Suzanne Smart

Preface
“My story continues to let you beautiful souls trapped in
trauma know that you are not alone”
Suzanne Smart

I cannot recall what day or time of day it was. I do recall the
excruciating pain that I had felt since giving birth to my youngest,
beautiful, bouncing baby girl. I had worked up until the day before
I was scheduled for my second caesarean, because I wanted as
much time with my daughter once she had crossed to this plane.
There was no hope of not going back to work four and a half
months later, because, as I was incessantly reminded, we needed
both salaries to survive.
The final trimester of my pregnancy was plagued with difficulties,
from Symphysis Pubic Dysfunction to dizzy spells and faints
caused by low blood pressure. I thought I had miscarried because
baby was so still that her heartbeat was difficult to locate. Then the
crippling news came that a caesarean was necessary, as baby was in
the breech position, refusing to turn. After the difficulties
throughout the pregnancy, I was devastated. During later research,

I discovered that trauma was the covert cause of all of this and
more.
Arriving at the hospital, I was nervous about the prospect of a
second caesarean. My first was an emergency, racing to theatre,
with a doctor elbow deep in my cervix to prevent the umbilical
cord from wrapping any further around the baby’s neck, as she was
already distressed. I was also in distress, as the doctor who
successfully resuscitated me during the operation, told me. I awoke
to find him sitting beside my bed, where he stayed through the
night. I comforted myself by focusing on the fact that this time the
op was scheduled, so no distress. Or so I thought. That would
come later.
The birth went to plan and I was blessed with my daughter. Two
hours later, however, feeling a rush of warmth between my legs
and a cold sweat suddenly enveloped me, I called for the midwife.
Her face went deathly white as she hurried to find a doctor, who
swiftly informed me I was haemorrhaging profusely. There was no
time to return to theatre or provide pain relief, so I would be
‘pumped’ by both professionals (one on each side) until the
haemorrhage could be stayed. This pounding of my abdominal
region sounded far less agonising than it proved to be. Several
buckets later, I was left to recover, whimpering helplessly in the
aftermath of my spine-tingling screams. Still smeared by the river
of blood, my fading dignity was scarcely covered by a small blanket
until I was washed and taken to a ward.
A hospital stay was inevitable. I welcomed and bid farewell to a
revolving door of expectant and new mums, wondering when my
time would come. Baby was doing well, despite being very quiet
and not taking to the breast immediately. The midwives reassured
me, when I worriedly questioned this, that it would pass. I was told
I had the option of bottle feeding baby and to not pressure myself.
I was told bonding can take time, especially following a c-section
and that I needed to recover from what was a traumatic post-natal
event. Let nature run its course. Instinctively, however, I knew
something was wrong, although I could not put my finger on it.
Bonding did not improve as the days progressed. I felt rejected, as
baby would feed quicker and seemed more satisfied when fed by a
nurse than by me. The message continued to be to just let nature
take its course. It would all work out.
Staying in one place was purgatory for me. I busied myself,
between short stints of exercise, with cross-stitch, puzzles, and
anything that friends and family provided me with to break the
boredom. This proved to be a trigger when the time came to go
home. I was thrilled when I received the news. One of the nurses
called husband with instructions and times. He arrived. The nurse
left us to answer a call, assuring us she would be back to help
momentarily. As she disappeared from view, the thunderous voice
of husband began to ring in my ears.
“What the f*@k did you bring all this in for?!”
He was referring to the small suitcase, the baby bag, and my activity
bag. I explained that it was from my visitors, who knew I was not
great at staying in bed. It was their way of helping out. It was one
extra bag. Pointing this out only enraged him further and the
expletives continued. As baby squirmed in her travel seat, I asked
for quiet as she seemed visibly upset. This added fuel to an already
raging fire. He yanked the seat with baby in and thundered out of
the room. The nurse returned to find no baby, no dad, 3 bags and
the sniveling wreck of a mum on the edge of the bed, sobbing
helplessly, quivering, gasping for breath. She was livid!
“I’m supposed to take the baby! His job is to support you!”
“Right!” she stated, as she strode out of the room, instructing
another nurse to stay with me. She returned with husband, baby
securely in her arms telling him in no uncertain terms what his role
was. He complied and off to the car we went. We arrived home
and after helping me to bed and placing baby into her cot beside
me, he disappeared, only to reappear at odd times throughout the
day and bedtimes to sullenly tend to me and baby.
The tirade in the hospital rang through my mind constantly,
propelled by the nine months of insults, verbal attacks, and
constant criticisms since confirming I was pregnant. I was useless
for getting pregnant. I knew he did not want any more children.
How could I let this happen. These and a barrage of other insults
were thrown at me; despite the fact that I was impregnated in my
sleep, so had no say in the matter. Whether I wanted it or not, or
was awake to participate never bothered him.
Throughout the pregnancy, he made it his mission to make my life
a living hell. He refused to help when I asked and to accompany
me to baby appointments. When my car died and I would use the
family car, on leaving wherever I was visiting, I would go outside
to find he had taken it. This meant me (and sometimes my
daughter) walking home – sometimes miles – because he held the
purse, so I had no money of my own. At times I would walk the 3
miles to lower school with our daughter and baby in the pram. I
would then go home, only to repeat it in the afternoon. I was
constantly exhausted, so I had no fight. I would go through my day
as best I could (work, ferrying children to schools, childminders,
clubs, cooking, cleaning, etc.) flopping into bed each night, asleep
before my head hit the pillow. Then I awoke the next day, to the
same nightmare and on tread the mill of another day.
And then, eventually, I woke up this unknown day and time,
praying for the pain that had gripped my body, mind, and soul to
just stop…and then…a hand appeared in front of me. Just like
that. It then spoke…quietly…ever so softly.
“You’re in so much pain there, Suzanne, aren’t you?”
“Yes” I replied, shakily.
“We can help with that. Would you like us to help you?”
I nodded, and almost as if this hand read my mind, it said
“Don’t worry about getting up; we’ll help.”
‘They” proceeded to gently encourage me to rise up from the bed,
put on my dressing gown, put my car keys in the pocket, find my
slippers and put them on, then lastly scoop up the baby. This must
have taken some time, as I whimpered through each movement,
stopping, and starting as the volcanic pain ebbed and flowed like
lava up and down my body.
I somehow managed to crawl out of the bedroom and bum my
way down the stairs, clutching my sleeping baby, sobbing with
pain, but optimistic of the relief offered by the voices and the hand.
It would soon be over, I was assured. ‘They’ had me. I was safe. As
I almost reached the foot of the stairs, there was a knock at the
door. Husband appeared from the front room, looked my way and
harrumphed distastefully before opening the door to his brother
and sister-in-law, with no question as to why I was there. The
voices were replaced by a startled “What are you doing out of
bed?!” and the hand disappeared, leaving me with a very shocked
sister-in-law. She took the baby, sternly and told me to stay. She
then returned and helped me upstairs and into bed. I was grateful
to be back in bed and fell straight off to sleep.
That unknown day and unknown time was a turning point in my
life. It was the day that God sent an angel, in the form of my sister-

