Raped, tracked, humiliated: Clergy wives speak out about domestic violence

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican priest

I met my ex-husband through the church: I was young, and he was an ordained priest who challenged my intellect.

I struggle to articulate how he was back then because I can't see it uncoloured by later experiences. But he was intelligent, friendly, boyish and very much able to hide some of the darker aspects of who he is.

At first his abuse shocked me — it was such a contrast to the atmosphere of quiet respect and love I had grown up in, and I'd naively try to use the peacemaking techniques I learned as a child to smooth volatile situations.

I was also living away from family (we regularly moved between parishes and dioceses) and had been effectively isolated from anyone who loved me — it was therefore much easier for him to set himself up as the centre of my world, to tell me that he was the only one who really knew me, and that if others knew me as he did they'd treat me in a similar way.

His abusive behaviour was initially indistinguishable from his anger about his troubles at work.

He blamed and lashed out at me for things that went wrong for him professionally, but I tried to be understanding and took responsibility for my "share" of arguments.

In hindsight, though, I can see I was just making excuses for his verbal abuse.

His tirades became worse when he drank, which meant that, if things were calm because he wasn't drinking as much, he was able to stand behind alcohol rather than take responsibility for his behaviour.

He became physically abusive early on in our marriage, but by that time I was so deeply bound up in my own sense of fault that I was convinced that I deserved it.

Generally, it was low-level assaults — pushing, slapping, punching — inflicted in such a way that injuries were not obvious: a punch to the middle of my back whilst I was sleeping, for instance.

He also raped me. I couldn't fight, I couldn't stop it, so I went away in my head, waited until it was over, and got on with things.

But for me, the sexual abuse — and the shame I still carry as a result — was worse.

To be raped — held down and assaulted, helpless against superior physical strength — is something that no woman should ever experience.

However, for me the sexual coercion was in many ways worse. To remain physically, emotionally, spiritually safe, I co-operated when I did not want to. It was sex for safety: a form of prostitution with a different currency.

I carry more shame over that than anything else.

His abuse grew worse when I started working out of the home, I believe because I was moving beyond his control and sphere of influence.

His physical violence increased gradually, over several years, with more overt assaults and smaller periods of relative calm between them.

Eventually he was verbally, emotionally and physically abusing me every night.

It got to the point where he stopped trying to ensure he was giving me only discreet injuries and it became too dangerous to stay; I knew there was a very real chance that one of the assaults could kill me.

When I left after a particularly vicious physical attack, I'd been planning it for a while, speaking with a real estate agent and making other arrangements.

When I told a close friend what was happening, and that I was planning to leave my ex, he just said: "Good".

That was all, but it was the strongest reinforcement he could have given me that it was the right thing to do.

I know that many women take several attempts to leave, so in that sense I feel a strange sense of relief that the situation became so extreme that the choice was forced on me.

I left the relationship with enough money to cover half the bond for a flat, a suitcase full of clothes and a teddy bear whose arm my ex had pulled off (my first priority was to have him invisibly mended).

Had it not been for the generosity of my family, I could potentially have left into homelessness.

Since then I have tried to be open about what has happened to me.

Quite soon after leaving, a fellow priest told me that my ex was suicidal at the idea of losing me, and that he had been following up with him.

I don't know if he was telling me because he felt I should be taking responsibility for my ex's mental state, or because he didn't know what else to say or how to help.

I now try to have compassion for that response — he was probably as lost as I was, sitting with the fact that a fellow priest had done this. Perhaps he didn't know what to believe, and was floundering.

In fact, one of the things I struggle with most is the sense of shame and defensiveness I feel when people find out my ex is a priest.

I feel like I need to defend all the good and decent priests out there who wouldn't dream of raising their hand to another person.

Rightly or wrongly, I also think the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse has created a culture of fear within the church, which in some ways has made it difficult for church leaders to acknowledge how they could have responded differently to victims of abuse.

The church hierarchy has done its best to acknowledge what happened to me, but I also think they simply don't know how to create a safe space communally where victims are upheld respectfully.

At times this has made it difficult for us as a church community to discuss how we handle abuse — there is such heightened emotion and fear around it.

Having said that, some priests have shown care and concern in a sensitive way: they have been honest with me about not knowing what to say or how to help, or their senses of horror or guilt or sorrow.

Today, I hold down a demanding schedule and a job that requires lots of attention and emotional energy, and I manage to function reasonably well in an adult world.

I don't use alcohol or drugs to mask symptoms or feelings, and I am surrounded by wonderful people with whom I maintain healthy relationships.

I'm content with being single and I have re-learned to be comfortable with my own company.

I know that I'm doing "well", but beneath the surface, I think I will always be damaged — physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually — by what happened.

I still struggle to trust others and I often feel deeply uncomfortable with touch, even from those I love with all my heart.

I have worked hard to re-learn safety but it feels tenuous, and I still live with symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, especially jumpiness, anxiety, nightmares and a tendency to retreat or dissociate when I feel unsafe or under attack.

I don't know whether I'll ever be free of the huge sense of shame he left me with.

I am working with a brilliant and very skilful priest in trying to find a way to live with all this, and I am grateful for his ministry, but it will be a long and painful process — one that I hope will make me a whole person again.

