Domestic Abuse Law in the News

Yesterday Labour announced that it is their intention, should they gain power in the next election, to bring in a new law that would prevent abusive partners from avoiding prosecution.

Under current laws, offenders can apparently avoid prosecution by using a "community resolution" whereby they apologise to their victim, pay for any damages and so on, and walk away without so much as a police caution.

According to data compiled by Labour, in 2013 there were 3,305 uses of community resolutions for domestic violence - an increase of more than 250% since 2009.

The police argue that community resolution is only used for first time offenders, where they have admitted guilt and the victim's feelings have been considered. Also it's important to remember that the definition of "domestic violence" encompasses anything violent that happens in or around the home. An example I heard used on the radio was a situation where a couple split up, and the man is upset and angry and breaks the wing mirror off the woman's car. It's classed as domestic violence under the law, but he has never been violent before, and so an agreement is made that rather than prosecute him, he will just pay for the wing mirror to be replaced.

Sounds reasonable, right? 

Except, how many of these are cases where it was a first offence were just cases where it was the first reported offence?

How many of these 3,305 cases were incidents where the victim was still partly under the abuser's spell, not really sure what was going on, had been made to feel guilty for getting the police involved in the first place? 

I could lose my job over this, my children will go into care, you'll be responsible for having my children taken away from me; you know how much I love my children; how could you do this to me? How could you do this to my children?  Don't worry though, we can fix this; just tell the police you'll accept an apology and we'll go right back to how things were.

I can tell you from my own experience that it took me a long while to realise, and admit to myself, that what I had gone through was abuse. An abusive person is very good at getting right inside of your head, to the point that a single look or gesture can change what you say or think. They can make you believe that you are in the wrong, even as you're standing there with bruises, scared to move for fear of what they will do next. They can make you believe this is just how life is, and that you're just being prissy and stuck up for acting as if it's out of the ordinary.

I am very concerned about a system that allows, or even encourages, an abuser to have any further contact with their victim at all. 

The police had a representative on Radio 4 yesterday. Assistant Chief Constable Garry Shewan  from Greater Manchester Police said that using community resolutions is "specifically attuned to low level domestic abuse particularly where victims want that course of action."

Hang on... low level domestic abuse? LOW LEVEL? 

Can someone please explain to me exactly what is classed as low level domestic abuse? 

And while we're at it, assuming low level domestic abuse exists, do we assume that taking the perpetrator home and having them apologise to their victim is an end to the entire situation? 

Do we not think that even with supposed low level domestic abuse, there might be some sort of punishment for having called the police? 

For me, the problem is not so much with the police as with society as a whole. 

When we see domestic abuse, there is a lot of victim blaming. People say things like "she gives as good as she gets" or "she deliberately aggravates him." "She wound him up until he blew" or "he's such a gentle person, they must just have incompatible personalities."

When we're not blaming the victim for being abused, we're blaming them for exaggerating the abuse. Personally I have been told such gems as "he's just  bit moody sometimes, you have to learn to live with it" and "men are just like that, that's what a relationship is."  Something else that is mentioned a lot with emotional and mental abuse is "it's not like he hits you." As if it's perfectly fine to call you names, convince you you're worthless, convince you every problem they've ever had is your fault, use children against you, tell you lies, manipulate you. Because as long as you don't have a bruise, it's all fair game. That's just relationships.

That is most definitely NOT just relationships.

How can an abused woman pick up that phone to call the police, when everyone around her is telling her it's no big deal?

How can she make the decision that no, this is not acceptable behaviour and I do not have to put up with it, when the world around her is obsessing over the new 50 Shades movie where a man basically stalks a woman, stops her seeing her friends and forces her into situations she doesn't want to be in? When women all over the world are lusting after an abusive and controlling character in a book, how does the person who is living it stand up and say NO?

How can we as a society pass laws about domestic abuse, when we're not showing your average person on the street what it is? What is the point in that?

One in five 999 calls is for a domestic abuse situation.

I can tell you now, in the majority of abuse cases the police are never called. People suffer in silence, either because they don't realise it's not acceptable, or because they do realise, but they feel there's nothing they can do about it; it is just their lot in life. There is no help to be found. With funding for over-subscribed shelters being cut, no legal aid, no support, what is the point in changing any law, in any way? 

Every week, two women die at the hands of their partners.

I remain unconvinced that Yvette Cooper's headline grabbing, though it comes from the right place and means well, will do anything significant to change that disgusting statistic.

Let's start with educating people. Not just with TV ads, but in schools. Show teenagers, this is not okay. Show police and healthcare professionals and teachers and politicians: this is not acceptable. Make it so that society as a whole does not allow abuse to happen. Otherwise, any law this or any other government passes will fare about as well as Prohibition in the USA: people will just carry on doing it, because they don't see anything wrong.

My Thoughts on the "Cinderella Law"

It was announced last week that the government is considering whether to include "emotional cruelty" under child abuse laws. If it goes through, it will mean that parents who deny their children love and affection can be prosecuted.

There has been a certain amount of ridicule in the media over this topic, with one Telegraph columnist exclaiming, "lock me up, I once laughed at my son." Many have questioned how it could ever be measured or proved.

But these are the comments of people who are lucky enough to have never experienced what prolonged, persistent emotional cruelty looks like. Seriously, there are people out there who do unspeakable things to their children without ever touching them. And if they do touch them, they have already done enough groundwork with the emotional abuse, that the child knows what they can and can't say to others about what goes on at home. Careful placing of blows and fear of saying anything outside of the rules means that nothing is ever done.

I've written a lot about my own experience of an abusive relationship; I've written about finding out I was pregnant and being asked, "how do I know it's mine?" I've written out my birth story, from the day before S was born to the time her father walked out three weeks later, and about the day we registered S with his surname. I've written about the fear that has stalked me since cutting off all contact. I've written several posts on domestic abuse, and how it's not just physical; how someone can creep inside of your mind and make you question every single thought you have, make you question whether you're really who you thought you were. They don't need to hit you to make you do as you're told; emotional abuse is altogether more exacting and controlling than that.

What I haven't spoken much about though, is the way the children in that house were treated. When I left, there were 6 there. They ranged in age from 13 to 4. After I left, his new girlfriend added her 3 children to the mix. And the girl he got pregnant while I was still pregnant had two others as well as his baby. In all, that is 12 children. 

When someone is abusive, that abuse is rarely limited to their partner. An abusive person will often target anyone they think they can control; many of them work in positions of trust; care work is a particular favourite as it's easy to wield control over someone who is relying on your for help or support. 

While we're all questioning how the government could ever quantify or define emotional abuse, while people are joking about their own shortcomings as a parent... there are children out there who (with some luck) will be saved by this law. There are children out there who do not go to school with marks on their faces or bodies, but in their minds. Wide, gaping wounds that may never heal if the children are not removed from the situation. Making it against the law to be "emotionally cruel" can only be a good thing for these children.

