Andrew lived apart from his mum for most of his childhood. When he left school, he found out why

Elizabeth Mamchak, 82, missed most of the childhood of her son, Andrew Ferguson, now 58. When she decided to write a memoir explaining what had thrown her life off course, he came to her aid.

Elizabeth: When I was a child, I was sexually abused by my father. I was always scared of him. Fear has dominated my adulthood, too, but it took a long while to connect the dots.

When I studied social work in the 1960s, we didn’t talk at all about sexual abuse: it just wasn’t acknowledged then. When I finally confronted my father about it, there was a long silence. Then he said, very slowly, “A figment of your imagination, my dear.”

After my first marriage ended in the early 1970s, I had a breakdown. I asked my ex-husband to look after our children, Kate and Andrew, until I was well enough to have them back. He moved to New Zealand, taking the children with him, without consulting me. I fell apart badly, and started to drink very heavily. I abused pills as well as alcohol. It all hurt so much, and I didn’t know how to face any of it.

The children came to stay with me in Canberra on access visits. I’d have two or three weeks with them and that time was so precious, but also so fraught. The anxiety before they came, then the awfulness when they left, knowing that it would be a long time before I saw them again.

Andrew was very loveable and eager to please. He was always trying to make things all right. Later, when I had another daughter, Emma, he was lovely with her; he would pick her up and carry her around the house.

I wrote my memoir first and foremost for my children, because I feel that I let them down terribly. I don’t dwell on the regret, but it’s always there; it’s still a terrible well of grief. I didn’t want to excuse myself, but I wanted them to have some understanding of my emotional struggles.

What my father did to me had a lasting effect, and it affected my ability to care for my children. It’s not a direct link – it never is, with psychological damage – but I have no doubt at all that the link is there.

I believe in intergenerational trauma. I felt very responsible, indirectly, for Andrew’s gambling. He told me about it when he was in his 20s. I knew gambling could be a way of seeking oblivion, and I recognised in him a lot of the trauma symptoms that I’d experienced. That made me incredibly sad. However, as a result of working through these things, Andrew has a lot of insight into himself and other people. He has empathy in spades.

I’ve always felt close to him. He’s tremendously supportive when something emotionally difficult is happening, and he’s just good company. We have similar views about the world. We love going to see films, then having big, deep discussions about what they mean. Mind you, we’ve had blow-ups, too.

By 2022, I’d written the first draft of the  book, but the structure wasn’t right. Andrew came from Auckland and stayed with me for weeks while we worked on it together. He was a true partner in the restructuring and never-ending editing. We had fun. I mean, the subject matter wasn’t fun, but that didn’t matter any more. We laughed a lot.

Andrew: I was four when my father took my sister and me to New Zealand. He and my stepmother loved us and cared for us, but I didn’t form a deep, emotional bond with either of them. Over time, I turned inward and became very unhappy. I don’t remember consciously missing Mum, but I do remember the absolute excitement and warmth and love when I was back with her on access visits.

Mum would be great for a few days, but then things would start to crumble because she was dreading the end of the visit. She’d be in her room with the curtains pulled, smoking cigarettes. There’d be glasses of wine and she’d be crying. Obviously, it made me sad when she was sad, but the memory is still one of warmth because I was with her. I accepted her for who she was. The smell of cigarette smoke was comforting to me because it represented my mum.

After my final year of school in 1985, I went to Canberra to spend some time with her. That summer was a massive turning point in our relationship. I could talk to her as an adult, and we could just hang out. It wasn’t just a short holiday: I was living with her. And because of that, Mum didn’t have any meltdowns. Also, she’d stopped drinking the previous year. She had a newfound stability, given that she’d kicked the booze. She was methodically working through all the steps she needed to take in order to reclaim her life.

I’m pretty sure it was that summer that I learnt about the abuse she’d been through when she was young. Obviously, it changed how I saw my grandfather. From that point on, he disgusted me. But mainly, I just felt compassion for Mum. I was glad I knew. It provided some insights that I didn’t have before. I’d never blamed her for the fact that she wasn’t able to look after us, but knowing what she had endured gave me a better understanding of her anxiety and depression.

In my mid-20s, I was working for Westpac at the corporate head office in Sydney. I had a good job, but my life was falling apart in private. I developed a very self-destructive gambling habit. It started with horse racing, then moved to pokie machines. I eventually turned a corner after a conversation with Mum. She used her gift for connecting with people who are in a bad way emotionally, or in a fragile state. Even though she hasn’t worked as a social worker or a counsellor for many years, that’s still an intrinsic part of who she is.

Mum has come through a lot of adversity. She’s had breast cancer and leukaemia. With the leukaemia, we were told she had, at most, six months to live. Now she’s more than 10 years clear of it.

When she told me she was writing her memoir, I was really supportive. I felt that telling her story would be a cathartic thing for her, and that it would also be a way she could help other people. One day, when we were working on the book, she said, “I think I’ve found the title: A Figment of Your Imagination, My Dear.” I thought, “Yes, that’s perfect.”

A Figment of Your Imagination, My Dear (Ginninderra Press, $35) is out on Monday.

twoofus@goodweekend.com.au

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