Daisy Chain: A True Story of Trauma, Strength, and Healing

By Evie Robb

As a young girl, author Evie Robb experienced childhood abuse of many kinds. She experienced damaging relationships and heart-wrenching grief and yet managed to overcome her past and make her way to a brighter future.

In Daisy Chain, Evie tells the true story of how she triumphed over the suffering that marked her youth. This narrative follows her from childhood to old age and from trauma to healing and transformation. Early events shaped her and became the blueprint for her future; the many mountains she scaled strengthened her mind and spirit, and her new climbing equipment brought her peace. Evie finds love and humour in the never-ending golden circle that is at the heart of all healing, and she hopes her story—highlighting what helps, what can be recovered, and what may be hidden gifts in a life like hers—will help the many women of the world who have followed parallel paths.

This memoir tells the story of a resilient woman who endured childhood abuse and found a way to heal and prevail, transforming her life and offering help for others in similar situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Nov 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781452531687

Evie Robb

Evie Robb holds a master’s degree in counselling and human services and an advanced diploma in hypnotherapy; she is also a certified external supervisor. She is busy in her private practice and continues to train and counsel the traumatized and those who work with them. She lives with her two cats in country Victoria, Australia.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 Jeannie Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com.au

AU TFN: 1 800 844 925 (Toll Free inside Australia)

AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3167-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-3168-7 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/04/2022

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Perfectly Groomed

Emotional Abuse

No Laughing Matter

The Healing Power of Humor

Not Waving, Drowning

Depression

Golden Syrup Dumplings

Food for thought

Women are Dirty Bitches

Becoming a Woman

Hall of Mirrors

Relationships

Thistles and Daisies

The Search

Mountain Climbing

Resilience

My Privilege

Loss & Grief

I am Home

Transforming

Love is Not a Dirty Word

Love transcends time and space.

What is Love Anyway?

The many faces of love

Loss and Grief is love

The privelege

‘Daisy Chain’ is

dedicated to my beloveds, in body and

spirit and all those who strive for peace and healing.

Acknowledgments

My daughter, son (deceased), son in law

and grandchild, and my big brother.

Introduction

Memory is subjective and family events can become legends that are told so many times that it can be difficult to find the authentic thread. Everybody has their own version of reality, but, to the best of my ability, I have attempted to remain true to my own.

As an infant this book started out life as ‘To Mock a Killing Bird’ and then morphed into ‘Anxiety and How to Work with it’ and matured into ‘Daisy Chain’. It is a story that could be found interesting but may also be useful as a reference book for those working with or have experienced trauma.

My story is a true one and after twenty five years of incubation and developing, it seems that now is the right time for me to tell it. I invite you to read, and trust there will be much that will resonate with you. Better still, that the words bring a message of hope, love and peace.

Names and places have been changed out of respect to all who have played a part.

Perfectly Groomed

Emotional Abuse

Physical, sexual, emotional abuse and neglect are an

abomination to the body mind and souls of children,

but the most enduring damage is caused by emotional

abuse. It is insidious and can last a life time.

Knight Street separated my home from my primary school.

It was the end of an itchy, hot day. School was out. I crossed the unsealed road, down the narrow driveway and rounded the south west corner of the Charles’s cream, timber house. The back door was painted Brunswick green and stood at the top of two deep, blue stone steps. To the left was the gully trap over which a well poliIshed brass tap hung.

I enter the dark coolness of the lobby. This room is surrounded by three doors, kitchen, lounge and laundry. It is sunken one step lower as though once an open porch.

In the kitchen my mother is peeling potatoes at the sink. The evening meal is called tea and lunch, dinner. Tea is always sat down to by five thirty which is Mr. Charles’s preference. My mother smiles as I kissed her hello. Goodbyes and hellos are always punctuated with a kiss for both parents.

How was your day my girl?

Rose’s face is gentle. A sweet face and smile reflecting a kind and sensitive soul.

Dad asked me to send you down to the shed when you got home.

Ok.

Tired and prickling with the heat I step out into the scorching day once again.