Despite everything I have experienced, and the massive impact it has had on my spirituality, I still identify as a Christian, although my image of the Divine is not set in stone; perhaps I could describe myself as an agnostic Christian.

These days I find the expression of my spirituality in the ritual and music of the church, and its loving and accepting community. My faith is my home.

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican minister

I met my ex-husband at church, when I was young. He was a friendly, quiet, bookish type, and he struck me as a gentle man.

He seemed to really like my social and outgoing side and I loved our intellectual connection; we dated for a few years before we got married.

But right from the start there were problems with our relationship.

Any kind of conflict made him uncomfortable and if we argued or I tried to raise issues I was unhappy about — for example, how little housework he was doing — he'd withdraw, and wouldn't speak to me for days at a time.

He tried to excuse his behaviour as inexperience; he'd say he hadn't grown up around conflict and therefore I needed to back off and not challenge him, so that's what I did.

Over time, I learned to be very passive with him — I'd do anything to avoid upsetting him.

Early in our marriage he began a ministry training course, and later enrolled at a ministry training college in Sydney.

I was happy for him to pursue his vocation; he was very passionate about his work and he was clearly gifted — he'd immerse himself in theological textbooks and could communicate the things he learned well.

Life as a ministry wife was busy: we'd regularly host bible studies, meetings, lessons, and training sessions in our home, and I'd often hold fort and take care of the kids while he wrote sermons or disappeared to church or other appointments.

We also moved around a lot, and while I loved the friendships I made at our various churches, it was hard being away from my family, and at times it felt like our life was all about chasing his dreams, not mine.

Perhaps the hardest thing about being a ministry wife, though, was having to pretend everything was all right.

In public, I'd have to plaster a smile on my face and try to be a "good ministry wife", when actually things at home were awful.

He could be quite engaging in public, and presented the image of an affectionate, involved family man.

But behind closed doors he had slowly begun checking out, and distancing himself from family life. He was withdrawn, moody, and incredibly controlling.

He logged how many kilometres I drove and how much money I spent — I had to ask permission before I bought anything worth more than $50.

I also agreed to install a tracker on my phone and he would insist I turn it on whenever I went out without him. He convinced me it was appropriate, that it was good for me to "be accountable" to him and to God.

He accused me of having an affair, which I wasn't, and confiscated my phone in order to read all my messages and social media inboxes to make sure I wasn't having "inappropriate" relationships with other men.

My attempts to discuss my concerns were always met with: "You're being unreasonable. Your expectations are too high."

He excused his bad behaviour as depression, and reminded me of my vows to love him in sickness and in health.

He also used headship theology to justify his abuse: he'd tell me that, as his wife, I just needed to be more obedient.

Of another couple we knew who were having problems, he said: "No matter how bad things get, she has to submit to him — even if he's not upholding his vows."

Towards the end, he was regularly losing his temper and exploding with rage, shouting at me — and our children — for trivial things.

If I did something to upset him, he'd rant and rave and kick furniture; one night he put his fist through a wall.

And while I never saw him hurt the kids, he was rough with them. I didn't feel like I was able to leave them in his care, even for small amounts of time.

If I ever went out by myself, he'd often call or text and ask me to come home because he didn't feel like he could handle them and was "afraid" of what he might do to them.

I considered leaving several times, but I never felt I could — I told myself I just had to stick it out, that this was the life I'd chosen.

At one point he had a major depressive episode and was sleeping in a different bedroom — he'd stopped touching me and talking to me, which was painful and hard.

But when I tried to help him, or just talk to him about what was going on, he'd accuse me of putting pressure on him and trying to make him feel guilty.

I remember saying to him: "I'm not coping, my work is suffering, I'm physically ill and I'm having nightmares about you."

He said I'd just have to figure out how to love him "better".

"You should feel lucky that I don't hit you," he said on a number of occasions.

After a particularly bad weekend, I decided things had to change.

His abuse had been getting progressively worse, and I wasn't coping with the constant tension, the monitoring, the feeling as though my every move was being criticised, and the sure knowledge that he didn't care how his behaviour was affecting me — I just needed to get away.

So I packed some bags for me and the children and went and stayed with my family for a while.

I also reached out to the senior minister at church, who had no idea what had been going on. When I told him, I dissolved. There were so many phone calls where I'd just be sobbing uncontrollably down the line to him.

It took him a while to grasp how bad the situation was, but he was incredibly supportive and made it clear that my safety was his first priority, and that he'd never ask me to go back if I didn't feel safe (I didn't).

But he was also very optimistic about us reconciling, and hoped we'd sort things out.

While I appreciated his encouragement, it would have been easier for me if he'd been educated about the dynamics of domestic abuse, and how best to respond.

Pushing us into marriage counselling, for example, was really unhelpful — it just gave my ex-husband another avenue to manipulate me, control the narrative and convince the counsellor that I was an unreasonable, "crazy" woman.

Importantly, my ex-husband was stood down from his ministerial duties, and has not been reinstated (he still does some church ministry, but in an unpaid capacity).

However, the reason the bishop gave for his demotion was not that he'd been abusive, but that he and I weren't likely to reconcile.

At no point did the bishop or any of his staff check in on me to see if I was all right; no-one told me my ex-husband's behaviour was intolerable, and that they supported me.

