Wonderland Wanderess

Dear Self,  You are strong and you are brave, and you don’t give yourself nearly enough credit for that. You have survived more in your 35 years of life than most people endure in a lifetime. It is time to forgive yourself for the mistakes you made along the way. Survival might not be an excuse, but it is an explanation, and every so-called ‘wrong’ step brought you to where you are, and who you are, today. Would you trade this version of you for anything? No. No, you would not. You, therefore, cannot begrudge what you think were missteps any longer. Each one put you on this path; the right path; the sober path.  You are humble, kind, compassionate, and empathetic. Despite the heart aches and breaks you have lived through, you refused to allow the darkness of this world to harden your soul. You strode out of Hell like you owned the place, head held high, nursing buckets of water for loved ones still burning. And even when your voice shook, you told your stories; you had the cou...

  Wise beyond her years,  With pockets full of tears.  Her innocence was stolen, The wheels of injustice keep on rollin’.  A little girl forced to grow up before her time,  Fear and betrayal in what should’ve been her prime. A beautiful little soul, trampled and bloodied, But God forbid the guilty, have their name muddied. She’s fierce and she’s fire, Destined to inspire. But that doesn’t make it fair, The trauma was never hers to bear. They say it’ll make her stronger, Learning to trust will take a bit longer. But she’s the strongest girl I know, And courage is all she can show. I’m so proud to call this girl mine, She’s the cosmic dust that makes my stars shine. I know that she’ll get through this, And the hard times, she’ll no longer miss. She’ll run, she’ll sing, she’ll dance, she’ll love, Because this girl was sent from Heaven above. And if I ever doubted God, as I stared at the sunrise, I see Him every time I look into her hazel eyes. So Baby Girl, you hur...

  There’s a warrior inside me, Who spent years locked in a cage; I’m sorry that I clipped her wings, And left her alone with her rage. I didn’t know how to love me, Therefore, couldn’t love her either; I had the keys to set her free, To let her live, but I did neither. For years she begged and pled with me, To convince me we were enough; But I searched outside for something more, A protector and provider; strong and tough. But that toughness was within all along, I’d just locked her away from the world; I buried her deep within my bruised soul, Never allowing her wings to unfurl. She seethed and resented my empathy, And all the trauma it attracted; She stood for boundaries and self-love, Not broken promises, always retracted. Still she waited for the day, I’d at last see my worth, When I’d say enough is enough, I deserve more; I gingerly reached for the key I always knew I had, Dug deep into my darkest parts and flung open the door. She didn’t greet me with hate, Just her joyous wa...

TRIGGER WARNING: the following research article contains graphic details and sensitive topics which some readers may find distressing. On 7 August 2012, Brandon Duran was murdered and his body was sawed into twenty-five pieces (Porterfield, 2017a). Duran’s body parts were then placed in concrete-filled buckets and discarded in a pond. One of the two convicted killers was Amber Andrews, Duran’s ex-wife, and the mother of his 3-year-old son. She allegedly conspired with her lover, Justin Hammer, to lure Duran to Elmore, under the ruse of reconciling. A jury rejected Andrews’ assertion that the proposed reconciliation was genuine, along with her pleas of innocence. Andrews and Hammer were both convicted of murder in the first degree (Dillon, 2014); however, this paper will mainly focus on Andrews, who was additionally charged with desecration of a corpse and conspiring to commit murder. She is currently serving a life sentence for the murder, and a further 17 years, for the associated...

Introduction This essay explores the causes and effects of young people witnessing domestic and family violence (DFV) . It commences by defining and explaining what DFV is. Next, this type of abuse is critically analysed to determine how it occurs. Two theories are relied upon in the analysis, those being social learning theory and attachment theory . Following this, the prevalence of witnessing DFV  is discussed on national and international scales. Finally, the human rights violations applicable to this abuse type are touched upon with specific reference to the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (1989).   Definition and Explanation Domestic violence (DV) and family violence (FV) each have slightly different meanings. DV refers specifically to violence occurring between current or former intimate partners. It involves one party attempting to execute power and control over the other through fear, intimidation, violence, and threatening behaviours...

When the devil can’t reach you, he sends a narcissist.   —Romario   THIS IS A PRISONER’S TEXT.   This is a prisoner’s text, composed in a reality that is no longer my own. My mind feeds on incessant untruths, fed to it by my captor, the one who loves me the most.   This is a prisoner’s text birthed by lust and madness, weaved into a web of deception that keeps me snug and warm.   This is a prisoner’s text, written by an anguished hand which no longer possesses the will to live. It is too late. I am too far gone. Yet, live I must.   This is a prisoner’s text, but if you are reading it, it is already too late; I am already gone. These are words on a page that will soon float as freely on the wind, as the ashes of my corpse.   This was a prisoner’s text; a plea to my jailer; a voice for the voiceless; wings for the fallen.   This is an ex-prisoner’s text, the parting words of a homicide victim. This is a ghost’s wail; a butterfly’s whisper; the soft ...

    It is August, 2021 and I am embarking on the first of a series of field trips to Hartmann Park, located in the small township of Crows Nest, Queensland. I descend into the rugged bush with awkward, jarring steps, down a steep bitumen incline, my left hand gripping the metal railing and my right, clutching the strap of my bulky, grey messenger bag. I am struck by the memory of a fictional book I read in Grade 8 English class, Tomorrow, when the war began (1993). This book is part of a series that tells the story of seven youths who embark on a camping trip in remote bush, referred to by town locals as 'Hell'. The group return to find Australia at war (Marsden 1993). In that moment, I realise that Hartmann Park reminds me of the 'Hell' Marsden describes in the Tomorrow series (1993–1999). I enjoyed these books immensely as a teen, perhaps owing to the subconscious tie I bound them to Hartmann Park with. As I continue trekking into the bowels of the Earth, I stroll fu...