MY TRAUMA STORY AND WHY I NEVER WANTED TO MARRY

 

Dearest reader,

Today, I am sharing my huge secret with you. The part of me that’s made me feel so much shame all my life. There are only a very few people who know this story. Very very few. 

I have struggled with myself for a month as to whether to share this story or not. It has not been easy. I feel scared to be exposed. I get palpitations when I think of you reading this right now. I have a strong need to protect myself from your judgement and criticism, but, I have decided I’m sharing it anyway. Because my life is not about me. I believe the incidents in my life happened so I could help other people one day.

I know some of you will judge some of the characters you see in this story, and that is okay.

But more importantly, I know that some of you have experienced something similar and have been looking for healing.

My sincerest hope is that you find healing through my story. If not complete healing, at least, that this encourages you to reach out to the right person for help. While I am doing this for those of you who will find healing from reading my story, it is also a point in my growth journey where I let go of my past and step into the shoes of the amazing, powerful woman I was made to be.

I will share the story now and give the advice after.

Before I share it, I must say that I love my mum and dad. I wouldn’t choose one over the other. They have both played vital roles in my life and I can’t see how I’d prefer one to the other.

Secondly, I had a conversation with my dad on the topic of what I'm going to share here. Over the years, a lot has changed. He's become different. I see him doing his best to make sure his children do well in life. He and I are really close. I daresay I'm his confidant in the family. 

But what I'm sharing is to delve into experiences from the past and how they affected my self-esteem as a teenager and young adult. It is not to cast aspersions on his character or person. 

I think I should let you know that my chest is tight right now, with anxiety, as I write this. Not so much because I am afraid of sharing, but the fact that I must relive the experience as I share this blog. I beseech you to read this post with compassion, and an attempt to understand and empathise with each character in the story.

I don’t remember the very first time I saw it. Maybe because it became frequent. As frequent as every other day.

All I remember is that I was 5 or 6 years old. My dad would come home, sometimes drunk, other days, sober. But one thing was consistent. He would beat my mum.

In the early days when I was a toddler, I did not know the cause of such beating. By the time I was 8 years, my little mind could process a few things.

He’d come home from work. Walk straight to the kitchen. Realise the dishes had not been done, which by the way was my duty. He’d approach my mum and ask her why the dishes were not done. She would attempt to explain that it is my duty and she’s asked me over and over to do it, but I hadn’t.

They would go back and forth on why the other cannot control little me. Then it would progress to why one of them is an irresponsible parent. Then an inadequate wife or husband. Then my mum brings up a similar issue from 5 years ago. She says something to him which makes him feel very irresponsible and inadequate. Dad gets upset. His temper overcomes him, and he raises his voice. My mum keeps talking. At this point she is triggered, and she says things I don’t think she should say. She crosses the line his temper can take. Then whack! A slap. Another whack! on her cheek.

Mum is enraged but physically incapable of returning the slap. Dad is tall and tough. She wouldn't win. So, she uses what she has. Her voice. She calls him an indecent and weak man. Says she regrets getting married to him. If she knew this was what she was getting herself into, she wouldn’t have accepted his proposal.

He is livid and retorts, asking if he even proposed to her. He tells her he stayed with her out of pity. And that she adds no benefit to his life.

Her eyes are filled with hurt. Hurt from realising that she has wasted her years having kids for him. Putting her business on hold to raise their children. So, she voices that too. She goes on about how useless he is. Marrying and living in his family house. Never staying at home to train his kids. Always at work doing his father’s bidding. Is it his father he is married to?

Bringing his father into this argument makes him livid! How dare she open her mouth to slander his father. He held his father in high esteem. She does not notice his nostrils flaring and the deadpan look in his eyes. She goes on about how wicked his father is to be sending him away to work far away for days. Did he not care that his son had a family? What kind of wicked, selfish and devilish man was he. She regrets marrying into this family.

Before she can say ‘family’-- whack! Another slap. This time louder than the first two. “Are you mad?!!!” she screams and that further drives him crazy. He descends on her, punching her until she is down.

Of course, I’m there and staring in shock at the escalation of the incident. I am gripped with fear. I know my mum could be wounded or die. But I am a helpless 8-year-old girl. I looked emaciated. He sometimes even beat her because I wasn't growing fat. He thought she was starving me or not capable of nurturing me. Anyway, we did not have mobile phones in those days. I could not ring anybody.

Sometimes, I’d scream “daddy, stop!!!!” until my throat was sore.

