I was 29 when I met him. We were introduced through friends, but I wasn’t looking to date. A loving, long-term relationship had come to an amicable end eight months earlier, and I was happily single, my priority was the Masters degree I had recently started. But suddenly, there was this man who had the knack of saying exactly what I wanted to hear, who wanted the same things from life. Looking back, it was almost too good, too perfect. Too rehearsed. When we moved in together after just a few months, I silenced any doubts I had by echoing my friends’ reasoning that “things move more quickly when you’re older”. In truth, I barely knew him.
When was it that I realised I was in an abusive relationship? If the violence is emotional, as his was towards me, there are no telltale bruises, no “evidence” to prove what’s happening – as much to yourself as others. Even now, several years after I eventually managed to leave, I question myself: did I overreact? Did I provoke him? In the end, it was our four-year-old son who finally brought home the reality of the situation. “Mummy, you need to say a prayer to God,” he whispered in my ear one day. “That’s the only way to stop Daddy from shouting.”
I know now that being made to doubt yourself as I did – as I do – is just one symptom of coercive behaviour. I came to recognise that having your time monitored, being deprived of access to support services, and control being taken over everyday activities are all examples of abuse. But it wasn’t until 2015 that coercive control was acknowledged as a crime (it can carry a five-year jail term), and only this past January that the government’s new domestic abuse bill was published, extending the definition of domestic abuse to cover non-violent acts of emotional and financial control. Until these changes, physical harm was the only abuse that counted in law – and often in public opinion, too. I’ll never forget how, on one visit to the police station to report my partner’s behaviour – I called the police 13 times during our six-year relationship – the officer was frustrated that he couldn’t help me. I asked if that was because I needed to wait for my partner to become physically violent before they could act. “Yes,” was his chilling response.
At first, life together was good. We had set up a home and I liked being in the comfort of a relationship again. But there were warning signs from the start – I just hadn’t seen them. One evening, I was late home from work to find he had locked himself in the bathroom, crying, refusing to come out. He explained that, because he loved me so much, he would worry when I wasn’t back on time. I was working for a major luxury brand and soon I started to make excuses to leave early just in case there was traffic. If I had to travel abroad, I would take two flights in a day to make sure I was never away. It was exhausting, but less stressful than the constant barrage of texts and calls asking where I was.
I knew things weren’t right. We talked about his behaviour and he told me he had obsessive compulsive disorder. I was relieved there seemed to be a reason for what was going on, and even began to feel sorry for him when he explained exactly where, to keep him calm, I could leave my belongings, which windows could be opened, when the heating could be turned on. He sought help, had several therapy sessions and, for a while, things improved between us. We would go out for dinners and I started to enjoy his company again. But then I became pregnant with our son and his need for control reached new heights.
Initially, I thought his wanting to be involved with every aspect of the pregnancy was a good indication that he would be an engaged father. But it soon became stifling. He wouldn’t let me go to any appointments alone, and if the midwife didn’t address questions to him, he would get annoyed. Instead of listening to her advice, I would sit there worrying about what was going to happen when we got in the car to go home. Anyone who has been trapped behind the wheel of a car while someone shouts at them will know what a terrifying experience it is. There were times I had to pull over and make him get out, scared I was going to have an accident. But I would always end up going back to pick him up.
As far as he was concerned, our unborn baby was “his”, which meant, among other things, that I was forbidden from flying for work, in spite of my doctor saying it was fine to do so. However, when it came to making provisions for my maternity leave, that was down to me: if I wanted to take a year off, I had to pay for it.
Why stay? It’s a question people often asked me. It was one I asked myself. But abuse isn’t constant: once the perpetrator realises they’ve pushed you to the edge of your sanity, they smother you with love. You want to believe it’s real. It was unfathomable to me that I could be under the control of a man. I thought that, as an intelligent woman, if anyone could navigate his behaviour, it was me. I was also about to have a baby and I didn’t think I could raise a child on my own – something I can happily say now, as a single mother, I was wrong about.
Once my son arrived, things got worse. My partner became obsessed with how the baby smelled, and he developed eczema as a result of overwashing. I managed to get a doctor’s appointment alone and told my GP what was going on. While I knew things were bad, I was shocked when I was referred to the local domestic abuse service. That was the first time that someone, that I, had recognised the situation for what it was.
I was advised to keep a diary of events and call the police when I was concerned for my and my son’s welfare. If the coercive control legislation had been in place at this time, I’m sure I would have had ample evidence to charge him and remove him from the house. Instead, my life became about survival. I lived in a tunnel that went from work to childminder to home. We moved to be closer to his family and friends, and I grew more distant from mine – I hadn’t realised how distant until I noticed no one had visited us in six months.
Isolating someone from their support network is a common example of coercive control. My partner believed that he should have my undivided attention, unable to comprehend why I would want to spend time with anyone but him. If my mother called, I had to tell her I was busy. When I started to become friendly with my new neighbour, he called the police, falsely accusing her of vandalising his car. When a close female relative of mine stood up to my partner, he retaliated by contacting her husband’s workplace in an attempt to have him fired. I became completely cut off from everyone, too scared to get anyone I knew involved as I didn’t know what the consequence might be for them.
Eventually there was a physical incident that the police considered serious enough to remove my partner from the house for 24 hours. I used this as a way to tell him that I didn’t want him to return, but I couldn’t say this was forever – I had to keep him believing that he may come back, just to keep myself and my son safe. Escaping was incredibly hard and, for a period of time, things got a lot worse before they got better.
I live in a different county from him now, but the control and abuse haven’t stopped, they just look different. The week I started a new job, I also got a court summons: he wanted to change contact arrangements, despite our agreement working perfectly. Whenever he believes I might have met someone new, more letters arrive from the solicitors. My son is constantly used as a way to manipulate me: my ex will abruptly cut short weekends with him, claiming he is ill so that I drop everything.
But one morning, a few months ago, I woke with a strange sensation I couldn’t put my finger on: I felt free. For a long time, I had been living in a world that was all about what he might do next, not just to me, but to those around me. Now, although it’s far from over, it is no longer all-consuming. I have a career, and live in a beautiful home with my wonderful, confident little boy. Against the odds, we are happy.
The writer’s name has been changed.
