Memoir of a survivor of domestic abuse
I want to do it. I need to write it down. I want to dredge, to excavate the walls of memory, and it’s taken me 25 years. I call that day, the fifth of May, Escape Day.
We were already well-established on a rocky road to a hideous separation. I’d organised a little furnished rental flat at the beach. So we’d acknowledged the need to separate. It was an urgent need for me. I felt in mortal danger but there was no way of me telling anyone that. I just knew I had to go, the sooner the safer I would be.
The day started fairly calmly. The two younger children were at school, my older son was – I can’t remember where. My eldest had left home by then. I’d done a bit of housework, made the beds, done the dishes, put some washing out. My husband came in for a cup of coffee. Smoko. We were both really trying to keep things civilised.
We sat down for a mid-morning cuppa. He talked fairly amiably, until I mentioned that I’d had my friend Sharon out for lunch and then a lovely long and rambling walk up to Rata Tree Paddock, and to the tree, one of my favourites on our farm because of its wonderful bowered trunk. I mentioned how we’d all had a lovely weekend while he was away.
Somewhere from deep within me, a cracked primeval voice said, "Your father did that to your mother"
He screamed at me, "How dare you bring your friends here. How dare you!’" This was something entirely new as we’d both always been proud of our widely inclusive farmhouse hospitality. I was incensed. I had just a tiny bit of coffee left in my cup, a teaspoon or two of dregs. I flicked it into his face.
Well. Hell. The jug had just boiled for a top-up. He stood up in a flash, grabbed the boiling water and went to the middle of the room to block me from the door so I couldn’t escape. I stood there frozen in time – it felt like a thousand years. He stood there, the jug poised right over my head, ready to pour. Ready to pour. I waited. I felt in those split seconds like a caped and ancient crone. I had a black raven sitting on my shoulder. No, I didn’t just feel it, I was that woman. All my and our foremothers standing behind me and behind me and behind me, going back in time.
Somewhere from deep within me, a cracked primeval voice said, "Your father did that to your mother."
He would have poured it, I know. Just as his father had, and his father before that, back and back. Like the bride-burning of Indian women, but certainly the transgenerational abuse of women was there, like a ghastly ghost.
He put the boiling water down. He knew, we both knew, right then that the cracked and broken voice had spoken the truth. The large skin graft on his beloved and lovely mother’s leg was not the result of "an accident". It was the wilful scalding perpetrated on her by his crazy father. Yes. He put the jug down. I dashed to escape. He caught me and flung me, flattened me to the wall. He pinned me by both upper arms.
There were no marks on me. Did I say he was cunning?
The end of the ordeal had a way to go. I knew what was next on the menu, because of the times it had happened before. I stayed on the wall. I knew what was to happen next. The punching. Oh, he was cunning; I know he knew that it would be prison for him if I ended up battered and bruised. I called it air punching. He endlessly punched and punched at my face. But he never touched me. It was so controlled, that violence. He’d been a highly trained captain in the territorial army. I now know in the domestic-violence literature that it is called controlled violence. So bad, so terrorising, as in "I could kill you, I could strangle you, but I won’t." He missed me by a hair’s breadth every time.
I was in the Red Couch Room by then, as we always called that lovely space. It had always been a kind of welcoming foyer to our whole home. But – the wall. I was the wall. I had numbed into it. I was slightly aware of air movement around my face, but fear had totally departed. I wasn’t there. I had become the wall. Looking back, I think perhaps my woodenness was what eventually frightened him off. I’ve only just realised all this just now, all these years later. I’ve often wondered about my reaction or, more correctly, my non-reaction to those air-punching bouts. But now I’ve named it – explained it. Dissociated. Good old Mother Nature, eh, protecting me in that way.
I escaped. I drove over to my brother’s farm. It’s about an hour by road, but is probably only 10 minutes as the crow flies, over those blessed blue hills that I still love so much. I collapsed on the doorstep. My brother said, "I’ll kill him if he’s beaten you up." There were no marks on me. Did I say he was cunning?
I rested there for a few hours then went to Sharon’s place. There was always a bed there for me. The night was ancient and black as black. I bled and bled. It was blood-transfusion stuff. Old and ragged, huge black clots like chunks of liver, that fell in the toilet with loud plops like the source of all hysteria. Where was my life now? But. But. I had got away! Later on I had a hysterectomy.
Taken with permission from Notes from Inside: A courageous woman’s experiences of domestic violence and mental illness by Anne Thurston, on sale for $30 from bookstores nationwide or by placing an order with the distributor. The book is a narrative memoir about abuse, intergenerational trauma and mental illness – and how Anne Thurston managed to address and eventually cope with those issues. She hopes that shedding light on these narratives will give others in similar situations the tools to begin to overcome their own struggles, escape the bonds of abuse and gain a sense of control over the trauma that remains.
*Where to get help
Women's Refuge (For women and children) - 0800 733 843.
Shine (For men and women) - free call 0508-744-633 between 9am and 11pm.
1737, Need to talk? Free call or text 1737 any time for mental health support from a trained counsellor
What's Up – 0800 942 8787 (for 5–18 year olds). Phone counselling is available Monday to Friday, midday–11pm and weekends, 3pm–11pm. Online chat is available 7pm–10pm daily.
Kidsline – 0800 54 37 54 for people up to 18 years old. Open 24/7.
Youthline – 0800 376 633, free text 234, email talk@youthline.co.nz, or find online chat and other support options here.
National Rape Crisis helpline: 0800 88 33 00
Safe to Talk national helpline 0800 044 334 or www.safetotalk.nz
If you or someone else is in immediate danger call 111.
