Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir ‘Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.’ I’ll include an update or random thoughts on the piece, whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written about before, along with a selection of photos from my collection at the end. It might lead me down unexpected paths, just as my life has.

I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I am honoured by your generous support. Thank you.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll just flick the pages and see where it lands. I hope you find value in my little series.

Thanks, lovely friends.

Read more

“If we opened people up, we’d find landscapes” ~ Agnès Varda

There’s a strange irony in growing older: you become everything you once resisted, old judgments come back to mock you, and the voices of the young, in their bold youth, tell you all the truths you don’t want to hear. Little shits.

I avoid staring too intently into mirrors for that very reason; the scrutiny can be overwhelming. I needn’t bother. My seven-year-old grandson, Jacob, is apparently my mirror.

“Moo Moo, what’s wrong with your hands. You look like Vecna.”

My hand was glistening in the sun as I opened the car door for him. I’d just slathered on sunscreen, trying to avoid those unsightly age spots my mother had, which all old people get.

“Who is Vecna?” I asked, gazing at my hand as the network of purple veins suddenly appeared magnified beneath my unusually transparent skin.

When did that happen?

It wasn’t pretty. My hand looked odd as the sun blazed down, and a memory of Mum filled my mind.

Her hand in mine, weeks before her last breath, as we sat on the couch at her beach house. I looked at the delicate map of her hand, a crossroads of veins and spots, paper-thin skin as if it could tear at the slightest touch, against my younger, flawless, olive skin. I remember thinking, poor Mum, such ugly, old skin. I hope I never have hands like that…

“The scary monster from Stranger Things,” Jacob said.

What the hell.

Firstly, why on earth is a seven-year-old watching Stranger Things? I stopped watching after two seasons because it freaked me out. I’ll be having a chat with my daughter about what her son is getting up to while she spends two hours washing her hair on a school night.

And secondly, I had no idea who Vecna was, but if my grandson is comparing me to a scary monster, it can’t be good. I’ll be googling that when I get home.

I Googled.

What the fuck.

And here I am in my 60s, on the battlefield of aging, trying to dodge the same landmines my mother did, along with nearly every other woman since the dawn of time, while the universe laughs in mockery at my losing battle, along with my grandson.

The Crime Scene

Where do I begin to confess all the crimes against my body, the violations, and the self-inflicted?

At age 11, when my eldest brother tried to molest me. Or at age 13, when my other brother tried? They didn’t succeed — by sheer luck or divine intervention, I never knew. There was no penetration, but it was then I realised my body wasn’t safe; it wasn’t my own. It could, at any moment, be claimed against my will, and I would be powerless to defend it.

And so, at 14, just before my 15th birthday, that’s exactly what happened. Six boys gang-raped me in an isolated, overgrown field less than a mile from my house. They left me for dead in the cold dirt, bloody and battered, as I wished for death, hoping it would take me.

It didn’t, so I decided to do it myself. Defiant, I took all the pills from my mother’s medicine cabinet and then lost my nerve. Too late. I couldn’t throw up. I could never make myself vomit; I still can’t. I spent years trying to be bulimic, wanting to purge after every binge, but I couldn’t even do that properly. I just grew fatter because I couldn’t stop eating.

I told Mum what I’d done, and she rushed me to the children’s hospital where they pumped my stomach. When she asked why I did it, I lied.

“I hate my body,” I’d said. Not really a lie, but not the reason either. I said nothing about the rape or what my brothers had tried to do to me years before.

Mum took me to Weight Watchers. I suppose she thought it was an act of kindness.

“We’ll diet together, love. You’ll be happy if you lose some weight.”

She wasn’t being cruel or insensitive; she was just trying to help in the only way she knew how.

The stomach-pumping incident was something I never forgot. I felt violated all over again.

Note to self: Next time, jump off a cliff. You won’t feel a thing, hopefully…

Twenty-seven years later, I drove to the cliff. There weren’t enough pills at my house to erase the trauma of my teens, let alone my current predicament; broken and destitute after my husband gambled our life away.

I didn’t get out of the car even though I was close to the edge. It would’ve been so easy, but then my dead brother spoke to me, telling me not to do it. I know. Mindfuck. It’s true, though. He saved me, even if it was all in my head.

At 16, after the pill fiasco failed, I tried to erase myself with alcohol. I still can’t stand the smell of Southern Comfort. The name didn’t live up to my expectations. Alcohol poisoning. Pretty sure they pumped my stomach again, but I don’t really remember that one.

A vague memory tries to surface, but even now, I can’t quite grasp it. My father sits at the side of my bed, holding my hand and patting it like you’d pat a dog. My mother, a watery blur in the doorway of my room, watches on, both distraught. Darkness. It must have been a dream in my drunken haze.

My father had never once held my hand, not in childhood, not as an adult, not even on his deathbed when I placed my hand on top of his and told him it would be okay. Still awake, but he didn’t respond, nor did he move his hand away. That action spoke volumes. An act of love, perhaps? I’ll never know.

I don’t recall a conversation, lecture, or fight about my alcohol binge or that reckless night when my body refused to die, again. Life just carried on. I became an adult and forgot about the crimes of my youth. I took control when I least expected it.

My body, the temple (until it wasn’t)

At 31, when my daughter was 4, I was the heaviest I’d ever been. Weighing 138 kilos (304 pounds), my body was the worst version of itself, and I hated every inch of it.

I don’t know how my husband could stand looking at me, let alone love me. I refused to look at myself, and if by chance I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window or mirror, I would spiral into depression for days.

The loathing kept me eating. The cycle continued. Maybe I hoped for an early heart attack, or some insidious disease to wipe me out. Was obesity my answer? I don’t know. It wasn’t conscious.

What I was aware of was my decision to stop. After seeing an astonishingly slim Oprah appear on her show one day in August 1995, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like a miracle. She’d been huge, and now she wasn’t. Could it be possible for me? It gave me hope.

I’m not sure where my willpower came from, or how I found the discipline to do what I did over the next eight months, but I achieved the impossible. I lost half my body weight by changing my diet, joining a gym, and becoming a runner. My transformation was mind-blowing.

My body was a temple. The metamorphosis was extraordinary. I became the embodiment of all I considered beautiful. I looked like a Barbie doll. Me! My reflection stopped me mid-stride, thinking someone was behind me, not realising it was me staring back.

Doors opened that had once been bolted shut. People stared for all the right reasons then. I saw desire in men’s eyes, envy in women’s. I felt giddy with this newfound power. I revelled in the attention. And then I did what I always do: I forgot to respect my body.

Discovering drugs in the dance party scene was both exhilarating and destructive. Not initially. The start was fun, but it faded. I spent the next three years trying to replicate that fun feeling, but you can’t. It’s a trap. It’s a lie you tell yourself, like infidelity — yes, that too. You make excuses for your needs, find bullshit ways to justify your behaviour. You push shame and guilt aside and call it a well-earned distraction or other self-serving anecdotes.

I earned it, right? I’m in control.

Wrong.

It hit me like a revelation. My body, once a temple, was now a rubbish bin. Not fat, but no longer the perfect machine I’d worked so hard to refine. How could I ignore all my effort, and for what? Fun? That world wasn’t even real. It was all so transient. I knew I had to escape, not just for my sanity, but for my family.

My husband, on the other hand, kept chasing that elusive high. Our marriage ended in disaster in 2007. Of course, it did. Our fate was sealed with the first line of cocaine all those years ago. We just didn’t realise it.

Hello battlefield

‘The Body Keeps the Score’ is a book I read years ago about psychological trauma and how it impacts the body. That explains a lot. I don’t recall any major revelations, but that might have been a matter of timing.

It was 2014. I was married to my second husband, living on the other side of the country, pretending to be happy in a version of myself I didn’t recognise.

At 50, the trauma from my past seemed insignificant compared to the anguish of dealing with his ex-wife and their kids. My life became a series of psychological mind games. There’s no logic or reasoning when dealing with someone with a mental illness who believes she’s sane and everyone else is mad. It’s a new kind of crazy, even for me.

Fourteen years of marriage, she’s still at it, even though their sons are adults — no longer pawns in her game. Still, that hasn’t stopped her from her relentless mission to destroy. It’ll never end, I’m sure of that. She’s clearly on her own battlefield, but like second-hand smoke, it will probably kill me in the end.

Meanwhile, I am in a version of myself that is tolerable but not entirely desirable. At least we’re back on the right side of the country, and I’m playing a role that genuinely makes me happy, gives me purpose, and nourishes my soul; a grandmother (and a writer).

I try not to take for granted all the ways I’ve survived. My body bears evidence of my battles — scars, tattoos, and old wounds that have healed. It’s incredible, isn’t it, what the body can endure? But the mind — that’s a completely different story. The scars we can’t see are the real battles. Battles, I’m sure I’ll keep fighting until the end of days.

In the meantime, I’ll have to get creative with ways to hide my hands and flabby arms that Jacob loves to squeeze while we’re watching TV. But never Stranger Things. Vecna can bugger off.

Thanks for reading, friends. I hope your life’s transitions go smoothly, and may you love your body in all its versions.

© Marcia Abboud 2026 | All rights reserved

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Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I’ll include an update or random thoughts on the piece, whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before, and a selection of photos from my collection at the end. It may lead me down unexpected paths, just as my life has.

I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I am honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. I hope you find value in my little series.

Thanks, lovely friends.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, my thoughts on what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Whatever unfolds, really.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before. It may lead me down unexpected paths, just as my life has.

I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I am honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, lovely friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this series. Are you enjoying it? Is there anything else you’d like to read from me? Questions you might have? I appreciate your comments more than you know.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may lead me down unexpected paths, just as my life does. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, lovely friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I genuinely appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

There was a time when life felt like a revolving door of parties and social events, all while juggling motherhood and domestic duties. My calendar looked like a crossword puzzle gone wrong, as if a three-year-old had filled it in. I memorised colour-coded categories, so I knew at a glance when to prep for Mardi Gras or the school swimming carnival. God forbid that my two lives collided. Cloning would’ve been easier.

