

### ONE STEP AT A TIME.

A Story of Survival.

By Claire Anderson

Published by Claire Anderson at Smashwords

First Published by Kukupa Press 2010

Copyright © Claire Anderson

The right of Claire Anderson to be identified as Author of this work in terms of Section 96 of the Copyright Act 1994 is hereby asserted.

Printed by Printlink Limited

Cover Design: Allthings Visual Communications

Cover Image: Shutterstock

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, and except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN 978-0-473-17530-6

*****

This work is a memoir. It reflects the author's present recollection of her experiences over a period of years and some names have been changed. Dialogue and events have been recreated from memory, and, in some cases, have been compressed to convey the substance of what was said or what occurred.

To everyone who has come into my life

for a reason, a season, or a lifetime...

Along the way in this book, I have tried to thank those who helped me through the dark times in my life. If I have failed to name someone in the text, please be assured you have my heartfelt gratitude nevertheless. And to those who have helped me tell my story in the book, thank you, too: to those who read it and made helpful comments especially Stephen Stratford and Michael Larsen — I am so grateful. Thanks to Pip for the beautiful cover, and to John and the team at Kukupa Press.

*****

### Outward Bound

_We are all better than we know. If only we can come to discover this, we may never again settle for anything less._ \- Kurt Hahn, Founder of Outward Bound.

Outward Bound was the turning point in my life when I believed I did not have a future. I am dedicated to giving other people the unique opportunity that Outward Bound offers. A portion of the proceeds from the sale of _One Step At A Time_ go directly to the Outward Bound Trust of New Zealand. Together we can continue to help people realise their true potential.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1: Hit by a Truck

Chapter 2: Early Days

Chapter 3: A Different World

Chapter 4: Friend or Foe?

Chapter 5: Spreading My Wings

Chapter 6: Facing the Past

Chapter 7: Home Sweet Home

Chapter 8: Nowhere to Hide

Chapter 9: A Second Chance

Chapter 10: The Breakthrough

Chapter 11: Finding Myself

Chapter 12: Playing in the Sand

Chapter 13: You Can Do It

Chapter 14: My Ironman Journey

Chapter 15: All the Demons Come Out to Play

Chapter 16: Will I, Or Won't I?

Chapter 17: My Heroes

Chapter 18: The Test

Chapter 19: Defeated, or Determined

Chapter 20: M.A.D — Making a Difference

Chapter 21: My Everest

Chapter 22: Reality Hits

Chapter 23: Closure

Foreword

Dear Reader,

First, I want to say how honoured I am to have been asked by Claire to write this foreword. I feel humbled to know someone like her, someone who has had the experiences she has had and yet who has come out the other side with a positive approach to life.

I write this as hope: never give up.

My experience as a GP has led me to understand that depression is a very common response to the traumas of life. You probably know someone who has experienced depression, whether it's you, a loved one, a family member or a friend. We live in highly pressurised times, and we are not always able to respond to trauma and stress as we would like. Fortunately, we are much more comfortable about talking about these things in today's world than we have been in the past.

Everyone is different, and the symptoms that different people experience vary accordingly, but these often include poor sleep, less energy than usual, poor concentration and greatly reduced mental alertness. Some people can also experience angry thoughts and can be quite volatile in their mood. Or they can become increasingly withdrawn and not want to talk to anyone.

They may feel unworthy and have no motivation. Many people find themselves crying - often for no reason - or experiencing altered and unhealthy eating habits, eating either too much or not nearly enough.

In more extreme cases, people can become neglectful of caring for themselves or may even begin to self-harm.

What can you do when it gets like this? My experience has been that it is critical to remember that when things are difficult they will get better. It doesn't seem like it at the time, but these feelings do pass. Remember also that depression is an illness like any other and there are many treatment options.

If you are worried about someone you care for, someone who might be affected, or you're worried about yourself, talk to your family doctor in the first instance. It may be as simple as having someone just listen.

Your doctor has access to lots of other people and can help you to find the help you need — places like Rape Crisis (www.rapecrisis.org.nz), or one of the many web sites available like www.depression.org.nz.

Remember, take one day at a time — small steps — and if you don't know what to do next, talk to your family doctor.

By reaching out to someone who truly understands the terrible symptoms of depression, and the horrifying consequences of sexual abuse and assault, you can start the process of healing, as Claire did, and get better, as she did, one tiny step at a time.

Dr. Audrey Thorpe

General Practice and Women's Health

*****

Everyone who attends Outward Bound has their own unique story. Often they're there because something in their past has driven them to seek to learn more about themselves (and others), to gain direction, and to discover where their true limits lie.

I know that Claire Anderson believes her Outward Bound experience was a turning point, the beginning of the process that has moulded her into the confident, articulate, serene and insightful person that I know her to be today. Many who attend Outward Bound achieve a similar outcome.

Claire's journey has not been an easy one. Her story of perseverance through all the ups and downs — to say nothing of the focus and mental and physical stamina required to compete in Ironman — is to be truly admired.

Approximately 70% of people attending Outward Bound need some form of assistance with funding. It can be a little or a lot depending on individual financial circumstances. We work hard to ensure that funding isn't the barrier to people achieving their goal of going to Outward Bound. We are extremely grateful to sponsors like Claire, who have the foresight and the desire to make a difference, and who assist others to reach a turning point in their own lives.

The proceeds from the sale of _One Step at a Time_ will go to a scholarship fund, to help young people attend Outward Bound.

Diane Leyton

Funding Manager

Outward Bound

Prologue

I began to lose confidence in my legs. They were about to succumb to the punishment I was putting them through. I'd promised Ally, my coach, I wouldn't walk the marathon, the last discipline of the race, except through the aid stations to ensure I kept up my fluids. At each support table, I took a couple of sips of Coke and water, liquid I could now, thankfully, hold down; the sugar gave me much-needed energy. I was exhausted but didn't want to give up. I continued to focus on the bubble I was in - "left, right... you can do it".

Trouble was, each time I slowed to have another drink I felt as though my legs were going to crumple beneath me. Memories of the days when I played cricket returned. I learned as a batter that if you lead with your head to the pitch of the ball, your feet will follow. I realised that if I pumped my arms, my legs would move. I focused on applying this principle, driving my arms back and forth to ensure I could take just one more step.

Then, at last, I could hear the MC at the finish line, welcoming home the athletes in front of me. For the first time during my journey I could allow myself to believe I was going to achieve my Ironman dream, a goal that many times I thought was unachievable.

Now the pain subsided with each step that took me closer to the finish line. I had always wondered what I would feel and how I would react if I ever reached this point in my life. I'd heard people saying that becoming an Ironman was the most memorable experience of their lives, right up there with the birth of their children. Now this moment was finally here for me.

The grimace that had been on my face for many hours during the race gradually relaxed into the most genuine smile I had ever worn. And it wasn't just on the surface, either: an inner warmth of deep, fulfilling happiness glowed within my body, the type of satisfaction we all chase and so rarely feel.

Four and a half years ago, I was struggling to stay alive, grappling with indescribable emotional and physical pain. I had completely given up on the hope for a better life. I simply couldn't see any light at the end of the tunnel. I rarely had times — even just a few minutes — where my thoughts weren't preoccupied with the dark world I lived in. I had been living with suicidal thoughts for weeks, and they were becoming more frequent with each day that passed. I constantly asked myself: "what am I doing here? There has to be another way...?" I felt lost, and without the energy to look for anything else. Besides, I had no idea what to search for - happiness? Was there such a thing?

I couldn't believe that in such a short period of time — a mere five years — these feelings could subside and be replaced by their opposite, those I was now experiencing. The clichés suddenly seemed to be true: everything happens for a reason; what doesn't break you makes you stronger.

I had been taken down a path from which many never return. But after hitting the lowest of lows, I was now enjoying the highest of highs. I had survived, and the thought filled me with pride.

"Claire Anderson," the amplified voice said. "You are an Ironman!"

Yes, I thought, feeling no pain at all, now. I am an Ironman!

# Chapter 1

### Hit by a Truck

I couldn't find the words. The truth is often so hard to communicate. After a long period of silence, my friend Sandra asked: "Are you okay?" With tears in my eyes, I forced the words out.

"I want to end it," I said, and felt a huge relief to have shared the burden with a person I trusted, thinking that if someone else knew, they could look after me.

Sandra had supported me a tremendous amount as my manager at work, and in more recent months, as a friend. She had become my rock as depression took an ever greater hold on my life. As the person I had confided in the most, she could hear the truth in my words. Possibly because she didn't know what else to do, she gave me a hug and said: "Please hold on," promising she would do whatever she could to help me.

We continued to walk through the park in silence. I didn't want to talk: just to be protected from myself.

Later, I pleaded with her to not tell anyone. She asked just one favour in return: to give her my word to call her if I found myself in a self-harm situation. I agreed, but I hoped I would never need to keep this promise.

This was the second time that day I had owned up to the dark course my thoughts had taken. When earlier that day Sally, the sexual abuse counsellor I had been seeing for several months, asked me bluntly: "Are you having suicidal thoughts?" I bit the bullet and nodded. Over the course of my sessions with Sally, I had felt the slippery slope of depression was becoming steeper, not gentler as I had hoped it would. I now realise I had begun attending counselling because I wanted someone to tell me the answers, to have the magic words spoken and for all of my problems to disappear. This is a trap I have fallen into in subsequent years as well. I was to learn my expectations of my counselling were unrealistic.

Numerous questions followed my answer of "yes" to Sally's question about suicide, I presume to gauge how serious my comment was.

"How do you plan to do it?" Sally asked.

I shrugged, and spoke of a Panadol overdose. During the conversation that followed, Sally revealed that the harmless paracetamol that everyone has in their bathroom cupboard can indeed be a lethal drug: an overdose will lead to liver failure and death within days. I hadn't known this, but I stored these facts away in my mind.

****

The thought of suicide had taken hold over the previous few days. I had become extremely emotionally fragile. My mind was working overtime, and I couldn't find a way to switch it off. It reached the point where I felt so lifeless I couldn't even exercise, which deprived me of a coping strategy I had relied on for the previous several months. I just didn't have the energy. I was getting deeper into a hole, and I was terrified I would never get out. I felt alone, isolated and helpless, which added frustration to my sense of helplessness. I was a lost soul, searching... but unsure what for.

Owning up to my suicidal thoughts didn't cure things, either. Within just a few days, I had grown tired of fighting what had become an overwhelming compulsion to take my own life. I simply wanted to go to sleep, to block out the world, so I didn't have to deal with my emotional anguish any more. There was temptation everywhere to harm myself. I'd look at my wrists and think how easy it would be to slit them, or to crash my car, or drown myself, or take a handful of pills, or...

With the nearing five-year anniversary of the sexual assault constantly in my mind, I called in sick at work, intentionally choosing to phone early in the morning so I could just leave a message on Sandra's voicemail rather than speak to her. I'd had yet another sleepless night, due to the horrific nightmares that endlessly plagued me. My intention was to spend the day sleeping, but when even the safety of the daylight hours didn't make this possible, I decided to head to Takapuna beach, a place I often visited as I felt the peace and tranquillity of the water calmed me. It was a stunning autumn day — beautiful, clear blue sky with the sun making the water sparkle. It was the same, familiar, soothing scene. The difference was that as I sat looking out to Rangitoto Island, there were some packets of Panadol on the passenger seat of the car to keep me company.

****

My absence from work rightfully panicked Sandra. She continually called my mobile, leaving countless messages, each telling me how she wanted to help and begging me to please let her know where I was. Every call ended with: "Remember the promise you made to me? Please hold on, Claire."

I ignored her calls. Now more than ever, I wanted to be left alone.

Desperately wanting to help me, but just as anxious that she didn't betray my trust, Sandra turned to my counsellor. Sally began trying to contact me, too. On my voicemail, she talked of the techniques we had previously discussed to manage the suicidal thoughts. Listening to them, they were all just words. None of them mattered to me. I just didn't care about myself, and I no longer wanted to live in the world I was living in.

After I'd just sat there for several hours, ignoring the phone as it rang, occasionally listening to the messages, my guilt for not keeping my promise to Sandra got the better of me. I eventually answered one of her calls, with the intention of assuring her I was fine. She knew me well enough to hear in the tone of my voice that this was not the case. I tried to explain that I wanted to be left alone, but she wouldn't listen to what I was saying. She simply kept asking where I was, and reinforcing that she wanted to help. I gave in to her repeated requests to see me, on the condition we didn't talk. True to her word, she arrived within twenty minutes and climbed into my car, sitting on the seat where the Panadol had been. I had hidden the pills under the seat.

And so we sat, in silence, for hours.

****

Later that day, when we'd finally broken the silence, Sandra desperately tried to find me professional support, as she knew she couldn't manage the situation on her own. I continued to be difficult, insisting that she keep her promise of not telling anyone my secret. We came to a compromise. She could call for outside help, as long as it wasn't anyone who knew me or who had any direct connection with me. This ruled out family, friends, and workmates. Sandra turned to Lifeline, a 24-hour telephone counselling service.

She spoke with the Lifeline counsellor for a long period, but I initially refused to talk with anyone because I didn't believe it would help. It wouldn't change anything: I would still have to live with the sexual assault. Eventually, I relented and agreed to talk with the Lifeline counsellor, more to please Sandra than because I cared about my well-being. The most I could offer at my end of the call was "yes" and "no" answers. I clearly didn't want to be helped.

Sandra decided to stay at my house that night, as she was too scared to leave me on my own. I was relieved, thinking her presence would be the barrier to stop me from carrying out my plan, but I was scared, too. What would happen when she wasn't there?

Late that night, I got a text message from my parents with the latest update of their travels in Europe. They asked how I was, and I continued to maintain my façade.

"Fine," I typed.

"Who was that?" Sandra asked.

I told her, and what I'd sent in reply to their question.

Sandra wasn't happy.

"Don't you think they deserve to know the truth?" she asked.

I shook my head. I wanted to protect them from the hell that had become my life. They were living one of their dreams, and I didn't want to be responsible for taking that away from them.

Still searching for help, the next day Sandra took me to the North Shore Hospital Mental Health Crisis team. I spent a few hours in a room with two mental health specialists and with Sandra, but the more Sandra disclosed to the Crisis Team the less cooperative I became. I felt like I was in a prison, and under interrogation — the constant questions again! Why wouldn't everyone just leave me alone? I was acting instinctively, trying to control the situation in the only way I could. If only I had realised then, as I realise now, that they were trying to get me to talk because they were only trying to help, and that they were trying to help because they cared.

One solution after another was presented to me, including staying in a hotel under supervision so I could be monitored and kept safe. I refused, as I was concerned I wouldn't be able to explain to my friends why I wasn't staying at home, and that this would inevitably lead to my secret being revealed. I was determined not to let anyone know that I wasn't coping with life. The Crisis Team reluctantly let me go home, on the condition that their support team would call me day and night to see how I was feeling.

Over the next few days, I kept to this routine, with a stranger from the Crisis Team calling me twice daily to monitor my progress. Each time I told them what I thought they wanted to hear.

"Fine," I said.

The truth was that I wasn't coping at all. There was no doubt about that. To try to get through each day, I went to work, where Sandra could keep an eye on me, and then I arranged to see friends at night. I thought this approach would keep me safe. However, within a week of seeing the Crisis Team, and less than five months after starting my counselling sessions with Sally, I found myself sitting in my car once again with the Panadol lying on the seat beside me.

The 25th of May had gone like the other days. I was struggling to stay afloat, so I stuck to my plan of avoiding being alone for fear of what I would do. After work, I went out to one of my favourite restaurants with a close friend, Amy, with whom I had shared some of my thoughts. What would anyone listening in to the dinner conversation have thought? I remember talking about my funeral. I talked about the music I would want played and about the people I assumed would be there. It's amazing how your mind can convince you these thoughts are rational. I was in a parallel reality: the thoughts that came to me naturally and uninvited couldn't have been further from normality.

This pleasant line of conversation was interrupted by my nightly phone call from Cameron from the Crisis Team. I tried to cut him short, telling him I was out with a friend and didn't want to be bothered. He wouldn't let me off the hook quite that easily, and said he would try again later that night.

I wasn't tired after dinner, so to keep busy I went for a swim at the local pool, an activity I had recently taken up. It was such a nice feeling to float in the water. But unable just to enjoy the feeling for what it was, I found myself thinking I'd like to feel that way when I died. It was so peaceful.

Cameron phoned to check in on me again once I got home. We spoke for close to an hour. He kept on asking if I had anything I could harm myself with. I eventually told him about the pills.

I was tired of talking, but he wouldn't let me go until I promised him I wouldn't do anything and that I would answer my mobile the next morning when he called to see how I was. I gave him my word that we would speak the next day.

I still couldn't sleep. I lay in bed watching TV, trying to block out my mind. A Panadol advertisement came on TV, with the catch-line: "Panadol. It's my choice".

That was it. As far as I was concerned, that was the sign I'd been waiting for. It didn't matter what anyone said to me. It was my choice. It was my life to do with as I wanted.

I got dressed, grabbed the pills and my journal, and started to drive. I didn't know where I was going: I just had to get away from home — the house that I shared with my friends, Belinda and Adam — as it didn't seem fair for them to find me when they woke the next morning. I ended up driving to the park where I first shared my suicidal thoughts with Sandra. I don't know how long I was there; time just slipped away. I felt nothing but emptiness. The person I once was had been stripped away throughout this entire ordeal leaving just an empty, aching shell. I had no motivation for anything. I had simply stopped caring. The life I once lived didn't matter anymore. I was tired — so tired of acting and pretending that everything was fine when all I wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs: "Please help me!" I felt as though I was losing my mind. I realised I needed help, but the problem was — of course, I can see it now — that I needed to want to help myself. After all, you can't be rescued unless you reach out your hand. Why didn't I want to do that?

Questions... I believed I now had an answer, and it was final, a permanent solution to all my problems and to the unending, unsufferable heartache — peace at last. I wrote my last entry in my journal, and placed it under my seat. It contained all of my thoughts since the beginning of the year, many of which no one had heard before. I hoped the contents inside would help those closest to me arrive at the same conclusion I had: this wasn't their fault.

I had made a conscious decision a long time beforehand not to confide in my family and friends, much to Sally's frustration. One of her primary objectives was for me to be more open, but my overwhelming feelings of shame and embarrassment made this an uphill battle. What's more, the remnants of my self-reliance convinced me that since I had got myself into this mess, it was up to me to get myself out of it. So I kept everyone in the dark.

My love for my family and friends also meant that I didn't want to worry or burden them with my problems. As I wrote my last words, I thought about them all. My parents were having the time of their life travelling around Europe. My sister was happy with her partner in Australia, and my friends were all at home sleeping. It was better that way, far better that no one was any the wiser of where I was and what I was about to do.

Then I found I was scared of being in the park alone in the middle of the night. I started to drive again, with no destination in mind. For some reason, when I was on the empty motorway, I felt obliged to keep my promise to Sandra. In the last few days, she had always ended our conversations with: "Hold on Claire". Who knows what I wanted her to say. Perhaps I wanted to hear her say those words once again. I called her.

She will likely remember that conversation accurately: I can't. To be honest, the only thing I can clearly remember her saying was: "I can't help you. You need to talk with the professionals at the Crisis Team."

This wasn't the answer I was after, and nor did I think the Crisis Team could help me. After all, I'd been speaking with them twice a day since I first met them and they hadn't managed to come up with any answers yet, either. I hung up, and took the first exit that would take me to the closest water.

****

I have heard many people say that suicide is a cop-out, and one of the most selfish acts a person can perform - an opinion they're entitled to. For me, I honestly believed I was making the right decision. I had struggled for years and, in more recent times, every minute of every day. I had reached the point where I could easily understand why people choose to make this decision. When you have no hope for a better future, you feel you have no options. All I could see in front of me was more darkness, a black hole that would continue to consume my life, and this was not how I wanted to live. I simply didn't see the point. I kept asking myself, "What is my purpose? What am I doing here?" Each time I came up with nothing. In the end, life became too much for me. Sleep, peace, the end of the questions without answers. So one by one, I swallowed the pills, sitting in my car overlooking the water. Then I waited. I had no idea how my body would react to the poison I had poured into it, what I would feel, how long it would take. But at last, everything was easy. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Within half an hour, I received a call on my mobile from the Emergency Dispatch Unit. Sandra called them after our conversation, because for all her tough talk when we spoke, she was desperately anxious about my well-being. The emergency team expressed their concern about my health.

"I'm fine," I said, my standard response when I didn't want to disclose the truth, and added: "I just want to be left alone."

The woman on the other end of the phone was persistent, however, and kept me talking, explaining that as I was at a secluded place, it was best that I chat with her. For some reason, this made perfect sense to me. I thought at least if someone attacked me, she would know where I was. Then they could rescue me.

The car interior suddenly lit up red and blue. Her tactic had distracted me long enough for the police to locate me. Two vehicles turned up and stopped just metres from my car, lights flashing. Two officers wasted no time in getting out and rushing over, their faces and the lettering on their uniforms pale in the darkness. No doubt they were relieved to see me just sitting there with the phone to my ear.

I hung up. One of them motioned to me to wind down my window.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said.

They wanted to take me to hospital, but I couldn't understand why. I was fine. Why would I need to go to hospital? I couldn't see what the big deal was: all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

The policemen gently encouraged me to go with them for a checkup, assuring me I could go home straight afterwards.

On the way, they were asking me what I had taken and why I felt I needed to. Because there could be no consequences for me, I told them about my friend who had sexually assaulted me, and how I thought no one had believed me. I felt enormous relief. Here I was, telling my dark secret to the law enforcement authorities. I even dared to wonder whether justice could now be done. Maybe my attacker would be held accountable for his actions and I could move on with my life.

I reluctantly allowed myself to be escorted into the Emergency Department of Middlemore Hospital where a bed was waiting for me. There was a bewildering sense of urgency about everything. Blood tests were taken, and a woman appeared at my bedside, introducing herself as a psychiatrist who was here to assess my mental health. I thought her questions belittled me, and the reasons for my actions. Fat lot of good this was doing, I thought. I couldn't understand how a person I had never met before, and therefore didn't trust, and who didn't know my history, could make any meaningful "assessment' of my situation after a 10-minute conversation. None of the medical professionals I'd talked to over the last few months had done me any good at all. Otherwise, how would I have found myself in this situation?

The doctors kept asking me how many pills I had taken, as my blood test results were alarming. I told them the truth, but they didn't believe me, as my tests had shown a higher level of paracetamol than they expected. Despite all the little lies I'd been telling in recent times — "I'm fine" — I still prided myself on my honesty. This was the first time in my life I felt my word wasn't good enough. I had lost the trust of everyone around me, and I was going to experience this scepticism on a regular basis in weeks to come.

The doctors confirmed what Sally had told me. Paracetamol overdose leads shortly to acute liver failure, and without a liver transplant, a pretty horrible death within a couple of days. My tests showed I'd taken more than enough. It looked as though this was to be my future.

The doctors left. One of the police officers reappeared. He gave me a card with Victim Support's details on it.

"There are people here to help. When you're ready, give them a call."

I was a little surprised he didn't want to take a full statement about the sexual assault, but of course, he knew that my health needed to be looked after in the first instance. I wouldn't have talked, anyway. Despite my admission on the way to the hospital, and although I had suddenly been seized with the thought that my so-called friend might finally be held to account for what he did, I wasn't ready for the grisly details to find their way into the public domain through the courts. Despite what the doctors had told me, I don't think I really believed that it would all be over for me in a couple of days, and my wishes were going to be irrelevant.

Sandra and Amy arrived, their faces etched with worry. The police had contacted them as I was being transported to hospital. I was so detached from the seriousness of the situation, I didn't consider the emotions of my friends, even though their expressions at my bedside spoke volumes.

Amy sat in stunned silence while I tried to make jokes to lighten the situation. I didn't want them to worry. I felt fine, and I thought by acting "normal", they would come to believe that this was the case. Instead, they reacted to my attempts at humour with open disbelief. Amy and I had been friends since high school and had shared a deep bond ever since that time. She has a wonderful nature and open heart, and I had always felt very comfortable talking with her — qualities I had leaned on heavily throughout my illness. I can only imagine the thoughts that were racing through her mind as she sat there, waiting to find out whether I was expected to live or die. She may have felt she'd let me down and there were almost certainly a few "if onlys" haunting her. After all, she was the last person to see me before I took the pills, and she must have been haunted by my morbid dinner conversation. If I'd known what she was thinking — if I'd stopped to think about it myself — I could have reassured her. There was nothing anyone could have said or done. If I didn't take matters into my own hands that night, there would have been another night: I have no doubt in my mind about that. I was the only one responsible for my thoughts and for my subsequent actions. It's taken me a long time to realise that, and an even longer time to act on the realisation.

Sandra was probably thinking she had failed me, too. She had known of my suicidal thoughts but was probably regretting that she'd chosen to honour the trust I had placed in her. For many months, I had made it clear how important trust was to me, and that if she spoke a word to anyone of what I had disclosed, I would completely shut down and not talk with anybody. Poor Sandra. In effect, I was holding her to ransom. She had respected my wishes because she was afraid of the consequences for me. Now look what had happened.

****

Some might say, with the benefit of hindsight, she should have disregarded my explicit wishes and contacted my parents. We have never spoken of the decisions we both made during my illness. All I know is, I believe in my case Sandra made the correct choice. I very much doubt the events of that night — or some other night — would have been avoided if she'd chosen to speak up. No one, not even my parents — could have deflected me from my chosen course at that stage of my illness. The first step back from the brink was one that I alone had to take.

Poor Sandra. As it happened, as she sat listening to my jokes, she was near breaking point. When I went to the bathroom, she found my mobile in my coat pocket and tried to call my parents. Once I got back to the room, I knew something had happened, as Sandra was out of the room and Amy was avoiding my eye. I pressed her, and Amy finally revealed that Sandra was leaving a message on my parents' mobile asking them to call her.

I was absolutely furious, believing she had broken her promise and completely betrayed my trust. Nor did I spare them these thoughts when Sandra returned to the room. I can remember her interrupting and saying: "Claire, you are in Middlemore Hospital having just taken an overdose. Your parents need to know. I can no longer cope holding onto your secret."

This was an explanation I wasn't initially prepared to accept.

After I'd calmed down — it took a while —I reluctantly agreed to let Sandra call my godparents, Robbie and Pete, who lived in Auckland. They'd always been a big part of my life: we'd spent every summer together at the bach, and when I was at boarding school in Auckland, they'd been my surrogate parents.

I can't imagine what it would have been like to receive these phone calls in the early hours of the morning, to hear a stranger saying I had taken an overdose and was in Middlemore Hospital. They've never told me. I have now lived with the guilt of subjecting my family to this ordeal for years but they never did anything to create this. They all continued to love me unconditionally throughout it all.

I don't know how many hours passed. It was enough time for my godparents to arrive at hospital and for my family all to have booked flights home to New Zealand. In that time, the doctors also returned with their verdict.

"You're very lucky. We don't believe you're going to suffer any ongoing consequences from the overdose. Or not physically, anyway."

I was going to live!

I was so overwhelmed with the news that I didn't try to find out how it was that my toxic levels could go from "alarmingly high" to "no ill effects" within just a few hours, and the doctors didn't share this explanation with me. Why did I live and many others die? Five years later, I had my GP read my medical records out to me, and I learned the answer. Quite simply, they had got to me in time. Without receiving the medical treatment I did when I did, I would have become just one of approximately 500 people in New Zealand who succeed in ending their lives each year.

After delivering the verdict, the doctor talked with me.

"There will sometimes be difficult times in your life, when you feel you can't get through them. But there are so many people around you who can help."

I didn't appreciate his words at the time, but I look back now and I am grateful to him for sharing his thoughts with me.

Robbie and Pete came into my room as soon as I was allowed visitors. I could see such hurt and anguish in their eyes. Wanting to protect them from the heartbreaking thoughts running through their minds, I asked how the trout fishing was at the bach the weekend prior. The hurt and anguish was joined by shock.

My parents received a similar response when we first spoke. During my call with them, I was more interested in hearing about their travels. My blasé approach perhaps created even more concern, as it proved to everyone how distorted my perception of reality had become. The seriousness of it all hadn't registered with me, probably due to the fact I didn't care about my well-being. All I wanted now was to try to stop the hurt I had caused, and I thought by discussing everyday life I'd be able to do that.

Now that it seemed I was going to be okay, everyone left, promising to return later in the morning after I'd had some sleep. I drifted off, with an infusion of some sort trickling from an IV drip into my veins to cushion my system against chemical-driven liver failure. Finally, I had some peace, but it didn't last long.

I woke suddenly, alone, vomiting violently, the spasms all but tearing my body to pieces. I was confused and disorientated. I thought I'd actually lost my mind. I called out for the nurses to "help me", but apart from giving me something to control the allergic reaction there was nothing they could do. The Panadol was making its impact felt, and this was the only way it could be purged from my system. I was so, so sick. I'd never felt that way before, and I hope I never will again. I had officially hit rock bottom.

****

Later that morning, once I'd stabilised, the ambulance transferred me to North Shore Hospital so I could be treated within my local district. I can remember my stretcher being wheeled into the emergency area where there were nurses waiting.

"This is the overdose patient," the ambulance paramedic said.

It was a shock to hear myself described in these terms. I looked to see what the reaction of the nurses was. I'll never forget their expression. Their eyes were filled with pity. I was to experience similar looks in the coming weeks. While everyone was careful what they said to me, their eyes often gave away what they were feeling. You could see the question there: "What could be so horrific that she thought the only answer was to take her life?" Words couldn't have given them a satisfactory answer. You have to have been there to know.

My mobile rang continuously as news spread amongst my friends of my actions the night before, and as the hours passed, my visitor numbers grew. Strangely, there was one face I missed. Jeremy was one of my best friends, but he didn't visit, and it was years before we found we were able to talk about it.

"I found out when I was at work," he told me. "I phoned you, but you refused to let me come and see you."

I have no recollection of this, and it breaks my heart to now know that I had denied one of my closest friends the opportunity to be with me. Jeremy badly wanted to see me, but although it hurt him, he respected my wishes, or at least, what I thought were my wishes. From a few years' distance, this whole episode tells me so much about what was going on. My thoughts were completely irrational. And whereas I thought there was no one who could help me, Jeremy was just one of those who was prepared to do anything I asked, if it would make things better. If only I had let them in earlier.

Within a few hours of my arrival at North Shore, I had managed to convince my mental health nurse that I didn't need the suicide watch person sitting outside my door. She looked at me thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then nodded. She was the first person that trusted my word after the overdose, and I was grateful to her. The elderly lady in the room next to me wasn't doing so well. She was yelling: "You should have left me to die." I felt huge relief I didn't feel that way. Instead I felt overwhelming gratitude for being given a second chance to live. I wanted to be true to myself: I just had to find a way to discover who that person was.

I spent the remainder of the day talking with Robbie, Sandra and my friends who had joined me at the hospital. I spoke openly about everything that had happened, and answered any questions that were asked. In the days to follow, I would even say to people: "What would you like to know?" I felt the least I could do now was to be honest. No more secrets.

I was grateful to spend another night in hospital, as I didn't want to face the real world, not just yet, anyway. There were also a lot of logistics that needed to be arranged, primarily who was going to look after me and what my recovery treatment plan was going to be.

In hospital that night, I reflected on my first day of being alive. Within 24 hours, the secret I had tried to hide for so long was now out in the open. While I had shared the sexual assault with some people I trusted, I had done everything in my power to hide the fact I wasn't coping, as I believed this was a sign of weakness and that I was a failure. Now everything was clear. The sexual assault had had a significant impact on me and despite my months of protestations, I was obviously not okay. It was now easy for everyone to see that. With all this out in the open, a huge burden had been lifted from me. I felt relieved I didn't have to pretend anymore.