There are children out there who are ignored for large stretches of the day 

There are children out there who are not allowed into certain rooms of the house, even if they need the toilet or are hungry or upset or crying. 

There are children out there who don't even have their own cupboard, their own belongings, their own underwear.  

There are children out there who receive hugs so rarely, they flinch when you move toward them with your arms outstretched. They're more used to hands being raised in an entirely different way. 

There are children out there who are called every name under the sun, not once when their parent was having a stressful day; not when they've drawn all over the walls with their felt tipped pens, but each and every day, for crimes so small as getting out of bed at the wrong time or clumsily falling on their parent as they crept past them.

...But because they turn up at school wearing the correct uniform and looking reasonably well put together, nothing can be done. Everyone knows it's not right; everyone knows something should really be done... but as far as the legislation goes, there's nothing that can be done.

This is what the charities are campaigning for; this is what real emotional cruelty looks like; this is what we want to stop. If this law stops this from happening to even one child, then it's bloody worth it, don't you think?

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What's in a Piece of String?

This is my right wrist.

After having S, I lost my baby weight quite quickly: a combination of stress, breastfeeding, and doing a lot of walking. I still felt very much trapped by my previous situation with her father though. He had left; I had taken my health visitor's advice and stopped all contact... but mentally, I was still trapped. Without even really realising I was doing it, I was conforming to all the things I'd spent the last year conforming to.

While we were together, he controlled everything I did, from the way I washed (you have to start with your shoulders and work your way down; you have to scrub more at the rash on your sides; you have to use antibacterial Fairy Liquid instead of shower gel) to what I wore, who I spent time with and everything in between. A lot of this wasn't explicit control (though the washing was); it was done with looks and questions and suggestions. 

Why was I bothering with makeup and jewellery for work; who was I trying to impress?
Why didn't I just wear his t shirts if my clothes were in the wash? In fact, why not just wear them all the time?
Why did I insist on drying my hair before leaving the house; what did it matter?
How could I be so extravagant and selfish as to just go to the hairdresser and have a hair cut?
Why was I using aerosol deodorant? I should use the men's roll-on he used.

Looking back, my every  move was questioned and coerced - but it was done so quietly, in such small increments here and there; there were never any outright demands of "you must do this" that there was never anything to complain about. I could never pin anything on him. 

So by the Summer of 2012, I was single and caring for S alone, but still very much doing as I was told. Every time I took a shower and washed my feet first I felt like, yeah, I'm doing things my own way! (actually, I still feel like that to this day; some mornings, I deliberately wash my feet first, to prove to myself that I can do as I please)

One day I was wandering through town thinking gosh, these jeans keep falling down, I should probably buy some new ones.

But buying new clothes for myself wasn't allowed. For one thing, I didn't want anyone saying I was spending money on myself that could have gone on my child. I didn't want him having that ammunition against me. Also I felt incredibly guilty about spending money on myself, despite the fact I had a room filled with clothes, nappies, bedding and toiletries for S that would last until she was at least a year old (I still haven't bought any toiletries). More than that: the entire time I was with him, I recall buying clothes for myself just once. And when I came home from that shopping trip, a big deal was made about me and my fancy lifestyle, swanning off to Primark and spending money on myself without a care in the world (conveniently ignoring the gifts I had brought back for him and his children).

One should, apparently, get all their clothing from bags left on the doorstep by well meaning neighbours. Even underwear.

One day I had just been for a long walk with S, and stopped to pick up some groceries in the M&S food hall on the way home. I saw a pair of teal green jeans on the way through... teal is my favourite colour, but it's a bit... bright and noticeable for me. At this point in my life, my wardrobe was all about blending in, being invisible. Teal was so far from anything I would normally buy, and they were £20. A lot of money to just spend on myself on a whim. I left it.

For the next week, every time I was passing M&S I would walk through instead of passing, and look at those jeans. A voice in my head told me there was no way I could buy them. They were bright; they were probably too small; they were too expensive; they were wrong. They were naughty. It would be bad of me to buy them.

I realised that voice was not my own. That voice was my ex, still wielding his control over me without even lifting a finger. I bought the damn jeans.

I remember taking the bag from the cashier and stuffing it under the buggy, terrified that someone would see me buying clothes from M&S and judge me for spending money on myself. Terrified that I would be spotted buying something so selfish as a pair of brightly coloured jeans.

When I got home, I took the tags off and tried them on; they fit perfectly, and I loved them. 

Jeans these days come with all sorts of paraphernalia and tags attached, and one of the tags was attached by some brightly coloured thread. I saved it, and made it into a bracelet which I put around my wrist.

The bracelet was to remind me to ignore that voice, until it left of its own accord.

The bracelet was to remind me that I am my own person, and I can damn well wear teal coloured jeans if I want to.

The bracelet was to remind me that I am worth £20 for a pair of jeans.

Now, almost two years later, that bracelet is still there. People sometimes ask me why I have a piece of tatty thread tied around my wrist. Sometimes I think perhaps I should just get rid of it.

But there is no way in this world I will risk going back to what I was. I will keep that piece of thread to remind me every single day that I am worth £20 for a pair of jeans, and that I am entitled to them and much more besides.

And do you know, I still have those jeans. And when I look at them now... they're not so bright. They're very dark, in fact. 

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Finding Out I Was Pregnant

September 2011. For the past few months I've been living in this house, returning to my own home only to pay rent and pick up my post.

Me, a couple of days before I found out I was pregnant

Living here is quite stressful; there are six children running around with very little in the way of discipline, guidance or boundaries. There is fighting, noise, swearing, squabbling, destruction and chaos. Having lived alone for most of my adult life, I'm finding it quite tough - but the rare moments of quiet, where one of the children is drawing with me or another reading a book with me, those are the moments I treasure. The moments that restore my sanity and patience.

One evening, I have an argument with one of the older children. I can't even tell you what it's about, but it really pisses me off, and I go into the bedroom to hide, lest I say something nasty to her. It ends with her laying on her bed crying, shouting "you're not my mum! I want my mum!" to which her father replies (shouting from the next room) "yeah well, she's not here is she - she left you." I feel awful for her, but I know I am not the person she wants to comfort her, and I don't want to make things worse.

The next morning on the way to work, he tells me I need to go and stay at my house for a few nights; I am clearly not able to cope with his children and he doesn't like for me to be nasty to them so I must go to my own house for a while, and calm down. I feel terrible; worse when I later find out that he has gone home that evening and told his children that I have left because of their terrible behaviour and might never come back.

That weekend, one of them has a birthday. Birthdays are the only times the whole family goes into town together, for breakfast at a cafe or pub. We arrange that I will meet them for the birthday breakfast, and then go home with them. We pass a lovely morning with the children, first having breakfast and then going to the library, a place they've never been before. When we go home, we stop at the children's grandmother's house and the birthday boy is given some money. I take the birthday boy back into town on his own to spend his money. He doesn't seem as chirpy and excited as you would expect for a 7 year old on his birthday; he seems miserable and I want to cheer him up.

