'I bought my kids a trike. My abusive ex destroyed it in front of them.'

Content warning: This story includes descriptions of domestic violence that may be distressing to some readers.

To be honest, I probably didn’t think my life was that bad, and I felt selfish thinking I deserved anything better. Such is the power of coercive control, which in my case was constant messaging that I was unworthy of love and that I should be thankful to be in a relationship, so much so that I felt grateful to my abuser. Below is an account of my early life, my thoughts on domestic abuse, and a few personal accounts.

One tool in an abuser’s arsenal is to suck you in by creating highs by love bombing you into believing that everything has changed, HE has changed, and that everything will be OK and when you let your guard down, they take back control by cutting you down through threats, abuse, and violence. 

The turn from lover to abuser is very confusing, unnerving, and sends you clear messaging that the abuser is in control. You are constantly reminded that friends and family hate you and that you are horrible, boring, unintelligent, humourless, and ugly. You are reduced to a tired, emotional, sick, soulless person and you soon start to morph into the very person they accuse you of being; a person unworthy of love.

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Looking back at my experience, I can’t help but think that my story sounds cliché and the labels I acquired still sit uncomfortably with me: domestic violence victim, abuse survivor, and the eventual product of my situation, a 'single mother'. Today, stories of violence against women are constantly in the media. But in the 80s, it was confined to your own home, not something to be shared even with your closest family and friends. 

The #MeToo movement has raised awareness of violence against women and I see real progress in terms of information for the broader community and a range of support services targeted at women like me. When #MeToo first hit mainstream media, I let myself indulge in reflective self-pity and privately felt part of the movement for a while. 

1992 - I lay on my side on the ground trying to protect my stomach and face as my husband repeatedly threw strong, powerful, and purposeful kicks into me. It was surreal; it felt like it was happening in slow motion. I had the time to process the feelings of fear, shame, humiliation, self-loathing, and a deep awareness that this act was the end of the life we had built together and potentially the end of my life. After that incident, I never felt the same about my husband again. He showed me what he was capable of, and I was on notice. While nothing was visible to the outside world, my heart and my head did not fare so well.

Over the years, my fear seemed to increase his power and control. We both knew that I had no way out; I was financially and psychologically trapped. All I could do was try to survive by enacting strategies to ensure his life ran smoothly. 

The biggest stressor was that he was so unpredictable. I never knew what was going to set him off; the slightest thing could be the trigger. If he tripped, spilled something, got his clothes dirty, if I said the 'wrong thing', or if the children hurt themselves, as little people often do. The abuse was always disproportionate to the trigger. 

One time, I bought the children a tricycle with a seat on the back. When he got home from work, the children got on to show Daddy their new bike, however it tipped, and they fell, thankfully not hurting themselves. He went into the shed, got an axe, and made us stand and watch as he chopped the bike into tiny pieces. Once again, I was on notice.

One day, he went to work angry and when I went to go out, my car would not start. I tried to call for help but found that my cards and money were not in my wallet. Eventually I was able to establish that he had disconnected cables in my motor and taken my cash and cards. I genuinely could not believe that he was capable of such things, but once again I got the message. He was in charge.

Another time, I was in the car in the main street with my husband, toddler, and our six-week-old. As instructed, I jumped out of the car to run an errand, clear on the plan to be picked up when he came back around the block. I was as quick as possible, fearing I would not be there when he came past, however I need not have bothered. I stood on that spot outside the bank for nearly an hour terrified. Eventually I realised he was not coming back, and I had to walk home. This was my unspoken punishment. 

I didn’t have a phone, wallet, or money. I still cannot clearly express the fear and terror that I felt while waiting concerned that I was waiting in the wrong spot, or had taken too long in the bank, or I had done the wrong thing somehow. It took me over an hour to walk home, humiliated, confused, and afraid as I did not know what I was going home to. Another abuse tactic was to use your fear against you by letting your imagination become your own internal weapon. Another controlling technique used by my abuser was to humiliate me by expecting me to grovel as I attempted to work out what my perceived offences were. Eventually he told me he felt I had shut the car door too loudly when I alighted from the car. 

I was constantly living on the edge, never knowing what threats, abuse or humiliation was coming my way. All I could do was to be one step ahead. Sex was weaponised against me and used to punish and humiliate me. I had no one to turn to, no one who would understand, and I couldn’t risk that he would find out that I had disclosed his dirty secrets. 

I slowly lost my pride, self-respect, and love for my life, myself, and for my husband. The end of our relationship came after a predictably dramatic and aggressive incident. He was angry before he went out, and he came home after six hours in a fit of rage. I tried to reason with him, and was the recipient of a barrage of threats, abuse, belittling and berating. This escalated into a violent physical assault. I remember his face, the anger and uncontrolled rage, the spit flying out of his mouth as he screamed into my face. It eventually stopped after what felt like hours but maybe it was minutes. I shook uncontrollably, so much so my teeth would not stop chattering; I was finally broken, I had to find a way out.

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I checked the children and eventually slid into bed next to my sleeping toddler. I must have woken my baby girl as I remember vividly her arms going around my neck and her hands stroking my hair. Thankfully, my toddler quickly fell back to sleep like that, me wrapped in her little arms.

However, I did not sleep; I laid awake and planned what I was going to do. The next day was as far ahead as I could think at that stage, I knew I would have to take things day by day, week by week from that moment on. I knew that the girls and my future was going to be hard, that I had a fight on my hands, and that I had to be strong. I was terrified, and I had good reason to be.

During our marriage he threatened to leave me many times and vowed to destroy me if he left or I ever tried to leave. He made good on that promise and many soul-destroying years followed during which I was bankrupted, abused, tormented, threatened, stalked, and a hit was put on my head. I live with the emotional scars of the years of that battle to this day.

This story is just a snippet from this time in my life. Although many women have the strength to reach out and find help, there are so many women living the life I did. I hope my story gives them the knowledge that you can break free from this type of relationship and life gets better. The way to recovery is incremental and hard but it is also liberating and life affirming to realise that you are not the person he said you were as you start to believe once again that you are a person worthy of love.

I am so grateful that I have lived to tell this story, there are many women who are not so lucky. I cherish my life and my relationships; I am grateful for the lessons I have learnt and the people who loved me enough to get down into the ditches with me. 

I always thought that I had to forgive my abuser. I have read this time and time again throughout my life, that this single act will 'set me free'. I have no desire to forgive my abuser, I don’t see the point. To forgive him feels like it minimises his responsibility for his actions and somehow dismisses the trauma endured by our family.

This week, I discovered that the only person I need to forgive is myself.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous for privacy reasons.

If this has raised any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service.

Feature Image: Getty.