Now that I'd emerged from the other end of the tunnel, I realised people had offered to help me on countless occasions, and that many people genuinely cared about me. The fact I couldn't see this was proof that I was profoundly mentally ill. I was one of the fortunate few who is able to self-destruct and live another day to find the clarity. Tragically, there are many, many others who don't.

The biggest realisation I had was that I had tried dealing with things my way and it hadn't worked. Perhaps it was time I started listening to the advice of others. It seems simple enough, but it wasn't simple for me: I needed to be hit by a truck to be able to move forward.

That night, I asked the duty nurse for something to ease the dreadful headache I'd had all day. "I'll get you some Panadol," she said, then stopped short.

She looked stricken, but I laughed. I was so grateful to her for treating me normally.

She went off and found an alternative medication; and at the same time I vowed I would never take Panadol again.

****

I had to meet the North Shore Hospital Mental Health Crisis team before I could be released from hospital. The lovely nurse who had cared for me the day prior also attended this appointment. She talked of the anguish Cameron felt, having talked with me the night of the overdose. He had told his colleagues: "But she promised she wouldn't take the pills."

I was humbled. All I could say was: "Please let Cameron know it wasn't his fault."

I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), a psychological reaction to experiencing a significant traumatic event. I felt huge relief - someone finally knew what was wrong with me. I had a label, one I could live with, as it meant I wasn't just plain crazy, after all. At this meeting, I also agreed to the treatment plan recommended by the hospital: I would start taking antidepressants, and would continue with my counselling. These were huge steps for me. I felt at last — I believed — I was now on the road to recovery.

I left the protective bubble of the hospital to stay with my godparents, as my parents were still making their way back from the other side of the world. Robbie and Pete were wonderful. They made me feel as welcome as they have always done. They didn't judge me or make me feel uncomfortable in any way. They just treated me as me. I continued to talk openly, which I think may have given them some peace of mind. To be honest, though, I still have no idea what they were going through - it's not something they have shared with me. But I can imagine it was a very difficult time for them, being responsible for someone who had just tried to end their life.

I was extremely nervous meeting my parents when they arrived back in New Zealand, as I felt I'd let them down badly. I was deeply ashamed of and embarrassed about my actions. I didn't know what to say. But as soon as they walked through the gates at Auckland Airport, none of the past mattered. As soon as our eyes met, we rushed towards each other in the arrivals area. I felt instant security as each of them wrapped their arms around me and said: "I love you."

That was all that needed to be said.

# Chapter 2

### Early Days

The tendency when someone goes off the rails in their adult life is often to look for answers in their childhood. There's no point in my case. My childhood couldn't have been in starker contrast to the dismal place I later found myself. The innocence of my childhood was a wonderful period of my life, and one I took for granted, as most of us do. I feel very privileged to be able to say that my sister Emily, two years my elder, and I were brought up in an extremely loving and supportive family, and nothing about that has ever changed.

I admire Mum and Dad for the wonderful family environment they provided for us, particularly given how difficult it must have been to create stability, given Dad's job as a banker meant we were uprooted every three on average. In the first five years of my life, we had shifted from Waihi to Auckland, then on to New Plymouth. I thought the regular moving to a new place and settling into different surroundings was normal, simply because I didn't know any other way.

Amongst everyone in the family, I managed the transition to each new community the most easily. To fit in, I would just change my personality and values to suit my latest environment. My sister and parents, however, were more consistent: they knew who they were, and kept right on being the people they were. This may have created added friction in their life. It wasn't until I was an adult that I understood and admired their self-belief; it wasn't until I'd realised I could also have this quality, too, if I wanted to.

****

My transient upbringing helped me become adaptable while at the same time unconsciously teaching me to run away from my troubles. I can remember always thinking "Oh well. I'll be leaving soon anyway," whenever I came across a situation I didn't know how to handle. My resolution for my worries was a new home, and Dad's role conveniently delivered this on a regular basis.

As we shifted so often, our family sanctuary became the bach at Lake Taupo. We rented in the area for many years with my godparents until I turned 10, when both families decided to invest in their own holiday home on the same subdivided section.

We spent each available weekend at the Lake and I would spend every summer there, too. I loved my time there: it was the ultimate playground for Emily and me. Our days would start with an early morning waterski to make the most of the best water conditions. It was here I learned to double ski, then single ski, before moving onto kneeboarding, which remains my preference. But there was plenty of other stuff to do, too — swimming, kayaking, fishing, bike riding and tennis were all on offer while we were at the bach. These holidays were the best days of my life, and I hope one day I can provide the same opportunities for my own family.

Emily was my best playmate throughout my childhood, as we both had a love for the same sports, cricket in summer and soccer in winter. As soon as we got home from school we'd play in the backyard, only coming inside when it was too dark to continue or it was time for dinner. We spent countless hours playing games together, and our rivalry honed my competitive instincts.

Growing up, sport was an important part of my life. I was a natural athlete and my athletic ability was another means I used to fit into a new area. I quickly learned that if I was good at something, being accepted was a lot easier. My involvement in team sports was the primary entry for me into a new community; my new teammates became my instant friendship network.

Winning was the driving factor for me. I always had to be the best at whatever sport I played. In my eyes, second best was failure and was just not good enough. As far as I was concerned, you played to win and I couldn't understand why you would want to participate for any other reason. This black and white attitude got me into a lot of trouble, as I became highly competitive and also a very sore loser.

Dad would take the time every weekend during summer to play a game of tennis with Emily and me at the local courts. One Sunday, the game wasn't going my way: I was losing and I hated it. Unable to control my frustration, I threw my tennis racket at the concrete court, burst into tears and stormed off, much to the disgust of the rest of my family. This was just one incident of many and unfortunately, my poor sportsmanship wasn't confined to family games.

Another episode, which happened when I was eight years old, remains clear in my mind. My class was playing a game where we were divided into two teams, one standing on either side of a marked rectangular playing field throwing a tennis ball to and fro, and with the opposing players trying to make their way from one end of the area to the other without being hit by the ball. My side was losing, because they just couldn't consistently catch and throw. This was a pathetically simple skill in my eyes, so I presumed everyone just wasn't trying hard enough. I was furious with everyone, and I criticised my teammates mercilessly, thinking that if I gave them a hard enough time their performance would improve.

My sporting behaviour — or lack thereof — resulted in the school principal having a talk with me later on that day. I'd only ever had praise from Mr Fitzgerald, as I was a model student. This conversation was quite different. The exact words aren't clear in my mind but the message certainly is: in a team sport, you pull your head in and support your teammates, regardless of whether they had the same level of ability as you. This was an important moment in my personal development. I was so shocked to have been on the receiving end of a lecture that I was terrified of being sent to the principal's office again, and of my parents finding out I had been spoken to. From then on, I did what Mr Fitzgerald had suggested.

Another influential person in my sporting development was Mr Jones, one of my soccer coaches. His motto that he bestowed on us was: "A champion team will beat a team of champions." This newfound knowledge helped me manage my competitive nature, and to shift my focus onto the fortunes of the team rather than just myself. In time, my own leadership skills developed, resulting in a number of captaincies for both school and provincial representative sides.

My success in sport gave me a lot of confidence. I was — and still am, to some extent — a shy person, but when I was active, this wasn't apparent. I believe my involvement in sport laid a solid foundation for many life skills, including commitment, teamwork, determination, patience, respect, trust and, most importantly, self-belief. I didn't ever need any motivation to be active, as physical exercise simply fed my soul.

****

I often dreamed of representing New Zealand when I was young. In the privacy of my bedroom, I would even practice singing the national anthem, with my hand over my heart just like the athletes I saw on TV.

I initially thought athletics would be my ticket to achieve this goal, as for many years I would just run and win; I thought that's all there was to it. If only it had been that easy as I got older! As I got larger, I became slower and with that came the realisation that my body simply wasn't made for the track.

Of all the sports that featured throughout my childhood, it was playing cricket that was my greatest gift, a skill I initially completely took for granted. Both my parents worked full time jobs, except for the first few years of my life when Mum stayed at home. This meant I had countless hours playing backyard cricket with my sister and the boys at school before I received any formal coaching, which allowed my natural ability to flourish.

Many people don't understand how others can enjoy playing cricket: a game can last all day — sometimes several days — and can sometimes end without a result. For me, cricket provided the best of both worlds: a team sport with an individual element, and a mental challenge. The greater control you had over your mind, the more confidence you had, and the better you performed on the field. I loved it!

My cricket achievements were formally recognised on a number of occasions during high school, the most memorable of these was winning the ASB Sportswoman of the Year Award in my final year, when I was 18. The top four males and females for each sport attended, with the best person winning their category. This prize recognised me as the top female cricketer amongst the Auckland High Schools.

I was in the toilet following the awards ceremony when I overheard another parent from my school congratulate my mum on her achievement. Mum instantly said: "Oh, it's not us that did it. It's Claire". This comment has always stuck with me, because even then, I knew it wasn't really true. My family's love and support was the most influential factor in my success.

From a young age, my parents insisted that if we could not commit 100% to a team then we weren't allowed to play. This meant we had to attend every practice and game. The ignorance that comes with being young didn't allow me to acknowledge that this also meant my parents had to make a significant sacrifice of their own so we could pursue our love of sport. They never begrudged us a bit of the dedication it took to help Emily and me develop. Instead, they chose to live by some wise words that my grandfather shared with them when we were born: "If your children express an interest in a particular sport, encourage them, but never force."

I have very fond memories of looking to the sideline for encouragement and always seeing my parents actively watching the game and yelling support, no matter how well we were doing, even when we were losing.

Other honours followed the ASB Award, including nominations for the title of Auckland Young Cricketer of the Year and the National Sportfit Award for the best secondary school female cricketer in New Zealand. While I loved the recognition and the confidence it gave me that I would one day play for New Zealand, I enjoyed even more the pride my family so obviously felt. It seemed like just reward for their dedication. No matter how flattering all the accolades were for me personally, I knew I couldn't have done it without my family!

****

My nomadic lifestyle continued throughout my teenage years. When I was 13, I attended boarding school at St Cuthbert's College in Auckland. My parents let me decide whether I went to boarding school. For me, it was a logical step, as my mum had attended the school and my sister was already there. Being the older sister, she had the hard task of blazing the trail; I just followed in her footsteps, making the transition that much easier for me. I also had an instant support network, with my godparents, Robbie and Pete, living in Auckland and slipping easily into the role of my surrogate parents.

Attending a single-sex private school with 150 other boarders was challenging. I could no longer run and hide when I had a problem, made worse by the fact that I was sometimes living with the troublemakers.

I can remember being in the Common Room one night with the rest of the house, when a couple of girls came into the room each holding a pin in their hand. They announced to the entire room that they wanted to prick my head to burst my bubble. Everyone was laughing, which naturally made me think they all agreed with the comment. I simply smiled, not knowing what else to do. Once the attention was drawn back to what was on TV, I left the room and locked myself in the toilet, bawling my eyes out.

At the time, I felt I deserved this attack, that perhaps I vocalised my confidence in my sporting talent too much. In hindsight, age and experience tells me it's more likely these bullies felt insecure about their own ability, resulting in their need to publicly humiliate me. And of course, I wasn't their only target: plenty of my peers received similar treatment during our time in the hostel.

The experience made me withdraw into my protective shell, not easily trusting those I lived with. This was a new phenomenon for me, as I had always been brought up in a very loving and trusting environment.

****

There was no privacy. The matrons regularly ransacked our cubicles, looking for 'banned substances', the most scandalising of these being cigarettes. As with many teenagers at the time, I thought I was cool if I smoked. It was an activity a number of the boarders took great pleasure in. We would sign out of the Leave Book saying we were going for a run, which we did — as far as One Tree Hill, where we could hide to have a fag before returning to school.

The smell left on our clothes must have been obvious, but we thought the matrons didn't notice. We began to push the boundaries further, smoking in the boarding house toilets with the extractor fan going, thinking the evidence would just disappear.

After several months of these random escapades I had heard the rumour of a planned hostel raid where all of our belongings were going to be searched. I gave my cigarettes away to a girl a year younger than me, thinking as I was no longer in possession I would be safe, but it turns out she got sprung and told the principal they were mine. Fortunately, the headmistress couldn't find me, as I was ill in sickbay all day, and that night I went home to Hamilton (where my parents were then living) for the rest of the week to recover. I was never called on to explain the situation and so fortunately this indiscretion didn't stop me from becoming a Hostel Prefect in my second-to last-year. The biggest advantage of this role was having my own room with a door on it. I was 16 years old, and finally I had my own space!

For all the many challenges of the boarding experience, I am privileged to have received a first-rate education from a truly amazing school. The atmosphere fostered in each student the complete belief that we could achieve whatever we set our minds to, and I accepted that self-confidence without a second thought.

I had entered high school as a shy, dependent girl and now I left as an independent young adult. I felt I knew it all and that I had my life sorted. I was ready to take on the world. I could do anything — I just knew I could.

# Chapter 3

### A Different World

I was like any other 18-year-old, with the entire world before me. I had lived a privileged life with a loving family, lots of friends, and had tasted success in both academic and sporting arenas. I had become accustomed to achieving whatever I set my mind to, blessed as I was with focus and commitment a natural part of my makeup. My university years were a time in my life that tested this complacency.

Deciding on your career when you leave school is difficult. You have a dim perception of the real world, but you're yet to truly experience it. I had always wanted to be a Physical Education teacher, but soon realised after coaching cricket that I only wanted to teach people who wanted to learn.

In the end, I decided on a Bachelor of Business Studies degree with a major in Marketing, which I would study for at Massey University's campus at Albany, just north of Auckland. The primary reason for staying in Auckland was to pursue my cricketing dreams, of playing for Auckland and, in due course, New Zealand.

I managed to secure a place in the halls of residence, which comprised five self-contained Lockwood houses, with five bedrooms in each. It was like flatting with four others. My flat quickly became the party house, and I did what I'd always done and changed my personality like a chameleon to suit my surroundings. To be accepted in party central, you had to drink. University was just one drunken escapade after another, starting in my first Orientation Week and not letting up until I left the whole scene behind me, three years later.

I felt I was the odd one out in this environment, after it became public knowledge pretty early on that I was a private school girl. It's interesting that people form an instant opinion of you based on whether your education was private or public. I honestly believe it's home that makes the person, not the school. Unfortunately, my peers didn't share this belief. In fact, my privileged education was all thanks to my grandfather's foresight in setting up a family trust to provide the financial assistance required to send Emily and me to boarding school. Even so, my parents sacrificed a lot to cover the additional expenses that arose on top of the tuition fees, but none of this mattered to my peers: I was still seen as a 'rich kid'.

****

It was during Orientation Week that I met my first true love, Scott, who was also in the student accommodation. He was a typical university boy, with the added complication that he was well liked by the girls and thought nothing of sharing his affections around. Scott was nicknamed "Mongrel" as a result of his behaviour, and I wish I had paid more attention to this detail. I thought he was wonderful, and ignored all of his indiscretions.

One night, we had plans to go to my godparents' for dinner. They were excited, as they hadn't met any of my previous boyfriends (primarily because the relationships were always so brief!). When it came time to leave the flat, I couldn't find Scott anywhere. I went to dinner alone, feeling hugely embarrassed, and made up a story so that Robbie and Pete didn't think there was a problem.

Scott came home drunk in the early hours of the morning wearing a dress, and climbed into my bed. I kicked him out and tried to make him go to his own flat, but he was too drunk, so he slept on the chair in my room. The next day, he told me that he'd forgotten we had dinner plans, and had had a night out with the boys at the local bar. I accepted his excuse, out of fear of being rejected if I told him the truth about how I felt. I was the rich girl, after all: I was already struggling to fit in, and I thought being with one of the popular guys was my ticket to being accepted.

As the months passed, and this kind of heedless carry-on continued, I became ever more needy and clingy, not knowing how else to handle the situation. I blamed myself for Scott's behaviour, thinking I was somehow inadequate. I started to hate myself and who I was. I also thought that if I were constantly with him, he wouldn't cheat on me, an approach that ultimately (and inevitably) led to us breaking up.

Unfortunately, I didn't see the impact his behaviour was having on me until it was too late. During the time we were together, I'd completely lost trust in him, and in my peers who helped him cover up his antics. The break-up hit me hard, and it didn't help that he wasn't so badly affected: he was in bed with another girl within a couple of days of our relationship ending.

I further questioned my values and beliefs. It appeared the environment I had been brought up in was not the norm, with lying, cheating and disrespect for others perfectly commonplace at university. I didn't realise at the time, but the conflicting values were deeply affecting how I viewed the world. I also struggled after this experience to trust anyone, especially males, a very strange situation to find myself in. When I was young, all my friends were boys.

****

Around the same time, I also learned my grandmother had beaten my mother as a child. I'd been smacked when I was young, and I think it did me good, but there's a big difference between a smack and a beating. I was furious that my mum had been subjected to physical abuse, and at my family for keeping it a secret from me for so many years. To try to help me understand, Mum spoke openly with me when I returned home to Hamilton one weekend.

She sat on the side of my bed, with her hand on my leg, gently comforting me while trying to explain the situation. Having lived with the facts for many years, Mum had accepted the past. Not me. I couldn't begin to comprehend how my grandmother — a woman I had loved — could repeatedly dish out such horrible acts of violence.

I now had the details, but I still refused to believe my grandmother should be allowed to get away with her behaviour. I hated her for her actions, all the more so for not being held accountable. I wanted to confront her with what she had done, but instead I took the easier route: I internalised my emotions and tried to block the incident from my mind. My grandmother died a few years later when I was living in London, with never a harsh word having passed between us. I didn't return home for her funeral for several reasons, but primarily because in my eyes, she died as my grandmother the day I found out she'd abused my mother.

What was I supposed to do with all this awful stuff — Scott's cheating, the complicity of my friends, these revelations about my grandmother — and all the strong feelings it provoked within me?

I had always thought terrible things only happened to bad people, a belief that clearly wasn't reality. The realisation I didn't have a perfect family after all came at a bad time, and I grew further disillusioned with the world. My life wasn't what I thought it was, and I felt I was living a lie. I'd been brought up with solid values, an important part of who I was. Ironically, my grandmother was the one who had insisted on correct etiquette — she'd invested considerable time in doing so — particularly in front of others. It angered me, and angers me still, that all this energy was spent on keeping up appearances, when behind closed doors she was an ogre.

I couldn't control what was happening around me. I couldn't change what had happened to my mother. I couldn't protect myself from being hurt by Scott. So like so many people, particularly young women feeling unhappy and powerless, I started trying to control my food. Living in a flat made it easy for me to disguise my eating behaviour. I would eat whenever I thought those around me would become suspicious; otherwise I wouldn't eat anything. It was during this time I also developed gastric reflux, where the valve at the top of my stomach wasn't working properly, causing pain in my oesophagus whenever I ate. I lost a significant amount of weight, but the gastric problem gave me the perfect camouflage for the underlying and real problem, keeping it hidden from those closest to me.

Of course, it didn't take long for the eating to start to control me. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw a fat person looking right back at me. I hated myself for the way I looked — even though I was the slimmest I had ever been. I didn't know what was wrong with me: only that I didn't want to eat and that I constantly felt sad. I was scared. I'd never felt this way before. Not being able to share my thoughts, for fear of the implications — what would people think of me? — I started to write. Putting pen to paper provided the outlet I needed for the thoughts that were crowding, unwanted, into my mind.

After several months, I eventually confided in Amy, one of my closest friends from high school. She was very understanding, and after a few months of listening she talked me into seeing a counsellor.

The counselling sessions didn't last long, just a few weeks. We were on different wavelengths and I didn't feel I could open up to her and tell the truth. I wanted people to understand what I was going through but I couldn't communicate the truth. So the vicious cycle continued.

****

Once again, I relied on my sport to escape the university environment. I played cricket for my club and for Auckland, which occupied most of my week. Off the field, however, I continued to be the party girl and drank a lot. Every Saturday night after our club game, I would be one of the first to get stuck into the alcohol, even when I was due to turn out for Auckland the next day.

I didn't see what I was doing to myself. I thought it was everyone else's fault I didn't get selected for the top Auckland team, or as captain for the age group sides, when I was one of the top performers on the field. I can remember talking with my club captain, who was also an Auckland selector, and asking why I wasn't making the top team. She suggested I reduced the amount I drank. I thought she was just being funny and so I didn't take her comments on board. If I had, I might have achieved my goal of playing for New Zealand. As I now know, a lot more goes into being a successful sportsperson than just the results.

I had reached a point in my life where I would pretend everything was okay but deep down inside I knew it wasn't. My self-esteem was at an all-time low. The person who had wanted to take on the world now just wanted it to stop so she could get off. Instead of talking with my family and friends, I blocked everyone out and put up a façade, a coping mechanism that was about to control my life especially, had I only known it, as my situation was about to get so much worse.

# Chapter 4

### Friend or Foe?

I heard myself saying "no". He was all over me and just wouldn't stop. I kept saying "no!" Why wouldn't he stop? Why wasn't he listening to me? I'd always been taught that no means no. The word with one meaning kept coming out of my mouth: "No, No, No, No...!"

This moment would change my life forever.

****

The night of the university ball in my final year at university started like any other in those days: with lots of alcohol. I had decided to go to the ball with a group of friends, having recently broken up with my latest boyfriend, Cliff. The night wasn't going well. I'd just seen Cliff with his new girlfriend and was feeling the pangs of jealousy, so when my friend and flatmate from my first year — let's call him "Bob" — went to kiss me while we were on the dance floor, right in front of my ex, I took the opportunity to show that I could move on as well. As far as I was concerned, though, it was just a random kiss.

Once the ball was over, a group of us headed back to an Albany bar to get some more drinking done within range of an easy stagger home. I had work the next day, however, so I decided to head back to my flat shortly after we arrived.

Being a poor student — or at least, one who spent all her money on alcohol — I considered walking home, but thought better of it. Surely that would be asking for trouble, I thought. Rape, murder — all the stuff the media leads you to believe can happen to a single girl out and about and all alone at night. I was pleased when Bob offered to walk me home. It was only a few kilometres away and we lived 200m from each other so it seemed the perfect solution.

After stopping at the local service station for a pie, we flagged down a taxi. Suddenly the thought of walking any further wasn't very appealing. I can remember the ride very clearly. Bob was kissing me, something I wasn't comfortable with at all, but as we were nearly home and I didn't want to make a scene in front of the taxi driver, I thought it would be easier to go along with it.

We stopped at his place, and the idea was that he would walk me home from there. I still don't know to this day what happened, and how I got into the situation I did. One moment we were in his driveway: the next thing I knew, we were in his bedroom. He was kissing me. I didn't want to be doing it; it just didn't feel right. I wanted him to stop touching me, but he didn't.

I have heard other people talk about "out-of-body experiences", and I can totally relate. I was looking down on myself where I lay with a strong, six-foot-something man lying on top of me. I was saying "no" but nothing was stopping him. I didn't feel anything at first: I was totally detached from the situation. In time — I'm not sure whether it was seconds or minutes — I snapped back to reality.

I have no recollection of how I fought Bob off. I remember looking down and seeing blood, and then running out the door. In fact, it's only as I write these words that I realise what this may mean. Had I stopped him in time, as for a long while afterward, I thought I had?

Once home, I had a shower, as I felt filthy. I stood under the warm sting of the water until it ran out, wanting to scrub the evidence and the memories away. But I couldn't get clean. I felt completely numb. What had just happened?

****

The next day, I pretended it was simply life as usual and went to work as planned. During the day Mark, one of my good friends from university, called to tease me for "hooking up" with one of our mates. I told him "it wasn't like that", a response that made him come straight down to see me. I'm not sure he reacted this way because something about the events of the night before had made him uneasy, or because he could tell from the tone of my voice that I needed his help. Either way, he dropped everything to be with me.

When he arrived, I tried to downplay the situation. I kept telling him "I'd be fine" to try to put his mind at ease. The truth was, I still couldn't fully grasp what had happened, and I simply didn't know what to say or feel. We didn't directly discuss the events of that night until a few years later. Like the vast majority of victims of sexual assault, I just tried to block the episode from my mind and get on with my life. Part of this strategy was to start seeing Chris, a friend of Amy's whom I had met a few weeks before the fateful night of the Massey University ball.

Initially, my plan to forget seemed to work well, but it all came unstuck when we decided to head down to the bach for a weekend skiing with some of our friends. The first night we drank until the early hours of the morning, going to bed when the birds started to rise. In the privacy of our room, the growing intimacy between Chris and me became more intense. His touch caused me to start to cry, and he instantly stopped. Fleeting images of the events the night of the ball had flashed before my mind's eye: I couldn't find the words to explain to him why I was so upset. In the end, I just told him that a friend of mine hadn't stopped when I wanted him to, and left it at that.

Chris was both sympathetic, and furious: he couldn't understand how someone could violate another person. He left the room to have some space, returning a while later. We briefly talked of what had just happened between us.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, and said it again this time to try to convince myself. In reality, though, these were empty words with no truth behind them. I just didn't want the past to affect me or this new relationship, so I did everything I could to block it out. Again, for a while, this approach worked well.

Chris and I continued to see each other for a while after we got back to Auckland, but we both knew or sensed that there was major issue between us, and one I wasn't prepared to talk about. The relationship didn't last much longer. I wasn't bitter, but the outcome made me even more determined not to tell anyone else. I didn't want to admit what had happened to myself, let alone to anyone else, for fear of what they might think of me. Instead, I focused on blocking that night out. Like most victims of this kind of assault, however, I soon found myself consumed by it whether I was prepared to face up to it or not.

A steady procession of emotions chased one another through my thoughts. The fact I was suffering made me angry at the person who had inflicted the injury, but because I was the only one who could see Bob held accountable for his actions — and I couldn't bear the thought of telling anyone about the incident, let alone act on it — I had nothing and no one to turn my anger upon but myself. And I was an easy target for those sneering inner voices. It's often all too easy for people to blame the victim of sexual assault. Believe me, it's even easier for victims to blame themselves. I brought this on myself, I told myself. After all, the only reason I was kissing him was to make my ex-boyfriend jealous. How stupid could I get? And by kissing him, I led him on, didn't I? Stupid, stupid!

And it got far worse. Nikki, another close university friend of mine had told me she had to punch Bob in the face to break his grasp, only a week before the ball. Of all the people I had to kiss! I'd been forewarned, but I'd put myself in the same situation. It was plain as day to me that the assault was simply punishment for all that stupidity. It was all my fault: if nothing else, because I'd failed to see it coming.

I spent the better part of five and a half years believing this to be true. It wasn't until I had entered specialised sexual abuse counselling with Sally and we spoke at length about this very topic that I was persuaded to believe there was an alternative perspective, that perhaps I wasn't the villain in the piece, after all.

"Have you kissed a friend before?" Sally asked."

Yes," I said.

"Have you got a taxi home with a friend?"

"Of course I have," I nodded.

"Then how could you see this coming?"

"You wanted to go home once the taxi dropped you off," my negative thoughts retorted. "So why did you go to his place, if you weren't leading him on?"

Sally helped me to get it straight in my mind. The bottom line is that everyone has the right to say "No" at any point in an encounter and no matter what has gone before, that word must be given the respect it deserves. It doesn't matter whether you're walking down the street and are set upon by a stranger, or if you're kissing a friend. I've been there with the internal dialogue trying to convince you otherwise. But the key is not to let these thoughts fool you. It is your body and the decision is yours and yours alone as to who touches it and in what way. If another person chooses to violate this, you are not to blame. No means no. That's all there is to it.

****

I knew I was taking the easy option in not taking the sexual assault to the authorities, and this also played havoc with my mind. If I let Bob get away with it, what was to stop him trying the same thing with other women? It was probably this thought that prompted me to call Bob a couple of day after the ball. I wanted answers, and I wanted him to take responsibility for his actions. I told him that if he weren't a friend, I would have gone to the police.

"I was drunk," he mumbled. "I didn't know what I was doing."

This response dumbfounded me, and after I'd hung up, it reverberated over and over in my mind. I was repeatedly saying "no", trying to push him off me, struggling to prevent him from removing my clothes and touching me, but he didn't stop. How drunk do you have to be to be incapable of interpreting these messages? At what point does the word "no" cease to have its meaning?

Bewilderment turned to anger, and I briefly considered going to the police after all. But the thought didn't last long. What was I going to say? There were countless witnesses who could say they saw us kissing at the ball, and leaving the bar together. There were none to the events that followed. Any physical evidence of the force he used was gone. Without that kind of evidence to corroborate my story, it was my word against his, and I knew enough about what can happen to people in the justice system in this kind of situation. While I'd never had any reason to take a particular interest in the subject (it could never happen to me, could it?), I was aware of high-profile cases brought before the courts with black-and-white evidence presented where the victim somehow gets portrayed in the media as a sexual deviant, and it's somehow their credibility that's put on trial. I used to idly wonder, and the question has far greater significance for me now, why that should be so. So the victim has a sexual past. Exactly how many sexual partners do you need to have had before the word "no" ceased to have its conventional meaning? I decided I had no place to turn, and that the only course open to me was to stay silent. I wasn't alone: over 3,500 sexual offences are reported to the Police in New Zealand every year. I emphasise reported as thousands more victims don't report this horrific crime. Of those who do, most do so some time — often a long time — after the event. You've got to wonder why the majority of victims would choose not to hold their attacker accountable. Does it have more to do with the feeling that they can't get justice?

****

I struggled alone for years keeping the promise to myself that I wouldn't tell anyone, believing that if I didn't talk of the incident, it could be forgotten, put behind me. The fact that I was suffering just gave me another excuse to beat myself up. Harden up, I kept telling myself. There are plenty of people who have experienced worse, and they cope. Of course, what I didn't consider was that people only show you what they want you to see. I've since come across a number of people who have experienced great turmoil in their lives, yet to someone on the outside looking in, their life was quite different. My flatmate throughout university, Jane, was an example of this.

She was popular, intelligent, athletic, and had lots of friends with a very supportive family. I envied her: she had everything I had lost. Well, it turns out she was living with her own demons, as she was struggling with an eating disorder. This resulted in a heart attack in her early 20s, ending her short life: another young life lost through keeping silent.

The trouble is, when you keep your personal issues under wraps, you feel as though you're in control. But as I now know, and as Jane's tragic case illustrates, this is an illusion. All the while, the sexual assault and the subsequent thoughts and emotions that I was suppressing were controlling me.

I didn't ever consciously think through what might happen if I didn't get help — or even what might happen if I did. Perhaps if I'd relied on the support of others as soon as I realised I needed it, instead of ignoring the problem, my life wouldn't have spiralled out of control. That's so easy to say, looking back, and so hard to do when you're walking resolutely off the track and into the darkness.

# Chapter 5

### Spreading My Wings

As my time at university drew to a close, I reverted to my childhood mentality: a change of context, I figured, and I could leave the whole mess behind me. I would run away, and travel the world. If only I'd known that no matter how far or fast I ran, I could never escape; I could only delay the day of reckoning.

Jeremy, a friend from the student accommodation at university, came to visit me at work one day. Somehow the subject of travel came up, and he mentioned Camp America. I'd heard of it, too: we both gathered they provided the opportunity for foreigners to work in the States and earn US dollars, which was a major draw-card, as it would provide a springboard to the rest of the world.

"We should apply together," he joked.

"Well, why not?" I said.

We stared at each other. It was a good question.

We visited an expo and both landed jobs as water-ski instructors at the same camp in Pennsylvania, a shade over two hours' drive from New York City. It looked like the escape route I'd been seeking. Now all I had to do was earn the money to fund the experience. It was only five months away.

