Personal Essay Winner 2022

Apologies and Flowers

It will never happen again

The sun was warm on my back with the fresh glow of a new day. I closed the gate behind me and it seemed symbolic as I walked to the corner shop for the newspaper. It was Saturday and both the week and the last 21 years had ended.

When I was sixteen, I became pregnant. It was a brief encounter with a young man who was as inexperienced as I. He was seventeen and we went on a camping trip with a couple of other friends. We shared a tent. One thing led to another and neither of us was prepared.

My mother was a devout Catholic and did not take the news well, but to be fair, my family did provide me with support. His mother forbade him to see me again — as if I was the problem, and he faded into oblivion. I never saw him again.

Soon after. I began going out with someone else. I had known him for some time; he was in my friends’ group. For a few months, though, he had been working on a farm out of town, although we had kept in touch with letters — no internet then — and when he returned, we started to see each. He knew I was expecting a baby and seemed happy with that.

I found him warm and easy to talk to. He was concerned for me as my pregnancy advanced and I began to settle into the relationship. I met his family and he met mine.

At the proper time, my baby boy was born, blonde and blue-eyed. He was a source of boundless joy in my family.

Soon after, my boyfriend suggested we get engaged. It seemed right and we did. He bought me a ring. I was still underage and would need my parents’ permission to marry, but my mother especially was anxious to see me wed.

We set a date in November for the wedding and the drama began. His parents met mine to plan the ceremony and reception. Sadly, my opinion had no place amongst their wishes.

My best friend was to be my bridesmaid. I’ll call her Joanne. She was happy for me, but never really warmed to my boyfriend. She just felt there was something wrong. She was so right.

Wedding preparation was exciting. A family friend gifted me the design for the dress. She was an accomplished dressmaker. I drew a picture of my dream gown and she drew the pattern and assembled it as a wedding present: shiny white satin and lace, with hand-covered buttons and a train. It was exquisite. I was carried away in the buzz. But three weeks out from the day, something happened which disturbed me.

It was only a little disagreement. I don’t remember what we quibbled over, but I was sitting next to him, on his bed, dressed in shorts and T-shirt, when he ignited in anger. With all the force he could muster, he slapped me on the bare leg. I was shocked and hot tears welled as the skin blushed red.

He apologised. I accepted it. What else could I do? Was this just an aberration? Did he think violence was acceptable? I had heard of such things happening, but this was so far from my lived experience. The wedding was imminent. My family had gone to a lot of expense, as they had clearly told me. Was I making a mistake? We were Catholic and marriage was forever. Ever. So many thoughts, so much anguish for a seventeen-year-old.

I told no-one. It did not reoccur and any niggles I had, I kept to myself.

Fast forward… After the wedding and brief honeymoon, we moved into a small flat, the middle of a block of three. I was happy “playing house”. I didn’t have a driver’s licence then, but would take the baby on walks to the corner shop. It was fun to plan and cook meals, although money was tight.

I don’t remember what we argued about, but we disagreed over something. I was standing in our tiny lounge-room. He was raising his voice and the matter became more heated. In the rising tension, he lifted his arm and hit me across the face. Hard.

Time stopped.

For an instant, I stood, motionless. Then tears started to come, welling up and spilling out. I left the room, going to the bedroom and lay down, sobbing. What had just happened? I felt violated. The person I loved had betrayed and hurt me. I felt ashamed that this had happened and did not know how this could be made right.

Of course, he apologised. He didn’t know why he had done it. He was so sorry. It would never happen again.

Until it did.

In the few months we lived in that flat, it became commonplace for him to slap or punch me. I remember the intense fear and shame I felt cowering in the bedroom, waiting for the next blow, stuffing the bed sheets in my mouth to muffle the cries I was sure the neighbours were hearing.

At the back of the flats was a small garden, with a clothesline behind each residence. I would wait until the neighbours went to work before hanging the washing, to avoid having to make eye contact.

In time, we moved to a house with a garden of its own. I went back to the job I had had before giving birth, to save for deposit on a house. Life went on. The regular beatings continued. It was always my fault. I had spent too much, had not done the dishes, or the baby was crying.

