Alana’s story

I was raised in a cult, and my childhood was filled with abuse. My father was violent, my mother neglectful. At 14, I ran away. It was safer living in the woods than staying at home. I survived by returning occasionally to the house when it was safe - my brother would help me, letting me know when Dad was awake or when it was clear to come in. Sometimes I got trapped and slept on the roof.

When I was 16, a kind woman I met took me in and became my legal guardian. She meant well and helped me a lot, but she was also part of the group I’d grown up in. When she brought me to their meetings, things got worse again. The leaders there didn’t believe me. They said I was just a disobedient child. When I told them I was gay, they said the abuse I’d experienced was my fault - the beatings from my father, and even the sexual assaults by a man he had brought into the house. They told me that my brother’s schizophrenia was because of me. That I would be punished for all of it.

That night, I broke.

I drove to Beachy Head in a state I couldn’t make sense of - my thoughts racing, hearing voices, seeing things that weren’t there. I didn’t know it then, but I had undiagnosed PTSD and bipolar disorder. I was convinced the people who’d hurt me were coming to get me. I sat by the edge in the dark, crying and whispering goodbye to my brother, hoping somehow he could hear me.

Then there was light - blinding and sudden. A helicopter, hovering overhead. I panicked, thinking ‘I need to do this now’, but before I could, I saw another light. A torch. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

It was a chaplain.

A warm voice asked me, “Are you feeling suicidal?”

I burst into tears. I told them everything - that I thought my brother’s illness was my fault, that I deserved to die. I think there were two chaplains; a man and a woman, and two police officers. I remember it was raining.

They brought me into the hut. The chaplains made me tea and gave me biscuits. It sounds small, but it grounded me. I remember crying into the woman’s arms, telling her everything. She didn’t judge me. She just listened. The man was nothing like the men I’d known - he was kind, gentle. They made me feel safe.

Later, the police took me to Eastbourne hospital, and I spent a few weeks in a psychiatric unit. I received therapy, a diagnosis, and medication. It was rough for a while but slowly I began to feel better. My guardian eventually kicked me out for being gay, but I was already working by then. I got a job, rented a room, and saved my money.

Three years later, I bought a flight and a visa to Australia. I didn’t know a soul. No job, no place to stay, barely any money. It was the best decision I ever made.

Now I’m 30. I live by the beach in Western Australia. I’ve got a dog, good friends, and a job I love - driving trucks and tractors, big machines. I’ve backpacked across Australia and New Zealand. I’m free. 

I’m happy.

I wish I remembered more about the chaplains who found me that night. I wish I could meet them again and give them both a hug.

Thank you, Beachy Head Chaplaincy. You helped save my life.