My head was a constant buzz of detail. Running mental checklists as I whizzed through my days. It’s just as well I was organised, or it could’ve gone pear-shaped many times — occasionally it did.

I’d forgotten one Monday morning about attending mass at my daughter’s school. Morgan went to a Catholic primary school — I know, the irony — and they were always praying for something or other. As parents, we were expected to attend. It was the bane of my existence, but I didn’t want to be ‘that’ parent, the sinner.

It was too late for that; I was sinning every weekend, not that anyone at school knew — at least, not at first.

Morgan had been with my parents’ all weekend while my husband and I were out partying. Yes, I realise how wrong that last sentence is, but when you’re living it, the regrets of hindsight haven’t kicked in. My arse was kicked to hell and back much later. But back then, I spun through those revolving doors like it was a fun ride at Luna Park, and I didn’t want to get off.

As I sat in the pew without a minute to spare, I sighed my relief and chanted my own inner prayer.

Bloody hell, that was a close one. Thank you, Lord.

One of the mums in front of me turned to smile. She did a double-take. What? I must have said telepathically.

“Marce, you do realise you have glitter all over your face, right?” She whispered in my ear.

Oh, fuck. I forgot to take my makeup off. Well, that’s just perfect.

I wondered if the priest thought I did it for the mass. He smiled a suspicious smile as I walked past him, out the church doors, into the blinding sunlight that stabbed my eyes. I wished I could melt — anything to get me out of there faster.

My double life was exhausting. We’d eventually crash and burn, but that was three years away. In the meantime, I’d collect memories worthy of a Netflix mini-series. So much was packed into those three years that it’s hard to fathom now.

How I came to spend the day with Britney Spears is just one of those stories…

I nursed my vodka soda, leaning against the front bar at the Metro in Sydney as if I owned the place. I was there often enough; I practically did. I loved that venue. It was intimate compared to the Hordern Pavilion, where the big dance parties were held.

From my vantage point, I could see who was arriving, gathering my tribe as they entered, ready for a night of collective fun.

He walked into the room like a vision, shirtless in tight white jeans, wearing a white feathered Indian headdress that touched the floor. He looked every bit a tribal chief. The whole room stopped and stared, as if time had frozen for a moment. I had a feeling that was the effect he was going for.

Noah and I quickly became friends. He was a marketing executive at one of the world’s largest multinational beverage companies. I didn’t find that out straight away. Why would I? Most men at those parties were incognito, living their double lives outside of their high-powered jobs. They didn’t want to talk about work. They wanted to pop pills, unwind and forget. Didn’t we all?

So, the invitation came as a surprise.

“Marce, I’m organising this event for Britney Spears, a promotional tour. It’s a hellish task to coordinate. Would you and Morgan like to spend the day with her? It’s a select group of young ‘fans’ for publicity, you know. Boring. But Morgan will love it. All the young girls do.”

Umm. Sorry? As in, THE Britney Spears. Who are you?

Who Noah was turned out to be a big deal. He was responsible for bringing dozens of pop and rock stars to tour Australia, as well as other celebrities, movie stars, sports stars, and other well-known figures. He had access to all areas, and so did his lucky inner circle of friends.

That day, it was Morgan and me, but I had access to many private events during our friendship: Ricky Martin, Anastasia, Kylie Minogue, Tom Cruise, and Nicole Kidman. I even brushed past Russell Crowe once, but that’s a whole other story.

Britney before toxic

She was just a girl, really. Still a youthful, sweet nineteen-year-old before her life became scandalous years later. Her debut album, ‘Baby One More Time,’ shot her to stardom. She was in Australia on the coattails of that release, not touring yet, just getting a feel for the place.

At the time, she was dating Justin Timberlake, but he wasn’t on tour with her, so the girls didn’t get the chance to meet him, unfortunately. Her fame outshone his, at least among that young crowd.

We spent the day essentially following her around, along with a select group of media and paparazzi. She wasn’t fussed about them; she was doing her duty, but she seemed more interested in the girls, her fans. It was as if we were her hosts, our small, intimate group, leading her to different parts of the city. Sydney was glowing on that shining sunny day, doing what it does best.

They chatted as if they were at a slumber party, a group of giggling girls, talking about boys (Justin), clothes, makeup, and their favourite music. Of course, all the girls only had eyes for Britney, and she seemed coy and humbled all at once.

“Aw, you guys, you’re the best. I’m having so much fun with you today.” I heard Britney say as she gave them a group hug.

We, the mothers, were merely chaperones, keeping our distance while also watching over the girls if they got too excited. Britney was there to do a job, after all, but the little ones didn’t care about that. They just wanted to play Barbies with her.

Morgan was in awe, looking quite relaxed as she soaked it up. I think Britney took a liking to her because she wasn’t over the top like some other nine-year-olds.

“Morgan’s so sweet. You have a lovely daughter.” Britney half-whispered close to my ear.

All I managed was a “thank you” before she was whisked away for the next photo.

There were a few awkward teenagers who probably couldn’t believe they were there. It was amusing to watch the dynamics unfold as the day progressed. I spent most of it with a silly grin on my face, I’m sure. I was a bit in awe myself, but acted nonchalant as if I spent my days with celebrities all the time.

The girls were gifted merchandise, lots of signed autographs and T-shirts, and everyone had photos taken with her. I only found a few in my collection. I’m not sure why. I took so many. Gone to laptop heaven, I assume. I’ve had two laptops die in my time, before the days of cloud backups or any other kind.

Clearly, I was an anti-tech idiot. I lost thousands of photos when my first laptop died — data unrecoverable. I cried for weeks. I imagine my Britney photos were probably among them. The few I have now are hard copies that I’ve photographed.

The highlight of the day was being in the studio for a taping of her hit song, ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time.’

A packed crowd was crammed into the studio when our little entourage arrived. As we walked in from backstage with Britney to join the audience, they probably thought we were relatives or something. Their wide eyes were in awe, and I sensed the curious envy.

When we sat among them, they couldn’t believe their luck. Not that the girls noticed, but I did. I was waiting for someone to ask us for autographs. I would’ve done it without a word.

The room exploded with cheers. I’d never seen Morgan so excited. My emotion swelled, bringing a tear to my eye.

Get a grip, Marce. Your mascara isn’t waterproof.

I was mildly mortified, but it was dark. Then I saw Noah standing off camera, watching me. He winked. Great. My worlds just collided, and now I have a witness. I’d been outed, and I didn’t care.

The day ended after the song, and Britney waved goodbye. I was floating on a cloud of euphoria, to be honest. It was so surreal that I wondered how I ended up being this lucky. I felt so privileged in that moment, but not in an arrogant way. Instead, it filled me with gratitude for my friend Noah, for the opportunities he gave me, and for the gifts life was offering in a world that, just a few years earlier, wouldn’t have been within reach.

Not in a million years.

Afterword

I framed Morgan’s personally signed T-shirt from Britney, alongside a photo of them together. She didn’t want to wear the T-shirt, worried she’d ruin it. We hung it proudly in her bedroom, where it stayed for years. Her friends would gaze at it with envy, star-struck by the story of her day with Britney Spears.

By the time she was sixteen, she was over Britney. She cringed at the framed memorabilia and took it down from her wall. She put it in the attic with all her other discarded pop phases. I felt a bit sad about that. I was still team Britney, even though her life seemed to be spiralling in the undertow of the façade.

At twenty-two, Morgan had her own daughter. I was remarried to my second husband. I sold the house and faced the mammoth task of cleaning out the attic. When I came across the Britney relic, I sat down and looked at it, remembering a time that felt so long ago. Another life looked back at me, like an image in a rearview mirror, fading into the background of my past.

Years later, I asked Morgan where her framed photo was, expecting she’d kept it for her daughter.

“Oh god, I threw that out years ago, put it in the recycling bin.”

Was she for real?

“You do know you could’ve sold that, right? Some crazed fan would’ve bought it. You might have cleaned up on that sale.” I probably eye-rolled her.

Deep down, though, I would’ve kept it for prosperity. I wished she’d told me. I felt a tug of nostalgia for Britney and Noah, for those few extraordinary years that seemed like ten and gave me so much, yet marked the start of the downfall of our lives.

It seems like a dream now… It wasn’t.

Dear Netflix, hurry up.

Thanks for reading, friends. Be careful of those double lives. It never ends well. Just ask Britney.

This story was first published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Subscribe now

Discount rates, because it all adds up.

$1 per month – every dollar counts
$2 per month – double trouble
$3 per month – middle ground
$4 per month – the high road
$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

No cash? No problem!

Clicking the ❤ button makes my day. Thank you for being here. xx

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may take me down unexpected paths, just as my life has. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I truly appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process—a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may take me down unexpected paths, just like my life. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I genuinely appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

I’ll be honest. This is a sob story without a happy ending because there’s nothing positive, wise or enlightened about the decline of my aging breasts. I want to reach that elusive place of acceptance, secure in the knowledge that I made it to my sixth decade without dying or ending up in a psych ward. Those two things were probable, given my shitty life. I should be proud, and I am. I survived, and with this gift of writing, I can share my stories. My scars have faded into the timelines, barely visible now, even the ones on the inside. It’s a miraculous feat, my therapist agrees. I’ve come through relatively unscathed, and yet…

Of all the things we must accept as our youth fades and gravity takes hold — like the fine lines, the sparkle gone from our eyes, the creaking bones, the loose skin, and the once luscious hair that keeps slipping down the drain with each wash, never seeming to grow back — it’s my boobs that make me want to smash every mirror in the house and never take my bra off. I hate bras.

Now there’s an industry built on a lie.