The message I got was that I'd chosen to leave, and was choosing not to return — that I had destroyed my husband's ministry and made him lose his job.

Life since I left has been, for the most part, wonderful. My children and I are settled in a new home, and we're attending the church I grew up in.

But the necessary ongoing communication with my ex-husband is a source of stress. As much as I try to keep the peace, he regularly accuses me of being unreasonable, which can be triggering.

I often second-guess myself: I think, am I really as horrible and disrespectful as he tells me I am? Is there really something wrong with me?

Still, I feel lucky that I've never really suffered from depression or anxiety — I keep in touch with other women in the church who've experienced domestic violence and I seem to have gotten through everything without the long-term trauma that some of them suffer daily.

I am also rediscovering my faith.

There was a period during my marriage when I couldn't read my Bible at all, and I couldn't pray, because I was so angry that God would oblige me to remain in a situation that was so unliveable.

I was so furious at the advice of Christian leaders over the years to "rejoice in suffering" and "be content".

When I did eventually pick up my Bible again, though, there were certain passages I couldn't read, particularly the verses about submission, which made me angry because they'd been used to keep me in my place for so long.

My husband had told me I must submit to and obey him, but he ignored his responsibility to lay down his life for his wife.

I've come to believe that submission in a marriage is not about dominating or demanding servitude; the gospel is not about being a law keeper, it's about grace, and a man — Jesus — who laid down his life for his enemies.

It's about showing love to people who are broken, and so I always try to come back to that.

Formerly married to an abusive Presbyterian pastor

About three months into their marriage, Linda's ex-husband slapped her in the face during an argument.

His behaviour towards his Catholic-raised wife had changed dramatically as soon as they'd gotten married; previously a man who came across as laid back and charming, he'd become difficult and aggressive towards her, critical of her, strict with money, and frequently accused her of "provoking him" to anger.

Having never experienced anything like it, Linda was shocked, and set her boundary then and there: "I told him that if he ever did that again, it would be over, I would leave."

For all the decades they were married, he never once hit her again, but often threatened to — by raising his hand, telling her she deserved to be hit — perhaps because she'd asked him to water a dying house plant, or because she'd neglected to clean a dusty picture rail.

"When we moved into our little house he told me that I had to look after him like his mother did," Linda said. "And everybody says to me now, 'Doesn't that say leave right there?'"

But because of my Catholic upbringing" — her commitment to her marriage vows — "I couldn't".

A few years later, her husband — who had never been religious — became interested in Christianity.

He did an outreach course and started going regularly to a local independent Baptist church, before deciding to join the leadership. He became a deacon, then an elder (then later moved to a Presbyterian church, where he was an assistant pastor).

At first Linda was supportive of his vocation (she thought it might help him work through some of his personal issues) and became heavily involved in the church community herself, as a youth group leader as well as contributing to various other church initiatives.

But his aggression and attempts to control her grew worse, which she partly attributes to the church's teaching on male headship, and his demands that she submit to and obey him in everything.

"The teaching in those churches was so heavily about women's submission," she said. "It became pivotal to our relationship — his happiness depended on my complete and utter submission."

(She recently found an old copy of a Christian women's magazine, which suggested wives, "imagine submission as your husband holding a broom, like you're [playing] limbo. If he puts the broom really close to the ground, you have to keep bending over backwards until you're crawling on the ground, if that is what he wants you to do".)

Linda's husband became increasingly emotionally abusive and his criticisms more frequent: her appearance, her parenting, how much money she spent, how long she took in the supermarket.

He told her he didn't want their kids to grow up to be like her, that her own parents had failed in raising her.

"The house was never clean enough, the children were never tidy or quiet enough, everything had to be controlled and subdued," she said.

"He was at the same time telling me I was socially awkward, that if he died I would never be able to find another husband because I wasn't young anymore. I felt utterly worthless."

"If I would disagree with him, he'd say to me, 'I'd be better off living on the roof than with a contentious woman', which is a proverb from the old testament." (Proverbs 25:24: "Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.")

He was also harsh with — and sometimes physically abusive towards — their children.

"He dragged [my son] up the hallway by his ear and he kicked him up the stairs," she said. "I'd jump in the middle [between him and them] and say, 'You have to hit me first' because I knew — and he knew — that if he hit me, I'd be gone."

But at church, standing up the front, leading worship and prayer, he was an entirely different man: "Incredibly charismatic, engaging, humble, happy. The complete opposite of what I lived with."

Linda felt trapped. "To leave him [would have been] a sin … and no-one would have believed me [that he was abusive].

"I was suicidal … I would be driving and I just wanted to take my hands off the steering wheel. I would just say to myself, 'It will all be over'," she said.

"But I couldn't do that to my children … And so you just sort of keep on going, but you're dying inside. It's like you're a shell of a person just going through the motions."

Her husband — then still an assistant pastor at the Presbyterian church — felt he wasn't getting the acknowledgment he deserved. He wanted to be preaching more, playing a bigger role.

But when he wasn't given the recognition he desired, Linda said, he resigned, and left the church altogether.

At home, his behaviour had become more "frightening". He was always yelling at her, throwing things and picking fights with the children, who'd begun to question and stand up to his "hypocritical" behaviour.

So she started seeing a psychologist, who helped her realise she was in an abusive marriage.

