If you’re a long-time reader of my blog, you might know that whilst tackling some more serious issues, I usually take a light-hearted approach with some fun GIFs. We’re gonna stray the course on this one.
Anytime I’ve sat down to write a blog or an article, I usually bang it out in one sitting, as the words keep flowing like Wonka’s chocolate river. I’ve sat down to write this article, at least seventeen times. Why? Because this is the one that matters.
On average, one Australian woman a week is killed by domestic violence. One a year would be too many. This figure should terrify you.
If the following words help to keep one woman in this statistic alive, then it’s the most important thing I’ve done with my life thus far.
Please read these words, please share these words.
I recently told a male friend of mine about my past experience in a five-year domestic violent relationship. He’s a good friend and we really get each other. His response was unfortunate and more common than you could ever imagine: “Why did you stay so long?”
Admit it, you had a similar thought. You may have even used this line before. Here’s why you should never say it or even think it again: YOU’RE PUTTING THE BLAME ON THE VICTIM. Here are two completely acceptable alternatives: “I’m sorry you went through that,” or “Good on you for finding the strength to leave”.
If you met me today, I guarantee you, you would never guess that a man ever laid a hand on me. Not just because my biceps are bigger than most of your ex-boyfriends, but because I’m confident, I’m loud, I seem completely in control of my life. And I pretty much am…now.
Every woman who has been in a domestic violent relationship will wholeheartedly relate to the ‘frog in boiling water analogy’. If you put a frog in boiling water, it will immediately hop out. If you put it in room-temp water and gradually heat it over time, it’ll just sit there. A woman who ends up on the receiving end of DV, is quite literally groomed over a period of time. If I was slapped across the face on my first date, do you honestly think there would have been a second date? Fuck no!
For the first six months of my relationship, there were subtle red flags that I recognise now, such as financial abuse and controlling behaviour. When we decided to move in together (AKA when he was moving out of his rental and wanted someone to pay half the rent in a new place) he forced me to take out a loan to pay for furniture and bond, even though he had plenty of savings to cover this. When we used to do our weekly grocery shopping, he wouldn’t split the bill, I had to hi-light my items and pay for them because my healthier options always cost more than his meat pies and tomato sauce. He wouldn’t permit me to spend money on such frivolous things as magazines, but I was celebrity obsessed so I bought them every week and hid them under the couch. As a now forty year old woman, of course I would either laugh in the face of such suggestions, or not even be in the situation where this was asked of me. But a wide eyed twenty-two year old, moving out of her family home for the first time, hasn’t necessarily yet developed that set of skills to speak up when something feels off. According to www.ourwatch.org.au, women 18-34 experience significantly higher rates of physical and sexual violence than women in older age groups.
As you can imagine, over time, the controlling behaviour increased and gradually, violence accompanied it.
He once requested lamb roast for dinner. So, I bought lamb roast. When he saw the price tag, he complained that I spent too much and slammed my head into a cement wall.
Once after sex, whilst I was still naked, he strangled me out of a window, three stories up. I don’t remember what he snapped at that time, but I do remember how I felt. Doesn’t get much more vulnerable than naked, post-coital, dangling out of a window from three stories up.
Once we were playing that board game ‘Guess Who’, where you have to describe the characters to the other person. One of the characters shared a name with a guy at work he accused me of flirting with. So he pushed me on the ground, punched me in the stomach and dragged me along the carpet. Took so long for that carpet burn to heal, it got so infected. I always kept disinfectant powder in the cupboard. I’ve never been able to play that game again. Can’t imagine why.
My best friend was killed in a car accident in 2008. It’s been thirteen years, but there are parts of me that have never recovered. Six days after her death, he asked why I wasn’t over it yet. A fight ensued, and he stomped on my skull with two feet. I thought for sure that when I stood up my cheekbones would be crushed. I went to her funeral with some visible bruises. It was the middle of February, it was really hot, I couldn’t wear long sleeves. My friends started to catch on. One beautiful young woman in a coffin, another thinking she may accompany her soon.