Spend a gazillion dollars on quality bras, do your breasts a favour, they’ll thank you later.

What bullshit marketing scam is that? With my boobs currently pointing south, almost touching my belly button, deflated and miserable, I could have saved myself a world of pain and gone on holiday to Italy instead.

Playtex has a lot to answer for, with their cross-your-heart promises of lift and support. Once that thing comes off, it’s like a fishing net dropping its catch for the day — empty, dangling, and sad — unlike my once full breasts, now too comfortable around my midriff.

It was a lie. I spent decades wearing a bra to bed in the hope it would keep my boobs perky as I aged. What a waste of comfortable sleep time. I was brainwashed into thinking I could control gravity.

Bras serve a purpose, of course they do. It’s not like we can walk around ‘commando’ our entire lives — nice dream. Imagine staff meetings. Not one male in the room would look you in the eye — standard — unless he’s gay. So, we suffer the pinch, the pull, the rub, because how can we not?

I cringe every time I think about how much I’ve spent on bras over the years. Once, I paid over $300 for the most gorgeous, delicate lingerie set — almost a week’s pay from my second job. It was all black lace and satin, only for a lover to tear it off me the moment I took my dress off. It ripped.

“You’re paying for that, dude. I only just bought it.” Idiot.

Dude paid, with interest.

Bras used to be my fetish, just like shoes are for some women. They were my fetish too, but I spent more on bras. There was a time in my life when I’d buy lingerie instead of food because I couldn’t afford both. As Carrie Bradshaw once said about her obsession with buying glossy magazines when she couldn’t afford to eat, “I felt it fed me more.” Yes.

The heydays of my boobs

My bra fetish began after I had breast implants in my mid-thirties. I’ve written stories about it, but let me recap.

After losing a ton of weight and transforming my body into a toned work of art, my boobs looked like the dehydrated raisins on a gourmet cheese platter — out of place and serving no real purpose. No one wants to eat those.

My fake boobs changed my life, honestly. I couldn’t believe they could stop traffic, open doors, get free coffees, and even meals sometimes. What sort of trickery was this? How can boobs hold so much power? Had I known this, I might’ve gone through with it sooner. They became my VIP pass to everywhere and everything.

I’d often blow the weekly budget, buying bras in every style, colour, and fabric. I became obsessed, much to my first husband’s dismay. No wonder he started gambling behind my back. Too bad he funnelled half his wage into poker machines. The divorce might have been more fruitful. There was nothing left to divide. At least he didn’t sell my bra collection — small mercies.

Being single again after twenty-two years became the highlight of my lingerie collection, which filled tubs as my drawers overflowed. For five years, I made good use of my impressive garments, each piece the star of my many interludes. I was making up for lost time, riding a wave I knew would eventually come to an end. It did when I met my second husband, Ramzi.

My beautiful bras gathered dust after a decision I made that would once again change my life and the way I saw my body.

I’d had my implants for fifteen years when I decided to give them a boost, a lift, a spruce up for my wedding day. It’s not uncommon to replace implants after twenty years, so I thought, why not? They looked less perky at forty-eight. I assumed they’d serve me well for another twenty years, and then I might remove them.

That was the lie I told myself.

The end of an era

I woke up in recovery, flat-chested, with a crowd of doctors around my bed. My surgeon told me they couldn’t replace the implants because of a nasty infection in my right breast. I’d be on antibiotics for three months, and he advised it would be foolish to replace them, ever. It would most likely happen again, and next time I might not be so lucky.

Lucky? Why didn’t he just kill me on the operating table? I sobbed as my hands reached for my boobs and felt nothing under the bandages. Well, almost.

A week later, I stood in the doctor’s office in front of a long mirror, as the kind nurse unravelled my bandages for the first time. When they fell to the floor, I stared, razor focused on my breasts, and tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, now now, don’t cry. It’s not that bad. You actually have a decent C/D cup there. Trust me. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

Was that meant to make me feel better? I would’ve slapped her if I weren’t so upset. I held it in until I got home.

Ramzi wrapped me in his arms as I sobbed. He didn’t care. He loved natural breasts. Fake boobs reminded him of rock melons, he’d said. Mine weren’t like that because I wasn’t stick thin. My boobs complemented my curvy figure; now I just felt fat and ordinary.

My bras no longer fit. Giving them away felt like burying a part of myself, my identity, which was now changed forever — again. The grief was like a death. Sounds dramatic, I know. But that’s how I felt. It took me years to come to terms with it.

I now own fewer than ten bras, and five of those are sports bras. Pathetic, considering my once-plentiful collection. I just can’t get excited about bras. I hate them more than ever, and it’s been thirteen years since that dreadful surgery.

Of course, I’m grateful I didn’t die from sepsis. Had I not decided to replace my implants, I might have. I had no idea that my right breast was infected. I had no symptoms, even though I used to catch a lot of colds and viruses back then. My immune system was working overtime, I suppose. Now, I can go for years without getting sick, so maybe that was my sign.

The universe did me a favour. I came to accept that. But when I look in the mirror now, I want to punch the universe in the throat.

The blueprint of my boob obsession

My mother had a warped sense of humour when it came to nearly everything. She’d collect all sorts of unusual paraphernalia, comic ashtrays, silly ornaments shaped like body parts or jokes written on them, and funny quotes she’d hang on the walls.

She loved the bizarre. Dad just rolled his eyes. I think Mum’s collection secretly amused him, but he’d never admit it. That would mean letting his guard down, and God forbid we saw anything other than a Gladiator warrior.

The first time I saw Dad smile, it was jarring. He actually had a nice smile. Shame he hid it so well.

I was six or seven when I’d sneak into their liquor cabinet, not for the liquor, but for the swizzle sticks of the naked ladies in silhouette. I wasn’t supposed to look at the things in that cabinet, but once I saw them, I was mesmerised.

Six sticks stood to attention in a rogue glass. Their boobs were their obvious attribute. They had their ages on them, ranging from 20 to 60 years old. I would hold the 20-year-old in my hands and run my fingers along the stick, over the boobs, in awe of her beautiful figure. I hoped one day I’d look like that.

I’d hold the 60-year-old stick lady and scrunch my face as if I’d just eaten a lemon. It was so disturbing; I thought they’d got it wrong. It was just a joke. No lady could look like that, surely.

Even the 35-year-old lady had a downturned boob. That didn’t seem right, but maybe it was true. Could the sticks be wrong? It didn’t matter. I’d be dead by then. Thirty-five was ancient; even Mum wasn’t that old.

It turns out the sticks weren’t lying after all, because here I am, the last lady at the end of the line, and she’s looking far too familiar.

I didn’t think about it at the time; why was there no 70 or 80 stick lady? Clearly, that’s a dead zone, unworthy of a mention. Too scary to have their own stick. Who wants to look at that, right?

Definitely not me. I’ll be removing all the mirrors after my 70th birthday. Call me shallow, call me unwise, but I’m calling it how it is. There is no happy ending to this story. That would require surgery.

How that panned out

“Darling, I’m thinking about having a breast lift…”

“Dear God, give me strength. Why? Why would you want to mutilate those beautiful breasts of yours? They are perfect just as they are.”

Trust my husband to say all the right words.

“Okay, you’re probably right. Who cares at this point? I’m invisible anyway. I’ll have a facelift instead. At least then I can keep the mirrors.”

“Fuck’s sake…”

My exasperated husband had better get on my team. I’m having the facelift — the end.

I can’t believe I found the exact swizzle sticks on my Google search — Twirly Girlies. To be fair, I look more like the 40-year-old lady. I think the 1960s suffered body dysmorphia on a grand scale. And clearly, every woman after sixty may as well be dead.

Thanks for reading, friends. And to all the women out there, may you love what you see when you look in the mirror. I’ll take some of that, thanks.

We’re all simply a work in progress.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Some Kind of Life is my personal Substack publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

And because it all adds up, here are my discount rates. Thank you for your generosity.

$1 per month – every dollar counts
$2 per month – double trouble
$3 per month – middle ground
$4 per month – the high road
$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

No cash? No problem!

Clicking the ❤ button makes my day. Thank you for being here. xx

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the song's beat while I waited for Leanne outside her front door. We didn’t know it yet; the movie wasn’t made, but we were like Thelma and Louise—a sort of accidental friendship that teetered on dangerous yet always guaranteed fun whenever we hung out.

My 1968 XT Ford Falcon in metallic teal hummed as it idled at the curb. My first car might have been twelve years old already and a shitbox by Aussie standards, but it was my shitbox, and that meant freedom.

Finally, my own wheels to escape the confines of my home life. After sixteen years and ten months — driver’s license age — I’d done my time. In a year, I’d get my full license and be gone. I couldn’t believe Dad agreed to the car. Since he paid for it, it was his decision. I didn’t care. It was a car, that’s all that mattered. I could follow the music beyond the city limits, where the real rock bands could be found in suburban pubs.

Saturday nights took on a new meaning. No more bus rides into the city. It was all about disco since Saturday Night Fever exploded on the screen in 1977. I was thirteen, not old enough to be at Whisky a Go Go on William Street, Kings Cross, or at Pitt Street Gardens in the heart of Pitt Street, Sydney, but I was there anyway.

Fake IDs didn’t even register. No one cared back then, and anyway, I looked eighteen, the legal drinking age in Australia. If a bouncer did a double-take, I’d smile, eyes sparkling with promise that he might get lucky if only he’d let me in. I’d boldly kiss a cheek if I thought the extra mile would help. It always worked. Groupies meant currency for all sorts of things. Venues loved us because we brought the crowds, and rock stars were nothing without us.

My father would’ve killed me if he’d known. Luckily, he worked nights. Mum gave me the freedom I craved. If I were home before he walked through the door around 5 am, my secrets would be safe with her. Mum was the queen of secrets, which made me her protégé. Decades later, the brunt of my conditioning would kick my arse to new levels of hell. Thanks for the lessons, Mum.

