A marriage of Kisses and Punches

A marriage of Kisses and Punches

Falling in love at fifteen felt like stepping into a beautiful dream. I was captivated by a charming Bangladeshi boy whose smile made my heart race, filling my mind with thoughts of a bright future. By the time I turned sixteen, I discovered I was pregnant. Instead of fear, I felt excitement, eager to embark on what I thought would be a wonderful journey together.

Our wedding day at the mosque felt magical, a moment I cherished. I deeply believed we were starting a life full of love, unaware that for him, our marriage was simply a means to secure his stay in the UK. I was blinded by affection, but soon the truth began to seep in.

The dream dissolved into a harsh reality as kisses morphed into punches, and safety turned into fear. I never knew what would come next with him—each day felt unpredictable. Once, I asked him if he would take me out for the night, hoping for a romantic evening. "No," he replied coldly. When I pressed him for an explanation, he shook me violently until I broke down and said what he wanted to hear. When he asked why he wouldn’t take me out, I shamefully said it was because I was ugly. Those words left scars deeper than any bruise he inflicted.

Days blurred into a cycle of abuse, where my life felt like a precarious balancing act. One evening, in a fit of rage, he smashed up the lounge because he couldn’t find his Parker pen. Fragments of our lives scattered across the room, shattered along with my illusion of security. After the chaos, he found the pen, and I was left to pick up the pieces, both physical and emotional.

On another occasion, he took an axe to my furniture simply because I dared to complain that it was old, outdated, and secondhand. The very things that had once carried comforting memories now lay in ruins because he couldn’t handle my request for improvement in our lives. Each unfair reaction chipped away at my sense of worth.

One of my fondest gifts came from my dad—a radio he bought for me, a treasure he had purchased with what little money he had, only £15. I adored that radio, as it connected me to music and memories of a happier time. But it was destined for destruction; he smashed it into pieces, leaving me with nothing but silence and sorrow.

He pretended to share his culture with me, showing me how to make curry, but if I made the smallest mistake, he would throw the dish against the wall, forcing me to clean up the mess. Each misstep reminded me of how far I had fallen from the warmth and love of my childhood.

During one particularly terrible night, while we were arguing in bed, he took a lit cigarette and pressed it against my breast. The pain was excruciating, a burn that left a mark on my skin, but it was the emotional aftermath that cut even deeper. Scars may heal and fade, but the actions and the cruel words leave lasting imprints on the heart and soul.

I kept everything from my family—my brother, sister, and parents—locked away deep inside me. I felt the weight of each secret, convinced that sharing my pain would only bring more suffering. My brother and brother-in-law would have killed him if they knew the truth of what I had endured. My dad passed away two years before I divorced him, unaware of the extent of my suffering; he never knew the broken bones, split lips, and the constant humiliation I lived through.

Whenever he wanted to hurt me, he would call me "God's unwanted." That phrase twisted in my mind like a cruel dagger, piercing through my already fragile self-esteem. It was a reminder that I was unworthy and alone in a world that seemed to steal my very being away. When I once asked him why our lives were like this, he coldly replied, “Because mixed marriages don’t work.” Those words haunted me, a dark justification for his actions that only deepened the confusion swirling in my mind.

After fourteen long years of enduring such brutality, I made the life-changing decision to leave him. It was about reclaiming my identity and breaking the cycle of abuse that had consumed me for too long. I finally understood that love should uplift and empower, not tear you down piece by piece. Leaving was my first step toward healing, but the memories lingered like shadows.

In the aftermath, I promised myself I would rebuild my life, step by step. I channeled my energy into caring for my daughters and nurturing a loving home—one without fear or violence. It was a long road, but I was committed to creating a safe space where they would know love, respect, and joy.

Eventually, I remarried, and it was in this new relationship that I discovered what kindness and respect truly meant. This second chance at love showed me that I could be cherished for who I was, without the echoes of my past haunting my every moment.

Though the scars of my past remain, I refuse to let them dictate my future. I embraced the opportunity to redefine my story, transforming the chaos of “kisses and punches” into a narrative of resilience and empowerment. I learned that while I could never erase the pain of what had happened, I could forge a new path illuminated by the warmth of love and kindness.

As I look to the horizon now, I see a world filled with possibilities—a life where laughter and joy resonate instead of heartache. My journey has shaped me, but it does not define my destiny. I stand as a survivor, committed to ensuring my daughters understand the value of unconditional love and self-worth. Together, we embrace our life, focusing on the beauty of each day, ready to leave the painful past behind while building a wholesome future ahead. Last word yes this is a true story.