Once, I took him as my spare ticket to a Tori Amos concert. She’s my favourite artist of all time and seeing her live is close to a spiritual experience for me. It was at the beautiful Sydney Opera House. He didn’t speak a word, so I sensed something was coming. On our walk to the car, just past the foot bridge of Darling Harbour, I can’t recall what the verbal exchange was (it was never of any importance) but I got pushed to the ground and into a shrub, emerging a few moments later covered in leaves, scrambling to catch-up to a pathetic excuse for a man because I didn’t have any money to get home without him and knew he’d lock me out again. I can still picture the red dress I was wearing. The whole incident is burned into my memory. There were at least a hundred people around. No one said anything, no one came to see if I was alright. NO ONE CAME. And the overwhelming feeling that consumed me was shame. Not because I did anything wrong, but because, what an embarrassing situation to be in. Let me tell you this, even if you’ve done nothing wrong, shame takes many years to scrub off your skin.
Shall I continue? Maybe that’ll do for now.
I did notice over the years that he was very careful not to put marks on my face. Very clever not to leave a trail (of course I was taking photos of every mark on my body). Honestly, no one in my life knew the extent of what was happening. My family certainly had zero knowledge of the violence, or they would have broken down the door and dragged me out. Rightly so.
I would see it before it happened most of the time. Like a dark cloud would come rolling in and take over his eyes and then his body. The calm before the storm.
I happen to have a neuro-muscular disorder, so my muscles need to be warmed up before they can be properly used. So many nights, I would hide next to the fridge so I could warm up my arms, ready to defend myself. I can vividly remember the last time he placed a hand on me. It had been a long time, I’d had enough. Something had shifted. I had found a little bit of myself again, a little bit of strength. I was spending time with friends who felt like warm sunshine on my face after a long winter. I had started at a singing school and was performing regularly and even song writing (a lot of man hating songs at the time). I remember that last time, because I didn’t cover my head for protection, I went full Rocky Balboa mode. I literally beat the shit out of him. I can still picture him cowering on the floor against the wall, with his ripped wife beater singlet (ironic outfit choice). His head was down, his arms were up covering his head. And I screamed with rage “who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with?!” I was a ball of rage. It’s not a good quality, and I don’t condone violence, but I can’t express to you how pivotal this moment was to me. It wasn’t about him. It was never about him. I lost myself. I forgot who I was. And in that moment, I was proclaiming, not to him, but to myself and to the world, I was back. And it’s time to make some changes.
If any of this sounds familiar to your current situation, I would like to remind you that this is NOT your fault. You didn’t cook badly, or buy the wrong food item, or wear the wrong outfit. He’s fucked up, he has issues with women (most likely repressed anger from something his mother did – but now I’m generalising – that was my experience) and he’s using you as his outlet. I am very sorry if this is happening to you, but please understand that you can’t help or fix him. He needs therapy. He needs to work out what is making him feel this way. But he needs to get to that place on his own.
Let me tell you something very valuable that I have learned. You don’t have to stop loving him. You can love him from a safe distance. You can wish him well and wish him away.
But let me tell you this, you don’t know how many tomorrows you have left. You have to leave, and you have to do it now.
The violence will come again, and the apology will follow. Your next breath may not.
Repeat after me: taking care of myself, is my most important role.
There’s one more lesson that works for this and every life situation that isn’t safe: NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU. If you’re my age, you’re not to blame for this mindset. We grew up with the most fucked up Disney princess storylines, rife with controlling behaviour and Stockholm Syndrome relationships. Sure, I admit it, I cried on my bathroom floor, hoping a beautiful, kind, loving and strong man would knock down my door and come get me. I didn’t think it every day, but when you’re weak, that Danielle Steel shit creeps in there. I had a lovely High School friend who became a cop. We always had a soft spot for each other. I never called him when things were bad, but he heard through friends what was happening. I would close my eyes and picture him busting in my front door during a violent onslaught, scooping me up, cradling me into his chest and taking me to a safe space where I could drink hot chocolate and thank him for saving me. But what would that have done? How would I have grown? Would I have just gone into another relationship with similar issues?
I didn’t need a saviour. I was always my saviour. Saving myself helped me learn the lessons to set the tone for what I would allow in my life again. There is no better saviour for you than yourself.
For those of you who still can’t understand why I didn’t pack up and run earlier, there are two reasons it took me five years to reach that point:
1.) I no longer believed in myself.
2.) I was terrified of what he might do to me if I left.
