Domestic Violence Awareness Month: My Journey from Victim to Advocate

At the start of my MPhil in 2021, I had to write an autobiography identifying some form of tension and injustice in the world, and which, I would use as the catalyst to write my dissertation on responsible leadership in business and society. If you have the capacity, here it is. It’s a long and heavy read, but, my journey on this degree has been transformative and I know I am a better person, leader, friend, and partner as a result of my studies, and also because of this story:

I am not entirely sure how I went from the soft, somewhat deceptively flattering lights of a bridal shop in the more affluent part of town, to the bright, unforgiving, fluorescent glare of a divorce court. When I picked out that beautiful A-line dress with the sweetheart neckline, I didn’t foresee standing in front of a magistrate, painfully reliving the reasons my marriage failed. No one plans to get divorced at thirty-two. No one reads through bridal magazines, with the notion of “what if” at the back of their minds. Instead, all we think of are centrepieces and tie-backs, and where to seat our uncle with the penchant for cheap wine, and exuberant speeches. And yet, there I was. Little did I know that that was the beginning of the end of thirty-two years of trauma, and the start of the reclamation of my life, my person, my mind and my soul.

Our relationship was explosive and dramatic from the beginning. All my life, I had known that love hurts, and this was no different. The jealousy, the possession, the relentless stalking, all of it meant that he cared. The first blow came less than a year into our relationship. His hard knuckles against my soft skin, I watched the purple bloom like an orchid, but with none of the beauty. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry with my mother either. It was only flesh. I could hide it. I had hidden it before. And so, began thirteen years of hiding it.

It’s strange to me, how quickly I accepted the excuses. How quickly I forgave. How badly I wanted to be loved that I was willing to accept each bruise as a badge of how much he loved me.

“I was drunk”

“I was high”

“You shouldn’t have said that”

“You push too hard”

“You nag”

The slap across my face the week after we got engaged; my brand new diamonds still glinting in the sun.

Picking me up by my teddy pyjamas and flinging me into the tiled floor, and then kicking me in the thigh.

Wrapping my long, black hair around his hand and slamming my hand into the granite countertops; the same countertops we had so carefully chosen a year before.

The time he threw me so hard against the door frame, my eyebrow split open and I continue to answer my beautician’s questions about the scar.

The punches in my face while I lay in bed, cuddling my cat, praying to a god I don’t believe in, for the fight to end.

The attempt at breaking my neck, while the scientist in me hoped that he would break it well and swiftly enough so that I died, and didn’t suffer.

Running out of the home I worked so hard to buy, in my nightie, begging security to call police before he killed me.

How? How could one, small, fragile, life, take so much, for so long? And when, do you ask, did I decide it was enough? And that I would no longer be sacrificed on the altar of this man’s addiction and violence?

I can distinctly remember the day I had decided I had had enough. By this stage, my friends had me at a distance. One can only play the battered wife record for so long. Sitting in my GP’s rooms, I remember her kind eyes looking at me, and saying, “Rashmi, my love, I am so scared that I read about you in a newspaper soon. I am so scared you leave that house in a body bag”. Perhaps it was then that I finally realised how scared my friends had been for me. Perhaps it was the fear that I would die before I did everything I wanted to do with my life. Perhaps it was the thought of leaving my four cats without their mama. Perhaps, it was simply my bull-headedness and frankly, refusing to let this excuse of a man snuff out a life so full of promise and potential.

I did not hesitate. Not for one minute. I searched for the first divorce lawyer I could find. I made an appointment. I drew up a settlement. Like a quick, unplanned attack, I made my husband sign it that night after work. He was so taken aback, he could not even argue. This was my plan: quick, efficient escape.

“Mrs X, please list to the court the reasons for filing for divorce”.

I could do this. My lawyer had coached me. It was easy. I wanted out. And yet, I still stumbled. How did I get here? How did I become this object, to be scrutinised by a cleric in a box; one of many divorce cases he would hear that day? How did I, bright, talented, bubbly woman, end up here? I was about to be stripped of my title of wife, one of which I was tremendously proud. Was I ready to add, “divorcée” to my resumé? How about, “domestic violence survivor”? Clutching my tattered tissues, I knew instinctively that the answer was, “yes” I knew that I would rather carry those titles than be memorialised as another victim, a corpse.

“The court hereby dissolves the marriage between X and X”. I handed over our marriage certificate to be destroyed. Walking out of that court, into the bright, sunny chaos of Pretoria CBD, I realised I was finally free. I had escaped my mother, and I had now escaped my husband.

It is now over four years since I transitioned from Mrs to Ms, back to Mrs. I have been surrounded by people who love me. My life has blossomed since escaping. I have gone from victim, to survivor. I am married to a man who loves me. Who truly loves me. Not the brand of love to which I had become accustomed from my former husband. Not the brand of love which leaves scars, both on your person and your heart. The kind of love that is gentle, and pure. The kind of love that is founded in respect, and kindness. Where disagreements are resolved with love, and tolerance, rather than violence and anger. This time I go in with the understanding that love is not pain. Love does not wound you. Familial relationships are not rooted in violence. I know this now. And I will walk in, knowing that if those signs are there, it is not love. I am consistently grateful for being able to escape with my life intact. I am grateful that I had the means to leave. And I am grateful to have a heart, that no matter how badly hurt, is able to love and trust again. Not all survivors are this lucky, but, perhaps, in sharing my experiences, I can be a lighthouse in preventing others from hitting the same rocks I did.