HE BEAT ME, THEN TOOK ME TO BED
ONE day, shortly after my 34th birthday, I opened my wardrobe and found a stick there with its end wrapped in plaster tape.
Turning to my husband to remark on this, I noticed he seemed to be grinning peculiarly.
At that moment, I thought: ‘Oh my God, he is mad’. It wasn’t the first time I’d had the feeling my husband wasn’t quite all there — but it was the first time I questioned his sanity.
Yet, ironically, I was the one suffering from mental illness at the time.
On my 34th birthday, a few days previously, I’d heard that my nephew was suffering from leukaemia — and this news had pushed me over the edge into severe depression. I was now taking medication and seeing a psychiatrist. But clearly my husband didn’t see this as a solution. Before I could ask him about the peculiar stick in my wardrobe, he said: ‘ I’m going to beat those mad ideas out of your head.’
He then instructed me to take off my clothes and lean over the back of a chair, with my hands on the seat, while he gave me ten of the best.
Aghast, I had no choice but to comply. Fortunately, his blows were measured — I know he could have hit me harder. Then he took me to bed and had intercourse with me. And when we’d finished, he examined the injuries he’d inflicted and kissed me very tenderly.
Why did I allow him to do all this? I can only say that I was very weak at the time. So weak, that over the following weeks, I ended up being beaten two more times.