I am 25, female, university educated, white British, 5’5″, 11ish stone and newly single as of 6am Sunday.
This weekend, following an increasingly difficult six-month relationship, the man I loved became a threat to my household, my emotional well-being, my working life and my personal safety.
I am making this public to make it real, because I am scared almost as much as I was when he looked at me with hate, locked me in my room, pushed me around, told me I was a “nasty little cunt”, when the police arrive for the third time that night. I am afraid that I will cave and try to pretend it didn’t happen.
I cannot allow this, for myself and for other people who may be in, or find themselves in danger of, a similar situation. I cannot allow this because what occurred violates what I believe to be true about love, what I believe to be the foundation of humanity and what I believe to be the good of the world.
There is no claim to great tragedy here, no more than anyone who is made to feel inferior, to feel betrayed by a loved one. I am not trying to make myself a story, only say that I have one. I am lucky, luckier than the millions of women, men and children around the world who experience domestic violence every day, that I was protected by my housemates and the police.
The aggression I experienced this Saturday night followed a party at a friend’s house, followed my being begged for trust that my partner wouldn’t fall prey to the alcohol-fueled destruction that has punctuated our otherwise beautiful and almost innocent love affair, followed my ignoring my instincts that to leave my partner with the bottle of whisky he had bought after swearing sobriety (for three weeks) while I looked after a sick friend was the beginning of the same ritual.
He cant walk, he’s sick, he shits himself, I try to move him, he shouts, the patronises, he shoves, he locks the door. I throw him out of the house with his possessions. He screams for forgiveness and my heart capitulates. My puppy boy, my wolf cub, my sweet sensitive boyfriend who’s a bastard with a drink inside him. For his social anxiety, he says.
No more, never again, NO.
His hand forcing it’s way round the door to undo the chain while I tried to hand him his bag with my housemates terrified inside. NO.
Being told the most poisonous words, the most spiteful insults, the cruelest names. NO.
Being embarrassed in front of my friends, my colleagues, my household; making apologies when I really wanted to stick his head down the toilet. NO.
Threats, begging and lies on my answerphone, 15 times in an hour. NO.
Having the trust and love I gave to a man thrust down my throat. That really hurts me and I can never forgive that.
His belongings, that he moved into the house even though he knew I preferred my own space, are boxed and ready to go in the morning. I am sending them to his office. I want them to ask why. He’ll lie.
An email, detailing everything that happened ( he never remembers anything of these episodes) and why I never want to see him again has been sent and his family alerted to the police incidents (three separate teams of officers throughout the night, all of whom provided reassurance and help, from dressing and removing my ex from the house to chasing him down when he vanished, putting him in the car and driving him to Paddington). All contact has been ceased on my order.
My room has been cleared, purified with sage and rearranged to give me ownership of my space again. Everything on the walls I would look at when we were in bed together has been removed and replaced with fresh flowers and a Rosie The Riveter poster. The blank walls feel wonderful and I realise now how uncomfortable his occupation of my space made me.
I loved him, wanted to spend my life with him, but I can’t remember what that feels like now.
GET THEM GONE, WHOEVER THEY ARE. DO NOT PUT UP WITH IT. 999.