It is amazing what you can accomplish when you have a specific target. Not achieving my goal of travelling the world was never an option for me. To make my dream become a reality, I simply made sacrifices. Meaningless spending was cut, along with having days off work. I worked three jobs, and to maintain motivation I would keep track of how much closer I was to securing my savings target with every paycheck I received.

For the first time in a long time, cricket wasn't my main priority. I had hurt my back diving for a ball very early in the season and had missed Auckland selection because of it. To recover from the injury, I was advised to rest. Advice I didn't question, as it increased the number of hours I could work.

*****

Within five months, I had reached my target as planned, and I set about obtaining my UK Working Holiday Visa. I stuffed all of my belongings into a backpack and set off to explore the world. What followed was a two-and-a-half-year adventure.

It was my first time out of the country, with the exception of a few brief family holidays, and it would have been pretty over-awing had Jeremy not been there to share the shock. He probably felt the same as I did — excited, scared, homesick, exhilarated — and we helped each other settle into the camp. Teaching water-skiing every day for two months of the American summer was a highlight of my time overseas. Many of those I was teaching had never been water-skiing before: I'd been on skis from a young age, and I took it completely for granted. But I could remember how big a goal it seemed for me to get up on top of the water, and what a blast it was when it happened, especially with your peers looking on. Jeremy and I ensured everyone who came under our tuition enjoyed this thrill. It was just as gratifying for me: teaching a child a new skill is a fantastic experience, and I'll always treasure the smiles that broke out on campers' faces when they mastered it.

Following our tour of duty at Camp America, Jeremy and I travelled extensively around the east coast of America and Canada for two months before heading to the UK. We had just a couple of days in London to shake the jetlag before we took off again, this time for just over a week in Europe centred around the Oktoberfest in Munich.

We returned to London after this side trip desperate to get jobs, with just a couple of hundred pounds to our name and no place to live. Within a couple of days, we had scored a live-in pub job together. The pay was poor — about £3.60 an hour — but we had a place to stay, and discounted food was available from the kitchen.

The job was a means to an end, but I was adamant I didn't want to spend the rest of my time in London working in a pub. For the next couple of months, we did nothing but work, eat, drink and sleep. We never got to see anything of the city, let alone the rest of England. We worked in the evenings, and other friends who had arrived from Summer Camp were working standard hours, so we never even got to see them. I quickly got fed up, and wanted a more normal life. After a few tearful phone calls home to my parents, I decided to try to get a "real job" in the industry for which I was trained.

I bought a marketing magazine from the local bookshop and scanned the situations vacant ads, applying for every role I thought I could tackle. The next few weeks were demoralising, as a continuous stream of rejection letters flowed in. By now, feeling trapped, I positively hated my job at the pub and I hated London, as I wasn't experiencing anything worthwhile. This wasn't the way I'd imagined it would be when I left New Zealand.

****

Several weeks later, not long before Christmas, I finally got an interview. As I had applied for so many jobs and had since thrown out the magazine, I had no idea what the role entailed. I had no choice but to turn up to the interview knowing nothing much other than that it was for some sort of marketing job.

Perhaps because I'd avoided the trap of over-preparation, and following a few white lies about the validity of my working visa, I landed a position as a Marketing Assistant, a new position in the company starting in the New Year. That same week, I secured a room in a friend's flat: I was finally sorted. I felt I had landed on my feet and was ready to start living in the real world at last.

It didn't take long for my "dream job" to become a nightmare. Like most starry-eyed marketing graduates, I thought my job was going to involve undertaking dynamic new marketing initiatives. Instead, I spent most of my time as a "support" to my manager, doing whatever task she required. Mostly, this involved photocopying and filing.

Never mind the quality of work — or lack of it — I soon found I was working in a poisonous environment. The company directors, who were also the owners, seemed to pride themselves on being rude. They said whatever they liked with no obvious regard for the impact it was having on the person at whom the comment was directed. I would go home crying most nights, after just another abusive day in the office. It's funny how once you've thought of yourself as a victim, it's easy to make it a habit. They treated me appallingly, but somehow I thought I deserved it.

To cap it all off, I was made redundant after just four months, receiving the news two hours before leaving for Turkey for the Anzac Day celebrations. I was devastated, and cried for days. It never crossed my mind that I could be made redundant by the age of 22. I'd always imagined redundancy was something reserved for the old or the incompetent. I wasn't old, so there was only one possible conclusion I could draw. For me, this was the ultimate rejection. I was in a foreign city, with no job and no savings. I felt unwanted and useless. My self-esteem was back scraping rock bottom.

****

I decided I needed a break, and came home to New Zealand immediately after my trip to Turkey, not sure whether I was going to return to London. When I left New Zealand, a year before, I imagined living in London would be a glamorous lifestyle. For me it was the opposite, and more than that, my first two roles in the real world had given me more grief than joy. I had imagined that, being so close to Europe, I'd spend all my time travelling. The reality was I was paid so poorly and worked so hard I hadn't had the chance. I was miserable.

My time at home, by contrast, was fantastic. I returned to the love and support I desperately needed from my parents. I spent most of my time at our new family home in Taupo, simply enjoying what New Zealand had to offer. I marvelled at the crystal clear blue sky, stunning calm lake and the snow-capped mountains in the Tongariro National Park. I hadn't seen blue sky for countless weeks in London.

I also ventured north to Auckland to catch up with those of my friends who had remained in New Zealand to start their careers. It was an interesting time; I was envious of their settled life in New Zealand, but they were obviously in awe of me experiencing the world. One of the people I was keen to catch up with was Mark. He'd offered me a place to stay, and I accepted. He paused, and told me that Bob was flatting with him. I was still welcome, if I was comfortable.?

Looking back, it amazes me I said I had no problem with that, and that I kind of believed it, too. I told Mark I had dealt with the past, and that I wasn't about to allow the incident to control me. Who was I trying to convince?

I was only staying for a night, and I spent most of the time catching up with Mark, which was really enjoyable. When I heard Bob coming home, I felt a pang of anxiety, but I was pleased with my self-control when I saw him. I'd been trying to tell myself that my memories were safely filed away and I was free of them, and for the hour or two when he was around, I dared to hope that I was right. I acted as though nothing had happened.

After a few days in Auckland, I headed back to Taupo to tell my parents that I'd decided to return to London on my scheduled flight. I felt that by staying home, I wouldn't have achieved what I originally set out to do and that I would always know I had quit when the going got tough. I didn't want to be seen — and to see myself — as a failure.

I also had some security in the fact I was returning to a job in London. Jeremy had returned to summer camp in the US, and had arranged with his London employer to hire me in his absence. The knowledge that I had a weekly income, and could make plans to do further travelling, had a positive effect on me. I left New Zealand feeling buoyant.

****

Unfortunately, these feelings were not to last. I felt a downward spiral beginning almost as soon as I touched back down at Heathrow Airport.

Of course, seeing Bob again had brought the sexual assault to the forefront of my mind. Fragmented images of the night at the ball, including snapshots of the sexual assault, started to intrude on every waking moment and it wasn't long before these also pervaded my subconscious. I tried to block out the images I was seeing, but I couldn't seem to manage it. The more I relived the experience, the more traumatised I became. I couldn't understand what was happening to my mind. Why was it letting me remember details of the sexual assault now, after I'd been able to block them out for so many years? Feelings of self-blame and self-hatred were rampant. The old conviction that I was responsible for what had happened, and that I was being punished, returned full force.

The darkness was looming larger and larger, and the hope that I would get back to some kind of normal life diminished with each day that passed. My negative thoughts fed off each other, and started taking me to a place from which I couldn't seem to find a way out. This was the first time I began to experience suicidal thoughts; I often thought how easy it would be to jump in front of an underground train, as so many others did in London.

I felt alone, confused, isolated and lost. My friends were squeezing everything they could get out of London life, yet I was struggling just to live. As the months passed, I became more desperate. I knew I had to tell someone, but I just didn't know how to ask for help.

I first turned to Mark back in New Zealand. He seemed a logical choice. After all, he had known the truth from the day after the incident. And I also knew that his girlfriend had been raped, and had tried to commit suicide while at university. If anyone would understand, I thought, Mark would.

I emailed him, explaining I was struggling to deal with what had happened with Bob. As I wrote, I got angry, and asked how he could choose to live with the guy that had done this to me. Now that the question had occurred to me, I really wanted an answer: it was just another part of my life that made no sense. I really think I hoped and expected this information would help me feel better. In retrospect, of course, it was unfair of me to expect Mark to hold Bob responsible for what he did to me. After all, if it had been good enough for me to stick my head in the sand, and travel to the other side of the world, why should he fight the battle for me?

Mark responded. He didn't really know why he was still a friend of Bob's, he wrote, and while he would like to be able to help me, he couldn't.

At the time, I felt this was a cop-out. He'd taken Bob's side, and turned his back on our friendship. I now realise he was just being honest. He was his girlfriend's safety net throughout her long, slow walk to recovery, and he just couldn't face going through all that again. I just didn't have the emotional intelligence to understand all that, back then.

With all the self-centredness that characterises depression, I responded angrily. I told him I could never trust him again and as far as I was concerned, he was no longer a part of my life. I bitterly regret this decision. I lost a fantastic friend simply because I couldn't see far enough past my own pain to grasp his situation.

Another good friend from university, who also knew Bob, had recently arrived in London. Over dinner, we caught up on each other's lives, in the year that had gone by since we last saw one another. It was during this reunion that I tentatively brought up the incident between Bob and me and told her how I was struggling to deal with it. Again, I thought that since she was a good friend and knew Bob, she would help me and condemn him for his actions. Instead, she just looked awkward and changed the subject as soon as she could. I was deeply hurt, and took her reaction as a sign she didn't believe me.

These were my first experiments with opening up about the assault. I think I must have imagined emotional healing following this kind of confession as some kind of linear process — you told someone what had happened, and they would tell you how to fix it, like going to a doctor for a sore throat and getting some antibiotics. These expectations weren't realistic, and were unfair on others. I was asking my friends to take steps that I wasn't even prepared to take myself. Worse, I was cutting off my friends because I interpreted their inability to provide an instant remedy as a betrayal of trust. A friend had sexually assaulted me, and now other friends were turning their backs on me when I needed their help. I became bitter and very angry, lacking the wisdom or the insight to consider how they might be feeling having been placed in this situation.

The only positive outcome of my abortive attempts to get my friends to solve my problems was that I came to realise I needed professional help from someone who had the skills and some knowledge in this area. I reasoned that at least if a stranger let me down, I wouldn't lose another friendship. I eventually summoned the courage to go to my local GP in London and told her of my situation. She sighed and took out a prescription pad.

"Do you want some drugs?" she said wearily.

No, I said, and left the consultation more bewildered and confused than ever. Why would I want drugs? Drugs couldn't fix the problem. I just wanted some help — someone to tell me what to do. I didn't know where to turn to next, so I continued to struggle alone, even as things deteriorated.

Nighttimes were the worst. When everyone else had gone to sleep, I lay awake, too terrified to shut my eyes because of what I would see. The horrific nightmares, along with daytime images of the assault, made it hard to function normally. I felt like a zombie, with the sleep deprivation having a significant impact on my ability to cope with everyday life.

I'd lapsed into other bad habits, too. For months I had been controlling my eating in the mistaken belief that this would help me gain control of my spiralling life. The lack of food further impaired my ability to think rationally. The stories of depression sufferers everywhere are full of these destructive feedback loops, these self-reinforcing spirals.

****

Not sure what door to knock on next to ask for help, I decided to confide in Nicole, my London flatmate, whom I trusted and respected. She understood my situation immediately, and took charge of finding me the help I needed. You'd think this would be a simple task in a city such as London, but you'd be amazed!

After several weeks of searching, Nicole found a women's clinic that we were told would be able to help. We travelled for well over an hour to get there, but when we pushed through the door, we found over 30 people sitting and standing in the waiting room, eyes downcast, each turned inward on their own private hell. We had to take a number in the queue and wait. After an hour with scarcely any movement in the queue, it became obvious I wouldn't be seen that night. The flicker of hope I'd felt when Nicole had got me moving was in danger of being snuffed out. I felt I'd finally plucked up enough courage to ask for help and now I couldn't find any. More doors were being slammed in my face than were opening. So what made me different from the other lost souls in the waiting room? Could it be I didn't really want to get help?

****

Looking back, I think I wanted help, all right, and desperately wanted to feel better; it's just that I didn't see the need to put any personal effort into my recovery. As usual, I took the easy way out. My world view was very black and white. You told someone you had a problem and they fixed it. You were a victim: it must be someone else's responsibility to make good your loss or injury. After all, it's much easier to blame others than it is to shoulder the burden yourself. It simply never occurred to me that I would need to actively invest in my treatment if I was ever to have a more fulfilling life. No one was slamming doors on me: I just hadn't taken those first few steps to cross the threshold. There was help available if only I was prepared to reach out for it.

In fact, the more I've learned about the psychology of sexual assault victims, the more I've come to understand why I was so reluctant to avail myself of the help that was at hand. Sexual assault strips you of any sense that you're in control, and afterwards you're left with a terrible fear of any situation in which you don't have control. Putting your faith in a stranger — or even a friend or loved one — requires you to surrender control to them.

After much encouragement from Nicole, I decided to call home and tell my parents about the sexual assault and admit that I was struggling. It was one of the hardest calls I've ever had to make, and I sat listening to the clicks and buzzes of the line connecting with a hard knot of dread inside me. Mum answered. Now, to think of her on the other end of that phone call breaks my heart. As I spoke those dreaded words, there was silence, and there was silence for some time afterward.

"Do you want to come home?" she asked.

"No," I sobbed. The overwhelming emotion I felt was shame for what had happened to me, and if I came home, everyone would want to know why I had admitted defeat. Because that's how returning home would have felt: like defeat.

"Is there someone you can trust?" Mum asked gently.

I told her that I trusted Nicole completely, but that her efforts to find professional support for me had hit a brick wall.

"Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do," Mum said.

These were the words of encouragement I desperately needed to hear.

Mum's first thought was of getting on the first available flight to London. Before doing so, however, she called a doctor — a family friend — and asked for advice. There was, it seemed, little Mum could do by coming to London. And if I refused to come home, then it was imperative we find a counsellor who specialised in sexual assault. When Mum told me this was the recommended course of action, I protested. I was acutely conscious of the exchange rate and the likely huge costs involved in getting a private counsellor, but my parents insisted.

"The only thing that matters is getting you the help you need," they assured me.

Soon after I made this phone call home, Nicole found me someone who sounded as though they could help.

# Chapter 6

### Facing the Past

I rang the bell, and waited, feeling physically sick. There was movement inside, and the door was answered by a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman dressed in natural-coloured trousers and blouse. This was the first time I had met Kay. I followed her slowly into the house, a typical London semi-detached affair. She directed me to the treatment room, which was where families occupying this style of house have their front lounge. Instead of a television and easy chairs, perhaps vases and a few pictures on the walls, there was an office chair and a couch, little else besides. I took up the patient's position on the couch, just like in the movies, and sat in silence. I didn't know what to say.

Partly, I didn't have the words to describe the kind of thoughts I was having. I was also terrified that if I told the truth about my problems, it would be obvious that I wasn't coping with the trauma in my past. I still believed that if I kept the details of my dark secret hidden, even from a medical professional, they would eventually disappear. After all, I was here to get a solution to my present problems, not to talk about the past. I just wanted Kay to tell me what to do, to give me a quick fix, so I could move on with my life.

Kay took the lead and explained how she was aware I was leaving London to go travelling for several months before I returned home to New Zealand — I had only three months left on my visa — so it was important that she give me some skills so I could continue with these plans. What she was proposing was like putting a bandaid on a festering sore to buy me some time, so that I could enjoy my last big trip before heading home. It probably didn't seem ideal to her. I was comfortable with the plan.

We met weekly. To be honest, I can't remember the specific details of each session; perhaps this is once again my way of dealing with the material Kay and I covered in the conversations we had. I can recall, however, fairly early on in the process, that Kay suggested I was perhaps depressed. I instantly rejected the notion. I acknowledged I was really unhappy, but recoiled from the suggestion that I might have a mental illness. I had never been exposed to depression before, and had a very limited understanding of what it actually was. My ignorance of the condition meant I associated the illness with "crazy people", and it wasn't a label I was going to pin on. Deep down, I knew that constantly being sad, and fighting suicidal thoughts, were a serious sign of a mental illness, but I refused to draw the obvious conclusion from my symptoms. Surely if I just ignored them they would simply go away?

Kay recommended St John's Wort, a herbal remedy for mild depression, yet another suggestion I initially dismissed. I didn't want to become reliant on a pill — even a herbal pill — as the answer to my problems. I believed this would ultimately take me one step closer to the mental asylum, the place where they locked away people who needed pills to control their minds. But after considering my options, or lack thereof, I decided to try St John's Wort after all. Still, I can remember feeling great shame each time I placed another tablet in my mouth. Each was an emblem of my inability to cope and evidence that I was a failure. I hated the person I had become. Just a few years beforehand, I was seen as a high achiever who could attain any goal I chose; now I was taking medication just to try to gain some stability in my life.

****

As the counselling sessions came and went and my trust in the counsellor grew, I was able to disclose bits and pieces about the sexual assault after all. I spoke of my friendship with Bob, how we had flatted together at university and how we shared many mutual friends and acquaintances.

She asked me how I felt about Bob.

"Do you hate him for what he did to you?"

"No, not at all," I answered automatically. "I blame myself for the outcome of that night and I hate myself because of it."

"What do you mean, you blame yourself?" Kay inquired.

I had spent just about every night since that night rehearsing the answer to this very question.

"I was the one who let him kiss me at the ball so that my ex-boyfriend would get jealous. I left the bar with him after the ball. We got a taxi home together and I didn't go straight home as I intended."

All of that proved I was asking for everything that happened, didn't it? My behaviour contradicted my words. No wonder Bob had disregarded it when I said "no", when all evening my behaviour had been saying "yes". No wonder he was confused and didn't stop. What else was a guy to think? After all, "no" meant no. There had to be some reason why he didn't stop when I implored him to. The only possible reason, so far as I could tell, was that I had led him on.

"What would you say to someone if they told you what you have just shared with me?" Kay asked softly. "Would you think that they deserved it?"

I sat in stunned silence, before tentatively responding: "Of course not. I would tell them it wasn't their fault."

I had just been hit with a different perspective, an obvious one perhaps, but one I hadn't considered before. Of course, my self-doubts immediately retorted that my situation was different. Well, why was that? Was it that I just couldn't accept being a victim, because I felt that to admit I was a victim was to be weak? Or was it that assigning blame on the only person I felt I could hurt — myself — was an attempt to salvage some sort of control over the situation?

I always felt numb after leaving a counselling session. I didn't want to be around anyone, let alone talk about it. To cope, I withdrew to give myself the space to process the contents of the session. On returning home one night, I remembered the bruises on my arms. I recalled seeing them the morning after the incident, but I had subsequently dismissed them. How could I forget these or, more to the point, what had actually caused them?

I was distraught at the sudden realisation that Bob had held me down, and the force required left me with bruises. This may appear an obvious statement, but it's one that had never entered my mind before. I kept the information to myself for a while. It seemed that speaking about it would only make that part of the experience more real. I realise now that my mind had blocked the most painful memories as a coping mechanism. What I didn't consider was how many of these blocks were in place.

****

For weeks, Kay had tried to get me to transfer the anger and hatred I felt towards myself onto Bob instead. Remembering the bruises pushed me into that zone, and I was eventually able to tell Kay about them. By the time I did, I was angry, so angry that I found I could hate Bob after all. Anger, I learned later, is the third stage of the healing process, following shock and denial. I can vividly remember a conversation with Kay where I openly admitted: "I want him dead. No, not dead. Even that punishment would be too light." I felt justice could only be done if he suffered as much as I had. Kay suggested I go to a shooting range with a photo of Bob as the target. I really liked the idea, but never acted on it. Instead, I fantasised about shooting him, and this became another coping strategy I adopted.

Not all of my counselling sessions focused on the sexual assault. Often they just gave me the opportunity to talk about my everyday concerns, which had become pathetically numerous for someone who had once sailed through life. It was my flatmate Brenda's birthday, I told Kay, and the plan was to go to a bar in the West End. For most people, this would be a very simple task, but I found it daunting. I was haunted by the assault, to the extent that all it took was for me to see men of a similar stature to Bob, or for someone to say specific words or sometimes even smells to trigger the memories. Having a defined routine and avoiding public places minimised these, providing me with the safe environment I craved.

Kay gently encouraged me to celebrate Brenda's birthday, as being with friends I trusted and who cared about me would help me heal. We talked through each of my concerns and she offered a solution to give me a coping mechanism should it arise, including things as basic as checking where the exits were in the building so I could leave in a hurry if I wanted to.

The party was eventful, but for unexpected reasons. I met Tony. He was a friend of Brenda's and got the thumbs-up from her in terms of his integrity so I decided, after discussing it with Kay at my next counselling session, to take the plunge. Trust had been a major issue for me ever since the sexual assault; actually contemplating a relationship with someone was a very big deal for me. I hoped this time would be different, as I didn't know how I would cope with another male breaking my trust and hurting me. And as it was, I'm not sure I would have dared pursue it if I hadn't felt I had a safety net: I was leaving soon, therefore it was more than likely any relationship would dissolve into nothing when it came time for me to go. I was determined, as the counsellor said to me, to "use the experience to trust again."

Tony and I had a lot of fun together, experiencing the London lifestyle and the occasional weekend away. The feeling of being wanted helped me to block the depressive thoughts, an area of my life I didn't discuss with him. Disclosing the "real me" was never a consideration. In my mind, our relationship was based solely on having a good time, as I was leaving the UK in less than three months.

Each week that passed brought me closer to leaving. I was so excited about my trip; fortunately, I hadn't lost my love of travelling despite the all-pervading sadness I was experiencing. Focusing on the promise of experiencing a new place, and making a new beginning, helped me get through each day. It was the familiar pattern. I was unhappy in London; I believed that by leaving London, I would be leaving my turmoil behind, too. The only drawback was that leaving London would mean saying goodbye to Tony, the guy who had made my last weeks bearable.

****

Not long before I left London, Tony went to Turkey for a week with some friends. I missed him like crazy, and loved the text messages and emails he sent. I couldn't wait to see him, so I took the day off work to surprise him at the airport. I knew as soon as I saw him that something wasn't right. This was confirmed when he said he couldn't spend the day with me as he was going to work, even though I knew he had arranged to have the day off.

I tried to get on with my day, but I couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong. I rang his work and they confirmed he was still on leave. Next, I called his home. He answered! It amazes me how some guys can be so stupid: if you say you're going to work, don't answer the phone when you're at home!

I wanted answers from him. Of course, it turned out my instincts were right. He admitted he'd met another girl when he was away, one of the friends in their travel group. Our relationship was coming to an abrupt end anyway, he said, what with me about to leave for the USA, so he was just looking to the future. He had a point, but I hadn't envisaged us ending things this way, with another woman keeping his bed warm even before I'd left. I suppose I wanted the split to be on my terms, so I could protect myself from being hurt.

Being close to Tony had made me feel worthwhile for the first time in ages, and I was reluctant to let the feeling go. I suggested to him that we ignore what happened in Turkey and just enjoy the last couple of weeks together. Looking back, my heart bleeds for the young woman that I was, who had so low an opinion of herself that she could seriously make such a suggestion. Needless to say, letting him back into my bed didn't help me at all. I simply felt worthless. In the end, Tony and I left on very bad terms. He had cheated on me, and while I thought I could overlook it, his actions had a significant impact. I felt I had taken one step forward by trusting a guy again and daring to enter a relationship, and then ten steps backward with the betrayal of this trust. My sole focus in those last few days was getting out of London, when I hoped I would escape the constant reminders of Tony and his betrayal and the long fight I'd fought in London with "depression". As soon as I was on that plane, I promised myself, all of it — Tony, betrayal, depression — would be left far, far behind.

****

I returned to the USA for a road trip with some camp friends, including Jeremy, from Texas to Pennsylvania, before we all started our summer jobs back at Island Lake Camp. I loved my second year at camp, and despite the low state of my morale at the beginning of the summer, I still remember it as one of the best times of my life. Second time around, I knew what to expect, which helped. I also chose a younger bunk — nine-year-old girls this time, who had a really refreshing outlook on life. I enjoyed watching the campers' confidence grow the more they experienced the camp activities. Again, the highlight was taking them in the boat water-skiing, and watching the joy dawn on their faces when they found themselves standing on the water.

The counsellors were predominantly there for the campers — or that's what we told the owners and managers of the camp. In reality, we mostly lived for the time we spent away from camp, where we had the most fun. Every night off, three days a week, was spent at what the campers knew as the "coffee shop", but which was in fact Lombardi's, the local bar. My friends and I drank many pitchers of beer here, with the only rule that we needed to return to camp by the 8am curfew to start camp life all over again.

It was at Lombardi's that I got to know Zach. He was a college student from Arkansas who had a wonderful, gentle nature, and was a lot of fun to be around — qualities I'm sure his girlfriend back home also admired. I knew about his partner, but I reasoned that it was Zach's decision whether he pursued a relationship with me. He decided to do just that. This was perhaps a hypocritical decision on my part, given it was no more than a month since I'd been heartbroken by Tony's holiday romance, and yet here I was doing exactly the same thing. Looking back, I should really have been asking myself why it was that I always seemed to choose men I could have but couldn't get close to.

Still, Zach and I had a great summer together, perhaps because we both understood there was no long-term commitment. Our summer fling ended with him returning home to his girlfriend and me continuing with my travels. We left camp on good terms, with the mutual understanding that we'd had a lot of fun but that was the extent of the relationship.

Meanwhile, my strategy of running from my problems seemed to have provided a solution. I'd had a great summer, one to remember. Perhaps time and distance was all I needed, after all. Running away or clearing my mind: perhaps they were the same thing.

****

Jeremy and I headed back to Europe, with two and a half months of backpacking ahead of us. I was looking forward to it, but as it turned out, I spent the entire time on an emotional rollercoaster. Surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells of the places I'd dreamed of as a child, I was fulfilling a lifelong ambition. Somehow, though, it didn't provide the complete respite I was hoping for. Without the routine and frantic round of life in camp, I had more time on my hands, and I would often fall into deep pits of sadness from which I struggled to pull myself out. I simply couldn't turn my mind off, and the recurring nightmares and repeating images began to plague me again, especially as a number of fresh memories from the attack were resurfacing for the first time, adding more pieces to the jigsaw puzzle. This, as I later learned, is typical. My mind had blocked a number of memories of the sexual assault to give me the space I needed to cope with the ordeal. I had buried them deep inside, but now they were fighting to be released. My mind was now trying to tell me that I needed to face my demons if I was ever to properly heal.

Jeremy was amazing throughout our entire trip. He was there for me whether I needed a shoulder to cry on, or just the space to try to process what I was feeling. He did the best he could to support me with the limited information that I provided him. I had first mentioned my incident with Bob about a year into our OE, so he knew some sketchy detail, but I hadn't felt I could completely open up, even to him. I was afraid of his reaction if I did, especially after my bad experience with the two friends with whom I had shared my secrets.

****

When it came time, I was ready to return to New Zealand. I'd been overseas for two and a half years, had visited over 20 countries and met so many amazing people. But the nomadic lifestyle I had once loved and craved had become a bit of a chore, a sure sign it was time to change my direction. I wanted a "normal life" with a career, a home, a car and my friends and family around me. I'd seen a lot of places around the world, but in my heart, New Zealand still remained my home.

I had high hopes that returning to New Zealand would be the answer to the problems I had been experiencing while overseas. The week before I left London, I had burned my journal and that's where I expected the memories to stay. I felt I had dealt with my troubles, and a new beginning would enable me to leave the past behind. I was focused and ready to start achieving great things again.

# Chapter 7

### Home Sweet Home

I soon settled back into Auckland, moving in with a friend and her husband on the North Shore. Having lived with large groups of people since I was 13, I decided I didn't want to go flatting with a house full of 20-somethings. Belinda and Adam's home was the perfect solution, providing me the lovely home environment I was seeking.

My first goal was to get a marketing job. I had heard from my varsity friends that these were scarce with too many graduates competing for the number of roles available. Many had to enter other fields to gain some work experience, with the intention of moving back into marketing afterwards.

Fortunately my soon-to-be manager, Sandra, held my overseas work experience in high regard. On the strength of her enthusiasm, I was able to secure a Marketing Assistant position with a large corporate company, working on a well-known brand — the job I had dreamed of while at university! I had always seen myself as a career woman, and I could imagine how my happiness would henceforth be tied to how far up the corporate ladder I could climb. I'd always been good at achieving targets. I felt privileged to have my second marketing role — my first proper one — and I believed my life was back on track with only success ahead of me.

****

I threw myself into my work — which I loved — and in my eagerness, took on ridiculous hours. I couldn't understand why I was the only one putting in the extra yards. A colleague of mine talked of "working to live, rather than living to work". His wise comment did not register with me at the time; I just kept running on the treadmill trying to get ahead. I was determined to stay on top of the workload, as I felt that any failure to do so would mean I was not unworthy of my role.

At first, the long hours didn't seem to matter, as I loved my job. But the unbalanced lifestyle was impacting on my health, my stress levels soared and I ballooned out to 85 kg, fully 15 kg heavier than my normal, healthy weight. I didn't realise how big I had become until I saw myself in a photograph. I had somehow managed to convince myself that the increase in clothing sizes since I'd been home was just because New Zealand had different sizings compared to overseas; seeing the photograph put paid to that theory. I hated how I looked, another unlovely aspect of myself to add to an already long list.

When I wasn't working, I spent a lot of time with my workmates. The Sales and Marketing team were all relatively young, so we did a lot of socialising together. I was given a lot of attention, being a 24-year-old female working in a male-dominated environment; I initially enjoyed it, and it delivered a much-needed boost to my self-esteem.

I developed a particularly strong bond with Tim, who had started work just a week after I did. We instantly clicked. I felt extremely comfortable around him, and was also very attracted to him. I felt safe in the knowledge, however, that a relationship wouldn't develop because he was married with a family, a situation I respected. Besides, I wasn't open to entering into a relationship just yet, for fear of being hurt again. When I finally was ready, I was sure it wouldn't be with a married man. It was a close friendship, and I thought that was all there was to it.

For the first time in New Zealand, sport wasn't playing a big part in my life. Since I had been home, my career rising up the corporate ladder and earning more money were my sole focus. I also knew I could no longer commit to cricket the way I used to. I simply didn't have the motivation to dedicate all of my spare hours to the game, so I chose to walk away from my dream of playing for New Zealand. It turns out the last game I played was the one where I injured my back three years earlier.

I had only ever played competitive sport, and I quickly found that I missed it. Happily, Nikki, my close friend from university, introduced me to mountain biking. She raved about it so much that I went out and bought a bike before I had even given the sport a go. I was soon pleased she'd convinced me, though: I've loved it ever since my first ride in the Woodhill Forest. I wasn't as good or as fast as the others in the group I went out with, but I was content to cruise along and simply enjoy the physical exertion and time in the bush with my friends. Mountain biking was the first sporting activity I took up where I didn't need to be perfect. It was an insight into a concept that had always mystified me: social sport.

To further help manage my stress, and also to lose some weight, I started to attend regular sessions at the company gym. I met with one of the personal trainers who wrote me a specific programme, one that included a lot of boxing and skipping. I particularly enjoyed the physically demanding, hour-long boxing classes twice a week. There were many sessions where the mitts helped me release the negative feelings that were never far away, the only real outlet I had at the time.

