One woman’s story

“He’d shout. She’d sob. He’d shout even louder. And she’d cry, wail. Beg him to stop”

Rachel’s story
I HATED my mother when I was growing up. I blamed her for everything. It was her fault if my father was in a mood, if he was angry, got drunk on Monday, then Tuesday and maybe even Wednesday.
It was her fault that we were short of money, that the clutch went in the car, the economy cycle in the washing machine broke down. If only she was more careful with money, switches … everything.
After all, Daddy worked so hard, did his best for us, slaved from morning to night. And all she did was yap on that bloody phone, cry when he was cross, threaten to call the priest, the Gardaí, to leave. Forever.
And we did leave, lots of times. She would hurriedly pack a case, prepare my little brother’s bottles and run. After a few days, we’d come back though. Staying with family or friends wasn’t ideal. You see, deep down and despite everything, she loved him.
Of course, I was too young to understand that she had no money, that she was afraid to use their bank account, because of the repercussions. 
My mother drove my father to drink. Well, that’s what he said. If only she was like the neighbour’s wife, or the shopkeeper’s wife, or the postman’s wife. Anybody’s wife.   
I thought my mother was so weak when she wouldn’t stand up to my father. He’d come home – in the early hours – roaring and shouting: “Where’s my dinner?” “You expect me to eat this f***ing dried-up load of s***e?” She would be summonsed, ordered, dragged from the bedroom to explain herself. He’d shout. She’d sob. He’d shout even louder. And she’d cry, wail. Beg him to stop. I don’t want to think about what happened then. I used to put my head under the pillow and pray. Pray for morning to come.  
That was all a long time ago. I’m in my thirties now, have a husband and children of my own. To be honest, it wasn’t until I was in my late teens and my mother finally left that I began to discover who she really was; how complicated and difficult it had been for her. In rural Mayo back in the late 1980s, marriage breakdown was a huge scandal, the divorce referendum was nearly a decade away and legal separations were still the subject of gossip.
Afterwards, myself and my brother had lots of counselling. You see, he always took Mammy’s side. And boy did he suffer for that. We’re both alright now though but the memories are always there.
The important thing to realise is that there is help out there. The biggest and most frightening step can be admitting there is a problem and reaching out.

In conversation with Áine Ryan. Rachel’s details have been changed to protect her identity