Even though time had passed since marriage I still didn’t feel as if I was married, hardly used his name on documents as it felt as if I was finally losing a part of my father. I did allow everyone to call me by my new name but I somehow hated that I was just D’s wife and I was no longer referred to by my name.
It was always “that’s Ds wife”
D had killed any chance of my heart turning from stone, he was in fact one of the most spiteful, human being I had ever met at that time. He was very difficult and the arguments were on a daily basis. It was absolute torture. During the first two years the emotional abuse reached an all time high, over the simplest thing, the fact I said blue and not red, or that I would say I will arrive home at nine but arrived at nine fifteen. If I decided to have an apple and he caught me eating a pear, I would be deemed a liar. I just never understood how someone could want to be sad everyday.
I still didn’t hate him though and never would simply because he became a father to my two children, so if it meant I had to put up with the abuse then so be it. .. I just wanted a brother to defend me against D.. The bully.
that longing stayed in my mind.
My head felt as if it would explode most times, I wanted out not just out of marriage but out of life.
But sucide thoughts had not yet arrived.
Eventually the physical violence reduce also but the mental abuse became much worse. I thought the violence reduced because the children were now much older and were asking questions, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because I never fought back anymore. I was also in any case much more independent. I was learning whilst at work how people should behave, and listening to the other women talking about how their husbands were at home.
D continued to be a good father to the children, but didn’t seem to have the respect for me, and was often worse in public. To make matters worse he started telling his mum, that he wasn’t getting sex. “Can you believe the shame ?”
It was clear that D was an alcoholic and I checked at work various agencies, and found alcoholic anonymous but D was quite defensive stating he didn’t have a problem.
I never mentioned it again.
Although it was clear we was both unhappy neither of us had a solution, and so life continued but despite this I never imagined life without D. I still cared about him after all he was a good father.
Every now and again I would recall the gypsy womans words. “Someone’s put a curse on you and you will never be happy. I always wondered why she would tell a child that, as result during the difficult period of my life I started to believe. I wanted to find a cure. But who could help me, who would tell me if I was really cursed. I felt that the truth was in Jamaica and I intended to find out….
One evening I reached home to find a letter from the solicitor she had called me but could not get through. She had received contact from the courts. It was over. She had decided to go to the courts in my absence and put a defence forward. My children were free from my mum. It was seven years since the case began with my mum and I.
This made me smile, I had done the right thing after all by marrying D. I suffered as a result but now my children were free.
“Thank you God” I said.
Well! where was that God word again popping up from nowhere, but I noticed his name would appear whenever I was desperate. Maybe it was coincidence…
Since I left Holloway prison, God did not enter my mind, although my children were blessed in a church out of habit, I was filled with resentment! I did believe God exists based on what my mummy told me, as she was called then, but I didn’t give it a second thought. In my circle of friends no one went to church, or spoke about God, so the timeline from leaving home at 14 years old and having my children and now in my thirties, meant that God was an afterthought.
I was totally separated from God.
I was still refered to as a “christian” by some friends and strangers alike. Leaving me highly offended as it made me feel that I was acting like how my mum would have wanted me to. It always brought me back to my childhood. The abuse in the church, the rapes, forced to touch a dead body, trying to escape the church brother and what he wanted to do to me. , starting my periods in church, the humiliation, forced to reading the bible every day, the bullying from the other children and the rituals. No one could hate church more than me. Although some of my mothers ideology was greatly entrenched in me. I hated any association with christianity as each time it was mentioned I would go back to a time of pain when the children all around me had siblings or some form of family, and I was a nobody.
I had no one.
Further, when people assumed I was a christian, it felt like people were insulting me for the way I dressed. I knew I dressed with everywhere covered and could never show my cleavage or too much skin. I guess, no wonder they called me Christian.
I needed to get rid of that image.
Therefore instead of wearing my buttons up to my neck, I undid a few. instead of long skirts, I wore shorts, I started wearing trousers, I started wearing makeup ,even though looking back I must have looked a mess, when going out. 🙂 I started coordinating my clothes. I started listening to reggae music with D and taking down the name of the artists and even practised singing, although I was not good at it.
I totally hated being called a christian..I felt insulted and angry and needed to rid myself of the so called christian image,
I was not an atheist, but for me God was a man in my story books, and it was because of God I was abused…. He could have save me if he was so good. But instead, I was raped several times, I was sexually abused, I was beaten, homeless. It was Gods fault.
I knew I would never go back in a church ever, I was prepared for the next person to tell me about christianity.
Little did I know there was more to come.