Samantha Beckinsale Actress
He tried to kill me. He nearly killed me. That's his failure.
My survival, my thriving again is my success.
I never thought I'd be brought so low, I never ever thought it would happen to me, I truly didn't think I'd rise again....I was, it did but I have.
But I didn't do it alone...
In the poetry that is Women Who Run with The Wolves...Clarissa Pinkola Estés:
Though her soul requires seeing, the culture around her requires sightlessness. Though her soul wishes to speak its truth, she is pressured to be silent.
The doors to the world of the wild are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.
Bone by bone, hair by hair, Wild Woman comes back....
Having a lover.. who regards you as a living growing being, just as much as the tree from the ground, or a ficus in the house, or a rose garden out in the side yard... having a lover who looks at you as a true living breathing entity, one that is human but made of very fine and moist and magical things as well... a lover who supports the being in you... these are the people you are looking for.'
I Am.... One of the lucky ones.
Not everyone survives this. 5 women a week during lockdown... Every other day, another woman murdered by someone purporting to love her. They are the women that are counted...that society has no option but to count as there is a dead body to deal with.. We read about it, say 'oh that's dreadful' .. Then get on with our lives.. There are so very many more who are existing in terror, barely able to survive but they are doing and with every ounce of strength they have left.. Hanging by a thread to life... and there are those who can take no more, those who die to protect those they love, those who are murdered by proxy..
Then... there's the children.....
I have seen
I have walked through the door.
I am learning to wear my scars with love because they remind me that I am alive
I know....deep deep in my bones. I know..
I know who I am
I know I'm not mad, I know I didn't imagine things, I know.
I know, absolutely, who and what he is.
I know he did it before and he's doing it again..
I will not be silenced anymore.
He nearly killed me. But he didn't... And that's his failure.
What I didn't know, what I want you to know, is it can and does and will happen to anyone. Not because they have a 'weakness' , or 'let' it happen, or are 'flawed' or must 'attract' it somehow...that she must have 'done something wrong'.. that she must like or want or be complicit in it somehow otherwise 'why doesn't she just leave'... She didn't follow the 'rules..' it's her, its her upbringing, its her past, her class, its how she looks, dresses, breathes, sleeps, eats, cuts bread, mops the floor, it's the sound of her mouth, she's 'mad', she's 'difficult'..its because shes insane, she rejects his 'care' for her, his 'protection' of her.... the pain she causes him because she's not who he's decided she should become, he's the 'victim', he 'suffers' not her..He does it, they say, ' because she is'.. Fill in the blank.
It actually happens because they choose to do this. Because they can. That is the one and only reason. And they know, every single time, exactly what they are doing.
And we, as a society, allow them to. Time and time and time and time and time again.
I know it will, likely is, happening to someone you know and love..
Don't be like me. Don't wait until you or someone you love is killed, destroyed, annihilated on every single level to understand..
It can and does happen to anyone. And it will never stop until we all, as a society take a stand, shoulder to shoulder, with those who KNOW.
If you do, you won't ever have to know, you can just trust us that's it's something you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy let alone someone you love.
We do this... go on about it, shout, campaign, fight, fight, fight.. We know we annoy, confront and berate.. We know we keep saying the same thing over and over again.. we know you're sick of hearing it.. We do it for no other reason than we don't want any other person, whether we know you or those you love or not, to have to experience the sheer soul, body and mind destroying brutal hell on earth that is intimate relationship and familial abuse. We don't want for you and those you love to have to know like we do.
Please, trust us. Please stand with us. That's all we ask you to do.
We're doing this so you won't have to.
Melani Morgan OBE
Post Traumatic Growth
What does this mean to me?
It means I now have words for what I have always clumsily called my “Collateral Good”, my “giving back”, my drive to “Make things better for others like me”, to “use what happened to me for good”.
It gives me a name for the journey I went through over the last 20 years which led me to firmly believe I would be half the person I am now if I hadn’t survived domestic abuse as a young woman.
The question I ask is - If this hadn’t of happened would I have spent the last 20 years working in the DA sector trying to make a difference to the service Police officers given to victims of DA; Would I be the person who challenges victim blaming, ignorance around DA and societies clear misogyny? Would I be calling out friends, family and strangers on their ignorance around DA and many other social injustices. I think not.
Somehow having the experience gifted me bravery, resilience, negotiation skills, how to listen, have empathy and an ability to read others thoughts and feelings, see danger at 30 paces and diffuse others anger. These are all skills I use everyday and if asked if I would swap these for a life where abuse did not happen to me, the answer would be no thank you.
