Chapter 4: What More Can You Take Away From Me?

Hey sis, welcome back. *Trigger warning!* This chapter is heavy. It’s raw. Its graphic! It may stir up emotions you weren’t expecting. Please know that my intention is never to cause pain—but to shed light, to bring awareness, to speak the truths. If at any point this becomes too much, pause. Breathe. Take care of yourself first. You are not alone. You are seen. You are heard. And if this chapter resonates with you, please know—there is hope on the other side.

To be fair, the remaining months of my pregnancy were surprisingly pleasant. Cipher was on his best behavior—almost like he feared what would happen if I rebelled again. He became more present, more engaged, as if he were trying to convince me he had truly changed. He got a stable job, started pulling his weight financially, and for a moment, it seemed like he had learned his lesson. He was stepping up, finally stepping into the role of the man, the father, the partner I had once believed he could be. He even proposed.

His proposal sparked a transformation in my parents. Though I could see in their eyes that they didn’t truly approve of Cipher, they had come to terms with the fact that I was now an adult, free to make my own choices—whether they agreed or not. For the first time in a long time, my dream of seeing my family reconnect didn’t feel so far away. It felt… possible.

Despite their reservations, my parents embraced my journey the best way they knew how—through unwavering support, especially financially. They bought baby A’s crib, ensuring that every little necessity was taken care of before I even had a chance to worry. In many ways, they made becoming a parent feel easy, at least from a material standpoint.

When it came time to decide who would be in the room for Baby A’s birth, I knew there was only one way to truly bring us all together again—I invited my parents to be there with us. To me, this wasn’t just about childbirth; it was about rebirth. A second chance. A symbol of our family starting over, of finding our way back to each other.

And while I wanted so badly to believe things were finally on the right track, a quiet unease lingered beneath my happiness. Something inside me remained restless, wary toward Cipher—because that’s the thing about a mask-wearer. They can play the role, perfect the act, but eventually, the façade cracks. A wolf in sheep’s clothing will always bare its fangs.

Still, I tried to focus on the good. I told myself I was being paranoid. Life was improving, wasn’t it? But beneath the surface, something far more sinister was brewing—something darker, more dangerous than I ever could have imagined. Cipher had grown comfortable in our new reality, confident that I would never leave him. And with that assurance, he decided it was time to show me who he truly was.

Just weeks after my baby girl was born, my entire world shattered…again.

The first few weeks of motherhood were nothing like I expected. I adored my daughter, and so did everyone else — she was perfect in every way and worth every ounce of pain—but I was drowning. Exhaustion, anxiety, sadness that swallowed me like the ocean. I knew my body would change, but I hadn’t been prepared for just how much. I had carried an 8-pound, 7-ounce baby, and my body bore the evidence. My skin was stretched and sagging, my stretch marks were dark and glaring. And my stomach? I had a pouch, sis—a full-blown kangaroo pouch. I honestly couldn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. My hair was falling out in clumps. Breastfeeding was something I had committed to with pride. Still, it drained me in every way imaginable.

My breasts had gone from an A cup to a DD, swollen and tender to the point of agony. They’d fill with milk until they felt like they’d burst, and sometimes they did—I’d leak through shirts, soak bed sheets, leaving me humiliated, raw and almost angry with myself.

To top it all off, when I gave birth to my baby girl, my body paid the price. I tore—badly. Like third degree badly.

For a little context—most women get away with just a first-degree tear during childbirth. But not me, sis. Your girl went all out and landed herself a third-degree perineal laceration.

And if you’re wondering how rare that is, let me hit you with a fun fact: only about 3 in 100 women experience a tear that severe during a vaginal birth. Lucky me, right? I really should’ve played the lottery that day. Instead, I won stitches in places stitches should never be.

The damage was so painful that healing felt impossible. Every movement was agony. Using the restroom, showering, even the simple act of sitting down—it all felt like torture.

Motherhood: the gift that keeps on giving.

But what hurt even more was the way I was ignored.

I knew something wasn’t right. The pain wasn’t easing; if anything, it was getting worse. I went back to my doctor, again and again, desperate for answers, for relief. But every visit ended the same way—with her dismissing me. “You’ll be fine,” she’d say, barely looking up from her notes or me. “Everything is healing as it should. Just be patient.”

Her words cut me deeper than the dozen stitches ever could.

She didn’t care to listen. She didn’t see me. And worst of all, Cipher was right there, listening, watching—absorbing every word. It was like a free pass for him to be just as dismissive, just as indifferent. If the doctor said I was fine, then in his mind, I had no excuse. No right to complain. No reason to still be hurting.

I felt ashamed. Silenced. Afraid to speak up, afraid that maybe I was just being dramatic, afraid that no one would ever believe me. So, I swallowed my pain, buried my suffering, and convinced myself to wait—to hope that, eventually, the hurt would fade.

But deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn’t fine. Physically or mentally.

And no one cared enough to see it. And to be fair I cared too much about saving face to say anything.

People often say young mothers “bounce back quickly.” The only thing I bounced into was postpartum depression. I was crumbling, unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to function.

And Cipher? He didn’t care.

