Busy, busy place our little fibro home. Teenage children crowding: two minute noodles, friends, music: loud! And me, the middle-aged dad, knowing less about life than ever. This learning curve about me is steep and getting steeper. ‘How are the children?' my on-the-phone wife asks the voice at the other end. Wonder who she's talking to? ‘Where will they stay?' she asks. Ah! This is about old mate who's on the way out with cancer. His wife and kids need help. Something clicks! inside me. ‘They'll stay with us,' I almost yell. ‘All with us, the mother, all of them—forever!' Where did that come from? I nearly lost it right there. The day wears on. They're coming to stay. Great. Back at my screen in a dusty, cobwebbed office, something's not right. The heart's pounding, booming out of the chest like in a rugby game. This is no ordinary palpitation. Had those for years. This is like running hard: thumping, thumping, thumping but not out of breath. Walking in the yard should fix it. Nope! Still going hammer and tongs. Lying down, pressing on the eyeballs—the Vagus nerve trick—which works on palpitations. But no dice. Finally, it goes away of its own accord. Days pass and it's all good. The children come to stay. Meanwhile, we're sorting the logic of the click! and the pounding. It has to be something to do with when Mum got sick. She and Dad went away and me and the brothers went to a hostel. I was six. It's an emotional trigger event. That's all this is. Back at work. Talking to young adults about life and faith. Taking a lost boy for a long walk at night. He needs to let some anger out. Meanwhile, under my own skin: ships sinking, spaces filling with a hurrying, flooding ocean. What the hell? It's a new day. I'm caught out. Can't stop it. Here it comes: a gigantic black crate seeming to drop out of the sky. A caged monster crashing around, flames shooting out the cracks. And me the little boy, terrified. I'm supposed to flip the latch, to let it out. It goes away like a truck passing on a highway. Maybe it's medication and lock-up time. ‘It's imagination,' I say. 'You've been helping one too many traumatised kids.' But I know imagination. This is not imagination. It's real. And there's my wife and lover praying with and for me—and both of us hoping for a way ahead, that this won't be some dead end street. Not now, we have enough on our plate. Days drag on. ‘This is embarrassing bullshit,' I murmur. ‘I'll fix it myself.' ‘Whatever you do,' a friend says, ‘don't try to fix it yourself.' ‘So,' my prayer to God voice says, ‘What do I do now?' Maybe there's someone out there who could help, the idea returns to me. I laugh, thinking of all the disappointed people I know: stories of quacks and healers. Maybe you're not ready yet. Don't lose your nerve. ‘God did not give us a spirit of fear,' I say, quoting an old verse, ‘but a Spirit of power, of love and a sound mind.'* So, here we are, walking the dog down to a rippling brown river and wondering. Is there such a thing as a prayer or a question that's before its time? Or things that need to be allowed to have their day? We stop. Under a cold grey sky. The dog looks at me. What the? Did I just hear a murmur of dissent from my false-self? That middle aged—well educated—voice: offended at the suggestion that there's something on offer that I'm missing out on: terrified of the chaos this might unleash, or, if truth be told, the freedom. We reach the river, water rippling over stones and the fresh, sweet smell of a sandbar. On the haunches now, head bowed. The dog licks my hand. Before we try to sail this ship on the next Big Life Journey, perhaps we need to allow things in the harbour to float out to sea: half-formed dreams, faces running with tears, premonitions and prayers. Grievings of the Holy Spirit, longing to have a voice in the space, time and matter that is me? We make it back to the house. The un-pulling is heavier. Remember, don't lose your nerve. Trust. Pray. So tired. Have to sleep. Everyone's out, thank goodness. Here comes the lying on the floor part, paralysed. And a flashback dialogue with a fourteen year old girl, of which I'm speaking both sides—seeming to gather information about the six year old me in a trauma hell-hostel. Like a video replay. ‘Father in Heaven,' I pray. ‘What do I do now?' Relax. Lie here, wait and let it play. You're not crazy. This is real. ‘Trust in me,' the words seem to be spoken directly to me. Days and weeks pass with more monster in the cage moments, flashbacks: waiting, thinking and praying. I talk with a friend about the monster in the cage. ‘I remember that,' she says. ‘I was sitting on a huge box: all these tentacles coming out.' Oh. She's one of the sanest people I know. Maybe there is hope. ‘I had to choose to open the lid,' she says. I knew she would say that. ‘So,' she continues, ‘You're ready to open it are you?' ‘Yes.' * 2 Timothy 1:7

In January 2018, my housing provider referred me to a new surf therapy program which was being piloted. I was sceptical; how on earth could surfing be therapeutic? Wouldn't I drown? At that point I was willing to try anything to help my ever-worsening PTSD. I turned up with no expectations. I didn't really speak to anyone, just showed up, put the wetsuit on and listened. As soon as I caught that first wave that was it. I was hooked. The feeling of riding the wave was something else completely. Even before I tried to stand up on the board, the sense of freedom was unreal. I didn't attempt to stand up until the second session, and before I knew it I was surfing twice a week and then nearly every day over the summer. Even on days when the sea was flat I would paddle out just to get that sense of calm that the sea brought with it. I knew that whenever I was in the water, all my problems would disappear ; the flash backs, nightmares, anxiety and fear. For those few hours I could be a different, worry-free person. The hours I spent in the water were my form of mindfulness. When you're surfing you cannot afford to think about anything else. If you lose focus for even a few minutes you can end up swept out in a rip, colliding with another surfer or on top of a reef. Even when you have a ‘'bad surf'' it's still a complete distraction. It gave me a focus, something to aim towards. When you're up against something as powerful as the sea, it's a huge challenge but even when getting absolutely pummeled by the waves it makes you feel like you're really achieving something. In July I started volunteering with The Wave Project, a surf based charity which helps children with emotional and behavioural problems through surf therapy, It meant I could get in the water on both Saturdays and Sundays and pass on my skills to children who really needed that escape. It was great that I could use some of my experiences to help others. I could tell when they first turned up how anxious they were, and I knew from starting surfing myself how scary that was. The Wave Project also meant I got to meet loads of like minded people; positive people who constantly building each other up. I turned up one Saturday morning after having hardly any sleep due to noisy neighbours and was in the worst possible mood. Instantly they knew. I was inundated with hugs, offers of brews and practical support. The Wave Project is like a big family, no one gets left behind and even on your worst days they can make you feel like you have really achieved something. I always made a point of telling the children who seemed especially anxious that I had been through a similar surf therapy program myself, with the hope of easing their nerves. It was great to have some of them open up to me and trust me with some of their worries and fears. At the beginning of November I did my surf instructor course which was an amazing experience. I passed everything apart from the timed swim. So that's what I'm aiming towards now, passing my timed swim so I can spend the summer teaching kids how to surf and passing on my enthusiasm for the sport. When I speak to the instructors who led that first session I went to, they mention how I wouldn't even make eye contact with them at the beginning , let alone speak to them. It's amazing to look back and see how far I have come and the things I am now able to do, mainly because of surfing.