in-law, to prevent me from driving my car, with me and my baby
in it over a cliff, under the guidance of the hand and the voices.
They had convinced me that life would be better for everyone if
we were no longer alive. We were not wanted by husband. He had
told me that in so many ways for so long that I fully believed in my
core that this was good advice and was ready to take.
How my brother & sister-in-law came to be there was a miracle.
They needed to send important documents, but their printer had
broken down and we were the only people they could think of
coming to for help. Thank God they did! Things could have turned
out so differently.
This is just one story in a whole library that shaped my perception
of myself and my world. Fortunately, however, this was not the
end of my story and I am sharing this and a few others in this book,
not for pity or to pass judgement. I am sharing my story because
at the time I had no idea that I was seriously depressed, that I had
been for some time prior to this, and that I would continue to be
subsequently. After this day, I had what I call a moment of clarity
in which it was crystal clear that I needed to get out of the situation.
I did not know when and I did not know how. I would still not
execute that decision until much later, after successive moments of
clarity culminated in a catalytic moment. That was the moment I
witnessed my daughter jumping in between husband and me to
prevent me from being attacked. The involvement of my daughter
in this scenario was enough for me to finally leave. I had missed
the signs with previous partner where violence around my child
was concerned and knew in that instant that I could not repeat the
pattern.
My story has continued through my healing process, education,
and transformation. In its embryonic stages, my POSITIVE
IMPRINT programme was instrumental in bringing me back to
myself. Back to life. As it has developed, it has equipped me with
the tools and insight to say goodbye to the effects of trauma that
plagued me since childhood. I took the momentous decision to
face my trauma and opened up the pandora’s box of my life. I
thought I would find the expected moths and rust that had feasted
on me, step by step, one by one. Instead, they had been
transformed into beautiful rainbow-coloured butterflies of renewal
and redemption. My story continues to let you beautiful souls
trapped in trauma know that you are not alone. You are not
forgotten. You have a life waiting to be discovered. You have a
future.
This book, my story, is for you. Read it. Learn from it. Act on it!
My prayer is that you will find your moments of clarity within these
pages to empower you to find your voice, stand in your power and
tell your own story