After, he would always apologise. It would never happen again. Often, he sent flowers to my workplace. My colleagues told me how lucky I was to have him. I managed a tight smile.

Secrecy became my life. My friends and workmates could not know, nor could my family. Embarrassment was a key part of this. I had made this terrible decision to marry him and it was on my shoulders. There was no way out of the marriage. I was Catholic, married in the sight of God. No-one in my family had ever been divorced. I remembered my mother’s cold attitude to people who left a marriage.

So I kept the secret. My friendships became distant. I remember applying heavy make-up and dark lipstick one day, as Joanne came to visit me. He had punched me in the mouth when I opened the front door to let him in after work. After that, I no longer encouraged visits from friends or family.

We bought a tiny cottage, moving in just weeks before I realised I was pregnant. This was planned, as he had wanted another baby straight away. He told me everything would be different in our new home.

It wasn’t.

The same triggers set him off, but now he found another. I was pregnant and feeling unwell, but he expected sex at his pleasure. If I refused, he would often become violent and sometimes force himself upon me.

Apologies, flowers and it will never happen again. It was just because I provoked him.

My second son was born. I felt trapped. I loved my babies dearly, but my life was fraught. Sometimes weeks or months would pass without violence, but the spectre was always there, hovering like a grey cloud over my sunshine.

Although I did not recognise it then, in hindsight I realise I suffered badly from post-natal depression. It did not have a name then. Just a feeling of life being too hard, the burden too heavy. This made the situation worse. He told me other mothers could cope, it was just that I was useless. The nappy bucket was full, the dinner was late, toys were on the floor.

At this point, you will be asking why I stayed.

The reasons were complex. Money was one issue. I had none. I was not working now. All the income went into a joint bank account and the only cash I had was for groceries and was barely enough. But more than that, there was a feeling that I had brought this on myself. It had been my decision to marry him and marriage was for life. I was Catholic and if I left him, there could never be anyone else in my life. I would be alone. I felt my family would be disappointed in me. I had already let them down by having a child out of marriage.

Life went on. I had wanted a big family, but not like my mother, who had her children mostly a year apart. I was suffering badly from what I now understand as depression, but then just seemed inability to cope. But contraception is a sin for a Catholic, so I asked my doctor about the rhythm method. She was sceptical, but explained it and I started taking my temperature every day to plot my ovulation.

It is an unreliable method and when my baby son was only about three months old, I missed my period. I was shocked and unhappy. I told no-one except my husband. I am ashamed to say that I prayed I would not be pregnant.

Another attack by him let to him kicking me in the pelvic region. A day or so later I miscarried. I felt an unreasonable sense of grief for this baby I had hoped not to have. I felt responsible for what had happened. The doctor told me to spend a couple of days in bed as it was the weekend and arranged for me to go to hospital on Monday for a D & C. It was a miserable time. My mother-in-law visited and told me, “Oh well, it’s not as if you wanted it”. I had never shared any such feeling with her or anyone. The guilt of this stayed with me for many years. I still feel it, although I now see it more rationally.

And life went on. The years rolled by.

I stayed with him for 21 years. We had three more children. Those five beautiful people, now adults, are my pride and joy. They, as I, suffered violence and turmoil. Our lives were lived walking on eggshells. My children are the reason I am still alive and the reason I eventually found the strength to leave.

There were several pivotal things that changed the situation for me. One was him sitting on my 16-year-old daughter as she lay on her bed, punching her because she had been “cheeky” to him. When I tried to stop him, he punched me too. Another was finding a friend to support me. She was our new neighbour. She heard him smashing bottles and yelling at me and offered support. I took it. Finally, my second son told me, “He will never stop until you leave.” So I did.

He threatened me, he told me I would never be safe, that he would burn the house down one night while we slept. He stalked me for years. I thought I would never be free. But I am.

The next day, I walked to the corner shop in the early morning to buy the paper. The morning sun was warm on my back with the fresh glow of a new morn. I shut the gate behind me. It was a glorious day.