****

The promotions and pay rises were flowing freely for me, yet I found myself increasingly disillusioned with my life in New Zealand. I had now been home for a year, but was still very unsettled and couldn't understand why. Why wasn't I happy and content when I had everything I had dreamed of having while living overseas? I felt as if I was existing, nothing more: my life simply consisted of working, eating and sleeping. The novelty of making it in the real world had worn off. I certainly didn't know how I was going to do this for the next 40 years.

All I wanted was to get back on a plane and head overseas again. I longed for the lifestyle I had when I was away as it seemed so much easier. When I was travelling it didn't matter what your background was, how much money you had, what school you went to, who your friends were or what suburb you lived in. People accepted you for who you were. Nothing else was important; it was just you and your backpack. I didn't realise it at the time but my OE, and in particular the "depression", had shifted my priorities in life making it increasingly difficult for me to relate to some of my high school friends.

I had always treasured my school friendships, particularly as we had shared so much of our adolescence together, but these days I couldn't shake the feeling that our lives had taken different paths. Adjusting to this awareness was not easy to accept and I simply withdrew, as I didn't know how to manage our different perspectives on life.

I was coming to grips with these changes, and I was also trying to make sense of my friendship with Tim, which was becoming more intense. We now shared an office, spending our entire work day with each other, and whenever he travelled out of town for business, we would talk on the phone for hours. I felt huge guilt for spending so much time with a married man, but I pushed it aside. In my mind we were just friends. I had grown up in a loving family with happily married parents; I expected my workmate to have the same values I had. I thought the gold band on his finger would remind him of the family he told me he treasured, and of the obligations and commitments that come with that.

As the months progressed, however, our friendship became more involved, and we ended up crossing the line that should never be crossed. I had promised myself I would never be the other woman", yet here I was in precisely that situation. I didn't know how to handle it. I despised myself for failing to uphold the values I had held my entire life, and in which I took considerable pride. Yet at the same time, I was questioning these values themselves.

I was more or less constantly reminded that my perception of the world and the reality I was living in were very different, and this was the source of further self-loathing. My values hadn't protected my Mum from being beaten, nor had they kept me safe from being sexually assaulted by a friend. I had always imagined that such awfulness only happened to bad people, to people who somehow deserved it. As many others do, I imagined I would only ever experience this kind of stuff through stories in the media.

****

My world was turned further upside down on a rare night out in Takapuna; I walked into a bar and saw Bob. This was the first time I'd laid eyes on him since my brief visit home from London a couple of years earlier.

One of the bonuses of living overseas was that I couldn't just bump into him in the street like this, which certainly made life a bit easier. When my UK visa expired, I even seriously considered moving to Sydney, just so I could avoid the very situation I now found myself in.

Since I had been back in New Zealand, I'd had numerous experiences walking down the street or through shopping malls, where I suddenly stopped in my tracks, thinking I'd seen him. On each occasion, it had just been a false alarm: a guy with the same build or hair colour. During these moments, I had rehearsed what I'd say to him if I ever did see him.

Now here I was with that very opportunity.

We locked eyes, and he recognised me as instantly as I'd recognised him. Overwhelming anger swept through my body. I felt uncontrollable rage at seeing Bob just getting on with his life without a care in the world, while mine had crumbled down around me. He had got away with the sexual assault and would probably never be held accountable for his actions. How could I live with this injustice? Why should I? I burned to let him know the impact he'd had on my life.

In the end, though, I couldn't find the courage to talk to him, or even yell at him, so I simply turned around and walked out of the bar.

I was quite distressed once I got outside. With tears pouring down my face, I told my bewildered friend what had just happened. Why did I have to see him again? Why now? There would be answers to those seemingly unanswerable questions — after all, everything happens for a reason — but not for months to come.

As the days and weeks passed, I reverted to the coping mechanism that had served me so well over the last few years: I avoided thinking about the problem. I thought if I could continue to block the memories from my mind, the issues that arose from them would simply disappear.

****

I was naïve to believe that running away from my demons would provide a long-term solution. But it turns out it's a common enough belief among the victims of sexual assault: nearly 90% of all sexual violence reported to Rape Crisis in New Zealand occurs six years —often longer — after the incident.

I was to learn the hard way that you can run, but you can't hide. Repressed memories do not disappear. In fact, they can have a subtle and cumulative effect, and can often resurface through the subconscious, manifesting themselves in dreams or dysfunctional behaviour, such as drug and alcohol abuse. I had no idea the human mind was so remarkably complex.

For me, there were just too many triggers. Even seeing or hearing the words "rape" or "sexual assault" would send me into emotional turmoil. I relived the assault over and over. It was like a movie preview: just snapshots of the event, never the entire episode in one long, nightmarish sequence.

My dreams were the worst. I would feel him touching me again, and I'd be struggling: then I'd wake up. I'd then lie awake for hours, too scared to shut my eyes again in case I felt or saw the same things. I thought I was going crazy, but I persisted in my belief that I could and should deal with the problem myself.

In my own time, I told my family and a couple of close friends who knew of the assault that I'd seen Bob again. I explained I wasn't sleeping well, but I just couldn't find the words to express the full horror of what I was experiencing. I was still deeply ashamed for what had happened, the more so for not just writing the night off as a bad experience and getting on with it.

As usual when I found things were out of control, I tried to reassert my control by managing my eating. I felt a great sense of achievement when I didn't have a meal, when my stomach hurt because it was so empty, and I would take it a step further and exercise furiously so my muscles hurt as well. But the flip side of this was that when I eventually did have some food, I felt I had failed yet again, that I wasn't strong enough to resist the temptation to eat. The mind games were relentless: one voice told me I needed to eat, another insisted that this was a sign of weakness. I was actually dropping kilos, but every week I felt fatter.

Of course, this combined with the insomnia was bound to have a negative impact on my health. I never felt well, and I was chronically lacking in energy. It seemed I picked up every cold that was circulating. After having a sore throat for two solid months, without being able to fix it with conventional medicines, Sandra, my manager at work, suggested I go to a naturopath. I was very sceptical, as I'd never been exposed to alternative treatments, but since nothing else had worked, I decided to go along anyway.

The naturopath's clinic pretty closely resembled a real medical clinic, which instantly put me at ease. I explained to the naturopath I'd had a sore throat for a couple of months and I hadn't found a medicine to treat it. She said she'd be able to help by providing me with a herbal mixture that my body required. I was instantly feeling outside my comfort zone all over again! I imagined her waltzing off outside to pick a little bunch of something from her garden. As it turned out, she came back into the room with a rack of around 20 different little glass tubes, each of which contained a different herb.

She then set about trying to identify which ones my body craved. I had to lie on my back with my left arm extended, pinching my thumb and index finger together. She then held each canister in turn in her left hand, while pulling my clenched fingers with her right. If the circle my thumb and forefinger remained intact, it showed my body wanted the herb; if the circle was broken, however, that herb was discarded. We repeated this process for every one, and each time I just concentrated on pressing my thumb and fingertip together. But it was as though it really was my body that decided what it needed. Sometimes my fingers gave way; sometimes they didn't, without me or the naturopath doing anything obviously different. It just didn't make any logical sense to me.

At the end of the session, the naturopath provided me with a vile-tasting liquid concoction for my sore throat that I was to take three times daily. I paid and held out my hand for the brown paper bag containing the bottle.

She paused as she handed it over.

"You need to talk," she said. I looked at her blankly, not knowing what she was referring to, but also feeling found out. Somehow she could see that my sore throat was my body's way of telling me I needed to communicate what was on my mind. I thought I just had a sore throat. She could see I was hiding.

****

Deep down, I knew I needed to open up to someone, but I was just too embarrassed and ashamed to say what was haunting me. I didn't act on her advice until finally, one day, I heard a news bulletin on the radio. They were covering a trial that was before the courts where a woman had alleged a man had raped her. There wasn't much in the way of evidence: it was basically her word against his, an all too common scenario. My heart went out to her. She was trying to hold her rapist accountable — something I wasn't strong enough to do — and her own credibility was being questioned. Someone else was living one of my own deepest fears. And yet, I admired her. I wished I'd had the courage to hold Bob to account, but the phone call a couple of days after the assault was as close as I'd got. I despised myself for my weakness, and the fear that other women might experience something similar at Bob's hands — something I could have prevented, if only I'd been stronger — gnawed away at me.

# Chapter 8

### Nowhere to Hide

The realisation that I couldn't run fast or far enough to escape the past convinced me that I needed to make a stand. If it wasn't going away, then I needed help to deal with it. My parents were fully supportive when I announced that I wanted to find a counsellor, as it was clear to them I needed to talk to someone. It had been clear to them all along.

Mum had worked with the Accident Compensation Corporation for a number of years, so she was aware of the cover that ACC provided for victims of sexual assault cases if it could be shown their trauma had resulted in physical or mental injury. The Corporation would significantly subsidise counselling in such instances, which were known as "sensitive claims".

The first step was to get a referral from my GP to see an ACC registered counsellor who specialised in sexual abuse. I went to see the doctor that I had been seeing since I started university. I can't recall the exact words I used: perhaps if I'd been more open and honest, he wouldn't have told me it was "a minor incident". I was devastated by this response, which preyed on my anxiety that I was weak and worthless indeed if I couldn't deal alone with a "minor incident". But he did say that if I wanted to see a counsellor, he would do the paperwork for the referral.

After the arduous experience I'd had in London, I was dreading the search for a counsellor. But I needn't have worried. Within days, I had found a clinic in Mt Eden that specialised in sexual abuse. I'd seen a small billboard offering their services one night after I'd had dinner with friends.

Just like Kay's house in London, the clinic looked like any of the other bungalows flanking the street in Mount Eden. I was buffeted by all kinds of strong emotions as I summoned the courage to go in. I felt particularly awkward sitting in the waiting area with the other patients. At least when you go to a GP, everyone is there for their own private reasons; here, we all knew when we looked at one another that we were there for the same one. For some people, this may have been comforting, to see that they were not alone. I hated it. It was a strange, naked feeling, and I deliberately avoided eye contact with everyone.

Sally, my counsellor, tried her best to put me at ease. She explained that ACC would cover my first four sessions, so that we could discuss my assault before they would then assess my claim for ongoing therapy. I suppose there's no ideal system, but this seemed pretty far short of what is desirable. After all, it's very common for a person who has been affected by rape or sexual abuse to take many years to disclose their trauma, and even then, they need to find someone they can trust with this highly sensitive information. Even once they've identified such a person, there are usually many barriers that need to be dealt with before they reach the stage where they feel able to talk about the actual incident. Under the ACC system, you have four hours to build up the rapport and then open the lines of communication with someone who starts out as a total stranger.

It seemed hopeless to me as I talked to Sally. I found I could only speak of the sexual assault and the side effects I was experiencing in the vaguest possible terms, but I was achingly conscious that I needed to share enough information to satisfy ACC that my application for funding should be accepted. I had already shared my secret with a handful of people I had trusted, but even with them, I had never discussed specific details and had absolutely no intention of doing so: I just wasn't ready. They were private and I was determined they should stay that way.

Talking was hard. I found the words were easier to find if I wrote them down, but I wasn't given this option and nor did I think of asking Sally to try this approach. I presumed there were reasons why she sat there looking expectant while my throat constricted and the words dried up.

Somehow, though, Sally got a sense of what I had to tell her. It was an enormous relief when ACC confirmed my funding for additional counselling sessions. Finally someone believed me, that this wasn't a "minor incident", that when I said "no", I really meant no! The letter from ACC specified the number of sessions I was entitled to, and I found this enormously reassuring. By the end of those sessions, I presumed, I'd be fixed: simple as that.

****

Over the next few months, I spent hours in the weekly counselling sessions with Sally, yet I can hardly remember what she looks like. The fact I know she favoured red shoes suggests I spent a lot of time avoiding eye contact with her. From the outset, I struggled to communicate effectively. I found myself with plenty to talk about, but nothing to say. I just wasn't comfortable talking about my past or my current thoughts and feelings, the very stuff that we were there to deal with. The only subject Sally seemed to be able to get me to open up about was my increasingly toxic working environment.

I was still sharing an office with Tim, and while I had originally loved the situation I had by now come to loathe it. I was living with uncontrollable guilt about having an affair, further exacerbated each time I heard him tell his wife on the phone: "I love you". I felt cheap. I was cheap! I had initially thought the attention he paid me was harmless, and I lapped it up because it boosted my self-esteem. Now it had a completely different meaning.

I had tried numerous times to end the relationship, but none of these attempts lasted long. I was addicted to the affection he showed me. It was comforting to know that I would never have to get close to him because he was married. This protected me from disclosing my real self, the one I believed to be "damaged goods". In hindsight, I realise my affair with Tim was actually compounding my already strong belief that I couldn't trust anyone. Every week I returned to counselling with new complaints of the lack of trust, honesty and respect I felt from Tim, and each time I would get the same response from Sally: leave. This simple advice fell on deaf ears for months. The difficulty was, while I had reached the point where I felt I could leave Tim, I didn't believe I had the strength to walk away from work. My job seemed like a safety net; it provided me with the stability to get through each day. I was terrified of relinquishing this and venturing into the unknown.

****

Early on in my treatment, Sally suggested I take antidepressants. I refused, on the same grounds I had refused when the GP offered to prescribe drugs for me in London. As far as I was concerned, I didn't need medication to help me recover, and I didn't want to be at the mercy of a pill. Once again, to compromise, I began taking St John's Wort, although by now, with all my efforts to get through this on my own resources having proved vain, I knew I wasn't well. I resisted the label "mentally ill" and all the stigma with which it is associated — or with which it was associated for me — but I was beginning to wonder whether I could find my own way out, after all.

One breakthrough Sally made with me was to give me an understanding of my recurrent nightmares. I had talked at length about my inability to sleep with Kay, my counsellor in London, but she hadn't explained the cause. Sally told me the nightmares were typical of people in my situation. She even had a name for them: flashbacks. They can be experienced in many forms, whether it is pictures, sounds, smells, bodily sensations, feelings or the lack of them through numbness. For me, they were primarily fragmented pieces of the night in the form of horrifyingly vivid visual images, images I didn't want to see.

The hardest part of the flashbacks was their unpredictability. Sometimes, they were triggered by a person who had similar physical characteristics or mannerisms to Bob; sometimes, the trigger was sexual intimacy, or any situation where I felt I was being controlled by another person. Perversely, this could include counsellors. The flashbacks were very traumatic, and very damaging, particularly when I was intimate with someone. I hated the fact that Bob was standing in the way of my having a normal relationship, and I wondered whether I would ever be free of him. This was just one of many questions that flooded my mind.

To manage the triggers, I tended to try to avoid situations and stimuli that I thought would generate a flashback, both consciously and unconsciously. Sally made some suggestions to help me deal with them when they arose, but I didn't listen.

"Tell yourself you're having a flashback, and focus on the present by using any one of the five senses," she'd tell me. "Touch a physical object, or concentrate on feeling your chest as you breathe."

I listened and nodded, but inwardly I was sceptical. Really. How can such a simple tactic be effective?

Sally also gave me some insight into the other side of the equation in a sexual assault. While every rapist is an individual with their own motives and drives, she told me that they tend to rape for one or a combination of three main reasons. The first is their desire to control a non-consenting victim. The second is that they are acting out anger or hostility. Finally, a rapist may gain a sense of accomplishment and self-worth by degrading another human being.

It was the first time I had considered that Bob wasn't necessarily driven by simple sexual desire. I was an object for him to conquer both emotionally and physically, a victim over whom my attacker held all the control.

I was horrified to learn from Sally that statistically speaking, I would have been far safer walking home alone that night than I was trusting a friend. The majority of sexual offenders are either blood relatives, a friend or an acquaintance, with fewer than 5% being strangers. As a child at primary school, I was warned about "stranger danger": never accept a ride from someone you didn't know. Why did no one ever warn me about the most common source of danger, the people whom we trust the most and who are already inside our defences?

We're also taught that when someone attempts to hurt us, we should fight back, get help and tell someone. Simple! But this scenario becomes a lot more problematic when the abuser is someone you know, trust and sometimes even love. What do you do then?

****

Throughout my counselling, to try to provide some focus and direction, Sally would set me weekly tasks. These were supposed to be baby steps towards a brighter future, but for me they seemed like huge mountains I simply didn't have the energy to climb. I realise now the problem was quite different. I just wasn't prepared to put any effort into my recovery. I was still sitting back, waiting for someone to speak the magic words that would deliver me from the evil spell I was under. This was what I was searching for, and when it didn't eventuate, I became increasingly despondent.

I had always prided myself on being a high achiever and having the strength of character to deal with anything life presented me. I was stuck with this image. I felt if I admitted to anyone that I wasn't coping, I would also be revealing that I was a failure. I was paranoid that if I told the truth about what I was experiencing to those who loved me, I would be treated differently, and somehow they would think less of me.

The easiest way to cope was to isolate myself from everyone around me. This guaranteed that no one could hurt, judge or question me. When I did have to deal with people, I was very careful with what I said. Whenever my family and friends asked how I was, I would go so far as to say: "things are not good", but I wouldn't elaborate. I probably hoped they would understand what I was going through from these few words, but of course, they couldn't possibly. I hadn't yet realised that communication is a big part of what's needed if you're to get the help you need.

****

I thought I was doing a great job of keeping everyone in the dark, but my loved ones were well aware I was struggling. They have since talked of their feeling of complete helplessness: they were there all along, and would have done anything for me if I'd only said the word. At the time, I just couldn't see this. They tried to break down the walls I had built up, and in some cases, even offered possible solutions; they were further disheartened when I showed no interest and refused to engage. The only thing I had time for was anger, at myself and at my problems.

At counselling, I grew tired of answering Sally's probing questions as she tried to guide our conversations towards the underlying problem. I didn't see the point in talking about it. It made me feel worse rather than better, and I was there to get better. Talking about it just dragged up all those questions that plagued me in search of answers: Would I ever understand why my friend did what he did? Why was saying no, over and over again, not enough? Why didn't I show anyone the bruises? Why was the assault having this effect on me? When was I going to get better? When was I going to stop feeling this way?

Partly I was afraid to ask these questions in case it was confirmed for me that I would never have answers. And if I didn't have answers, how could I possibly accept what had happened and move on with my life? How would I ever get the closure I needed?

To try to take control of my counselling sessions, I became difficult. I started to skip sessions, and when I did decide to turn up, I would provide the vaguest possible responses, if I even answered at all. We would spend some sessions — a whole hour at a time — barely saying a word. I simply refused to talk or listen. The sessions were becoming a waste of time for both Sally and me.

To my surprise, after a couple of months of weekly sessions, Sally told me she'd submitted a progress report to ACC requesting additional funding. Why? I wanted to know. Time was up: I was supposed to be better now. If counselling hadn't cured me by now, what was the point in doing more of it? If anything, I felt even more screwed up after all Sally's digging.

Sally tried to explain to me that counselling was the answer to my problems. In her experience, she said, those who didn't continue with the programme were unable to recover from the ordeal that had brought them there. I couldn't help wondering whether that was a threat or a promise.

She also took a tough line with me, probably because she was (understandably) becoming frustrated with my attitude, and my refusal to practise the techniques she had given me to help me cope.

"Why should I try to help you when you don't want to help yourself?" she said one day.

It was a perfectly fair question, but I was furious. After all, it was her job to make me well, not mine. Now it sounded as though she'd given up on me. I didn't understand the collaborative effort that's needed to pull someone out of the kind of hole I found myself in. It was her job to reach down to me; why should I have to reach up to take her hand?

She ended the conversation by saying: "Your situation will get a lot worse before it gets better. You need to get hit by a truck before you'll make the changes you need to."

She was right about that.

# Chapter 9

### A Second Chance

Within a month of Sally making this statement I was released from hospital, following the Panadol overdose. My sole focus in life was now to make it through the day. I was back to the absolute basics of living life. To start with, I focused on each hour in front of me; once the hours became manageable, I would push this timeframe out further until I could just about manage to take life a day at a time.

When I dared to think about it, the future still scared me — the pressures, the complications, the questions, the total lack of control, the unknown. I discovered, as many people in a crisis do, who my real friends were. My family and friends created a wonderful support network to help me overcome these fears. If only I had relied on them sooner. The love and strength of those closest to me provided the safety net without which I'd never have found the courage to take the first steps towards a better life.

One of the hardest things to adjust to was accepting assistance after so long hiding from the issues I needed to resolve. I realised I had been trying to control the number of people who knew about both the sexual assault and the fact I was unable to cope. I had kept these secrets close for years for fear that people would judge me. Now that everything was out in the open, I was terrified. But when I told my parents of my anxiety, they offered the commonsense reassurance: "Now there are more people to help you get better."

Another major obstacle to my recovery was the blow to my self-esteem I suffered when I realised no one trusted me anymore. For several weeks after the moment I arrived in hospital, there always seemed to be people around me. I'm sure this was because everyone wanted to be supportive, but at the time I couldn't help thinking it was to ensure I didn't harm myself again. I had always prided myself on being trustworthy, and I hated the fact that my word was not worth what it once was. It was so much the worse for the fact that I had given everyone grounds to lose faith in me. My actions had caused their reaction. It was unrealistic for me to think there would be a different outcome. In their own time, everyone learned to trust me again, but it was a slow process.

I could see the impact my suicide attempt had had on my loved ones, yet they never said a harsh word to me or blamed me for what I did. They understood I was sick and needed their help. For years, I carried around the guilt for the hurt I had inflicted on the people I loved; I only started to lose it when I summoned the courage to ask people why they had helped me so selflessly in the aftermath of the overdose. Interestingly, everyone's response was a variation on a theme: "It's what you do for someone you love. You needed our help, and while it was difficult for us, it was an experience we don't regret as it made us all who we are today. When you love someone you stick together through the good times and the bad."

****

As soon as I was discharged from hospital, I wanted to go straight back to work. I was the only one who thought this was a good idea! My employer provided a month's fully paid leave to give me time to get my life back on track.

I spent some quality time with my family at the bach where we had shared so many wonderful memories, and we also had a holiday in Fiji. This gave us the opportunity to create a longer-term recovery plan. No one knew how to handle the situation, yet they were 100% committed to helping me, and doing anything necessary to create a healthy environment for me to live in.

Fiji gave me some time out of the spotlight. No one knew who I was, or what had happened. It was the break I desperately needed, but like most of my attempts to avoid my problems, all it really did was delay the inevitable. I couldn't hide forever; the real world was waiting for me.

Returning to Auckland after a month away felt very strange, as did the personal space I found I was allowed now, after being constantly surrounded by people for weeks. I moved out of the flat I'd been living in with my friends Belinda and Adam since I returned from London: they were very understanding. Fortunately, I had another pair of friends, Sarah and Matt, from my days travelling overseas, who generously opened their home to me. This can't have been an easy decision given my recent mental health, but it was one they didn't hesitate to make.

But while I still had a close support network, I now knew that the only person who could really make my recovery work was me. I actively employed a few of the techniques Sally had tried to teach me early on in my treatment, when I had been too stubborn to listen. To try to give my mind the space it needed before I went to bed so that I could have a peaceful sleep, I didn't have any conversations regarding my health, thoughts and feelings after 6 pm. I also developed a sleep routine that I followed every night to try to teach my body to relax. After a shower and a cup of herbal tea, I would write down the highlights of my day, and my goals for the following day. No matter how unbearable my day was, I'd list a handful of things I was grateful for. These were often simple, the kind of things we take for granted — time with family and friends, eating a favourite meal, or sleeping through the night. This technique, that I still use to this day, gave me a sense of control over my life, which was vital when I all too often felt quite the opposite. The day's highlights also helped me see what was important to me, and to appreciate the aspects of my life that I enjoyed the most. The next step was to ensure these positive things became a part of my daily routine.

They were small steps, but they were in the right direction.

****

As the weeks passed, my ability to cope with everyday life improved, and I soon felt strong enough to return to my counselling sessions with Sally. I re-entered counselling committed to being more cooperative and receptive to the help that was being offered.

Ironically, returning to counselling had a significant negative impact on my progress. One week I was talking about my future; the next, that big black hole was welcoming me with open arms once again. It was the last thing I'd expected. I'd left hospital motivated to do whatever it took to recover. I'd even consented to take antidepressants, and I had thought that the pills would put paid to the massive bouts of depression. Yet here I was again, feeling just as incomplete, empty, and rudderless as ever. It was as though the promised land I had been plodding towards had turned out to be a mirage.

In fact, if anything, the depression was worse this time around, because I felt I had finally given the medical professionals a real shot. It seemed as though they couldn't help me, either. It looked like there was no hope for me, and I had no chance for a better life. I knew deep down inside that there was something structural missing, a few nuts and bolts that were supposed to hold me together. Without them, I couldn't be fixed.

Just two months after the initial overdose, I was sitting in my car once again with some packets of Panadol. I'd just finished a counselling session with Sally, and had been left at the end of it with no real hope of a way forward. I felt trapped in a life that I didn't want to be living but I had no idea how to change this.

I had been having good days but then I would plummet again, and it would simply depend on where that crash would take me. On this day, it had me questioning life and the whole point of my existence once again.

I sat in my car for over an hour, in one of my favourite parks, writing down what I truly believed to be my last thoughts in my journal. However, as I started to write, I came up against the single question I desperately wanted the answer to.

"What do you want, Claire Anderson? Do you want to live, or do you want to die?"

Such a simple question! At the end of this sentence in my journal, I wrote: "live". Strangely, after making what was a momentous decision, I went back to work as if nothing had ever happened. The Panadol went in the bin. No one ever knew of this life-changing moment. I decided this was one secret that was not to be shared.

# Chapter 10

### The Breakthrough

Most people don't really know anything about counselling, until they find themselves in need of it. And by the time you've reached that point, you're in such pain that you just want it to stop. We're so used to quick fixes these days: if you're in physical pain, a pill or a jab with a needle takes it away within minutes. Psychological pain isn't like that. The first thing you learn about psychological and emotional pain — about depression — is that it is a slow road back, and one you have to tackle one small step at a time. Opening up to people you trust, seeking professional help: each is a vital ingredient in any lasting cure. But they're not cures in themselves. They're just steps in the right direction.

Looking back, I can see how dangerous my situation had become after the overdose. I thought I'd done everything right since my release from hospital. I had confided in others. I had sought professional help. I had even bowed to the gentle pressure everyone was applying to me to try antidepressants — and if physically taking them turned out to be easy enough, accepting the stigma that went along with them was a very bitter pill to swallow. But I didn't get better overnight, or even after a couple of months. On the contrary, I felt I was right back where I started.

****

I had decided to live. Now all I had to do was work out how to go about it. When you're in the middle of depressive illness, you lose sight of how far from normality you've strayed. From time to time, something reminds you. One night, to try to do something that "normal" people do, I went out to the movies with my old high school friend Amy, before heading around to stay with another good friend of mine from boarding school, Pip. We had a nice time. The next morning, Pip revealed she was terrified about letting me stay in case she found me dead when she woke up. Her honesty shocked me, while at the same time helping me gain an understanding of what it was like for those closest to me.

Around this time, my parents also gave me some tough love. They explained how they felt, that I wasn't thinking about anyone else and it was about time I did. They expressed their concern that I wasn't getting the right help: just because you couldn't physically see my illness, they said, didn't mean I didn't require professional help to address it. They finished by telling me they'd do whatever was needed to help me get better. None of this was new. The difference was I was now starting to listen.

My parents made a number of suggestions, including going back to my GP, as the medication was clearly not working. I refused. I didn't want to return to my doctor to beg for drugs to help me get over the "minor incident" that was troubling me. I mumbled something about how I didn't think there was anyone who could help me. My parents gave me a week to find a solution I was comfortable with. If I hadn't managed it after a week, they would step in.

I spoke about my predicament with Amy, who suggested I see her GP. She had nothing but praise for Dr Murphy, based on her own experiences. I liked the fact Dr Murphy was a woman: I hoped a female doctor would better be able to relate to my circumstances: rape for most women is one of their greatest fears.

My first impressions when I presented to Dr Murphy's surgery were positive. She was warm and natural — none of the stilted formality, the power thing that so often characterises doctor-patient relationships. I responded well to her. I was soon comfortable talking with her, even managing to provide the kind of information she needed to accurately assess my mental health. At no time at any stage of my previous treatment had I felt in control of what was going on. There was no "plan" in place for me to achieve a better life: only directions handed down from above. Dr Murphy was the first medical professional to make me feel as though we were working together to find a resolution.

A sign of how effectively we were communicating was the level of honesty I achieved with her.

"The medication just isn't working," I said. "I've been taking it since I left hospital, but I'm still having suicidal thoughts."

I told her I was afraid I would attempt suicide again — it was just a matter of time. I couldn't have imagined being that upfront with anyone before.

She asked me to persevere with the antidepressant medication, on an increased dosage. It can be a matter of trial and error getting the best out of antidepressants for individual patients, she explained. Sometimes a higher dose works. If it doesn't, there's other drugs to try. But she stressed that antidepressants aren't a silver bullet. She gently suggested I see a psychiatrist, one she highly recommended.

The thought of going to a psychiatrist terrified me. That's where "crazy people" went. In fact, it tapped into one of my deepest fears. I knew the things I were thinking and feeling weren't normal, but I didn't know how far off-beam they were. Could it be I was just one step away from a psychiatric hospital? I imagined a place with steel bars over the windows, sterile white walls, and patients fed pills against their will. What had my life come to?

Dr Murphy assured me that the psychiatrist she was referring me to worked with many people in a similar situation to me. She offered what was known as Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing (EMDR) treatment, which had proved to be the first step towards a better life for many sufferers of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The downside was that there was a two-month waiting list. I was terrified of what could happen in this time, as I was back to feeling every day was a struggle. Dr Murphy got me to agree to call her clinic regularly during this time. If I didn't keep an appointment to call, they would come looking for me. I guess the purpose of this was to get me to take active responsibility for my health. When the Crisis Team was calling me, I couldn't care less, but when the onus was on me to uphold my side of the agreement, it was a different matter. My pride kicked in. I wasn't going to let anyone down.

****

So now the countdown was on until I saw the specialist.

The biggest question I continued to struggle with was: "What am I doing here?"

I must have asked this question in Sandra's hearing, because she suggested I talk with her boyfriend, Neil. He had been Sandra's much needed support while she helped me throughout my illness. Part of the reason she was able to be so available for me to lean on her was that Neil was being her rock. In a way, he'd been keeping a watchful eye over both of us.

Neil had an infectious and charismatic personality and I warmed to him and to his positive energy from the outset. The three of us went to a local community centre so we could talk in private. At Sandra's prompting, I told him that the question I now most wanted an answer to was: "What am I doing here?" Neil produced a leather-bound Bible, and read a few lines that seemed as though they'd be written to answer exactly that question. While I had been to a religious school with hymns and prayers three times a week and church on Sunday, I had never believed in God. But it was easy to accept Neil's faith, because it was so clearly the source of his stability and security. We talked for hours; I can't remember the specific details, but I remember envying his self-belief and inner peace. I wondered where I could find some of that. As we left, Neil handed me the beautiful _Bible_.

"This is for you," he said. "It's yours."

****

Still I was counting down to the day of my appointment with the psychiatrist.

My family and friends did everything they could to provide a warm, loving, support network while I waited for the EMDR treatment. It turns out this is exactly what I needed. There were many times when I didn't want to talk — not because I was bottling it up, but because I just needed some space from my problems. This was one of the greatest gifts they gave me. They may have felt they couldn't do enough for me, but I felt differently. I have countless memories of these times where they just let me be me. They didn't make me answer any questions or talk about how I felt: I was so tired of all that. Instead, we simply spent time together. They are the moments out of that dark time that I cherish. I realise now that it is so important to rely on the people who care about you the most when the pain is at its worst. Their unconditional love can make an unbearable situation sit more lightly.

