Personal Narrative: An Abused Mother

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(An abused mother)
He came rushing from the adjoining room towards me. He pressed his hand on my face and hit my head. The strength of the beats ripped off my glasses from my head. I begged him whimpering. He was stopped by our nine year old daughter who started to scream in the hall saying stop it! Our tiny son was having a bath in the tub playing with two plastic cubes, he didn’t understand anything yet.
I had been crying with him. That’s correct. Although I should have recognised, that I hadn’t the right to; who I am, after all; merely a woman, a wife, a nobody, an inferior creature who is not supposed to pronounce that she doesn’t like a thing. I was crying, because I had wanted to hold a little, modest party for my daughter for years. It hurt me that
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Actually, he is a kind-hearted man, only you make him a beast. Otherwise, he doesn’t abuse you, he shuts you up only, he just presses you a little; and this happens in every family, and this is part of the life. At least according to him.

It is a long story how I came into this situation. Why I didn’t leave him after the first slap in the face.
Why I gave birth to two children. I could write a book about my reasons, about the hungry of an injured soul for love, about the vain hopes that it would be better, about the illusion born on peaceful days covering the ones full with humiliation. I can’t change the last 16 years. I can’t go back and shake myself saying: run away! My then-self wasn’t able to move, see things clearly, decide and hold to her decision. But my present self! She wants and wishes with every cell of her whole being, with all strength of her will the new life in which there are only her and her children, and nobody slaps her face anymore!

I want to bounce back. I want to be strong. I want to live, run away, love and be a complete person.
I want to work, exist without fears, find joy and give all that my children

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