She also sought counselling from another pastor at the church who told her it was okay to do what was best for her, which she is grateful for.

Eventually she asked her husband to move out, and he did. But navigating the response from others at her church, many of whom disapproved of her leaving him, was difficult.

Part of the problem, she believes, is the general lack of awareness in society that domestic abuse comes in many guises.

"We used to think abuse was only physical. But I actually think emotional abuse is worse because with physical abuse you know that people are going to believe you because they can see it — and you can see it as well."

But with emotional abuse, she said, "You think, 'Am I that weak? How pathetic am I, get a grip, woman — you're stronger than this'. So you do a lot of self-talk, but the attacks come back again and you're pulled back down."

Today, Linda is married to "an amazing man" who has been "very patient" with her ups and downs.

She suffers from the symptoms of PTSD, and is still recovering from a raft of stress-related ailments, including chronic fatigue.

She also finds it difficult to leave the house, but sees a counsellor regularly.

"I'm spending hundreds of dollars on vitamins, nutrition, and therapy [every month] just so I can function," she said. "I can't work, I can't hold down a job and haven't been able to for years."

But while she has managed to maintain a quiet, personal faith, she no longer attends church. When she has tried to go in the past, she said, "I've had the biggest panic attacks and it's just not worth it".

Instead? "I just read my Bible and leave it at that."

Formerly married to an abusive Pentecostal pastor

Lucy met her ex-husband through a friend when she was in her late 20s, while she was on a holiday.

He was much older than her, and divorced, but so sweet and charming, and they soon hit it off. A girl from the country, she was "young, insecure and naive" and "desperate to get married" and he in turn was quick to ask for her hand.

"We were engaged within a week or two," Lucy said. "I just got totally immersed in getting married, a young girl's dream of a wedding."

From very early on in their relationship, though — before her husband became a pastor in a Pentecostal church — he tried to control her.

"I look back and there were alarm bells ringing everywhere" — even on their honeymoon, Lucy said, when they had a terrible fight.

"I can remember sitting in the car thinking, 'Oh my goodness, I have to go home, my marriage is over and I'm on my honeymoon'. It was that bad. I thought, 'What have I done?'"

Lucy's husband demanded to know how many sexual partners she'd had, and accused her of lying when she told him she was a virgin.

He'd listen in on her phone calls to family, and order her to hang up if he thought she'd been talking for too long with girlfriends. If she went to take the dog for a walk, he'd insist on coming, and if she asked to go by herself, he'd be angry with her for the rest of the day.

He'd regularly come home in a foul mood, which would fester until he exploded, and then he'd carry on at her for hours, while she cried, wishing he'd just leave her alone.

He was also secretive about the medication he was taking, concealing the fact he was addicted to antidepressants and painkillers, which he told her he'd begun using after his first marriage broke down.

And he was terrible with money. Early on Lucy worked out he "could not be trusted" with a joint savings account — he'd tell her he had "no idea" where the money would go — so she made sure to put away enough to cover rent and the upkeep of their car.

The sexual abuse was the hardest. It began on their honeymoon when, despite Lucy's tears and pleas that he stop because she was in so much pain, he kept going.

If she had her period, or — as was the case on many occasions — a urinary tract infection, he'd get angry, "because he would know there'd be no sex for a week".

He'd tell her sex was his "right" — that the Bible said she should not refuse or deny him sex "unless for prayer", and so she would comply.

Partly because of his size, sex for her was painful, but he would regularly joke that she should "have an operation" so she could better accommodate him.

She came to dread sex, and the pain and humiliation it caused her, though often agreed to it because she "didn't want the fight".

This was the case on one of the last times they were intimate, when he ignored her tears and kept going, with even greater force, until she finally pushed him off and got up, in excruciating pain.

"He'd actually split me," she said. "I was bleeding, and crying my eyes out."

The abuse escalated over the years they were married until Lucy realised she was "falling apart" and needed a break.

She was crying all the time — at the supermarket, in the shower — and was regularly overcome by panic attacks.

"I was suicidal, I just hated my life," she said. "I was taking pills for migraines, and I wanted to swallow them all just to sleep. I wanted it over."

At one of the few counselling sessions she attended (a handful were with her ex-husband, but she said he resented being there and disliked it when the counsellor didn't "take his side") she was shown the 'cycle of abuse' diagram describing the types and nature of domestic abuse.

"When I saw it written in front of me, I just cried and cried, because I knew that was happening [to me] every time," she said.

"I knew we were building up to a fight … and then it would be the 'buyback' phase, and then the flowers ... and then it would cruise and build again … it set me free to know it was a real thing."

Eventually, she packed a bag and left for a friend's place in a different state, where she stayed for a few weeks.

Her husband told her the church was "cutting her off" financially, and that if she was going to leave him, she should just leave. His mother demanded Lucy come and pick up her things.

Despite Lucy's efforts to "keep the peace" until she could organise a divorce, he continued to send her abusive texts, and refused to give her any money or a share in their car, which he said he needed, "to do the Lord's work".

She was broke, and broken. "I kept thinking I should ring my solicitor to change my will, because I thought I'd kill myself," she said. "And I didn't want him getting anything."

