A survivor’s story: Domestic Violence can happen to anyone

October is ‘Domestic Violence Awareness Month’ and here at TDS it’s an issue that’s very close to our hearts. Along with putting together a resource to help put a spotlight on the domestic abuse and share expert advice for families who may be suffering, we also wanted to offer up our platform as a safe space for survivors of violence against women to share their stories.

Today, we’re honoured to share a personal account of living with Domestic Violence that was sent to us by Sabeena*. Again, this is another difficult read but we truly believe it’s important to highlight how abuse can happen to anyone. And we couldn’t be more proud of her for the courage it took to put her own experience into words.

– Jen & Sam, Editors at TDS
*names have been changed to protect the author’s identity.

I promise you, domestic abuse can happen to anyone.

I didn’t see my abuser coming. When we met I’d recently qualified as a solicitor, bought a house and had just got back from a holiday to New York with my best friends. I was happy, I had loads of friends, it was a running joke with my siblings that I was my parents’ favourite child. The golden girl who could do no wrong. Life was good and I was happy. 

Fast forward four years… I had given up my career. I barely left the house and never without the two babies I now had and never ever in the evening.

I was isolated from my friends and barely in touch with my family. I had 7 pence to my name and no financial control. My self esteem was at zero, my confidence had been decimated. It hadn’t taken very long at all for this man to come into my life, break me down and make me feel worthless. And I promise you, I never thought it could happen to me. But it can happen to anyone. 

There are huge chunks of my life I don’t remember. I’m not sure whether my brain decided not to remember at the time it was happening, or whether PTSD means I’ve blocked it out, but I do not remember much at all from the first two years of my first son’s life.

He had a tea party in my house for his first birthday. We had soft play equipment, a big cake, loads of balloons. I only know this because there are photos. I don’t remember a second of that party.

I do remember though, that before the party my ex husband accused me of flirting with the man who had delivered the soft play equipment, screamed and shouted that I was a whore and left. The accusation was laughable. My confidence was rock bottom, I struggled to look anyone in the eye, flirting wouldn’t been an impossibility even if I’d had the inclination. 

I don’t remember either of my two pregnancies. I don’t remember the specifics of any special occasions during the time I was with my ex husband, other than the arguments he caused on those days and whatever violence and emotional abuse ensued.

That period of my life is remembered by reference to bruises and smashed furniture and police visits. It feels like those precious early years with my babies were stolen from me. 

In some ways, my personality was stolen too. Everything that made me who I was, was gradually erased. My husband would initially find ways to belittle me and make me feel silly to ensure a little part of me would disappear.

From red lipstick, to my love of Liverpool FC, he made me feel embarrassed for enjoying those things and I suppressed them. By the end it was more overt. I was told what I could and couldn’t do, listen to, watch, read. And I had so little sense of self worth I didn’t have any fight in me to rally against his demands. It took all my strength to get through each day, trying my hardest not to anger him and risk a beating.

It wasn’t just beatings though. The emotional abuse was worse for me. He would keep me awake all night shouting and screaming at me. If I answered his bellowing questions he’d scream “why are you answering back?”, if I stayed silent he would scream “answer me, you’re making it worse”. I much preferred the pain of a cigarette stubbed out on my arm to the torture of the gaslighting when he convinced me I was a terrible mother and my son’s autism was because of my failures. 

I know a lot of people will be wondering ‘why didn’t you leave?’ and I ask myself the same question every day. Why didn’t I leave sooner? Why did I let him steal my life for so long? There’s no quick answer but the I know that I truly believed at that time that everything that was happening to me was my fault and he couldn’t be blamed for me enraging him to the point his fist met my face. On top of that, I had left my career and was isolated from my friends and family. His threats of getting full custody of my kids and leaving me on the streets penniless seemed so so real at the time. 

In the end, I did  leave. And it was hard. Rebuilding everything was hard. Not being believed was hard. It’s five years since I left him and I am still embroiled in court proceedings. His violence and abuse hasn’t stopped. I have a restraining order against him. It took me four years and video evidence of his violence against me to be able to get it. When you leave an abuser they don’t just forget it and move on. 

We rightly celebrate the strides society is making in protecting women against domestic abuse, but we still have such a long way to go.

When I was suffering it, coercive control was not widely recognised and I had no idea that when he was financially controlling me, deleting my social media accounts and only allowing me to leave the house once a week, it was as much domestic violence as the kicks and punches. Sarah’s Law means we can make requests to the police about a partner or potential partner and in theory we should be told if they have any previous concerning records.

But I know from experience that just because the laws are there now, doesn’t necessarily mean attitudes have changed enough to make them useful. “Why didn’t you just leave” is still on the tips of their tongues. The family court policy and culture is still to promote contact with fathers, even proven domestically violent fathers. We have so much more to do.