A Secret Struggle: Infertility, Abuse, and the Performance of a Perfect Life

By Dr Aninda Sidhana

Today, my body trembled. A hematoma appeared—again—and with it, a memory surged back so violently I could barely breathe. It wasn’t just a medical event. It was a portal to a time when my body was a battleground, my silence a survival strategy, and my worth measured in injections and expectations.

Every morning during those years, I woke to pain. Not just the physical ache from IVF and IUI treatments, but the emotional weight of pretending everything was fine. I wore my brave face like armor, moving through the world as if I were just another woman waiting for motherhood. But behind closed doors, I was enduring a quiet war.

The pressure to conceive began the moment I got married. My in-laws wanted a child—specifically a male heir or twins—but refused to fund the treatments. In our bedroom, a photo of my husband’s child from his previous marriage loomed like a reminder of what I hadn’t yet delivered. I was prescribed hCG injections and clomiphene citrate before we’d even tried naturally. My body was not mine—it was a vessel, a project, a test.

When my husband dropped me at my parents’ house, I thought it was temporary. I thought he was overwhelmed. But he vanished. I kept up the performance—smiling, saying we were just waiting for the right time. But the truth was darker. One night, after he insisted on drinking and driving, I expressed fear. He responded with violence. Bruises bloomed on my thighs. He left me there, and I lied to my gynecologist about the marks.

I found solace in small things—playing with my niece, clinging to moments of innocence. But even my parents were consumed by my uncle’s cancer battle. I went to procedures alone. I faced hysteroscopy while my uncle was critically ill. My husband would show up for a few hours, then disappear again. I was alone in every sense.

The waiting periods after treatments were unbearable. I asked to come home. They said I was “irritating,” that I “didn’t earn,” that I “didn’t do anything.” I was suffocating, but they told me to stay away.

I got pregnant twice. Both times ended in miscarriage. The second time,i e two years back on Diwali ,I found a small dustbin filled with used syringes & used condoms ,But Nothing stuck me at all that what the hell why used condoms when I was not even here three months & what are these syringes for ,And I just told my husband that please empty the dustbin because it looks embarrassing ,I gave it to a 23yr old staff but then took back ,But I dont know what happened ,he just got up locked the door ,removed the intercom wire & started beating me so badly that I was bleeding from my head it was afternoon 3pm his parents came & were just witnessing ,No Humanity .And The worst is his father got him bag full of Alcohol to cool down & mother : Coming to me every half an hour telling me pls go & make him something or he is drinking empty stomach & might get acidity ,And No MERCY on me that I had Face swollen fully deformed and continue bleeding from head Finally I had to shut th door on her Face That Cant you see my Face and for in a I had a hematoma the very day my husband took me back. At the time, I was devastated. Now, I see those losses as a strange mercy. If I’d carried those pregnancies to term, I might have remained trapped in that abusive, neglectful life forever.

My mother-in-law, a renowned gynecologist, never once visited me during treatment. IVF specialists were terrified to take my case because of her reputation. When treatments failed, they blamed my weight. No one considered that my husband’s substance use—alcohol, smoking, cannabis—might be a factor. Even when he agreed to a sperm test, the blame stayed with me.

This was my secret struggle: a life curated for appearances, while I endured medical trauma, emotional abandonment, and physical abuse. I was scared of a single injection, yet I endured hundreds. I was told I was worthless, yet I kept going. I was alone, yet I survived.

And today, when the hematoma returned, my body remembered. It trembled. It froze. But I didn’t.

I wrote this to unfreeze the silence. To say: I was there. I lived it. And I’m still here.

pain is real, your story matters, and you are not alone.

They handed him alcohol while I bled. They asked me to cook, because “Raja beta will get acidity.” That sentence still echoes in my bones. I was bleeding, and they were worried about his digestion.

"The most dangerous people are not those who do evil, but those who watch it and call it normal."

There are no words for that kind of cruelty. No vocabulary for the moment you realize your pain is invisible to those who should protect you. I wasn’t just abandoned—I was even asked to get ready sit for diwali pooja & even House doors closed my phone taken so I cannot run or complain.I was just Frozen & numb. And Today also The Thing which gives me shivers is how inhuman one can be that when I asked for divorce that time also I was toldIt was just a Haematoma ( 40ml blood collection on USG right side of the face & Took 3months to resolve .) We had anyways told that he has a bit of anger & he is so rich handsome ,who will marry you . And also we got you as daughterin law As You Are a Psychiatrist & as and can take care of Both the sons . For every woman who’s been told to cook while she bleeds. For every survivor who’s been silenced by “Raja beta” culture. .

And now, if anyone ever asks me, “What do you think of aliens?”—I have only one answer:

They’d be shocked. Stunned. Speechless at the audacity of human beings.And I have Actually lived with Aliens One cannot imagine even in bollywood / reel life so much cruelty .

I wish & Dream To Turn My Life story into A Bollywood movie To tell the world That Domestic Violence is a Reality & Also Divorce is not a stigma q,Divorced daughter is much better than dead daughter or who is dying daily.

And the biggest question they’d ask?

Why does love become a weapon?