When we get home, we find his father putting together the new bike he's bought for the boy's birthday. He is drunk and moody. He insists that I too should get drunk, and I am dispatched to the local shop to buy some wine. We pass a tense evening where his children try to stay out of his way. Once they are in bed, he starts to argue with me. I remember very little of the argument, except the feeling that I can't get a word in, and he won't just stop and listen to me. His younger daughter creeps down the stairs saying "Daddy, stop being mean to Vicky." She's sent back to bed, and we carry on arguing. Eventually he tells me he can't stand my outlandish behaviour and mood swings any more, and I must leave. We are splitting up. I say okay, I will pack my things in the morning and go. This is not good enough though; I must leave right now, in the middle of the night.

By this point we are in his bedroom. I am on the edge of the bed, head in hands, trying to think straight. He is behind me, leaning on the wall and talking constantly. He won't shut up. I'm trying to figure out how I can get all of my things out of his house and across town to my house in the middle of a Saturday night. He won't let me think; he won't stop telling me all the things I've ever done wrong. I pick up the nearest thing I can find, and throw it at him. He still won't stop. He tells me to call a taxi, but I can't bear the thought of a taxi driver helping me to carry my things while I cry uncontrollably. I call my mother. This is the first time in my entire adult life I have ever called upon my mother to help me in this sort of way, but I don't know what else to do.

When I put the phone down he tells me, "you fucking cunt, calling your mum and crying down the phone to her to make me look bad!" I try to ignore him, and start to pack my things. As I begin to put take my things downstairs, I realise that the older children are awake; they have heard everything. I give each of them a hug and tell them I love them, and then leave.

The next day my mother brings me back to collect the rest of my things. He is laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't acknowledge me or speak, the entire time I am there. The rest of the day is spent at home, crying uncontrollably. My sister brings me a tub of Ben & Jerry's and looks scared. Even mid breakdown, nobody ever saw me like this.

The next day is a Monday, and I have to go to work. I wake up with that horrible feeling you get when you've been crying forever: tight skin, dry eyes. My boobs hurt. My boobs never hurt. And in that moment, before I even get out of bed, I know.

I text him from work telling him I need to come and collect the rest of my things from his house that evening. I know there is still a pregnancy test there; he's been buying them as part of his Tesco order for months, and I've been doing one every week or so. I catch the bus to his house, gather up the rest of my things, and sit on the edge of his bed. I ask if we can try again; I'll try harder, I'll be nicer to the children, I'll get on top of the never-ending mountain of washing in the kitchen. I'll be better. He says he'll have to think about it. I stand up to leave, and remember the pregnancy test. I tell him I'd like to take it with me, just to make sure. He insists that I do the test right now, so I take it into the bathroom with me.

The line appears. My stomach sinks. I feel like I might fall over.

I walk back to his bedroom, as if through a tunnel. I don't register the clothes on the floor, the children fighting on the stairs, the dog laying across the landing. I close the door behind me and say "I'm pregnant." I show him the test.

"How do I know it's mine?"

"I've barely left your house for the last few months; you know I've not slept with anyone else; I wouldn't even have had time to."

"You were pretty fat when you got here; you might have been pregnant already and trying to pin it on me."

He gives me his bank card, instructing me to buy one of those tests that tells you how far gone you are, and to bring it to his house after work the next day.

I walk home in a daze, vaguely aware that it is dark and I am being irresponsible, walking along this poorly lit path on my own; after all, it's not just me any more is it, I need to look after my baby. It's the most surreal thought I think I've ever had.

The next day I buy the test and take it to his house. He comes into the bathroom with me and watches me pee on it. When it comes up with "3+ weeks" he accepts that the baby is his. I have no idea how my being 3+ weeks makes a difference, but it does and now it's ok and I can be his girlfriend again.

It's a good job I've been taking Pregnacare and Osteocare for the last two months, isn't it. I'm so lucky he started buying them for me. I'm such an idiot to have had a drink on Saturday night, though; I shouldn't have done that. What a fucking idiot. Now I might have damaged the baby and it'll be all my own fault. This thought hangs over me throughout my pregnancy.

From Depressed & Miserable to Beauty Pageant Queen - Dawn's Story!

My friend Dawn is Miss Wiltshire in the British Beauty Curve 2014 pageant. And she's being a little too quiet about how awesome that is, so I thought I'd write a blog post about her and her supreme awesomeness.

Miss Wiltshire Curve, 2014

Dawn says: 

Originally I entered simply because... why not! I forgot about it, and then at Christmas last year I received a letter saying I'd been chosen as a finalist! My first reaction was to laugh... then I was telling myself I couldn't do it - but after encouragement from friends and family, I decided I would do it! It's amazing to think the opportunities you could miss through self doubt, so I'm grateful for the encouragement I received to go ahead with it.

Dawn has a very interesting past, and has had a lot of experiences I'm sure we can all relate to. 

Dawn is now engaged to a lovely man named Steve, but before that she was married to an abusive man who made her life hell. She had two children with him, and says the "PND" she suffered with both children "was a mixture of trying to get everything right so it didn't make him mad, generally trying to bring up children whilst walking on egg shells... It was really, really hard. I often had very dark thoughts, sometimes suicidal."

Dawn had a really hard time when both of her eldest children were very small. I asked her what helped her to get over the depression:

I couldn't stop crying all the time, and my ex husband was really losing it with me. I went to the doctor and they prescribed antidepressants. I know not everyone thinks they are the answer but for me, I'm sure they saved my life. I went from never leaving the house, just eating and crying all day, to walking every day and looking after myself a lot better, which in turn made me happier so my children were happier too.

Eventually Dawn's marriage broke down and her husband left. I asked her if she found it hard to become a single mother.

No, not really! It was a huge relief when the monster was out of the house; I could breathe for the first time in years! The hardest part for me was living in fear. He stalked me all the time, would kick my front door in and try to strangle me. He rammed my face into the fridge once as well. I lived in a block of flats at the time and my pushchair would be left in the shed downstairs. He was often hiding in there, waiting to attack me. He would climb onto the roof of the block and watch me through the window.

The "being a mother" part of it was lovely though; I was very protective of my kids, and suddenly we had light in our lives. We could watch what we wanted on TV, make a mess and not tidy it up immediately, do what we wanted when we wanted without asking permission. 

Dawn now has a third child with Steve; Billy is now five and just as gorgeous as his older brother and sister.

Dawn's eldest son, Max, has high functioning autism. When he moved up to secondary school last September, Dawn took the decision to remove him from mainstream school and to home school him instead.

I knew Max would face difficulties at secondary school. The school had assured me that they would support him and make sure he was safe, but unfortunately that wasn' the case. The final straw came for me when Max was asked, unsupported, to paint music. He found that really challenging, and ended up having a meltdown which involved him hitting his head and face on a table, and then a wall. He was given a detention for disrupting the class! Without a second thought, I removed him from the school.

