When I was little, I had nightmares about the Jabberwocky. The snarling dragon-monster from that fucking Alice In Wonderland poem.
The Jabberwocky was infamously edited out of the Disney film adaptation because ol’ Walt decided it was too scary for kids (probably a good call). So, one day, when I was home sick from primary school and Allen Irwin’s live action musical version of the Lewis Carroll classic came on the telly, I almost shat my pants with horror to see this hideous, red-eyed demon monster I’d never heard of before called The Jabberwocky rampaging through Wonderland and stalking Alice like Freddie Krueger.
Irwin’s adaptation took some poetic license with the creature, yanking it out of the nonsense poem that bears its name and plonking it squarely in the world beyond the looking glass, where it routinely appears out of nowhere to terrorise Alice and totally fuck up her day.
But eventually, she has this light-bulb realisation that the monster is nothing more than a physical manifestation of her own childish fears, and only then is Alice able to vanquish the Jabberwocky once and for all, by standing up and repeatedly screaming “I don’t believe in you!” right down the barrel of its ugly jaws.
Though I didn’t realise it at the time, this shitty made-for-TV version of Alice In Wonderland had a pretty heavy impact on little Emmy. The knowledge that I could vanquish demons and overcome my darkest fears – the things that go bump in the night, the monsters that live under the bed – purely with the power of my mind was incredibly empowering. I felt invincible. And suddenly, I started to pride myself on being brave. I wasn’t afraid of the scary movies like all the other kids. I’d go on all the gnarliest rides at theme parks and be the first of my friends to go venturing inside old abandoned houses. That kind of stuff. And none of it ever frightened me because I was tough as hell. Or at least, I thought I was.
Of course, what I didn’t realise at the time was how lucky I was to get through childhood without experiencing any kind of major physical or sexual trauma. It’s funny, I always thought it was the norm to grow up without being horrifically traumatised. But based on the experiences of so many other people I’ve spoken to since, it now seems to me that, to be a little girl and somehow manage to grow up without being seriously sexually abused or assaulted, is tantamount to winning the fucking Hunger Games.
To be a little girl and somehow manage to grow up without being seriously sexually abused or assaulted, is tantamount to winning the fucking Hunger Games.
I mean, my childhood was still peppered with all the usual stuff, like being groped at music festivals and school discos. As a born redhead, grown men would ask me all the time if the “carpet matched the drapes” long before I was even old enough to get my L-Plates. When I was ten, a gross middle-aged creep cornered my little sister and I on a bike path and offered us money to take pictures of us with our tops off (we managed to get away unscathed). You know, the usual stuff. The normal stuff. The standard fucked up stuff we all grew up dealing with.
But I was brave, remember? I didn’t let any of it get to me. I modelled myself after horror heroines like Sidney Prescott from Scream and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I’d tell myself, “If anyone ever tried to touch me without my consent, I’d rip their fucking throat out. I’d die fighting before I let some creep ever fucking touch me!”
So, years later, when I was raped in Berlin during RedHook’s first ever overseas tour, that self-perception shattered like a sledgehammer through a looking glass.
So, years later, when I was raped in Berlin during RedHook’s first ever overseas tour, that self-perception shattered like a sledgehammer through a looking glass.
My memories of that trip today evoke such a bizarre cocktail of emotions. At first, it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. All my hard work was finally paying off – I was travelling the world! With some of my best friends! Playing my songs to crowds of thousands of people! My dreams were coming true!
But… about halfway through the trip, things took a turn. Team RedHook had our first day off in Berlin and spirits were sky-high after such a successful run of shows. We felt like celebrating, so we went to a cheap cocktail bar and hit the sauce pretty hard.
What happened next was a bit of a blur. I remember night had fallen and the boys and I decided to start stumbling back to the hostel we were staying at. But I somehow found myself separated from the group (probably walking too slow in my high heels) and I really needed to use the bathroom, so I wandered up to the front door of the next random venue I passed and asked if I could come in. The security guard showed me to the girls’ bathrooms, and I went inside. I remember the stalls were pretty roomy and built out of these big grey stone bricks and it was dark in there. Weirdly dark. And empty. Kind of like a cave.
Then, pretty much as soon as I locked the cubicle door behind me there was this loud, fast, aggressive knock on it. It sounded authoritative, and I remember thinking I was in trouble, like maybe they’d gotten the wrong idea and thought I was doing drugs in there or something? So, I opened the door again, ready to sort out the misunderstanding. And here’s where it gets even blurrier. The same security guard from before pushed open the door and barged in. He must have locked the door again behind him, I don’t know. I don’t know how he got my pants off either, and I don’t know how long the whole thing lasted. Time just sort of… froze.