When I explain this to those in life that have not suffered trauma they generally are flabbergasted and for some I watch myself slip into their “she must of liked it” bracket in their closed mind, with a pitying look on their faces. But when I meet others who have survived and then thrived not just despite trauma but because of trauma I see the understanding in their eyes, the kinship and the strength of them.
I am not a fragile, vulnerable, unable victim of DA. I am a strong, feisty, brave survivor of DA who is part of a team of thousands, changing the journey from victim to victor for the next thousand, making it smoother, shorter, and never lonely.
Savannah, "Sitting for Allie, we talked about reframing the gaze and how portraiture isn't just about being looked at – it's about looking right back, telling the story you want to tell and using this as a way to process trauma. We talked about where trauma lives in our bodies and shared where we were at in our journey of processing and dealing with our experiences. But as well as trauma, the session was about looking forward – and celebrating the places in us where we can be at ease with ourselves."
Sarah, "It’s imperative that stories like mine are heard. You felt my emotion today as a woman, mother and nurse. I’ve had to bury that for over a decade until today when I sat for my portrait, there was no voice for me.”
Jessica, "I see being the survivor of a controlling and abusive relationship as now being someone who can speak up, I can be confident in controlling my own life, my own needs and not letting myself be a victim but letting it shape the person I have become today, a mother, a wife and a successful career person.”
Sophie, "I know that my disability and wheelchair make me vulnerable and an easy target for some men.”
Samantha, “ I was heavily pregnant and slept in my car outside the refuge. It was full.”
I was powerless then
It's different now
I can make my own decisions
It's up to me
and I say how
Yes, I make my own decisions
It's my choice now
What colour I paint
What clothes I want to wear
It's my choice now
When I go to bed
No more body full of dread
My life is my own
My music, my rules
No more football night after night
My life is my own
My children, my rules
No more pretending, no more fright
There's no more egg shells on the floor
I'm not tip-toeing round any more
No more doing what you say
I'm here living my own day
I'm free to look to my left or right
I can even smile and have a good night
Chat with people, say hello
It's all right now, it's ok to go
It will always be a part of me
But I'll make damn sure that it's small
The control is no longer over me
I am proud and I'll stand tall
This is me, like it or not
I've survived and am getting stronger
It will always be a part of me
But it won't hurt me any longer.
I'm finished with the silence
I'll not carry your guilt myself
The shame is gradually dying
Happiness is my new wealth
I've got my family who love me
My friends and their support
I don't need to hear your lies now
Honesty and kindness are what I've sought.
Don't sit in this room
Sit in that
What the hell is wrong with that?
This is my family
This is my life
I make the rules now
And that is that!
So I speak out ....
Coerced and cold, frozen in fact, blunted, bland and broken. A marriage of battery had become my normal. Bruises, scars and aching from being grabbed, snatched, slapped and beaten - my life felt fractured. I was envious, angry, furious; with my jaw wired and my eyes clamped shut.
I was not allowed to be me, a pretty little accessory and spoilt with anything as long as it made him money. Sick to death of his so called friends who did the same, drugs and drink. I was diminished and detached, silent and full of shame. To the outside he was jovial and charming, my situation was not funny.
There was no counselling for me, no refuge, drop in or escape. I wanted to flee but had no where to go. My daughter had become more vocal, unsure of her father or being alone. She called our home “The Crying house” this phrase had to resonant a change.
Unhelpful comments “you’ve made your bed lie in it”
“He loves you”, “sick of hearing you say the same things”
Failure and failing to protect was not an option. I went to work nights, as she still napped, and it meant I didn’t have to see him. I realised I needed to return to my forte as a Nurse and that education and University was the most feasible, ticket out.
Hold my gaze it tells my story.
The Best of Me
I am ……happy to be ME!
My voice is as loud as the lioness's roar,
but you can only hear it with your heart, not your ears.
My mum once told me that a loving relationship or marriage was one of the best thing life could offer you.
Today I have learned that it is only true when both partners love and respect each other, and look in the same direction and.
I was hurt so badly; I nearly gave up on life.
Domestic violence is not acceptable regardless of the "why".
Nobody should wake up every morning being afraid of the person they woke up next to.
Nobody should be afraid in their own home, then it is home no more.
I was her, afraid to live, afraid to think, afraid to smile in case I hurt someone.