I was never late, but I had a few close calls.

Once, I got my key stuck in the door. I was frantic, jiggling it around, trying not to make a noise. I kept looking over my shoulder as the night sky lightened, a sure sign that Dad would be home soon. I’d just stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind me, when his headlights lit up the room. I sprinted up the stairs and jumped into bed just as his key slipped into the front door's lock.

That was a close one. Mum was furious. She’d stayed awake all night waiting to hear my key in the door (of course). My poor mother probably didn’t sleep through the entire 70s and early 80s, not with my brothers and me.

My two older brothers caused her more grief than I ever could. At least I knew how to follow instructions because I wasn’t drunk or high on heroin, unlike them.

I was fourteen the first time I got drunk. I thought I’d caused permanent damage to my insides with all the vomiting. I knew then I’d missed the alcoholic gene that runs deep in my family. Vomiting was high on my list of ‘don’ts’. I made it my mission to avoid it at all costs.

Tony was two years older than me. He first got drunk at thirteen. Like a duck to water, he’d later tell me. His Nirvana was my hell. Being messy held zero appeal for me. I realised early that I was a control freak. My brothers were the opposite.

Greg was two years older than Tony. He first tried heroin at fourteen. Later, he told me it was the first time he truly knew what peace was. My brothers might as well have been aliens. I thought I was probably adopted. I surely couldn’t be related to them.

Our common ground was trying to survive a tyrannical father whose rage was as unpredictable as the weather. I was luckier than my brothers. In the end, both of them took their lives, albeit eighteen years apart.

Greg played bass guitar. He wanted to be the next John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin) or Jimi Hendrix, and who knows, he might have been. If only he’d had the kind of parents who supported dreams. Unlucky for Greg, our father was a dream killer.

I still remember every word of Proud Mary by Creedence Clearwater Revival. He must have played it a million times in our youth, when Dad wasn’t home.

Music wasn’t worth dying for. Not then, anyway. Over time, both brothers would find their reasons.

“Where are we going again?”

I said to Leanne as she slid into the passenger seat beside me. Her tight jeans squeaked against the leather. I wondered how she managed to fold herself into a sitting position, let alone breathe in them. I wish I could contort myself to her size. I had curves where she was lean in an era where lean was the advantage, and curves were just fat. Thanks, Twiggy.

Some things don’t change much.

“Sylvania pub. There’s this band I’ve heard about. They were called something, but now they’re INXS. The lead singer is pretty cute. His name is Michael, I think.”

Leanne knew everything about every rock band, famous or emerging. Disco had been my thing, so the rock ’n’ roll scene was new to me. She had the upper hand, and I just went along with it.

I knew the greats because of Greg: Led Zeppelin, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Queen, and Pink Floyd, to name a few. I’d been listening to them since I was ten. I probably knew every song on every album word for word, but INXS wasn’t a name I’d ever heard. I wasn’t convinced we weren’t wasting our time. Sylvania was miles away!

“That’s a long way to go for a band I’ve never heard of to see a guy who might be named Michael, and who’s probably not as cute as you think. Your taste in dudes is questionable. Have I ever told you that?”

“Just drive, Penelope (Thunderbirds Are Go). Trust me. You’ll love this band. And Michael is hot. Smart arse.”

And drive I did. The further, the better. My peace was behind the wheel. I didn’t need heroin or alcohol. Every minute I spent away from home was a minute worth risking. I would’ve gladly died for my freedom. That car came at the right time.

The stage was slightly higher than ground level. The band would be playing among the crowd rather than looking down on us. It was still early, and the place was practically empty. INXS — I couldn’t get my head around the spelling and kept saying Inks — was the support band for the headlining band, Cold Chisel.

Leanne loved Jimmy Barnes, the frontman of Chisel. I always thought his voice sounded like a foghorn in a hangover. I didn’t mind Chisel, but I wasn’t a massive fan at the time. They grew on me over the years.

I interviewed Jimmy in the early 2000s while freelancing as a magazine culture writer. He invited me to his house, which blew me away. I met his wife and kids. We sat around the breakfast table, watching them eat while I asked questions. It was so surreal I wondered if I was dreaming.

It’s strange, I don’t remember much about Cold Chisel that night, but I’ll never forget seeing Michael Hutchence for the first time.

We stood about four rows back, not that anyone was in front of us. We just didn’t want to be the dorks in the front row. The band walked in and set themselves up, fiddling about as if they were in their lounge room and not centre stage with an audience waiting.

The band was silhouetted against the dimly lit stage until the first chords of the opening song began, and a floodlight beamed on Michael. The light seemed to come from behind him, even though I could see his face clearly. Like so many frontmen, he held that stance, one hand on the mic, the other by his side. He owned it as if he were already a star.

Oh. My.

Leanne wasn’t wrong when she said he was cute. His mass of hair fell in ringlets around his face. There was something angelic about him. He looked like a cherub, a slim one.

I was mesmerised, unable to take my eyes off him. I couldn’t tell you what he was singing or what the other band members looked like. I only had eyes for Michael, and I was starstruck when his eyes fell on me.

“I told you he was hot. Close your mouth, Marce. You look deranged.”

Leanne always knew how to get my attention. It snapped me from my mini-trance. I slipped back into cool groupie mode, sipped my drink, and moved to the beat.

She knew all their names and probably where they lived. Not in a stalker way. She just knew things about bands. If only that had been an elective at school, she would’ve been dux.

I’m not sure how many songs they played or for how long. When the music stopped and the lights dimmed again, I was still trying to control my heart rate while acting nonchalant.

“Let’s go say hi before they leave. They were so awesome. We should tell them.”

Is she drunk? I thought. That’s a level of bravery I hadn’t reached yet. Kissing a bouncer outside a disco is one thing; approaching a rock star is another. Sure, INXS weren’t rock stars yet, but to us they were.

I was about to protest, but she was already walking towards Michael as he fumbled with the mic and cords. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Leanne was a force when she had her mind set on something. I’d always admired her for that.

She had the gift of the gab, a must for any groupie. How else do you get backstage and into VIP rooms to mingle with rock stars if you can’t talk the talk? She had enough for both of us.

I became the queen of observation. Talking the talk would eventually be my forte. I’d rub shoulders with the likes of George Michael and Britney Spears, as if it were just another day in the office. Not this story.

Leanne was talking. Michael was smiling, listening, and giving her his full attention. I was in her shadow, one step behind, trying to regulate my breathing so I didn’t make an arse of myself.

“And what did you think, Marcia? That’s a pretty name.”

I was a deer in the headlights. Speak, you fool.

“Thanks.”

Leanne shot me a look of utter frustration. I could read her mind. She wanted to slap me. I wanted to slap myself.

“I thought you were amazing. Your band is cool.”

Fuck’s sake. Is that the best I could do? I wanted to eye-roll myself.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

His smile was melting me. Then he stepped off the stage, walked over to me, bent down and kissed my cheek, so close to my lips I thought he missed, but he did it on purpose.

“Something to remember me by.”

I. Was. Gone. Lost in some echo chamber, planted to the ground. I watched him turn towards Leanne. I think he kissed her cheek, but I can’t be sure. They shook hands. And then he was gone.

I’d never be the same again. I was hooked. No more disco for me. It was rock bands all the way from then on. We’d see dozens over the years. My trusty car would witness it all. She never let me down, no matter how far I drove to the next gig or the next rising rock star.

But none of them left an impact like Michael Hutchence. Watching him become what he became was surreal and almost magical. I’d fantasise, wonder if he remembered that humble beginning in the Sylvania pub with the two groupies he kissed at the end of that gig.

I’ll never know…

After thought

Years later, in 2009, a long time after Michael’s death, I sat at a table with Kirk Pengilly, the saxophone player for INXS. It was a fancy awards night, a dinner event, and he was there with his then-girlfriend, Layne Beachley, a seven-time Australian World Champion Surfer.

By then, I could talk the talk like a pro, and I approached his table when I saw he was sitting alone. I introduced myself, and he invited me to sit. I told him the story about the Sylvania pub, how Michael kissed me, and I was dumbfoundedly starstruck. Kirk chuckled, amused.

“Sorry, I don’t remember. But why would I? I wasn’t the one who kissed you. I’d kiss the other cheek, but my girlfriend might have something to say about it.”

We laughed. He was such a nice guy. Someone took a photo of us sitting together. I’m so glad I found it! I spent hours searching through my ‘archives from hell’. Thank you, universe.

Kirk and Layne are still married today.

Thanks for reading, friends. Remember, back up your photos. You never know when you’ll need the evidence for a story. If only I’d got Michael’s kiss on camera. One can dream…

This story was previously published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

I can’t finish without including one of my favourite INXS songs.

Never Tear Us Apart — Released in August 1988.

Some Kind of Life is my personal Substack publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

And because it all adds up, here are my discount rates. Thank you for your generosity.

$1 per month – every dollar counts
$2 per month – double trouble
$3 per month – middle ground
$4 per month – the high road
$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

No cash? No problem!

Clicking the ❤ button makes my day. Thank you for being here. xx

Once a month, I share an excerpt from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the excerpt, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may take me down unexpected paths, just like my life. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The excerpt series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I truly appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may lead me down unexpected paths, much like my life. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I truly appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of behind-the-scenes or backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t shared before.

It may lead me down unexpected paths, much like my life. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar I receive reflects every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once just a pipe dream, and I never thought I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself sometimes, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. I appreciate it more than you know.

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I truly appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

Once a month, I share an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time, or during the writing process – a kind of backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

There will always be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

It may lead me down unexpected paths, just as my life has. I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I aim to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar represents every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once a pipe dream, and I never believed I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself some days, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. It blows my mind!

The extract series is random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I’ll ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Thanks, beautiful friends. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I truly appreciate your comments. You make every day worth writing for.