One welcome distraction during these two months was the search for a new home. I loved living with my friends Sarah and Matt, and will never be able to express my gratitude for the unwavering support they gave me throughout this very difficult time, but I had grown tired of never having a place I could call mine. I had lost count of the number of times I had shifted during my life, with Dad's work, boarding school, university and then travel. I wanted some stability, and I believed that if I could find a place I could actually call home, I might find it there. Fortunately, I was by now in a financial situation where I could do something about it. I went house-hunting with my parents lending a hand. It was a very exciting experience.

I was still terrified of bumping into Bob again on the North Shore, so my search began on the city side of Auckland. After viewing close to forty properties, the realisation hit that I couldn't afford a place in an area where I felt safe. Mum suggested we look at the North Shore after all, even though she knew and understood my reasons for avoiding this area.

"Let's just have a look to see what is on offer," she said. "No decisions need to be made until you feel you are ready."

I fell in love with my unit as soon as I walked through the front door. It just felt like home, and it soon was, with my offer accepted within a few hours. I was on the North Shore after all, but it turned out that making a decision to live where I wanted to live regardless was a first positive step in taking control of my life back from Bob.

****

I moved in to my new home just before my EMDR treatment. The day of my appointment was an anxious time for everyone. We had heard only positive things about the treatment, and I had typically pinned my hopes on this being the miracle cure I was looking for. Everyone close to me sensed my desperation for it to be true. Mum travelled up from Taupo to be at home when I returned from the appointment, and Robbie, my godmother, was there to support her as Dad had to stay behind in Taupo to work.

I was nervous as I was shown into the psychiatrist's consulting room. It was a room not too dissimilar to a GP's, with a desk and a few comfortable chairs. The lighting was dimmer, however, perhaps to settle patients in a calm place.

Dr Campbell was a lovely lady in her forties, with a nice, easy way about her. She came across as an everyday person — hardly my preconceived idea of a scary psychiatrist at all.

Fortunately, she had my medical records so we didn't have to talk about the reason for my visit. Instead this session was about therapy, releasing the trauma from my subconscious mind.

She explained the theory of EMDR to me. It turns out that when you experience a traumatic event, your brain fragments the experience as a coping mechanism, and even totally blocks some fragments from your memory to protect you. It's as if a jigsaw puzzle is created, with the loose pieces floating around your mind and occasionally drifting into view. The flashbacks I was regularly experiencing were the outlet for these disjointed memories.

For some reason, Dr Campbell explained, rapid eye movements seem to be related to memory. It's long been known that when you dream, your eyes move rapidly here and there, and EMDR assumes that it can work the other way around, too — if you induce rapid eye movements, you can trigger memories.

"Shall we give it a go?" she asked.

I took a deep breath, and nodded.

She held up her forefinger in front of me and asked me to focus on it. She began moving it to and fro and asked me to visualise the beginning of that long-ago night, from the time I arrived at the ball, all the while focusing on her finger as it moved from left to right and back again. I was soon completely oblivious to her finger, to her and to the room. Images of the night of the ball began flashing before my eyes as if I were passing it by on a train. The ball, the kiss, the drinks at the bar, the taxi — and then the emotional distress at what I was seeing became too much. I broke down, trembling, tears pouring down my face and a deep ache in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to be sick! The memories that had surfaced — some for the first time since the night of the sexual assault — were just too painful. I didn't want to carry on. How could I relive an experience I had tried so hard to erase from my mind for so many years?

Dr Campbell instantly stopped the process, bringing me back to reality and helping me focus on the present. She kept saying: "He can't get you. You're safe here." So vivid had the memories been that it was some time before I could believe her. As I became more comfortable with my surroundings, she asked in an encouraging, supportive voice whether I would like to continue.

Initially, I refused. There was no way I was going to experience the sexual assault again. She gently persisted, assuring me that we could stop the thought progression at any point. I was in control: Bob wasn't.

We resumed the therapy. Again, I endured it to the point where I could no longer bear the images that my subconscious was releasing, and again she stopped and reassured me that I was safe. When I'd calmed down, we resumed. We repeated this process over and over until eventually the entire night played out in front of me like a horror film.

Interestingly, though, although I recovered many memories for the first time since the night, some remained blocked in my mind. This could only have been a further protective mechanism: my mind was only allowing me to deal with the recollections I could cope with at that point in time in my life. As if to confirm this theory, as I began to heal over the weeks and months to follow and grew stronger, more snippets of the dreaded night have come back to me. Each was an ordeal, but at least I now knew they were part of the healing process.

Mum and Robbie were waiting, their expressions tense, when I got home after the treatment. I could see the relief on their faces as I spoke positively about the therapy.

I told them that the session had helped me to realise something I hadn't previously admitted to myself.

"I can see now that I was the victim. It wasn't my fault," I said.

Looking at their faces, it was as though someone had opened the curtains and allowed some sunlight into a darkened room.

# Chapter 11

### Finding Myself

The EMDR treatment wasn't a miracle cure, but it was definitely a positive step in the right direction. With just one treatment, the frequency of my flashbacks instantly reduced. As I wasn't reliving the trauma of the attack every day and night — I was sleeping better as a consequence — I found I had the energy to focus on other aspects of my life and the fight to live the life I wanted. The good days had become more frequent, and in time even outweighed the bad. The antidepressants, with the increased dosage, had also now removed the huge troughs, but the downside was that they left me feeling flat. I was relieved to have been insulated from the worst of the pain, but I didn't want to feel like this forever, either. I certainly didn't believe the daily medication was going to give my life back, and I was aware that it was treating a symptom, not the underlying cause of my problems. Where, then, could I look for a cure?

****

A few weeks after the EMDR treatment, my employer nominated me to attend Outward Bound at Anakiwa in the Marlborough Sounds. I had always wanted to go to Outward Bound, having heard positive stories from others who had completed the course, but I'd always been deterred by the $3,500-odd it cost to attend. Now, I was in the privileged situation where my employer was removing this obstacle, and it looked like this dream would become a reality.

A letter from Outward Bound arrived soon after I had submitted my application, which explained that my acceptance couldn't be guaranteed, given my recent history. It was only four months since my overdose. Outward Bound would have to assess my situation and satisfy themselves that it was the right environment for me at this stage of my recovery.

I duly spoke with the Outward Bound professionals, and assured them this was absolutely what I needed at this point in my life. I'll always be grateful to them for trusting me, and letting me attend the course. I can honestly say, and it's no exaggeration whatsoever, that if they hadn't, I don't know whether I'd be alive today. The opportunity they gave me was the turning point.

The course I was enrolled in is called The Navigator, and it's an eight-day leadership development programme that blends outdoor and workshop activities. I travelled to Picton with high hopes and not a little trepidation. This is where I first met the group with whom I'd be sharing the experience, known at Outward Bound as "watchmates". The mix of people in my group surprised me. We were 11 individuals of all ages, and both sexes, who had been brought together by our employers with the common objective of reaching our full potential through being challenged by adventure in the outdoors.

Within minutes of meeting my watchmates at the Picton Ferry Terminal, Paul and Shawn, two of our instructors, loaded us into a truck for the long, winding drive out to Anakiwa, which is a beautiful spot nestled on the edge of Queen Charlotte Sound. If we thought we were there for a holiday, we soon thought again: the truck stopped in the middle of nowhere, and our instructors told us to get changed as we were running the rest of the way. We all looked at each other wondering if this was a joke. No joke: they were serious. The males got changed in a roadside paddock, the females in a nearby cowshed, and off we went on our first team-building exercise.

Nor was it over when we got to camp. As we huffed and puffed our way in, our instructors told us to keep going. I was confused: the road ended in a jetty and there was nowhere to go but into the icy, September water of Queen Charlotte Sound.

"Jump off!" they were yelling, in case there was any doubt.

As soon as we'd emerged, spluttering and gasping, they set us to doing sit-ups and press-ups under a tall fountain pouring freezing cold water on us, counting aloud as we went. It looked like being a long eight days!

****

The workshop sessions started. Maggie, our other instructor, got us to write down our fears of the programme on a piece of paper and put them in the centre of the group. Each one was read aloud for us to hear what everyone else in the group was feeling. My biggest concern was I didn't know what was going to happen next. I had always liked planning ahead — a personality trait that was evident in my childhood and which only became even more pronounced after the sexual assault. Since that time, I had tried to control the future by always having a plan. I thought by knowing what was coming next, I could prepare my mind and body, making it easier to deal with whatever situation arose.

We were to learn during our time at Outward Bound that we would never know what was coming next. The rationale is that knowing in advance that we were going to jump off a cliff in three days' time, for example, doesn't make the experience any easier. In fact, this knowledge could play havoc, particularly if you had a fear of heights! I could appreciate their reasoning, but that didn't stop a lot of speculation amongst the group. The event we were all trying to predict was Outward Bound's trademark "solo", where we would be left alone in the bush for two nights. But we never got an inkling of this or anything else that they had in store for us. Outward Bound has been operating for over 40 years, so they'd had plenty of practice in keeping attendees guessing. That's exactly what they did.

The only guaranteed, predictable activity was that if we were staying in camp, there was physical training. This involved up to an hour's exercise as dawn broke. To warm up, we were put through 30 minutes of exercises, followed by a 3km run which always ended with a leap from the jetty, then the press-ups and sit-ups under the freezing cold fountain. No hot showers were allowed in the morning, so this was our bathing time before breakfast.

The first couple of days were predominantly workshop-based. The questionnaire I'd completed before I left, similar to a psychometric test, provided a huge amount of insight into who I was and why I did the things I did. I felt I understood myself for the first time in 26 years. It was just the beginning of the enlightenment I was to enjoy as the days progressed.

One night after dinner, we were told to pack our backpacks, as we were going out for the night and would be met by a couple of our instructors at the specified rendezvous point in the morning. In the black of a pitch-black night, we set off with a map, compass and enough food for a couple of days. I'm hopeless with directions, so I left it up to those who knew what they were doing. We found our camping spot without too much trouble and pitched our tents, just in time to beat the rain that started pouring down. We were feeling pretty chuffed with ourselves: we had passed our first test with flying colours.

The next day, as promised, Paul and Maggie joined us for the day's activity. We had to make our way through dense bush to a trig station at the top of a ridge and then get back down again in time for dinner back at camp. A compass and map were our only instruments and while they would keep an eye on us, there was to be no input from our instructors.

Once again, our group was amazing. We reached the trig station in record time, a fact we took great delight in sharing with the other people we saw on the trail. But complacency can be a recipe for disaster, and that's what it was for us. We missed the correct ridgeline that would bring us back down to the track. Once we'd realised our mistake, instead of backtracking, we decided to press on. Trouble was, we didn't pay any attention to the contours on the map. The rain was pouring down on us, as it had done all day, and as the steep hill got steeper still, finally turning into a cliff, the descent got treacherous.

I'd spent most of the day hanging back in the group, as I couldn't help with the navigation. That gave me time to talk with some of my watchmates. I noticed one of the guys had an Ironman tattoo on his calf muscle. I asked him if he'd done an Ironman, as he just didn't look the type: he was the oldest in the group — early fifties — and he certainly hadn't stood out during the physical training sessions. It turned out he had done about 15! I was amazed and in absolute awe of his achievements.

A fleeting thought passed through my mind. If he could do it, maybe I could, too. This was the first seed sown that would later flourish as my Ironman dream.

****

Paul, our instructor, began voicing concern about our situation. The descent was steep and dangerously slippery. It was getting late in the day, and darkness would soon be upon us. If we didn't get out soon, we'd all be spending a miserable night in the bush.

He left to find a way out, but still cocky with our achievements to date and convinced that we knew what we were doing, the group pressed on. It wasn't long before it all became too much for me. I called a halt, and told my watchmates that I felt we were in serious trouble. We no longer had one of our instructors with us, so if anything went wrong...

Minutes later, Paul yelled out to us, providing directions to the summit of the cliff. Following his lead, we clambered up through the dense bush covering the hillside, hauling ourselves up by grabbing onto trees as we went. One tree partially gave way, leaving me holding on for dear life. I was screaming for help, crying and terrified. The group was right there to hold me so I could get a more stable grip. This was the toughest moment for me at Outward Bound.

Once on the ridge, we descended the other side, slithering down the cliff on our bums as the torrential rain provided a slippery slope. I was so happy to see the path: we all were. Once on stable ground, we refuelled with cereal left over from breakfast and headed back to the warmth of the cabins at camp.

We didn't appreciate just how serious the situation was until we got back. It seems we'd created quite a stir. Everyone knew we'd got lost in the bush, something not many groups have done in Outward Bound's entire 40-year history. Without doubt, if Paul hadn't taken the action he did, we would have spent the night in the bush, if there hadn't been more serious consequences before then.

Our next outing was eventful, but for other reasons. We set sail into the Marlborough Sounds with only a hazy notion of our destination. We had food packages containing two dinners, so it was logical to assume we'd be away from camp for a couple of nights. We were given instruction in the rudiments of sailing the wooden cutters they use at Outward Bound, and then we were let loose to try to put the theory into practice. If there was no wind, we had to row. The wind was shifty, so we spent most of the first day rowing. We got into a rhythm and took turns resting. Our group always worked well together, with everyone's strengths combining to make a perfect team. When the wind did pick up, we shipped our oars and raised the sails, and attempted to navigate our way through the Sounds. With no experts there to help or guide us, we made stilted progress, but eventually we arrived at the campsite our instructors had chosen for the night.

Once ashore, we set up camp and settled in for the night, still with no idea of what was in store for us the next day. Most of us got very little sleep, imagining what crazy task we might be called upon to perform that night, but nothing eventuated.

We set sail with a lot more confidence on day two, and made some fantastic progress. Sailing through the Sounds is quite an experience — definitely a lot more enjoyable than rowing! We met up with the instructors at lunchtime, where we were told our "solo" was about to begin.

****

We were facing two nights alone in the bush in a secluded location that was only accessible by boat.

We were each given the appropriate supplies — a bucket filled with sawdust for our toilet, a tarpaulin with which to create our own shelter, some food rations, pen, paper, and a sleeping bag. It was all we needed. We were all back to the basics of life: you lose sight of how simple our needs are in the materialistic world we live in. As long as we were warm, dry and fed there was nothing else we needed.

The instructors stressed to us that this was our time to reflect, and the expectation was that we would all leave the bush with a clearer understanding of our values, of the aspects of our lives that were important to us, and of what we wanted to achieve in life. We were each to develop a personal mission statement, and to write down a comment on each member of our group. I was very sceptical. How could all of this be possible in just over two days?

I was dropped off at my solo spot, a small clearing half-way up a bush-clad hill. I was pleased to see that those before me had created a nice bed of ferns with a small trench around it. I hitched the tarpaulin to the surrounding trees to create some shelter, wrapped up in my sleeping bag, stuck my feet into the plastic liner from my backpack and slept. I slept the entire first day, only waking to use the bucket.

Incredibly, my solo was the longest time I had ever spent alone. I mean _really_ alone. I was in the bush with my thoughts and feelings. I didn't consciously think or try to control my mind, I just wrote down whatever came naturally. My values were jotted down on the paper in front of me — trust, honesty, respect, openness (what I do and what I say are the same thing), teamwork (be a part of a group rather than an individual), caring and giving, integrity, development (continual personal and professional growth) and commitment (giving 100%).

Wow! For the first time in my life, I had identified what my values were without any outside influence.

Next, I considered what was important to me in descending order. These also flowed freely from my mind to paper — family, friends, my mental and physical health, my values, travel, new life experiences and my career. It was interesting, looking down at the page and considering how I'd spent the last few years chasing the status associated with climbing the corporate ladder, my career was the last item on my list.

True to the promise of my instructors, when I walked out of the solo to meet them on the beach for my ride back to camp and beyond it, the real world, I felt I had complete clarity on my life. This was an incredibly empowering feeling. I had formulated: "Choose to live rather than just exist". I had also realised that surrounding myself with positive people who reinforced my values — such as my watchmates on Outward Bound — I could live a more fulfilling life.

Other self-knowledge came from others. Back at camp, we read out the comments we'd written to each of our watchmates. My peers talked of my openness and honesty; that I was never being backward in coming forward in saying it how it was; my ability to move seamlessly between being a leader and a follower, but at the same time always doing what was required; the strength of my character and perseverance when things got tough; and my obvious desire to achieve everything in life. I'd known those in my group for less than eight days, yet I felt they all knew me better than people who had known me for many years. I still have what my watchmates wrote. It brings me tears of happiness every time I read it. Their comments were the Claire Anderson I knew before the sexual assault: the person I loved. It was an unspeakably wonderful thing to know that she was still there.

****

Eight days! It was only eight days, but Outward Bound turned my life around. The highly trained instructors pushed me to my limits while guiding me to understand who I really was. I will always be grateful for the experience, and to this day I am at my happiest when I'm living by the words I wrote down at Outward Bound.

It's well known Outward Bound attendees make significant changes to their lives once they return home. The distance and isolation from everyday life gives you the opportunity to reassess what you want. Too often we drift through life on a treadmill, constantly just ticking over, never taking the time to stop, look, listen, feel and think. Outward Bound was the first time I did just that. My course helped me focus on defining what was important to me, what I wanted out of life and what my values were. I realised these were the answers I had been searching for.

It may seem simple, but for me, it was a blinding revelation. We all have values in our life, whether we've taken the time to consider them or not. They act as the guiding star for the decisions we make, and when you're living according to them, you have the reassuring feeling that you're "on track".

It's when you lose sight of your values that you're truly lost. Like everyone else, I'd always made New Year's resolutions every year, but every year most of them had fallen by the wayside. I realised after Outward Bound that I could only hold to them when they aligned with what was really important to me. I developed a new approach. Every year, from that time in the bush, I decided I would try to replicate my Outward Bound experience by going overseas. The time away in a foreign land helps me reflect, assess, appreciate and refocus. When you're depressed, it's easy to believe everything in your life is terrible. This can fester into "I have nothing to live for". Sure, some aspects of your life may be particularly tumultuous, but it's pretty rare for everything to be awful, even if that's how it can appear. As I now appreciate, a depressed person's reality is not the truth.

To help adjust my perspective and to recover this clarity, I list each area of my life that is important to me and then give it a score out of ten. This approach helps me see what's going well, and the areas that need more attention through setting some specific goals. The experience is empowering, and I always feel lighter after spending this time to refocus.

****

The transition back to the real world was difficult, as I now saw with perfect clarity the impact Tim was having on my well-being. I felt overwhelming gratitude to my employer for funding my experience at Outward Bound: I said as much in a letter I wrote to the Board of the Employee Education Fund, but I knew I had to get out for the sake of my health. Fortunately, the company was also going through significant changes, with three other employees in my department leaving in quick succession; my departure wasn't linked to my recent Outward Bound course.

My home became my sanctuary during these turbulent times. I also had a new kitten, Ollie, and he gave me someone else to think about other than myself. I had met Ollie at his carers' place the week before I left for Anakiwa, and he moved in the night I returned from Outward Bound. He had been rescued from a rubbish skip outside a motel in Mangere, and was clearly traumatised by the abuse his rescuers believed he had been subjected to.

The next morning, after returning from Outward Bound, I took my washing out to the clothesline, shutting the outside door behind me. But when I returned from the laundry, Ollie was gone. I felt sick. I'd been entrusted with this tiny, helpless kitten and I hadn't managed to look after him for 24 hours!

My friends and I searched everywhere for him, but to no avail. After five days, as a last resort I called Rebecca, his carer, desperate for some advice on how to find him. She suggested she come over, hoping that the sound of her voice would bring him home.

As I had each previous day, I left out some food and some milk when I went to work, and checked them when I got home. Each day, they'd been untouched. On the day that Rebecca was to come over, though, I couldn't believe it: the bowls had been licked clean. It turns out poor little Ollie had been hiding on a little ledge under my chest of drawers, a place I didn't think to check when I'd emptied them. This little episode behind us, Ollie and I became the best of friends.

Not long afterwards I opened my home up further when I entered into a new relationship. I was at my manager Sandra's place with a number of other workmates, celebrating the end of the year when Sandra's flatmate Nick returned home to a house full of jovial people. While refilling my glass in the kitchen, I stopped to talk with him and soon learned he was also heading to his family bach for the holidays. As luck would have it, it was just a few kilometres from mine. We were inseparable from that point on.

Nick shared my love for the great outdoors, a passion that had recently been rekindled at Outward Bound. His youthful enthusiasm meant we were off camping most weekends when the weather allowed, then down to the bach in winter for the ski season.

Nick became one of the most influential people at this time in my life. He helped me learn to completely trust again, and I loved him dearly for this.

He first knew of my struggles several months into our relationship. I had been dreading the conversation from the day we met. One night, when we were curled up on the couch, I started to talk with him about my previous experiences. Tears welled up in his eyes as I calmly spoke of the past, the experiences that had, for better or for worse, made me who I was. He listened to every word and then silence fell between us.

"I love you," he said simply, and the long silence was broken.

# Chapter 12

### Playing in the Sand

While I had made momentous steps, the road of recovery still stretched into the distance. It was still ahead of me when I got back from Outward Bound.

Dr Campbell, the psychiatrist, had recommended I look into Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), a proven treatment for both Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and depression. She felt I was locked in a pattern of negative thought processes, and CBT offered to change it. It's based on the principle that how you think affects the way you feel and ultimately the way you act. Thoughts, that is, soon become things.

I started this treatment as I had done so many others: with a ten storey brick wall that was several metres thick. There was no way I was letting anyone into my mind, as I still dreaded the thoughts I lived with becoming known, for fear of being judged. Sure, my actions, five months beforehand, had showed the world I wasn't well, but I clung to the belief that I was a "normal person".

Melissa, the psychologist to whom I was referred, got past my defences in the most unlikely way. She presented me with a sand tray around half a metre square and a bucket with an assortment of plastic toys, and invited me to play with them. I was insulted. How on earth could playing in sandpit help me with my situation?

Melissa explained that she often does sandtray therapy herself. It's a technique that's particularly useful in dealing with people who are reluctant — or even unable — to recognise and talk about difficult issues. Ah well, I thought. If it was good enough for a pyschologist, then perhaps it could help me, after all.

Melissa sat a short distance from me observing my movements while I crouched down on the ground with the sand tray in front of me and the toys to my left. I felt stupid. But after sitting in silence for several minutes, I picked up a little plastic deer. Then I chose some more farm animals. As the hour passed I placed more objects in the sand, and improbably as it seems, my story was written there plain as day, for the trained eye to read.

In the top left-hand corner, I had built a farm scene. Mum's parents owned a farm. While I loved my grandad, and to this day wish he was still alive, I hated my grandmother for the physical abuse she had subjected my Mum to and the emotional abuse she had inflicted on both mum and my sister. For some reason, I was the golden child and could do no wrong, so I wasn't directly exposed to her vicious behaviour. In some ways, it might have been better if I had. The harsh treatment those I loved had received and that I had been spared had a significant impact on me.

Near the farm was a little male figure, surrounded by soldiers. It was Bob, of course, and a firing squad. The only conscious decision I'd made during the entire time was to try to find as many soldiers as possible — eight just wasn't enough. Not that a bullet or even a hail of bullets was punishment enough: I wanted him to experience nothing less than the pain I'd lived with for years. Finally, nearby, there was a handful of snakes. I've always been scared of them.

At the bottom right-hand corner, suitably separated, were toys representing my family, my cat Ollie, a plane, boat, a bike and even a fragment of bark.

Melissa then explained it all for me. As I've said, I have a very black and white personality and often struggle to find a shade of grey. This exercise was a perfect illustration of how my mind works. My true unconscious feelings were revealed. I'd created a clear divide with everything I loved at the bottom and everything I hated at the top, with a distinct gap in between. The injustice I associated with my grandmother (the farm). Bob, obviously. My fears — the snakes: they were all grouped together. At the bottom, my family, travel, sport and the great outdoors. Interestingly, my boyfriend Nick didn't appear in my sandtray. Melissa didn't seem bothered by this oversight when I drew her attention to it, but the absence of the man I loved stuck in my mind.

But for all my skepticism, it seemed my psychologist wasn't crazy after all. I looked into the sand tray and I recognised myself. Maybe, just maybe, there were other techniques that could help me, too.

And it turned out there were. The remaining sessions explored what Melissa called my schemas, otherwise known as "lifetraps". These are deeply ingrained, long-term patterns, and like addictions or bad habits, they are difficult to alter, but through facing them head-on and understanding them, change can occur.

****

In the privacy of my own home, I completed a questionnaire listing 232 assorted thoughts. I had to rate each on a scale, 1 = "completely untrue of me", to 6, = "describes me perfectly". Reading my answers afterward, it felt as though the person I had shut out of my life had sneaked through the back door and written my thoughts on the pieces of paper in front of me. I wrote down one six after another — "people usually have to prove themselves to me before I can trust them": 6; "no man I desire could love me once he saw my defects": 6; "when people like me, I feel I am fooling them": 6; "I have inner secrets I don't want people close to me to find out": 6; "it's very difficult for me to ask others to take care of my needs": 6; "almost nothing I do is quite good enough, I can always do better..." And so it went on.

The significance of these answers was revealed at my next session. Melissa was able to identify the schemas that were most pertinent to me - defectiveness, unrelenting standards and mistrust/abuse. She promised that exploring these areas was going to help me to gain a deeper understanding of the nuts and bolts that made me the person I was.

For years I had hidden the real me, the person who had been sexually assaulted, as I felt an overwhelming feeling of shame. It was this feeling that drove my "defectiveness schema". I honestly believed I was inherently flawed. I hated myself. I thought there was something wrong with me, deep inside where no one could see, and that no one would love me if they knew the real me. I was convinced the best I could do was hide my inner flaws, and try to postpone the inevitable when someone got close enough to find out the truth. So I pretended to be someone else, the person I assumed people wanted me to be. The individual I was playing at being was also the person I wanted to be —the ideal daughter/sister/friend/lover who was not damaged goods.

I was able to recognise through my treatment that I had coped with my defectiveness by avoiding long-term, intimate relationships. Since the assault, I had been attracted to men who were in other relationships, or who could only be in my life for a short time due to my travel commitments. This ensured they could never get close enough to see my inner flaws. At the same time, though, my behaviour was creating a vicious circle. By hiding my true self, I never believed my partner could love the real me; and by not being completely open, I was reinforcing the belief I was unlovable.

Shutting out my family and friends was another coping mechanism, but one I used for different reasons. I agonised over sharing my burden with those closest to me. Each time I came to the same conclusion: I simply wanted to protect them. I would much rather sacrifice my own well-being than subject the people I cared about the most to the ugly truth. My determination to do it my way ultimately led to my decline. As the years have passed, I've come to realise that no one person can fulfil all of their own needs, and it actually takes a strong character to ask for help. In fact, the most successful individuals will tell you the key to achieving your goals is to know your strengths and weaknesses. Letting others show you the way, even if you're the one doing the walking, is all part of the plan. These sorts of people are driven and motivated, and when the going gets tough, the tough ask for help!

Since the assault, I had created a protective layer to help me stay on my guard, as I expected people to hurt or use me. I thought it was just a matter of time before a person let me down: for me it wasn't an "if", but a "when". So I tried not to get close to anyone. I was always looking for a reason to not trust someone. When there was a slip-up, even when it was relatively small, it would reinforce my belief that they couldn't be trusted. If someone did something nice for me, I would assume there was an ulterior motive. Imagine the strain on my friends and family — wanting to love me, but constantly being pushed away due to the kind of thoughts controlling my mind!

While I had created a hard exterior that was less easily hurt, deep inside I was experiencing agonising pain over losing my true self. I had buried this person, but I had paid a terrible price. I had lost spontaneity, joy, trust and intimacy, and accepted instead a guarded, locked-down shell. This explained why I considered ending my life the second time. I had been feeling better day-to-day, at least on the surface, but it was just an illusion. I actually still felt empty, which is why I had believed the pills were the only answer.

Melissa and I discussed this lifetrap at length. It was through these conversations that I began to understand my behaviour of more recent years, too. Throughout my various treatments, I deliberately avoided certain topics, whether by simply not talking, changing the subject or not turning up. Melissa helped me realise this was once again an outlet for my defectiveness. Any subject that made me feel ashamed was to be avoided to help protect myself from the pain I experienced. Fortunately, my own tricks were no match for my psychologist's skills: she always managed to overcome this all-too-familiar tactic of mine.

Now I knew what my lifetraps were, and the behaviours that were counterproductive to a healthy recovery. Yet I still couldn't see why anyone would love me, including my current boyfriend, Nick. After all, I was imperfect. There were so many people who believed in me, but I just couldn't see why. This was one of the frustrations Jeremy, with whom I had travelled the world, later shared with me: "You couldn't see what others did. We all loved you but you just didn't see this."

Unfortunately, I was stuck in the situation where I believed my truth was reality, but this was just not the case. It was a misguided perception all along.

****

Melissa explored this further by asking me what I loved about myself. I couldn't name a single quality. Even after much probing, I still came up with nothing. She suggested I ask those closest to me for their thoughts.

Well, I couldn't think of anything worse!

I told myself this was because it was unbearably egotistical: in reality, I believe I was scared of what they were going to say about me. We came to a compromise. I would email them, so that I could feel a bit detached from the situation by hiding behind a computer delivered message.

I felt physically ill typing the email to my family and closest friends. I expected the worst outcome, believing they would react the same way as I had to the suggestion. I can't recall the exact words I used, but it was something along the lines of needing their help to understand who I was as a person.

They answered. The email responses came flooding back, with countless, positive comments. I wept as I read the words, words I never dared to hope could be associated with me: dedicated, supportive, reliable, loyal, intelligent, adventurous, courageous, caring... It took me a very long time to accept that their feedback could possibly be genuine. I look back now, and clearly see this was another big step towards acceptance, towards accepting the past, and accepting the real Claire.

****

To compensate for my perceived inadequacies, I would set high standards for myself and strive to achieve them, a schema that Melissa called "unrelenting standards". I have always been very competitive, and always felt obliged to do my best, a quality that brought success, but at the same time one that meant I placed immense pressure on myself. I could never just sit back and take a break to enjoy life. I was always pushing, pushing, pushing, to be better at whatever I did. What is interesting about this situation is other people would comment to me on how much I had achieved; but in my eyes, I had just ticked another box. In fact, I felt emptiness over what I had accomplished, as it didn't bring the satisfaction I sought because I believed I could always do better. In my eyes, I was never quite good enough.

What I had never considered was the way these unrelenting standards had conditioned my management of the sexual assault and subsequent depression. I was to learn that a common consequence of this schema is the tendency to be excessively self-critical when you make a mistake. In my eyes, I had made a huge error in not getting the taxi driver to drop me off at my home that night, and I beat myself up accordingly for years afterwards. Throughout the ordeal, I also thought I should have been able to cope with the incident on my own, but I when I couldn't, I inflicted further punishment on myself. My mind was constantly beset with these destructive thoughts. I wasn't allowed to put a foot wrong. No wonder I hated myself.

I had seen a number of therapists, but no one had been able to break through the thick walls I had created with my schemas, until Melissa used another very simple technique. She got me to take an A3 piece of paper and divide it into four columns: thoughts, evidence for, evidence against and alternative thoughts.

Up until this point, I had thought people didn't believe me when I told them of the sexual assault. I wrote this statement in the first column. Next, I noted the evidence for: my close friend, Mark, had chosen to live with Bob even though I'd confided in him about the sexual assault; in fact, none of the friends I had told had confronted Bob or tried to make him in any way accountable. When I told people I trusted about the incident, they would just change the subject or neglect to raise it again; no one seemed to understand what I was going through.

Forced to think about this belief, though, I found I could produce evidence against my thoughts. ACC had accepted my sensitive claim application, and the people closest to me provided total support throughout my treatment.