I had no confidence, I did not feel the beauty of a woman, I was just a living being,
Today I am happy to be ME!
I am free, I feel alive, I am a proud black woman, mother, sister, friend
I am unapologetic about my happiness, my confidence, my strength, my ambitions
Domestic violence is not hereditary, my mum suffered, I refuse to suffer.
I say yes to live, yes to happiness, yes to pulling the strings of my own life.
I am the indomitable lioness.
Do not be quiet, say yes like me and be FREE TODAY!
Laura Rogers MARAC & Safeguarding Lead for West Midlands Police
I am… a mother, first. An advocate, second. A strategic domestic abuse lead in my region working at the front line of the endemic mess than is men harming women and girls.
I am… also, a survivor. It has been ten years since the moment I woke up and realised that the only way to keep myself and my son alive was to leave. My baby was three weeks old and in my arms while his father compressed my neck for the third time that night when I realised that we were no longer treading eggshells, and rather, I was walking a carefully calculated plank with someone who was extremely dangerous.
The odds were in my favour, as a young woman who had a good income and a supportive family; I was able to leave. But it took me another three years of navigating the criminal justice system, agencies who abandoned me, poorly advised coparenting and deeply painful family courtrooms before I was finally seen, heard and we were relieved of all contact with him. The damage my abuser and the system caused my son and I in that time will stay with me forever. What happened to my younger self and my little boy, and the way in which it was allowed to happen, was unforgivable.
I am… here, for victims and survivors. Here, for the women and children like us, and most especially the women and children who are not necessarily like us. Who do not have resources. Who do not have support. Who cannot trust this system.
I am… trying really hard to be the change.
Face Me after the Fade
When you look at me, you stare intently
Eyes asking, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Your mouth isn’t moving, though
Because you don’t know what to say
And that’s okay because all I need is to know you’re here
And that I’m safe
The longer you stare, the more the bruises will fade
From black, to purple, to yellow
The blood has long since dried and washed away
The cuts are healed, renewed skin hiding the truth
The longer you stare, the better I look
The better you think I am
After a while, time will pass as it always does
And you will stop looking at me like that
There won’t be anything to see any more
He will be gone
My bruises will be gone
Smiles will frequent my face more and more
And you will smile back, safe in the knowledge
That I am doing okay
Face me after the fade
Ask me how I’m doing
And when I say I’m fine
Ask me again
For many months from now
Every night, I will wake up
Certain that he is there
Sweating, my heart bursting out of my chest
My mind screaming at me
That I can’t get out of this room
Or out of this life
Face me after the fade
Because my heart is still broken
The bruises have long disappeared
But some days I hurt all over
And everything you think is gone
Is right here where he left it.Kathryn
When I tell people that I was sexually abused by my older brother I always say it started when I was 8 and he was 14 but really I’ve no idea when it started, I can’t really remember a time before the abuse except for maybe the old house. I always hated the new house. It was so different from the old house. Not just the actual house but everything it represented, everything seemed to change when we were forced to move. My Dad had run up huge drug debts and the sale of the house funded his habit. The new house had no garden and was on a busy road, far away from all my friends. In the old house my Mum had stayed at home with us but in the new house she had to work full time and I was looked after by my older brother.
I’ve always felt like the domestic abuse we experienced from my Dad provided a backdrop to our lives. It was always there even when things were going well. We always knew that things could change in an instant depending on what mood he was in.
I don’t really think of the domestic abuse as the worst thing that happened to me or the thing that has caused me the most damage as an adult because so many other horrible things happened at the same time. I realise now that the context of domestic abuse allowed the other things to happen – it made me and my brothers vulnerable, it meant neither my Mum or my Dad was around a lot and often it meant there wasn’t enough money. We learnt to look after ourselves and each other.
There are a couple of memories I have that have entwined themselves together and I struggle to separate them. One that I remember as being a really exciting and funny story to tell about my Dad to shocked friends as I got older and one that is just sad and seemed like the very beginning of the lifetime of self destruction that would follow. In the first My Dad has woken me up in the middle of the night to tell me he loves me and not to be sad. He must have broken into the house because he didn’t live with us then. I can remember exactly how I felt when he woke me up – not frightened or upset, just resigned to ‘here we go again’. I was only around 9 or 10, still at primary school but it had happened so many times already, I was just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep – which I did.
The next morning when I got up for school there was blood all over the living room – on the chair, on the mirror and on the carpet.