At the urging of her mother and some close friends, Lucy approached the leaders of her church and told them what had happened, except for the details of his sexual abuse, which she felt too ashamed of and embarrassed about to share.

She said the church leaders believed her, and told her they would cancel his credentials, though she never received any written confirmation that they had. (The website for the church where he continues to serve as pastor states that the church is still affiliated with the denomination.)

Lucy's divorce was finalised a couple of years ago, and she has since found a new partner — a kind and compassionate man who she says takes wonderful care of her.

Her faith has played a huge role in her healing, and she strongly believes women in the church suffering abuse shouldn't give up their faith.

"I believe in God and have seen God's goodness, [for example] sending me the right counsellors … These [abusive] men have nothing to do with God — they're evil men, they really are. And they're using Christianity and the Bible to manipulate, control and abuse women and it's got to stop.

"I was so glad when [ABC News] said a lot of people had come forward [to share their stories] because we have to come forward and be strong and [say] 'no'. We have a right to be who we are."

She also believes it's important to speak out about her abuse so others might come forward.

"Churches need to take [abused] women's voices very seriously," she said.

"There should be options available to women — legal action or something — that overrides church leaders' power. It's just not good enough."

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican minister

When I met my ex-husband we were both involved in conservative, fundamentalist Christian circles. There was a lot of teaching about male 'headship' and female 'submission'.

I was brought up in that world and believed it was God's pattern for men and women.

During my time at university I was taught in the Christian group that if I wanted to be married, I should make sure it was to a man I could submit to and trust completely, as after we were married he would be the one to 'lead' and make all of the decisions for the family.

My ex was very charming, intelligent and attractive and I was quiet and shy. He gave me the impression that a lot of girls were in love with him, so I felt flattered that he paid any attention to me and quickly fell in love.

There were a couple of times during our engagement when he was very controlling, but he made it clear that if I didn't "submit" he would break it off, and I was afraid of losing him.

I told myself that I had to get used to submitting to him and if I did God would bless our marriage.

Not long after we got married he started giving me instructions on how to behave as his wife — for example, I had to ask him before I offered to babysit for friends at church.

He would commend me when I acted submissively or treated him as the 'head'. He also demanded to be involved in any financial decisions I made, even if it was buying myself cheap second-hand clothes or basic items for the household.

If I bought clothes he didn't approve of, he'd make me return them, and I wasn't allowed to wear particular colours.

When we had children he demanded that I comply with his instructions for looking after them — for example, he'd tell me when and how to put the babies to bed, even if he wasn't at home.

I felt myself becoming depressed and anxious and doubting my instincts as a mother. (I believe I suffered from postnatal depression, partly as a result of sleep deprivation, which was compounded by the anxiety of trying to comply with his micromanaging.)

I tried explaining my feelings to him on a couple of occasions, but I found it difficult to tell him how his directive style made me feel because I was so intimidated by him.

He began studying at a theological college and was spending lots of time away from home — he was very focused on his studies and told me it was important he did well.

But his cold and angry treatment of me continued: he was critical of how I prepared meals, if I forgot to set the table to his liking, or if I did chores "too slowly". He made me feel incompetent.

But I also couldn't ask him for help: the church and college told me it was my role to carry the burden at home so he could focus on ministry, and that asking for more from him would be sinful.

I believe many of the college's teachings — on wifely submission, for instance — laid the groundwork for men to treat their wives badly.

As a ministry wife I was also told by the college that it was my job to give my husband sex whenever he wanted, any time of the day or night.

At one point, he changed the password on our online banking so I couldn't access our joint account — he was angry that I'd been spending a little money on one of my hobbies.

When I protested, he told me that I wasn't "responsible" with money and he'd need to control it all. A few days later, after I'd cried and said I was sorry, he changed the password back, but instructed me not to spend money without asking him first.

His constant put-downs and criticism of me continued over the years — my parenting, housework, the way I ran our church's playgroup — and I became very depressed.

I started seeing a psychologist, who helped me develop strategies for how to respond. But the more I tried to express my boundaries, the worse the relationship seemed to get.

He started criticising and belittling me in front of the children, too, saying: 'Mummy's no good at tidying' or 'Mummy can't manage'. The children started to echo comments like this back to me: "You're not very good at tidying, are you, Mummy?"

I tried to talk to him about our marriage on several occasions, making suggestions about how we could better manage our finances, and that I was hopeful we could heal our relationship.

But he told me he wasn't hopeful: "I can't see a future for our marriage," he said.

I was devastated. I felt lonely, isolated and scared.

After one particular sleepless night I stayed in bed until late in the morning. He came in, closed the door and offered to give me a cuddle. When he got into bed I cried on his shoulder, but he began to undress me, which confused me.

I was scared and frozen, and couldn't speak, but I stiffened and put my arms up in front of my chest. He pulled off my underwear and forced himself on me, but criticised me for not being responsive.

"If I'm going to f*** you," he said, "I need you to kiss me." I was still frozen with shock; I had never experienced him being like that before and had never heard him use that language.

I no longer felt safe with him and left immediately. A few days later, when we met to talk about how we might fix our marriage, he told me he'd been thinking about starting a sexual relationship with another woman.

I was stunned and upset and decided I had to leave, so I went and stayed with family.

He'd been telling me I should leave for some time — saying I shouldn't be around the children because I was so "mentally unstable" and that they would be better off without me, which was distressing, and made me contemplate suicide.

