Spotlight on......
The Blood on My Hands
by Shannon O'Leary
The child of a serial killer, Shannon O’Leary
revisits her traumatic past in her memoir, The Blood on My Hands.
Set in 1960s and ‘70s Australia, The Blood on My Hands is the dramatic tale of Shannon's childhood years, growing
up under the shadow of horrific domestic violence, sexual and physical
abuse, and serial murder. Her story is one of courageous resilience in the face
of unimaginable horrors.
The responses of those whom Shannon and her
immediate family reached out to for help are almost as disturbing as the crimes
of her violent father. No one, not even the authorities, would help
them. Relatives were afraid to bring disgrace to the family’s good name,
nuns condemned the child’s objections as disobedience and noncompliance, and
laws at the time prevented the police from interfering unless someone was
killed.
The Blood on My
Hands is a heartbreaking—yet riveting—narrative
of a childhood spent in pain and terror, betrayed by the people who are
supposed to provide safety and understanding. The strength it took for Shannon
to not just survive and escape from her father, but to flourish, heal, and
triumph over the trauma she endured as a child is both powerful and
moving.
“I used pseudonyms in the book order to protect my family. He was never charged despite
the police knowing about his activity. The police investigations were case
files and are not available to the public. People outside Australia would not
be aware that many of the missing person files in NSW in the 1960s and 70s disappeared
under one of the governments of the time (there are only about 6 files for the
1960s),” says O’Leary.
What others are
saying......
"The confusion, uncertainty, and sickening
foreboding ring true and offer vital insights into the experience of abuse,
including the fact that victims had few options, especially in the
1960s." - Kirkus Reviews
"The work is crisp and painfully honest, moving
from scene to scene both artfully and factually. Both the mundane and the
impossible are treated with equal care, masterfully knitting together the
various pieces of O’Leary’s tormented past.” - Red City Review
"The Blood
on My Hands is a powerful, dark memoir… This is a story that is going to
remain in my mind for a long time.” - 4 Stars, Readers’ Favorite
“Once I picked this up I could not put it down, I
needed to see how they got away from the monster who called himself their
father, who called himself a husband.” – Sarah on Goodreads
“I
thoroughly enjoyed this book despite the subject matter and hope it manages to
help at least one child know that it gets better, life gets better.” – 5 Stars, Sarah Purdy
Prologue
I have felt
the cold steel of a gun in my mouth and against my temple.
I have tasted warm blood on my lips and witnessed horrific scenes of
mutilation, where nameless people took their last breaths. In my life, I have
experienced poverty, met people who had plenty, and lived through fire, floods,
and drought. I have befriended the intellectually challenged and physically
impaired and have known the mentally ill and misfits who were geniuses. I also
assumed anonymity with my mother and brothers without people realizing we had
disappeared.
In my youth
I was exposed to many facets of raw emotion.
I’ve seen a
living heart, beating and pulsating for its last time; seen broken fingers
tossed in the wind; and watched a severed head dance. Tormented by recurring
memories, I have chosen to write this book and put these ghosts to rest.
I first
contemplated suicide at the age of four.
I devised
my death plan down to the very last detail but never had the courage to see it
through to completion. Instead, my mother’s face would keep interceding,
begging me to stay alive. Faced with the fact that I could not inflict my death
upon her, I’d pray for miraculous intervention. During hysterical bouts of
entreaty, I would beg Jesus to strike us dead at exactly the same moment so
that neither of us would feel the pain of enforced separation or the prolonged
agony of death.
As a child,
I dreamed of better things to come and lived in spiritualistic hope that one
day my world would change. I thought my trauma was normal and didn’t know what
other families experienced. I thought fear, sad- ness, and horror were just the
by-products of a barely tolerable childhood. My self-esteem was nonexistent,
and after a while I sought approval through the creative arts. I loved to sing,
and as my voice was strong, I sang to cover my feelings of inadequacy and
desolation. To me, music represented true happiness, a make-believe world where
I could cling to melodious sounds instead of the tortured screaming of my nightmares.
As an
adult, I have felt exhilaration when audiences clapped and called my name. At
the same time, I have felt myself torn in two, experiencing the immobilizing
fear of personal exposure when not protected by the proscenium arch of a stage.
When I present myself without camouflage or without a scripted character to
protect me, my gut wrenches itself into a catatonic knot, an all-enveloping
state of fear. If I feel I am being examined on a personal level, my arms and
legs become frozen, and I feel my soul moving toward automatic pilot. I smile
and behave in the correct manner, but I’m mentally blank and devoid of all
feeling.
I know what
it’s like to be branded, to be labeled, and to work within the confines of a
title. As a child I was called brilliant, genius, a child prodigy, and a
precocious little troublemaker. I was also called an actress, liar, and evil.
My teachers admitted they didn’t understand me and often left me to myself. As
an adult, I experienced national fame as a children’s TV personality. I have
brought joy to thousands of children by teaching them the elements of
performance.
It brings
me great fulfillment to see children experiencing happiness. It puts my own
life in perspective.
I cannot
find the words to describe my childhood. Words such as “passionately naive,”
“emotionally lacerated,” and “holistically experiential” all pale in
significance, in the shadow of living itself. My childhood was so creatively
textured that it carried into adulthood without allowing me to become consumed
by the insanity playing havoc around me. I am sane and strong, and for that I
am eternally grateful. I have felt and seen extreme emotion. I have smelled my
own flesh burning. I know what it feels like to have baby snakes wriggle across
my body, to smell decay, and to see an eyeball popped between someone’s
fingers. Alone, I have spent what seemed like hours in a blackened hole, a
makeshift grave with a steel curtain, waiting for death.
Through all
this, I stayed courageous and strong.
I treasure
the power of love and the absurdity of shock, and I deal with these emotions on
a day-to-day basis.
This is the
story of my childhood.
Shannon O’Leary
is a prolific writer and performer. She is the author of several books of
poetry and children’s stories, and she has won many awards for song-writing.
Shannon has
acted and directed on the stage and on Australian national TV, and she runs her
own production company.
She has numerous
graduate and post-graduate degrees in education, music, and science. She is a
teacher and academic, has five children with her deceased former husband, and
lives with her longtime partner in Sydney, Australia.
Her memoir The Blood on My Hands was published in
February 2016 and is available for sale on Amazon and Createspace.
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