Then I was in a situation where, all of a sudden and without any preparation, I was home schooling my son. It was scary but definitely the best thing I have ever done for him. We have good days and bad days. We have lots of days out and do different projects.

I've been lucky to have a huge amount of support from friends and family; it's been a bit overwhelming! 

Max is like a different boy now; he goes out and plays, he is confident and has even taken up running. He wants to go to college to become a mechanic. I'm concerned that I won't be able to teach him what he needs to get into college, so I'm in the middle of trying to get him a Statement, so that maybe then he could go to a special needs school part time.

My other children, Jess and Billy, won't be home schooled. They understand that Max needs extra help and support from me and that secondary school didn't work out for him. I have no worries about Jess and Billy in that respect at all.

Dawn also has a blog: Morning Glory

I have battled an eating disorder called Binge Eating Disorder for many years. For some reason, writing it all down and getting out there made me lose the victim skin I often felt I wore. Suddenly I was a survivor, and I had a lot to say about things! It's very raw and honest. 

I don't write posts every day; I just do it as and when I want to. It's helping me overcome my BED, but I'm far from cured; it will be with me for life. It's under control now though. The blog is also there to show other women who have had a crappy past, that the future is in your hands. Nobody is going to come along with a magic wand and make you feel better; you have to do the work yourself.

Check me out; I'm in a frikkin beauty pageant! High five to me!

I have known Dawn since I was 9, and she really is an inspiration. I'm so pleased she's doing this pageant and I really hope she wins; she bloody deserves to!

Click here to listen to Dawn's radio interview about her past, her relationship with food, and the pageant.

Two Years

Seeing Kit this week has had me thinking a lot about the past two years.

This time two years ago, I was just preparing to move into this flat. I had just gotten back together with S's father for the last time. I thought I had seven weeks left of my pregnancy. 

Mentally, I was completely broken by the stress and strain of what had been going on throughout my pregnancy. I was totally under my ex's control, and he knew it. Having gotten someone else pregnant, and then found himself a new girlfriend in the last few weeks, he had made me beg him to take me back. I now believe both the pregnancy and the girlfriend were deliberately done in order to get me to tow the line, to put me in my place. And they worked. He knew I was petrified of becoming a mother alone. He had made sure from very early on that he pointed out to me every single thing that I would not be able to cope with.

You won't be able to hack breastfeeding. It hurts, and you won't manage. A couple of weeks, tops and then the baby will be on formula.

You won't cope with a baby. You can't even look after yourself.

You're so stressy over the slightest thing... just wait until that baby gets here and it's screaming all day and night!

Alongside this, there was the constant assertion that it was just a baby. I was only pregnant, it was no big deal. Having a baby is easy; just look at all of these losers around us, all of them doing just fine with their kids. It shouldn't be hard. It's the easiest thing in the world, anyone can do it.

I saved up my holiday entitlement from work, which allowed me to leave at around 32 weeks. The plan was that I would move into my flat, and then spend the rest of the time until the baby was born, decorating his kitchen. I'm not even joking; that was his plan for me. And I was just being difficult when I tentatively suggested I didn't want to be climbing up ladders to paint a ceiling when pregnant. At 34 weeks, I put my double bed together myself because he had told me I had to sleep at my house that night (I worked out much later that he had someone else coming round to sleep with him that night, so couldn't have me there). It didn't really occur to me that this was not something a relatively heavily pregnant woman should be doing; after all, it's just pregnancy. No big deal.

A strategically-cropped photo of "us"
- me trying desperately to look happy and comfortable

Around this time, a friend came to visit me. The friend I named S after. She is a very dear friend, who I've known for a long time. She lives a couple of hours' drive from me, but when I had my breakdown she visited regularly to check on me. She had seen me earlier in my pregnancy, when she had driven down and helped me remove my things from the ex's house one of the times we split up. At that point she had tried to gently tell me I was better off on my own, and I had half believed her. She had never met him before, but on this occasion she did. He had me invite her to his house, and got the children up early in the morning to clean the house from top to bottom with as much bleach as they could lay hands on. I was instructed to meet my friend at my house, show her around, whatever - he would let me know when I could bring her to his house to meet him. 

When we got there, the house stank of bleach and I was very conscious of the fact that although it was tidy by normal standards, by anyone else's standards it was a state. My friend was very polite about it. She met him briefly, but then he went out - a local girl had just had a baby and had a very hard time in labour so he went to visit her. My friend left shortly afterwards, and I looked after the children until the ex came home. The first thing he told me when he came home was "that baby is mine. It looks just like me" I questioned how it could have been, when the child must have been conceived after we had gotten together. His response was "yes, but I've already told you I was still sleeping with her when I first got with you..." 

Later that evening I texted my friend to ask her what she thought of my boyfriend. Her opinion was more important to me than most. Her response made me cry: "he seems nice enough, but I would have hoped for you to meet someone who took care of you, rather than the other way around." When he asked me what she'd thought of him, I lied. I'd learned by then that it was best not to give him reason to think I'd made him look bad.

If I had to pick words to describe myself this time two years ago, I would choose words like:

cowed

scared

defeated

diffident

alone

It's hard to explain to anyone how I got to that point, and also how I got back from it. When I talk about it, it feels like I'm talking about a different person. More than one person has expressed shock and surprise that I ever ended up like that. People who knew me before, and those who have met me since, cannot fathom how I allowed any of this to happen to me.

I am one of the lucky few: the minute I had my baby, and was able to comprehend that it was my job to keep her safe and happy, something clicked in my head. I knew deep down, even with all of the mind games and tricks that had been employed against me, that this was a dangerous situation for a baby. 

Someone called me inspirational the other day. People tell me I'm strong. I don't feel like I'm either of those things... but if I had to choose between those words, or the four above, to describe myself, I would come down closer to inspirational and strong than the others, any day. Even on a really bad day.

Incidentally: Yes, breastfeeding did hurt a bit to start with, but I did it until S was 17 months old. I look after both of us just fine, and she has never once screamed all day and night. In fact until she was teething, she barely cried at all.

The Day We Registered S.

April 2012. S is almost 3 weeks old. 

We've been out of hospital just under a week. We have an appointment today to register her birth. 

Because I am not married to S's father, he needs to be at the appointment in order to be listed on the birth certificate.

S enjoying some skin to skin while her father wasn't looking

Things have been strained between us. He wants me to look after his children over night this weekend while he works. I can barely stand and walk in a straight line. I don't want to do it; he senses this and is cross with me. I agreed when I was pregnant that I would look after his children overnight sometimes; I have to honour that agreement and stop making such a fuss over it. It's just a baby. I'm making mountains out of molehills and I need to stop it.