Read more

Once a month, I’ll post an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I’ll include personal notes about the extract, such as why I wrote that passage, what was happening for me at the time or during the writing process – a kind of backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

It'll be something new and different that I haven’t written before.

I’ll figure it out as I go. It might take me down unexpected paths, much like my life. I’m just bouncing ideas around because I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I want to show my gratitude for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar represents every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once a pipe dream, and I never believed I could achieve what I have. I still pinch myself some days, metaphorically speaking. Not a day goes by when …

Read more

Once a month I’ll be posting an extract from my memoir “Every Shitty Thing – One Woman’s Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox.” I’m going to include some personal notes about the extract. For example, I might touch on why I wrote that passage or what was happening for me at the time or during the writing process, a kind of backstory to the story. Or whatever unfolds.

It’ll be something I haven’t touched on before.

I haven’t entirely worked it out. It could take me down roads I didn’t expect, much like my life. I’m just bouncing ideas around because I want to do something extra, something special for those who support me with a paid subscription. I want to show my gratitude and thanks for investing in me and my words. I feel honoured by your generous support.

Every dollar signifies every step I’ve taken to become the writer I am today. It was once a pipe dream, never believing I could achieve what I’ve achieved. I still have to pinch myself some days, metaphorically speaking. There isn’t a day when I don’t feel humbled by a comment, a like, or a restack from one of my followers. I never take it for granted. It blows my mind!

The extract series will be random and not in chapter order. That sounds tedious. I will ‘spin the bottle’ (flick through the pages) and see where it lands. It could be scary.

Read more

The box of Snickers sat on my lap as I settled in for my favourite hour of afternoon TV. In 1995, Oprah was at the height of her ever-rising fame, and I was entranced. We may have been worlds apart logistically and demographically, but I felt a kinship with her.

She was the epitome of all I wanted to be: confident, assertive, a survivor, not a victim. And she was big, like me. Yet, despite her size, she’d achieved all that. I couldn’t fathom being that secure. Fat shame was like a noose around my neck. It held me back to the point of suffocation. I felt paralysed in public, convinced every pair of eyes was scrutinising me.

Oprah’s weight never stopped her from becoming what she became. I was in awe of her tenacity and her never-say-never attitude. I wanted that. I wanted to feel what it must be like to look in a mirror and not hate myself. To see a courageous, poised woman looking back at me.

I had moments of being skinny in my late teens when I discovered diet pills, but they almost sent me crazy. They were speed in prescription form. The weight fell off me like butter melting in the sun, but the insomnia was a new kind of torture. Who knew nights could be so long?

The pills were long gone as I sat on my couch waiting for Oprah, practically inhaling those Snickers as if I were competing for a personal best. I tipped the scales at 138 kilos (304 pounds) by the time my daughter, Morgan, was born in 1991. And I was still the same weight.

During my pregnancy, I’d gained 45 kilos (99 pounds). As if eating for two meant eating for a village. Guilt-free eating was my kind of food. I took advantage — clearly. My obstetrician was mortified.

“Marcia, you’re not eating small children, are you? What on earth are you doing to be gaining so much weight? It isn’t healthy and could cause complications during your labour. I rarely say this, but I suggest you go on a diet asap.”

Her bedside manner floored me. She wasn’t wrong, but her delivery needed work. A blanket of shame smothered me every time I left her office. Her words had the opposite effect. I would return home and faceplant a mud cake — why dirty a fork?

It did cause complications. I had an emergency caesarean when my blood pressure rose to heart attack status. The anaesthetist struggled with an epidural. I wanted to be awake when my daughter was delivered.

“There’s too much fat here. We’ll do a general. She needs to be knocked out.” Said the overzealous doctor to his team, who didn’t seem to care that I was right in front of him.

Maybe there was no module on decent behaviour at medical school back then. I imagine things have improved nowadays with the obesity epidemic— not to mention the threat of lawsuits. I’d be wealthy with the amount of mistreatment I received.

I woke up in the ward afterwards, groggy and in so much pain. I assumed a shark had bitten me, and they’d stitched my torso back together. Two nurses walked into my room. They talked about me together.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m not lifting that. She’ll break my back.” They sighed and giggled.

My eyes were opened. I was awake. I heard every word of their snickering.

“Yoohoo,” one said in a sing-song voice as if I was still asleep. “You have to get up, darl. We need to swap beds, and we can’t lift you.”

My legs were shaky beneath me as I stood and held my ample belly with one hand while grabbing a nearby chair for balance. They didn’t offer to help or ask if I needed it. They were busy with the task at hand. Shame engulfed me, and I prayed the floor would open and swallow me whole.

Four years later, after many whimsical dieting attempts, I was still the same, minus the abdominal pain. My shame had a resolve of its own. No amount of bullying or abuse moved me into action. Instead, I hid from the world, drowning myself in chocolate bars and wishing I was dead.

What the! My Snickers stopped mid-air as Oprah filled the screen. She was skinny — like supermodel skinny. How? I’m pretty sure she was obese the last time I saw her. I was mesmerised by her weight loss story. It had a profound effect, and I had a brain snap by the end of the show.

If Oprah can do it, so can I.

I have no idea where this determination came from. It was as if she were speaking directly to me, giving me the assurance I needed. Sure, she had personal shoppers, chefs, and trainers devoting every minute to her, but I considered none of that.

This was my chance before Morgan started school in a year. I’d been so worried — not for her but for me. I would have to do the mother thing, engage with other mothers, socialise, and attend school events. How could I do that, feeling like the actual elephant in the room?

The thought gave me anxiety, but what alternative was there? Staying the same, hiding away, and shunning the public would hinder Morgan’s life. She would miss out because of my insecurities and fears. I didn’t want to be that mother.

I wanted her to experience the fun of play dates, dancing classes, and birthday parties, but my current size and mindset would never allow it. I imagined her classmates laughing at me — kids have no filters — and she would feel my displaced shame. No, that can’t happen.

I had to change who I was to become a mother that Morgan could be proud of. Somehow, Oprah was the catalyst.

And so began my weight loss journey

I started the very next day as if I were on autopilot. I rid my pantry of all the sugary crap. I bought cookbooks on healthy cooking and changed how I cooked. My shopping trolley looked completely different as I became astute at reading food labels. That wasn’t a thing in 1995, but I was on a mission to educate myself. I could’ve been a nutritionist by the time I was done.

Mum bought me a treadmill so I could start walking. I would never walk in public for exercise — too shameful. Joining a gym was out of the question. It seemed impossible that I’d ever be ready for that.

I could only do ten minutes on the treadmill before my chest almost gave out, but I did it every day, steadily increasing until I could do an hour. I never missed a day.

Three months later, I’d lost 20 kilos (45 pounds), and even though it wasn’t noticeable, I felt proud. I’d never lasted three solid months on a diet without breaking it. It’s like I had tunnel vision with Morgan as my beacon on the other side. And Oprah was a beam of light in my peripheral.

Christmas, Easter, birthdays, or any gathering, I never faltered. I stayed on my diet and forged ahead in the pursuit of my goal weight. I wasn’t aiming for skinny. I just wanted to be ‘normal,’ and to me, that meant a size 12.

As supportive as Mum was, she had differing opinions.

“Love, I’m so proud of you, but remember, you’ve got fat genes running through you. You’re big-boned. You’re not going to be a size 12.”

“Mum, our family is not big-boned. Michael Jordan is big-boned. We’re fat. We are a fat family because we love pasta and cake and all things processed. None of those things are good for our body.”

She looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. Mum’s glass was always half empty unless it was full of whiskey. I didn’t hold her negativity against her. Old-school thinking is just that. I would show her rather than torture her with words she couldn’t comprehend.

And the real metamorphosis took shape

By the time I’d lost 50 kilos (110 pounds), I was confident enough to join a gym at the urging of a friend. She was a veteran gym person, but besides a short foray in my diet pill skinny days, I hadn’t stepped into a gym in over a decade.

She signed me up for an advanced circuit class, and I was ready to kill her by the end. A circuit class — I would learn — is not like an hour on the treadmill. It took all my will not to vomit on the instructor. My friend threw me in the deep end.

Once I got over the shock, I kept going — solo. That first class gave me more confidence than I imagined. I would go to the gym and gradually build up my resilience.

Eventually, I became a gym warrior. I did pump classes, body combat, spinning (cycle), weight training, and advanced circuit (minus the vomiting) — I loved them all.

When Morgan started school a year later, I was a respectable size 14, down from a size 28 — an incredible feat by my standards. I felt indestructible. At 167 cm tall (5’7 feet), I could pull off a size 14 comfortably, but I had a goal, and I wasn’t there yet. I still had to prove to Mum, big-boned or not, that I could be a size 12.

I started running with a mum from school. I knew then I’d missed my calling. Who knew running could be so exhilarating once you get the hang of it? It was the injection I needed to push me towards my goal.

Eighteen months after watching Oprah, I weighed 64 kilos (141 pounds) and was a size 10. A dress size lower than my goal. I had lost 74 kilos (163 pounds), over half my body weight. An achievement I never thought possible for someone like me.

Skinny became my VIP access

I’d be lying if I said my transformation was purely aesthetic. I changed on the inside, too, as my new skin settled around me. I wasn’t prepared — at first — for the power that came with skinny. How could I be? I’d never known that kind of attention. I went from Roseanne Barr in She-Devil to Margot Robbie in Barbie. How does a psyche catch up with that?

Doors opened. Cops didn’t write me tickets. Complimentary coffee was a daily occurrence. Traffic stopped to let me cross. Men gawked and offered help when I didn’t need it. Women gave me their best if looks could kill faces or smiled at me so wide you’d think I was a celebrity. Privilege came at me from all directions.

I’m not trying to be vain. I was living proof of the psychological divide that women face in society. I have been on both sides of the beauty pendulum, and I can tell you which side is the winner if we’re talking advantage and status. With beauty comes power. Full stop.

