I've been married twice. Both unsuccessful. And I have to say it — not my doing.
The first marriage wasn't violent. But I remember our first real argument. I put my foot down – I don't know how many times I did that. We went out shooting possums on his parent's property. A farm full of livestock. And there we were, arguing. With a rifle in his hands. Thank goodness there was a possum around to shoot!!
Funny, that.
There was also the $10,000 test. Gail told him – if he had that much in savings, he'd pay for half the wedding. He promised. On the day of the wedding I didn't want to get married. My sister stopped me – said I could divorce him the next day anyway. Then after we just got married — his parents told me it was worth giving him the money. By crikey, I did. The wedding happened. The money went. The promise meant nothing.
Everyone thought they could manage me. Take Gail out of the equation – these husbands thought they could do it better. It was hard. All my life, being attracted to who I was gave me choices – how far I could be their friend. Being a tomboy, having a good laugh with a good guy – that's the best medicine for me. But as soon as you see those eyes lock into you, when they have this vision – that's when things get hard. And it always gets hard.
The second marriage was different. At the beginning, people asked why I went this way. Part of the answer is that my ex‑husband made me, told me what to do. Violence was involved. So when I spoke, it wasn't my voice. I wasn't choosing. I was surviving.
But here's what I also remember. My mother had only a certain amount of time to live. Gail sat with us – me and my first husband. She talked. She tried to help. Other friends on tour took him aside. Had a chat. They did it for the second one too.
It didn't change the outcome. But it showed me who was really there.
There were moments I won't write here. Not because I've forgotten. Because some stories are not for the page. But if you read carefully, you'll see the gaps. The places where the air goes quiet. That's where the truth is – not told, but felt.
If someone keeps you on yesterday's budget – upgrade yourself. Don't wait for their permission.
But let me also say this: not all men are like that.
My best male friend ever is Robbie. Robbie Irvine. I love him so much. He has the best heart. He always hugged me, always with the intention of just loving me – as a sister, as a person. Just so close. No vision, no lock in the eyes. Just love.
And here's who he really is: a hero. He once pulled a steering wheel out of a car to save a man trapped after a crash. He ripped the door off with his bare hands. He put out the fire. He stayed with the driver, holding his hand, until help came.
That's the kind of man Robbie is. Not a husband. Not a fighter. A rescuer. That's the kind of friendship I wish for everyone. A special thanks to Robbie Irvine – for being in my life, for having the best heart, and for showing the world what real strength looks like.
That's the end of the free ride.