We get ready to go to the appointment at the registry office. It's only a couple of blocks away from where I live. I dress S in her usual, over-sized vest and babygro. She is so tiny, even the "tiny baby" clothes are too big and this depresses me. Once she is dressed, she has to be wrapped in a blanket. I know this, because her father tells me so. 

After that blanket, she needs another. And then she is put into the pram, with another blanket over the top. Once she is all wrapped up in there, you can barely see her. Personally, I had thought it was quite warm today; I never realised babies needed to be so well wrapped before they were allowed into an already insulated pram to walk two blocks and then sit in an over-heated council office. I know nothing about babies though. This man already has several children; he knows all there is to know. My intuition isn't knowledge; it's just me having stupid thoughts. I do that a lot, and they're usually wrong.

We carry the pram down the steps from the flat, and head off to the registry office. When we get there, the lady tells us the waiting room is upstairs, and we need to leave the pram in this space here. I go to pick up my daughter, but her father gets there first. He wraps the third blanket around her, until she looks more like a bundle of blankets than a child. The blankets must go over her head as well as around her body, even though she was already wearing a hat. You can barely see her face. 

We walk to the waiting room in silence, and sit there. In silence. For ten minutes. I ask to hold my child, but he tells me I have all the time in the world to hold her; he has to go home to his other children this evening so he should get to hold her while he's here. 

A nice lady called Dee comes to take us into the room to register the birth. She pulls up our record from the hospital on her computer screen, and goes through some basic information with us. Then we give her the name we have chosen for our beautiful little girl. She comments on what a lovely name it is, and we have the conversation we always have with new people about the origin of her name, which is unusual. He tells her it means "friend." I am fairly sure this is not true; that is the Arabic translation of the mis-pronounciation of her name his work colleague used the other day. I daren't correct him on this though; that would probably constitute "being a dick" and I don't want to make him angry while he's holding the most precious thing in my life.

The lady fills in the form on her computer. She looks directly at me and tells me, "as the mother of this child, it is your decision who is named as the father, and what her last name will be." I nod. She says it again, phrased slightly differently. She asks if I am sure about my decision. And then she says it all again. Three times, I tell her that yes, this man is the father of my child; he is to be named on her birth certificate and she will have his surname. Any hope of approval from him for this confirmation is dashed when I look at him and realise he is cross with me that the lady thought I needed to be told so many times.

Dee prints the form and hands it to me to sign. Then he has to sign, which means I get to hold my baby. With so many blankest around her, she doesn't feel like a baby; she feels like a bundle of cloth. I am used to having her laying on my lap or chest in the fewest clothes possible. When he is not there, we are naughty and she sleeps on me in just her babygro. When he is there, I have to turn the heating right up and put blankets over her while she sleeps in the bouncy chair or on him. 

She is fast asleep and oblivious. As soon as he has signed the register, he takes her from me again. I am handed copies of the birth certificate to put in a safe place. Because my baby is so tiny (even with the extra blankets), they will fit in the end of her pram. 

We leave the office, thanking the lady as we go. My daughter is put safely back into her pram, and I am allowed to push her most of the way home. 

He helps me carry the pram back up the stairs to the flat, and then makes himself a cup of tea while I feed her. 

Within a week, he has left us.

this story forms part of my Birth Story, a series of posts surrounding S's birth and the first few weeks of her life. The first post of that series is here.

Ranty Friday: Nigella

This week, I have mostly been seethingly, bone-tremblingly, confoundingly and inarticulately angry about Nigella Lawson.

We all remember the photo from June this year, outside a restaurant in London. You know, the one where her husband had her by the throat? The one where he also pinched at her nose, and she left in tears. The one that led to his being cautioned for assault? Oh yeah, that one. The one that Charles Saatchi, the grabber, has recently said was him trying to talk some sense into her about her cocaine habit. Lawson says that she incurred this attack simply because she remarked that she was looking forward to becoming a grandmother. In court this week she spoke of how Saatchi had grabbed her by the neck and told her, I am the only person you should be concerned with. I am the only person who should be giving you pleasure.

Just recently, two of the (now ex) couple's former assistants have been on trial for allegedly spending thousands on "expenses" on treats for themselves. But instead of being the trial for fraud of two sisters, it has instead become a witch hunt, a hate campaign by Saatchi via the British media, against Lawson, who didn't speak out to clear his name after those photographs were published in June.

From the day the allegations about Lawson's drug use emerged, some of us have looked at the situation and gone, "hmm, to me that looks a lot like Saatchi trying to get his own back at Lawson." To those of us who have been in abusive relationships, it looked a lot like the sort of thing your controlling, manipulative and abusive ex does when you leave him: he does his very best to make everyone hate you. To vilify you, to turn everyone against you, to ruin you. For me, this means a proportion of the city I live in hates me, and believes I am a vindictive bitch, hell-bent on keeping a loving father from his beloved daughter.

For Nigella Lawson, it means every newspaper, every magazine, every news channel and website, chasing her for a quote, for a story, for an admission.

This week in court, Nigella Lawson stood up and told the truth. I felt immensely touched by her poise and dignity as she held her head high walking purposefully past those cameras into court. I was pleased to see someone with such a high profile standing up against everything being thrown at her. 

I was incensed to find that every story began with "TV cook admits cocaine use." Every news program I have seen, every newspaper, every website.  To me, the story was that a nasty, vindictive man who hadn't got his own way in the summer, was intent on destroying that which he could no longer control.

I really don't care whether Lawson took drugs, or takes drugs. I don't care if she's a regular at Berlusconi's bunga bunga parties, whether she snorts her lines off a midget's head, whether she jacks up heroin between shots of Nigella's Kitchen. None of that would change the fact that Saatchi was caught on camera, with his hand around her throat. You can argue the potential reasons for it, but he still did it. And it was still wrong. In my book, there is never a valid reason for grabbing someone by the throat. In my book, even if Nigella is single handedly bankrolling the Colombian drug lords, she still doesn't deserve any of this. And I am sickened and disgusted by the British media that they are not bright enough to see through Saatchi's lies.

Because what does that say to other women in Lawson's situation?

All over the world right now, women are trying to leave abusive relationships. And they're being told, promised, threatened, "if you leave me, I will finish you." 

These women are looking at the international media right now, and seeing that even a TV cook, even one of the most famous women in the UK, even the seemingly strong, successful Nigella Lawson, cannot escape an abusive relationship unscathed. What hope does that leave for the rest of us?

An Unwelcome Visitor

Just to clarify - this did happen, but a few months ago. It's taken me until now to be able to write about it.

Saturday night. I'm exhausted and go to bed at 9:30pm, falling into a deep sleep almost immediately. S is asleep in her cot next to me; I go to bed praying she won't wake up for at least a few hours.

11:30pm. I am woken by the sound of knocking. I don't know where it is coming from... if I ignore it, it'll go away.

It's not stopped.

It seems to be my front door.

First the brass knocker goes a few times. Then a hand knocks the door. Then the letter box goes a few times. Then the brass knocker again.