If only I’d seen those boney arse nurses who treated me so appallingly. They’d be too gobsmacked to insult me then. I wonder how their karma is going.

The thing about pendulums is that they swing back and forth. My body wasn’t wired to stay at 64 kilos unless I trained six hours a day — it wasn’t realistic long-term. Life happened.

For years, I maintained my weight at around 70 kilos (154 pounds), and I looked better for it. I wasn’t too thin for my frame. A size 12–14 worked for me.

Then menopause arrived and knocked my pendulum sideways, and with uncontrollable weight gain came my invisibility. I wasn’t prepared for that either. Aging can be a cruel twist of fate. My once formidable persona is now a smudge on the timeline of my life. My beauty fades with each passing year, but I’ve managed to find grace and feel grateful.

Final thoughts

I once achieved something extraordinary, a perspective that many never see. What a gift it was. I could afford to lose 8 kilos (17 pounds), but I’m not breaking a hip for it. My husband tells me I’m beautiful. My grandkids wrap their arms around me and say, “You’re so cute Moo Moo. We love you.” What more could I possibly want?

My psyche has come to a new place of acceptance as I shift into my final few decades. And while I’m at this pinnacle in life, I shall have my cake and eat it, too. Life is short. I’ll diet in the next one — or not.

Thanks for reading, my friends. Eat cake and be merry.

A version of this story was first published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Writing is my sole source of income. If you want to support me, I will do my gratitude happy dance. It’s not pretty, but it’s genuine.

Whatever amount you choose, I’ll be forever grateful:

$1 per month – every dollar counts

$2 per month – double trouble

$3 per month – middle ground

$4 per month – the high road

$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

If you can’t afford it, I’m still glad to have you as a free subscriber.

My mother died in 2006. Her kidney failure aside, I had a feeling she never quite recovered from my brother’s death in 2004. Her sorrow was the catalyst for her downfall. How does a mother bury a son and carry on when the natural order of things has defied logic? Children aren’t supposed to die first, even if they are adults.

At forty-two, Tony took his life in an unthinkable way, and she was left to carry the shame.

And then there was my father to endure.

Dad’s opinions on suicide were the same as his opinions on euthanasia — Mum’s choice when her time came — neither option was acceptable. According to him, you don’t choose your end date. Ever. And people who do are copouts, failures, and weaklings.

My father had a lot of opinions. The unspoken ones seemed to be the loudest.

Dad thought the wrong son had died.

I know. I know.

Sons of anarchy

My two older brothers knew their place in the hierarchy of our household, and it wasn’t just about age. Parents have preferences, whether they like to admit it or not. My parents had no qualms about admitting theirs.

I’m not sure why Greg, their first, seemed so despised by my father, but I imagine it had something to do with failed expectations. Dad was the firstborn son in an era when that role carried burdens our generation couldn’t imagine. He lived through a war and saw unspeakable things as a child. There was no flight mode to his survival. It was fight or die.

My brothers were the outlet for my father’s displaced rage at all that went wrong in his childhood. And because Greg was the eldest, he copped the worst. I think that’s why Mum favoured him. He was like a bird with a broken wing, and she was forever trying to nurture him back to flight. That wing never fully mended, though. It was a weakness my father couldn’t stand. Mollycoddling was one of his pet peeves.

At first, Tony seemed the prodigal son, two years younger than Greg and two years older than me. Dad favoured him in a way you might favour a comfy pair of jeans. You can’t wear them every day of the year, but they have seasons where they fit just right. They’re shoved into the back of the closet when they don’t.

Dad’s favouritism towards Tony was only apparent to those in the know — me, Mum, and Greg. It was more subliminal than blatant. The only clue was he could look at Tony without the same level of disdain he had for Greg. Because of this, Mum seemed permanently irritated by Tony’s presence. She knew he was the real culprit, but Dad was blind to it — until he wasn’t.

“Why can’t you be more like Greg? Your brother knows how to keep his mouth shut. You’re a thorn in my side, you little shit. I’m going to flog you when I catch you!”

Tony was fast. Mum usually got tired or bored before she caught him. A few whiskies later, she forgot the chase — Tony’s saving grace.

No qualms about favourites in this family. Thank God I was a girl. My mother adored me, and my father (mostly) ignored me — small mercies.

My brothers were worlds apart in personality, but they found common ground in their shared abuse. Their bruises and brokenness bound them tighter than any twins. My father’s beatings were brutal and regular. By their early teens, both had addictions that would dictate the course of their lives and eventually, both would end in tragedy.

Tony the Great. The amazing. The tragic.

My middle brother probably had ADHD when no one knew it was a thing. My mother assumed he was a misfit, a mischief, a delinquent, and a troublemaker. He ate like a sparrow, never shut up, and couldn’t sit still — the opposite of Greg and me.

His life played out like a Shakespearean tragedy. Tony was a violent alcoholic, but when he wasn’t drinking, he was the best of men. He created a normal life that lasted thirteen years in between the chaos. He got sober and turned his life around when he had his first daughter, Jasmin, in 1987. Then came Jenna and then Cleo.

He had a picture-perfect marriage and three beautiful daughters. Tony’s life was complete. What a miracle.

My father must have been in his element. Finally, a son worthy of Dad’s pride. He helped Tony build his home, create a garden that would shine in any glossy magazine, and do things my father had dreamed of.

They would fish and hunt together and talk shop about plants and trees. They were men who did things with their hands. Seeing their bond was sometimes jarring, considering all I’d witnessed growing up.

Tony was an open book, and Dad liked that — the prodigal son, after all.

Mum’s love for Tony was like a blunt knife now — smoothed with time, no more sharp edges, nothing dangerous. She was proud of his achievements and loved his girls. But her four other grandchildren knew that Morgan– my only daughter — was the favourite because I had always been her indisputable favourite.

And then, one day, Tony fell from his throne. He fell so far that rock bottom looked like a step-up. Alcohol. Drugs. Women. He left his wife for a girl young enough to be his daughter. He became estranged from everyone, including his daughters. Unrecognisable to the family man he once was.

I didn’t have to imagine what this did to my father. He was like a jaded king, scorned, betrayed, out for blood. It was like the fall of Troy. I thought Dad would surely break, but he slapped on another coat of armour and hardened up the stealth.

When the phone call came that Tony hung himself in a prison cell awaiting a hearing on drug charges, I imagined this would be it — the breaking of a father. If he did break, it was on the inside. On the outside, he was steel.

“Oh well, that’s that. He’s done it now. No point in crying over what can’t be fixed.”

Dad was thinking aloud and directing those words at Mum as if that would make her feel better. Two and a half years later, he would say similar words after Mum’s funeral. I wondered if my father’s resolve would’ve been softer had they died of natural causes — not chosen their ends. He saw it as the easy way out — failures. I saw it as the opposite — brave.

Meet The Fockers

Amid Tony’s glory days, Greg was in the background, deep in his heroin addiction, never measuring up, a closed book. Mum, the ever-suffering enabler, would give him money, still trying to mend those wings, but it was never enough.

Greg found a partner, Rachel, in one of his rehab stints, and they had a son, Gavin. The trio paled in comparison to the rest of us.

Gavin didn’t stand a chance among the shining granddaughters. How could he when my father loathed his mother? She was an outcast just like Greg — an addict who couldn’t be trusted.

Every Christmas or family gathering was like a skit with The Fockers, minus the humour. It was more Clash of the Titans, but Dad was the only Titan, and Rachel was his prey.

That woman was either a glutton for punishment or a genius, playing a long game none of us knew. The ending would be a plot twist to rival Salt Burn. No one saw it coming. And by no one, I mean me.

The changing of the will

Soon after Mum’s death, Dad announced he was changing the will.

Mum’s version had everything divided by three when they were both gone. They had two properties, assets and cash in the bank. She wanted the grandkids to have a start in life, 15k each.

I was the sole executor. They knew I would follow their wishes. I could be trusted — no underlying addiction to lead me astray.

Greg, now off heroin and on the methadone program, had kept his promise to Mum on her deathbed.

“Don’t abandon him, love. I know he hasn’t made your life easy, but he’ll need you now more than ever. Marcy lives too far away, and you’re just around the corner. Call in often. He’ll need company. Even if you think he doesn’t want you there, he will. Don’t give up on him. Promise me…”

Greg hadn’t left Dad’s side, and their relationship changed drastically. The shift in Dad seemed astonishing, given their rocky history. They could chat for hours about news and politics. Their views seemed to morph into one. How the hell was that possible?

Dad announced that I was no longer the sole executor of the will. Greg would be co-executor with me. I felt uneasy but let it slide. Dad was of sound mind, and I had to respect his wishes.

Greg and I had never been on the same page nor in the same realm, but we were civil. I had to trust it would work out. He couldn’t shaft me, not legally, and that was something of a comfort.

Dad’s version of the will was short and to the point. We both got one house each, and all assets were divided equally. No grandchildren provided for.

“You’re my children. It’s up to you to provide for yours. Do I look like a bank?”

But what about Tony’s girls? A pang of anxiety set in that would last for years.

Greg’s relief seemed palpable with his new status. I imagined him rubbing his hands together like a villain in a cartoon. Dollar signs for pupils and little devils dancing on his shoulders. He’d always been at odds with Tony and didn’t care for his family. The girls had the same disdain for their uncle as Dad used to have.

I adored the girls and always felt devastated for their loss. When Mum died, I tried to keep the family traditions alive — it was never the same without her. I included them in every gathering, although they didn’t always come, or one was missing. I gave them money for their birthdays and Christmas, even when I couldn’t afford it. Dad didn’t. And Greg thought I was crazy.

The girls had a new stepfather. To Dad and Greg, they were his responsibility now. They were convinced that Francis — their mother, Tony’s ex — had been having an affair the entire time. Francis and her beau were dating before Tony’s funeral.