I went to the police, sought legal advice and was supported to make official statements and develop a safety plan, and I moved with the children into a refuge.

When I told senior members in the church hierarchy what was happening they listened to me, and my ex-husband is no longer in ministry. But he emptied our bank account when I left so I had no access to income.

Eventually I was able to find a low-paying job, though I'd really like to see the church think seriously about providing for families who are suddenly left with nothing because of their husband's abuse, particularly because I was taught that, as a clergy wife, I had a duty to stay out of the workforce so I could fully support my husband as a wife, mother and parish volunteer.

I had nowhere to live and have been surviving off boxes of food supplied by local church ministries.

The abuse I suffered has also been challenging for me as a clergy wife because it seriously affected my personal faith.

I spent a long time wondering whether there was actually a God, and if there was, would he be like my ex-husband?

And I wasn't able to read the bible because when I did, I'd hear my ex-husband's voice. Even now I have to read it in other people's company so I don't become distressed.

I recently found a group of women who've also suffered abuse by their clergy husbands. I've been shocked to hear how similar our experiences are, and the justifications our husbands gave for their violence.

That network has been lifesaving for me. I thought no-one else would ever understand what I went through, or believe me.

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican minister

I met my ex-husband through the church, when we were both studying at bible college. He was friendly, engaging and everything I wanted in a man, and my family loved him, too.

I was happy to have found such a wonderful friend and partner and we got engaged, then married, very quickly.

Things changed almost immediately after we were married. He became moody and withdrawn and, during the few hours a day when he wasn't working, would avoid spending time with me and the children, choosing instead to play video games or watch TV.

I tried to talk to him about it, to ask for help with the housework or the kids, but it would only make him angry, and he'd tell me I wasn't trying hard enough. Often he'd just get in the car and leave, saying he couldn't handle the confrontation.

After a few years he began studying at a theological college. I was very supportive of his decision and was happy to embrace life as a minister's wife.

But his temper and criticism of me became worse, and things at home remained tense. I came to believe I was failing as a mother and a wife, that I was as useless as he told me I was.

At the same time, I believed it was my duty as a wife to "submit" to him. I'd grown up hearing at church that wives must submit to and obey their husbands as the head of the house, and so I told myself I had to fulfil my role as the homemaker and love him no matter what.

When he was ordained and started working in a church I thought our relationship might improve — that he'd be free of the stress of studying and would be able to spend more time at home. I was wrong.

He began taking his anger out on the kids, and would push and shove them around, or hold them down and smother them to try and stop them crying.

One time he locked them outside for an hour in the middle of winter, without clothes, as punishment because they'd been playing up at bedtime.

I often tried to intervene but my attempts always blew up in my face. He'd only get angry at me, and would tell me I was "too soft" with them or accuse me of undermining his parenting.

He also started sexually abusing me.

He would physically hurt me during sex by strangling me or pulling my hair. Sometimes I worried I was going pass out, or die, because he wouldn't know when to stop.

But I was too afraid to tell him because when I'd expressed my displeasure before, he broke down and cried because, he said, he felt he wasn't a good lover. Other times he argued he wasn't being as rough with me as I said he was.

I felt manipulated by him, but part of me felt that, by allowing him to do these things, I was submitting to him — that giving in to his needs and desires was a way for me to love and honour him.

Eventually, at the encouragement of a close friend, I told the senior minister at our church what was happening, but he didn't seem to understand the severity of the situation.

My ex was stood down for a short time so that he could deal with some of his "anger issues".

The minister also encouraged us to attend a Christian marriage counselling service, which only made things worse because the counsellors were of the view that both of us were responsible for the problems in our marriage, which allowed him to continue blaming me for his behaviour.

His abuse escalated to the point where I realised I had to leave. I was terrified of how he'd react if I asked him to go, and didn't know what he was capable of doing, so I packed some bags and took the kids to stay with family. He moved out later that week.

I also told the church what had happened, but they said it was up to me as to whether I wanted to pursue a formal investigation and that there was no guarantee of any repercussions.

The abuser would also be kept informed during the investigation process, they said. I was terrified that everything I told them would be reported back to him. I just thought, what's the point?

I can understand why the process is designed that way, but I don't think it's in victims' best interests — it's so intimidating.

Still, I do feel like the church has made some progress when it comes to understanding and responding to domestic violence. I was glad to hear the recent apologies to victims of abuse in the Anglican Church — they seemed sincere.

However, an apology without action means nothing, and I'd like to see the church offer greater support — especially financial support — to clergy wives who've been abused.

People in the church have told me they're praying for me, but what I need most as a single mum is financial support.

Life since I left my ex-husband has been tumultuous, to say the least. He has threatened on several occasions to have the children taken away from me, which has been scary and stressful.

And helping the kids through what has been an unsettling and traumatic experience has been hard.

I trust that, even if there is no justice in this life, there will be in the next.

But my faith in the church — and in Christianity — has been totally destroyed.

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican priest

Jane met her ex-husband through bible college, when she was very young. He was a charming man, she says, who reassured his wife-to-be he'd be a good father and look after her. But his abuse began almost immediately.

Most nights during their decades-long marriage, Jane's husband would wake her up several times for sex. If she objected, he would wait until she fell asleep again.