Frank Charles built his shed at the end of our small back yard. One of the double doors was ajar. I entered. The smell of timber and wood shavings fill my nostrils. He is seated at the enormous timber work bench. On the walls hang tools of all sizes and purposes, hanging neatly in their red painted outline. A place for everything and everything in its’ place. Jars of nails, screws and bolts arre stacked neatly on the shelves.

My eyes rest on my father. Frank is wearing his kaki, sleeveless overalls with a red carpenters pencil in the narrow, top pocket. Underneath is a ripped, yellowing singlet with damp crescents under each armpit. His crew cut head is bent. He is cleaning his rifle. I am not perturbed, Frank often cleaned and used his rifle for the local rifle club and shooting rabbits. This was also the purpose of the ferrets in their ferret box and Flash, the tan whippet, tied up at the side of the shed.

It was the heavy, steel gray tension that hangs on and around my father that alerts me.

I feel it.

The familiar ribbons of steel steal into my body, wrapping tightly around my forehead, heart and lungs. Squeezing, wringing out my breath.

Be ready.

I’m going to kill myself Eve.

Franks jaw is rigid, tendons standing out in his neck. His face contorted as he sobbed.

No one loves me. I’m a bastard. I’d be better off dead. You all would be.

My voice echoes from somewhere outside of my head. The words formed by another brain, another voice, louder than I intend.

No Dad don’t. I love you. Of course I love you. We all love you. Please Dad. Please.

I wrap my arms around my fathesr shuddering shoulders. My posture is one of maturity that struggles to keep a small frame upright. Thin shoulders bearing the unbearable. This is to be my responsibility and blueprint for the future.

High School is a long walk from Knight Street, stretching from one side of town to the other. Today I have ridden my bike. A reconditioned bike painted bright green that once belonged to my mother. It had taken three years for me to grow into the bike that was designed for an adult. I could now sit on the old leather seat and reach the pedals. I make my way home for tea. I lean my bike against the wood box under the laundry window and step up into the lobby. Rose Charles will not be home to greet me. My mother is in a city hospital. While on holidays with her sister, she’d been airlifted there after the valves of her heart had begun to leak precious life blood. Rose’s heart had been scarred as a child when she suffered rheumatic fever. The kitchen will be empty and the house lacking the warmth and peace that Rose gifted it.

It is my job to cook the evening meal. I head for my bedroom to drop off my school bag and change out of my school uniform. My bedroom is at the front of the house and to reach it I have to pass through the lounge room. It consist of an organ, one of three homemade coffee tables that were once an oval mahogany dining table and a lime green and cream, vinyl couch against the wall. Beneath one of the two windows that look out onto the neighbor’s high red brick wall, was Frank’s arm chair. It faces the television and is the closest to the book shelves and gas heater. Frank is very sparing with the gas, rarely turning it on no matter how Rose shivered.

I catch a glimpse of Frank’s overalls and checked flannel shirt, in the chair of honor. He is bent over a writing pad with his carpenters pencil in hand. At first, I assume that he is tallying up the miles per gallon after the last trip to the city. But something is edging its way into my consciousness.

Be ready.

Frank looks up and gestures for me to come closer. He has been waiting for me.

Be ready.

I let the heavy school bag slide to the gray carpet. With tight chest and dry mouth I speak, almost a whisper.

What are you writing Dad?

Frank turns the pad so I can see.

This is the way I go to work. See, here is Manor Street.

Mr. Charles prided himself on his strength and fitness, he had spent the early hours of his and Rose’s honeymoon doing his push ups and stretches beside the marital bed. He also liked to save money so often rode his bike to and from work.

There is the tree where I’ll park my bike, out of sight. The Cohns soft drink truck goes up Manor Street every week, same time. I’m going to jump out in front of it.

I’m just a bastard. You all hate me. I’m not worth anything.

The transformation from a girl in school tunic to nurturer is seamless yet grotesquely incongruent. My survival depends on the perfect assimilation of my emerging role as rescuer. This role will continue to impact, for good or bad, for my entire life. I could not have foreseen the effect this responsibility will have on my adulthood or my children.

"No Dad, of course we all love you. You’re just having a bad time, that’s all. You need some help, someone to talk to.