Motherhood Was Almost Stolen From Me

When I had nothing else to live for, my daughter gave me a reason to fight.

Trigger Warning: this article contains descriptions of abuse, self-harm, and violence that may not be suitable for all readers. Fearless community, please read with care.

On the 8th of May, as the world celebrated Mother’s Day, I grieved a life I almost lost.

I am grateful for my daughter, for the love and laughter she has brought to my life. She is a gentle soul with a kind spirit and a beautiful face. Her adolescent conversations are filled with giggles, gossip, and more cliques than I can keep track of.

But the gift of motherhood is a poignant reminder of an abusive past. During my eighth month of pregnancy, I attempted suicide.

I had seen the violence from the beginning; I saw how angry he got when I failed to answer the phone, the impatient look from a deleted call history, or the accusations when I worked late into the night. Yet, I said yes to the marriage proposal. As time went on, the abuse increased in form, frequency, and intensity, triggered by the slightest provocation.

Like all victims of domestic violence, I kept it hidden from friends and workmates. I often researched the signs of an abusive relationship but the gaslighting made me question the validity of my experiences. Reminded repeatedly that I was to blame for his actions, I strove to improve my flaws and mistakes. All the while pretending all was well; showing up to the office, hosting guests, and attending social events despite the abuse.

I left several times but returned after promises of change and remorse and the misguided notion that I could fix our broken marriage.

Older relatives advised me to be a good wife — to ensure I kept a clean house and cooked food to the specifications he preferred. I was cautioned against being opinionated, instead I needed to be submissive and humble. Marital success started and ended with me.

A positive pregnancy test led us down a new path of emotional abuse.

I was accused of infidelity, of plotting with my single friends to break the marriage. A Lamaze class was branded an afternoon with a lover, a day spent shopping for baby clothes labelled an excuse to leave the house and call my boyfriend. Gynae visits were lectures on my unfaithfulness and an opportunity to blame me for the suffering I was enduring.

I stopped eating, surviving on freshly squeezed juice, fruits, and plain rice. In nine months I lost ten kilos (22 pounds).

While the child grew inside me, I was dying a slow death.

One Saturday evening, after a 22-minute drive filled with accusations and insults, I resolved to end it all. Years of abuse had numbed me to pain; I had learned to live a life of misery in silence, accepting the fate of my decisions.

That evening, I lost the will to live.

Maybe it was from the birthing video we had watched or listening to other mothers making plans for their unborn babies. Or the realisation there was no going back after the birth of the baby.

Here I was about to bring a child into the broken home I lived in. It felt selfish. Riddled with guilt and disgust, I decided to spare myself and my unborn child from abuse.

So I opened the car door ready to jump out. Ready to save me from the beatings, the fear, and the instability that was my life. Ready to save my child from a harsh world.

Death felt like the only way out.

The cold wind slapped me back to reality. I thought of the children I longed to have, of the two boys and girls I had wanted. I had named my unborn child Mathew and I often sang to him as I went about my day. I remembered how still he became when I drank a cold mango juice, as though he too was quenching his thirst.

Suicide is not a selfish act. Suicide is not a cowardly act. Suicide is a way out of pain and misery, an attempt to find peace from continuous mental anguish and torture. Suicide is a cry for help, a desperate call for attention to a pain no words can explain.

In those dark moments, I longed for someone to believe me. To hear my story and tell me I was not crazy. To see through the facade of the life I lived and acknowledge what was going on behind closed doors.

To assure me that my life counted for something. To let me know I deserved to be loved and cared for. To show me a way out of the hopeless situation I found myself in.

To let me celebrate the gift of motherhood.

Two years later, I lay on the ground choking under his vice-like grip, the beating justified by allegations of infidelity. The commotion woke up the baby and she stood at the door staring at me with tears in her eyes.

I accepted we would never find peace.

The continued exposure to violence was setting my daughter up for emotional and mental health problems.

Witnessing abuse would send her the message of it being okay for women to be mistreated. It would teach her to associate love with pain; leading to another generation of abused women.

With no way to defend me or stop the misdeeds, she would struggle to relate to authority and men in particular. She would learn to hide her feelings and put the needs of others before her own.

I did not wish this on my child.

I wished for her to have a peaceful life; a life built around love, safety, and predictability. A life that existed outside the four walls of the abusive home.

Becoming a mother helped me hold on despite the despair and hopelessness. It gave me the courage to walk away from the violence. When I had nothing else to live for, my daughter gave me a reason to fight.