I Survived Domestic Violence and Here’s How I did It (by Aisyah Suehana)
He yanked me from bed by my hair, heavily pregnant, and dragged me for something trivial. A kilometer, maybe two. This wasn't unusual. Revisiting those memories, after 20 years, remains as painful as the day they happened.
I know others suffer in silence, manipulated into believing they deserve this, or that love will change their abuser. It's easy to feel utterly alone, but our battles must be wisely chosen. To win, we must first love ourselves enough to walk away. It's not defeat; it's victory.
I was young when I met him, lost and vulnerable after a childhood where I never quite fit in. He promised protection, and I desperately needed it.
The abuse – mental, verbal, physical – started quickly. It was a brutal clash with the idealistic expectations I'd absorbed growing up among strong women. Still, denial became my shield. I couldn't bear the idea of failing at my first relationship, and deep down, I felt I didn't deserve better.
Bruises bloomed across my skin. Lies bloomed too – boxes at work falling, clumsy accidents. Family believed me; I'd always been a klutz.
I should have left after that first fist. Instead, I clung to the foolish hope of a leopard changing its spots.
My parents begged me not to marry him. Doing so was one of my biggest regrets. The aggression I hoped would vanish only intensified until it became monstrous.
Another public spectacle – a kick to my seven-month belly, my back pinned down – all fueled by a petty argument. Bystanders tried to help, but shame froze me. All I could do was escape.
Weeks after giving birth, exhausted and desperate for a shower, I heard my baby's relentless cries. I stormed out to find him absorbed in his games, our child wailing beside him. Furious, I snatched the controller and switched it off.
Chaos erupted. I was a ragdoll, tossed and pummeled against the force of his rage. The bed, the wardrobe, shattered. Somehow, I fled, reaching my brother by phone. Escape was within reach, but I couldn't leave my baby. I went back – and he imprisoned me. Finally, my brother came, a warrior breaking the siege. With him, my family's support, and my baby in my arms, I made the report – a turning point, a declaration of "no more."
Why did I stay so long? Because I believed the lie that I, the defiant daughter, deserved this punishment.
Motherhood changed everything. I couldn't let my child witness the cycle continue. My responsibility wasn't just to myself anymore; his innocent life demanded I break free.
Healing took years. I had to accept both my scars and the strength they revealed. I was determined to prove I wasn't the vulnerable prey he'd seen. The damage wasn't just physical; shame weighed me down. I couldn't face my family. But I had to heal, had to reclaim my dignity.
His mother blamed me – the villain for ruining her perfect son's future, as if he hadn't shattered mine. The pain I caused my own parents, absorbed in my own misery, never crossed my mind. Their precious daughter, enduring this silent nightmare... it must have broken their hearts. They were right to try and stop me. They saw his true nature.
I survived because of a mother's love. That ferocious instinct to protect is unyielding. I'd fight for my child just as fiercely as my own mother once fought for me. I'd defied her, yet she was there in my darkest hour. Without my mother, and without motherhood awakening that same strength, I might not have found my way back.
No one deserves abuse. Yet shame keeps many trapped, too afraid to reach out. Healing begins with self-love. Once we know our worth, we learn to treat ourselves better – and find the strength to walk away.
Would we rather let our children witness abuse, keeping them trapped, or fight for a better life – for them, and for ourselves? That fight fueled my change, and I hope it inspires others too. You are not alone. If you are hurting, there is help. Please reach out.
Written by: Aisyah Suehana (https://www.instagram.com/suehana.wahab)
An aspiring writer whose journey reflects life's ups and downs. When life knocks you down seven times, get up eight.
