As far back as I can remember, I felt like I wasn’t enough.
My dad was a pharmacist. My mother worked at the local school. We were a lovely country family – but I always had these deep feelings of unworthiness.
I was the youngest of three. My sister was the beautiful one – the boys chased her. My brother was the smart one – he’d go on to become a pilot. I was popular, I got straight As, but inside I always felt invisible. Too sensitive. Too emotional.
I’d burst into tears over nothing and feel like no one loved me.
Our parents were kind and fair – the emptiness was my own. A deep, aching sense of lack.
When I was seven, during a visit to family in Melbourne, I had a meltdown and ran down the street crying. A relative followed me and brought me back.
That was the beginning.
From that day on, I was special. Chosen. But it wasn’t love – it was grooming.
Caroline Bellenger (pictured) had a troubled life and used drink and drugs to escape. When she fell pregnant with her son, she thought it would save her – but she still had a long road ahead
At her worst, Caroline (pictured with son Amadeus) was taking vodka in her water bottle to Nippers and passed out while making her son dinner
It started subtly. Lap-sitting. Cuddles in bed in the mornings. Walking in on me in the bathroom. By my teens, it had escalated. I knew it was wrong, but I wanted to believe I was loved.
When I was 16, I moved interstate to study pharmacy at university and lived on campus. There were visits to my dorm. Cash. Gifts. Then abuse.
I told people – friends, even university staff. But nothing changed. Years later, I found out an adult I’d confided in was dating a student himself.
Eventually, I started dissociating. I’d stare at the ceiling after the door was locked.
I told my parents I wanted to leave uni. I told them I wasn’t smart enough. That I was failing. They’d moved to Ocean Shores in northern NSW, so I followed.
That’s where I started drinking properly. I’d always enjoyed a few drinks at uni, but soon I was drinking every day.
Alcohol gave me what I thought I was missing – confidence, fun, connection. I’d sleep with guys, convinced that meant they loved me. I lost count – 20, 30, maybe more.
After I left Melbourne, I moved to the Gold Coast. I was out every night. Then it was Byron Bay. Cocaine, speed, acid, ecstasy – anything to keep me numb. Once, I coughed up blood. I was scared but I didn’t stop.
Surfing and running have transformed Caroline’s life; she is now 17 years sober
Caroline and son Amadeus stay active together. Now sober, she is ‘making up for lost time’
At 23, during a party at my parents’ house, I got drunk and my boyfriend was kicked out. Mum was upset. She couldn’t understand me.
‘We’ve done everything for you!’ she cried.
Drunk and belligerent, I blurted out the truth.
Mum collapsed onto the bed. Dad cried. They said, ‘We’re so sorry that happened.’ But nothing was done. No confrontation. No follow-up. When the relative was dying years later, I was expected to visit.
I went. It was my birthday. I got a couple of hundred dollars out of it.
At 24, my manager at the bank I worked at pulled me aside and gently suggested rehab. The company even paid for two weeks at a Sydney clinic. I got sober for a year.
But then I began working for a travel company and relapsed on a work trip to Singapore. Just one drink – and that was it. I was off again.
From there, my life moved in chaotic loops.
I hitchhiked to Melbourne. Bounced between cities. Took jobs in travel, construction, anything to stay afloat. I always had good jobs – even when I was drinking.
Then came the Bangkok detour.
I had a week-long stopover in Bangkok before heading to London for work. I partied so hard I missed my flight. Again. And again.
I ended up staying in Thailand for a year and a half. Hostels. Nightclubs. Medislim amphetamines mixed with booze. I had sex for money. I dated a mafia guy who ended up in jail. I didn’t care. I lost contact with my parents for six months.
Somehow, I survived. Then a relative paid for my flight home.
I came home and moved to Melbourne. I met a man – an alcoholic like me. We pooled our Centrelink payments and bought cask wine every single day.
Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. I planned an abortion, but by the time I got to the clinic, I was 22 weeks. It was too late.
I started adoption counselling and the paperwork was ready, but when I gave birth to my little boy Amadeus, I couldn’t sign.
I took him home and looked at him. My perfect, calm, dream baby.
I’d planned to return to work and leave Amadeus with my parents. But one month in, my dad got cancer. He died when Amadeus was a year old.
His final words to me were: ‘I’m so proud of you, Cazzie. But stop drinking cask wine.’
Instead, I drank harder. I was resentful. Angry. Grieving. I hated being a mum. I loved my son – but I couldn’t enjoy him until he was three. Until we became mates.
When Amadeus was little, I drank constantly. Two bottles of wine a day. Vodka on weekends. I took him to footy and Nippers with alcohol in my water bottle. I started training for my bronze medallion – still drinking, still smuggling booze.
At home, I’d pour a glass of wine while making his dinner. I’d black out before it was on the table. I’d wake up not knowing if I fed him at all.
My son yelled to the neighbours: ‘My mum needs help.’
Still, I still didn’t stop. I didn’t care if I died. Drinking felt like a slow suicide.
But I started imagining my son finding me dead – from falling down stairs, crashing the car, setting the house on fire. That’s what finally scared me. It wasn’t about me anymore.
At 39, I called a drug and alcohol counsellor and drank on the way to the appointment – knowing it might be my last drink. He got me into detox. Then into a six-month residential rehab. My mum came to stay with Amadeus.
That’s when everything changed.
Sobriety. Strength. And the gold medals.
After rehab, I went back to study. I got a job at the surf club, earned my bronze medallion – sober this time.
I joined AA for 18 months. But eventually, I found that what worked for me wasn’t sitting in meetings. It was running.
Exercise saved my life. Movement gave me clarity. Amadeus noticed the difference. When I was cranky or off, he’d gently suggest: ‘Why don’t you go for a run, Mum?’
‘Exercise saved my life. Movement gave me clarity,’ Caroline says
I became president of the Nippers, went back to study at 47, and became a personal trainer. I even opened my own gym.
Amadeus started doing triathlons, so I did too.
Eventually, I qualified to represent Australia – in Switzerland, then in Italy. At the Italian Surf Life Saving World Championships, I won two golds and a bronze.
Amadeus and I climbed to Everest base camp together. I was making up for lost time – and doing it sober.
After Covid, my mental health waned, so I threw myself into training and ran a marathon.
Today, I know my limits. If I drank again, I’d be gone quickly. Seventeen years means nothing to addiction. You don’t start over – you pick up where you left off.
So I stay consistent. I move. I breathe. I remind myself that I’m enough.
The woman I used to be was broken. But she fought like hell to become the woman I am now – strong, open, sober, and proud.
As told to Rebel Wylie