The phone had gone missing and the chairs had been slashed with a knife. My Mum had to go to the phone box to call the police. 4 police cars arrived and a police van with dogs all lined up outside our house. They called in a police helicopter as there was so much blood they thought my Dad must be dying somewhere in a ditch. I can really remember finding the phone down one of the slits on the chair and that the police really praised me. I think they were worried he would come back with the knife and we wouldn’t be able to ring them. They never found him that day. I knew they wouldn’t, even at that age I had known this was all for show – a grand gesture for my Mum. ‘Look what you made me do’.
It was a story he loved to tell too, how he escaped from the police dogs and a police helicopter. In reality he rang his Dad who took him to the hospital to have his wrists bandaged up.
The other memory was a bit later, I was 12. It was a normal Sunday. My Dad always came to see us on a Sunday. After they split up he insisted that my Mum let him come on Sundays and Christmas day. She didn’t have much choice. If she said no he would turn up anyway and break the door down or stand in the street screaming at her through the letterbox. Some days he sat on a wall across the road for hours and hours just watching us so mostly we let him in. This day was like most of them. He sat on the couch all day drinking and watching us. He never played with us or even talked to us really. He would watch and we would tiptoe around him trying not to be the one who said the thing that might make him explode. I can remember the tension in the air this day – odd comments here and there that showed us what mood he was in and put us on extra heightened alert. But nothing happened. As the day went on the inevitable thoughts of how do we get him out would start and what time would he go. He might say he was going to get a particular bus and we’d all be desperate for him to start getting his stuff together to go. Then he’d miss the bus (it went right past our house) and we’d start again hoping he’d get the next one. At about 6pm I was curled up on my Mum’s knee watching TV and he was still there sitting on the couch, still just watching us. He hadn’t spoken to us for hours and we knew something was coming but not what or when. Suddenly without making a noise he threw the glass of wine he was holding across the living room at the fireplace. It shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces and made a noise like an explosion. I started screaming, and screaming and screaming and couldn’t stop.
I don’t think my Dad knew what to do. He had been building up to this for hours and my reaction confused him. I started to hyperventilate and ran from the house to the local churchyard where I morbidly liked to hide. I calmed myself down eventually and went back. My Mum had cleaned up the mess and managed to get rid of my Dad. The house was in order again, like nothing had happened.
The next day when I got home from school I cleaned out the fire ready to light it before my Mum came home from work and found a small fragment of glass that my Mum must have missed when she cleaned it out. I picked it up and stared at it and held it to my arm. That was the first time I cut myself. I felt instantly better. In control for the first time ever.
The first time I kept dreaming of being free somewhere far away just my daughter and I, away from him and his family, no one knew where we were. I escaped it all by listening to Beyonce, her song Listen was so powerful and was everything I wanted to say and do!
Second time I coped by plotting how to get rid of him! I went for a drive on my own loads and I'd always end up at an old friends house telling him how I felt and he secretly would message me so I could get out for a bit but tell him that my friend Kat had messaged me and needed me! Over the weeks I planned how to make him leave and literally all it took was for me to be snappy for a week and give it him back! My friend gave me the strength to fight back for me and my my daughter!
Where there was once chaos, only emptiness remained.
Survival was all consuming, I was left drained and without the mental capacity for escapist day dreaming about my happy place or what it would be like to be living another life far removed from all of this.
We were long term friends and you were my rock. Then as my partner you remained that rock, even when times were difficult as we both untangled ourselves from our respective lives with others so we could start anew together.
Then you became overcome by the tsunami within and my rock shattered into thousands of pieces and as I tried to pick up the pieces and put them back together again, I became collateral damage.
Random people would arrive and leave the weekend parties at all hours and you would light your touch paper with drink.
On a lucky night, I managed to flee before the explosion.
Running down the hill to the river, where I would hide under the bridge. Hidden away from harm and unseen by the weekend revellers crossing the bridge on their way into town.
Space and quiet to think.
What lay in store for me on my return home?
You say you love me constantly, then how can you do this?
Too painful to let that one in and be able to survive day to day.
What would it feel like escape by sinking silently into the dark depths of the river?
Would it be calm down there?
No not like that, how can you find the light you crave by fleeing from darkness into the dark.
The best way would be to head into the light, with the sun sparkling on the river like ‘Wind In The Willows’.
Finally, finding myself alone. Devoid of feeling, looking around the empty room and faced with empty weekends with no inclination or energy to fill the hours.