Dad and Greg seemed to forget that Tony had left for a younger woman. But poor Francis was to blame as if she put the noose around Tony’s neck. I felt sorry for all of them.

Tony’s girls probably knew more about our childhoods than Morgan or Gavin. Tony wasn’t just an open book; he shouted his trauma from the stage like the Shakespearean actor he was to anyone who’d listen. It was the AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) way. There was no shame in airing family secrets then, not if healing were to take place.

When Dad died in 2016 and the will was read, years of pent-up rage erupted from the girls when they learned they’d get nothing. They knew their father’s past. They blamed Dad for everything. Had he been a kinder father, their dad would still be here. That’s how they saw it.

Inwardly, I couldn’t disagree, but nothing I said to reassure them worked. I’d already planned on giving them the original 15k against Greg’s better judgment. He wasn’t happy and refused to part with any of his share.

“Fine. I’ll give it to them from my share. It’s wrong that they get nothing. Tony was our brother. He’d want something for them.” I stood my ground.

“Well, Tony isn’t here, is he? And I’m going to abide by Dad’s last wishes.”

So be it.

True colours

The girls were livid. Refused my offer. They wanted a third of everything, including the houses. One of those houses, mine, had been sold three years earlier when Dad gifted it to me. That house couldn’t come into the equation. And the remaining house was Greg’s home. He’d be homeless.

They didn’t care about the details. The girls wanted their father’s share — a third of everything. I understood their grievances. I saw their point. But my father never saw it that way. When Tony took his life, he’d forfeited any claim. Dad would be damned to give it to grandchildren who judged him so poorly.

They got a lawyer, and the fight began. We had to do the same. Greg was ropable. He didn’t hold back from reminding me about their true colours and my naivety. He was convinced Francis was running the show, playing out some revenge vendetta via her daughters. I was just the puppet fool centre stage.

A year later, they each got $15k as per Mum’s original wishes and my original offer. Greg and I got a legal bill for $38k. You can imagine how that went down with him and his precious share.

The blame game and bitter endings

Greg blamed me as if I’d caused it all. The girls blamed me for allowing Dad to get away with his choices as if I (or anyone) could control my father. I was the villain in the story — apparently. I was gobsmacked at how that was possible when all I’d tried to do was keep the peace and do the right thing.

My nieces never spoke to me again. Jasmin sent me a long email soon after the verdict. I read the subject line, “I’m having my say, and I do not want you to respond!” I deleted it. I have no idea what it said, but I knew it would break my heart all over again. I didn’t want to read that.

I don’t regret not reading Jasmin’s email. My psyche couldn’t have coped. I have so many layers of trauma I carry that I have no space for her and her sister’s trauma. I tried to help. I failed.

They blocked me from every avenue. They did the same to Morgan, who had no part in any of it. She is without cousins now. She got nothing from the will — the favourite grandchild was left with nothing substantial, and she has never complained.

Greg never spoke to me again. I assume his anger over the girls never subsided, and he needed someone to blame.

Six years later, he took his life in the same way Tony did. That was a phone call I never expected. He was gone, and I was left like the last link of a rusted chain — the last puzzle piece of a doomed family.

Gavin now lives in the home that was once my father’s castle. It’s all his. The cars, the boat, the motorbikes, tools, guns, and everything Mum and Dad collected over their life together — sixty years of stuff.

And here’s the real irony: Rachel would be residing over that house, coming and going as she pleased, stripping it of valuables, no doubt. Oh, how Dad would be turning in his grave. The one person he would’ve gladly killed if he thought he’d get away with it, now the lady of the manor.

I’d laugh if it were fiction—a standing ovation performance.

Final thoughts

I didn’t fight Gavin for any assets. I figured he’d lost enough.

My nephew and I aren’t close, but I saw him once when I visited the house a few years ago.

There is a family plot in the garden, a graveyard of sorts. Mum and Dad, Greg and Tony, and my grandfather aren’t buried there, but their ashes are in marble monuments lined up in a row amongst the rose bushes. I wanted to see them one last time. I have a feeling I’ll never see it again.

Gavin gave me some photographs and books that were Mum’s. I didn’t ask for anything. I couldn’t bring myself to. I would’ve loved some of Mum’s trinkets, crockery, and mementos, but does it really matter? They are just material things. I can’t take them with me. My memories will suffice.

And so, I write the stories. That’ll be my legacy. My grandchildren’s grandchildren and beyond will know that once there was a family so dysfunctional, so epically inadequate, they’ll realise what a miracle it is that they even exist.

Who knows? Someone in my lineage might be a scriptwriter, and they might create a miniseries to rival Shameless. That’ll be one hell of a show.

Thanks for reading. Never underestimate the dynamic of family. Always be kind, even if you suspect it’ll end badly. You just never know.

A version of this story was first published on Medium

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Writing is my sole source of income. If you want to support me, I will do my gratitude happy dance. It’s not pretty, but it’s genuine.

Whatever amount you choose, I’ll be forever grateful:

$1 per month – every dollar counts

$2 per month – double trouble

$3 per month – middle ground

$4 per month – the high road

$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

If you can’t afford it, I’m still glad to have you as a free subscriber.

“I just don’t like who I am when I’m with you,” said my ex-husband as he walked out the door for the last time.

He said more before he closed the door, but I didn’t hear the rest. I was free-falling down a sinkhole that had suddenly opened. It’s a moment etched in my mind as clearly as if it happened last week, not eighteen years ago. Sounds messed up, I know, right?

I can tell you what we were both wearing. I can see the room we were in — our home office at the front of our house. He was standing, and I was leaning on a three-drawer filing cabinet under a window that faced the side yard of our white ‘cottage’ in the ‘burbs.

The frangipani tree was still in bloom even though autumn had set in. The sun was shining, and a gentle breeze blew in from the open window. The scent of those flowers swirled in the air, and I breathed in their sweetness. I watched shadow leaves dance on the carpet in front of my feet as he spoke.

It didn’t make sense. It should have been raining. Words like that deserved rain — pouring, unrelenting, thundering rain.

The scene was all wrong.

What was this ‘Stranger Things’ upside-down world I’d found myself in? Had I been teleported?

I should have been the one saying those words. Not him, staring down his nose in his new designer clothes — a far cry from his usual sweats and tees — with all the arrogance and confidence of a gladiator. Arms crossed over his puffed-out chest — had he been working out? He looked ready to slay a dragon.

Instead, he slew me with words.

Who was this guy?

Not the innocent nineteen-year-old I’d met over two decades earlier. Not the loving, caring, devoted husband I knew so well. Who used to leave love notes on my pillow most mornings. Who’d bring me flowers every Friday — just because — without fail? He never raised his voice, let alone insulted me. Words of love were all I ever heard from him.

He was that guy from every rom-com movie we thought didn’t exist in real life.

If something sounds too good to be true…

I didn’t recognise this dragon-slayer. How was it possible? Only a week earlier, he’d begged me to let him stay, sobbing erratically about starting over and second chances. This was the second time, so now he wanted a third chance. How many chances did he expect? He’d pleaded forgiveness for what he’d done — again, only worse this time.

And then he spoke of love.

“But I love you. I can’t do life without you. I can’t fix myself without you. I promise… I promise… I promise…”

One. Week. Earlier.

What a transformation in just seven days. Butterflies take longer.

I just don’t like who I am when I’m with you

And do you think I like who I am with you?

As if I love lies, deceit and betrayal. As if I don’t regret the doors I didn’t open, the paths I didn’t walk, the dreams I didn’t follow because I followed you.

I stared into his eyes — black as his soul, I’d think later — for some kind of recognition, a misunderstanding on my part.

My ears must have failed me — Did he really just say that?

And because I’d made my own mistakes, I believed him. I took all the blame. I must have ruined our marriage, not the other way around. It seemed the week apart had made him wise beyond his years. It had certainly given him a voice. He was cured. It was a miracle.

I said nothing. I had no comeback. I was at the bottom of a hole — under his feet, with a mouthful of dirt, apparently. I couldn’t form the words to respond. Not then.

If we opened people up, we’d find landscapes— Agnes Varda

We’d also find a shitload of scar tissue — in my autopsy anyway. And although you wouldn’t see the invisible scars, they are hidden under the surface. The damage from all the cruel words ever spoken — a lifetime of brutal words, and now this — camouflaged in the sinew, seeping into bones. There is no x-ray for that.

Those eleven words sank into my psyche and held power over me for years. It was deep, and it was cellular.

I didn’t deserve those words, and he didn’t have the right to speak them. I would come to understand this truth and own it with a clear conscience.

Don’t forget about karma

We all know the drill: what goes around comes around, what you put out is what you get back, and the best revenge is to live well — that last one used to make me barf. Tell it to my broken soul — as I’d cry, wrist deep, into a tub of triple fudge Connoisseur ice cream.

Live well, my arse! A bloodbath is what I wanted. HIS.

But I lost interest long ago in other people’s karma to concentrate on my own. It’s funny what happens when you let go of crazy — a real metamorphosis occurs. I focused on becoming a better human, and with it came a new nickname, ‘Mellow’.

Had you known me in my youth, you’d laugh.

Years later, sitting next to my ‘new’ husband, he draws me in for a long hug and says — out of the blue — with absolute sincerity, “I love us. I love who I am when I’m with you. If only we’d met the first time around…”

He didn’t know the story of those hurtful words my first husband spoke.

Sweet, sweet karma.

Thank you, Universe.

Thanks for reading. Words matter. Choose them wisely – someone said that.

A version of this story was first published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Writing is my sole source of income. If you want to support me, I will do my gratitude happy dance. It’s not pretty, but it’s genuine.

Whatever amount you choose, I’ll be forever grateful:

$1 per month – every dollar counts

$2 per month – double trouble

$3 per month – middle ground

$4 per month – the high road

$5 per month – full price - you’re a legend

If you can’t afford it, I’m still glad to have you as a free subscriber.

