I escaped on a Saturday in July 1983. I naively thought then that I would end up living with my previous foster family, but things were never really meant to be that simple. As it turned out, there was no legislation at the time that allowed the government to simply remove a parent's legal custody rights. In my case, fortunately, I had categorically stated several times that I never wanted to return, so they were able to keep me from having to go back. However, they still needed her to sign the papers relinquishing me from her legal custody. Of course, She was refusing to do so and it looked like I was going to have to go through a long-winded court battle with her. The police were seeking evidence to back up my stories and trying desperately to get her to sign those papers and be done with it. In the meantime, my future was essentially in limbo, and I stayed in a group children's home called Brougham, in Woollahra, Sydney. At almost thirteen, I was substantially older than the other children there, who were mostly under five years old. I loved this difference, as it allowed me some freedom to designate what I did with my time, when I should go to bed, what I could watch on television, etc. I generally just drifted through each day, probably a little depressed, definitely fairly anxious, not sure how I fitted in, and very uncertain about what was to come. There was onsite schooling for the little children, and I would attend with them. Essentially it was a pre-school, so I would sit down with the kids on the floor and watch Playschool on television. Mostly it was not particularly stimulating for me, as a Year 7 student, so generally I would be allowed to leave the room after a short period of time. Often I would wander around the backyard, playing by myself. There were a number of animals at this place: a beautiful golden retriever, a turtle, rabbits and other sundry pets for us to enjoy. I would spend a lot of time talking to these creatures, sharing my thoughts and dreams with them. They were always avid listeners, never judged what I had to say, and never punished me. I soon became fast friends with each and every one of them. Not long after I arrived there, I became terribly ill with a virus. I remember lying in my bed in my little room, semi-delirious and only half aware of what was going on around me. I had been sick for a few days at this stage, with vomiting and diarrhoea, and terrible fevers. Someone was in the room with me, a doctor, I think. They were trying to get a needle into me - either to inject me with something or to take a blood sample. They couldn't get the needle into my arm so they had a go at the veins in the back of my hand. They even had some trouble there, but eventually managed to achieve what they were aiming for. It was nice to know that someone cared that I was ill. A few of the staff at Brougham smoked cigarettes. I was an avid anti-smoker, so I would steal their cigarettes and usually throw them in the bin. I can now imagine how incredibly annoying that must have been for them. I don't remember really whether they were aware that I was the culprit, though. One time, I kept a packet I had stolen, and snuck them back to my room. Late one night I managed to light one, and through much coughing and spluttering had an attempt at smoking. This was far from being an enjoyable experience. I remember a little girl arrived at the home one day, perhaps three years old. Her baby brother came with her as well, he not more than six months old. This little girl had thick scars on her face and coke-bottle glasses with broad black frames. She liked to keep to herself so I don't think I spent any time with her particularly, although I had a strong compulsion to wrap her in my arms and show her that love exists in the world. I had asked a staff member about her scars, and they had told me that her father, in a fit of rage, had locked her in her bedroom with their aggressive pet dog, a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The dog had attacked and mauled her, almost to death. This dog attack had caused the vision problems as well as the scarring, and the State had only recently been able to finally get the two children out of that home environment. Even now, over twenty years later, I feel sick in the pit of my stomach when I think of what happened to her, and even as a dog lover I have never been able to make friends with a Ridgeback since hearing that story. I wasn't sleeping much, so very late at night I would sit six inches from the television screen, passionately involved in a long time classic TV programme - 'Prisoner'. I felt very much attuned with the women on the show, even at such a young age. I understood and was suitably afraid of the nasty ones, and related well to the women who didn't really deserve to be there or who were victimised by the other tougher women. I wanted to have the "B" woman character in my life to stick up for me and fight off all the horrible dangers out there on my behalf. Once a staff member commented that she was concerned that I wasn't getting enough sleep. I told her that I couldn't sleep, that no matter how hard I tried I just couldn't get my mind to calm enough for sleep to take over. She got me to lie down on the floor, close my eyes, and concentrate on my breathing. She then told me to scrunch up my toes, count to ten, and then let them relax. I had to repeat this process using different parts of my body, working from my toes to the top of my head. I scrunched my face, my hands, my stomach, my upper arms, my shoulders - and let go, and each time I relaxed a little more. Eventually I went to bed and I think I probably had the best night's sleep I had ever experienced. Definitely, Brougham was a haven for me, however momentarily I was there. It was one of those rare places in my childhood where I wasn't quite so afraid, where I knew that She couldn't come to get me or punish me, where I could have a little moment of peace before I began the rest of my journey. I stayed there for three or four months before finally some official decisions were made about my future.