After years of verbal, mental, emotional, financial and physical abuse, I felt weak. I lost faith in myself and my ability to take care of myself. I don’t think I was ever in denial, I think I was aware of how much danger I was in, and how sad I felt, but I think I went a little catatonic. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed because I’d become a shell of who I used to be. Some days, I never wanted to leave the office, I never wanted to go home. It wasn’t the place Dorothy spoke about when she clicked her ruby heels three times. It was a warzone.
I was also terrified of what might happen if I left. Statistics will tell you, that this is a very common time for women to be killed at the hands of their partner.
The whole point of these abusive relationships is control. The reason for control, is because they’re terrified you’ll leave. You are not a partner, you are a possession. You are not loved, you are controlled.
I realised that I couldn’t leave when he was there. I spent a few days planning my escape. I was taking clothes out bit by bit. I packed up the remainder in the middle of a work-day, had the girls from work waiting in the car outside (because he owned my car, I had to leave it behind), and I left him a goodbye letter on the hall stand. I met him in a food court sushi train for lunch the next day to talk and say goodbye. His exact words were “Of course you left me, I’m a monster”. Ironically, the most amicable break up I ever had. He wished me well on my trip to Italy that I had booked as a celebration present for myself (after seeing Eat Pray Love at the cinemas three times…please, hold your judgement) and we parted ways. I’m no fool, it could have been a far more dangerous ending. I am fortunate that it ended the way it did, this won’t be the case for others.
I recently babysat my parents’ pet cockatiel whilst they were overseas. An average life-span for these birds is 10-15 years, this little guy just turned 20! We used to have him walking and flying all over the house. He used to sit on my head or perch himself gently on my foot. In 2005, we got a Cocker Spaniel, the bird then refused to come out of his cage. My beloved doggie passed away in 2017, but this bird still refuses to come out of the cage. We eventually stopped trying. Whilst looking after him, I figured his days were numbered, and seeing him locked behind bars made me feel really sad. So, I unlocked the cage, threw the whole roof open and walked away. I tried this every day for five days. He looked up at the open top, I put my hand in to show him it was open, and he moved further down the cage. Backing away like I just set-up a trap. He made no attempt at freedom. It actually broke my heart.
You know when you watch those prison movies where guys are released after twenty years but either re-offend and return to prison or die on the outside? It’s because being behind bars is what they’re used to. It might be a shit situation, but it’s familiar. You ask any therapist; we’re creatures of habit, and we’re all repeating patterns because what’s familiar is comfortable, even if it’s unhealthy.
This bird remained in the cage, either because he no longer trusted his wings, and he felt safe behind bars. Or because he was scared of what would happen to him if he left. Scared of the unknown.
I was the same. And countless women across the country right now, are laying their heads down next to a man who might soon take away their last breath.
I know now that what really helped me to believe that there was a better life out there for me was being reminded of what life could be like without him. Not being given an ultimatum to leave immediately. Laughing with my girls. Cuddling my dog on my bed watching The Vampire Diaries, knowing that no one was going to burst into my room. Overtime, these patterns showed me the light at the end of the tunnel and my decision became very clear and very easy in the end. If you’re worried about a loved one and think that forcing them out is the right thing to do. I get it, you’re worried about them, but you have to prepare yourself for the fact that this might make them more protective of their partner. They’re essentially in a Stockholm Syndrome situation, and what comes naturally to them, is to protect their partner. Spend time alone with her, help her to laugh and feel free. Help her see the beautiful life that awaits her, beyond the abuse.
I hope that she gets out. I hope that she remembers who she is. And I hope that the authorities can be more equipped to deal with these life-threatening situations.
I was fortunate enough to have a warm bed to go home to. Not everyone is as lucky. I am forever grateful for my loved ones for providing a support network for me, and I am forever proud of myself for spending years getting to know myself, and getting to really love myself.
Pass this article on to whoever you can. Conversations like this are important for potential victims of DV to spot red flags and make a move before it’s too late. I could have been another statistic. If I stayed one more day, week or month, I may not be here to write these words.
I really can’t stress this enough; I am so fucking proud of myself. I am so grateful for the woman I have become. So please, save your judgement for the perpetrators of violence, not the survivors. We deserve a God Damn parade for the shit we endured and the scars we’re still healing.
*If you or anyone you know is dealing with the effects of Domestic Violence, please contact someone who can help:
1800 RESPECT: 1800 737 732