There are always stories that never get their time and place in a memoir. That’s probably why so many celebrities end up having more than one.

So, I thought, for the one year anniversary of my memoir, Unfulfilled: A Not So Sparkling Life, I’d tell a few more stories about the people in my life and the things I’ve experienced.

Some light things to tease us into it…

We were coming home one night from a small town about two and a half hours from where we lived. We’d visited sister #1, and it was already after midnight when we left.

On the way, we came across a weird white, gas/mist…thing. As I have no idea what it was as we drove past it, I have no idea what to call it.

I’m a big believer in ghosts, and believe spirits don’t all move on. But whatever this thing was, it was not normal.

It was a rectangular-shaped patch of white…whatever. About a metre and a half in width, about ten feet tall. As I said, a rectangular shape. You could tell it was white, not solid, misty, and you could see through patches. Was it gas? Was it mist? If it was either, why was it just in that one spot and nowhere else? Because it was just in one spot. Nowhere else…

There have been other times I have felt something was not quite right.

One night, I woke up in bed, which was under my window and beside the open driveway, and heard a machine vibrate on low outside. Now, it could have been a truck quietly idling outside our house as we were on a main road. But it was after midnight. And there was no one else. And then it was gone.

It didn’t drive away; it just quietly disappeared and was gone.

Another time, in another house, my bed was beside the door. Another bad place to put it, really, like under a window.

And my door was open, so whatever breeze there was coming through the closed bathroom and toilet windows and doors would be felt. It’s an old house, we have gaps.

But this was not a breeze. It was specific, and I knew what it was.

I woke enough to be in that mid-stage area of sleep. You’re awake, but you can’t move as you’re not quite out yet, and I was on my left side facing, the wall. And that’s when it happened.

A man’s hand went through the back of my neck.

It was cold, it held me paralysed. I couldn’t speak. I could only think about what you say to ghosts to make them leave your house and never come back, but I could only think the words. I couldn’t say them.

I have no idea how long it lasted for, seconds, maybe fifteen or twenty, but when it was over, and I could move, I rolled over to face the door and pushed my back against the wall. There was no way in hell I would not protect my back again.

I have no idea who it was or what it wanted. It could have been my dead grandfather for all I knew. It could have been someone completely unrelated. But it was a damn freaky experience.

 

School

I’ve mentioned a few things about school in the memoir, but here are two more.

In year 7, we were making books for our school library, and my so-called best friend decided to fuck up my book. We had made the covers out of cardboard, illustrated the interior and done it up nicely. Then we were contacting them for protection.

The teacher stepped out of the room to help another student, and I had already placed the book onto the contact so the back cover was covered. My so-called best friend said she knew how to do it and opened the book, squashing the front cover over onto the contact. It meant my book was bent and not properly done. I didn’t ask her to do it; she took over and did what she wanted. Looking back, I have no doubt she did it on purpose in order to wreck my book.

It’s funny how even as early as our school days, we know when someone is insecure, feeling inferior, and has the need to wreck our work because they can’t do what we do.

It’s also funny how that behaviour never leaves some people, and for the rest of their lives, they continue behaving in a shitty manner towards people when they feel inferior.

One story I didn’t mention was that time in year 8, when somehow I was conned into writing a love letter to one of our male teachers because some of those I was in a group with thought it was a good idea. And funny.

Fuck!

Looking back, I really have no idea how I was conned into that, except to say I was 12-13, didn’t know any better, and others had stronger personalities.

We were also stupid. We were teenagers.

 

 

Another time, it was the only time two boys have fought over me, so I’m only telling the basics.

One dragged me backwards up the stairs of one of our buildings. I was laughing and trying to stop it; his hands were on my breasts, and it was kind of funny. I told my friend to go and get the other boy, and he came racing up the stairs. They fought, and my friend and I got out of there.

Looking back, it was stupid and insane. The shit teenagers get up to is utterly ridiculous, but because we don’t know any better, we have no idea what the hell we’re doing, and our parents certainly didn’t teach us any better.

Oi! The memories that come to us.

