled my hands free from the necktie but I dared not fight him as he had the rifle propped up next to the bed, on his side. I can’t even begin to describe the fear.

How could any man force himself on a woman who was so distressed and frightened? How could this be happening? A million thoughts rushed through my head, but I knew I had to detach from my body and just focus on staying alive. I kept quiet and submitted to his will.

For the hours of the attack, I thought of my family; all I wanted was to see them again. I wished that I could have been open with them but I felt I had to protect them, which was why I never spoke about the violence I had experienced. I felt worthless. The child inside me felt that I deserved unhappiness because I had killed my mother, and that I was a bad person from the start.

Before he left he told me that if I went to the police, he would harm my family and he would do the same to my sisters. I knew I could never go to the police. I also knew that next time he would kill me.

Eventually he left, while I was alone, numb and afraid. I felt he had stolen my spirit. I had to get protection, so later that day went to my parents’ home, the home where I had grown up. I stayed there for a couple of days only revealing some of the story, as I could not bear for my family to feel my pain.

The first day at my parents’ home I visited the Chamber Magistrate’s office and asked for a restraining order. The Chamber Magistrate saw the state I was in and refused to make an order, saying, ‘This man will kill you, so I am not going to be responsible. I’m not going to read about your murder in the newspaper. You must inform the police.’ I then told the Chamber Magistrate that I was petrified he would harm my family and so I would not make a complaint to police. I said I would go to the next town and see another Chamber Magistrate. He told me that he would telephone ahead and advise him not to issue an order, due to the seriousness of the offences.

I was horrified and alone, as I had not told anyone else what had happened. All I wanted to do was protect my family no matter the cost. I also wanted to be safe, so I went to a solicitor and paid $2 000 to have an order made in the Family Law Court. They informed me that they had served the papers on my ex-husband and he would not return to our house nor approach me.

After three or four days passed, I returned to my marital home against my father’s wishes. I needed to organise to move out, resign from my pre-school job and put the house on the market. I wanted to do this over the next few days and move home to my parents again.

I shared part of what had happened with a girlfriend and she drove me to the house. I didn’t let her stay as I believed I was safe and I would be gone in a couple of days. That night, I was in a total state of shock and disbelief thinking about what had happened and I hated lying in that bed again. It was a warm, rainy night and I finally fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted.

Some time later, I awoke suddenly, with a sense of a person close by and, as I sat bolt upright, I could see the end of a gun as he stood over me. It was 12.10 am. I had not heard our dog Bluey bark — I later found out my husband had shot him. He was dripping wet and saying, ‘You told, you told, you have made me a criminal.’ I was sobbing uncontrollably as I knew this was the night he would kill me. It was a re-run of the assault only three or four days earlier. Three hours of assault and abuse then I was dragged into my shower where he ordered me to wash away the evidence. I had spent three days lying in my bed and resting at my parents’ house where I had gone over and over the assaults that had occurred and thought about what I could have done differently. I needed evidence to leave for police to show them what this bastard had done to me; even though I would be dead they would take evidence from me or my surroundings. As he stood with his rifle and watched me shower he yelled at me to shut up and stop crying, and yet he gave me toilet paper to blow my nose. As he turned away I used this to wipe evidence from my back and threw it quickly behind the wash basket. He had said, ‘Even when you are dead they will not know I was here.’

I believe the only thing that saved my life was my mother — I asked her to make it hurry up and finish. I know she was in that room with me that night and it was only going to be a pull of the trigger and I would be with her again. I was so frightened by death. I begged him to shoot me in the chest not in the head as I did not want my father to identify me like that. I wanted Dad to see my face for the last time. This seemed to shock him and he started crying saying, ‘I’m not going to kill you.’ In the next breath, as he left the house, he whispered, ‘If you call the police I will be waiting out the front and I’ll shoot them first.’

He then left and I dressed. Walking in circles around my lounge room I felt I had gone crazy. Eventually I called the police.

