On Thursday the 7th of July 2022, I read an article distributed by ABC News, headed with the title: “An impossible choice between violence and poverty:60 percent of single mothers report past domestic abuse, research finds,” which scrolled across my Facebook page.
My eyes zoomed in and were fixated on every single word. Almost instantly my jaw began to tighten. Every muscle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes tensed. That old nauseous wave began to roll around my stomach. I wrung my hands out. I blinked a slow dramatic blink, shook my head, and stopped. Then I remembered, that this wasn’t my story, this was someone else’s story. Another woman caught between the layers of fear, guilt, trauma, and abuse delivered by someone who supposedly loved her.
Throughout Australia, the Commonwealth, and around the world, people are suffering from abuse. People, murdered by their domestic partner. And every single day, people who aren’t in those situations ask, “why don’t they just leave?” Well, I can’t answer that question for every victim of domestic violence, but I can answer it for myself.
At the time, I already knew my husband was having an extramarital affair with a family member. I already knew I was being emotionally, psychologically, and physically abused. So did my neighbours much to my disgust. I had tried my best to keep the sordid details of that marriage deeply hidden. The shame of it all but consumed me. I was only nineteen years old with two very young sons to care for. The judgement placed upon me was heavy. However, little did the judgers know, my only alternative was filled with just as much, if not more, violence, fear, and terror than I was already enduring.
Having two babies, no job and no outside help, my only alternative would be to go home to my mother’s house. Only it wasn’t my mother’s house, it was her husband’s house. My mother’s second husband ruled ‘his’ house with an iron fist; his cruelty seemed endless, and I swear, this criminally insane man knew no shame. Not even once did he flinch as he held a loaded rifle to my head when he found out I was pregnant with my first child. The anger steamed out every orifice as he announced I had ruined the family’s reputation. His terrifying misogynistic behaviour forced me into a marriage I knew would be a disastrous, turbulent affair.
The man asking for my hand certainly was not marrying material. After all, a drug addicted deserter from the armed services really didn’t appear to have any resilience or staying power. I had no other choice; like I was told, save the family name, and marry or I would be completely cut off. I would have no access to my mother, my siblings, food, clothing, a home, or money. With this dilemma at hand, I was kicked out of the family home until I made my decision. Like any ‘dutiful’ daughter, I saved the family name……Going back to my stepfather’s home simply was not an option.
So instead, I endured five years of chaotic violence-soaked trauma at the hands of a man I grew to fear and detest. A man who threatened me daily that he would hunt me down like an animal if I dared to leave him and take his son. To this day, decades later, he still calls me an evil bitch. He swears that karma will get me in time. I shrug my shoulders and remind myself that karma keeps receipts and I’ve checked mine!
So, the next time you judge someone or the next time you think of casting aspersions on someone about why they are leaving or why they are not leaving, stop and think about what they might be living through. Think about what their options might be. Think about what they may need to navigate through to get out of a situation that could resemble hell. Instead of judging them, start the conversation, and ask the questions. Get these sordid details out in the open. Stop allowing perpetrators to hide behind the shame of the victim. And above all, offer the victim your tenderness, care, and kindness. You really could be the difference that person needs.
Jennifer.B ©2022