Thoughts of sinking into the river, were eventually replaced by time on the river.
Routine and order were instrumental to my recovery.
Three times a week, I would assemble on the river bank with the others anticipating the coach’s arrival to open up the boat house and reveal the order within.
‘A place for everything and everything in its place’.
All eager to get out onto the water, the order and organisation of the boathouse allowed many crews to manoeuvre cumbersome but delicate and costly fours and eights out simultaneously in the confined space.
For the next two hours my world would shrink down to the simplicity of a fibreglass shell, shared with eight others who like me were entirely absorbed in working as one with the sole purpose of rising and gliding through the water in the smoothest way possible.
Clearing my mind and tuning in completely to the sounds of the boat, sliding of seats, the dip of the blade into the water and the clunk of oars as they feathered when raised or lowered into the water.
Ensuring that you play your part by keeping the sounds in time with each other by executing each and every movement in time and perfect with the single purpose of achieving balance is in turn cathartic.
Gradually learning to place my trust in others once again, a lot like that team building exercise where someone stands behind you and you close your eyes, fall backwards and the other person catches you.
You come to rely on the encouragement, support and nurture from your crew and in turn this becomes reciprocal. Collectively you find yourselves overcoming obstacles and through achievement my self-esteem restored.
As a crew you are attuned to each other, you are there for each other and they won’t let you go under.
Instead of finding an ending on the river, I found myself, friends and a new beginning.
It’s November 2020. I have just been shot, again.
By ‘shot’,I mean that photos have been taken of me.
Photos, a reflection or look inside a soul or a person who can or who has.
However, during the photoshoot, it became very apparent that I’d become a ‘hider’.
Hiding myself to not get noticed.
Making myself look and feel smaller.
Being submissive so that no one could take offence.
I’m 41 and Trans. I am in a situation where I can say that I have not been in a single adult relationship without abuse. I have become so adept at hiding, moulded or trying to not take up space or being subservient that it has become second nature.
In this shoot the idea was to try and find me, coax some smidgen of reality buried amongst coping mechanisms, amongst survival. It was apparent that it was difficult to find what me laid bare was.
The thing is, I do not know, what that is. I’ve been punched! I’ve had broken bones! I’ve had so much more and those words I do not want to use or share. I have been moulded by trauma to become someone who can survive, someone who can endure, what seems like never ending punishment.. Finding myself or the real me or something inside that isn’t crafted to suit is beyond a challenge.
I am a disaster and crisis specialist because of that.
Because of the things I have been through.
Because of the things I have had to see.
Because of the things that have happened.
This body at 41 has taken me through so much. It is tired. I want to stop and let be me. Let me be free. Let me rest and not take the aches and ills through the next chapter.
The next thing or the next hope is never where it wants and breaking the cycle of abuse and repeating the self same, inflicts more pain, more suffering, more torment.
I drag this carcass, though complete but war weary, hoping that there are no more battles, that there are no more scars and that people are aware how much these things will change every single aspect of life.
This should have been the happiest day of my life.... instead what your looking at is a girl who’s terrified who knows that she’s making a huge mistake and feels the fear and shame of being in an abusive relationship. This was 2003 and I was about to get married. I left my ex husband 2 years later. I some how found the strength to walk away from this abusive and destructive relationship even though I feared for my safety. What happened next changed everything. After a final and pre mediated assault there was no going back. I was left to face myself and what I saw was a girl that I didn’t like very much, I felt the self loathing that I’d hidden in the walls of this abusive relationship because it confirmed to me that I was right that I was unliked and unloveable. Stepping away meant I had to face it all, it physically hurt it was so painful and tried desperately to mask it through another abusive relationship, self harm and alcohol. I just couldn’t see a way out of the pain. Then something happened I was thrown a lifeline the police put me in touch with victimsupport uk I not going to say it all ended there it was actually a long process of counselling and court cases. These issues don’t just go away but you learn to cope, you find the strength and ways to deal with your stuff. Our shadow side in some ways is our strength because it allows us to really see ourselves, what we’re hiding from is often whats holding us back. If you’re in a relationship like this please know there are choices there is help. The police will help you and if you don’t want to go to them Refuge Charity and Women's Aid, are also options. I hope by sharing my story it shows there is a way out. I can’t imagine being in this relationship during this time of lockdown. You are not alone, reach out there are so many people wanting to help you right now.