But the real benefit of the exercise, the moment I later recognised as a turning point, was when I came to consider a different perspective, to try to find alternative thoughts to the original statement.

Could it be that I simply didn't understand the immense pressure I was putting on my friends to respond in the way I wanted them to, and that they simply lacked the knowledge of how to proceed? After all, each time I confided in someone, I had been through an extensive thought process, lasting many weeks, before I opened my mouth: did I trust this person? Could they handle the knowledge I was about to share with them? Once these two boxes were ticked, I would then ask myself whether I thought they could help me take the next step in my recovery — without, of course, telling another living soul. After all, I wanted to confide, but I also wanted complete control over who knew what.

The person I was confiding in didn't have the luxury of thinking things through, as the moment I told them, they were on the spot. The clock was ticking: I was waiting, and they had seconds to react.

Staring at these four columns, I began at last to perceive the terrible power of my thoughts. I had assumed people didn't react the way I wanted them to when I confided in them because they didn't believe me. I didn't have proof: I simply assumed it, and then believed it for years! As with many situations when we separate fact from fiction, the problem quickly began to clear up.

Another major achievement during this time was that I was able to write a letter to Bob. Throughout my treatment, starting way back in London, the therapists had strongly encouraged me to tell him what his actions meant to me but I didn't feel I was strong enough to take the step. And now so much water had passed under the bridge. How could I find the words to describe how his actions had impacted on my life?

Melissa encouraged me to try, and she also strongly advised me to read this letter out to my family, friends and to Nick before sending it.

I had many false starts. Each time I started to write, the emotional turmoil threatened to overwhelm me, so I resorted back to putting my head in the sand. But each week, I was becoming stronger. One day, I sat down with a pen and paper and the words were finally there.

The reason I am taking the time to write to you after all of these years is to share my life changing experience that you were a part of whilst we were friends at university. I have learned a great deal since university, in particular since our Ball in our final year. Do you remember the night? I unfortunately remember the events of the night vividly... the night a friend deeply betrayed my trust by not listening to me saying "NO!" I have blamed myself for years for what happened, believing for some reason I deserved what you did to me. You have hurt me so deeply, both physically and emotionally, by choosing not to listen to me saying no. The anguish at one point was so intense I even tried to end my life, as I couldn't cope living another day with this burden placed upon me. Now my situation is different. I realise I did not have control of the circumstances that arose, and that I cannot blame myself for someone else's action. I will never be able to excuse you or forgive you for what you did to me that night of our university ball.

The past became easier to accept with each loved one I read the letter to, and the shame somehow more manageable. However, the largest hurdle was yet to come: sending the letter to Bob. For me, it wasn't just an exercise. I wanted him to know how his actions had impacted on my life, but I hated the thought that I would never know whether he had read the letter or not. My Dad took control of the situation and called his parents, saying his daughter had written a letter to their son, and asked whether they would ensure he read it. This was the last I heard of it. There was no sender's address on the envelope. Once it was posted, it was time to move on.

# Chapter 13

### You Can Do It

As the months progressed, I became more self-sufficient. I completed my Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and came off the antidepressant medication. CBT made me realise I was my own worst enemy: that my thoughts had contributed to my depression and subsequent suicide attempt. I didn't fully realise at the time, but my mind was also my greatest asset; the challenge was to learn how most effectively to use it.

Around this time, I read _Off The Front Foot_ , a book by Mark Inglis, the New Zealander who summited Mt Everest despite being a double amputee. I found it inspirational. He talks of not wasting your dreams, but owning them. He writes that all too often we don't follow our hearts because we believe that our dreams are unattainable, that there are too many obstacles to overcome, and we simply don't know where to start. This may well prove to be the case, he writes, but that doesn't mean you can't aspire to achieve them.

Mark explained the first step towards owning your goals was to write them down. This makes it more likely that they will come true. I followed his advice. Whenever I heard myself say, "I'd love to do that", I would write it down. I called the list I complied in this way my book of dreams.

The first entry in my book of dreams was to complete an Ironman. It was exactly the kind of dream Inglis was talking about. It was a burning desire, but I had no idea whatsoever about how I could set about making it a reality. For years, it seemed just a crazy idea — one that surely I could never achieve.

****

I was actively engaged in my recovery, applying the techniques I'd learned through my various treatments, and with exercise and participating in sport becoming a key driver for me once again.

I'd set a number of goals for myself, including competing in women's-only triathlon events (300-metre swim, 10km ride, 3km run), running a half marathon (21.1km) and cycling around Lake Taupo in a team. I was just a few weeks out from competing in the Auckland Half Marathon when I had to attend a work conference. It was here that I first started to talk with Mike, a colleague who I knew had run a full marathon and who also, I now discovered, had completed Ironman. Just like the first real live Ironman I'd met at Outward Bound, Mike was a "normal person", as it turns out so many endurance athletes are. I think I'd always thought they were untouchable athletic gods, who had trained their entire lives to achieve their goals.

Not at all, Mike said. You just have to want to do it badly enough.

It was after talking with Mike that I realised I, too, could run a marathon, and that went down in the book of dreams, too.

I trained for six months for the Rotorua Marathon, using a training programme I'd found on the Internet. I would roughly follow the plan, although I often chose time with my boyfriend Nick over putting in the training hours, particularly the long runs that were scheduled for the weekend.

My relationship with Nick changed during these months. For the first time, I started to see we had different goals in life. I was now driven to achieve mine, and he was happy to talk of his. We had shared so much together, but I now felt something was missing from our relationship. In fact, it was clear to both of us, but we'd avoided talking about it for months. It seems we had the same approach: if a problem arises, bury it, quick.

I could no longer deny that we had grown apart a couple of months out from the first big race of my life. I was about to compete in a full marathon for the first time, but Nick made it clear he had no interest in seeing me compete. Funnily enough, it was an insight into something that had always got in the way between me and Tony, my boyfriend in London, who was a triathlete and was always juggling his sport, work and our relationship. I hadn't supported his passion for his sport at all: in fact, I saw it as an inconvenience, as it meant less time for us to be together. I now vividly remembered one day when Tony asked whether I'd like to go and watch him race. After learning it would take roughly three hours, I declined, suggesting he go and do his thing and I'd do mine. We'd catch up later that day. Well, finally I understood. Tony wasn't asking me to watch his race any more than I was asking Nick to watch mine. He had been asking me for support. That's what's important.

My relationship with Nick ended amicably not long before the Rotorua Marathon. We were both upset, but we knew it was for the best. In some strange way, it even helped my preparation. For the remaining weeks leading up to the race, I threw myself into training. It was the perfect distraction for me.

****

Breaking up with Nick did have an effect. So, too, did contracting campylobacter a few weeks out from race day. The illness left me bedridden for an entire week, unable to keep any food or liquid inside my body for days on end. I thought my marathon dream had been ruined. I was too weak to function normally, let alone run 42.2km. I was determined to not give up, though, and as soon as I felt recovered, I worked hard to make up lost ground. I made it to the start line.

Race day came, and I was a bundle of nerves. My loved ones had come along to support me, and they were positioned strategically around the course to ensure I had regular encouragement. I comfortably ran the first 26km. I can remember thinking at this point that running a marathon was not as bad as I'd thought it would be, after all, and wondered what everyone was worried about. Shortly afterwards, of course, I hit the wall, my first ever experience of such a feeling. There was absolutely nothing left inside me. Each step sent shockwaves through my joints. Every part of my body hurt. My once-comfortable running style became a shuffle, but not a walk, as my primary goal going into the race was to run the entire distance, with the focus on finishing within four and a half hours. During the next 16km, I focused solely on two things: one foot after the other, and the $1,000 I would raise for Lifeline when I finished the race. There is nothing quite like the desire to help others to get you through the tough times.

Prior to the event, I had dreamed about crossing the finish line on a number of occasions and often wondered what emotions I would feel. Five hours, two minutes after starting, I found out. I felt nothing. It wasn't until a couple of hours later that I started to comprehend what I had just done. I'd achieved my goal of running a marathon, albeit in a time that was half an hour longer than I'd planned.

Knowing what I do now, I was totally under-prepared for the race. With a customised training programme and sound nutritional advice, my performance would have been to a level I would have been proud of. It's not just another case of unrelenting standards, either: I still feel I have unfinished business with this event, that it conquered me rather than the other way round. I have written in my book of dreams that I want to conquer the Rotorua Marathon, and it is a dream I know I will achieve one day.

****

After the marathon I felt I needed a new goal, one that didn't involve running. I decided to compete in the 160km Taupo Cycle Challenge seven months later. I had entered the event on two previous occasions in the team category, completing 40km and then 80km. Racing the entire distance would be a different proposition.

Once again, I sourced a training programme off the Internet and continued to follow it loosely. I chose to live life by the priorities I'd developed during my recovery, meaning family, friends and travel came first. I would often take my bike away when we went on ski weekends, but more often than not it would stay on the bike rack. Not surprisingly, I started the race under-prepared and again, I was coming out of a nasty illness I'd suffered just the week prior.

What's more, the race conditions were tough, with strong winds and chilly temperatures buffeting the competitors. Still, I felt reasonably good and at one point dropped Mike, my workmate, who was also racing the 160km.

It didn't last. At the halfway mark, I hit the wall. Trouble was, having grown up at Lake Taupo, I knew the road well — too well. All I could focus on was how much there was in front of me, the scale of the hills, and I had no idea how I was going to make it to the end. I got off my bike, sat on the ground and cried.

Mike caught up to me and stopped to try to help with my motivation. Some lollies and words of encouragement got me back on the bike. However I couldn't sustain the pace that was being set. I sent him ahead, not wanting to ruin his day, and continued to struggle along on my own.

Further along the course, a guy could see I was having a difficult time. Not that it was hard to spot: tears were pouring down my face. He slowed down to ride at my pace.

"You can do it," he said. "It just depends how much you want to do it. It's all in your mind."

They were simple words, but they made perfect sense. I decided I would make it to the finish. My time no longer mattered: I just had to make it to the end.

After accepting that my target finishing time was out of reach, I took the necessary steps to make sure I completed the race. I stopped every 20km and lay on the side of the road, giving my body a break from the punishment of riding in the same position for hours on end. In this way, I pushed through the remaining 80km, not enjoying a second of the experience, to finish in seven hours 58 minutes, a couple of hours outside my goal. I felt huge disappointment. Yet again, an endurance event had got the better of me.

I had gravitated towards endurance events after my depression because I had a point to prove to myself. I wanted to show that I could overcome my mind and push my body to limits I couldn't comprehend. So far, however, I felt the endurance sports had conquered me. While I had completed both events, neither performance was to the standard I expected from myself. By now, I had started dreaming of Ironman. It seemed that dream was becoming more unattainable with each event I completed.

An article in the _Femme Fitness and Lifestyle_ magazine put me back on track. A girl talked of taking a year off work to train for Ironman. Her dad had become ill and she was using the event to raise awareness of his illness. She'd never done any endurance events before, and hadn't been involved in sport previously. This gave me the confidence I needed. If she could do it, surely I — with my athletic background — could, too. I set a two-year goal. I was going to race in the Port of Tauranga Half Ironman in January, with the goal of competing in the Taupo Ironman the year following, in March.

****

I began training for the Half Ironman shortly after the Taupo Cycle Challenge. Trying to learn from my previous events, I sought professional help in the form of swimming lessons and a nutritionist, addressing what I had identified as my two main weaknesses.

I was talking with a friend from work about my inability to kick well when I swam. She spoke highly of her children's swimming coach, and gave me the details. The structure of Ally's swimming lessons was far superior to anything else I'd been to. The swimming pool had an adjustable current, meaning she could watch me swim, often for less than a minute, and then provide instant guidance from the side of the pool, the way a running coach assesses you on a treadmill.

Ally highlighted the areas I needed to work on in our first session. I couldn't breathe on both sides, my body position in the water was poor, I had a weak stroke and a very average kick. Listening to the list, it was a wonder I could float. Basically, most elements of my stroke were flawed. I quickly learned swimming was all about technique. It didn't matter how many kilometres I did, if my style didn't improve, I wouldn't be able to make the significant gains I was after. This was quite different to running and cycling, where I could mask a weak technique by simply doing the distance during training. Over the months, I managed to improve my skills and became a much more competent swimmer.

It was through Ally that I also started to see a nutritionist. I was talking with her about the difficultly I was having losing excess weight. I was doing a lot of exercise and following the training programme I'd found on the Internet, yet I couldn't seem to drop the extra kilos I was carrying. Ally told me it was a matter of eating the right food at the right time; that's how she had been able to lose the weight she wanted to.

At Ally's recommendation, I started to see Zoe a couple of weeks later. She initially gave me an eating plan for two weeks. I couldn't believe the amount of food she expected me to eat; it was so much more food than I was having at the time! But everything I had learned in recent years had taught me that it pays to listen to the experts. Although I was sceptical, I took her advice and strictly followed her recommendations.

At the end of the two weeks, I'd lost 2 kg. It transpired I wasn't eating enough carbohydrates, causing my metabolism to slow down and hold onto fat to weather the gruelling Half Ironman lifestyle I was living. At Zoe's suggestion, I started to think of my body as a car: I had to fuel it properly if it was going to get me to the destination I wanted.

My preparation for the Half Ironman was far better than my previous attempts to prepare for an endurance event. I felt I had found my niche with triathlons: the ability to train across three different disciplines gave me the variety I needed. I followed the programme a lot more rigorously, although I still chose time with family and friends over the long endurance sessions that were planned, not realising that these were key sessions, and should not be skipped.

I spent the couple of weeks prior to the start of the Half Ironman in Australia with my family celebrating Christmas. While I still did some training, it was less than what was planned. To make matters worse, I returned home with a head cold less than a week out from the race. I was gutted: yet again my body had succumbed to an illness just before the big event. I'd been training for a year and here I was struggling to walk down the street, so heavily impaired was my breathing. Not knowing what else to do, I rested and took a steady supply of vitamins and cold and flu tablets to try to get on top of the cold.

Race day came around, and fortunately I was feeling better, although still not 100%. I was nervous as hell. The event was far more intense than any other I'd entered. The elite athletes were there, and the atmosphere was electric. Thoughts came back to me of a weekend in Taupo when I was with my ex-boyfriend Nick. We were having lunch at a café and there were people everywhere with numbers written all over their bodies. It turned out they'd just finished the Taupo Half Ironman. I can remember saying to him: "I'd love to do that one day!"

"You should," he said.

Yeah, right, I remember thinking. How could I swim 2km, bike 90km and then run 21.1km? Now here I was, attempting to do just that.

The swim went really well. I exited the water in a personal best time and felt really good. There were also plenty of people behind me, giving me an added boost in confidence. The bike course was flat, making for a quick ride, and I finished the 90km in another personal best time. Once again, I wondered what was so hard about this event. I just had to run under two hours for the half marathon, a time I'd managed a couple of times before, to finish under six hours, my goal for the event. The only complication was that I'd done very little running in the months leading up to the event, as I'd struggled with a calf injury that hadn't completely healed.

I was determined not to hit the wall as I'd done during the two previous endurance events, so I ate more food than Zoe had allowed in her nutrition plan. Coming off the bike, I felt sick. It wasn't until I tried to run that I realised just how ill I really was. I struggled to stand up straight and just to put one foot in front of the other. The nausea was overwhelming. I just wanted to be sick. I stopped at the toilets along the way, but nothing came out. Not knowing what to do, I tried to take on more carbohydrates, thinking I must have hit the wall. The added food and the pounding motion of running made me feel worse.

The streets were lined with people. I didn't want to be seen walking, as I'd never done this in an event before, and I wasn't about to start now. But within just a few hundred metres, I succumbed. I held my head in shame as I walked past my friends who had come to support me. I couldn't find a way to break through. My mind was controlling me.

Coming to the end of the first lap of a two-lap course, I realised that if I maintained my current pace I would not make the cut-off time. I had to complete the race within seven and a half hours, otherwise I would be deemed as a "did not finish" in the Half Ironman. A year's training and here I was facing the prospect of not receiving my finisher's medal.

This thought helped me push through the wall, and I began to run again.

I would run for a short distance, stopping briefly every now and again to throw up. I continued with this approach until eventually the nausea passed and I was able to run more comfortably. In fact, I ran a quick final 10km to cross the finish line in 6 hours 53 minutes.

My friends were very supportive and proud of me, saying what a great achievement it was. Again, I felt deeply disappointed and disillusioned with my performance. I felt I had failed yet again. Departing from my nutrition plan had cost me dearly — without the 10km of walking I'd done through incorrect fuel intake, I would have achieved my goal. I had also crossed the finish line with enough energy to keep going, a sure sign I hadn't paced myself correctly. I took myself off into the water to cool down, to have some time alone and to contemplate my Ironman dream. How was I going to complete an Ironman when even after a year's preparation I had struggled to complete half the distance?

Talking with Ally the day afterwards, I learned my experience was perfectly normal, with excess carbohydrates commonly causing nausea and vomiting. In fact, many athletes who recognise the early signs force themselves to be sick so they can rid their bodies of the excess calories. It was only after this conversation that I decided I ought not to beat myself up so much. After all, I had my medal to prove it: I had just completed a Half Ironman!

This experience did help me to realise that in order to achieve my Ironman dream, I needed more help. I required a coach to properly train me for the race, as Internet training programmes hadn't prepared me well for endurance events in the past. They were written for the mass market, not taking into account any of my unique personal characteristics. In making this decision, I did what I had done in recovering from depression. I turned to someone I could trust. I turned to Ally. She was well qualified: not only was she my swimming coach, she had completed a number of Ironman events, and was a qualified triathlon coach. Most of all, I knew I could depend on her to do her best for me. As it turned out, Ally was the perfect choice as my Ironman trainer.

# Chapter 14

### My Ironman Journey

"The Ironman journey is the challenge and the race day is the celebration, albeit with its touch of pain attached to ensure the glory is that much more special," I read. I was to learn how true that was, especially the bits about pain. But just reading the words couldn't prepare me for the journey: the truth is it something you can only find by living it.

Before she gave me my first training block for Ironman, Ally and I met to discuss my training preferences, goals and life-balance. It was during this meeting that she talked openly with me about what to expect from Ironman training. As with every sport, spectators often only get to see the glory, the person achieving their dream as they cross the finish line. What we don't see is the sacrifices they had to make so that they could get to the start, let alone make their dream of finishing come true. Ironman is no different. Ally explained it takes over your life, making even the most normal aspects of everyday life difficult to manage, including maintaining a relationship, friendships and a career. She encouraged me to simplify my life to make my transition to Ironman that much easier.

****

I was single, so maintaining a relationship wasn't a concern. But I had changed my occupation just as I embarked on my Ironman aspirations. I had been living my career ambitions working in marketing for a large corporate company since I'd left university eight years earlier, but I no longer had the passion to continue down this path. Fortunately, in the course of the roles I'd had, I had been exposed to online marketing, and for the last year I'd specialised in it. It held immense appeal for me: I liked the complete transparency of it, and the proactive nature of the growing industry. This, I had decided, was the direction I wanted to go.

I had been working with a company on and off for a few years in a supplier/client partnership, and it was through them that I secured a position with their sister company. The role was ideal for me, working with clients to improve their performance in the online industry. It was a new, small company with a real buzz about it. It was close to home and to the gym, the hours were flexible and it was altogether a relaxed and vibrant atmosphere in which to work. What more could I ask for? Work was clearly going to be Ironman's main competition.

I felt I was setting off on an adventure when I started Ironman training. I enjoyed having a plan for every day that involved everything: when to train, what to eat and when to see my family and friends. I felt like I was in complete control for the first time in my adult life.

But I didn't reckon on my body. Within just three weeks of beginning my training, I was crippled. I had to stop running due to the flaring up of my calf muscle injury, which ironically came about after I saw a specialist running coach to help improve my technique. I thought I was doing the right thing: trouble was, her recommendations didn't take into account my pre-existing injury, or my current strength. The signs weren't good the day after my first running session, when I implemented her recommendations: I couldn't walk for three days. My muscles simply weren't up to the strain the new techniques placed on them. I learned a valuable lesson, but how was I going to recover?

The rehabilitation process began with weekly physiotherapy sessions with Kirsty. She quickly identified the underlying problem. I was particularly weak throughout my core and legs, so my body compensated by placing the strain on other muscles. My calves were simply the outlets for my biomechanical inadequacies.

Kirsty applied herself to working out a treatment plan that would accommodate my Ironman training routine and also address the underlying weaknesses. If only I'd been as diligent in performing my physiotherapy exercises. My dedication to training didn't carry over into the remedial stuff: I always found an excuse, and the biggest challenge was finding the time. It was a weak excuse, and self-defeating — after all, I had to recover from my injury if I was to have any hope of completing the Ironman — but it was an excuse I continually fell back upon each time she asked how my exercises were progressing. Fortunately, Kirsty was patient with me, and never gave up on helping me achieve my goal.

As she'd promised, after five weeks of mind-numbing aquajogging, I was allowed back on my feet with gentle running and walking on level ground. As the weeks progressed, the time and distance increased, and with it my confidence that I would be able to run at Ironman, after all. A further four weeks after I began this programme and I was moving freely.

As the months passed and my training hours increased, I began to gain a deeper appreciation of the demands of Ironman. The routine was gruelling, with the average week involving three swims, five bike rides and six runs. The training definitely takes its toll on both body and mind.

****

Incredibly, after just 12 weeks of training, I found myself riding 160km on backcountry roads in horrendous weather conditions, in the tail end of a massive storm. A ride of this length gives you a lot of time to think. I took to talking to Ironman, especially when the rain and wind was at its strongest.

"Ha!" I would tell him. "Bring it on! Give me everything you've got, as I'm not going to break!" and I'd follow it up with an exhilarating torrent of abuse. Poor old Ironman was to cop a fair bit of abuse over the months.

The first 60km were the worst. I had a sore hip and groin and couldn't imagine how I was going to make it to the end. The ride got easier thereafter, as I focused on an efficient pedal stroke and eating or drinking every 15 minutes. Still, I was forced to stop and fix a puncture in the pouring rain, and then a few more kilometres down the track, another. Hours went by without me seeing another cyclist, a sure sign I probably shouldn't have been out riding in those conditions. At one point, I took shelter on the porch of an office block to try to fix my bike computer, as I'd lost the speed reading which affected the distance calculations. I knew I had to ride 160km, and was determined to not cut it short, knowing Ally would just make me repeat the training session the following weekend. I was over half way, so I figured I might as well complete the task I'd set out to achieve, as the finish was closer than the start. A guy from inside the office block came out to see if I was okay and asked why I was riding in the horrendous weather.

"I'm training for Ironman," I said, as though that made complete sense. The look on his face said it all.

After 90km and after my third puncture, I had no spare tubes and was miles from the nearest bike shop. The weather hadn't let up, and I feared that knowing my luck, I would be left stranded in the awful weather with a bike I couldn't ride. I put in a rescue call to my friend Nikki. Without a second thought, Nikki dropped everything to drive for an hour to drop off some much needed supplies. This is just one of countless occasions where my friends supported me throughout my training.

I completed the ride in seven and a half hours, faster than I'd covered the same distance at Taupo, and in atrocious conditions, to boot! A huge boost in confidence! To be able to ride 160km with just 12 weeks' training under my belt was fantastic. I spoke with Ally afterwards, proud of my achievement and said how I thought I could even run off the bike. This was just the adrenalin talking, however, as within half an hour I could barely move. I wondered what I would feel like after I rode 180km at Ironman, after a swim and with a marathon ahead of me!

My nutrition throughout this training session was perfect, which was a real relief, as this was an area that had always been an issue for me. I tried Coca Cola for the first time, and loved it. I've never been a drug user, but I reckon the sugar rush following that first sip of Coke after several hours' hard training would take some beating. It really helped me get through training without hitting the dreaded wall. I made sure I used this liquid fuel on every endurance session thereafter.

I'd learned from my first few endurance events that race day can easily become a day of misery if you don't prepare and implement a food plan specifically for the race, so I visited Zoe every month to review my nutritional balance. It became another essential component of my preparation. I would send through the previous week's food diary a few days before our appointment, which gave Zoe enough time to analyse my carbohydrate, protein and fat intake, relative to the training I had completed. At each monthly appointment, I was weighed and measured to ensure I was becoming leaner and stronger.

I used to dread stripping down to my underwear to get my measurements taken, as I couldn't hide the truth of what I had been eating the month following my last appointment. I always made sure my food diary weeks were good, but I was known to occasionally slip off the nutritional plan in the other weeks.

Zoe was always honest with me. Sometimes she had to tell me that I was eating "too much rubbish"; other times, she would need to encourage me to eat more carbohydrates, as I wasn't replenishing the energy I had burned during training. Her approach was firm but always supportive. We both knew I needed this to be able to achieve my dream.

Zoe also worked with me to find the right training food combination for Ironman. Through numerous experiments, I came to learn that I really struggled eating sweet food for extended periods of time, so I used every long training session to find the correct balance. I didn't want any surprises on race day. Pikelet sandwiches — two pikelets with jam in between — Marmite sandwiches on white bread, Ems Power Bars and cookies, jetplanes, gummy snakes, jellybeans and barley sugars eventually became my food of choice, with water, Replace and Coke as my preferred fluid intake.

Within the first six months, I had completed a number of long endurance sessions, including that 160km ride, a 36km run and a Half Ironman race simulation. Each of these gave me newfound confidence that I might just have what it takes to become a full Ironman. At the same time, though, my body continued to crumple under the intense training regime.

I practically lived at the physio clinic throughout my Ironman preparations, with Kirsty treating me for recurring calf muscle pain or some other, entirely new injury. There were many occasions where I wondered whether my body would get me to the finish line, a feeling I found hard to hide from her.

"You look like you have the world on your shoulders," she said to me when I walked in for one of our appointments. The truth was, I did, but this time it wasn't my body I was worried about. I was wondering whether my mind would get me to the start line.

# Chapter 15

### All the Demons Come Out to Play

The more the training hours increased, the less in touch I became with my pre-Ironman priorities, particularly the ones I'd fought so hard to identify after my mental illness. During my recovery from my depression, I'd learned how vital it was that I have a balanced life, and to fill it with those things that were important to me. Ironman made this impossible.

I squeezed my friends and family in whenever possible, but it didn't feel right to treat them this way. They meant everything to me, yet I had to place higher priority on my training if I wanted to achieve my goal. I could remember Ally warning me at the very beginning that a "normal life" would become a distant memory in the months to come. I thought she was just exaggerating and can remember thinking: "how hard can it be?"

I was so preoccupied with the physical challenge that I hadn't even stopped to consider the psychological implications of my decision to undertake Ironman. The long hours spent training isolated me, and the seclusion and all that silent suffering reminded me of my dark years, where very few people had a sound understanding of what I was experiencing, and I couldn't find the words to communicate it to them. It was strange and disturbing to feel this way again, especially as the whole purpose of this journey was to help me move on with my life.

All of the coping mechanisms I'd developed during my recovery were swept away; it was just Ironman and me. Ironman fed off my lack of confidence, and taunted me with my insecurities. There was no hiding. The constant thoughts of what Ironman represented to me also reminded me of what I was trying to forget: the sexual assault. I just couldn't escape it.

The nightmares returned, and with them the fear of shutting my eyes at night. It didn't take long for me to slip into that all-too-familiar downward spiral, and soon depression was knocking on my door. I also fell into bad habits in my thinking. Although I desperately wanted to communicate what I was experiencing, I didn't want to dredge up the past. Everyone had put it behind them, so I felt it would be unfair to bring it all up again. I reverted to my old habit of hiding my true thoughts and feelings from my family and friends. I sought control in my life once again by not eating, a decision that made my training even more gruelling and the disruption to my healthy eating patterns all the more dangerous.

Here we go again, I thought.

I despised myself for being unable to move on. I felt that my past had a stranglehold on me, and that if I hadn't escaped it by now, perhaps I never would.

****

Recognising the alarm bells, I knew that I had to find a way to manage the triggers if I was going to continue on the Ironman path. I sought further alternative treatments I had heard about, including Reiki and Kinesiology, in an attempt to gain a different perspective. The new treatments helped me identify the underlying problem: forgiveness. I had reached the final step in the grieving process, having gone through the shock, denial and anger. As is often the case, I knew what the problem was; I simply felt no closer to finding a solution.

Feeling unable to trouble my family and friends with my latest downfall, I turned to Ally. I'd already confided in her about the suicide attempt at the beginning of my Ironman training programme. I had agonised over that decision for months, but in the end I decided that I needed to be honest with her if Ally was to help me with my Ironman dream. It would help her understand why this race was so important to me. I felt huge relief when she said she would do all she could to help me achieve my goal. I don't think either of us realised just what that would entail.

I was sick with worry admitting to Ally I wasn't coping. I felt like I was losing my mind again, and I was concerned she would reach the same conclusion. I hoped she'd be able to give me the answers if I told her the triggers I was experiencing during my training. Once again, I was placing a huge amount of pressure on someone else to fix my problems rather than relying on my own resources, but I felt I had run out of options. I just didn't understand how I could continue training with the constant reminders, and while my therapists had told me that the next step in my recovery was for me to forgive. How I could forgive Bob? How could I forgive myself for the pain and suffering I put those closest to me through?

Ally rose to the challenge. She helped me understand that forgiveness arises from acceptance. Once I had become totally comfortable with whatever had happened in my past, I could forgive. It didn't mean pretending it was right: it simply meant accepting it was done.

"You can control what will be," she told me, wisely. "You can't control what was done."

That was something to think about in the long, lonely hours I spent staring down Ironman. The sessions began to offer me the opportunity to face these issues head-on and try to resolve them once and for all. What used to be daily punishment turned into a chance to release all of the negative emotions that arose from confronting my past. I imagined the pain I was experiencing during my exercise was good pain: it was the necessary pain I was feeling as I released years of hurt, guilt, anger, frustration and hatred. I spent much of my training time with tears pouring down my face. Ironman was helping me to heal by accepting my past. Only when I learned to let what was done be done could I forgive myself, and begin to love myself once again.

Whenever a thought involving Bob entered my mind, I would visualise two pie graphs side by side but not touching, with a dotted line drawn between them. The smaller graph was Bob's life with a large piece missing — the impact of his actions. The bigger one was my life. Only a sliver was highlighted — the extent of the impact that I was going to allow him to have on my life — and the dotted line indicated that Bob's actions could no longer touch me. I drew this picture for myself, and beneath it I wrote the reminder: "Thoughts become things. Choose the good ones!!"

****

As the weeks passed, I was able to sleep through the night again, with the nightmares becoming a rarity rather than the norm. My eating also returned to normal. The combination of better sleep and nutrition gave me the energy to get through the training sessions with greater ease.

As a further reminder of what I was trying to achieve, I placed a pertinent quote on my fridge next to the two pie graphs: "The biggest misconception people have about the past is thinking it can detract from the rest of their lives. It can't. The past only makes more stuff possible". Next to that, I stuck an Ironman sticker, with the slogan: "Extraordinary feats by ordinary people".

I looked at these reminders every day, sometimes with resentment, other days with joy. Either way, the rigours I was putting my body through for Ironman's sake was helping me connect with my soul again.

# Chapter 16

### Will I, Or Won't I?

After six months' training, I earned an entire two weeks off. This rest period was supposed to mean just that, but I saw it as an opportunity to do everything I wasn't allowed to do when I was training. I chose to spend every night catching up with people, and ate lots of junk food. I took binge eating to the extreme, consuming almost every type of takeaway known to man within the first week! The blow-out worked; after polluting my body with these foreign substances, I was desperate to get back on the nutritional straight and narrow again. Unfortunately, I didn't feel quite as motivated to return to my training regime.