Subscribe now

My legs dangled mid-air as I sat atop the giant speaker, looking out at the crowd of thousands. Shirtless bodies and skimpy outfits gyrated in every direction. Even the walls of The Hordern Pavilion seemed to be pulsing as if they were a living, breathing organ.

At 2 a.m., the Mardi Gras after-party was in full swing. The lasers were so spectacular I imagined I’d fallen through a wormhole, lost in the cosmos, and the real world was far behind.

The balls of my feet were working overtime with my six-inch platform boots. They throbbed like hell, and stabbing pain ran up my calves, rendering me useless to the beat.

George — my (then) husband — stood on the ground at my side, next to my legs, trying his best to massage them through the leather. His feet were fine in comfy runners. Men were so lucky at dance parties—and so were the savvy women wearing sensible shoes. That word wasn’t in my vocabulary. It certainly didn’t fit my image.

Divas didn’t wear flats. They also didn’t sit down during peak time at Mardi Gras, but this was the early days of my partying gap years, and I didn’t do drugs like most of the crowd.

“What are you doing up there, Pineapple Princess, sitting on your throne? Get down here this minute and dance with us. You’re missing the best part!”

My friend Jarrod yelled up at me before bouncing away like an Eveready Bunny back into the sweaty swarm.

I’m unsure where the Pineapple part came from in my newfound title, but he’d nailed the Princess bit.

I watched the partygoers intently. They were having way more fun than I was. If any of them were in pain, they weren’t feeling it.

When Harry met Sally

“I want to be where they are,” I said to George, all sulky and bothersome.

“Then get down, and let’s go dance.” He moved into position and held up his arms to catch me.

“That’s not what I mean. I want to do what they’re doing and have what they’re having—the time of their lives without pain.”

George held my gaze as he rested his arms on my knees, looking up at me in disbelief.

“Well, honey, there’s only one way that will happen. Are you saying what I think you’re saying, or are your feet talking?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m in agony, so you might have to carry me home. I need to leave. Now.”

There was no point in goodbyes. Later, I’d tell Jarrod I lost everyone and got home at 7 am, not a lame 4 am. With the number of drugs they’d ingested, they were on a different celestial plain and would’ve lost the ability to tell time anyway. I’d be safe in my lie, back in the burbs pretending to be a housewife again.

I sat across from my doctor, who looked at me bug-eyed as if I’d just asked him to blow raspberries on my naked breasts.

Dr Mack had been the family doctor for decades. He knew me better than a GP probably should, from prescribing the pill in my teens to pregnancy complications and then supporting me on my weight loss journey that was eighteen months in the making. He’d seen every chameleonic transformation I’d been through, none more shocking than my current Barbie look-a-like persona.

I’d always known Dr Mack was gay. He didn’t announce it, nor was it obvious. It was more of a feeling at first, and my gaydar was rarely wrong. Then I’d seen him at a few dance parties, in the peripherals, trying to keep a respectable distance on the edge of the chaos. That confirmed it.

I could talk to Dr Mack about anything.

“I’m sorry, what? Marce, you can’t be serious. Besides being completely unethical, you can’t be telling me these things. You’ll get my license revoked, and then what? Out of the question!”

He leaned back and swivelled slightly in his chair, arms crossed over his chest with a look of defiance on his face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, doc, I’m not wearing a wire” — I rolled my eyes for emphasis — “Isn’t it your civil duty to tell me what I need to know. It’s information. I’m not asking you to raid the drug cabinet and hand over the goods. You’ll save me a lot of research time, is all.”

I gave him my biggest doe-eyed smile, knowing full well it probably wouldn’t work on a gay man. But I hoped our longstanding relationship would prevail and he’d understand my reasons.

When in Rome…

Taking party drugs was a calculated decision after my feet healed from Mardi Gras’ onslaught. My gay friends had been nagging me for almost a year, wanting me to experience the whole dance party phenomenon.

The star of that show was ecstasy, and if you happened upon the right concoction, you would join the celestial beings and become one with the lasers. Get the wrong concoction, though, meaning a smacky, yucky, downer-type ecstasy, and your night would be bust. And hopefully, no one ends up in an ambulance.

It was a game of Russian roulette at best, a terrifying concept for a control freak like me.

But seeing the fun unfold from my sober standpoint was something to behold. And then came the stories after I was home in bed.

Hours, even days, would pass when the fun didn’t end as they moved on to new venues, recovery parties, and more drugs.

I’d never seen a bad concoction on a dance floor, but then again, they wouldn’t be dancing. They’d be hiding in the trenches or a cubicle, out of sight, waiting for it to pass so they could gather enough dignity to get home.

I lived vicariously through my friend's stories until now.

“Your mother would string me up and burn me at the stake if she knew. But, seeing as you are relentless in your intentions to embark on this dangerous liaison, I get your point. It’s actually quite sensible. But be warned, Marce. If you tell a soul what I’m about to tell you, I will deny everything.”

Doc defeated. No raspberries necessary.

If I was going down the path of party drugs, I intended to educate myself on what could go wrong. I wanted to be in control, ecstasy ingredients aside – no one really knows what’s in that shit unless you’re physically making it or sleeping with the drug lord who is.

Over the next few months, Dr Mack taught me everything there was to know about party drugs, their side effects, and what each drug is doing to the body and brain. I learned about various concoctions, every possible ingredient that might be in ecstasy, and antidotes. Who knew that was a thing? That outstanding knowledge came in handy over the years.

Then there was alcohol and the part it played. For instance, starting your night with a drink is fine, but once you take ecstasy, it’s game over for alcohol if you’re smart.

I learnt about other drugs too, necessary accompaniments, you might say, to party drugs. Xanax, Temazepam, and the entire family of Benzodiazepines — a group of drugs that are depressants and help with sedation.

Every partygoer I knew had one form or another of this type of drug in their medicine cabinets. Most people had to work soon after partying. Back to reality was inevitable. Without sleep, functioning in public could be tricky.

It’s fun while you’re peaking, but the comedown can be brutal. It’s an individual adjustment, and everyone handles it differently.

I wasn’t good with downers – I must have been the only '70s child who couldn’t smoke weed. Unlike my party friends, I preferred a minimalist approach so I could sleep naturally. It would baffle me the sheer number of drugs some of my friends could take. Dr Mack explained tolerance levels, chemical balance, and our minds’ coping ability.

What’s mild for one person might be an overdose for another.

I was blown away by all the info I learned from Dr Mack.

Thank you, universe, for openly gay doctors in the dance party scene. What an asset he was.

The student becomes the ‘teacher’

Chatting to friends in a dingy corner of some nightclub, I turned at the mention of my name.

“Are you Marcia? Please, I need your help. My friend is over there, and he’s had too much K,” said a distressed young man I’d never seen before.

K is Ketamine, a tranquilliser. There’s a human form, but that’s not what you find on a dancefloor. There, you’ll find the strong stuff used by vets for horses.

The liquid is baked until it turns into a fine white powder. Taken in just the tiniest amount, you’ll be teleported to nirvana and return relatively unscathed less than an hour later with stories that only you’ll ever appreciate. Take too much, though, and you go to the K-hole, a scary place that paralyses your body but leaves your mind mostly lucid.

Looking at someone in a K-hole can seem much worse than it is.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Those undercovers can be sneaky pricks. You just never know, although this one looked too young to have a job yet.

“No. No. But someone told me you’re a doctor and my friend needs help. Can you please help him? Hurry! Please.”

I almost spat my drink in his face, but I composed myself. What. The. Fuck. A doctor, that’s new. And I didn’t lose one night of sleep studying.

“Calm down, young man. Don’t panic. And I’m not a doctor.” I saw a look of bewilderment cross his face. “I’m a… pharmacist.”

I don’t know what possessed me to say that, but I couldn’t let this young whippersnapper think a suburban housewife was about to tend to his ‘dying’ friend.

“Isn’t that the same thing? Please, help him.”

Well, it’s about three years, give or take. So yes, it’s practically the same.

I reached into my bra and retrieved a vile of cocaine, my drug of choice. It was the lesser of all the evils, in my eyes. And I was an up girl, so it was perfect.

“Here. Try this. Give him a few bumps of Coke. And then a few more. He’ll snap right out of it.”

“Sorry. What!” The young man looked horrified.

“I know. I know. It sounds wrong and seems counterproductive, but it’ll work, trust me. And bring me the vile back, or I’ll come looking for you. Go!”

He jumped to attention and ran through the crowd.

Half an hour later, I slipped the vile back into my bra as the two young men stood before me.

“You must be the patient,” I said to the bright-eyed young man who was whippersnapper’s sidekick.

They were clean-cut and looked fresh, as if they’d just arrived—there was no sign of any K-hole residue or mishap.

“I just wanted to come and thank you for saving my life.” He took my hand in his and kissed it.

“Darling, that’s sweet, but I didn’t save your life. You can’t die from too much Ketamine. Well, you can, but I doubt you could consume enough for that catastrophe. Still, you should remember the golden rule: less is more when it comes to K.”

They shook their heads in unison like obedient students.

“Off you go then. And if you tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it.” I winked, and they giggled and bounced away.

I thought of Dr Mack. He’ll be mortified when I tell him this one.

Afterword

I would go on to help many people with the knowledge I learnt from Dr Mack. I never pretended to be a doctor, but I unwittingly earned the reputation of being a pharmacist. My friends would laugh about it at dinner parties, and Dr Mack didn’t want to hear a word of it.

Thanks for reading, friends. This story was a long time ago. I’d never condone drug taking of any kind now. I’m wiser than I was then. I look back at those days and can’t believe it was my life. It’s like a dream. I wish it were… But I have the stories, and I’m grateful for that.

A version of this story was first published on Medium.

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