The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the tag “marital abuse”

To Feel Something, Anything




(this was channeled over a couple of weeks.  Each time I revisited it,  I got more detail.  I could see the details of the room very clearly.  This image is not exactly what it looked like, but it gives the general impression of the back of the house.)


As a woman, happiness and satisfaction were not things I had the privilege to think about. I was taught from birth that my purpose was duty to my husband and my family. I had no right to demand anything for myself. I was hardly more than a slave. This was life.  No point in complaining about it.

When I was fifteen my parents gave me in marriage to a man many years my senior. I was no great beauty and walked with a limp from a childhood accident. They did not have much money and they were happy to find someone who would take me off their hands.   He gave my family some money,  as a gift to celebrate the marriage it was said, but in my heart, I felt he was buying me.

My husband had a shop where he repaired vehicles, motors, even hay wagons. He needed a wife and not many would have him.  He was an ugly brute — short and round, with fat, indelicate fingers. His body was covered in more hair than I’d ever seen on a human being.  He was more ape than man. And his manners were not much better, at least not around me. Only the most desperate family would give their daughter to such a man.  He knew it, and he resented me for that.

We lived in a one room house in back of his shop.  There was a kitchen area with a wood stove,  a sitting area where we might entertain guests (though we rarely had any), and a sleeping alcove.  To relieve ourselves, there was an outhouse in the back which was nearly unbearable in summer and bitter cold in the winter.

He drank often — sometimes alone in the shop, after he closed up for the day; sometimes I assumed he drank at the home of an old friend. He did this even though it was haram. I do not know where he got the drink. Perhaps from a traveling transport driver he was acquainted with. Those men were often a source of contraband.

When he was drinking, I was happy to be free of him for a few hours, although I knew it often meant trouble when he got home. If I were lucky, he would fall asleep quickly but sometimes there was  violence,. Often there was forced sex. It was easier be passive and let him do with me whatever he liked. It was over fast enough. Resistance would have only made him angrier and prolonged my misery.

I hated him on top of me, inside of me. His breath was foul and his hands and hair and body always smelled of motor oil and grease and cigarettes. Even so, there were times I longed to get pregnant, to relieve the nearly intolerable loneliness and boredom. I could happily devote myself to a baby. But then I’d ask myself if it would not be cruel to make an innocent child join me in my misery.  What kind of life could I offer, with such a man for a father? What if he beat the child, too?

It wasn’t for me to decide, however. It was in the hands of God, and I suppose in His wisdom, he decided it was better not to force an innocent to live in such conditions. I never conceived. My husband didn’t seem to mind. One less mouth to feed. That much less responsibility.  One less person to take my attention away from his needs.

After several years of this, I lost my desire to live.  I was nothing but a beaten mule with no hope, nothing to look forward to, no joy in my life. I contemplated suicide but I knew it was wrong, and that I would never get to Heaven if I killed myself.  And if I were going to spend an eternity suffering for my sin,  I might as well stay alive.

I didn’t intentionally set out to provoke violence in him, but when I stopped caring about doing my chores – cooking tasty food for him, chopping wood for the fire, washing his clothes – he would become angry, and the beatings became a daily thing. I didn’t mind. To be honest,  in a strange way, I liked them. They allowed me to feel something when otherwise, I was numb.

In the beginning, I did not resist. I stood before him and took his blows, and then went off to tend to my bruises in the most matter of fact way. without feeling sorry for myself.

One day, however, as he rained down his blows on me for allowing the fire to go out,  I became angry.  At last! An emotion! I felt something other than nothing!  I welcomed that feeling, and let it grow until I hit him back.  I didn’t care what he did to me.

I got in a few strikes and even drew some blood,  but he was bigger and stronger than me,  and he beat me unconscious and left me on the floor.

That was when I realized that if I could make him kill me,  the sin would be on his soul, not mine.  My suffering would be over, and I would spend eternity in Heaven, free of him forever. I knew he would likely not suffer any consequences for his actions in this life, but at least he could not follow me into the next.

And so, oddly, that became my reason to live:  to make him beat me to death.

It took nearly a year, but finally, he succeeded.

And the irony is, I did not escape eternity with him. He is here with me now and we will be together again in another life, although in very different circumstances which we have yet to decide.



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