Supplemental Post: Denial (to raise awareness of issues related to Domestic Abuse)

Warning: I am posting about my experiences of domestic abuse in the hope that it will help others to a greater understanding of what goes through a victim's mind when these things happen. And in the hopes that, by describing my experiences, I can help shift the stigma and provide support to those still in abusive situations to know that others have been through this and survived, that they are not alone, and that it is not about them - it is about an abusive situation that hopefully they can move away from when they are ready to do so. 
***
I’m sitting in the half-light on a rickety bench. It’s a small junction in Islington, a triangle where three roads come together. If I had chosen to sit there and wait for the orange sun to burn its way up, I’m sure it could have been quite beautiful. But as it is happening, nothing feels like it has been done out of choice.

I’m on the phone, speaking to a lady at the Samaritans. I tell her that I’ve walked through the darkness to this spot.  It’s a few miles from home.

“So what happened to make you walk out in the middle of the night?” she asks me.

I don’t know if I can say it but then it squeaks out, like it is forcing its way through a smaller space than normal, from a tiny gap somewhere at the back of my throat.

I tell her it’s about my boyfriend, what he’s just done. I give her the headlines.

“Where is he now,” she asks, “and where are you?”

“I’m just round the corner from my friend’s house,” I say, “but it’s too early to wake her.”

“Do you really think it’s too early?” she asks, and I know she’s super smart.

“No, I guess, but,” I cry again at the thought. “You see, maybe it’s not that bad. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got any bruises. I don’t think I’ve got any bruises.”

“So why did you leave?” she asks. It’s probing, but I know she’s on my side.

“Because I was scared,” I cry, “because I thought he was going to kill me.”

The sound of the words shocks me. I question them, how I can say them, but they’re out now and it’s too late.

“What did he do?” she asks. But I don’t answer straight away.

“I don’t know if I can,” I break off, it sounds so dumb now. “I feel really stupid. Like maybe it was nothing.  If I tell you you’ll think it’s pathetic.”

I’m crying again.

“It’s all pathetic, I’m pathetic, this is pathetic,” I tell her.

“I’m here,” she soothes. “It doesn’t sound pathetic to me.”

“But it’s like this,” I say, “it’s not like I’ve burnt the tea and he’s come home and, you know,” I tail off, because I still can’t really say it.

 “Ok,” she says.

“Well, maybe it was my fault. I provoked him, I did,” I gasp. “I started it.”

The woman stays quiet. She knows I’m going to tell all.

***

When I’ve finished, the sun has come up. An elderly man is out walking a bulldog that looks as old as him. He sits down on the bench opposite and his dog sinks to the ground. They’re both silent, save for their short, fast, shallow breaths, perfectly in time with each other, like a well rehearsed duet. Two pairs of droopy pink eyes stare lazily in my direction, lacking in any curiosity. And yet I feel exposed, self-conscious, like what’s just happened is tattooed clear across my forehead.

We talk about what I’m going to do next, me and the angel on the phone.

“Could you go round to your friend’s house now?” she asks.

We both know that I could have gone at least an hour ago.

“I just think,” I start speaking, but I get stuck, because it’s too hard. I try again.

“I just wonder, you know, that maybe if I tell her then it’ll be real. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t be able to go back to where I was before, with him, with me and him.”

“Why do you want to go back?” she asks me, and I feel like it’s so obvious.

“I love him,” I tell her. “I can’t be without him.”

“What do you love about him?” she asks, and I can’t answer. Can’t think of anything.

 She presses me.

“I just love everything about him. Everything. How can you describe that? The only thing I don’t like is when he’s mean to me. But everything else, I love it. I love him.”

“What do you think might happen next time if you pretend that this didn’t take place?” she asks me.

“I know what you’re saying,” I say, “but really I don’t think he’s like that. Honestly, I started it, and if I don’t start it, maybe he won’t do it again. Maybe it’s my fault.”

“But you thought he was going to kill you,” she reminds me, and I know it’s true.

“I know it’s wrong,” I admit. “But maybe I’m just a drama queen. Maybe I should just get on with it and stop making a fuss. I have a good life, a privileged life. Maybe it’s just me.” 

“OK,” she says. “So, your friend who lives round the corner. If your friend came to you and told you what you’ve just told me, would you think she should just get on with it?”

***

She’s in her dressing gown, my lovely friend, her face pale as it appears gingerly from behind the front door, eyes tiny, blinking into the light. Until she sees that it’s me. And then they are wide-open, her huge blue eyes. Shocked, confused, as she steps back for me to go in through the door.

“What happened?” she asks, like she already knows.

I’m awkward, conscious, my arms crossed tight against my chest, my jaw set. But she pulls me towards her and hugs me. I can’t move my arms, can’t hug her back. But the sobs work through me, silently, from the pit of my stomach and out through my shoulders.

And then I tell her everything. Sitting down at her solid oak kitchen table, my eyes glued to it, because I can’t look at her and get the words out. I spill it, the whole thing.

When I look up tears are running down her face.

***

She insists that I go into her spare room and sleep for a while. “See how you feel after that,” she says.

The sheets are cool and smooth, it feels like they are soothing me. I don’t think that I’ll be able to sleep but I do.

I go downstairs after a couple of hours and she makes me a cup of tea. We sit out in the garden. She cries again while I sit there stony faced.

“I don’t think you should go back,” she says. “Look what he’s done to you.”

“It’s not that bad,” I try to joke, but she doesn’t laugh. “It’s because I lied to him, right back at the start. It’s my fault. I just need to make him trust me.”

“We all lie about stuff like that,” she argues.

But I’m thinking that it still doesn’t make it OK.

She wants me stay.

“That room, it’s yours for as long as you want it. Stay, at least stay tonight. Let things settle down.”

But I can’t.

“He’s probably worried about me,” I say.

“Has he called?” she asks, but we both know he hasn’t.

“He probably feels awful about what happened,” I argue. “I need to give him a chance to explain, not to make too big of a deal that he can’t make it right.”

“He should feel awful,” she says.

And so as the taxi pulls off and I look back at her house, I’m fretting not only about him and me. Because now I’ve upset someone else. My dear friend, who will spend her evening and some considerable time to come worrying about me. Because at the end of the day, if I was going back, there was no point in telling her. All I’ve done is confuse everything, make it worse.

It’s typical of me.