After the birth of my third child and the events preceding it I had decided that another was out of the question. I knew that I could not live with this after his actions and that these ‘fights’ were no longer a simple loosing of tempers. Bones had been broken. Worse than that they had been broken whilst I was pregnant. This man, whom I thought would never harm his children had lashed out whilst one was at its most delicate stage – before it was even born.

The apologies were profuse and heartfelt, he seemed truly stunned by his actions and swore it would never happen again. Of course initially I did not believe him. I knew that this kind of man never stops, he never regains control of his wafer thin temper and that eventually he would ‘snap’ again and at some point I would feel the full force of his anger. His words though were so sincere, so real, so genuine that eventually they penetrated my thinking and I started to believe them again.

There was also the issue of the manipulation that he was so good at. He knew my insecurities, he knew my feelings on the importance of family – he knew which buttons to press to sway my thinking. Ideas were planted in my head to challenge my self worth, my ability and my competence as a mother. I wouldn’t cope with 3 on my own, I couldn’t mange to keep the house, feed the kids, clothe them, care for them adequately. He could never live without them because they (and I) were his life – without us there would be no point. The scariest one though, the one which held most resonance with me – ‘I’d win them in a court battle anyway given your history’ – was the one which kept me in place. Could my past life really jeopardise any custody battle? Was I even strong enough to cope with that situation.

I’m ashamed to say I didn’t feel that I was. I chose to stay and take the risk of more broken bones than risk losing my children.

Needless to say our relationship suffering immeasurably. The usual stresses of having three toddlers in the house were compounded by my inability to trust him or even to relax fully in his company. The suffocation of his constant presence became more than I could bear and the thought of him touching me, let alone having sex, sent shivers throughout my body. He not only repelled me, he disgusted me. I had learnt that this man, who I had once loved so much, was nothing more than a weak and possessive individual whose only means of control were those of manipulation, lies and bullying. This was not love that he showed me, it was ownership.

Avoidance of intimacy became the norm very quickly after the birth of my third child. I was able to hide behind the pretence of being a busy mum who was constantly exhausted and occupied by one housewifely task or another. I changed my routine to make our time alone as rare as possible, going to bed early and feigning sleep, attending mother’s groups that bored me to tears, becoming a member of the PTA to take up my time and helping at the school with the most menial of tasks so that I wasn’t at home with him alone. His attempts to instigate sex were largely dismissed and I could no longer respond to his declarations of love. His cuddles made me cringe and I could no longer believe that someone so cruel, so callous and so deceitful could ever feel true love. The hugs that were regularly followed by gropes and expectations of sex became more infrequent as I even avoided that level of closeness and as this cycle continued to perpetuate our relationship, which had once been quite strong, became impossible to maintain.

He was never entirely happy with the situation but was, on the whole, silent about it. I should have known really what was going through his mind. At 2 months his frustration turned to mild irritation, this in turn became annoyance and arguments - I made my excuses which he accepted grudgingly, most likely knowing the truth of my pretence. His self confidence clearly hit an all time low and he withdrew into himself to avoid any discussion of the issues. What he was thinking I will never truly know but I suspect he had a very long think about what was behind my evasion of intimacy. We never did talk about it properly, we never addressed the problems and feelings. This can only ever be damaging for both parties and the effects can be truly devastating, as I was to find out.

I remember the night with perfect clarity. Dreams about it wake me to this day and the memories will haunt me for the rest of my life. I keep trying to tell myself that one day I will recover from it fully and just as I think I’m getting there the full horror of it hits me hard again.

My third child was a little over 7 months old and we had had intercourse only three times since that child was born. Things had been quite settled between us for a few weeks - no arguments, no awkwardness and a degree of closeness that was comforting and pleasant. We had shared some cuddles and kisses earlier in the day, which had felt easy and without expectation but still not enough to make me want him. I went to bed at my usual early hour expecting to be asleep by the time he followed. About twenty minutes later though he climbed into bed and lay close to me. I was on my side with my back to him and could feel that he was aroused, I pretended to be asleep in the hope that he would fall asleep beside me, possibly even holding me as he once had. He moved his hands over my body while I suppressed a recoil to his very touch. His hand moved over my skin and he gripped my breast - all the while I continued to pretend I was asleep, knowing that should I respond he would enter into the arguments about our lack of sex again. I expected him to stop - I was asleep after all, he wouldn’t push it if I were asleep.