He was growing impatient—angry, restless, frustrated. He wanted me to snap out of it. He wanted my body, my time, my attention. He acted as if my healing, my exhaustion, my pain, and my intrusive inner thoughts were mere inconveniences. In his eyes, I owed him; I was his “wife”. And he had “needs” that needed to be attended too. And it was my job to tend to those needs. When I continued to resist, he took what he felt was his.

At just seven weeks postpartum, Cipher raped me for the first time.

I remember lying there, silent tears slipping down my face, every stroke sending sharp, searing pain through my body. It felt like I was being stabbed over and over again. I whispered weakly. I choked out the only words I could manage—”please stop, it’s really hurting me“. But he didn’t.

The pain swallowed me whole, searing through every inch of me with every movement he made. My eyes locked onto a picture frame across the room, my mind desperate for an escape. I begged God—pleaded for it to end, for Baby A to cry, for anything that would give me an excuse to move, to make it stop.

And before you ask, “Why did you let him do that to you?”—let me stop you right there because to be completely honest with you sis, I don’t know. I still don’t know. Something inside me just… shut down. I froze. My body was there, but I wasn’t.

I died that night.

Not in a way anyone could see—not with screams or struggle—but in silence.

Indo—the girl I had been—faded away, hollowed out until there was nothing left.

I was no longer living. Just existing. Just drifting. A ghost in a body that no longer felt like mine.

Now let’s pause right here: Can I be real with you?

This is so painful to write. Even till this day, years later only a select few people know that this ever happened to me. It’s something I’ve buried deep in my heart for so many reasons.

1. No one would believe this mess—because who gets raped by their fiancé?
2. Sis, I was so I was ashamed.

For years marital and partner rape isn’t something I even knew could happen. But it does. It happens more often than we’re comfortable to admit.

Studies show that an estimated 10–14% of married women experience sexual violence by their spouse, yet it’s one of the most underreported crimes.

Marital rape and domestic violence. The Hotline. (2024, March 16). https://www.thehotline.org/resources/marital-rape-and-domestic-violence/

After Cipher took what he wanted from me, I tried to forget. But my body refused to let me. The truth lingered in the raw, aching evidence—the stitches that split like my broken heart, the infection that festered as relentlessly as my thoughts.

I was so ashamed of what my life had become; and even more ashamed to have to schedule yet another doctors appointment.

“You got ahead of yourself, huh?” My doctor said, glancing at my chart.

“Be careful, or you’ll be onto baby number two sooner than you think! Maybe you should consider some birth control options, I’m also going to prescribe some antibiotics. It will be ok. Let’s schedule a follow up in two weeks.” she suggested, her voice light, oblivious and so care-free.

Even when my wounds healed, I remained sick in a way no medicine could cure. My spirit withered, piece by piece, under the weight of a reality I couldn’t accept.

I don’t know when the abuse became routine. Time blurred, swallowed by the agony my mind refused to hold. I’ve lost so much of that era, buried in a part of my body so deep where I hoped it couldn’t reach me. But pain has a way of finding cracks, slipping through no matter how tightly you try to seal it away.

I spent years trying to convince myself it wasn’t real. That I was overreacting. That because I had once said “yes,” my “no” was meaningless. That love meant surrender. That I owed him this because he told me so. That if I refused, he would be “forced” to do things he didn’t want to do. His guilt felt like a second violation pressing into me. And so, I gave in, not because I wanted to, but because I had been made to believe I had no other choice.

After all… love is sacrifice, right? That’s what I was always taught. If you love someone, you make sacrifices for the “greater good.”

And that’s exactly what I was doing.

I was sacrificing myself so that my daughter could grow up in a two-parent household. So that my soon-to-be husband could have his needs met. So that we wouldn’t become another statistic. So that we could coexist, raise our family, and keep up the illusion of stability. I didn’t want my parents to deal with the embarrassment. I already believed I was their failure child.

I convinced myself that enduring it was better than the alternative. It was better than being alone. It was surely better than becoming another single black “baby mama” in a world already stacked against us. Better than being judged, than admitting the truth: that the life I was living had never really been mine. That I was living the most painful lie. I convinced myself that this was simply the price of love. It was the price of family and of being a good woman. It was also the price of being a good mother.

Even if it meant losing myself in the process.

But deep down, in the quiet, dark corners of my soul, a part of me knew.

I knew that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. That sacrifice wasn’t supposed to mean giving away pieces of yourself until there was nothing left. That I wasn’t holding us together—I was being held hostage by a lie.

And yet, I stayed. Because sometimes, surviving feels easier than escaping.

Now let’s just stop right here. I need you to know, in case anyone hasn’t told you before sis… consent isn’t a given just because there’s a ring or even a relationship is involved. Sexual abuse can—and does—happen in relationships. And it leaves behind invisible scars, the kind that make you question yourself, your worth, your voice.

The truth is, consent is not a contract—it is ongoing, and it can be withdrawn at any time. Being engaged, married, or committed does not mean someone has a right to your body.

If you have been there, if you are there now—you are not alone. I believe you. Even if no one else does. Even if you haven’t said the words out loud. Even if you’re still trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t that bad—I see you. And for now, I’ll break the silence for you; for us.

Chapter 5: What More Can You Take Away From Me? Part 2
Launching 3.14.25