On other days, when he was not sober, he beat her unprovoked. The mere sight of her seemed to irate him. He could not fathom why she would be sat in the couch doing nothing. Simply relaxing. She had to be working. Cooking. Cleaning. Anything. Anything but nothing.

So, he’d pick a fight and she always fell for the bait. My heart would sink because I knew how this was going to play out. Her eyes and lips swollen from several slaps. Sometimes he’d drag her on the floor by her hair, from the bedroom to the kitchen.

These days, there was really nothing I could do. That must be where my anxiety as an adult came from. The helplessness I felt as a child. Knowing that someone you loved was going to be killed and you could not do anything to save them. I had to learn later as an adult in therapy that I was just a child and I could not do much. I had to learn that not being in control of a situation is okay.

I witnessed this for several years. Over 10 years. And I could not dare speak with anyone about it. My siblings were born, but that did not change anything.

I hated my life. I hated my parents. It was a no brainer that I hated my dad. But my mum. I begun to resent her. She had done nothing wrong since she was the victim here. But I begun to resent her because I thought she should know his triggers by now.

It was as though she didn’t care for her life. She would talk back at him. Stand up for herself. Get beaten brutally until she was unable to move and would be stuck in bed for days. Then I had to nurse her back to health, do the house chores, and care after my younger siblings. I felt like I was the parent. And I resented her for it.  

After several years of witnessing this abuse, and being emotionally and mentally abused myself, I simply accepted my lot. I developed a state of indifference.

I recall there was a day they got into a fight and everything in me knew he was going to kill her that day. He was strangling her. I cannot put in words the fear I felt. But I could not bring myself to break them apart or utter a word. I stood and looked on. Luckily, an uncle came by the house just in the nick of time and parted them. Mum could not speak for several days. Her voice was hoarse and raspy as though she had throat cancer.

I knew then that I was gone past caring. I learned to shut my heart off to people in my life.

It did not change the fact that I lived in constant fear. I often wondered when he would get tired of beating her and move to me.  

As time went by, I wondered to myself why mum never left him. Or why she did not report him to authorities. When I asked her, she’d say it was because of me, and my siblings. That there’d be nobody to take care of us if she left.

This made me feel as though it was my fault she was stuck in such a terrible marriage that could end her life any day. I felt utterly responsible for her misery.

I thought of ways to free her from this hell. Maybe if I went away, or died, she’d have no reason to stay. Sometimes, after they fought, I’d take a walk outside and attempt to stand in the middle of the road so a car would hit me. God must’ve been on high alert in those days because for some strange reason, no cars seemed to appear on the road for a long time.

I cannot bring myself to write anymore about this. But this is the main reason I did not want to get married. Marriage represented pain and suffering for me. Of course, I know better now, but I am in no rush.

My subsequent posts would talk about the effects of childhood trauma. For many of you, traumatising experiences you had as a child have affected your mental well-being, but you are unable to open up about it for healing. Do not suffer in silence.

My struggle has been where to draw the line between talking for healing, and not bringing shame to people I love. But I have learned so much about boundaries, and self care in the last year and that has led me here.

It's taken me years to address this. It's taken many more years to forgive my parents and forgive myself. It's been a hard and rough journey to discover my true self. The one not tainted by such an early childhood experience. Many times I try to imagine back to when I was 5 years old. I feel as though that was the real, authentic and unbroken me. But, I don't even remember what I was like at 5. So I have to discover a me that I do not know. 

I'm grateful to God for healing. I've had to process these experiences over and over because I repressed most of my memories. They were too hard to bear. But the healing process involved me admitting that they actually happened, then giving the Holy Spirit permission to reach into the deepest recesses of my heart to comfort and heal.

A lot of us young ladies, and men, are walking around with poor mental health, and remain unaware. You may need to get therapy/counselling. Therapy is not bad. You are not a lesser human when you get therapy.

Therapists are mind doctors. I believe depression and any mental health issue is spiritual. Just as sickness is spiritual and must be addressed in prayer. But there is also a reason God gave medical doctors wisdom to treat diseases. A therapist is a mind doctor. Find one and begin or complete your healing.

Secondly, try your best not to marry someone when you see red flags. Us ladies have a way of seeing red flags and convincing ourselves that they are pink and cute. 

As much as is within your power, you get to choose the man or woman you live with but your children cannot decide for themselves the mother or father they want. You make that choice for them by choosing your life partner. Be wise. Be prayerful. Be real.