He whispered my name, I ignored him. He gripped my breast a little harder, saying my name a little louder and pulling me into his chest, I couldn’t pretend anymore. On asking him what he wanted he made it clear that he didn’t just want - he expected me to respond to his desire. I told him no, I was tired, it was late and he had woken me to ask for sex - it wasn’t going to happen. He became insistent, as did I. We lay in the dark arguing quietly about why he would want to have sex with me knowing that I wasn’t in the mood, the correct accusation of my lack of libido was thrown with the spiteful tone that I associated with his temper and as the argument continued I became more aware that this tone was increasing in severity. I told him in no uncertain terms that after his attitude and tone he had no chance of getting anything from me that night at which point the got out of bed ad switched on the light. I knew this was now turning into a dangerous argument and that I should try to diffuse the situation but before I could get a word in the shouting began. I asked him to calm down, he became more agitated. I tried to explain my feelings, he called me a liar. Eventually I decided that leaving the room would be prudent so got out of bed (where I had been hiding under the protection of the sheets), grabbed a dressing gown and made my way to the door.

The rest is a mix of intense feelings and blurred moments. I remember us arguing as he refused to move from the doorway and let me out of the room. I remember being pushed as I attempted to shove my way past him. I remember the pain when he grabbed my arm and the bang of my head as I was pushed against the wall. I remember him pulling my dressing gown open and him once again grabbing my breast, this time digging his nails in so that I winced with pain. I remember still trying to reason with him that this was wrong as I used my free arm to try and push his 18 stone frame away from me and I remember him telling me to shut the fuck up as he grabbed that arm and pushed me harder against the wall.

I remember being pulled across the room by my wrists and the pain in my arm as it twisted while I struggled. I remember him forcing me onto the bed and I remember kicking him wildly while I continued my refusal to co-operate. I remember him letting go of my left wrist so that he could hit me hard in the face and the ringing in my ear as it struck. I also remember with horrifying clarity the pain I felt and the cry I let out as he forced himself into me, by this time tears were rolling from my eyes and I was begging him to stop, telling him he was hurting me agreeing to comply if he would stop for just a moment. I remember his hand over my mouth and the vile, vicious words he used to describe his low opinion of me.

I don’t remember the bites he left on my neck and shoulders, I don’t remember the scratches that he imposed on my breasts and thighs. All I remember is the abject violence of the situation I was in and how I could find no way of escaping it. He finished and lay on top of me, breathing on my face - I remember his hot breath drying the tears that had been streaming from my eyes. He saw me crying but said nothing. He rolled off me and lay beside me for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes the he got up and asked me if I wanted a drink - I knew this was his hint to me to clean myself up and as he left the room, his question unanswered I dragged myself from the mattress. I felt like I was trying to extract myself from deep mud, as if I had been pushed deep into the bed and was part of it. I remember the pain in my groin, stomach and back as I silently and slowly rolled myself off the end of the bed and as I raised myself up off the floor, bent like fragile pensioner I remember feeling nauseous on seeing blood on the sheets.

We never discussed that night, he never admitted to it and he never made his usual apologies from his behaviour. I should have gone to the police, I should have told my GP. I should have said something to someone but my fear of him was now beyond all reason and his menacing behaviour became all the more frightening. Unfortunately that was not the only time but I very quickly learnt not to put up the fight of the first time.

By the age of 23 I had four children under the age of 5, was firmly entrenched in domestic monotony and felt I had no way out. My dreams of one day having a normal and happy marriage had died, this was my life and it was one I was never going to be free of. I not only gave up on myself and my children, I gave up on life and the cycle of self abuse began again.