"He was very sexually abusive from the start," she said.

"He would watch pornography, drink heavily, and come to bed. I would wake up with him touching me, inside me, and I'd say to him, 'Stop, I'm pregnant' or 'I'm really tired' and he would just wait until I fell back to sleep and continue. He knew how much it upset me."

If she told him 'no' or that she didn't want to do something during sex, he'd get angry and sulk, so Jane came to feel it was just easier to give in to him.

She also "gave him sex so he wouldn't get angry" at their children — therefore, she reasoned, "the kids wouldn't cop [his] abuse."

But they did. Jane would frequently try to shield her children from their father's angry outbursts.

"He was very heavy-handed with the young kids. He would not just smack once for discipline, he would belt four or five times, to the point there were marks."

But her interventions made him "furious", she said, and he'd accuse her of "disrespecting him as a father". "Sometimes it got so physical [that] I couldn't not get involved. It was scary."

Jane says she never felt like it was an "option" to leave, and didn't realise she had been experiencing abuse until she sought counselling.

"I was just so young, I thought his behaviour was normal, and a part of me thought he was looking after me," she said. "It was all I knew."

But she became sleep-deprived and exhausted, and her health was suffering, so she worked up the courage to confront her ex-husband.

"I actually went to him one night and said, 'I need a break from our sexual relationship, I need to work through my issues and we need to work on our marriage'. He said, 'I'm here for you, you have my support'.

"And then he proceeded to rape me."

Jane was devastated by the assault. She became deeply depressed, stopped eating and had a breakdown, for which she was hospitalised. "I was very unwell for about a year, I really struggled with everything," she said.

"I lost myself in those last years of marriage, I completely lost myself. I didn't know who I was."

But leaving her husband was a difficult process, not just for the practical reasons of having to find somewhere to live and support herself and her children.

The expectation of clergy families to be role models as "the face of the church" were high, Jane said. "We were taught through the church you always speak highly of your husband. And you obey him, you're submissive, you ask permission to do things and that was my life."

Jane is grateful to a local priest and his wife, whose care and compassion helped her get out, and back on her feet.

"There was one particular pastor and his wife who were so instrumental in me leaving, they were there from day one, so supportive," she said.

"They helped me pack, move, they provided food and meals and the biggest thing is that they turned around to me and said, 'We believe you'."

But she's angry about the lack of help and support she says she received from the church hierarchy.

The recent apologies from the Anglican Church to victims of domestic abuse "mean nothing", she says, because she doesn't feel like they cared when she told them about her husband's abuse.

"When I left I was treated like a criminal," she said. "[The church] wanted to get rid of me, they wanted to pretend none of it had happened."

Having devoted years to supporting her husband's ministry by raising their children and volunteering in their parishes, Jane left her ex with no money and few job prospects. What she'd most like from the Church now is financial support, and retraining, so she can find work and rebuild her life.

"The church needs to act," she said. "They have a responsibility to take care of these families [who've suffered abuse by clergy]. To make sure they're not going to be living in poverty like I'm living in. I worry about food every day, where is food going to come from?"

Still, she says, she's "free". Since she left she has taken up smoking, wears more make-up and listens to music at full volume — all of which would have intensely irritated her ex-husband.

She plans to start studying next year and, for the first time in a long time, is excited about her life. She has also found love again, with a man who makes her "very happy".

"I've learnt what real relationships are actually like," she said. "We just do normal things that I didn't know couples did. We paint and laugh together and do things I've never done before."

Jane still sees a psychologist and psychiatrist, and takes medication to manage the symptoms of depression, anxiety and PTSD. She also attends a group counselling session for victims of domestic abuse, which she finds helpful.

But while she can't go to church without suffering a panic attack, she says her faith has remained strong.

"I wouldn't have gotten through all this without Jesus."

Formerly married to an abusive Anglican priest

Like any young woman in the mid-70s, I dreamt of getting married to a loving man and perhaps, one day, having a family and living happily ever after.

I met my future husband at work; he was older and quite flirtatious and charming. My first impression of him was that he was arrogant — I didn't like him very much. But he persisted and eventually I agreed to go out with him.

On our first date, at the drive-in, he was a gentleman, paying for me, opening doors and all the other chivalrous things that charm a young girl.

There was chemistry between us and, after a couple of months, sex entered the relationship. It's hard to remember if there was any overt coercion but I certainly didn't go into it against my will. Back then, I was much stronger and more confident.

After 10 months we got engaged, and set a wedding date about nine months in the future. My husband to be was an active Anglican worshipper, as was his mother — he went to church with her most weeks.

I was not an active Christian at that stage, but sometimes went to his church with him and was happy enough to be married in the Anglican church of his choice. To me, a church was a church.

At one point during our engagement, he spent the night with an old girlfriend, though he told me nothing happened, and that she had only rung him because she was distressed over a nasty break-up.

I didn't believe him, though, and decided to end the relationship. I don't know if there were other instances; I liked to believe people and trust them — I still do.

After a lot of sweet-talking and a huge bunch of flowers, I forgave him.

In the early days of our marriage, we lived with his parents for about three months while our house was being built, which was very difficult as his mother would criticise everything I did and said, including the way I did the washing.