The hardest part about the rest weeks was that they highlighted just how much Ironman was dominating my life, and I resented Ironman because of it. I officially had no life: I trained, ate, slept and worked, and more often than not, I was tucked up in bed before darkness fell. The commitment, the loneliness and the constantly sore body were hardly glamorous: it was simply bloody hard work! I had sacrificed so much during the previous months' training, and I couldn't imagine how I was going to continue with this routine for the many months to follow.

For the first time in my life, I didn't enjoy exercising. It was a strange feeling, given how heavily I used to rely on it to get me through the day. I usually loved the feeling of exertion, sometimes not during but always afterwards, and early in my training I even used to pressure Ally to give me more work for the periods when I was supposed to be resting. But somehow I had slipped to the other end of the continuum, and I had no idea how I got there.

The two weeks' rest became three, and the desire to continue the Ironman journey diminished with each day that passed. It didn't help that my dream job crumbled around me. The company ownership changed, and the new owner made me redundant. Once again, I wanted the world to stop so I could get off.

****

I was back to sitting at home, feeling miserable, wondering what I was doing with my life. What did I really want? The dream I was chasing was just so big I couldn't comprehend how I was going to achieve it, or even what achieving it would mean for me. I think I had stopped believing that I could do it.

A large part of me longed for the known, the comfort of the everyday life. But every time I thought about giving up, I found there was also a spark inside that urged me to rise to the challenge to achieve my goal. When I shared these thoughts with my family and friends, they all made a similar comment: "You've already achieved so much. We're proud of you, whatever you decide to do."

It was up to me.

I think the doubts had been building up before the disastrous rest period, but it wasn't until I had extra time on my hands after the redundancy that I really started to consider my options.

As I dialled Ally's number, I dreaded the conversation we were about to have. I believed that this would be the end. I was due for a new programme, and I'd made the decision that I didn't want her to waste her time writing me another one. I had reached out to her on so many occasions over the previous months, whenever I hit yet another hurdle in my Ironman quest — whether it was due to my latest injury or the emotional turmoil I was experiencing. Each time I had asked for help, she'd been able to refocus me with her kindness, encouraging words and positive energy. Now, more than anything else, I just needed to talk.

I tried to express my thoughts, and to tell her how I didn't know whether the anguish was worth the reward. I could only imagine what crossing the Ironman finish line would feel like. Personally, I hoped it would put an end to the years of struggling I had endured, that it would give me back the confidence and self-belief I had lost all those years ago at university. At the same time, though, I was scared that even if I did continue, I would fail. I was terrified at the thought of not crossing the finish line. What would it do to me? Would that set me on the slippery slope to depression again, and if so, was it all worth the risk? Was it foolish to load so much expectation onto an endurance triathlon? Why did I think Ironman was so special, anyway?

Ally could only talk about the benefits she saw of continuing, and she tried to share her first-hand experiences. At the end of the day, though, it was as impossible to convey in mere words the rewards of Ironman as it was to make people understand the rigours. It came down to whether I wanted to carry on. Or not.

In my mind, I kept coming back to the fact that it had only been two years since I had completely finished my treatment and finally got my life back on track, and here I was dejected again. It just didn't make sense to me. It seemed that Ironman was jeopardising the hard-won pleasure I had been taking in life. Why would I choose to be miserable when I could be enjoying what I had fought so hard to find?

We spoke for a long time. I told her that my sister had just given birth, the first child in the next generation of our family, and my parents were already over there enjoying the experience of seeing a new life enter the world. My sister had constantly encouraged me to visit when my nephew was born. I had declined, as I had training and work. I'd always said I would wait until I had time off at Christmas.

Now I didn't have a job and I wasn't training. Why shouldn't I go and do what I really wanted to do, spend some quality time with the most important people in my life?

When Ally heard this, she said: "You should go. Take another week off training. We can leave the big decisions until you get back. A new programme will be written if you want it."

I agonised in the days leading up to my trip to Australia. Calming my mind, as was so often the case, was difficult. No one remembers someone who has completed half the training for an Ironman, I told myself. But you'll always remember you chose to give up when the going got tough. I became convinced that to turn my back on Ironman now would be a huge backward step in all the long, slow progress I'd made so far. If I was scared of the consequences of trying and failing, I was just as scared of giving up.

My other consideration was the many people, both professional and personal, who had helped behind the scenes to get me to this point in my Ironman preparation. I didn't want to let them down, or waste the time and energy they had put into me. How could I turn my back on them, when they had given me so much?

In the end, the question I was facing was one Ally asked me during our last phone call: How badly did I really want it?

****

I felt the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders as I walked through the arrivals hall at Sydney Airport, where my family greeted me with warm hugs and kisses. They were aware I had a difficult choice to make, but this was not dwelt upon. I knew what my final decision was when I first saw my nephew. There's something so special about seeing new life. I instantly wanted to do my best for him, to show him that he could achieve anything he put his mind to. I couldn't think of a better way to demonstrate this than completing the Ironman. While my nephew would be too young to remember the race, the lesson learned would live on — what doesn't break you makes you stronger. In the end, I knew the moment I looked at him that it was my strength that I wanted to prove. I would never know the strength of my character unless I'd given Ironman my best. I also somehow knew that if I gave it my best, I would succeed.

The day after making the decision to continue on my Ironman journey, I woke up early, craving a run. It felt so good to be exercising again, for my lungs to be pumping and the limbs to be a little sore. Some wise words of Ally's also echoed in the back of my mind: "if it was meant to be easy, everyone would be doing it". I knew in my heart I'd made the right choice. Ironman was definitely pushing me to limits I hadn't experienced before: it was so much more than mind over matter. This was one hell of a journey!

My break in Australia was exactly what my body and mind needed. For the first time in a very long time, Ironman was not at the very forefront of my mind. Instead healthy food, some exercise whenever I felt like doing it and, most importantly, quality time with my entire family filled my world. I felt complete. I treasured being surrounded by them, a situation that only happened a handful of times each year now that my sister lived in Australia.

The time away also gave me the space to realise that I was placing too much pressure on myself. If I was to get through the remaining months, I had to change my focus. For the first time, I started to think of Ironman as just a triathlon, albeit a very long one. After all, when you boiled it down, the event was only a swim, a bike ride and a run. I had to trust the training programme and that the planning would prepare me for the start line; after that, it was my determination that would get me over the finish line.

As luck would have it, I had taken away a book to read while I was in Australia by Dean Karnazes, the Ultra Marathon Man. He talked of "the midway blah", "the middle part of a big challenge where the morale tends to flag because the challenge is no longer new, and the physical and mental fatigue has begun to set in, yet the goal remains far off." I could completely relate to his words: I was just over the halfway point when I came to Australia. It was such a relief to know that my experience was very normal.

On returning to New Zealand, I decided to try a new approach along similar lines to the one-day-at-a-time strategy I had used when I was recovering from my suicide attempt. I limited my focus to the present, just doing the training session that was planned for the day, and only then would I think about the next one, a distinct contrast to how I had managed my training weeks up till that point.

Previously, I would write down a weekly plan on a Sunday detailing every training session for the coming week, plan my meals and then try to accommodate some sort of social life around that. The personality trait that made me anxious to plan ahead had also led me, in other programmes, to flick through the upcoming weeks and worry and wonder about how I was going to do the distances required. It's easy to panic about the 160km bike ride scheduled for a fortnight's time, for example, if you haven't considered the strategic build-up that your coach has planned for you to be able to complete these endurance components. I always found that if I did the work Ally had set for me, I could complete the large training sessions when they came around. The one-day-at-a-time approach had served me well in the past; I just hoped it could also help me get through the Ironman rut I had fallen into.

# Chapter 17

### My Heroes

While I had decided to continue on the journey, I couldn't imagine how I was going to cope with the last four months of training. I knew that to succeed, I had to continue to manage my Ironman life through priorities: after all, every decision you make in life is based on a sense of what's important and what's not. As my sole focus was crossing the Ironman finish line, I had to accept that I'd need to make further sacrifices over the coming months. I tried to console myself that this was a short-term inconvenience compared with a lifetime living with the regret of knowing I had failed. I kept thinking back to my book of dreams: Ironman was my first entry. I was so close to achieving that dream. It just wasn't worth stopping now.

I also understood I couldn't do this alone. I needed to rely on other people who wanted me to succeed and would do anything to help me reach the start line. I turned to my family, friends and my coach to help me get through this difficult phase. They had been very supportive for the many months before and they continued to rally around.

I loved my weekly dinner at Mum and Dad's, a time of the week where someone else would care for me by providing the most amazing meal and, more importantly, unconditional love. As I'd walk through the door, they'd welcome me with open arms and ask: "How are you?" even though they received the same answer each time: "My body hurts and I'm exhausted!"

My parents have since revealed they didn't enjoy seeing the punishment I was putting my body through, and worried about how isolated I made myself due to my Ironman commitments, but they continued to support me 100%, as they have always done.

I would be there for whatever nutritious meal they had carefully planned specifically for me, before dragging myself home early. Mum would also send me home with additional dinners and muffins, all of which were in line with my dietary requirements. I can't say enough how valuable this assistance was to me: it was one fewer task I had to think about.

****

Throughout training, my home became my sanctuary, a place where I could escape my struggles with Ironman. While my cat Ollie hated the 5 am starts to the day, like me, he loved the weekends. For me, my weekend started on Friday, my only day off training, with a sleep-in and the cosy knowledge I had got through the worst of the week. While the weekend training loads were the largest, ranging from 3-7 hours each day, I found them the easiest to manage, as I could complete the session and then spend the rest of the day on the couch with Ollie curled up next to me.

My friends were incredibly accommodating throughout my training, too, and didn't begrudge my Ironman life once. We all just adapted, with Sushi Saturdays becoming a tradition. My friends would pick it up on the way to my place each time they came to visit. We would just spend the time lounging around my home, with me eager to hear what was happening in the outside world. Strangely, my friends were more interested in talking about my life than the one they were living.

I particularly enjoyed the odd occasion when I stepped into the "real world" myself to have dinner at a restaurant or see the latest movie with my friends. I can remember everyone commenting on how great I looked as my body had become leaner and more toned, but they didn't get to feel the indescribable tiredness and the constant pain. It's a feeling that's hard to understand if you haven't lived it.

I also noticed throughout my training that people treated me differently when they heard I was doing Ironman. I was often introduced as: "Claire. She's training for Ironman". In my friends' eyes, Ironman and I had become a kind of an item. I assumed this was because they were proud of what I was trying to achieve: after all, I remembered when I played cricket for Auckland, they would introduced me to others as: "Claire. She plays cricket for Auckland."

I didn't feel comfortable with the respect that seemed to go with the Ironman label, however, because I didn't feel I deserved it yet. I was just training for it. I had yet to prove whether I was worthy of this honour.

During the week, the phone became my main connection to my life outside Ironman. Family and friends would often call to check in on me, to see whether my training was progressing well. These calls, along with the visits to my home, were the moments I treasured. In their eyes, these may have seemed simple gestures; for me, they were tremendous. Without realising it, their willingness to help me, along with the belief in me that it signified, was the greatest gift I could have received from any of them. Once again, I was learning how much stronger you can feel if you let people help you.

The generosity of the genuine people who opened their lives to me during this time were the perfect antidote, too, to the perception I'd built up during my dark years of depression that the world was a horrible place, where only terrible things happened on a daily basis. It's easy to draw this conclusion from the media — still the reason I no longer listen to the news. But my Ironman experience showed me that you just needed to be open to the goodness, and the good people, who surround us.

I had learned that a healthy environment was vital to my wellbeing, and that I loved being around others that inspired and motivated me. Now that my spare time had become so precious, I made sure I spent it with people who filled my world rather than drained it. There were numerous times when the whole Ironman journey became too much, but just when I thought I could go on no longer, I would receive a timely comment, or someone would make me a gift of their time. Often they were little things, but they would help point me back in the direction of true north, where my dreams lay.

# Chapter 18

### The Test

Things were going well. I'd got a new job shortly after my return from Australia, working for an online marketing agency, so at least I didn't have to worry about how I was going to meet my mortgage repayments. My motivation was at a good level, and my mind was in a good place. But then my body decided to fail me once again, this time with shin splints. Throughout my training, my body was constantly sore. I'd talk with Ally about these bodily aches and pains, and she would explain that this was completely normal, as Ironman training was incredibly hard on the body. For me, as for most who take on the challenge of endurance events, soreness comes with the territory, and I became more practised at pushing through the discomfort. It often passed once I learned to block it out. Apparently, the key was to differentiate between good pain and injury pain. That's the trouble. This was not a skill I had effectively developed.

The injury hit me just three months out from the big race and five weeks before I competed in the lead-up event, the Port of Tauranga Half Ironman, a race in which I was determined to put in a solid performance in order to give me a boost of confidence, with the full Ironman not far away. My shins were a nuisance, but I believed if I ignored them, they would heal before the big event. I just didn't know when this would occur.

But eventually, the pain crippled me. The shin splints were my body's way of telling me I needed to look after it and rest. Yet another rewrite of my training programme became necessary, with much shorter runs. For the remaining weeks leading up to the Half Ironman, I lessened the load on my body by running on flat grass, with aquajogging taking up the remainder of the time that I would have otherwise spent running on the roads. Once again, this experience was very frustrating and incredibly boring. Numerous laps around a sports field, particularly a small one, and aquajogging were not the most stimulating training sessions I could imagine.

I worried about missing training sessions, but Ally would reassure me, telling me that programmes were written to allow for 10% being missed. In other words, if my body wasn't up to it, I could skip 10% of the programme without being severely disadvantaged, as long as I continued to complete the all-important long endurance sessions. All the same, I hated skipping sessions, as I thought this was a sign of weakness. I would make sure I completed every one, even when my body told me to ease up through the various signals it sent — soreness, illness or a high resting heart rate. Previously, my mistake had been failing to complete the training that was required, which had affected my performance on race day. I was determined not to make that mistake again, so I continued to push myself. To compensate, Ally and I came to an understanding. As it was obvious to both of us that if it was written in the programme, I was going to feel psychologically obliged to do it, she reduced each programme by 10% prior to sending it to me.

The shin splints certainly taught me to listen to my body! It was a tricky time for me. I did my time in the pool and wearing a path around the playing field and tried to ignore the discomfort, and tried not to think about what it would mean if I didn't recover. Whenever I thought of the Half Ironman, and how I would overcome the injury, and how I would perform, I would say to myself: "You can do it. You can do it."

****

My parents made the trip to Tauranga to come and support me at the Half Ironman, the first time they'd see me compete in a major triathlon event. This time, I had done all the training required, and was feeling very relaxed going into the race, even given my string of injuries. I knew I could do the distance; it was just a matter of how well.

Ally had told me to treat the race as a training day, to follow the Ironman preparation plans, and practice pace and nutrition, all of which were very important elements to a successful race. The competitive streak was coming out in me, though, and I wanted to compete, to try to conquer an endurance race for the first time. I wanted to prove to myself that I had what it took to compete in triathlons. I believed my preparation would flow through to the event itself. Now it was race day, and I was about to find out whether this was true or not.

My relaxed state of the previous few days soon dissolved into a bundle of nerves on the morning of the race, as indicated by the many unscheduled stops at the toilet! In between dashes for the bathroom, I focused on my pre-race preparation, carefully setting up my transition station by strategically placing each item in a specific place, ensuring I could change quickly, a scenario I had rehearsed numerous times in my mind.

The race started with the swim, with the women age-group competitors hitting the water two minutes after the men. The siren sounded and we were off. I chose the outside line to the first buoy to try to avoid contact in the centre of the pack, a tactic that worked. I had an enjoyable swim, with clear water the entire way helping me to maintain a consistent swim stroke and technique. My only concern was the jellyfish, of which there were many. I exited the water 38 minutes later, a personal best time.

My station preparation paid off, and I was in and out of transition quickly to begin the 90km ride. The flat course is renowned for producing quick times, but the route can also expose riders to strong headwinds, something I wasn't looking forward to. I was averaging over 30km/h on the outward bound leg of the course, and when I swung around the turnaround point, I expected to be hit by the headwinds. It didn't eventuate. I was surprised and pleased to be able to keep up an average of over 30km/h, a feat I hadn't been able to achieve in any previous race. At the end of each lap of the three-lap cycle course, I got to enjoy the uplifting experience of riding through the Mt Maunganui streets where friends and family cheered me on from the sideline.

On the final leg of the cycle, I started to tire, with a really sore back from being down on my aerobars throughout the ride. I had also put up with a stomach ache for the majority of the ride. I hadn't experienced this before, and found that it restricted my ability to comfortably consume the planned food and fluid. Thoughts of the year before flooded my mind. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand, by thinking "left-right, left-right", and finished the ride in a stunning two hours 50 minutes, also a personal best time.

I took the lesson from the ride into the run, and gently eased into it by focusing solely on the present: "left-right, left-right". So often when my body tires, my mind drifts off, leaving me with no focus, which affects my body's output. That was a mistake I was determined not to make again.

The two-lap run was tough, with a long outward stretch into the unknown, the flat course meaning there were no landmarks by which to identify the turnaround point. I wasn't comfortable running — I felt weak and nauseous — but I kept on telling myself the feeling would pass. The experience wasn't new to me: I had been on many training sessions where I felt I couldn't continue any further, that the pain was just too much, but by concentrating on taking just one more step, I was able to push through it and feel comfortable again.

I constantly reinforced my belief in myself with positive talk. Whenever the demons of self-doubt came out to play, I would silence them by telling myself: "I can do it", "I feel great" and "I rock." I passed the half-way mark of the run with 4 hours 30 minutes on the clock. I couldn't make sense of the time, as I'd never covered the distance at such a quick pace. I knew if I could run the final 10km in an hour, I would beat the magic 5 hour 30 minute mark. I pushed hard and felt good — or as well as I could feel after having already covered 103 kilometres.

The aid stations were the saving grace. I poured countless litres of water over my body to try to keep my body temperature down. This also disguised the wet pants from when I went to the toilet, as I simply didn't have time to stop, the only time in my adult life when it has been acceptable — and expected — that you pee your pants. This sport is definitely not glamorous!

The lap around the Mount was never-ending, each corner just revealing another one. I reached for a snake lolly to discover I had dropped them the last time I tried to put them in my back pocket. I dug in my pocket again, thinking my mind was just playing tricks on me, but they really were gone. I had no choice but to continue on the energy I had left in my body, as there was no aid station nearby for me to take on any energy boosts.

With a thrill, I heard the loudspeaker. I was close!

I avoided looking at my watch, remembering Ally's words: "It is not about your time." I ran as hard as I could and crossed the finish line in 5 hours 45 minutes, over an hour faster than my time the year prior. I was hurting, but I felt great. My family and friends were there to see me, and those who weren't flooded my mobile with congratulatory calls and text messages.

Fish 'n' chips and Coca Cola with my family was the chosen celebration.

I raised my Coke to my wonderful support crew.

"I've knocked off half a man," I said. "Bring on Ironman!"

I finally felt I had conquered an endurance event. Now I believed I was a triathlete, and I could go out there and compete.

# Chapter 19

### Defeated, or Determined

At Outward Bound, I had learned the vital life lesson that knowing the future doesn't make the present any easier. After the Half Ironman, I was confident in my ability to finish the Taupo Ironman. I knew I could do it but I just didn't know quite how I would. The 226km race still seemed too big to comprehend. Whenever my mind drifted to the race, I would once again tell myself: "You can do it". I only wanted positive thoughts to occupy my mind.

A rest week was scheduled after the Half Ironman, my last week-long break before the big race. I promised Ally and Zoe, my nutritionist, I would do just that: rest. I had just two months to the race of my life, and I couldn't afford to pollute my body as I had done every other rest period.

True to my word, I put the free time to good use, spending it with my family and friends, the people I felt I had neglected for many months during my Ironman preparation. I also thoroughly enjoyed a weekend away camping. There was no need to go anywhere or do anything: I loved the basics of just living, a feeling I so often lose sight of.

****

Ally had told me once I returned from my rest week that my training hours would be the biggest yet. To avoid learning just how brutal it would be, I put off reviewing my training programme until the night before I was scheduled to start the last push to the finish line, just seven weeks away.

Soon enough, though, I knew what I was in for. The last seven weeks involved five half marathons, two within just four days of each other, and four rides of over five hours. These were massive sessions that took their toll on my already battered body. The constant soreness reached new levels: it was the kind of ache that tells you to stop, yet you know you have to keep going. I continued to rely heavily on weekly massage and physiotherapy with Kirsty to patch me up to a level where I could hammer my body all over again.

It wasn't just training, either. The weeks leading up to the event were intense, with my work hours exceeding 50 per week, and training building to 18 hours. My day would often start as early as 5 am for training before I worked a ten-hour day. Then I would complete more exercise at night before stumbling through my front door after 8.30pm. At this point, all I wanted to do was eat, shower and sleep. There were some nights where I just placed a towel on my bed and went straight to sleep, too exhausted to do anything else.

The dedication required to complete these hours was tested to its limits. Absolutely everything extra dropped off, with my sole existence to work, eat, sleep and train. The regime was gruelling, but each day that passed took me one step closer to achieving my goal.

A month out, I took a couple of days off work to spend what I imagined would be some relaxing time at the bach and to train on the Ironman course in Taupo. The training sessions were not as cruisy as I thought: the run that was to follow the 90km ride was 20km, not a 20-minute run as I had originally read! Still, Taupo never fails to soothe me. If I had to put myself through all this, better do it at the Lake than anywhere else.

I spent time driving around the roads to ensure I knew the correct route: the course takes a number of side roads, particularly on the run section. While driving, I saw people tootling along who just had to be other Ironman athletes, people of all shapes and ages. I don't know how the elite Ironman competitors feel when they eye one another up, but I felt only a common bond with the others I saw. We were all in it together, trying to see what we could achieve as individuals.

Spending this time made the situation so much more real. For so long, I'd been working towards this vague goal called Ironman and here I was, just a month out, completing my final preparations for the race. I was nervous! The feelings were quite overwhelming, with tears often welling up and a large lump appearing in my throat. I still couldn't work out how I was going to complete the 226km distance; it was still too large to fully comprehend.

****

It was during my time training on the course that I put my body through its biggest injury recovery challenge yet. Thirteen kilometres into the 20km run, I felt a sharp pain in my shin. I wondered if it could be shin splints again. I decided to run through the soreness, a standard Ironman approach when the going gets tough. I acknowledged that it was perhaps one of those moments when I was experiencing injury pain, but I wanted to finish the run I was doing for the psychological benefits of being able to stand on the start line knowing I had completed one lap each of the run and cycle course. The discomfort grew intense, like sharp blades of glass being embedded in my shin, but I decided to continue.

The days that followed were demoralising. Any weight bearing, and even cycling, stimulated intense pain. Three and a half weeks out from race day, and I was a triathlete who could only swim. I had done some damage, after all. The tears poured down my face with the realisation. Now only time would tell whether I could recover. Only a month ago I was confident I could complete an Ironman. Now I was wondering whether I would even make the start line.

I was talking of my concerns at my weekly physiotherapy session, yet when Kirsty touched my legs, there was no reaction. She explained that if I had an injury as acute as I said it was, I wouldn't be able to handle the pressure she was applying to the areas. Clearly, it wasn't muscular: it wasn't a recurrence of shin splints. There had to be an imbalance in my body.

I was desperate for a quick recovery, and once again turned to my coach for the answers. I can remember Ally saying she didn't have all the solutions but suggested I try Bowen Therapy, a treatment she had tried herself with positive results.

Bowen Therapy consists of a pattern of powerful, but gentle moves with the fingers or thumbs in specific locations over muscle and connective tissue, sending neurological impulses to the brain that stimulate the body's natural feedback system, relaxing the muscle and therefore the joints and helping the body realign. I had no idea what to expect from the treatment. Even having read some information on the Internet and spoken to Ally, it just seemed so out there. I was used to deep tissue massage amongst other traditional treatments to help my body recover from the daily punishment my training was subjecting it to. But I didn't understand how gentle hand movements could do anything for the kind of pain I was experiencing.

At my first treatment, I lay on the bed and the therapist placed her hands on my pelvis, gentling moving them inwards. I instantly felt energy moving through my body, to the areas that required the most attention: my groin, knees, and shins. The tingling feeling flowed for several minutes moving throughout my body. I didn't understand what was happening, but it was amazing and encouraging to feel something. The hour-long treatment involved eight different hand movements. I left the treatment and ran for three hours straight afterwards with minimal pain in my shins. My hopes of being on the start line started to grow.

It was recommended that I not mix treatments such as massage and physiotherapy with Bowen Therapy for up to five days after a treatment, as the other treatments could interfere with the flow of the energy and impair the body's ability to naturally align itself. This left me in a difficult situation, as I was no longer able to fit my physiotherapy and massage sessions into my week. After a miracle result with just one treatment, I decided to place my faith entirely in Bowen Therapy, choosing this to be the sole treatment I received for the lead-up to the race.

****

A few weeks out from the race, I started my taper, an important part of the programme where the training load decreases to help your body rest in preparation for the ordeal to come. I expected a switch to be flicked during this period, where the additional rest would take me from exhaustion to normality, but this wasn't the case. The long working weeks and Ironman training had taken its toll on my body and mind. I was simply worn out, with even the reduced training hours becoming difficult to complete. My energy levels were also not helped by Ironman invading my subconscious, with Ironman dreams becoming a regular occurrence the closer I got to race day.

They fed on my greatest fear: not crossing the finishing line. One dream started off well, with me completing the swim and bike in a personal best time, only to run a nine-hour marathon, resulting in my missing the 17-hour cut-off time. Another was a version of high school exam anxiety dreams, and involved me waking up at 9 am, two hours after the race started and missing the event altogether. I was to learn when I was talking with other people who had competed in Ironman that thoughts along these lines were quite normal — yet another example of how Ironman normality was so different from any other version I'd ever experienced. Race day would determine whether these dreams were just dreams, or whether they were a premonition.

# Chapter 20

### M.A.D — Making a Difference

Throughout my training, I often thought back to my experience at Outward Bound and how it had turned my life around. At these times, I would be impatient to get Ironman behind me so that I could get on with raising money for the Outward Bound Sponsorship Fund I had developed.

The sponsorship fund concept came to me when I was on the Malaysian island of Borneo, two years before. As with many of my other overseas trips, I had gained a heightened awareness of my life back home and this trip was no different. I was ascending 4,095-metre Mt Kinabalu, and I was struggling with altitude sickness. This meant I was struggling along at the back of the group, but the consolation was that I was able to talk with Sahrizan, our guide, who was always just behind me, encouraging me to take just one more step. His advice was simply: "Don't think about the mountain", a hard ask when you are climbing the steep rock face in the pitch black of the early hours in the morning, with chronic nausea and a headache due to the altitude!

During our summit climb, I learned Sahrizan had climbed the mountain more times than anyone else in the world. I could hear the passion in his voice for the national park, and the other guides who worked there. He shared with me that he had been obliged to reduce the number of times he climbed the mountain to just a few times a week, as he needed to work his garden so he could feed his family. I admired his priorities and values, which inevitably made me question mine. It occurred to me that I had lost sight of the values I had discovered at Outward Bound.

Sahrizan had a profound impact on my life, and I found I wanted to make a similar difference in other lives. I was thinking of this experience when I was riding my bike through the stunning countryside one Sunday afternoon. I felt guilty for the money I earned and the privileged life I lived. My travels had exposed me to people who lived without anything that we in the developed world would consider of value, yet their lives seemed far richer. They didn't have the big houses, new cars, latest appliances or food readily available that we have, yet they were genuinely happy. They lived a life filled only with the basic human needs: love, shelter, water and food.

The "developed world", on the other hand, was afflicted with affluenza, a highly contagious virus that infects people's minds with the belief that acquiring money, possessions and celebrity and looking good in the eyes of others are of high value and will ultimately lead to happiness. At that moment, I decided to set up a Sponsorship Fund at Outward Bound, in the hope that I could give other people the chance of living a more fulfilling life.

****

I had no idea how to go about making this ambition happen, so I followed my instincts and sent an honest email to the generic fundraising email address on the Outward Bound website:

Outward Bound was always a dream of mine but was financially out of my reach. A few years ago I was privileged to attend the Navigator Course, having been sponsored by my employer. My experience at Anakiwa helped me turn my life around after having tried to end it just a few months prior. Three years on I have achieved numerous goals and I have a very positive outlook on achieving so many more. I'd like to make the dream of Outward Bound possible for someone else by providing financial assistance to a recipient/s chosen by your organisation.

Diane, the Funding Manager at Outward Bound, contacted me shortly afterwards, and it was from here that we worked together to create a fund that could help other young people in New Zealand.

We spoke extensively, trying to establish the right criteria for applicants. In time, though, I felt this approach wasn't the right direction for the kind of fund I wanted to create. I kept coming back to the point that I wanted to trust Outward Bound to choose the applicant they felt would be the most suitable rather than me. All I asked in return was that the worthy recipient/s wrote a letter or email to me at the completion of the course to let me know how they got on.

It was at Outward Bound's annual cocktail party, where they thanked their supporters and shared their vision for the coming year, that we established the process for identifying the best suited applicants. Diane was excited to introduce me to Fiona, the Outdoor Coordinator at Youthtown, thinking this would be the ideal market for the fund we were in the process of setting up. Fiona and I were instantly on the same wavelength. I could sense her passion and commitment to help New Zealand's youth. I wanted my contribution to be a part of that effort.

A few months later, I was sitting in a meeting room at Youthtown with nervous excitement - I was about to meet potentially the first recipient of my sponsorship fund. Diane and Fiona had been working behind the scenes since the cocktail party to find the ideal candidate. I was happy for the two of them to make the decision, as I trusted them, but they wanted me to be a part of it and I am pleased they did.

I thoroughly enjoyed meeting John. He was genuine and quietly confident. He talked of wanting to be pushed to his limits so he would break. I thought: "Wow! How many 21-year-olds have that ambition?" John also spoke of being told: "If you are ever given the chance to go to Outward Bound, never turn it down!" I decided then and there that he would be the person to whom we gave just that opportunity, and straightaway I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

Following this initial meeting, John and I kept in regular contact as he prepared for his experience of a lifetime. I loved seeing the excitement grow as the big day neared. I was also counting down the days until he headed south to Anakiwa: I couldn't wait for John to enjoy his own Outward Bound experience.

True to his word, John sent me a letter as soon as he returned. I was delighted to read about how my first Outward Bound Scholarship recipient had fared. It was proof that dreams can come true: mine just had, and in doing it, I had helped someone else achieve their own.

When John, Fiona and I met up a few weeks later, I could instantly see the difference the course had made. He was grinning from ear to ear, with positive energy oozing out of every pore. He talked openly of his plans following his tertiary education, and there is no doubt in my mind he will achieve anything he sets his mind to, largely thanks to the focus and clarity he gained at Outward Bound.

I feel privileged to be in a situation where I can provide financial support, but for me spending time with John and continuing to get to know him as a person, has been an even more fulfilling experience.

My partnership with Outward Bound also developed the closer I came to racing at Ironman.

With the help of Diane at Outward Bound, I created an online fundraising page communicating my Ironman dream and the motivation behind my choosing this charity for my Ironman race. With each donation came a comment, and both gave me a boost of confidence that I was going to cross the finish line.

There were many favourite quotes, with one clear in my mind: "M.A.D - Making a Difference". I had lost count of the number of times I'd been called mad, simply because people couldn't understand the training or the race distance. Now I had a positive slant on this word; now, each time I heard it, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

Without knowing it, I had come to a place in my life where I was living the life mission I had written in the bush at Outward Bound a few years prior:

To grow and develop as a person by making the most of the opportunities that arise and ensuring I am creating these opportunities. The knowledge I gain will be passed on to those I come in contact with to try to make a difference in this world. I want to continue to learn, grow and develop as a person so my weaknesses become less and I become a better rounded person.

