It really started out like any other day. I had people coming, but everything was under control. Except one thing... you see... I'm a doula now. And babies have never listened to my plans for the day.
This mom was a midwife herself, so when she called, I knew she meant it was time and it wasn't just early labor. She's stoic and informed. She also wanted me there. A new country, a new language, a new system... she wanted help, she wanted another woman there with her.
This is my life now, walking through pain with people, encouraging them, reminding them that they are stronger than they think. And slowly, I've been surrounded by women who remind me of that as well.
I rushed home to complete one thing and grab my bag, quickly calling my husband to arrange one final detail, and setting my daughter on cooking chili. Looking forward to a "good birth", a woman determined to go through this well, and to welcome this beautiful baby girl.
But it is the smallest things, you never know when they will come, what they will be, how to predict, or how to avoid. And that day, it was a load of laundry unfolded on the couch that set it off. That one load became "the whole house is trashed" and was followed by a angry "why don't you schedule your babies better?!" And it began.
I sighed and came back in to fold the laundry - a task my daughter would have done one she got the food cooking - and load the few dishes in the dishwasher before I ran. Already conscious that I had got the second call of "where are you?!! I don't want to go in without you!" And as I walked in, it hit me - my doula bag thrown across the room, and then I was grabbed and shook. More words followed, but my brain froze in shock.
Up to that point, I had not named it. But that day, while I rapidly folded laundry and loaded the dishwasher to the wide eyes of my daughter trying not to be caught meeting my eyes, I knew that it was time that I begin to face what is. This is abuse.
I drove in after quickly calling my oldest son to get home to be with his sister, and I began to shake. It wasn't that the shaking had been so bad. The next day, four finger point bruises would be visible on my arm, but it was that the realization was overwhelming. This is abuse.
I left that birth as soon as baby was out because I needed to be home again. The baby's name was one which meant "health". I look back and see that as fitting. Because as painful as it was, it was the first step to health to name my reality.
It was still a long trip from that day to now, but it began that day. I did the usual - go to the church. The church did the usual - you need to get better at communication. They also suggested the usual - anger management would be good for him, but never followed through that the very agreeable man sitting in front of them smiling and nodding to every suggestion did what they asked once he walked away. They also did the usual - if you kept a cleaner house, if you had food ready, I'm sure it would all work out.
I cringed. I had heard it all before. But a little voice inside of me this time said, no. No. This is not an argument. This is not frustration. This is not lack of communication. This is not burnout. This is not ptsd. This is not a clash of cultures.
This is abuse. And this is not right. That was the day I knew.
It was abuse far before hands were laid on me. Because bruises heal in a week, but the wounds from words designed and spoken to wound last years. They alter a person until one barely recognizes who you were - if you even remember that person. But we've been taught that it's only abuse when there are visible marks. So we ignore the wounds on our soul, wounds laid over wounds over more wounds, and we try to find that magic formula that will improve our communication or figure out what part of the house is the one that was needed to be cleaned that day, whatever it is to bring peace, but peace does not live in the house with abuse. A lull can, but never peace.