Once upon a time, you couldn't hurt a princess. In the beginning I pretended I didn't, but To the man who sneaks in and calls me his princess, I know it's you. I recognize your hands, your breath, your arms, and your noises. But you must know that I do. Your hands―the ones around my throat that tie those knots around my wrists at night― The same that I watch pack my lunch in the morning. Your breath―the first thing I hear when you hover near my ear, biting my neck at night― The same that pants after a flight of stairs and smells of garlic. Your arms―the heavy weights on my legs at night― The same that Sis and I clung onto as a little girls. And your noises―the groans and moans and spine-tingling whispers I hear at night― The same that come from Mommy's bedroom on the weekends. I know who you are, Yet I'm a good Daddy's princess and try not to squeal; I sit politely at family meals, like a real princess would. I never complain about the stains on my sheets or gowns, Or ask questions about our nightly interactions. I'm a good little secret-keeper; I never say a word. I'm a great actress too. As you know, I can play pretend. But pretending to forget is easier than pretending to not feel pain. Pain is the body's message to the mind that something is wrong. So it's hard to pretend that I can't feel you stuff yourself inside me. It takes years of skill. But I've been practicing since the beginning. I pretend at school, too. We talk about boys and imagine they've just invited us to the ball, like we're real princesses just waiting for a prince to sweep us off our feet. And with Coach Harry, too, at tennis practice: I always ask him for Band-Aids for the burns on my knees, Claiming I took another fall. I pretend with Dr. Henry, too. I pretend it's opposite day whenever I see him and his notebook of scribbles: I tell him I'm happy, I'm eating well; the family is great, that nobody's touched me, that Daddy is kind, and that I have no fears. Dr. Henry is pretty bad at playing opposite day, so I keep the score to myself. We eat dinner as a family, and Mommy goes to bed early since she has to wake up at 5 in the morning. And then Sis goes to her room and gets ready for bed. I do too, but I don't fall asleep straight away, I lie awake and wait for you to come. I know you're coming soon, And so does the man in the moon that looks through my window. I keep one eye attending to the door, Hoping that maybe, just maybe you don't need me anymore. But my hope dissipates into brittle pieces Like flaming acrylic disintegrating into ash. The instant my auditory cortex notices the door creek; It launches the threat straight to my amygdala. My sympathetic nervous system ignites, sending a surge of fiery-hot energy to my extremities. My breath gets heavy and goose bumps blanket my body. My heart starts racing and my legs twitch as fast as the twinkling stars in the sky. I know what's coming next, so my body tells me to scream. But I fight the instinct because I don't want Daddy to get mean. I watch you inch past the doorway with the roll of adhesive dangling like a bracelet on your wrist. We've done this too many times; you know me too well and expect that I'll yell; You can't risk me waking Big Sis. I hear the tape tear slowly, like my innocence you incrementally unthread from my body. I watch your hands guide it to my mouth. I suck in my lips so when you rip it off it won't hurt as bad. I close my eyes and start to pretend That you hadn't just created a story where the princess can't live happily ever after in the end. _ Please forgive me, little Sis. I really thought he just did it to me Or that Mommy was right; it was just a bad dream, even the screams. But one night he never came in, and I got up to see him skulk into your room. I saw his hands around your neck, your mouth clapped shut with the tape he used to use when I was bad, and your body thrashing into the sheets. That night I knew it wasn't just me and my dreams. And I wasn't his only favorite little girl. You were too. It suddenly all made sense… …the bug bites on your neck…. …the rug burns… .…your wobbly walk…. …your peeling lips… …the thick slices around your wrists… Your body looked like mine from when I used to resist. Those nights he didn't come in I told myself he was over it; that the nightmares were over; he'd had enough. But he hadn't. And I should have listened to Mommy when she said “dreams are too good to be true.” Because I could have saved you. I knew it was Daddy when I felt his studded wedding ring go inside me And when he made a mess and shuffled anxiously to my closet for that stained, crinkled dress. I just didn't know he went to your room next. I'm so sorry that I was too afraid to confess. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to hide anymore. You're safe. We will write our own fairy tale ending― one where the bad guy doesn't win.