In my drowsy state, I lay in bed for a while and think maybe they'll give up and go away.

They don't give up. I begin to worry the noise will wake S. I don't want her to wake up. I begin to get angry with whoever is idiot enough to be knocking my door in the middle of the night. My first guess is the bloke I was seeing at Christmas, on his way home drunk. Or another bloke who's been sniffing around lately. I figure it's one of those two, thinking it's ok to knock on my door in the middle of the night.

I begin to get angry. After fifteen minutes of trying to ignore it, hoping they'll go away, I storm out of bed and down the stairs. I pull back the door curtain. Through the glass I can see red flashing lights. My first thought is that it's the police or someone. I unlock the door and open it, keeping the chain on. Ready to hurl abuse at whoever dares risk waking my sleeping child. 

It's not the police or anyone official.

It's not the boy I was seeing at Christmas.

It's not the other bloke.

It's someone I always knew might come knocking, but didn't actually expect to see; certainly not close to midnight on a Saturday night.

It's S's father.

He is clearly drunk. The flashing lights are coming from his bike, which he has brought up the stairs to my door with him. He is leaning against the edge of the balcony. He sees me and says, "howdy." 

Without a word, without even thinking, I close the door. I lock it and draw the curtain. I calmly go into the living room and collect the cordless phone and sneak upstairs to check S is still ok. Check that he hasn't somehow gotten in here and taken her. She is sleeping soundly. I check she is breathing, as I do every time I check on her when she's sleeping.

Every sound I hear is him trying to get in. I am sure I closed all the windows properly, and even if I didn't, I had the council fit safety catches on them so they don't open more than an inch. But he might find a way around them. He might find a way to get through the door, even though it's locked and the chain is on. The last time we were half-talking via email, he told people, "she's tired, the baby is teething. Teething is hard, she won't be able to cope. She'll give in eventually and let me look after the baby while she sleeps, and then I'll take her." This is what is now sending chills down my spine. I cannot let that man take my baby girl. I cannot let him anywhere near her. I need to protect her.

I go back downstairs and shut myself in the living room and dial 101. 

The dispatcher comes on the line and I tell her, "My ex is outside my front door and I don't know what to do..." Then I begin to cry. 

She puts me through to someone in my local police station who takes my address. At this point something flashes up on his screen about it being a domestic abuse situation. He sends two officers out immediately, and in the meantime talks to me. We go through a series of questions I've now been through numerous times. But never while I was shaking, crying and petrified. Do I feel threatened? Has he ever threatened me? Do I think he will hurt me or someone else? 

While we are still talking on the phone, the door knocks and I jump out of my skin. The man tells me to stay on the phone to him while I check who it is. It's the police. I let them in and put the phone down.

The police tell me they have checked thoroughly outside. There is no sign of anyone lurking. I ask if they checked under the stairs; they tell me they checked the whole block. By the bins? Yes. On the street outside? Yes, that's where their car is parked. In the car park out back? Yes, they've checked and there is nobody there. He is not outside any more. 

They talk to me until I've calmed down a bit. Then we go through some safety precautions. They tell me if he comes back, they will come back. They tell me that keeping the chain on the door is all well and good, but once I've unlocked it, that chain is only good for the first couple of kicks.

They tell me that in a domestic disturbance where children are involved, they need to check on the child. One of them comes upstairs with me and I show them my beautiful S, still sleeping soundly and oblivious. I check and she is definitely breathing.

They leave around 1:30am. I lock the door behind them and put the chain on. Then I check the door is locked. Twice. I pull the curtain closed. I want to get a drink, but I don't want to go into the kitchen; the window is right next to the front door.

I go upstairs to bed, and lay there for over an hour before I go back to sleep. 

I don't eat for two days. S gets sick and we both have to have  a couple of days off nursery and work.

When we go back to nursery, I have a long meeting with the manager and the safety coordinator. I give them a photograph of S's father and tell them if they ever see him hanging around outside of the nursery, they are to call me. Under no circumstances must he be allowed anywhere  near my child. They reassure me of their safety procedures. When I leave, they take the photograph and show it to all of their staff. S's key worker tells me later that they've all seen it and been told not to let him into the nursery, and to call the police if he doesn't leave.

After a few days, we are back to "normal" - except now, the door is always locked when S is in the house. When I take the rubbish out I have no choice but to lock S inside of the house while I go down to the bins as quickly as I can. I don't open the kitchen windows unless I am in the kitchen. If I step out, even for a moment, they are closed and locked. When I leave S at nursery, my phone is in my hand. I never switch it to silent or off. I never go further than home or the shops while S is not with me, in case I need to get back to her.

Looking back, I am pleased with my reaction. I didn't speak to him. I didn't react. I just closed the door and walked away from him. That was the first time I have ever even vaguely stood up to him.

I am not the person he controlled through eight months of pregnancy.

I may be physically petrified, but not mentally. Not any more. I will protect my child until the end of my days. He will not take her.

This was the last time we saw or heard from S's father.

People say to me, oh, it's been a few months now; that's a good sign. It's not a good sign. He plays the long game. But so do I. I have far too much to lose, not to.

What Would You Have Me Do?

Whenever I write posts about my life with the ex, at least one person comments saying that if they had been in that situation, they would have left. 

I wrote a post the other day about victim blaming, and how we all need to make an effort not to do it. I thought it might be useful to illustrate the situation a little more clearly.

Here's an example.

You are in an abusive relationship. You know it is an abusive relationship, but only some of the time. Your partner is mean and nasty to you, plays mind games with you, sleeps around behind your back (or even in front of your face). But he also has a hold over you, and manages to at least half convince you that it's your fault. You've been so mean to him in the past, he's just trying to recover from it. He's not playing games, you are. You really have been horrid to him. He has been so hurt and upset by your behaviour that he felt driven into another woman's arms.

Do you leave?

What if you are pregnant, for the first time, with his child? You're not sure who of you is correct. Are you really a nasty, vindictive and manipulative bitch? Your hormones have been all over the place lately, and you have had a fairly short temper. If you leave, you will be taking his unborn child away from him when you might just be imagining all of his ill treatment. He says you are only threatening to leave to hurt him; you know how much he loves you, how much he loves this baby and wants you all to be a family. You just need to try harder.

How about now? Do you leave now?

You are petrified of having this baby on your own. You've precious little experience with babies or children. He has several children; he clearly knows what he is doing. You can't even be trusted to wash yourself without his guidance, and your financial situation is a joke. You need his help and support; practically, financially and emotionally. If you can just figure out how to be who he wants you to be, who you were when you first got together, before you changed, everything will be fine.

Do you stick around and try to work things out for the sake of the baby?

He has several children living with him; their mother is nowhere to be found. The children love you; they are very attached to you, and really excited to meet their new brother or sister. If you don't cook their tea, one of them has to do it, and the eldest is only 14. He shouldn't be having to cook tea every night. Their father can be a bit of a nightmare at times, but his heart is in the right place.

