By WENDY SQUIRES
The last week or so I have become a woman obsessed, juggling so many feelings I am finding it hard to keep track of which emotional ball belongs in which hand.
You see, I am taking the murder of sex worker Tracy Connelly, which I wrote about in The Age and Mia Freedman so eloquently humanised last week, extremely personally. And I can’t apologise for it. It is just how I feel.
When I become emotionally affected to this level, I like to stop and ask myself what’s really going on. What buttons has this tragedy pushed in me that I am feeling so raw and sensitive and thin skinned?
Part of the answer, I realise, is that I am overwhelmed with the public response to Tracy’s death. It is as if my faith has been restored with the heartfelt reaction Mia and I have received from readers who are too distressed by brutal death.
But here is the real truth to what I think is really affecting me so deeply – I know I could have been Tracy. It wouldn’t have taken much more in my childhood to tip me over the edge and in to an abyss with little chance of escape. And I never forget it, not for a second of a minute of any day. It is so intrinsic to who I am its like it’s a part of my DNA.
I don’t want to go in to too much detail of my childhood other than to say I was raised by an alcoholic father with severe mental health issues after my mother left. I brought myself up while trying to save him at the same time and it was bloody tough. I felt different to other kids and was ashamed of who I was and how I was living. I felt like white trash, a lesser person, and believed everyone around me thought the same.