And so did I.
I didn’t rip his fucking throat out. I didn’t die fighting.
I didn’t even move. I couldn’t.
Then suddenly, from out of the void, someone yelled my name, and it must have startled him. He quickly pushed me away and scarpered out as quickly as he’d barged in. Turns out my best friend who’d been tagging along for the tour had tracked back searching for me and inadvertently scared him off.
I snapped back to reality and stumbled out to find my friend, who’d seen the male security guard leg it out the door of the girls’ bathrooms and immediately knew something was up.
On the walk back to the hostel I struggled to find the words to explain to my friend what had happened, but somehow, he managed to get the gist. I remember him getting angry and yelling, saying, ‘We need to go back… we need to go to the police… we need to GET this guy. What if he does it again to someone else?!’
But I couldn’t even compute the concept of going back. I was in a foreign country, I didn’t speak the language, I was still heavily under the influence of alcohol and convinced I’d be laughed out of the police station if I tried to report it. And to be honest, I was still struggling to accept what the fuck had even just happened. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of Berlin and never think about it ever again.
The next morning was rough to say the least. With the harsh sting of sobriety, the nightmare of the night before struck me with a fresh horror from which there was little escape.
The nightmare of the night before struck me with a fresh horror from which there was little escape.
Jabberwocky, Jabberwocky…
But I could NOT let myself go to pieces. I had to help pack up the van and drive to another country and play a show in front of 3,000 people that night.
Jabberwocky, Jabberwocky…
And so, just as I had done when I was a little kid having nightmares about the monster that lived under my bed, I did what Alice did. I convinced myself that it wasn’t real. It was just a bad dream. It was all in my mind…
And that’s how I managed to get through the rest of RedHook’s first international tour.
And when we got back to Australia? After two-and-a-half weeks I’d managed to hone my trauma denial so well that it was essentially effortless to keep pretending it hadn’t happened and just… not think about it anymore.
Unfortunately, though, my body remembered.
Jabberwocky, Jabberwocky…
I started to have these involuntary onslaughts of physical anxiety whenever I went to use a public bathroom… or whenever I saw a male security guard who even remotely resembled the one who’d attacked me…. Or sometimes, for no reason at all.
I started to have these involuntary onslaughts of physical anxiety whenever I went to use a public bathroom…
A cave in my chest, hell freezes in my bloodstream…
And so, just as I always do when messed up stuff happens in life, I turned to music for help, for emotional catharsis, to feel less alone, and to try to heal through the pain.
Except, for the first time ever, I couldn’t find a song that resonated with what I was going through. I needed to hear a heavy-hitting rock anthem with a female vocalist screaming her lungs out about slaying the demons of rape trauma… but try as I might, I could not find the song I needed to hear.
How strange, I thought, that in this genre of music I love so much, which also regrettably seems to be rife with its own high profile sexual predators – from Ian Watkins to Manson – that there seems to be so few songs that address sexual assault itself from a female perspective?
How strange, I thought, that in this genre of music I love so much, which also regrettably seems to be rife with its own high profile sexual predators – from Ian Watkins to Manson – that there seems to be so few songs that address sexual assault itself from a female perspective?
I decided that I wanted to help change that, and so I wrote a song called “Jabberwocky”. And it was without a doubt the scariest song I’ve ever tried to write. Mostly because it meant, for the first time ever, confronting what had happened to me and the residual feelings of guilt, disempowerment and disappointment in myself that still lingered. For the past three years I’ve kept this experience like a dark secret that even some of my closest friends don’t know about.
You see, I still want you to think I’m brave. Not the girl who froze, the girl who didn’t fight back, the girl who ran away. Not that girl.
I want you to think I’m the girl who kicks ass. The girl who slays the demon, preferably while making some kind of wise-ass quip or clever pun. That girl.
But after playing this song live and sharing this story every night on our Australian tour, and the interactions with countless other survivors which have already stemmed from that, I’ve realised what I really should have known already. There is more than just one type of bravery. And those of us who’ve survived these real-life monsters and resolved not to let those traumas define us are arguably the bravest of all.
There is more than just one type of bravery. And those of us who’ve survived these real-life monsters and resolved not to let those traumas define us are arguably the bravest of all.
This song is for you.
If you have experienced sexual assault or sexual harassment and feel you would like to speak to someone for support or information, 1800RESPECT (Phone: 1800 737 732) can provide counselling 24-hours a day, 7 days a week.
Australian music industry workers can contact the Support Act Wellbeing Helpline. It is staffed by professional counsellors who offer expertise in all areas related to mental health. It is free, confidential and open to anyone in music or the arts. Call 1800 959 500, 24/7, 365 days a year.