When they arrived, I asked them if he was still outside with his gun, but instead of comforting me the police yelled at me. They were angry I hadn’t given them that information over the phone. They drove me to the police station and sat me in a chair in a detective’s office. They spoke with other police and they all argued about who was going to go back to find this man. It was as if I did not exist. These were the law-enforcement officers that I grew up believing were there to protect us. The police also said I had to find my own way to a hospital for forensic examination. They asked me if I could ring a friend. I called my friend and she took me to the hospital. I was numb and could not speak. The sun came up and after sitting in the waiting room for nearly eight hours, the doctor did her forensic procedures. Afterwards my friend drove me to my parents’.

My ex-husband left me that night and — besides seeing him in court during a long trial that ended in a custodial sentence — I never saw him again. My life was never the same. Reflecting now, twenty-eight years later, I have no regrets or bitterness about what happened.

Recovery

As a broken confused young woman, I spent two weeks at my parents’ home and did not leave the house. My ex-husband had come around looking for me and my father was so frightened for my safety, he asked my second eldest sister if I could live with her. She had just moved into a unit in the city and my ex-husband had no idea where it was. It became my safe place. The police offered no support or protection to us at all, and I never really forgave them for the way I was treated. Everyone I had trusted in the legal system had failed me. I felt numb for many years after these assaults. In fact, I hated the police so much in my twenties.

I never told anyone in my family how bad the assaults and treatment had been, as I felt I had to protect them from that horror. I tried to put on a brave face and pretend I was okay, but I was totally broken both mentally and physically.

‘I’ll only need a place for two weeks or so,’ I told my sister. We still laugh about it today — I stayed five-and-a-half years! She was my family, and I cherish the times I had with her. I am forever grateful that she rescued me as I don’t think I would have survived otherwise.

After finding a job in a child care facility in Redfern and starting a whole new life, I found a new routine. I had left most of my friends, my home, my car and my job to stay safe. I had to start again at twenty-eight.

At the time I had no idea, but I know now that I suffered PTSD for several years. I would have anxiety attacks and hallucinations on my way home from work. I would see him standing there with the rifle looking for me on the train. I would see him behind me when I was shopping or in the park when I was training. In those days I really questioned my sanity. The stability of my sister and family is what kept me alive.

Several months after the attacks I still dwelt on the disa­ppointment I had with police. The way they treated me that night made me sick to the stomach and I felt angry towards the legal system. How many women and children, let alone other victims of crime, had been treated like I had been?

It suddenly dawned on me. Why not join the police force and work in the fields of sexual assault and domestic violence? I wanted to make a difference to the lives of victims. How many women did I see on the news that died at the hands of their male partners? I have an impulsive nature and when I decide to do something that I am passionate about, I do it. I had been the lucky one. Now it was time to help others.

Joining the force

After applying to join the police force, I started training hard before and after work both mentally and physically. It was common for me to come home at night covered in bruises all down my arms and legs from trying to jump six-foot brick walls all around the neighbourhood. I must have looked funny as I am only five foot, two inches tall. Although it hurt, this was a positive change from the bruises I had had in the past. Five months later I was in the NSW Police Academy in Goulburn and I proudly graduated in April 1990. I am so glad Dad was alive to see that day.

Many people were shocked by my decision and doubted my ability, but my family and those close to me supported me all the way. I was so proud; I had reclaimed control of my life. I knew I could make a difference in the police force.

After two years of general duties I co-ordinated the first Victim Support Unit (VSU) for the NSW Police Force. I spent three years working predominantly with victims of sexual assault, domestic violence, child abuse and witnesses of major crimes. I assisted victims with changing their identities, I was by their side through forensic procedures, relocated them to safe places, supported them through court proceedings and I took their statements in a respectful, gentle manner. I was there to protect and support them. I dealt with hundreds of victims, but we tragically lost one woman whose partner murdered her.

Some of the horrific stories have stayed with me forever as I related to the victims very closely. At the back of my mind, I always knew it could have been me. I knew too well that the most vulnerable time for a woman is after leaving a violent partner. This is where most homicides occur. I never wanted a victim to go through what I went through, so I trained other police to deal with victims respectfully. I also trained volunteers in policing and court support civilians. Completely in my element, victims in my care would be given the respect they deserved.

As I shrugged off the chill of death and the terrifying memories, I again thanked God for my survival. I no longer held hate or anger in my heart, because the incident was part of the puzzle that made me who I was.

