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I was 29 years old and pregnant with my first baby when I started facing the fact that I'd been abused. Whenever I touched my growing belly, I would whimper fearfully just imagining my parents hurting my child in the same ways they'd hurt me.

If I had a girl, would my dad, a medical doctor, "examine" her body when she hit puberty or barge in when she was bathing? Would Mum raise her fists threateningly if my toddler cried out for comfort, or yell and stomp around if just a few toast crumbs fell on the floor? Would my baby also grow up feeling worthless and full of self-hatred after being battered daily with insults such as "loser", "useless piece of rubbish" and "I wish I'd drowned you at birth"?

I didn't want my child to leap at the slightest noise in constant anticipation of danger, or eventually battle depression, anxiety, self-harm and alcohol abuse like I have. I wanted to provide a safe and loving home.

So, with trembling hands, I wrote to my parents, outlining the abuse and pain they'd caused me and informing them I had to sever ties to protect myself and my family. Fighting off a sense of dread, which made me want to throw up,


I dropped the letter into the mailbox.

A week later, when Dad emailed a response, I did throw up. Although Dad claimed he and Mum were sorry for their parenting "mistakes" he also wrote that he "didn't mean anything by it" and excused the many times he'd touched my breasts to "check" them.

Eventually, Mum wrote, too. Not to apologise or admit to any wrongdoing, but to slam me for lacking family values. She was ashamed I'd grown up to be a selfish "good-time girl", someone spineless who only wanted to enjoy life.

As usual, I swallowed their words and doubted myself. My days were spent locked indoors, crying endlessly as I struggled to focus on my newborn son.

At night my husband would single-handedly tackle dishes and laundry, then feed, bathe and rock our baby to sleep while I paced back and forth with a drink in hand, and asked the same questions again and again: Was I an ungrateful daughter? Was it acceptable for a father, a doctor nonetheless, to do those things to his child? Was I weak for feeling crushed by their constant barrage of put downs? Were my parents actually decent people who'd just made honest mistakes, and I'd realise that if I were smarter and thicker-skinned?

When my husband returned home one evening to find our baby wailing helplessly in his cot and me, with a tear-streaked face and bloody hands, venting my frustrations by bashing a stack of books with a hammer, he knew it was time to seek help.

Together, we found an experienced and softly-spoken psychologist. At my first appointment I showed her the letter I'd sent to my parents. She applauded it as a courageous act and said supportively, "You don't need that awfulness from your parents. Let's get you past this," which made me smile genuinely for the first time since I'd severed ties with Mum and Dad.

Dealing with the pain of abuse has proven to be a lengthy, difficult process involving tears and more tears, re-examining the past, learning the difference between appropriate and abusive behaviour, and retraining my mind to stop negative self-talk. A breakthrough came after six years of therapy when I realised I am now safe, and that feeling has allowed me to see the world in a more balanced light.

I no longer anticipate disaster in every situation, fear everyone I meet or remain always ready to fight or run. I don't feel the urge to break things or drink to oblivion. I am more relaxed, present, and trusting. And my parents are usually far from my mind.

Until recently. Dad wrote to me for the first time in eight years, lamenting his heartbreak over his broken family and lecturing about the importance of forgiveness and reconciliation. I felt like vomiting again.

For years I'd hoped he and Mum would admit to abusing me and declare how sickened they were by what they'd done.

I'd clung to that hope, certain that, if it came to pass, all of the wrongs of the past would somehow be righted. But no, there was still no admission to anything other than "mistakes", and there probably never will be.

It dawned on me that hoping to change the past, hoping for the impossible, was keeping my pain fresh and raw. So I burned Dad's letter and breathed deeply for a while, reminding myself that I'm safe now. I've learnt that forgiveness is not about repairing ties with people who've wronged me. It's about accepting the past and letting it go.

Now I normally bounce out of bed and embrace my husband and two children, aged seven and five. They both have lively, resilient spirits and I'm proud of my ability to parent with lots of hugs and smiles. I chat to other parents on the school run, organise play dates, go out with family and friends, and basically enjoy my simple yet fulfilling life. And nothing can spoil it. •

The writer's name has been changed for legal reasons.