It’s been two years. In the last few weeks, I have thought a lot about it. It’s the school holidays, and she’s with me for a month. I have mixed emotions. I am grateful. And I am frustrated. Two years ago, our world turned completely upside down and has been since. Nothing will ever be the same.
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I Can Run, but I Can’t Hide
I fled from the abuse when my daughter was 2 years old. The form and frequency of the violence had escalated to life-threatening levels. I was unemployed, without a penny to my name, so I moved back into my mother’s house.
But peace remained elusive.
I struggled with the effects of trauma; my grief laced with the terror of an unpredictable future. Sleep tormented me. In the quiet of the night, I met the menacing and torturous images of the past. I became fatigued. Exhausted and irritable; I shrunk further from my life.
Instinctively, I sensed that this was but the start of a long, drawn battle. The aftershocks of leaving would reverberate throughout my days.
While my daughter did not lack material things, the ante of emotional abuse got turned up. Relegated to the sidelines, I got excluded from decisions regarding her education, medical care, and vacation time.
Thrown Back To Control and Coercion
It had been a long time coming; the threats brandished in my face for many years. It was the counter to any objections or questions I dared raise concerning the baby.
The first suit, when she was four, dismissed because she was still a minor. Instead, an earlier agreement remained in place. Another suit filed when she turned eleven; because I was mentally and financially unfit to care for her.
On the morning of her 12th birthday, I served her breakfast in bed; then joined our neighbours for lunch and cake cutting. Little did I know that this was the last time we would live in our own house together.
A Series of Well Coordinated Events
There was a mention scheduled on that day; and they granted him temporary custody. Along with the suit, I had received a letter notifying me of stoppage of rent and nanny payments.
On the 30th of June 2020, with the clothes on my back and a void so deep I feared it would swallow me alive, I got evicted from the house my daughter and I had called home for five years.
I had recently rejoined the workforce; as an intern in a mental health facility. I earned a minimum pay; a meagre fraction of what was due in rent.
I did not see her for four months afterwards. Every visit canceled at the last minute, citing the need to stay safe due to the Covid pandemic. When I did get to see her, we conducted the brief visit under his watchful eye. I cried. My daughter withdrew into herself. My family grieved.
She gained 18kgs (39.6 lbs) in those six months.
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Schools had closed and gone online from March 2020. On the first day back of physical learning, I found out through her desk mate’s mother that my daughter didn’t come to class; she had transferred schools.
Friday nights were our date nights; we labelled it ‘Junky Friday’. We would stay up late; watching movies, eating snacks, cakes and sodas. She would crush in my bed and we would wake up late and have breakfast on the balcony.
Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings were our work out days. I was hopeful I had injected the runner’s gene into her, sadly my daughter hates to run. But she loves the water, and we’d spend hours in the compound pool.
I taught her to pick up after herself; and not let the nanny do all the cleaning. Her friends knew me as the mother who had them do chores during sleepovers. You can bet that after a while; they didn’t frequent our place as much.
I attended all her school functions; ensuring I participated in races and swam during the galas. Afterwards, we would carpool to the mall and have lunch with her friends. I often found myself as the chaperone, as the other parents had to rush back to work.
Her friend once told her; with a tinge of envy; that she was lucky to have a mom who loves her.
She’s grown quiet in these last two years. I can’t chalk it all up to adolescence. In her silence is a sadness she tries hard to mask. An unspoken grief for a childhood that was snatched from her.
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The Implication of Fleeing Abuse is Retaliation
In leaving, I knew I had saved my daughter from the chaos and unpredictability of abuse. Over the years; I did my best to shelter her from the toxicity of the acrimonious relationship.
My therapist once told me I need to step up and be the parent in my daughter’s life. I doubt I have lived up to that expectation these past two years.
In showing up for a custody case fraught with victim blaming, insults, and slander, I found myself deep in the murkiness of hate and vindictiveness.
I, too, grabbed a piece of the rubbish and flung it at my opponent. I grew weary of being the bigger person.
All I had wanted was a normal life. I had longed for evenings steeped in monotony; sprinkled with homework, bedtime stories and sloppy kisses- {mostly from me, she cringes at my outward displays of affection}.
I had longed to wake up to normalcy. To feel good again, to not lie in bed at night wondering where it all went wrong, crippled by the fear that tomorrow will be the day the rug gets pulled from under me.
I’m tired of merely surviving; of simply putting one foot in front of the other. I’m tired of trying to predict what will happen next and if I’ll see it coming. The amount of energy it takes to avoid triggering an explosion is massive. It makes all other aspects of my life fade into the background.
My need for comfort is real, and it’s strong. But nothing can take away this darkness. I cannot get life back to the way it was before the custody hearing.
Nothing will ever be the same.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Wadi Lissa on Unsplash