God is in the valley with me - A trauma survivor shares her story

God is in the valley with me – A trauma survivor shares her story

1 October 2023

This is the true story of Jane (not her real name), who worships at a Methodist church. She shares this raw account of her traumatic life as a victim of verbal, physical and sexual abuse in the hope that it will help any reader who is facing the same ordeals. We have used a pseudonym to keep Jane’s identity a secret. Reader discretion is advised.
~ Editor

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“You’re a mental case! Mad! You need to go to the mental hospital!” My father has screamed these words at me many times since my youth. They have hurt me so much in the past, and I wish I could say I’m immune to it now, but in truth, these words still sting.

I was born out of wedlock. When my mother confessed she was pregnant, my grandfather—a strict, religious and conservative man—sent her to a home for unwed mothers as he couldn’t bear the shame of keeping her at home. My father, a non-Singaporean, was unable to return to Singapore during that time. The only visitors my mother had were two close maternal relatives, whom I call my aunties.

After I was born, my grandfather insisted on putting me up for adoption but my aunties intervened and bore me away. Raised in their Methodist household, I was brought to church on Sundays.

My mother continued living with her parents and siblings, visiting me when she was allowed to. When I was a year old, my father managed to secure a job and returned to Singapore. As they were of different faiths, my parents faced many hurdles in getting married until my grandfather finally relented.

The year after their wedding, my mother gave birth to a son who was regarded as her “firstborn”. My parents were living with my maternal grandparents then, and everyone doted on my brother. My parents visited me sometimes but it was my aunties whom I lived with, who lovingly took care of me until I was seven. Although they struggled to make ends meet, I never lacked for anything. They always trusted in the Lord to provide. Those were the happiest, most carefree days of my childhood.

I was seven when my father lost his job and had to leave Singapore again, this time, accompanied by my mother and brother. I missed my parents greatly. To be with them, I stopped schooling and very reluctantly parted with my aunties.

The one year we spent overseas was fraught with troubles. My father began having an affair and many times he did not come home. My mother, left to fend for two young children by herself, had to turn to my maternal family for financial support.

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Finally, the decision was made for us to return to Singapore. We moved house frequently as we didn’t own a home. My aunties, whom I had missed greatly, managed to enrol me back into primary school.

But problems surfaced again. My father, who was between jobs, fell prey to gambling, drinking and other vices, and the family’s debts mounted. I found solace at the weekends when I was sometimes permitted to visit my aunties and accompany them to church. Permission never came easy though; I had to beg and plead.

I vividly recall one Saturday when I was refused permission to go. In desperation, I prayed and asked Jesus for a miracle. Shortly after, to my amazement, my father consented. It was on that day that I accepted Jesus as my personal Lord and Saviour and went to him for every problem I faced.

It was during this time that the worst part of my life unfolded. After gambling sessions, my father would offer to take me for car rides alone, in a car he often borrowed from friends. Inside the car, he would sexually abuse me. As I was only nine, I didn’t understand what was happening. I would push his hands away, but he wouldn’t stop. “It’s all right,” he would say, and warn me not to tell my mother. His hold over me was violent and powerful. When I made mistakes, he would beat me and throw my belongings out of our home. He would forbid me to visit my aunties and threaten to cut off my ties with them. When my brother and I quarrelled, we would both be beaten, but I would suffer the brunt of it.

When I was 15, my mother conceived again. On the day she was admitted to the hospital for delivery, my father forced me to sleep on the same bed with him. The sexual abuse went on until I was 18, but the physical abuse continued well into my 20s. I lived in constant fear of being alone with him and tried many ways to escape. Unable to protect myself, I could only pray for it to stop. Sometimes I prayed he would leave the house and never return. Sometimes I prayed he would die.

When he was intoxicated, he mocked me, making rude sexual comments about my body in front of other men. I developed a hatred for my body and looked for ways to camouflage my imperfections. I still do that, even today.

I could survive those years only because of the weekends when I could attend Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF), church services and Sunday school. Church was a balm to my troubled soul. When my father did not object to my baptism and confirmation, I was overwhelmed with joy.

During my A-levels, my father lost his job, which forced me to leave school. I worked a few jobs, finally securing one which supported my family for more than a decade. My mother had to work as well, and we managed to buy a home.

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While working, I had two failed relationships which left me devastated. Although I gave my all in those relationships, which were a form of escape for me, I was abused. I tolerated the abuse for the fleeting moments of happiness. My second relationship landed me with an unwanted pregnancy. I begged to keep both the relationship and the baby, but instead, I was abandoned and forced to undergo an abortion.

I fell into depression and attempted suicide, consumed by thoughts that I had committed a grave sin and disappointed my aunties. Eventually I sought medical help and was put on anti-depressants. Only work and church kept me afloat. Family members in the know supported me, but others ostracised me. Still, no one knew the reasons behind my desperate need to find someone who would love me.

Although you have been forsaken and hated, with no one travelling through, I will make you the everlasting pride and the joy of all generations.
~ Isaiah 60:15 (NIV)

One evening, while reading my Bible, I came across Isaiah 60:15-22. I fell to my knees in tears. Although I had shed many tears in private before, this time it felt different. I asked God for forgiveness and thanked him for revealing those verses.

That day, I determined to put my past relationships behind me and move on. I prayed that in his time, I would be blessed with someone who would truly love me. I found the courage to tell my mother and brother about my father’s abuse, although I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me. To my relief, they did. I never told my aunties though, to spare them from heartache.

On 30 December 1999, I was invited to a church I had never attended before. There, I bumped into an ex-classmate. He offered me a lift home, which I accepted only after much persuasion. When we reached my home, he asked for my number. I was very hesitant as I wasn’t ready to be friends with anyone again. That night and the days following, he called me to chat. After a month, he professed he had a strong liking for me and asked if I was similarly keen to pursue a relationship. I was confused, not knowing if this came from the Lord, but after committing it to prayer, I eventually agreed. I decided to tell a mutual friend about it and was immediately encouraged to go for it, being assured that he was a kind and God-fearing person.

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I prayed and decided I would inform him of my past on our first date. As much I feared rejection once more, I was shocked when he replied that he would accept me for what I am, and not my past. He wanted to meet my family and introduce me to his. We married five months later. A cord of three strands, with God in the centre.

My father still verbally abuses me and does the same to my husband and children. I’ve realised that he gaslights us to prevent me from fighting back. When it happens at family gatherings, we remain silent. My husband and I have chosen the path of non-confrontation, letting God be the judge.

I know my family and I will never be good enough in their eyes; despite that, we still do our best for them. My relationship with my brother is sour as my mother favours him as her “firstborn”. My parents boast about him and his children but accuse me of being filled with jealousy. They don’t see that I’m weighed down with hurt. I love my youngest brother as I helped to raise him; we share a close bond. He is willing to support me to confront my father. However, I’m still praying, as I’m not ready yet.

My aunties who are in their golden years are my priority. I want to be there for them to the end. It was a blessing to be nurtured by them as a Christian, and likewise, I am nurturing my children. My husband is my pillar of strength; he is loving and patient with me even when I’m at my worst. God truly blessed me with a man after his own heart.

Now, all I want to do is live for Christ and serve him. People come and go but Jesus is the only constant. My family serves in the same Methodist church I attended with my aunties and we have forged many ties. I have since found the courage to fully share about my past with my husband and some close friends—not for sympathy, but to glorify God for carrying me through the years of untold pain. He never let go of my hand.

I don’t want my children to be burdened, so I’ll never tell them this part of my life story. My prayer is that one day, I will be able to forgive my father.