Laying face down on the bed, I felt another tear stream down my cheek.
‘Stop the f***ing tears!’, bellowed my attacker.
He hit me on the back. The room was spinning. I buried my head in my pillow, praying for the abuse to stop.
It was 3am in Florida on the third night of what should have been the holiday of a lifetime – my honeymoon.
But instead of newly-wedded bliss, I was genuinely frightened of my new husband.
When we met in June 1989, he was working as a barman at my local pub in Ireland. He always used to chat when he saw me and I enjoyed our flirty banter across the bar.
Soon, we started meeting up for a drink and it wasn’t long before I was smitten.
He seemed like a real gentleman. He always paid for dinners and got on well with my parents.
I thought I’d met the man of my dreams. So when he asked me to marry him in December 1993, of course I said yes.
After our wedding, we headed off on our honeymoon and for the first few days, things were mostly fine. Then, on the third night, I decided to head back to our room as I was exhausted, leaving him at the hotel bar to have drinks alone.
The next thing I knew, my husband came storming in, yelling at me: ‘You’re married to me now, you shouldn’t have left me!’
I told him not to speak to me like that but that only made things worse. He pushed me, then hit and kicked me.
The next morning, I was still in a state of shock. When the topic came up, he told me I was overreacting and that it’d never happen again. I believed him.
Back home, we settled into married life, occasionally bickering about leaving the heating on, using too many towels and his gambling.
Then, two years into our marriage I discovered I was pregnant, and while I was excited for our little arrival, his reaction to the news was lukewarm at best. And as the pregnancy progressed, the rows got worse and more frequent.
Despite sharing a joint bank account, my husband slowly took control of my finances and I’d have to ask him to access my own wages. Even then, he’d only give me €130 per week, so come Monday, I would be scraping the bottom of my purse to pay for petrol.
One day, in March 1998 – when I was around 35 weeks pregnant – I asked him for an extra €30 so that I could buy some things for the baby.
‘For f**k sake, you’re always looking for something. Have you no money?’, he yelled.
‘I’m going shopping for the baby and I need money!’ I shouted back, but I wish I hadn’t.
He picked up a vase and threw it at my stomach.
Clutching my bump, I left immediately and spent the rest of the day praying the baby hadn’t been harmed.
Of course, I thought about leaving him, but I wasn’t sure where I’d go. And if I called the authorities, I truly believed there was a chance they would take my baby.
The next day at work, I felt my waters break. The stress and the impact of the vase had caused a pre-labour rupture.
So I went straight to the hospital.
My husband did come to my side, but he didn’t stay long, saying he didn’t like the smell of hospital food. I was still alone a few days later when Ainie was born.
Despite the trauma, it was the happiest day of my life. Unfortunately, once home he became jealous of the baby.
He’d complain that I wasn’t looking after him enough and repeatedly told me I was useless. Yet, when I went back to work after six months, I would come home to find him sitting on the sofa with Ainie who had been in a dirty nappy all day.
By the time she was nine months old, the mortgage was in arrears and he was out drinking all the time. So, on New Year’s Eve, I took Ainie and left in the middle of the night.
Driving down to my parents’ holiday home in Leitrim I felt sad, lost and ashamed.
A week later, he was begging me to come back, saying that he couldn’t live without me. He even threatened suicide. Foolishly, I returned.
Over the next few years, there would be constant outbursts of physical, verbal and emotional abuse. He’d call me and Ainie names, and I even ended up losing most of my hair from the stress and had to wear a wig.
I knew things were bad, but as I thought it was me that was failing, I never told a soul about it.
One time, he beat me black and blue for refusing to go to the pub with him. He’d thrown me against a radiator and I fell and broke my jaw and injured my ribs.
When I went to a specialist to treat my injuries, he told me they were as serious as someone who had been in a head-on car collision. He pleaded with me to go to the police, so I did.
The policewoman I spoke to made me promise to take action, and I truly intended to.
However, the very next morning, my father died.
Consumed with grief, I just didn’t feel strong enough to take any action so of course, the abuse continued.
When I discovered he was having multiple affairs and that he was working as a pimp for a sex worker though, that really was the final straw.
I went back to the courts and got a court order put in place for five years, and Ainie and I moved in with my mother.
Domestic abuse helpline
If you are in immediate danger call 999. If you cannot talk, dial 55 and the operator will respond.
For emotional support, you can contact the National Domestic Abuse Helpline on 0808 2000 247. Alternatively, for practical and emotional support, please contact Women’s Aid Live Chat 10am – 6pm seven days a week.
You can also reach the National Centre for Domestic Violence on 0800 270 9070 or text NCDV to 60777.
For free and confidential advice and support for women in London affected by abuse, you can call Solace on 0808 802 5565 or email [email protected].
Male victims of domestic abuse can call 01823 334244 to speak to ManKind, an initiative available for male victims of domestic abuse and domestic violence across the UK as well as their friends, family, neighbours, work colleagues and employers.
Alternatively, the Men’s Advice Line can be reached at 0808 8010327, or emailed at [email protected].
Shortly after though, he broke the order. ‘I will f**king kill you,’ he said over the phone.
I went straight to the police, who arrested him immediately and he pleaded guilty in court to threatening to kill, and was then given a nine-month suspended sentence.
After that, Ainie and I focused on getting our lives back on track.
I cleared all my debts with the banks and started two successful businesses. And Ainie – now 25 – with help from my mother, has grown into an amazing, successful young woman.
She hasn’t seen her father since she was 13 but it hasn’t made her bitter – she is incredibly kind and is now an advocate for Children of DV in the US.
Together, we run an organisation called ‘Stop Domestic Violence in Ireland’ to help other women escape situations like ours. We help women plan their escapes and we offer counselling, legal advice and emergency supplies.
We’ve also written a book about our experiences called Safe and proceeds from sales of the book go towards helping us support more victims.
Because though our ordeal is over, it’s our mission to raise awareness and help more victims.
We know the pain you’re going through – we’re here, please get in touch.
Safe: How Priscilla And Ainie Grainger Survived is available on Amazon
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].
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