If you leave, who will look after the children? Who will talk their father down when he's in a rage, with a shoe or a pool cue in his hand?

You've been there several months now. He's thrown you out occasionally, when your mood swings got too much for him to bear. He loves you so much, it hurts him when you behave that way. You're a bit rubbish at being maternal and caring, but you don't need to worry because he will help you when the baby comes. He will be there. He points out other mothers in the street, 10 years younger than you, saying "look, it's piss easy. If she can do it then you'll be fine." 

You have no money.

No home.

A baby due in a few weeks.

Children who rely on you for everything from clean pants to pictures to colour in.

A man who tells you there is nothing on this earth that will keep him from being at the birth of his child.

No confidence

No self esteem

No hope

Do you leave?

Where will you go?

Who will look after you?

You're convinced you can't take care of yourself; he even has to do your shopping for you. 

Do you leave?

Can you honestly say that if you were in that position, you would leave?

Here's his four year old, wandering up to you wearing nothing but a pair of back-to-front pants, carrying a piece of paper. It's a drawing of you with her and her dad, and the new baby in your tummy. She hands you the picture, and kisses your belly.

Victim Blaming (today's NaBloPoMo)

I don't know why you stay with him...

I wouldn't stand for that...

If I was treated in that way, I would leave, no matter what.

How many times have you heard those words?

How many times have you said them yourself?

I have been guilty of saying it myself, more than once. In fact, as recently as in the past week I have said something along those lines.

I was in a horribly abusive relationship. It was nasty and poisonous and dangerous and painful. I think the one major regret of my life will always be that I did not just get up and run as soon as I knew I was pregnant. I firmly believe that my child would not have been born prematurely if I had not had such a stressful and traumatic time throughout my pregnancy. I knew then, and I still know now, that I should have left and never looked back.

I blame myself. For all of it.

And because I still blame myself, I have a tendency to blame other victims too. I have a tendency towards thinking, you should have left. You should leave. You shouldn't put up with it. Especially where there are children involved, there's a voice in my head screaming, can't you see how bad this is for your children? It's fine to have no respect for yourself, but your children should come first!

That's really hard for me to admit, because I know that I should have more compassion.

Having lived through the part where your abuser is so in control of you, he dictates how you wash, what you eat, who you speak to, when you sleep - I should know that the people who "choose" to stay in that situation aren't really making much of a choice. They don't believe there is a choice to be made. I certainly didn't.

When I was pregnant, someone in the healthcare profession told me a story about a family. She told me she had only ever tried once to have a baby taken into care. She said the mother was so cowed and controlled by her partner, that if he told her to take the baby outside and lay it in the snow, she would. At the time I thought she was exaggerating in order to make a point to me, but now... now I think I know she was telling the truth. And it sends a shiver through me. There but for the grace of God...

I want to go, but there's nowhere to run to.

If I tell, nobody will believe me.

I'm not good enough to look after these children without his help.

I am worthless; I need her to survive.

If I say anything, the abuse will just get worse.

I deserve this; I'm a bad person.

I know it's hard to look at a person, male or female, in an abusive relationship and not blame them for staying in it. 

I know that when you see someone with a hand mark on their face, it's not easy to see why they'd stay around for the next blow.

Until you've been in that situation - even when you have been in that situation - it's often very hard to understand the vice-like grip an abuser can have on their victim.

But if we don't all (me included, definitely me included) make a concerted effort to understand and help victims of abuse - all victims of abuse, even those where the lines are a little blurred, and "she gives as good as she gets when she's drunk" and "he provokes her by causing an argument" then what chance will anyone have?

There but for the grace of God.

You might think you'd be straight out of the door if it happened to you, but how do you know until it does?

Imagine if This Were Your Life...

A child cries in the night, but I'm not allowed to go to her; she is four years old and can fend for herself. In the morning, she has wet her bed and is in trouble. "You fucking little..." she will be hit for it, if she doesn't move fast enough. Her older sister is ordered to change the bed sheets. She doesn't want to though, and resents having to. When I look later, she has changed the duvet cover but nothing else. She's called her sister a fair few names also.

His beer belly hangs over his ten-year-old, moth-eaten pants. He hasn't washed for a week, but he tells me I smell bad. My skin is spotty because I don't wash properly; not to worry, he will do it for me next time. He is so good to me. I'm lucky to have him; he puts up with my horrible moods, the way I treat him. He jabs at me with knives, bites me and throws things at me but only in jest. I just can't take a joke; I'm too serious and bruise easily. 

I do need to lose a little weight though; I'm looking a little porky. I should have pride in myself, like he does, and always suck my belly in. If I put on any more weight, he will have to get rid of me. Can't stand laziness, you see. It's my own fault he's slept with other women; I don't look after him properly, am not there when he needs me. I torture him by leaving his side and allowing dark thoughts to creep into his brain. He is convinced I have slept with others too. I must try harder to convince him of my love.

We sit in the kitchen while a ten year old makes us breakfast. She makes the best eggs in the world, but I can't help feeling this should be the other way around. The children are banished to the living room, where they fight over which dvd to watch; they are not allowed to watch actual TV. The oldest child wins, and something wholly inappropriate for the younger ones is put on. Not to worry though; if they don't like it they will just go and play in their bedroom. It's not a problem. One of them comes into the kitchen to ask me a question; she brushes past her father and is shouted at. "don't fucking touch me! Get off me! Get out of the kitchen!"

Other children come to visit; I lose count of how many are running around the house and garden screaming. The ones who live here are not allowed out until they have done their chores and so children whose names I do not know wrestle each other on the sofa and in the garden until they are tears... and then the victor moves on to the next opponent. 

He slouches over the table, periodically demanding mugs of tea and chocolate hob nobs from children. If the tea is spilled, they are in trouble. If one of them is burned, it is their own fault; shouldn't have been messing around when they were meant to be doing their chores.

I am sent to have a bath. He sits in the bathroom, with his back against the door. The children run riot outside the door, but are sent away in a flurry of cursing. I am to stay in the bath for as long as possible. Over an hour. Relax, he tells me. When I can lay in the water no more, he sits and watches me wash. I am doing it wrong, though. I stand in the bath and he scrubs at my skin until it is sore, then instructs me how to rinse myself. 

When we finally come out of the bathroom, some of the children have taken the chance to escape. They have gone to the park or friends' houses. There are no pens or paper in the house, so they could not have left a note even if they'd wanted. He exclaims, If Social Services knocked my door now, I'd be in the shit. I've no idea where any of them is." He doesn't seem concerned for their safety. When one of them is still out long after dark, there is no concern to be seen. Only anger when he does come through the door: what do you mean by going to other people's houses begging for food? Now they'll think I don't feed you, you little fucking shit, making me look bad! The boy is sent to the kitchen to clean up after everyone else's dinner.