Outward Bound was proud of my achievements to date, and asked whether I'd also mind sharing my story of how Anakiwa had helped turn my life around. I believed it was the least I could do.

Kerry from the public relations agency sent through a questionnaire for me to complete before the telephone interview that would follow after the race. At first, my answers were guarded, as I didn't want to reveal the truth for fear of what people would think — just like the bad old days. Even after everything that had happened since, very few people knew the complete story and there was a large part of me that wanted to control the spread of this information.

I discussed my options with my family, because I was conscious it was not only me who was going to be affected if my secrets became common knowledge. They were also in jeopardy of being judged — of having the stigma attached to them of being the parents and sister of an attempted suicide victim who had also been sexually assaulted. As always, my family provided me the gentle encouragement I needed.

"Claire, if telling your story helps one person, it's worth it," they said.

A week out from Ironman, I was revealing the darkest passages of my life to a stranger at a PR company. Now was that a sign that I'd made progress, or what?

# Chapter 21

### My Everest

The day was almost here. With less than 48 hours to go, I still couldn't get my head around what I was about to attempt. During my preparation, my belief and confidence in completing Ironman had come into question so many times that I had lost count. Ironman just seemed too big to achieve. I can clearly remember one particular day, two and a half weeks out from the race, where I was up at 4:45am to complete my swim before working a ten-hour day, still with a half marathon to finish before I could collapse into bed. On race day, I would replicate these same hours but without the ten-hour respite from exercise that work provided. I couldn't imagine how that would be possible!

Ironman had been my Mt Everest, and now here I was about to attempt the final push to the summit. As you're warned when you take on Ironman, I was going into the race with the finish line representing the end of my struggle. By conquering Ironman, I hoped I would find the inner belief once again that I could do anything I put my mind to, and that I could put the past behind me. I had come a long way during this journey that had begun so many years beforehand. When you put it in perspective, 226km really wasn't that much further to go.

****

A few days earlier, Ally had tried to point out the finish line to me, perhaps to help me focus on the prize. I had averted my gaze. I only wanted to see the finish line from the other angle, the side you can see when you are running down the finishing chute.

The pre-race morning started with the race briefing for all of the athletes. I had read the race manual numerous times, yet still managed to get the location of the briefing wrong! Fortunately, I randomly bumped into Ally, who pointed me in the right direction.

I entered a room with close to 1,500 other athletes to hear the final race-day details. The environment made me even more nervous, the feeling I had whenever I was in a situation that made Ironman seem real. It was possible to train for it most of your waking hours and still not quite believe in it. Now there was no escaping the reality. I couldn't wait to escape to the sanctuary of the bach.

The race rules were explicit. No athlete was to receive any outside assistance from supporters who were not Ironman officials. This included passing food or other items — such as clothing — to me. I had worried on numerous occasions that I might collapse on the course and some well-meaning bystander would stop to assist me, thereby ending my Ironman dream: in that circumstance, I would be disqualified. I asked my supporters to leave me if this were to happen. I had to find my own way to the finish line completely unassisted.

I spent the next few hours packing my transition and special needs bags that would support me throughout the course. To ensure I didn't forget anything, I had created a list a few days beforehand that itemised everything for each of the five bags. Mum and I worked together to prepare the food: five pikelet sandwiches, four muffins, six marmite sandwiches on white bread, four Ems Power Bars, 16 lollies and three bottles of Replace. That was it. My bags were packed and double-checked by Mum, and then there was nothing left to do. The race was almost here.

When I was driving back from dropping off all of my gear, and racking my bike in transition, I burst into tears. The demands of the Ironman event were not to be underestimated, with the endurance event a daunting task for any athlete, perhaps even more so for first-timers, as they have no previous knowledge or experience of what to expect. I had spent time with Ally, asking numerous questions, trying to gain an insight into what might unfold, yet I still felt I was entering the race blind. In some ways, though, this was better: I had finally accepted that knowing the future does not make life any easier. But that didn't stop me being terrified!

My anxiety gave way to excitement as my friends started to arrive at the bach. I had everyone around me who had been with me throughout this journey, with the welcome addition of my young nephew who was now just five months old. I recalled that even he had helped me along the way: it was the first sight of his face that had stopped my wavering at the mid-point in the training. Without the resolve I had felt at that moment, I wouldn't have made it this far.

The love, laughs and positive energy helped me relax and simply enjoy being in the presence of the people who meant the most to me, the experience I had missed the most during my Ironman training. We were all looking forward to the race day unfolding, and each of us was daring to dream about the desired goal: seeing me cross the finish line.

I went to bed early to try to get a good night's sleep, always an optimistic thought on any pre-race night. My nervous excitement kept me awake for what seemed most of the night, but I used the time effectively to play each part of my race in my mind. My race plan was simple. I was going to focus on the present at all times, with the knowledge that every stroke, every push of the pedals and every step I took was one step closer to the finish line I so desperately wanted to cross. As Ally said, trust the programme and you'll finish Ironman. She had got me to the start line: now it was up to me to make my dream come true, one step at a time.

****

I awoke at 4.30 am to start my race-day routine. Porridge, mashed banana and sultanas was my breakfast of choice, a meal I had trained on for months previously. A group of friends drove me to the check-in point and left me there, with an arrangement to meet them at the waterfront once I'd had my race number written on my body and had set up the rest of my gear in the bike transition area.

Surrounded by hundreds of other athletes, I joined the body marking line. The queue moved slowly forward, and finally it was my turn at the desk. I told them my number, and they flicked through the sheets in front of them, frowning.

My race number didn't exist!

Thoughts raced through my mind. What had I done to be disqualified? Had I been pulled from the race overnight without my knowledge? Seconds passed, but it seemed like minutes, before I realised I had joined the wrong line. I was number 260 not 620! I have always had excellent attention to detail, but Ironman was playing with my mind: this was the second basic mistake I had made in two days.

I had a wee laugh and told myself if that was the worst that was going to happen on race day, then I was going to have a fantastic event. I joined the correct line this time and was checked in. The woman then asked me what letter I was to indicate my age group. My mind was mash: I simply couldn't remember!

I finally made it through to transition with the correct body marking in place to complete my bike set-up. I pumped my tyres, placed my food in my Bento Box that sat on top of my bike and then proceeded to the toilets for the third time that morning. While in there, I overheard another woman talking of a similar experience, except she didn't realise she had got the wrong number on her body until they had actually written it on her!

I spent the last half-hour with my supporters. It meant the world to me having them there. We spent the time taking photos, laughing, with many words of encouragement being said. Then it was time. I said my final farewells and headed to the water, not looking back.

The three orange flashing lights illustrated the countdown with each light extinguishing as every minute passed. The music was pumping, with the crowd lining the shoreline. The atmosphere was electric. I looked around me at the other competitors. Every one of the other athletes here had likely trodden the same journey as me, the training, the sacrifices, the pain, the self-doubt and despair. And I could only imagine how they had come to be walking that road at all. How many had stories — secrets — like mine? The great mistake that people make in dark times in their lives is that they feel they are completely alone. No one experiencing pain or misery in this world is alone. Much of life is like Ironman: it's an intensely personal struggle, but we're all in it together.

****

The cannon sounded, and my Ironman race started. I'd positioned myself on the outer side of the field, left of the buoys, as I wanted to avoid the carnage in the middle of the course. But with close to 1,500 competitors heading 1,750m up the lake, any hope I had of avoiding the traffic jam was wishful thinking. There were many moments where I was boxed in with a swimmer in front of me as well as having one on either side, not a situation I had encountered much before. For the first time, my wetsuit tightened around my throat, making the tempo of my breathing increase as I felt I was suffocating. I wanted clear water, and this is what I searched for.

Rounding the first buoy I headed further to the far left-hand side of the course. I was aware I was swimming extra distance, but this wasn't a concern for me. I had made a conscious decision before the race to treat the swim as a warm-up for the disciplines to come. I'd read stories of people who had let the excitement of the race overtake their race plan, resulting in a faster swim pace than they wanted, an approach that caught up with them later on in the day. This was not a mistake I wanted to make. I regained my focus on living in the present — reaching every stroke, breathing every third and sighting the buoys every ninth.

I had a fantastic inbound swim, enjoying the crystal clear blue water that I had swum in throughout my childhood. I could see the large yellow buoy marking the final turn into the shore, and as the metres reduced, the noise of the crowd increased. I touched the sand with my fingertips, once, twice, three times then pushed for my feet to touch the ground, exiting the water in 1 hour 19 minutes. The route to transition was lined with hundreds of cheering supporters; the most important of these were my loved ones.

I entered the transition tent to be greeted by a friendly Ironman official who helped me change my clothing from the swim to the bike. I called out what I wanted done, and she helped me do it - wetsuit off, food in, cycle vest on, socks and shoes. Within a few minutes, I was out the door to start the 180km ride.

My adrenalin was pumping riding through the streets lined with people, cheering all of the athletes on. I enjoyed my first muffin of the day then focused on my race plan: drink sports electrolyte drink every 15 minutes and eat every 30 minutes. The time in between, I thought of the motion of the ideal pedal stroke.

The two-lap course involved a 45km ride out to the turnaround point before returning to Taupo. I still couldn't imagine riding 180km, a distance I had never ridden before. To make it more manageable, I took Ally's advice and split the distance into four legs of 45km each, a distance I was more than capable of riding.

I settled into a good rhythm and maintained a good pace, assisted by a gentle tailwind. But not long into the ride, I developed stomach cramps, the same feeling I had experienced at the Half Ironman a couple of months prior. At that race, I had reduced my food and drink intake to try to control the discomfort I was experiencing. I knew this approach wouldn't work for Ironman. My nutrition was the fuel my body needed; without it, I wouldn't make it to the finish line. I stuck to my plan, drinking every 15 minutes and eating on the half hour. I also tried to ease the ache by changing my body position on the bike from my aerobars to the main handlebars on a regular basis.

The outward leg of the ride was lonely. The road was closed, and supporters weren't allowed to join the athletes for this part of the journey. But the turnaround point was an exciting time for me, meaning I had just another 45km until I could see my family and friends again. I was relieved to maintain a steady pace on the return leg, as I was blessed with a gentle breeze instead of the strong headwind I had often experienced during training.

I completed the final turn into Taupo and my energy levels reached an all-time high. The lift I experienced when I saw those closest to me was amazing. The crowd was yelling their encouragement. In their eyes, everyone on the course was a hero. My supporters had positioned themselves strategically on the steepest hill on the course. I had a huge smile on my face. Momentarily I forgot about everything else around me — the climb, and the way my body was feeling.

I passed the special needs bag collection zone, without stopping for the additional food I had packed the day before. I knew I had enough fuel on me to last the final 90km of the ride.

I continued to struggle with my stomach cramps, and I also started to develop a splitting headache. I remembered from the race briefing that there were first aid packs at each aid station, positioned approximately 17km apart. There were various things on offer: plasters, bandages and so on for blisters, bangs and scrapes — and Panadol for pain.

I endured an internal struggle for over an hour trying to decide the best steps to take to overcome my current situation. I had made a conscious decision after my overdose never to let the little white pills pass my lips again, a stance I had rigorously maintained for the years that had followed, despite the occasionally intense bodily discomfort my training routines had caused. Yet here I was with over 100km to go in the race with a headache worsening each minute that passed.

For years, I had punished myself for the suicide attempt, carrying around the overwhelming guilt everywhere I went. I had put my family and friends through hell, yet they had never held it against me, believing my illness was to blame, not me as a person. Perhaps they'd been right. Perhaps it was time I cut myself a little slack, too.

I stopped at the next aid station and gratefully accepted the Panadol from the support crew.

Who would have thought a couple of tiny white pills could symbolise so much? Tears poured down my face as I rode off to continue my Ironman journey. The emotion of letting go, finally accepting my past and deciding not to punish myself anymore was the most uplifting experience of my life. I could now completely grasp the meaning of the quote "Not to forgive is a decision to suffer." I didn't want to suffer anymore. I believed I had endured enough. I was finally able to release myself from my painful past by forgiving myself.

The overwhelming emotion blocked my airway and made it difficult to breathe. I had to stay in the present, focus on the task at hand and the race plan I had played over in my mind, time and time again. The ideal pedal motion became my primary focus, along with the constant self-talk: "left-right, left-right. You can do it."

****

Two hours later, I was back in Taupo ready for the marathon.

Coming back into transition was an exhilarating experience once again. My supporters were all there cheering me on. I had now been competing for over eight hours. In that time, they would have had breakfast, lunch and possibly an afternoon nap, yet I was still exercising. Crazy!

Fortunately, my headache had eased but I was still feeling ill with stomach cramps. I told myself that the ill feeling would pass as it always had during a number of training sessions and the recent Half Ironman. I just had to have faith and put one foot in front of the other. I focused on the baby steps that would help me complete each kilometre rather than the marathon that lay ahead, which was still a very daunting thought.

Maintaining the same body position for just over seven hours meant I was pleased to be leaving the bike leg of the course, with the opportunity to use different muscles, and for my feet to finally touch the ground. I was able to run off the bike, a skill I had practised numerous times throughout my training.

During transition, I had grabbed a Marmite sandwich along with a small bag of lollies that I placed in my back pocket. This was to be the energy to fuel me throughout the 42.2km ahead. To my surprise, these meagre supplies felt like a tonne of extra weight. At the time, it was a difficult decision. I felt as if I was throwing my lifeline away — the food I had trained on for two years, and that I knew would give me the energy while not reacting with my stomach. The additional load was unbearable, however, so I dropped it in the nearest bin.

I first started to vomit seven kilometres into the run. I couldn't control it: I simply stumbled to a stop to be sick then continued on my way, placing one foot in front of the other. I knew I had to keep my fluids up, and ideally some food as well, but I couldn't stomach anything. Each aid station I passed, I would swallow a couple of mouthfuls of water, but this further induced the vomiting. I returned my focus to: "left-right. You can do it", continuously repeating these words to myself.

A few kilometres later, I became concerned about the control of my bowel motions. Each step I took made it more urgent that I find a toilet. People often want to know what you do for number ones and number twos when they hear you've done an Ironman. In fact, for me, the most popular question after the race was: "what do you do for — you know — on the course when you're racing for over 12 hours?" Everyone's different. For me, I urinated a few times that day without stopping, but that's where I drew the line. My mind drifted off to a photograph I had seen during my training of an Ironman athlete who had lost control of his bowel, with the evidence plain to see all down his legs. This was not something I wanted to endure.

Running up a rise, I could see the white and green colour of a Portaloo. I hoped my mind wasn't playing tricks on me, that it wasn't a mirage. To my delight, it wasn't. Now I began to fear it would be occupied, but my luck was in again. Once the diarrhoea had passed, sitting in the comfort of the toilet, my stomach cramps began to ease. That promised to allow me to run more freely.

The time in the loo also gave me the chance to get to the bottom of the excruciating pain I was feeling with each step I took. I had developed deep gouges between my legs where the seamline of my tri-shorts rubbed against my skin. I had trained in my race clothing countless times to help avoid this very situation, yet there are some Ironman experiences you can't prepare for. I considered spreading Vaseline on the affected area, but my self-consciousness stopped me. I didn't want to be seen at the aid station with my hands down my pants spreading cream on my inner thighs!

****

I saw Ally as I ran into the turnaround point, having just completed the first 21.1km lap.

"I had it coming out both ends," I called to her.

"That's normal," she called back.

Once again, Ironman stretches the meaning of "normality"! Later, Ally would tell me it was the only positive comment she could think to say. It is common - but it's not good.

"Do you want me out on the course?" she asked.

"Yep," was all I could manage.

My family and friends were providing amazing support, but I wanted Ally out there with me as well. I knew she would be the only person I would listen to if the going got tough and I wanted to quit. I hoped that knowing she might be around the next corner would ensure this didn't eventuate.

****

On the homeward leg, with 10km to go, I noticed the sun was now setting. That meant it was probably around 8 pm. That was a simple, logical conclusion to draw, but it took me several minutes. My mind was by now unaccustomed to think about anything other than the specific task at hand.

My primary goal was to complete the Ironman, which was an achievement in itself. For this reason, I hadn't paid any attention to my time. Yet now, as I stole a glance at my watch, I couldn't help but try to make sense of the timings. If it really was 8 pm, it meant I'd been racing for 13 hours. Therefore I had a good chance of crossing the finish line in under 14 hours. I didn't have the mental facility right then to accurately calculate my pace per kilometre, so I just decided to run as fast as my body would allow me, at the same time repeatedly telling myself: "left-right. You can do it!"

****

Time passed, as I repeated my mantra and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, getting there one step at a time.

Suddenly, I was rounding the final corner. Lights were shining upon me as the darkness of night engulfed the sky. Here was the crowd, several people deep, watching me achieve my dream, all cheering me on despite the fact the vast majority of them had no idea who I was or how far I'd come to be here.

The loudspeaker boomed.

'Come on! Not far to go! You're there!"

The MC was calling me home as I ran down the finishing chute. People stretched out their hands, and I gave them high fives as I went. I couldn't make out anyone specific, but I knew my family and friends were there to support me, just as they had done throughout other life-changing moments in my life.

I will always treasure those last few minutes of the race. It was one of the few times in my life — certainly in my adult life — where I didn't have a worry in the world. I felt complete joy and satisfaction. The finish line was just ahead.

As Sir Edmund Hillary said: "It's not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves." And now here I was on a summit, too. The climb had been unimaginably long and difficult, but here I was. I had conquered myself, but I had also set myself free.

I crossed the finish line with my arms raised in the air above my head, and 13 hours 46 minutes showing on the clock. I had done it!

"Claire Anderson," the loudspeaker boomed. "You are an Ironman!"

# Chapter 22

### Reality Hits

As I crossed the Ironman finish line, I at last allowed my mind to relax its grip on my body. My struggle was finally over. Fortunately, the support crew were there to support me as my legs buckled. I was assisted into the finishers' tent for the routine post-race checks.

Moments later, I was on a stretcher with medics calling my name.

"Claire. Claire, can you hear me?"

My body had finally succumbed to the stress I had placed it under, and I collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor.

"I'm really cold," were the only words I could mutter. It was true: I felt frozen to the core. The euphoric feeling was almost instantly replaced by fear. What was wrong with me?

The medical team immediately wrapped me in blankets while checking my body's vital signs. I was hot to touch, yet the thermometer reading told the real story.

"I'm freezing," were the next words I spoke.

I couldn't manage a conversation with the people who were trying to help me, but I hoped this simple comment would identify the problem.

A decision was made to transfer me to the medical area that had a specialist team of volunteer army medics and St John's Ambulance staff. As my stretcher was placed on the back of a golf cart, I heard one of the medical team say: "We need to find her husband," with great urgency in his voice. I didn't have the energy to tell them that they wouldn't find one, as I wasn't married. But I had followed race protocol and written my family's contact details on the reverse side of my race number. I knew they would be contacted.

An army stretcher lined with a woollen blanket awaited me. Additional blankets were placed on top along with two hot water bottles that I gratefully held close to my body. I was shaking uncontrollably, the warmth not yet penetrating to my core.

In the days leading up to the race, Ally and her friends had jokingly talked of the medical tent and how you've not really done an Ironman until you've spent time in one. I never expected to push myself so hard I would fall into this category, although in hindsight, it's not surprising. I always have to do my best at whatever I set my mind to. It's those unrelenting standards again.

The medics suggested I try to go to the toilet to see whether I could pass any bowel motions. Two attendants assisted me to my feet, as I was still not able to support my own weight. When they raised me off the bed, one of them reached for the medal that had been placed around my neck as soon as I had crossed the finish line. Not yet able to talk coherently, I simply grabbed the medal and held on, signifying to her I wasn't ready to remove the symbol of my achievement just yet.

I was able to pass urine, much to the delight of the medical team. I didn't appreciate what this indicated; I reserved my relief for the moment I was back wrapped up in my warm cocoon once again. It was cold in the toilet.

Within minutes of settling back in bed, I experienced horrific stomach cramps that left me convulsing as the pain ripped through my body. Fortunately the doctors acted immediately to relieve my discomfort, injecting morphine into the cannula that had been inserted into my arm. The pain was at a more manageable level as soon as the drug seeped into my bloodstream. My body was stabilising.

I would later be told my supporters were becoming concerned, as I hadn't turned up at the agreed meeting place. A couple of my friends came to the medical area asking of my whereabouts, just on the off-chance I was there. They were shocked to discover I had been admitted, yet my parents hadn't been contacted.

My family joined me at my bedside. The look of concern on their faces was all too evident, an expression I had seen before. Fortunately, I was now more coherent and could actively respond to the questions the medical team were asking me. I just hoped my responses would give them the information they were looking for.

I kept on complaining of thirst, and desperately wanting to drink some water, a request I was initially refused, as I needed the electrolyte sports drink that contained the vital salts my body required. Mum sat next to me, feeding me the prescribed fluid through a straw, a few sips at a time. The rest of my family and my coach stood a few metres from the foot of my bed in deep conversation with the medics. I was later to learn that they didn't really have a firm idea of what was happening to me; it was simply a process of elimination, and a waiting game.

Now that the pain had subsided, the heart-warming feelings of total satisfaction returned. I had dreamed of this day for years, and I wanted to cherish the moment with everyone who had helped me.

Ally was the only non-family member allowed into the medical area. I had relied on her coaching expertise and personal support throughout the last year. She came to my bedside to congratulate me on my accomplishment, but like that day in my distant past where I heard my mother telling someone that my cricketing honour was all my own work, I knew it wasn't all about me. Ally, along with many others, had made my dream become a reality. Completing an Ironman was my opportunity to give back to everyone. I had finished the race, but they had helped me throughout my years of recovery. I simply couldn't have done it without them!

****

As the hours passed, my blood pressure, temperature and heart rate were all at a good level, suggesting my body was responding well to the treatment. The medical team were unable to pinpoint a specific problem, other than to say that my body had been pushed to its limit. I could have told them that!

I was also now able to eat some food for the first time in eight hours. Chicken cup-a-soup has never tasted so good. Once I was able to sit on the side of my bed and actively hold a two-way conversation, I begged the medical team to discharge me. I wanted to be at the bach with my family and friends.

They agreed, and I returned home, proud to wear my medal that still hung around my neck, into the arms of those closest to me. I took great pride in seeing the joy on their faces and hearing the positive words. They were all so proud of me. Best of all, I was proud of me! I hadn't felt that way for years.

In bed that night, when everyone was asleep, I cried for the first time since the bike leg of the race, except this time they were tears of pure happiness. The enormity of what I had achieved hit me. Finally, my thoughts — once the enemy — had brought about a positive outcome: I had achieved my Ironman dream. I had made a choice, and I had fulfilled my dream by choosing not to give up.

# Chapter 23

### Closure

I was, of course, naïve to think that crossing the Ironman finish line would be the end. The news of my achievements filtered through to Luke, a journalist from the North Shore Times, an Auckland community newspaper. He contacted me for an interview a week after the race, having just read the Outward Bound press release.

This was a very strange situation to be in. Not only was I about to talk openly about the secrets I had held onto for so long, I was also going to do so with two strangers, and males at that. I had never been comfortable talking to men about my situation, and had avoided it throughout my treatment. But Luke, and Oliver the photographer were very professional, and put me at ease.

I asked them whether I could see the article before it went to print, my last-ditch effort to assert some control. Luke explained that due to the newspaper confidentiality policy, he wasn't able to do this, nor could he reveal the placement or date of the publication, as my "feel-good" story would be a placeholder for when there wasn't a time-sensitive story.

I now faced the prospect that I would read the story at the same time as the public. All I could do was trust the paper's sensitivity and hope they would focus on the key message: never give up!

I discovered the newspaper released the latest edition online the morning the papers were distributed, so each day I jumped onto the Internet to check for my story. I was shocked a few days later when I saw myself staring back at me. The photo Oliver had taken of me holding my Ironman medal filled the screen, along with the headline: "Ironman pulls Claire back from the brink". Not only was my article published. It made the front page of the newspaper!

Within hours, my phone was ringing hot as people read about me, many of them hearing the full story for the first time. Some people may revel in the fact they are noticed, but not me. I felt a deep, painful knot in the pit of my stomach, a sense of overwhelming dread. Five years ago, only a handful of people knew the gory details of my past, now the entire North Shore of Auckland did! What had I done?

My automatic reaction was to run and hide. As I drove home from work, I couldn't stop focusing on the rolled-up newspapers sitting in everyone's letterboxes. I wanted to grab every single one and throw them away before anyone could read them. Instead, once home, I turned my mobile off, ignored the landline when it rang, and simply went to bed. I just wanted the day to end. This was not the way I had expected to react!

The contents of the article lived on. In the months to come, I lost count of the number of acquaintances who said: "I saw you in the paper". Some people went further, telling me that they had a greater understanding of who I was as a person. Many admired what I'd achieved. Interestingly, I didn't get the impression that anyone judged me, which had been my biggest fear all along. Everyone experiences fear but what we often don't realise is that this feeling immobilises us. For me, my fear of the unknown kept me trapped in the past. But like so many of the fears that plague us, that seem so real to us, my fear had as much substance as the monsters under a toddler's bed.

****

I have spent a decade searching for the secret to end my internal struggle with my past. I "played the victim" for many of these years, with my thoughts focused on such fruitless questions as: "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?" I simply didn't know what else to do. I believe, looking back, that this was a kind of comfort mechanism, as the past for all its horrors was familiar. By living in the past, I didn't have to deal with the present.

Since the sexual assault, I also invested significant energy in trying to control the future, as I thought this approach would stop me from being hurt again. In reality, though, the moments where I have reached out, not knowing what the outcome would be, have produced the most enriching experiences of my life. They have allowed me to meet and connect with some truly amazing people and enjoy great success in achieving goals I never thought would be possible.

There are still moments when I feel scared and vulnerable, and I want to revert to my coping mechanism and try to control a situation. I have come to learn that being scared doesn't mean I am inferior or useless or that I should stop stepping forward into the unknown. It just means I am scared, simple as that. Now when I recognise these moments, I hold onto the truth that the past is gone, the future is yet to be and the present is the moment to _choose_ to be. After all, my fear is simply **f** alse **e** vidence that **a** ppears **r** eal.

Ironman was my way of finding the real me. The journey, along with the love and support of others, helped me realise I had to determine my self-worth and purpose. For me, I had to push my body to its limits to love myself once again, and to discover that I was a survivor — a wonderful feeling after having felt like a victim for so long. In reality, anyone who has experienced despair can achieve these same victorious feelings. You just need to decide that you will no longer tolerate the past sabotaging the future. I now recognise there are no magic words or physical challenges that will bring the instant closure I was looking for. Instead, I see it as an evolving journey with numerous steps to make along the way, even if, at the worst moments, it's just one step at a time.

I have also learned that sharing the truth is a daunting experience but it's also an incredibly empowering one. In hindsight, my only real weakness throughout my ordeal was my inability to ask for help. It may not seem like it at the time, but by taking this step you help create the conditions of empowerment. It communicates to others that while you may not have the answers, you're willing to find them and to make things better.

Looking back has been a painful experience. I see that I have hurt many people and made countless mistakes, actions that have generated feelings of great shame and guilt. It has been difficult to look within, but I know this is an essential part of my continual personal development. The key for me was to accept I did the best I could with the skills and information I had at the time, and when I made mistakes, to learn from them.

It took a long time to learn to forgive myself. At times it seemed an unsurmountable feat. To make it more achievable, it was suggested to me that I start by forgiving myself for not forgiving myself, a smaller step towards the end goal. This approach gave me some peace from constantly beating myself up. Whenever I heard the demons inside, I would say: "It's okay. You're not ready just yet, but I forgive myself for not being ready."

There is no denying Bob's actions deeply affected me, but it was the internal dialogue that followed that let my life spiral out of control, in the end, to the point where my mind couldn't come up with a better answer to my problems than a handful of pills. I had let my uncontrolled thoughts influence the way I viewed the world, and had concluded it was a horrible place that I didn't want to be a part of. Joseph Jaworski sums it up in his book _Synchronicity: The Inner Path of Leadership_ when he says: "we do not describe the world we see, but we see the world we describe." Perhaps if my perspective had been different, the outcome from the sexual assault would have taken an alternative route.

I now understand I was my own worst enemy in believing that the negative chatter between my ears was the truth. I experienced firsthand the incredible power of this noise and how destructive it can be. In the end, it nearly took my life! I will always be grateful to Ironman for helping me see the power of the mind, how you can actually use it to achieve a dream that seems unobtainable.

To this day, even with an Ironman medal hanging on my wall, I hear my mind telling me: "I'm not good enough. I'm useless. I'm worthless. It's too hard. It's too big a dream to be possible." I know that if I started to believe this nonsense, it would soon become my reality. So now I recognise these words as mere babble and laugh at it. I know too well that the negative talk only has meaning if you give it that power. It can easily shape and control the world you live in, so it's important you're careful with how you manage these intrusive thoughts.

There have been many challenges throughout this journey, each with their own unique element. The questions I found answers to I have struggled with throughout, and there are some I still have yet to resolve. During my depression, I always asked myself: "How can I continue to live without the answers I am looking for?" Interestingly, I now find myself asking: "How I can move on, holding onto the anguish of not knowing the answers to these questions? Would the knowledge change the past?" Even though it is very painful, I am slowly accepting I won't ever have the answers to all of my questions, nor a complete picture of the sexual assault, and I see this as yet another positive step, because when I have accepted those facts, it will mean I have come to recognise that I can't change the past.

I also live with the knowledge my attacker has never been held accountable for his actions, and never will. I used to want to inflict as much pain as humanly possible to make Bob pay for what he did to me, and at times I even resorted to blaming others for not holding him accountable. I have since learned that this misguided energy doesn't help us find a way forward; instead it keeps us trapped in the past. In fact, it is within us to manage every situation that arises, with the support of others: we just need to choose to take this approach. While lashing out and pointing the finger at other people may make us feel better, it is a short-term solution, as this behaviour actually diminishes the influence we have on the direction of our life.

I now _choose_ to live with the understanding that the people who have entered my life, for better or worse, have all helped me on this amazing journey. If it weren't for their actions I wouldn't be able to cherish my life the way I do now. All of my experiences to date, even though some have been more life-changing than others, have in common that they helped create the person I am today.

There were many times when I wanted to give up. This is when I had to try to hold on to the hope and belief that every challenge I encountered was another stepping stone towards a happier place, and that each step I took into the unknown meant I was just that little bit closer to achieving my dreams. I just had to take life one step at a time.

The painful memories are slowly fading and I am now comfortable with the knowledge that they will always be a part of my life. The difference is I _choose_ for them no longer to control me. In their place, I have regained the power by developing the tools to manage my mind.

One of the greatest lessons from this journey is that life does not get any easier by knowing what is coming next. The challenge is to be open to the future without trying to control it, by projecting the same outcome of similar events from the past. I am enjoying living more in the present, and I look forward to whatever the future holds, as I know I have the power of my mind as the guiding path.

There are so many people who have touched my life, whether it is for a reason, season or a lifetime, and I am grateful for everyone who has. My family and friends, in particular, have stood by me throughout this rollercoaster ride, enduring the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. Words cannot accurately describe how much their love and support has deeply touched me. I will forever be truly grateful for having these people in my life. They mean everything to me!

Knowing what I do now, the experiences I've had, has helped me to appreciate the importance of who I am as a person. Growing up as a child, I always imagined I'd have a perfect life. Funnily enough, as I write this, I believe I have.

My Ironman journey has also helped me rediscover the belief I had as a child: I can do anything I set my mind to. Many people have asked me: "What's next?"

My answer is that there is a world full of opportunities. They are right there, in my book of dreams.

