This part of the story is a lot less fun…

I feel apprehensive sharing this. It’s very personal and very detailed, and I can’t help but feel like I’m doing something wrong by sharing it.

The reason I wanted to be detailed is that when I haven’t been in the past, things have been assumed and minimised.

I don’t want that to happen anymore.

I’ve tried to keep a balance between sharing enough to paint a clear picture of what happened while not sharing everything so it doesn’t become overwhelming.

The thoughts that pop up as I think about sharing this are: “Was it really that bad? Am I making a fuss?” “Is it too much?”

But then I remind myself that when other people shared their difficult details, it was exactly what helped me understand what had happened and eventually get the right help.

So if sharing mine does that for even one person, then it’s worth it.

What’s the story?

I was young when it started.

My self-worth was already pretty shattered, and I genuinely believed this was the best I could get. They would tell me my friends didn’t like me, isolate me from my family, and slowly make my world smaller and smaller.

Things started intense, but towards the last years the violence really escalated. There were repeated significant injuries to my head, ribs, neck, and back. When I look back and piece things together, particularly in the last year, roughly every four to six weeks there would be another significant impact.

The same areas were targeted again and again. Towards the end my body was in such a state that when I say I’m very lucky to still be here, I mean that literally.

When it wasn’t physical, a lot of the time I would be frozen on that sofa while things were shouted and thrown.

The only escape I really had was drinking, drugs, and going out. I could escape and connect with people.

But I always paid the price for it on the way back or once we got home.

Just to give you a sense of how normalised everything had become, they broke my nose in my own family home while my family and my best friend were there. And still nobody fully knew what was going on.

I remember going to my mate and saying, “Hey, I think my nose might be broken but I’m not sure. Would you take me to A&E?” In comparison to the other injuries it actually felt quite mild.

Me and the doctor were laughing about it, yet it needed to be reset under anaesthetic.

Which is a shame, because that was one of the few times they weren’t able to stop me from going to hospital, and the only time they weren’t present.

If only he had asked a few more questions…

I started getting really intense symptoms from the abuse. Severe vertigo and difficulty walking.

When I went to the doctor, the person I was with told them it was alcohol withdrawal. Trying to help, the doctor suggested I sip wine throughout the day.

I chose rosé.

They would stop me getting to the hospital whenever they could. If that wasn’t bad enough, a few times after they hurt me, they would injure themselves and call the police.

I just went along with it. No fuss.

I remember lying on the hard bed all night in a police cell with broken ribs, worried about what was going to happen to me.

I had a small business that I loved. It was my only bit of independence.

It was manual labour, and I was doing it while I had these injuries, barely eating, and in so much pain. I had been pushing through with the business for so long, but eventually I just couldn’t do it anymore.

I felt terrible letting people down because I loved it, but my body simply couldn’t carry on.

Then there was one incident that was the most life-threatening of all. I was very, very lucky.

Through all the injuries I had experienced, I never really made a noise. I never cried. I just didn’t want to show that it bothered me.

That time I cried.

That was the moment I knew my body couldn’t take another impact like that.

When things kicked off again after that, all the weeks of work I’d been doing with the physio I met through my business, all that progress just shattered.

I woke my friend up who was in the other bedroom by screaming his name, saying we need to leave, and we jumped in the car and escaped.

I remember going back to my mum’s house in a panic, saying, “Mum, they’re going to phone the police. I’m going to be arrested again. They’re going to come here and get me.”

And my mum said, “No they won’t. I won’t let them.”

The next day I got a text saying the police had been there and they could have pressed charges but hadn’t.

That happened many times.

That was the moment I said, “Mum, I can’t go back.” And she said, “No. You’re never going back.”

But my mum still had no idea what had actually been happening.

Neither did I.

Nobody knew the full extent.

After it ended I maybe thought it was a bit abusive, but I didn’t even know if I could call it that.

I was in so much pain and so weak that I went to doctors repeatedly, and was told nothing was wrong with me.

And to top it off, when things got really bad around 25 and I had different therapists, I told them bits about the relationship. Nobody connected the dots.

It wasn’t until another three years later that it finally clicked.

I watched a documentary about someone else’s abusive relationship and, with actual footage, suddenly recognised everything.

I remember watching the footage and thinking, “That doesn’t seem that bad,” and then seeing how visibly shocked the people working with that person were. I was so confused and for the first time thought, oh hang on.

Also, I am not minimising what that person went through, the last thing I would do. It was very bad and horrific. It was just very normalised to me.

I went to my therapist and told him everything properly for the first time. He told me what it was and that if I wanted to press charges, the person responsible could face serious jail time, something I still struggle to comprehend even now.

Next up: the aftermath…