'To the outside world my mum was perfect. Behind closed doors she was a monster.'

I used to pray she wouldn't come home. I'd hide in the bathroom, barely breathing. Listening for the sound of my mother's keys, the slam of the front door, the sharp staccato of heels on polished floorboards. My body knew the signs before my brain could name the fear.

To the outside world, we were enviable. We lived in an exclusive suburb, in a stunning home behind white walls and manicured hedges. I wore crisp uniforms to a private school.

My mother was beautiful, glamorous, articulate, always perfectly put together. The kind of woman strangers admired in cafés. But behind the closed door of the house, I lived in constant fear.

Watch: One woman shares why she told no one about the abuse she experienced when she was a child. Post continues below.

My mother had borderline personality disorder. Her rage didn't just ripple, it roared. She didn't need a reason to explode. A sideways glance could lead to being thrown to the floor.

A wrong answer might earn me a beating so brutal I couldn't sit properly for days.

Maternal abuse is something we rarely speak about. People are more comfortable with the idea of women as victims, not perpetrators.

They don't want to believe that a mother, especially one so outwardly polished, could be capable of such cruelty. But my mother was terrifying.

On one occasion, a neighbour accused my sister and I of taking his mail. We hadn't. But Mum didn't care about the truth. She beat us so savagely in front of him that he begged her to stop. She couldn't. Or wouldn't.

'Your mum really does love you.'

That's the thing about borderline rage — it has no brakes. Even when people witnessed it, they didn't step in.

My grandmother once noticed bruises on my back. When I told her the truth, she simply said, "Your mum really does love you." That sentence told me everything: no one wanted to see what was really happening.

My parents divorced when I was four. My father, who had built a successful business, tried to protect his wealth by signing over everything in the divorce.

He signed all his assets over to someone he thought he could trust during the divorce. The person never gave the assets back. He lost it all.

After that, he was never the same. He became an alcoholic and eventually drank himself to death. Sometimes he slept on the street. It was a tragic fall from grace, and it left us with our mother, who now had custody and complete control. There was no one to intervene.

A perfectly polished tyrant.

Mum was a perfectly polished tyrant. She once kicked me in the stomach because I was five minutes late. Another time, she sent me and some friends to buy her a street directory.

We brought back the wrong version — a hard version instead of a soft. She beat me over the head with it continuously, while my friends hid silently behind a tree, too afraid to help.

She'd also kick us out of the car and make us walk home for kilometres when we were just seven and eight years old.

Once, when I was hoping to purchase a gorgeous outfit on Lay-by — one I had dreamed about for weeks — she went in and paid off the remaining amount. Not for me. For herself. She walked around in it in front of me with pride. Another dream stolen.

When I was younger, I was a very strong swimmer. My coach told my mother I had the potential to go far. That very week, she pulled me out.

She said I was becoming too muscular and it was too expensive. Years later, my grandmother asked why I'd quit. I said Mum couldn't afford it. She said: "But I was still paying for your lessons."

Why didn't I leave? Why didn't I tell? Because she was my mother. Because I believed if I just tried harder, maybe she'd love me.

Maybe she'd stop hurting me.

That's the cruel twist of maternal abuse. The child still longs for love from the person causing the harm. And because the world told me not to speak. It said, "Your mum really does love you," and shut the door.

The long road to healing.

I never felt "damaged," but I did grow up with painfully low self-esteem and a habit of attracting abusive relationships. Abuse teaches you to tolerate discomfort. To second-guess yourself. To apologise for taking up space.

Today, as part of my work, I try to help children build resilience and self-worth, the very things I wasn't given as a child. There are still echoes. But there is also strength.

When we talk about domestic violence, we need to widen the lens. Maternal abuse exists.

Sometimes, it hides behind pearls, privilege, and polite smiles. But the bruises are just as deep. The terror is just as real.

What they don't see is the child hiding in the bathroom, trying not to breathe too loudly. This is only a small fraction of my story. The rest is too atrocious to tell.

We must speak for the child. Not just for who she was, but for who she might become, if we're brave enough to tell the truth.

Feature Image: Getty.