Despite coming to terms with my past, I struggled thinking of my future. I still wanted the stability of my own family and kids, but I found it hard to trust men. I did not like the police culture in my early years of policing, so I spent my time training in the gym and going out with my civilian friends.

Unable to read people well, and against my better judgement, I was soon dating a young police officer from my station. He was from the country and a lot younger than I was but had the same interests and dreams as me. He seemed supportive, and he even came to the last court matter when my ex-husband was convicted.

We became engaged and I felt that life was finally going to be good for me. It was not long until he became controlling, possessive and extremely jealous. Soon he became violent, but always apologised and blamed the fact that he had had a terrible childhood with his father — also a police officer — who inflicted violence on his mother all their lives. But there are no excuses. I was again mired in fear, distrust and helplessness.

My dear dad

As I was suffering in my new engagement, my beautiful Dad died. He and my stepmum had worked hard all their lives and Dad retired from their pharmacy only to die of a heart attack at home the next day with my mum present. It took us all by surprise as everyone was excited they were finally going to enjoy a life away from work. In my heart, I blamed myself for his death as he had to go through all the sadness and fear of my past marriage. Of course, I didn’t cause the heart attack, but it brought back the childhood guilt I carried from my mother’s passing. This is when I told my stepmum and siblings the secret I carried for all those years.

The night before Dad’s heart attack I had been at a fatal car accident where an old man had been hit while crossing the road. He was alive but unconscious, lying in a pool of blood on the road. While I waited for the ambulance to arrive, I was talking with him and touching his hand so he knew I was there. He died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. All I thought about was Dad and how I thought he was going to die. That night I dreamed he died.

The next day when I was at work my boss brought me a message that I should go to the hospital as Dad was sick. I said, ‘My Dad is dead.’ Somehow, I already knew. I walked into the hospital room in full uniform and said goodbye to my Dad. I loved him so much. My mum and siblings were all there by his side. I will never forget his beautiful gentle face. I took off his wedding ring as I didn’t want the hospital staff to do it. My headache and shock were so severe that in the car on the way to the family home, I vomited most of the way.

A few months later I had a scuba diving accident at Jervis Bay where I had run out of oxygen and surfaced too quickly. I don’t remember too much as I had an arterial gas embolism to the brain, barotrauma and the bends. I was taken from the ocean by a boat-load of off-duty ambulance officers and then flown by CareFlight helicopter to Prince Henry Hospital in Sydney, where I spent three weeks in a decompression chamber. I suffered a brain injury that would affect me for many years. My fiancé and his mate who had been diving with me went to lunch before they drove to Sydney to see me.

Not long after I was out of hospital I broke off my engagement. My fiancé decided to hit me for making a mark on a wet cement step he had built. He continued to punch and kick me until I couldn’t move. How he didn’t break any bones I do not know. As I had curled up my body in a ball he only managed to damage one side, from my shoulder down my one arm, my side and hips and buttocks. I was blacker than I had ever been before. The severity with which he hit the top of my head was probably the cause of damaged disks in my neck which were found years later.

After I had left him, he came into the Victim Support Unit where I worked and put his hand on his firearm and said, ‘You think your ex-husband scared you and ruined your life? Well, that is nothing compared to what I am going to do if you leave me.’

The same week he assaulted his alcoholic mother — whom his father had beaten all his life — and broke three ribs, her jaw and cheek bone and bruised her face and body. I went to court as a witness for her because she phoned me when it happened and I called police and the ambulance to her home in mid-west New South Wales. She never appeared in court.

I told sergeants and good friends at work, and my sister whom I lived with, what had happened, but most of my injuries were hidden by my clothes. I still did not say much to my sweet sister as I wanted to continue protecting my family. I could not go through another court case. The degradation and humiliation of a two-year trial had taken its toll on me and I was not going to be back in the witness box as a victim.

At my lowest

My ex-fiancé went through the bullshit stage of remorse and wanted me back. God knows the damage he caused my spirit. I was full of anger and hate and I was upset with myself that I had ever trusted this pitiful monster. There was no excuse to treat another human being the way he did. I asked to leave the Victim Support Unit and move away from Sydney. I did not care where, just somewhere I could feel safe and free. If I stayed in Sydney, I was afraid for my life. If it was going to be him or me then I was