 

Family

Sister #3 one day decided to set up fake name social media accounts in order to attack me for a blog post I once wrote on my L.J. Diva website in 2013. The post is long gone, as it was during my “bitching about everything” days, and is no longer in line with me as an author. Happens to all of us who started blogging decades ago; we grew up and moved on. I wouldn’t put it past her to have screenshots, though. She’s that type of vindictive bitch.

But she created this name and left comments on the post. Then she set up on Twitter, and tagged me in comments she made, slagging me off. Then she headed to Facebook and did the same.

Anger, hatred, and resentment run deep in this family.

While I don’t have screenshots of my old blog, I do have screenshots of the Twitter and Facebook comments. She showed herself by mentioning what was happening in our state’s paper and revealing my full name. Very few people would know what my middle names are. I didn’t even put them in the memoir, and the only things it’s on are my birth certificate and driver’s licence. Also, very few people know the last name I was born with, which also narrows it down to about two handfuls of people. I also know the bitch was in the state that week, and she had threatened her own daughter to stop talking to sister #1.

Yeah, like I didn’t know it was you, Vicki.

A few years later, another person contacted me on Facebook, asking if I knew a Vicki Toohey and claimed to be my niece. The name on this account was one I didn’t know of, and the age of the person was off. I have no niece by that name or age, and politely said so.

The utter bullshit I received in return made me shoot my mouth off. They thought tearing strips off me and lying about what was happening was worth it. I swore at them up and down in a reply before blocking them.

I know it wasn’t my niece, as she had already contacted me under her own name, and I ignored her. For those wondering why, her mother, my sister, is not someone you want to know or be around. So why would she set up another name and contact me again when she already had, and, at that time, followed me on Instagram?

That’s how I knew it wasn’t any niece I had. It was my sister.

My sister is a vicious bitch. They all can be. But she’s the scorpion, born one day off Halloween, so I called her the Scorpion Witch in my book, and I know full well she has stalked me since that first post she commented on.

Fuck, my family are so utterly pathetic.

 

 

A follow-up on my father dying on my 49^th birthday…

In 2024, I was contacted by the genealogy company searching for descendants. I was one of three.

In March 2025, I received paperwork to fill in to receive any inheritance there may have been. I figured it would be divided into three or four, depending on whether he was still legally married at the time to a woman I didn’t know. I filled out the paperwork and sent it back in May.

In November, I received an email from someone at the public trustee, telling me that since the estate was below the threshold and he was still legally married at the time, the bitch got everything.

Fucked me over in death, just as he did in life.

He received compensation for a broken knee when I was a kid. I got nothing out of it. My mother barely got 1/3 when she should have got 1/2. He spent most of it on the cult he joined and the religious books he bought.

And then in death, I still got jack fucking shit out of him. I did the whole crying laughing thing. Cried for how fucked up that was, laughed because he’d fucked me over still.

Fuck, my family!

But then again, my mother had told me at the age of 20 that he’d told her to get an abortion when she was pregnant with me.

And a name she was considering from a baby name book was Azaria.

I really don’t know which one was worse.

 

 

One story that didn’t make it to the memoir was a pretty appalling one.

About fifteen to twenty years ago, my mother had a doctor’s appointment about 20 minutes away from where we lived. We had agreed to go to a local shopping centre the following week, but once she came out of the appointment, she needed to make more appointments.

In the car on the way home, she mentioned they were on the following Tuesday, the day we were going shopping.

I said, “I guess we won’t be going to blah blah, then.”

Now…a normal, mature human being would have said, “No, we’ll make it for another day.”

But what did my mother say?

“You selfish bloody bitch. Only ever thinking of yourself and what you want, and you don’t think about what I need. This is about me and my pain, blah, blah, blah…”

It went on for about ten or fifteen minutes, and I sank further and further into the passenger seat, red from embarrassment and humiliation. She told me that day with her actions that she could not have given a flying fuck about me, or in behaving like a normal, mature adult. And she’s behaved that way ever since.

What the actual fuck!

A true narcissist at play. They love to treat you like you’re a piece of shit they wouldn’t piss on if you were on fire.

And it’s only grown worse.

 

That’s it for the one year anniversary of my memoir, Unfulfilled: A Not So Sparkling Life