There is no bed time in this house. On weekends, in the hope the children will wake later in the mornings, they are kept up as late as possible. There is little as pitiful as a 4 year old standing in a living room door way at 10 pm, begging to be allowed to go to bed. I sneak her upstairs and tuck her into her piss-stained bed, and come downstairs to be called a fucking stupid bitch. Again.

Mental Health Care and Abusive Relationships

When I was pregnant, I came off the medication I had been on since my breakdown.

My GP wanted me to go back onto it once I'd reached 12 weeks, but I refused. (I still refuse). As a compromise, she suggested I see a counsellor instead.

I had been through the self-referral system with CMHT before; I hadn't really rated it when I had been floundering in the abyss of my mental health. I knew they couldn't help me; they knew I was beyond their help, and referred me to the next level of mental health care (which also didn't really help).

Any way, I agreed to go. The way this works is, you call a number which goes through to the overworked secretary of what seems to be several different departments. The phone often rings through to voicemail several times before you reach a real person, and if you leave a voicemail it is often lost in the ether. When you eventually get hold of said overworked secretary, you're about ready to admit defeat and open a vein. She takes her time locating the relevant diary, and then makes you an appointment in about 4 weeks' time to see someone at your doctor's surgery.

The idea is that you speak to the counsellor for 45 minutes or so, they give you some "homework" or something, you go on your merry way and make an appointment to see them again in two weeks. Except the system doesn't work, because once you leave the appointment, you have to go back through the rigmarole mentioned above, and usually end up waiting at least a month between appointments.

I knew all of this, but I didn't want my GP to make me start taking medication again. So I made the call. The appointment they gave me was with a man, which was less than ideal, but it was the only one available so I took it.

At my first appointment I told the man my situation, which was this: my partner had kicked me out in the middle of the night, but when I found out I was pregnant, we got back together. The "fact" it was entirely my fault we had ever split up in the first place was brought up at least once a week; I was to take full responsibility. Eventually I got sick of this, and broke it off. He then went out and slept with someone else (probably more than one person). We got back together shortly after, but I was having a hard time dealing with the fact he'd slept with someone else and refused to share a bed with him until he'd been tested. It was at this point I had my first appointment with the counsellor.

Bear in mind here, that I was in an abusive relationship. This man had slept with someone else in order to punish me for finishing with him. He was still telling me it had all been my fault; I had caused him to kick me out the first time, I had so callously and heartlessly dumped him the second time we split, I had driven him to sleep with someone else by not taking his calls, and now I was deliberately causing drama and trouble by not just going back to normal.

I told the counsellor this. I told him I wasn't sure of my own mind, and wasn't sure if perhaps it was all me, and I was just painting a particularly bad picture of him to the friends and family who were telling me I should just stay away from him.

The counsellor told me he had previously been a relationship counsellor. He told me it wasn't usually allowed, but did I want to bring my partner with me to my next session, and he would try and help us work through this. I asked my partner, and - surprisingly - he accepted.

A few weeks later, we went to see the counsellor together. We sat in a room with him, and he agreed with everything the ex said. At times I felt they were ganging up on me: if we were going to be together, I needed to accept responsibility for what had happened, suck it up and get back to normal.

I remember leaving the appointment, and walking down the street, reeling. The ex was talking to me, but I wasn't hearing; I was walking along thinking, "oh no, I really am a terrible person; I really have been painting an awful, one-sided picture of this man to all of my friends, and now they hate him and it's all my fault!" I felt so guilty about the whole thing, I bought the ex dinner before we went home.

I really felt that since the counselling session was for me and not my partner, the counsellor should at least have tried to be on my "side" for some of it.

When I went to the next session, the counsellor asked me how things had been after the previous one. I told him I felt like they had ganged up on me, and that really it wasn't what I'd needed. The counsellor told me he had been aware of that at the time, but was also very aware that if he agreed with me too much, it might seem that we were ganging up on the ex, and that might make the situation worse for me once we left the session. I wasn't really sure that was a feasible excuse, to be honest.

I didn't go back after that session; I didn't see any point. By agreeing with everything the ex said, he had re-enforced his actions. He had made his behaviour acceptable in the eyes of "the authorities" and more importantly, he had contributed in a large way to the mind games the ex was playing with me. I really couldn't trust my own mind; a mental health professional had shown that to be the case, after all. More than once over the course of my pregnancy, the events of that day were brought back to me - "you counsellor told you about this... remember what your counsellor said..."

A few times since S was born, when I've been having a hard time with things, the GP has suggested I go back to counselling. She's handed me leaflets, and  I've smiled and put them in my handbag knowing I will never call that stupid number. I can't rely on that service to do anything to help me, and I feel that that man's actions were actually detrimental to my mental health and wellbeing. I have no idea if he still works there, and I don't want to find out.

Single Parents: Why The Fuss?

I've made a few posts lately, some quite ranty, about being a single parent and the bad reputation we seem to have.

But why do I care so much? Why be bothered about the social stigma, why be bothered what people think? Why not just get my head down, and get on with my life?

Sometimes I wonder why I care so much. And then, the other day, it hit me.

When I first got pregnant, I split up with S's father before I was even 8 weeks pregnant. I remember having my booking appointment with my midwife, and literally just crying all the way through it. I knew it was a bad relationship; I knew I should stay away. The midwife agreed with me, and so did my family and friends.

But I believed my child should have two parents. I believed I should try as hard as possible to maintain at the very least a civil relationship with him, so that S was not disadvantaged in any way. I believed the two-parent model was the best, and that my unborn child needed a father.

I didn't want to be a single mother. Besides the belief I was completely incapable of raising a child alone, I didn't want to be one of those people. I didn't want to be the stereotype everyone sees when they hear those words: Single Mother.

That stigma, that belief about single parents and the way society would look at me, the way I would look at myself, is part of what kept me going back. I returned to a poisonous, dangerous, abusive relationship so many times during my pregnancy, I can't even give you an estimate of the number. 

I was kicked out, banished so many times. I would leave of my own accord as many times again. I went weeks without returning calls or reading texts. I tried hard to stay away, because I knew I had a duty to keep myself and my child safe. And because, on a more fundamental level, I just plain could not cope with all the pain and drama. My pregnancy was so traumatic, I've still not been able to write about it - and anyone who has read the things I have written about will realise just how bad it must have been for me, then.

But for every time I thought "I really need to stay away," there was another thought to contradict it: "no, you need to try and make this work..."

I'm not saying that social stigma was what caused me to stay in an abusive relationship; I can't blame that on anyone else but him and me. But perhaps, if that stigma, the Daily Mail, the benefits scum, the council estate chic and all the rest of it had not been so prominent, I might have done a little better at staying away.

I know this is just a little blog but I feel I need to do as much as I can to help break down that stigma, and to make things easier for all single parents. So that maybe the next time something like this happens, the question of whether to leave an abusive relationship will not include worrying over what society will think of you.