Many of us have our issues growing up and it is rare to make it to adulthood completely unscathed. My issues centred around feelings of abandonment, loss, rejection, and abuse. Being adopted, the traumatic loss of my adopted dad at 13, plus years of mistrust and abuse that followed. This all left me with an exceptionally low opinion of myself and a lack of self-worth, which then led me to a violent relationship.
Why am I sharing this? Well part of me wants people to understand how ‘ a nice girl like me’, as has been said to me numerous times, can end up being the victim of domestic violence. I also want to share how powerful yoga can be in the journey to healing the past.
I never wanted to be seen as a victim I knew how much strength it had taken to leave this relationship, but without the distractions and chaos that this brought I was left alone to face my demons and it wasn’t easy. I turned to drink, another abusive relationship and behaviours that would mean I did not have to feel what I was experiencing, which was physically painful and mentally challenging. Through my yoga practice and counselling I began the road to recovery. It was tough and there were times when I wanted to run out of the room. I would miss sessions by practicing avoidance, convincing myself I no longer enjoyed the class or did not like my counsellor anymore.
I kept going though. One of my favourite inspirational quotes is by Winston Churchill “if you’re going through hell, keep going”, and that is exactly what I did.
The word yoga means to be present and to be embodied, to notice what is really going on both physically and mentally. You cannot escape you. I enjoy this practice now – noticing how my body feels physically, where I am holding my tension and how I am feeling emotionally. I listen to my feelings and responses with a sense of curiosity and interest. Through yoga I understand that I am not defined by my past and these experiences have actually equipped me with a huge understanding and empathy towards others, an ability to bear witness to the stories of other peoples’ pain.
It is my belief we can all heal from our past, whether you are on a journey like myself or want to increase your sense of wellness and are curious how yoga movements and mediation can help. The teachings offer us all an insight into how we can help ourselves and navigate our way on our true path.
Growing and Surviving
Two words that I have never really acknowledged or associated with myself. Before I met Allie and sat for her I had never thought of myself as a survivor. I was enduring my past not surviving it. It was in me, I kept it locked away as best as I could so that it could do as little damage as possible but every now and then the box it was locked in would crack open and the poison would seep out, like a sickness of childlike confusion, vulnerability, hurt, disgust, fear and guilt.
How on earth could I call myself a survivor? I hadn't survived, I had just been broken by events in my childhood, scarred by them, they'd wrapped their tentacles around me and I could never escape their effects for the rest of my life. My life as a mother, my life as a wife, a daughter, a sister always effected by the poison.For years I have battled beneath the surface, I've kept the battle hidden put on a brave face, put on my mask so no one would know. Or so I thought.
The process of taking off my mask and allowing the emotions to come out was witnessed by Allie, by a stranger with a camera and smile. I had no idea how powerful it was to be witnessed, truly witnessed by another human, no judgement, no emotion just seeing your truth. I sat, I spoke, I thought. I opened the box and I allowed the thoughts to come. I acknowledged them, I accepted them, I embraced the child inside me. I thought I had been protecting that child for all these years but in actual fact I'd been trapping her.
I see now that for all those years that I'd lived in fear of the poison dragging me down, in actual fact it had been guiding me. It had driven me to such heights of love and passion and care and kindness and appreciation. It had been my backbone of parenthood striving to help my children, my 3 sons grow into the men and the fathers that I should have had.
Our home is the very home I longed for as a child.So, you ask me how I have grown and survived domestic abuse and I can finally look at my life and tell you that I have done so in a very positive way. My greatest achievement so far is my children, 3 loving , caring, empathetic, fun boys who will become incredible men capable of loving and being loved. I am finally letting go.
How do you begin to tell a story when that story is full of memories and feelings for which the words don't exist? How do you tell it when even one fragment that lasted only a few seconds might be so rich and vivid that you could fill a chapter describing the experience, how it scarred you, how it shaped you?
I've always tried to do the right thing. I hope that when I don't, I hold my hand up. I lost myself for a while. When you have two choices, A or B, and either will get you belittled and berated on a different day, you shrink with fear. Become gaunt. Hollow. Turn into a shadow. Which is the right one today? How do I keep them happy? It's all about keeping them happy, and every day feels like a spin of a roulette wheel where the house always wins.
There comes a point when you have to choose to live. That is the greatest gift you can give yourself. It doesn't make the demons disappear, but it stores them away in manageable little boxes. And you can often recognise, without saying a word, the people who have similar boxes to yours.
Now if I spin the wheel, it is on my terms. My choice. I'm alive again - and will be for the rest of my days.