There would be frequent secret meetings where she'd complain to him about my latest wrongdoings; he would then relay them to me and I had to try and rectify them.

When I think about it now, that was probably one of the first instances of the emotional abuse that would become endemic in our marriage.

In the guise of his mother's complaints, the chipping away at my confidence and self-esteem had begun, though as a trusting 21-year-old, I couldn't see it at the time.

We moved into our house and made friends in our new area — things seemed to be going well.

However, one year, I asked the doctors to let me go home from hospital on the day of his birthday with our new daughter, who'd been born days earlier. I thought it would be a nice treat, but he was moody and uncommunicative.

When I asked him what the problem was, he said that he thought it was inconsiderate of me to bring home the new baby on his birthday as it meant he had to cut short his dinner with his parents.

What was to be a happy and joyous occasion turned into something miserable, and it was my fault.

When my daughter was about two, he realised he was being called to be a priest, and was soon accepted into theological college, where his food and lodgings would be provided for by the Church.

My daughter and I, however, had to fend for ourselves. The college had houses available to students and their families to rent, so we sold our house, and I went back to work full-time.

They were a tough few years, with little or no money, and it was hard to keep doing things together as a family due to his studies. But, like a good wife, I supported him as it was for the greater good of God and the Church.

Then the abuse began. I was subjected to predominantly verbal, emotional, financial, social and sexual abuse — he knew the minute he physically abused me I would walk.

At that stage, I didn't understand domestic violence came in many guises. Examples of his behaviour include:

• Picking out what wine I would drink and what books I read - I was told what I liked
• Checking up on where I was, how long I would be, and what time I would be home; if I didn't stick to the plan I was questioned as to why
• Giving me weekly housekeeping money, one note at a time, counted out on to the dining room table — if I needed more I was asked to provide a specific amount; any excess not used was to be returned to him
• Telling me I was not allowed to cut my hair short otherwise he would divorce me
• Constantly reminding me that it was my wifely duty to "obey" him in all things and submit to his sexual fantasies
• Even when I did part-time or casual work, I never saw any of the money as it went straight to our joint account and I wasn't allowed to touch it

… and the list goes on.

Of course, as he was the parish priest, nobody ever saw this side of him; he came across as very charming to most. Still, he blamed me for whatever went wrong or was not to his liking.

I didn't do or say the right things; my opinion was not important, let alone valued, to the point where I would just agree to everything to keep the peace and to make life easier for me and the children.

There were two specific times when I planned to leave. The first was when he was in theological college: life was miserable and I felt abandoned by the Church.

But my daughter was only four years old so I was careful not to make too quick a decision. If it had just been me, I would have gone without hesitation.

The second time, we were in a country parish in South Australia. I was tired and fed up, but 500 kilometres from Adelaide, with no financial means to get there.

As I didn't want to land on my parents' doorstep with two kids, no money and no job, I abandoned the idea.

When we moved from that town to another closer to Adelaide, I decided to go back to work.

One night, after I had prepared dinner for us all for his birthday, he suggested we should go for a walk. He told me that unless I was prepared to give in to his depraved sexual demands, the marriage was over.

I was furious: I had gone to all this trouble for his birthday, whilst working full time, and now he was giving me an ultimatum? I had a moment of clarity and told him the marriage was over — I was not prepared to give him what he wanted.

When we first split up, he told me that if I let him give me financial advice, he would be happy to provide some financial assistance. I told him that as I worked for an accountancy firm I had expert advice available to me. This didn't go down well and I never saw a cent out of our joint savings.

When I finally left him, all I had were the children (my two most treasured possessions), my clothing, the children's clothing and belongings and a few items we "agreed" on.

I ended up sleeping on a mattress on the floor for some months as he insisted on keeping the bedroom furniture, as well as the washing machine and clothes dryer.

He didn't want me, but didn't like that fact that I had gone either, so endeavoured to make life as difficult as possible.

My lawyer prepared a statement requesting some financial reimbursement for the decades of our marriage. It was fair, but he wouldn't agree and a lengthy and costly (for me) argy-bargy ensued.

In the end, I managed to get some of his superannuation via the Family Court but it cost me dearly in legal fees, which I had to pay off as I was struggling financially.

The Church hierarchy didn't offer any help, either — it all seemed to be too hard for them. In their view, I was in the wrong — not him — because I had left him.

In the end, they sent him to a parish in Queensland, and continued to support him in various ways.

I don't really know what kept me going through the divorce process. I certainly lacked confidence and self-esteem and suffered from depression, for which I took medication and saw a psychologist.

I didn't go to church for a long time — I was disillusioned and hurting.

I eventually started going to a Catholic church as I felt I could walk in and talk to God without being distracted by the anger and frustration I felt with the church organisation itself. Even on my darkest days, I never felt deserted by God, only the church.

In one of the very few major arguments I had with my ex after the split, when he was throwing scripture up at me, I remember yelling at him that his abuse was not God-based or scripturally supported and that God was crying buckets over what he was doing.

I still suffer a major depressive disorder. My psychiatrist said I have a genetic predisposition for depression and that had I married someone who was supportive and nurturing, I may not have suffered so severely.

However, I have managed to bring up two kids on my own with little money, maintain a full-time job and somehow make it to this point in one piece, but not unscathed.