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 told to me by the doctor who successfully resuscitated me during the operation. I awoke to find him sat 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 envelop me, I called for the midwife. Her face went deathly white as she hurried to find a doctor, who swiftly but succinctly, 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 scarcely covered by a small blanket until I was washed and taken to 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 had the option of bottle milk and to not pressure myself. Bonding can take time, especially following a c-section and I needed to recover from what was a traumatic post-natal event. Let nature run its course. Instinctively, however, I felt that something was wrong, although I couldn’t 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 a snivelling 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 didn’t 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; back home, and return again in the afternoon. I was constantly exhausted, so 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, only to wake to the same nightmare each morning and tread the mill another day.

So, here I was on this unknown day and time, praying for the pain that had gripped my body, mind and soul to just stop, when a hand appeared in front of me. It spoke quietly, 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. On almost reaching the bottom 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 told me to stay, 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 weren’t 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 readily took it.

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 to come 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 clear that I needed to get out of the situation. I didn’t know when and I didn’t know how. I would still not execute that decision until much later, after successive moments of clarity culminated in a catalytic moment. I witnessed my daughter jumping in between husband and me to prevent me from being attacked. The involvement of my daughter in this behaviour was enough for me to finally leave. I had missed the signs with previous partner and violence around my child and knew in that instance 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.